Devil's Dice
by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #40829 · 495,783 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Devil's Dice
Author: William Le Queux
Release date: September 22, 2012 [eBook #40829]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40829
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEVIL'S DICE ***
Devil's Dice
By William Le Queux
Published by Rand, McNally and Company, Chicago and New York.
This edition dated 1897.
Devil's Dice, by William Le Queux.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
DEVIL'S DICE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
CHAPTER ONE.
QUEEN OF THE UNKNOWN.
Let me gaze down the vista of the tristful past.
Ah! there are things that cannot be uttered; there are scenes that still
entrance me, and incidents so unexpected and terrible that they cause me
even now to hold my breath in horror.
The prologue of this extraordinary drama of London life was enacted
three years ago; its astounding denouement occurred quite recently.
During those three weary, anxious years the days have glided on as they
glide even with those who suffer most, but alas! I have the sense of
having trodden a veritable Via Dolorosa during a century, the tragedy of
my life, with its ever-present sorrow, pressing heavily upon me
perpetually. Yet my life's journey has not always been along the barren
shore of the sea of Despair. During brief moments, when, with the sweet
childlike angel of my solitude, heaven and earth have seemed to glide
slowly into space, I have found peace in the supreme joy of happiness.
My gaze has been lost in the azure immensity of a woman's eyes.
In this strange story, this astounding record of chastity of affection
and bitter hatred, of vile scheming, of secret sins and astounding
facts, I, Stuart Ridgeway, younger son of Sir Francis Ridgeway, Member
for Barmouth and banker of the City of London, am compelled to speak of
myself. It is indeed a relief to be able to reason out one's
misfortunes; confession is the lancet-stroke that empties the abscess.
The Devil has thrown his dice and the game is up. I can now lay bare
the secret of my sorrow.
Away south in the heart of the snow-capped Pyrenees, while idling away a
few sunny weeks at Bagneres-de-Luchon, that quaint little spa so popular
with the Cleopatras of the Boulevards, nestling in its secluded valley
beneath the three great peaks of Sacrous, de Sauvegarde, and de la Mine,
a woman first brought sweetness to the sadness of my melancholy days.
Mine was an aimless, idle life. I had left behind me at college a
reputation for recklessness. I was an arrant dunce at figures, and
finance had no attraction for me. I had lived the semi-Bohemian life of
a law student in London, and grown tired of it I had tried art and
ignominiously failed, and, being in receipt of a generous allowance from
an indulgent father, I found myself at the age of twenty-eight without
profession, a mere world-weary cosmopolitan, wandering from place to
place with the sole object of killing time.
Having taken up my quarters alone at the Hotel des Bains, that glaring
building with its dead-white facade in the Allee d'Etigny--the
magnificent view from which renders it one of the finest thoroughfares
in the world--I soon became seized by ennui.
The place, filled with the _haut ton_ of Paris, was gay enough, but
somehow I met no one at the table d'hote or elsewhere whom I cared to
accept as companion. Sick of the utter loneliness amid all the mad
gaiety, I was contemplating moving to Biarritz, where a maiden aunt
resided, when one evening, while seated in the picturesque Casino Garden
listening to the band, I saw in the crowd of chattering, laughing
promenaders a woman's face that entranced me. Only for a second in the
faint light shed by the Chinese lanterns, strung from tree to tree, was
I able to distinguish her features. In that brief moment, however, our
eyes met, yet next second she was gone, lost in one of the gayest crowds
in Europe.
The next night and the next I sat at the same little tin table taking my
coffee and eagerly scanning the crowd passing and re-passing along the
broad gravelled walk until once again I saw her. Then, held in
fascination by her marvellous beauty, attracted as a needle by a magnet,
I rose and followed her. Like myself she was alone, and a trivial
accident, of which I eagerly availed myself, gave me an opportunity of
introducing myself. Judge my joyful satisfaction when I found that she
was English, although her dress and hat bore the unmistakable stamp of
the Rue de la Paix, and her chic was that of the true Parisienne. As we
walked together in the shadows beyond the public promenade, she told me
that her home was in London; that on account of her father having been
compelled to return suddenly, she had been left alone, and she admitted
that, like myself, she had become dull and lonely.
Apparently she had no objection to my companionship, although she strove
to preserve a British rigidity of manner and respect for the
convenances. Yet after the reserve of the first half-hour had worn off
we sat down together under a tree near the band-stand, and I gave her a
card. She, however, refused to give me one.
"Call me Sybil," she said smiling.
"Sybil!" I repeated. "A name as charming as its owner. Is your name
Sybil--only Sybil?"
"My surname is of no consequence," she answered quickly, with a slight
haughtiness. "We are merely English folk thrown together in this place.
To-morrow, or the next day perhaps, we shall part, never to meet
again."
"I trust not," I said gallantly. "An acquaintanceship commenced under
these strange conditions is rather romantic, to say the least."
"Romantic," she repeated mechanically, in a strange tone. "Yes, that is
so. Every one of us, from pauper to peer, all have our little romances.
But romance, after all, is synonymous with unhappiness," and she drew a
long breath as if sad thoughts oppressed her.
A moment later, however, she was as gay and bright as before, and we
chatted on pleasantly until suddenly she consulted the tiny watch in her
bangle and announced that it was time she returned. At her side I
walked to her hotel, the Bonnemaison, and left her at the entrance.
We met frequently after that, and one morning she accompanied me on a
drive through the quaint old frontier village of St Aventin and on
through the wild Oo Valley as far as the Cascade.
As in the bright sunshine she lounged back in the carriage, her fair,
flawless complexion a trifle heightened by the pink of her parasol, I
gazed upon her as one entranced. The half lights of the Casino Garden
had not been deceptive. She was twenty-two at the most, and absolutely
lovely; the most bewitching woman I had ever seen. From beneath a
marvel of the milliner's art, tendrils of fair hair, soft as floss silk,
strayed upon her white brow; her eyes were of that clear childlike blue
that presupposes an absolute purity of soul, and in her pointed chin was
a single dimple that deepened when she smiled. Hers was an adorable
face, sweet, full of an exquisite beauty, and as she gazed upon me with
her great eyes she seemed to read my heart. Her lithe, slim figure was
admirably set off by her gown of soft material of palest green, which
had all the shimmer of silk, yet moulded and defined its wearer like a
Sultan's scarf. It had tiny shaded stripes which imparted a delicious
effect of myriad folds; the hem of the skirt, from under which a dainty
bronze shoe appeared, had a garniture in the chromatics, as it were, of
mingled rose and blue and green, and the slender waist, made long as
waists may be, was girdled narrow but distinctive.
As I sat beside her, her violet-pervaded chiffons touching me, the
perfume they exhaled intoxicated me with its fragrance. She was an
enchantress, a well-beloved, whose beautiful face I longed to smother
with kisses each time I pressed her tiny well-gloved hand.
Her frank conversation was marked by an ingenuousness that was charming.
It was apparent that she moved in an exclusive circle at home, and from
her allusions to notable people whom I knew in London, I was assured
that her acquaintance with them was not feigned. Days passed--happy,
idle, never-to-be-forgotten days. Nevertheless, try how I would, I
could not induce her to tell me her name, nor could I discover it at her
hotel, for the one she had given there was evidently assumed.
"Call me Sybil," she always replied when I alluded to the subject.
"Why are you so determined to preserve the secret of your identity?" I
asked, when, one evening after dinner, we were strolling beneath the
trees in the Allee.
A faint shadow of displeasure fell upon her brow, and turning to me
quickly she answered:
"Because--well, because it is necessary." Then she added with a strange
touch of sadness, "When we part here we shall not meet again."
"No, don't say that," I protested; "I hope that in London we may see
something of each other."
She sighed, and as we passed out into the bright moonbeams that flooded
the mountains and valleys, giving the snowy range the aspect of a
far-off fairyland, I noticed that her habitual brightness had given
place to an expression of mingled fear and sorrow. Some perpetual
thought elevated her forehead and enlarged her eyes, and a little later,
as we walked slowly forward into the now deserted promenade, I repeated
a hope that our friendship would always remain sincere and unbroken.
"Why do you speak these words to me?" she asked suddenly, in faltering
tones. "Why do you render my life more bitter than it is?"
"Because when your father returns and takes you away the light of my
life will be extinguished. Don't be cruel, Sybil; you must have seen--"
"I am not cruel," she answered calmly, halting suddenly and looking at
me with her great clear eyes. "During the past fortnight we have--well,
we have amused each other, and time has passed pleasantly. I know,
alas! the words I have arrested on your lips. You mistake this mild
summer flirtation of ours for real love. You were about to declare that
you love me--were you not?"
"True, Sybil. And I mean it. From the first moment our eyes met I have
adored you," I exclaimed with passionate tenderness. "The brightness of
your face has brought light into my life. You have showed me at all
times the face of an adorable woman; you have peopled my desert, you
have filled me with such supreme joy that I have been lost in profound
love."
"Hush! hush!" she cried, interrupting me. "Listen, let me tell you my
position."
"I care naught for your position; I want only you, Sybil," I continued
earnestly, raising her hand to my lips and smothering it with kisses.
"I have adored you in all the different forms of love. You, who have
sufficed for my being; you, whose wondrous beauty filled me with all the
chastity of affection. Between you and the horizon there seems a secret
harmony that makes me love the stones on the very footpaths. The river
yonder has your voice; the stars above us your look; everything around
me smiles with your smile. I never knew until now what it was to live,
but now I live because I love you. Each night when we part I long for
morning; I want to see you again, to kiss your hair, to tell you I love
you always--always."
Her bosom rose and fell quickly as I spoke, and when I had finished, her
little hand closed convulsively upon mine.
"No, no," she cried hoarsely. "Let us end this interview; it is painful
to both of us. I have brought this unhappiness upon you by my own
reckless folly. I ought never to have broken the convenances and
accepted as companion a man to whom I had not been formally introduced."
"Ah! don't be cruel, Sybil," I pleaded earnestly; "cannot you see how
madly I love you?"
"Yes; I think that perhaps you care more for me than I imagined," she
answered, endeavouring to preserve a calmness that was impossible. "But
leave me and forget me, Stuart. I am worthless because I have
fascinated you when I ought to have shunned you, knowing that our love
can only bring us poignant bitterness."
"Why? Tell me," I gasped; then, half fearing the truth, I asked. "Are
you already married?"
"No."
"Then what barrier is there to our happiness?"
"One that is insurmountable," she answered hoarsely, hot tears welling
in her eyes. "The truth I cannot explain, as for certain reasons I am
compelled to keep my secret."
"But surely you can tell me the reason why we may not love? You cannot
deny that you love me just a little," I said.
"I do not deny it," she answered in a low, earnest voice, raising her
beautiful face to mine. "It is true, Stuart, that you are the only man
I have looked upon with real affection, and I make no effort at
concealment; nevertheless, our dream must end here. I have striven to
stifle my passion, knowing full well the dire result that must accrue.
But it is useless. Our misfortune is that we love one another; so we
must part."
"And you refuse to tell me the reason why you intend to break off our
acquaintanceship," I observed reproachfully.
"Ah, no!" she answered quickly. "You cannot understand. I dare not
love you. A deadly peril threatens me. Ere six months have passed the
sword which hangs, as it were, suspended over me may fall with fatal
effect, but--but if it does, if I die, my last thought shall be of you,
Stuart, for I feel that you are mine alone."
I clasped her in my arms, and beneath the great tree where we were
standing our lips met for the first time in a hot, passionate caress.
Then, panting, she slowly disengaged herself from my arms, saying:
"Our dream is over. After to-night we may be friends, but never lovers.
To love me would bring upon you a disaster, terrible and complete;
therefore strive, for my sake, Stuart, to forget."
"I cannot," I answered. "Tell me of your peril."
"My peril--ah!" she exclaimed sadly. "Ever present, it haunts me like a
hideous nightmare, and only your companionship has lately caused me to
forget it for a few brief hours, although I have all the time been
conscious of an approaching doom. It may be postponed for months, or so
swiftly may it descend upon me that when to-morrow's sun shines into my
room its rays will fall upon my lifeless form; my soul and body will
have parted."
"Are you threatened by disease?"
"No. My peril is a strange one," she answered slowly. "If I might tell
you all my curious story I would, Stuart. At present, alas! I cannot
Come, let us go back to the hotel, and there bid me farewell."
"Farewell! When do you intend to leave me?" I cried dismayed, as we
turned and walked on together.
"Soon," she said, sighing, her hand trembling in mine--"it will be
imperative very soon."
"But may I not help you? Cannot I shield you from this mysterious
peril?"
"Alas! I know not. If your aid will assist me in the future I will
communicate with you. I have your London address upon your card."
There was a long and painful pause. But in those silent moments during
our walk I became conscious of the grand passion that consumed me.
"And you will think of me sometimes with thoughts of love, Sybil?" I
said disconsolately.
"Yes. But for the present forget me. Some day, however, I may be
compelled to put your affection to the test."
"I am prepared for any ordeal in order to prove that my passion is no
idle midsummer fancy," I answered. "Command me, and I will obey."
"Then good-night," she said, stretching forth her hand, for by this time
we were in front of the Bonnemaison. I held her hand in silence for
some moments, my thoughts too full for words.
"Shall I see you to-morrow?" I asked.
"Yes, if--if my doom does not overwhelm me," she answered with a choking
sob. "If it does, then adieu, my love, adieu forever!"
"No, not adieu, Sybil," I said, drawing her beneath the shadow of a tree
and once again imprinting a passionate kiss upon her lips. "Not adieu!
Let as at least meet tomorrow, even if it must be for the last time."
She burst into a flood of tears, and turning from me walked quickly to
the steps leading to the hotel, while I, mystified and full of sad
thoughts, strode onward along the silent moonlit Allee towards my hotel.
Little sleep came that night to my eyes, but when my coffee was brought
in the morning a perfumed note lay upon the tray. I tore it open
eagerly, and read the following words hastily scribbled in pencil and
blurred by tears:
"I am in deadly peril and have been compelled to leave unexpectedly. Do
not attempt to find me, but forget everything.--Sybil."
I dashed aside the curtains and, like a man in a dream, stood gazing
away at the white mountains, brilliant in the morning sunlight I had
lost her; the iron of despair had entered my heart.
CHAPTER TWO.
SIN OR SECRET?
Six months passed. Left forlorn, with only the vivid memory of a
charming face, I had travelled to rid myself of the remembrance, but in
vain. Sometimes I felt inclined to regard my mysterious divinity as a
mere adventuress; at others I became lost in contemplation and puzzled
over her words almost to the point of madness. I knew that I had loved
her; that, fascinated by her great beauty and enmeshed in the soft web
of her silken tresses, she held me irrevocably for life or death.
Unhappy and disconsolate, heedless of London's pleasures or the
perpetual gaiety of the "smart" circle in which my friends and relations
moved, I spent the gloomy December days in my chambers in Shaftesbury
Avenue, endeavouring to distract the one thought that possessed me by
reading. My companions chaffed me, dubbing me a misanthrope, but to
none of them, not even Jack Bethune, the friend of my college days and
greatest chum, did I disclose the secret of my despair.
Thus weeks went by, until one morning my man, Saunders, brought me a
telegram which I opened carelessly, but read with breathless eagerness,
when I saw the signature was "Sybil."
The words upon the flimsy paper caused me such sudden and unexpected
delight that old Saunders, most discreet of servants, must have had some
apprehension as to my sanity. The telegram, which had been despatched
from Newbury, read:
"Must see you this evening. In Richmond Terrace Gardens, opposite the
tea-pavilion, is a seat beneath a tree. Be there at six. Do not
fail.--Sybil."
Almost beside myself with joyful anticipation of seeing her sweet, sad
face once again, I went out and whiled away the hours that seemed
never-ending, until at last when twilight fell I took train to the place
named.
Ten minutes before the hour she had indicated I found the seat in the
Terrace Gardens, but there was no sign of the presence of any human
being. It was almost closing time, and the Terrace was utterly
deserted. All was silent save the rushing of a train, or the dull
rumbling of vehicles passing along the top of the hill, and distant
sounds became mingled with the vague murmurs of the trees. The chill
wind sighed softly in the oaks, lugubriously extending their dark bare
arms along the walk like a row of spectres guarding the vast masses of
vapour spreading out behind them and across the valley, where the Thames
ran silent and darkly in serpentine wanderings, and the lights were
already twinkling. Even as I sat the last ray of twilight faded, and
night, cloudy and moonless, closed in.
Suddenly a harsh strident bell gave six hurried strokes, followed by
half a dozen others in different keys, the one sounding far distant
across the river, coming, I knew, from Isleworth's old time-stained
tower, with which boating men are so familiar.
It had seemed years full of sad and tender memories since we had parted,
yet in ecstasy I told myself that in a few moments she would be again at
my side, and from her eyes I might, as before, drink of the cup of love
to the verge of intoxication.
A light footstep sounded on the gravel, and peering into the darkness I
could just distinguish the form of a man. As he advanced I saw he was
tall, well-built, and muscular, nearly forty years of age, with a slight
black moustache and closely cropped hair that was turning prematurely
grey. He wore the conventional silk hat, an overcoat heavily trimmed
with astrakhan, and as he strode towards me he took a long draw at his
cigar.
"Good evening," he said courteously, halting before me as I rose, "I
believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Stuart Ridgeway, have I
_not_?"
"That is my name," I answered rather brusquely, not without surprise,
for I had expected Sybil to keep her appointment.
"I am the bearer of a message," he said in slow, deliberate tones. "The
lady who telegraphed to you this morning desires to express her extreme
regret at her inability to meet you. Since the telegram was sent,
events have occurred which preclude her attendance anywhere," and he
paused. Then he added with sadness: "Anywhere--except before her
Judge."
"Her Judge!" I gasped. "What do you mean? Speak! Is she dead?"
"No," he answered solemnly, "she still lives, and although overshadowed
by a secret terror, her only thought is of you, even in these very
moments when she is being carried swiftly by the overwhelming flood of
circumstances towards her terrible doom."
"You speak in enigmas," I said quickly. "We are strangers, yet you
apparently are aware of my acquaintance with Sybil. Will you not tell
me the nature of her secret terror?"
"I cannot, for two reasons," he replied. "The first is, because I am
not aware of the whole of the circumstances; the second, because I have
given her my promise to reveal nothing. Hence my lips are sealed. All
I can tell you is that a great danger threatens her--how great you
cannot imagine--and she desires you to fulfill your promise and render
her your aid."
"Whatever lies in my power I will do willingly," I answered. "If she
cannot come to me will you take me to her?"
"Upon two conditions only."
"What are they?"
"For your own sake as well as hers, it is imperative that she should
still preserve the strictest incognito. Therefore, in driving to her
house, you must allow the blinds of the carriage to be drawn, and,
however curious may appear anything you may witness in her presence, you
must give your word of honour as a gentleman--nay, you must take oath--
not to seek to elucidate it. Mystery surrounds her, I admit, but
remember that any attempt to penetrate it will assuredly place her in
graver peril, and thwart your own efforts on her behalf."
"Such conditions from a stranger are, to say the least, curious," I
observed.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, smiling, "your reluctance to accept is but natural.
Well, I can do no more, I have fulfilled my mission. The woman you love
has staked her young life--and alas! lost. She has counted upon your
aid in this hour of her extremity and despair, yet if you withhold it I
must return and tell her."
"But I love her," I said. "Surely I may know who she is, and why she is
haunted by this secret dread!"
For a few seconds he was silent. Then he tossed his cigar away with a
gesture of impatience.
"Time does not admit of argument. I have merely to apologise for
bringing you down here to a fruitless appointment, and to wish you
good-evening," he said in a tone of mingled annoyance and
disappointment, as turning on his heel he walked away.
His words and manner aroused within me a sudden dislike, a curious
hatred that I could not describe, yet ere he had gone a dozen paces I
cried:
"Stop! I have reconsidered my decision. I must see her, for I promised
her assistance, and am ready to give it in whatever manner she desires."
"You know the conditions," he said, sauntering carelessly back to me,
"Do you accept them absolutely?"
"Yes."
"Then swear."
He had drawn from his pocket a Testament, and held it towards me. I
hesitated.
"You may be tempted to break your word. You will never violate your
oath," he added, in the same slow, deliberate tone in which he had first
addressed me. Still I was not prepared for this strange proceeding, and
not until he urged me to hasten and declared that my oath was
imperative, did I move.
Taking the book, I slowly raised it until it touched my lips.
Next second I regretted my action. I had a vague, indefinable feeling
that I had subjected myself to him; that I had foolishly placed myself
under his thrall.
Yet, as we walked together up the steep path and gained the Terrace, he
chatted gayly upon various topics, and the strange presage of evil that
I had first experienced was soon succeeded by lively anticipations of
seeing once again the beautiful woman I adored.
In Hill Rise, close to that row of glaring new semi-aesthetic houses
known as Cardigan Gate, a neat brougham drawn by a magnificent pair of
bays was in waiting, and before we entered, the footman carefully drew
down the blinds, then saluted as he closed the door.
The interior of the carriage would have been dark had not a tiny
glimmering lamp been placed there, and this showed that, in addition to
the blinds drawn down, heavy curtains had also been arranged, so that to
see outside was impossible. My strange companion was affable, even
amusing, but the drive occupied quite an hour and a half, although we
travelled at a pretty smart pace.
Presently my companion turned to me, saying: "There is still one small
thing more. Before we alight you must allow me to tie my handkerchief
across your eyes."
"In order that I may not note the exterior of the house--eh?" I
suggested, laughing.
He nodded, and a strange cynical smile played upon his lips.
"Very well," I said. "It is useless, I suppose, to protest."
He did not answer, but folding a silk handkerchief he placed it over my
eyes and tied it tightly at the back. Almost at the moment he had
completed this the conveyance stopped, the door was opened, and, led by
my mysterious companion, I alighted.
Taking his arm, we crossed the pavement and ascended a short flight of
steps. There were three. I counted them. I could also hear the wind
in some trees, and found myself wondering whether we were in town or
country.
A door opened, and we stepped into a hall, which, owing to the echo of
my conductor's voice, I concluded was a spacious one, but ere I had time
to reflect, the man whose arm I held said:
"Just a moment. You must sign the visitors' book--it is the rule here.
We'll excuse bad writing as you can't see," he added with a laugh.
At the same moment I felt a pen placed in my fingers by a man-servant,
who guided my hand to the book. Then I hastily scrawled my name.
It was strange, I thought; but the events of the evening were all so
extraordinary that there was nothing after all very unusual in signing a
visitors' book.
Again he took my arm, leading me up a long flight of stairs, the carpet
of which was so thick that our feet fell noiselessly. In the ascent I
felt that the balustrade was cold and highly polished, like glass.
Confused and mysterious whisperings sounded about me, and I felt
confident that I distinctly heard a woman's sob quite close to me, while
at the same moment a whiff of violets greeted my nostrils. Its
fragrance stirred my memory--it was Sybil's favourite perfume. Suddenly
my guide ushered me into a room and took the handkerchief from my eyes.
The apartment was a small study, cozy and well furnished, with a bright
fire burning in the grate, and lit only by a green-shaded reading-lamp.
"If you'll take off your overcoat and wait here a few moments I will
bring her to you," he said; adding, "you can talk here alone and
undisturbed," and he went out, closing the door after him.
Five eager minutes passed while I listened for her footstep, expecting
each second to hear her well-known voice; but gradually the atmosphere
seemed to become stifling. In my mouth was a sulphurous taste, and the
lamp, growing more dim, at last gave a weak flicker and went out.
Rushing to the door, I found, to my astonishment, it was locked!
I dashed to the window and tried to open it, but could not. In despair
I beat the door frantically with my fists and shouted. But my muffled
voice seemed as weak as a child's. I doubted whether it could be heard
beyond the walls.
Flinging myself upon my knees, I bent to examine the small fire, glowing
like a blacksmith's forge, and discovered to my horror that the chimney
had been closed, and that the grate was filled with burning charcoal.
Quickly I raked it out, but the red cinders only glowed the brighter,
and, even though I dashed the hearthrug upon them, I could not
extinguish them.
In desperation I tried to struggle to my feet, but failed. My legs
refused to support me; my head throbbed as if my skull would burst.
Then a strange sensation of nausea crept over me; my starting eyes
smarted as if acid had been flung into them, my tongue clave to the roof
of my parched mouth, my chest seemed held in contraction by a band of
iron, as half rising I fell next second, inert and helpless, a sudden
darkness obliterating all my senses.
What time elapsed I have no idea. Gradually I struggled back to
consciousness, and as I made desperate endeavour to steady my nerves and
collect my thoughts, I suddenly became painfully aware of a bright light
falling full upon me. My eyes were dazzled by the extraordinary
brilliancy. I closed them again, and tried to recollect what had
occurred.
"Pull yourself together, my dear fellow. You are all right now, aren't
you?" asked a voice in my ear.
I recognised the tones as those of my strange guide.
"Yes," I answered mechanically. "But Sybil--where is she?"
He made no reply.
I tried to open my eyes, but again the light dazzled me. About me
sounded soft sibilations and the frou-frou of silk, while the warm air
seemed filled with the sickly perfume of tuberoses. My left hand was
grasping the arm of a capacious saddle-bag chair, wherein I was
evidently sitting, while in my right I held something, the nature of
which I could not at first determine.
My trembling fingers closed upon it more tightly a moment later, and I
suddenly recognised that it was the hand of a woman! Again opening my
heavy eyes, I strained them until they grew accustomed to the
brightness, and was amazed to discover myself sitting in a spacious,
richly-furnished drawing-room, brilliant with gilt and mirrors, while
two men and two women in evening dress were standing around me, anxiety
betrayed upon their pale faces. In a chair close beside mine sat a
woman, whose hand I was holding.
Springing to my feet, my eyes fell full upon her. Attired in dead white
satin, a long veil hid her face, and in her hair and across her corsage
were orange blossoms. She was a bride!
Behind her--erect and motionless--was the man who had conducted me
there, while at her side stood a grave, grey-haired clergyman, who at
that moment was gabbling the concluding portion of the marriage service.
The veil failed to conceal her wondrous beauty; in an instant I
recognised her.
It was the woman I adored. A wedding-ring was upon the hand I had held!
"Speak, Sybil!" I cried. "Speak! tell me the reason of this!"
But she answered not. Only the clergyman's droning voice broke the
silence. The hand with the ring upon it lay upon her knees and I caught
it up, but next second dropped it, as if I had been stung. Its contact
thrilled me!
Divining my intention, the man who had brought me there dashed between
us, but ere he could prevent me, I had, with a sudden movement, torn
aside the veil.
Horror transfixed me. Her beauty was entrancing, but her blue eyes,
wide open in a stony stare, had lost their clearness and were rapidly
glazing; her lips, with their true _arc de Cupidon_, were growing cold,
and from her cheeks the flush of life had departed, leaving them white
as the bridal dress she wore.
I stood open-mouthed, aghast, petrified.
Sybil, the woman I loved better than life, was dead, and I had been
married to her!
CHAPTER THREE.
GHOSTS OF THE PAST.
Horrified and appalled, my startled eyes were riveted upon the flawless
face that in life had entranced me.
"See! She's dead--dead!" I gasped wildly, when a few seconds later I
fully realised the ghastly truth.
Then throwing myself upon my knees, heedless of the presence of
strangers, I seized her clammy hand that bore the wedding ring, and
covered it with mad, grief-impassioned caresses. In her breast was a
spray of tuberoses, flowers ineffably emblematic of the grave. Faugh!
how I have ever since detested their gruesome, sickly odour. There is
death in their breath.
The despairing look in her sightless eyes was so horrible that I covered
my face with my hands to shut it out from my gaze. The secret terror
that she had dreaded, and to which she had made such veiled, gloomy
references, had actually fallen. Her incredible presage of evil, which
in Luchon I had at first regarded as the fantastic imaginings of a
romantic disposition, had actually become an accomplished fact--some
dire, mysterious catastrophe, sudden and complete, had overwhelmed her.
The woman I adored was dead!
In those moments of desolation, stricken down by a sudden grief, I bent
over the slim, delicate hands that had so often grasped mine in warm
affection, and there came back to me memories of the brief joyous days
in the gay little mountain town, when for hours I walked by her side in
rapturous transports and sat with her each evening under the trees,
charmed by her manner, fascinated by her wondrous fathomless eyes, held
by her beautiful countenance as under a spell. There had seemed some
mysterious rapport between her soul and mine. The sun shone more
brightly for me on the day she came into my world, and my heart became
filled with a supreme happiness such as I, blase and world-weary, had
never known. Heaven had endowed her with one of those women's souls
embodying pity and love, a ray of joy-giving light from a better world,
that consoled my being, softened my existence, and aroused within me for
the first time the conviction that in this brotherhood of tears there
existed one true-hearted, soft-voiced woman, who might be the sweet
companion of my future life. Through those few sunny days we had been
forgetful of all earth's grim realities, of all the evil thoughts of the
world. We had led an almost idyllic existence, inspired by our
love-making with great contempt for everything, vainly imagining that we
should have no other care than that of loving one another.
Ah! how brief, alas! had been our paradise! How sudden and complete was
my bereavement! how bitter my sorrow!
True, Sybil had spoken of the mysterious spectral terror which
constantly held her in a paroxysm of fear; yet having been satisfied by
her declaration that she was not already married, I had continued to
love her with the whole strength of my being, never dreaming that her
end was so near. Dead! She could no longer utter those soft,
sympathetic words that had brought peace to me. No longer could she
press my hand, nor smile upon me with those great eyes, clear and
trusting as a child's. Only her soulless body was before me; only her
chilly form that ere long would be snatched from my sight forever.
No, I could not realise that she had departed beyond recall. In mad
desperation I kissed her brow in an attempt to revivify her. At that
moment her sweet voice seemed raised within me, but it was a voice of
remembrance that brought hot tears to my eyes.
A second later I sprang up, startled by a loud knocking at the door of
the room. The unknown onlookers, breathless and silent, exchanged
glances of abject terror. "Hark!" I cried. "What's that?"
"Hush!" they commanded fiercely. For a few seconds there was a dead
silence, then the summons was repeated louder than before, as a deep
voice outside cried:
"Open the door. We are police officers, and demand admittance in the
name of the law."
Upon the small assembly the words fell like a thunderbolt.
"They have come!" gasped one of the women, pale and trembling. She was
of middle age, and wore an elaborate toilette with a magnificent necklet
of pearls.
"Silence! Make no answer," the man who had conducted me from Richmond
whispered anxiously. "They may pass on, and we may yet escape."
"Escape!" I echoed, looking from one to the other; "what crime have you
committed?"
A third time the knocking was repeated, when suddenly there was a loud
crash, and the door, slowly breaking from its hinges, fell, with its
silken portiere, heavily into the room as three detectives, springing
over it, dashed towards us.
"See! there she is!" cried one of the men authoritatively, pointing to
Sybil. "Arrest her!"
The two others dashed forward to execute their inspector's orders, but
as they did so the clergyman stepped quickly before her chair, and,
raising his bony hand, cried:
"Back, I command you! Back! The lady for whose arrest I presume you
hold a warrant has, alas! gone to where she is not amenable to the law
of man."
The men halted, puzzled.
"What do you mean?" cried the inspector.
"Look for yourselves, gentlemen," the man answered calmly. Then, in a
voice full of emotion he added, "She is dead!"
"Dead! Impossible!" all three echoed dismayed, as next second they
crowded around her, gazed into her calm, sweet face, and touching her
stiffening fingers, at last satisfied themselves of the terrible truth.
Then they removed their hats reverently, and, aghast at the sudden and
unexpected discovery, stood eagerly listening to the grave-faced man who
had made the amazing announcement.
"Yes," he continued, preserving a quiet demeanour. "Such an occurrence
is undoubtedly as unexpected by you as it is bitterly painful to us.
This intrusion upon the death-chamber is, I know, warranted by certain
unfortunate circumstances; nevertheless it is my duty, as the
officiating priest, to inform you that shortly before this lady expired
she was united in matrimony by special licence to this gentleman, Mr
Stuart Ridgeway, and of course if you wish you can inspect the register,
which I think you will find duly in order."
"The marriage does not concern us," the red-faced inspector answered,
murmuring in the same breath an apology for causing us unnecessary pain
by forcing the door. "The lady is dead, therefore we must, of course,
return our warrant unexecuted."
The others also expressed regret at their hasty action, and, having
quite satisfied themselves that Sybil was not merely unconscious, they
consulted among themselves in an undertone, and afterwards withdrew with
disappointment plainly portrayed upon their features.
"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded angrily of the clergyman when
they had gone.
"Unfortunately I can make no explanation," he replied.
"But while I have been unconscious you have, without my knowledge or
consent, performed the ceremony of marriage, uniting me to a dead bride.
You have thus rendered yourself distinctly liable to prosecution,
therefore I demand to know the reason at once," I exclaimed fiercely.
Unconcernedly he shrugged his shoulders, answering: "I regret extremely
that it is beyond my power to satisfy you. No doubt all this appears
exceedingly strange; nevertheless, when the truth is revealed, I venture
to think you will not be inclined to judge me quite so harshly, sir. I
was asked to perform a service, and have done so. This lady is your
wife, although, alas! she no longer lives."
"But why was I entrapped here to be wedded to a dying woman?"
"I have acted no part in entrapping you--as you term it," he protested
with calm dignity. "I had but one duty; I have performed that
faithfully."
"Then I am to understand that you absolutely refuse to tell me the name
of my dead wife, or any facts concerning her?"
"I do."
"Very well, then. I shall invoke the aid of the police in order to
fully investigate the mystery," I said. "That all of you fear arrest is
evident from the alarm betrayed on the arrival of the officers. What
guarantee have I that Sybil has not been murdered?"
"Mine," interposed one of the men, bald-headed and grey bearded, who had
until then been standing silent and thoughtful. "I may as well inform
you that I am a qualified medical practitioner, and for two years have
been this lady's medical attendant. She suffered acutely from
heart-disease, and the hurry and excitement of the marriage ceremony
under such strange conditions has resulted fatally. I think my
certificate, combined with my personal reputation in the medical
profession, will be quite sufficient to satisfy any coroner's officer."
Approaching my dead bride as he spoke, he tenderly closed her staring
eyes, composed her hands, and, taking up the veil I had torn aside,
folded it and placed it lightly across her white face.
I was about to demur, when suddenly the man who had acted as my guide
placed his hand upon my shoulder, saying in a calm, serious tone:
"Remember, you have taken your oath never to attempt to elucidate this
mystery."
"Yes, but if I have suspicion that Sybil has been murdered I am
justified in breaking it," I cried in protest. "She has not been
murdered, I swear," he replied. "Moreover, the doctor here stakes his
professional reputation by giving a certificate showing natural causes."
This did not satisfy me, and I commented in rather uncomplimentary terms
upon the unsatisfactory nature of the whole proceedings.
"But before coming here you accepted my conditions," the man said,
thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. "Sybil sought your aid to
save her from a deadly peril, and you were willing to assist her. You
have done so, although alas! all our efforts have been unavailing. You
have had the unique experience of having been a bridegroom and a widower
within ten minutes. Although I admit that there are many mysterious
circumstances surrounding your tragic union, yet for the present it is
impossible to give my explanation. Indeed, as I have already told you,
any inquiries must inevitably increase your burden of sorrow and
unhappiness. Therefore preserve silence and wait until I am able to
render you full satisfaction. When the true facts are exposed, you will
find that the only safeguard to ourselves lies in the present
preservation of our secret."
I observed that he was fully alive to my suspicions, that he divined
them, and anxiously followed my words. I surprised a swift gleam in his
eye that revealed the instinctive terror of the animal attacked at the
moment of its fancied security. I felt convinced that a crime had been
committed. At thought of it my heart-beats were quickened, and my
nerves thrilled. Again he placed his hand upon my shoulder, but I
shrank with unconquerable repugnance from that contact. "I intend to
elucidate this mystery," I said firmly. "Neither threats nor oaths
shall deter me from seeking the truth."
"Very well," he replied hoarsely; "if you intend to violate your oath,
taken before your Creator, do so. Nevertheless, I and my friends warn
you of the penalty for so doing."
"Well, and what is the penalty, pray?"
He shrugged his shoulders, but no answer passed his lips.
His face had strong individuality and vivid expression. As he stood
there between the two handsomely-dressed women, in his grey furtive
eyes, too wide apart, and always seeming to shun observation; in his
prematurely grey hair, in his mouth set round with deep wrinkles; in his
dark, blotched, bilious complexion, there seemed to be a creature of
another race. What passions had worn those furrows? What vigils had
hollowed those eyeballs? Was this the face of a happy man who had known
neither the wearying cares of ambition, the toil of money-getting, nor
the stings of wounded self-love? Why did all these marks of trouble and
exhaustion suddenly strike me as effects of a secret cause, and why was
I astonished that I had not sooner sought for it?
"Then you threaten me?" I said slowly, after a moment's pause.
"I threaten nothing," he answered, raising his dark eyebrows, and
adding, "There is no reason, as far as I can see, why we should be
enemies, but rather let us be friends. Sybil's death has brought to my
heart grief quite as poignant as that which you are suffering; therefore
in our mourning for one who was pure and good, should we not be united?
I have given you my word that I will elucidate the mystery as soon as I
feel confident that no catastrophe will follow. I consider that this
should satisfy you for the present, and that your own discretion should
induce you to wait at least with patience."
As he spoke there were some little details--the quick flutter of the
eyelids, the rapidly dismissed expression of disagreeable surprise when
I announced my intention of breaking my oath--that did not escape me.
But was it not the same with myself? I could have sworn that at the
same moment he experienced sensations exactly similar to those which
were catching me at the breast and in the throat. Did this not prove
that a current of antipathy existed between him and me?
Why had the police held a warrant for Sybil's arrest? Why had such care
been taken to conceal her identity? Why had I been married to her so
mysteriously? Why had she so suddenly passed to that land that lies
beyond human ken? Had a fatal draught been forced between her lips; or
had she, too, been placed in that room where I had so narrowly escaped
asphyxiation?
"Since I have been in this house," I said, "an attempt has been made to
kill me. I have therefore a right to demand an explanation, or place
the matter in the hands of the police."
"There was no attempt to injure you. It was imperative that you should
be rendered unconscious," the man said.
"And you expect me to accept all this, and make no effort to ascertain
the true facts?" I cried. "Sybil feared an unknown terror, but it
appears to me more than probable that she lived in constant dread of
assassination."
The man frowned, and upon the faces of those about him settled dark,
ominous expressions.
"It is useless to continue this argument in the presence of the dead,"
he said. "I have your address, and, if you desire it, I will call upon
you to-morrow."
"As you wish," I replied stiffly. "I have no inclination to remain in
this house longer than necessary."
Crossing to where the body of Sybil reclined, I slowly raised the veil,
gazing for some moments upon her calm, pale face, as restful as if
composed in peaceful sleep. Bending, I pressed my lips to her clammy
brow, then taking a piece of the drooping orange-blossom from her hair,
I replaced the veil, and, overcome with emotion, walked unsteadily out
over the fallen door, followed by the man whom I felt instinctively was
my enemy.
Together we descended the fine staircase, brilliantly lit by a huge
chandelier of crystal and hung with large time-mellowed paintings, into
a spacious hall, in which a footman with powdered hair awaited us. Half
dazed, my senses not having recovered from the shock caused to them,
first by the charcoal fumes and secondly by the appalling discovery of
Sybil's death, I remember that when the flunkey threw open the door a
hansom was awaiting me, and that my strange companion himself gave the
cabman my address. I have also a distinct recollection of having
refused to grasp my enemy's proffered hand, but it was not until I found
myself seated alone before the dying embers of the fire in my chambers
in Shaftesbury Avenue, my mind troubled to the point of torment, that it
suddenly occurred to me that in leaving the mysterious mansion I had
been culpably negligent of the future.
I had actually failed to take notice either of the exterior of the
house, or of the thoroughfare in which it was situated!
I had, I knew, driven along Oxford Street eastward to Regent Street, and
thence home, but from what direction the conveyance had approached the
Marble Arch I knew not. In blank despair I paced my room, for I saw I
should be compelled to search London for a house, of which all I knew of
the exterior was that it had a wide portico in front and was approached
from the pavement by three steps.
My omission to take notice of its aspect overwhelmed me with despair,
for there were thousands of similar houses in the West End, and I knew
that, while I prosecuted my inquiries, those responsible for Sybil's
death would be afforded ample time to effect their escape.
That such a search was beset with difficulty I was well aware. But
nervousness gave way to determination, at once feverish and fixed, and
it was in a mood of perfect self-mastery that, after a long period of
mental conflict, I flung myself upon my couch with my plan of operations
clearly laid out, and lay thinking over them until the yellow light of
the wintry dawn struggled in between the curtains.
CHAPTER FOUR.
A DEEPENING MYSTERY.
As the cheerless morning wore on, I sat after breakfast gloomily
smoking, trying to verify my first impression that Sybil had been the
victim of foul play in the hope of dispelling it. But it was, on the
contrary, deepened.
Either I was wrong to think thus; and at any price I was determined to
convince myself by facts that I was wrong, or I was right. The sole
resource henceforth remaining to me for the preservation of my
self-respect and the unburdening of my conscience was ardent and
ceaseless search after certainty.
Each hour as I pondered I was plunged more profoundly into the gulf of
suspicion. Yet the very position of the intricate problem which I had
before me seemed to forbid all hope of discovering anything whatsoever
without a formal inquiry. With foolish disregard for the future, I had
taken an oath to seek no explanation of what I might witness within that
mysterious house; I had placed myself irrevocably under the thrall of
the strange, cynical individual who had acted as Sybil's messenger!
Yet, now that Sybil was dead and everything pointed to a crime, I was
fully justified in seeking the truth, and had resolved upon bringing the
assassin to punishment.
During this debauch of melancholy the door opened and my old friend and
college chum, Captain Jack Bethune, burst into the room exclaiming:
"Mornin', Stuart, old chap. That ancient servitor of yours, Saunders,
told me that you're a bit seedy. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," I said, languidly grasping his hand. "Sit down. To what
good or evil fortune do I owe the honour of a visit at this unearthly
hour?"
"Good fortune, old chap, good fortune!" he laughed, flinging off his
overcoat and throwing himself back in the capacious arm-chair. "The
best fortune that could befall a man. Congratulate me, Stuart."
"Upon what? Have you finished a new book, or has your publisher been
unduly generous?"
"Neither. It isn't a book; it's a woman!"
"A woman?" I inquired, puzzled.
"I'm engaged to be married, old fellow."
"To Dora Stretton?"
"To Dora Stretton, the most adorable girl in the world."
I sighed; not because I regretted his choice. Far from it. Truth to
tell, I envied him his happiness.
"With all my heart I congratulate you, Jack," I cried next second,
springing up and grasping his hand. "I wish you every prosperity. I
have known Dora ever since a child, and although she may move in a smart
set, yet I have had opportunities that you have not of observing her
true-heartedness and--what shall I say?--her hatred of the hollow shams
and artificiality by which she is surrounded."
"Yes, you know her far better than I do," he admitted, lighting a
cigarette and adding, "I'd take your opinion upon a woman's character
before anybody else's. As a novelist, I have gained a reputation for
portraying female character, yet I assure you my ability in that
direction only exists in the imaginations of my reviewers. I can write
about women, but, hang it, old chap, I'm absolutely ignorant of them in
real life. You, a calm philosopher, can analyse a woman's nature and
lay every fibre of it bare as if by the scalpel; while I, finding my
conclusions always hopelessly at fault when attempting to study from
life, have written merely what I have believed to be artistic."
"Your books are popular, so I suppose your confession proves that pure
fiction pays better without an admixture of fact," I laughed.
"Yes," he said; "I'm afraid that is so," and then went on smoking with
an expression of joyful contentment.
John Bethune, known as the "soldier-novelist," was a handsome,
well-built fellow about thirty-two, with dark hair, a carefully-trimmed
moustache, and a pair of merry brown eyes that were an index to the
genuine bonhomie which was the chief trait of his character. Though he
entertained none of the idiosyncrasies or eccentricities of dress common
to many writers, he was, although a smart officer, nevertheless a true
Bohemian--always gay and light-hearted and the most popular man in his
regiment.
A thoroughly good fellow, he deserved every bit of the success he had
attained. The son of a struggling barrister, he had graduated, then
joined the army, afterwards becoming an anonymous contributor to a
Scotch review of hypercritical trend, edited by the distinguished
critic, Mr Goring. Having turned his attention to novel-writing in
combination with soldiering, he had made a brilliant success with his
first book, which had been increased by each other that had been issued.
On both sides of the Atlantic the newspapers were full of paragraphs
regarding his sayings and doings, many of their writers being fond of
alluding to him as "one of Mr Goring's young men," and for the past
three years he had been recognised as one of the leading "younger
novelists," whose wondrous insight into the complexities and
contradictions of woman's nature had earned for him a world-wide
reputation.
As he chatted about the woman to whom he had become engaged, I expressed
genuine satisfaction at his announcement. The honourable Dora Stretton,
although sister of the Countess of Fyneshade, one of the smartest women
in England, was altogether sweet and adorable, with a winning manner and
a face voted pretty wherever she appeared. She hated town life, for,
being a splendid horsewoman, she loved all outdoor sport, and was never
so happy as when riding with the Fitzwilliam pack, or driving her
spanking bays over the broad level Lincolnshire highways. Outwardly she
was a smart woman of to-day, but, as her childhood's friend, I knew that
beneath her tightly-laced Parisian corset and the veneer that she was
compelled to assume, there beat a true heart that yearned for the honest
love of a man.
So I congratulated Jack, explaining how Blatherwycke, old Lady
Stretton's estate in Northamptonshire, joined that of my father, and how
Dora, her sister Mabel, now Countess of Fyneshade, and myself had known
each other ever since the time when our nurses gossiped. Cruel-tongued
scandalmongers had said that her ladyship, finding her estates
impoverished on the death of her husband, the Viscount, gave Mabel in
marriage to the Earl of Fyneshade, a widower nearly twice her age, in
exchange for a service he rendered her by paying off a certain mortgage
upon the property. But, be that how it might, Dora had five thousand a
year in her own right, and this, together with Jack's fair income from
his royalties, would suffice to keep them in comfort, if not in
affluence.
"I had heard that Dora was likely to become the wife of old Lord
Wansford," I observed at last.
"Yes," he answered in a low tone. "Don't mention it to anybody, but her
ladyship is simply furious because Dora and I love each other. She had
set her mind on her daughter marrying a peer."
"Then you haven't yet obtained her ladyship's consent--eh?"
"No. We love each other, and Dora says she intends to marry me,
therefore we have agreed to defy the maternal anger."
"Quite right, old chap," I said. "Under the circumstances you are
justified. Besides, knowing the unhappiness in the Fyneshade menage,
Dora is not likely to marry anybody she does not love."
"True," he said. Then tossing his cigarette into the grate he rose, and
declaring he had a business appointment, he struggled into his overcoat
and, grasping my hand in adieu, said:
"You seem confoundedly glum to-day. Shake yourself up, old fellow. We
shall soon be hearing of your marriage!"
"My marriage!" I gasped, starting. His jovial words cut me to the
quick. They had an ominous meaning. "My marriage!"
"Yes," he said. "We shall soon be hearing all about it."
"Never, I hope--never."
"Bah! I was of the same mind until a month ago. Some day you, like
myself, will discover one woman who is not a coquette. Ta-ta for the
present," and he strode airily out, whistling a gay air, and leaving me
alone with my bitter sorrow.
Once or twice during our conversation I had been sorely tempted to
disclose the whole of the dismal circumstances and seek his advice, but
I had hesitated. He was perhaps too full of his newly-found joy to
trouble himself over my grief, and, after all, he might consider me a
fool for allowing myself to become fascinated by a mere chance-met
acquaintance about whom I knew absolutely nothing, and whose principal
efforts were directed towards enveloping herself in an impenetrable veil
of mystery. No; I resolved to preserve my own secret and act upon the
plans I had already formulated. With bitterness I sat and brooded over
Burns' lines:
Pleasures are like poppies spread.
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.
Or like the snowflake on the river,
A moment white--then gone forever.
At noon I roused myself and started forth on the first stage of a search
after truth, a search which I swore within myself I would not relinquish
until I had learnt Sybil's true history; nay, I had resolved to make the
elucidation of the mystery of her tragic end the one object in my life.
It occurred to me that from the police I might at least ascertain her
name and the nature of the information upon which the warrant had been
issued; therefore I walked to New Scotland Yard and sought audience of
the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. For half an hour I
aired my heels in a bare, cheerless waiting-room at the end of a long
stone corridor on the first floor, until at last a secretary entered
with my card, and an intimation from the Chief that he regretted he had
"no information to give on the subject."
Argument with the secretary proved unavailing, therefore I left, feeling
that I could hope for no assistance from the police.
Next it occurred to me to search the record of special marriage licences
at Doctors' Commons, and, taking a cab there, I was not long in
obtaining what appeared to be the first clue, for at the Faculty Office
I was shown the affidavit that had been made in application for a
special licence, which read as follows:
"Canterbury Diocese, December 8, 1891.
"Appeared personally, Sybil Henniker, spinster, of Hereford Road,
Bayswater, and prayed a special licence for the solemnisation of
matrimony between her and Stuart Ridgeway, bachelor, of 49, Shaftesbury
Avenue, London, and made oath that she believed that there is no
impediment of kindred or alliance, or any other lawful cause, nor any
suit commenced in any Ecclesiastical Court, to bar or hinder the
proceedings of the said matrimony according to the tenor of such
licence.
"Sworn before me,--
"John Hatchard (Registrar)."
The special licence had, it appeared, been granted on the following day,
but the clerk said the applicant had been seen by his colleague, now
absent.
Feeling that at least I should know the whereabouts of the strange
company who held in their charge the lifeless form of the woman I loved,
I drove rapidly to Bayswater, but when the cab turned from Westbourne
Grove into Hereford Road, and I saw that the house for which I was
searching, the number of which appeared in the licence, was a small
tobacconist and newsvendor's, my heart again sank within me.
I alighted and made inquiry of the shopkeeper, but she knew of no young
lady named Sybil, nor of any person named Henniker. Once again, then, I
was foiled; the address given in the affidavit was false.
For hours I drove aimlessly about the streets and squares lying between
Praed Street and Oxford Street, vaguely looking for a house I had never
distinctly seen, until at last it grew dark; then, cold and wearied, I
returned to my chambers.
As day succeeded day I continued my search, but could not grasp a single
certainty. At Somerset House I could discover no facts regarding either
the marriage or the death, and advertisements I inserted in various
newspapers, inquiring for the cabman who drove me home on the fatal
morning, elicited no reply.
Jack Bethune dropped in to see me daily and pestered me with inquiries
regarding the cause of my gloominess. Little, however, did he imagine
that I had been engaged through a whole fortnight in searching patiently
and methodically the registers of the great metropolitan cemeteries. To
Kensal Green, Highgate, Abney Park, Nunhead, Dulwich, Brompton, Norwood,
Crystal Palace, Lee, and elsewhere I went, always searching for the
names of Sybil Henniker or Sybil Ridgeway. This investigation proved
long and, alas! futile. I could obtain no clue whatever, all trace of
her had been so carefully hidden as to defy my vigilance.
At last, however, a month after that fatal night and just when the
prospect of misery which my future offered seemed too terrible for
endurance, I suddenly made a discovery. It was in the London office of
the Woking Cemetery Company that I found in the register an entry of an
interment on the second day following the midnight ceremony, of "Sybil
Ridgeway, wife of Stuart Ridgeway, of Shaftesbury Avenue." The address
whence the body was removed was not given, but, taking the next train
from Waterloo to Woking, I was not long in finding, by aid of the
cemetery-keeper's plan, away in a far corner of the ground a newly-made
grave.
Overcome with emotion, I stood before it in the fast-falling wintry
twilight, and saw lying upon the mound of brown earth a magnificent
wreath of white immortelles. Attached to it was a limp visiting-card.
Eagerly I took it up and inspected it.
Upon it, traced in ink that had become blurred and half-effaced by the
rain, there appeared some words. As I read them they seemed to glow in
letters of fire; they held me spell-bound.
I lost courage to pursue my cold, calm, reasonable deductions; a kind of
hallucination came upon me--a mental picture of her tragic end--and I
felt my reason reel.
A vertigo of terror seized me, as though the breath of destiny swept
over my brow.
The card secured to the great wreath was my own--the one I had given
Sybil on the first evening we had met in the Casino Garden--but the
words written upon it amazed me. I stood breathless, dumbfounded,
holding it between my trembling fingers, utterly unable to realise the
truth.
A portion of the writing upon it was in a well-formed man's hand, the
remainder in a heavy calligraphy totally different. The rains had
rendered the writing faint and brown, yet in the fast-falling gloom I
was enabled to decipher that one side bore the inscription--
"From your heart-broken husband--Stuart."
Then, turning it over, I read in a distinctly feminine hand the strange
exhortation--
"Seek, and you may find."
What did it mean? Was it an actual message to me from the grave? Did
it not appear like a declaration from my dead love herself that some
mysterious crime had been committed, and that she left its elucidation
in my hands? I became lost in bewilderment.
The inscription, purporting to be written by myself, was not in my
handwriting, and I was puzzled to divine its meaning. That it had been
penned at a date prior to the mysterious woman's words appeared certain,
as the lines were almost obliterated. Yet on reflection I saw that this
fact might be accounted for if that side of the card had been uppermost,
and thus more exposed. But the mysterious words, "Seek, and you may
find," were written in a different ink, upon which the action of the
weather had had but little effect. The exhortation stood out plainly
before my wondering eyes. By whose hand had it been traced? True, it
was not addressed personally to me, yet so ominous were the words that I
could not rid myself of the conviction that they were meant as an appeal
to me.
Why the wreath had been so carefully placed upon the grave, as if it
were a tribute from myself, was an inscrutable mystery; and the five
firmly-written words on the reverse of the card contained a mystic
meaning that I could not follow.
For a long time I remained there until night closed in and the wintry
mists gathered; then, detaching the card and placing it in my
pocket-book, I wended my way between the white, ghostly tombs towards
the cemetery gate, plunged deep in thought.
Suddenly, as I turned a corner sharply, I came face to face with an
ill-dressed man, who had apparently been lurking behind a great marble
monument. In the gloom I could not distinguish his features, and as he
turned and walked in the opposite direction I concluded that he was a
grave-digger or gardener, so dismissed the incident from my mind. Yet
half an hour later, while waiting on the platform of Woking Station, a
man who passed me beneath a lamp gave me a swift inquisitive look. His
strange expression attracted my attention, and as I turned and watched
his retreating figure it seemed familiar. Then I remembered. It was
the same individual who had apparently been watching my movements beside
Sybil's grave. Was he "shadowing" me?
Again I passed him, but he was wary, and bent feigning to eagerly scan a
time-table, thereby hiding his features. Nevertheless, before the train
arrived I managed by means of a ruse to obtain an uninterrupted view of
his pale, sad-looking countenance.
At first I was prompted to approach him boldly and demand the reason he
watched my actions, but on reflection I became convinced that my
suspicions were groundless, and that after all he was merely a lonely
mourner like myself. Perhaps he, too, had come from London to visit the
last resting-place of some dearly-loved friend; perhaps, even while I
viewed him with unjust suspicion, he had actually been sympathising with
me. No, I felt certain that my apprehensions were absurd, and that the
man had no sinister motive.
Alone in my room some hours later I placed the card carefully in the
fender to dry, and sat smoking and thinking over the strangely ominous
words upon it.
I could not rid myself of the conviction that my well-beloved had been
the victim of foul play. The words "Seek, and you may find" rang for
ever in my ears, yet in face of the declaration of the doctor I had no
proof that murder had actually been committed. I could discover no
report of an inquest having been held, and as the police had declined to
assist me I knew that I must work single-handed and unaided.
Noticing that the card was now dry, I knocked the ashes from my pipe,
then slowly stooping, picked it up. I turned it over to re-read the
mysterious words of entreaty, but a cry of dismay escaped me when next
instant I found the back of the card a perfect blank. On that side not
a trace of writing remained.
The puzzling mystic sentence had faded. The words had been wholly
obliterated as by some unseen hand.
The card fell from my nerveless fingers.
Presently it occurred to me that by again damping it the mysterious
entreaty might be rendered visible, and, taking the ewer that Saunders
had placed beside the tantalus stand, I dipped the precious document in
water. For half an hour I alternately wetted it and carefully dried it
with my handkerchief, but all effort to restore the writing proved
unavailing. The surface became rubbed by continued immersions, but the
words had utterly vanished, as if by magic.
Some hours afterwards I found myself doubting if I had ever actually
seen those strange words, and wondering whether after all they were not
a mere chimera of my disordered imagination. So strangely ominous were
they that I could not help feeling a trifle uncertain that they had
actually existed, and I remember that as I sat brooding over my sorrow I
feared lest I had been the victim of one of those strange hallucinations
which I had heard were precursory of insanity.
Twice I visited the grave of my dead love, but inquiries of the
cemetery-keeper elicited no clue. Times without number I felt prompted
to explain the strange circumstances to Jack Bethune, but always
hesitated, deeming silence the best course. Whether this secrecy
regarding my heart-sorrow was beneficial to my interests, I cannot
say, but the occurrence of at least one incident caused me
self-congratulation that my friends were unaware of the strange drama
that wrecked my happiness and overshadowed my life. It is, alas! true,
as Francois Coppee has said, "_Pour le melancolique, le soleil se couche
deja le matin_."
CHAPTER FIVE.
DORA'S ENGAGEMENT.
One night Jack dashed into my chambers and carried me off to a reception
at the house of John Thackwell, the well-known Lancashire millionaire,
at Hyde Park Gate. He would hear no excuses, for Dora was to be there,
and he pointed out that I had not yet congratulated her upon her
engagement. This fact alone induced me to accompany him, but, truth to
tell, I had only once before accepted Thackwell's hospitality, and on
that occasion had been terribly bored.
Thackwell had risen from a carding-hand to be sole proprietor of
extensive mills at Oldham, and a dozen other great spinning mills in the
neighbourhood of Manchester. This Lancashire cotton-king was bluff,
honest, and unassuming, and still retained all the peculiarities of the
dialect of his youth. He had tried to enter the gate of Society by the
Parliamentary pathway, but the electors of Bamborough had returned a
young sprig of the aristocracy by a narrow majority, notwithstanding the
fact that the cotton-king had built a fresh wing to one of the
hospitals, and presented the town with a brand new redbrick free
library. In chagrin he had come to London, bought one of the finest
mansions overlooking Hyde Park, and was now endeavouring to enter the
charmed circle by entertaining all and sundry on a scale lavish even for
millionaires.
Although the bluff old bachelor was fond of placing his "J.P." after his
name, dropping his "h's," and referring on inopportune occasions to the
fact that when a lad he had assisted to build his great mill at Oldham
by carrying hods of mortar up a ladder, he was nevertheless popular
among a certain set. Many scheming and impecunious mothers with titles
and marriageable daughters coveted his wealth, and it was no secret that
several of the men registered in "Debrett," who "looked in" at his
monthly functions, were indebted to him for substantial financial
assistance.
On arrival, we found the great magnificently-furnished rooms crowded
almost to suffocation by a brilliant but decidedly mixed throng. Some
of the men who nodded to us were high-priests of Mammon, officers who
lounged in clubs without any visible means of subsistence, and idlers
about town; but there was also a fair sprinkling of those leisurely
well-dressed people who constitute what is known as London, and I
noticed at once that on the whole the guests were of a much better set
than when I had before partaken of the millionaire's hospitality.
Society resembles a bal masque, where the women never unmask themselves.
At the moment we were announced, Thackwell, a burly, florid-faced,
grey-bearded man in ill-fitting clothes, and with an enormous diamond
solitaire in the centre of his crumpled shirt-front, was talking loudly
with old Lady Stretton, who was congratulating him upon the completion
of the beautiful frescoes by the Italian artists he had employed. As I
approached, I heard the millionaire reply:
"It's shaping gradely weel, but after all I get no more pleasure out of
life than when I wor a journeyman. Yet a chap with any spirit likes to
get on, and when he has put his heart into a job, feels as if he would
rayther dee than be bet. It's cost me a sight o' money, but it doesn't
pay to scamp."
Then, noticing me, he gripped my hand heartily, and to Bethune cried:
"Well, Jack, lad, how goes it?"
"Jack, lad," smiled as he made polite reply, but did not seem to greatly
admire this style of greeting, albeit the soldier-novelist knew the
cotton-king intimately. Truly, old Thackwell was an incongruity in
Society.
Lady Stretton smiled pleasantly, and bowed to us as we pushed our way
forward among the crowd, and we were not long in discovering the
Honourable Dora, Jack's adored, comfortably ensconced in a cosy-corner,
chatting with three men we knew.
"Halloa, Ridgeway!" cried one, a club acquaintance. Then dropping his
voice he added: "Unusual to find you in the cotton-palace, isn't it?"
"I've been here once before," I replied briefly, as, turning to Dora, I
sank into a low chair near her and began to chat. Soon the others left,
and Jack and I were alone with her. When I offered her my
congratulations, she clutched my arm quickly, whispering:
"Don't let anyone overhear you. Remember, no announcement has yet been
made, and Ma is quite inexorable."
"I'm looking for it in the Morning Post each day," I laughed, while as
punishment she playfully tapped me with her ostrich-feather fan.
Though three years had elapsed since she had kissed the hand of her
Sovereign, Society had not spoiled her. She was just as fresh,
light-hearted, and ingenuous as I remembered her in her hoyden days at
Blatherwycke, and as she sat talking with her lover and myself I saw how
thoroughly charming and brilliant she was.
Her fund of vivacity was, I knew, inexhaustible. When she wished to do
honour to a melancholy occasion, her vivacity turned any slight sorrow
she had into hysterical weeping; when the occasion was joyful, it became
a torrent of frivolity that is delightful when poured forth by a happy
girl of twenty-two. This evening the occasion was distinctly joyful.
Men had complimented her upon her dress, and she had a large sense of
success.
When she spoke to Jack there was a love-look in her dark brilliant eyes
that was unmistakable, and she was altogether handsome and fascinating.
Small-featured, hers was a delicately-moulded oval face with pointed
chin and pouting lips, while at the back of her well-poised head, her
maid had deftly coiled her wealth of dark-brown hair, wherein a diamond
aigrette glittered. Her smart gown was of pale pink chine silk,
patterned in green and darker pink. The coat bodice of darker pink
moire boasted diamond buttons, kilted frills of ivory lace, the sleeves
of kilted pale green chiffon, and a large bow of green chiffon with
draped ends to the waist over a jabot of ivory lace.
Many turned and looked at her as they passed. The glow of excitement
and success burned brightly in her cheeks, and no one accused Dora of
using rouge. Lady Stretton eyed us viciously once or twice;
nevertheless, Jack held in conversation the girl he loved, and they
laughed happily together. He was telling us of an amusing incident that
had occurred during the exercise of the troopers on Hounslow Heath that
morning, and I was feeling myself de trop when Dora, looking up
suddenly, exclaimed:
"Why, here's Mabel!"
Turning quickly I found her elder sister, the Countess of Fyneshade, in
a marvellous creation in yellow, leaning over my chair.
"I've come across to talk to you, Mr Ridgeway," she exclaimed, smiling.
"I saw that Jack had quite monopolised Dora. Their public love-making
is really becoming a scandal." Then she seated herself in a dimly-lit
corner close by, and motioned me to a chair near her.
CHAPTER SIX.
THE COUNTESS OF FYNESHADE.
Three years Dora's senior, the Countess was dark, strikingly handsome,
an accomplished horsewoman, and accredited one of the smartest women in
Society. Wedded to an elderly peer, she flirted outrageously, and
always had one or two younger cavaliers in her train. Fyneshade was
scarcely ever seen with his wife, and many were the stories afloat
regarding the serious differences existing between them. Outwardly,
however, the Countess was always gay, witty, and brilliant. She
displayed exquisite taste, and men voted her "capital company." It is
true that beside her pretty women seemed plain and middle-aged, and
well-dressed women looked dowdy, but since her marriage she had become
just a trifle too smart for my taste.
Dora was no doubt pleased that her sister had taken me off, so that she
might exchange confidences with Jack, but I confess I was not one of the
drivelling crowd that admired Fyneshade's wife.
When I had known her at Blatherwycke, in the days before her
presentation, she had been as frank and merry as her sister, but since
her union with the Earl she had sadly changed, acquiring an
artificiality and a penchant for flirtation, apparently living only to
be flattered and admired. True, she moved in one of the most select
circles, and no really smart house-party was complete without her; but,
knowing her as intimately as I did, it was not surprising perhaps that I
had long ago arrived at the conclusion that her gaiety and recklessness
were feigned, and I felt some sorrow for her.
She was lounging back talking nonsense at the highest possible speed,
for ever exchanging greetings and salutations in the same breath, and as
I calmly contemplated her I wondered whether her domestic unhappiness
was the sole cause of the secret trouble which she strove to mask.
"Jack and Dora are really too absurd," she was saying, glancing over to
them. "They are childishly fond of one another, but what the result
will be I dread to think."
"The result? Why, marriage," I said laughing.
She shrugged her shoulders, causing the diamonds at her white throat to
sparkle, elevated her dark arched brows, and exclaimed:
"Of course Jack is popular, and has a fair income, and everybody likes
him, but Ma is absolutely determined that Dora shall marry a title."
"Which means a loveless union with an elderly husband, and no happiness
within her own home--eh?"
She looked at me inquiringly, and her lips quivered slightly.
"You are cruel, Stuart," she answered seriously. "You mean that I am an
illustration of the victim of a loveless marriage."
I nodded. Then I said: "We are such old acquaintances, Mabel, that I
feel myself permitted to speak candidly. I have watched you for a long
time, and I know that you do not, you cannot love Fyneshade; you are
unhappily married, and all the pleasure of life lies beyond your own
home. Gossips' tongues try to wound your reputation--well, that's not
my affair, but--"
"Gossips' tongues!" she echoed hoarsely. "What care I for the lies of
scandalmongers? True, men admire me, flatter me, and say pretty things
that please me, but surely I am mistress of my own actions? If I chose
to flirt with my coachman it would be of no concern to anybody except
Fyneshade."
"You misconstrue my meaning," I said quietly. "It was my intention to
ask you whether you would desire Dora to lead a life similar to yours,
or whether you would allow her to seek happiness with the man she
loves."
In hesitation she opened and closed her fan. At last, in a harsh,
strained voice, quite unusual to her, she answered:
"Now that you have spoken so plainly, Stuart, I am compelled to admit
the truth," and with a sigh she continued: "You are quite right when you
say that mine was a loveless marriage, but even you cannot imagine how
bitter is my misery. Once I was as happy as my sister there, and
believed that I could love a man as devotedly as she does Jack, but my
mother led me to believe that wealth brought love, and I sacrificed
myself to rescue her from her creditors. The result has been three long
years of wretchedness and duplicity, of sorrow, misery, and despair.
Wealth and luxury are mine, it is true, and my diamonds are the envy of
the feminine half of London, but--but I have no happiness, no object in
life, no love. I hate everything, and most of all I hate myself."
"And why do you hate yourself?" I asked sympathetically.
"For reasons known only to myself," she answered evasively. "Ah! you
little dream, Stuart, what a life mine is--at least, the life I am
leading now. Another year of it will kill me, or drive me mad."
"Am I then to understand by your words that there is truth in this
gossip about Prince Starikoff and yourself at Royat?" I asked
seriously.
She drew a deep breath and bit her lip. I saw I had approached a
delicate subject. Her words had aroused my suspicions that there was
some foundation for the scandal freely circulated regarding a fracas
that had taken place at the little French watering-place of Royat, a
month or so before, between Fyneshade and a Russian Prince named
Starikoff.
"You have no right, Stuart, to question me upon my private affairs," she
said frigidly. "_Les calomnies n'ennuient jamais_. I know the Prince,
it is true, but I had no intention that my words should convey the
meaning you choose to put upon them, and I have no wish that we should
pursue the subject further."
"I bow to your desire, of course," I said. "My sole object in speaking
to you thus was to urge you to plead Jack's cause with your mother. I
know well enough that Lord Wansford admires Dora, and that Lady Stretton
looks upon him with favour. But surely his is an unenviable reputation.
If you were a man I could speak more plainly, but to you I can only say
that I would never allow a sister of mine to become his wife. I would
rather see her marry an honest working man."
The Countess' seriousness suddenly vanished, and she laughed lightly as
she answered:
"I really believe that after all, dear old boy, you are in love with
Dora yourself. I know you used to be rather fond of her in the old
days, and am inclined to think that in reality you are Jack's rival."
"No, not at all," I said. "Bethune is my friend; so is Dora. I merely
desire to see them happy, and if I can save your sister from a life of
wretchedness with Wansford, I shall feel that at least I have acted as
her friend."
"Rubbish!" the Countess exclaimed impatiently. "Marriage nowadays is a
mere commercial transaction; very few people marry for love. An
affectionate husband is apt to be jealous, and jealousy is decidedly
bourgeois. Besides, Jack hasn't the means to keep Dora as she should be
kept. It would mean a red-brick villa in a remote suburb with a couple
of servants, I suppose. Why, she would leave him in six months."
"No," I said. "Surely love and sufficient to provide comfort is better
than loathing and thirty thousand a year! Scarcely a man in England or
America is better known than Jack Beaune."
"I was only aggravating you," she said with a tantalising smile a moment
later. "I quite admit the force of your argument, but to argue is
useless. Mother has set her mind upon Lord Wansford, and, although I
should like to see Dora marry Jack, I'm afraid there's but little chance
of the match--unless, of course, they throw over the maternal authority
altogether and--"
The words froze upon her lips. With her eyes fixed beyond me, she
started suddenly and turned deathly pale, as if she had seen an
apparition. Alarmed at her sudden change of manner, and fearing that
she was about to faint, I turned in my chair, and was just in time to
come face to face with a tall military-looking man who was sauntering by
with a fair, insipid-looking girl in pink upon his arm.
For an instant our eyes met. It was a startling encounter. We glared
at each other for one brief second, both open-mouthed in amazement.
Then, smiling cynically at Mabel, he hurried away, being lost next
second in the laughing, chattering crowd.
I had recognised the face instantly. It was the mysterious individual
who had met me at Richmond and conducted me to Sybil! My first impulse
was to spring up and dash after him, but, noticing the Countess was on
the point of fainting, I rushed across to Dora and borrowed her
smelling-salts. These revived my companion, who fortunately had not
created a scene by losing consciousness, but the unexpected encounter
had evidently completely unnerved her, for she was trembling violently,
and in her eyes was a wild, haggard look, such as I had never before
witnessed.
"That man recognised you," I said a few moments later. "Who is he?"
"What man?" she gasped with well-feigned surprise. "I was not aware
that any man had noticed me."
"The fellow who passed with a fair girl in pink."
"I saw no girl in pink," she replied. "The heat of this crowded room
upset me--it caused my faintness." Then, noticing my expression of
doubt, she added, "You don't appear to believe me."
"I watched him smile at you," I answered calmly.
"He smiled! Yes, he smiled at me!" she said hoarsely, as if to herself.
"He is the victor and I the vanquished. He laughs because he wins,
but--" She stopped short without finishing the sentence, as if suddenly
recollecting my presence, and annoyed that she should have involuntarily
uttered these words.
"Tell me, Mabel, who he is," I inquired. "I have met him before, and to
me he is a mystery."
"To me also he is a mystery," she said, with knit brows. "If he is your
friend, take my advice and end your friendship speedily."
"But is he not your friend?" I asked.
"I knew him--once," she answered in a low voice; adding quickly: "If I
remain here I shall faint. Do take me to my carriage at once."
She rose unsteadily, bade good-night to her sister and Jack, then taking
my arm accompanied me downstairs to the great hall.
It was an entirely new phase of the mystery that the Countess of
Fyneshade should be acquainted with my strange, sinister-faced
conductor. That she feared him was evident, for while there had been an
unmistakable look of taunting triumph in his face, she had flinched
beneath his gaze and nearly fainted. Her declaration that she had
recognised no man at that moment, her strenuous efforts to remain calm,
and her subsequent admission that he was her enemy, all pointed to the
fact that she was well acquainted with him; and although, as we stood
while her carriage was being found, I asked her fully a dozen times to
disclose his name or something about him, she steadily refused. It was
a secret that she seemed determined to preserve at all hazards.
When she grasped my hand in farewell she whispered, "Regard what I have
told you as a secret between friends. I have been foolish, but I will
try to make amends. Adieu!" Then she stepped into her carriage, and I
went up into the drawing-room in search of the mysterious dark-visaged
guest, whose appearance had produced such a sudden, almost electric
effect upon her. Through several rooms, the great conservatory, and the
corridors I searched, but could neither discover my strange companion on
that eventful night, nor the pale-faced girl in pink. For fully half an
hour I wandered about, my eager eyes on the alert, but apparently they
had both disappeared on being recognised.
Did this strange individual fear to meet me face to face?
Though my mind was filled with memories of that fateful night when I had
been joined in matrimony to my divinity, I nevertheless chatted with
several women I knew, and at last found myself again with Dora, "Jack,
lad," being carried off by our energetic old host to be introduced to
the buxom daughter of some Lancashire worthy.
Dora pulled a wry face and smiled, but we talked gayly together until
the soldier-novelist returned. Soon afterwards, however, old Lady
Stretton came up to us and carried off her daughter, while Jack shared
my cab as far as his chambers, where we parted.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
ON LIFE'S QUICKSANDS.
At home I cast myself in my chair and threw myself into an ocean of
memories. I did not switch on the light, but mused on, gazing into the
darkness, now and then lit up by the ruddy flames as they shot forth
from the grate and cast great quivering shadows, like dancing spectres,
on the walls and ceiling. Ever and anon a momentary flash would hover
about the antique silver ewer or glint along the old oak sideboard,
which, like a vague dark mass, filled up an angle in the room, or play
about the set of old china or the pair of antique vases on the
mantelshelf. This prevailing gloom, penetrated by fitful gleams, was
soothing after the glare and glitter of what had irreverently been
termed the cotton-palace, and as the fickle light fell in spectral
relief about the gloom-hidden furniture, I mused on in coldest
pessimism.
As I sat thinking what I had lived through, scenes in many climes and
pictures of various cities rose before my mind, but one face alone stood
out boldly before me, the sweet countenance of the woman I had loved.
I recollected the strange events of that fateful night of grief and
terror, and reflected upon the recognition between the Countess and the
unknown man whom she had admitted was her enemy. How suddenly and
completely he had disappeared! Yet it was apparent that he held some
strange influence over Fyneshade's wife, for she feared to tell me his
name or disclose her secret. Even though he had brushed past me and his
cold, glittering eyes had gazed into my face, he had again eluded me.
The expression of triumph upon his dark countenance was still plainly
before me, a look full of of portent and evil.
I met Dora several times, once riding in the Park, once at the theatre
with Lady Stretton, and once in Park Lane with her lover. From her I
learnt that the Countess had been very unwell ever since that evening at
Thackwell's, and had not been out. Her doctor had recommended complete
rest for a week, and suggested that she should afterwards go to the
Riviera for a change.
Was this extreme nervousness from which she was suffering the result of
the unexpected encounter with the man she held in dread? I felt
inclined to call at Eaton Square, but doubted whether, if she were ill,
she would receive me.
One bright dry morning, about ten days later, I was strolling aimlessly
along Regent Street with Jack Bethune, who, knowing that Dora would be
out shopping, had come out to look for her. About half-way along the
thoroughfare some unknown influence prompted me to halt before a
photographer's window and inspect a series of new pictures of
celebrities, when suddenly my eye fell upon an object which, placed in
the most prominent position in the centre of the window, caused me to
utter a cry of surprise.
Enclosed in a heavy frame of oxidised silver was a beautifully-finished
cabinet portrait of Sybil!
The frame, a double one, also contained the portrait of a young
pleasant-faced man of about twenty-five, who wore his moustache
carefully curled, and about whose features was a rather foreign
expression. The picture of my dead love riveted my attention, and as I
stood gazing at it with my face glued to the glass, Jack chaffed me,
saying:
"What's the matter, old chap? Who's the beauty?" His flippant words
annoyed me.
"A friend," I snapped. "Wait for me. I'm going in to buy it."
"On the stage, I suppose?" he hazarded. "Awfully good-looking, whoever
she is."
"No, she's not on the stage," I answered brusquely, leaving him and
entering the shop.
At my request the frame was brought out of the window, and in response
to my inquiries regarding it the manager referred to his books, an
operation which occupied considerable time. Meanwhile Jack, who had
found Dora, had rushed in, announced his intention of calling on me in
the evening, and left.
At last the photographer's manager came to me, ledger in hand, saying:
"Both photographs were taken at the same time. I remember quite
distinctly that the young lady accompanied the gentleman, and it was at
her expense and special request that they were framed together and
exhibited in our window. The prints were taken hurriedly because the
gentleman was going abroad and wanted to take one with him."
"What name did they give?"
"Henniker."
"And the address?" I demanded breathlessly.
The photographer consulted his book closely, and replied: "The prints
appear to have been sent to Miss Henniker, 79 Gloucester Square, Hyde
Park."
Upon my shirt cuff I scribbled the address, and having paid for both the
portraits, was about to leave, congratulating myself that at last I had
probably obtained a clue to the house to which I had been conducted,
when it suddenly occurred to me to ask the date when the photographs
were taken.
"They were taken on January 12th last," he replied. "Last year, you
mean," I said.
"No, the present year. This ledger was only commenced in January."
"What?" I cried amazed. "Were these portraits actually taken only six
weeks ago? Impossible! The lady has been dead fully three months."
"The originals of the portraits gave us sittings here on the date I have
mentioned," he said, handing me the packet courteously, putting aside
the frame, and leaving me in order to attend to another customer.
The announcement was incredible. It staggered belief. Emerging from
the shop, I jumped into a cab and gave the man the address in Gloucester
Square. Then, as we drove along, I took out the photograph of my
well-beloved and examined it for a long time closely. Yes, there was no
mistake about her identity. The same sweet, well-remembered face, with
its clear, trusting eyes looked out upon me, the same half-sad
expression that had so puzzled me. I raised the cold, polished card to
my lips and reverently kissed it. Presently the cab drew up suddenly,
and I found myself before a wide portico extending across the pavement
to the curb, in front of a rather gloomy, solid-looking mansion.
Alighting, I crossed to the door, and as I did so counted the steps.
There were three, the same number that I remembered ascending on that
eventful night I had raised my hand to ring the visitors' bell when
suddenly a voice behind me uttered my name. It sounded familiar, and I
looked round hastily. As I turned, the Countess of Fyneshade, warmly
clad in smart sealskin coat and neat seal toque trimmed with sable,
confronted me. Standing upon the pavement beneath the wide gloomy
portico, she was smiling amusedly at the sudden start I had given on
hearing my name.
"I declare you've turned quite pale, Stuart," she cried with that gay,
irresponsible air and high-pitched voice habitual to her. "You gave
such a jump when I spoke that one would think you had been detected in
the act of committing a burglary, or some other crime equally dreadful."
"I really beg your pardon," I exclaimed quickly, descending the steps
and raising my hat. "I confess I didn't notice you." Then, for the
first time, I observed standing a few yards from her a slim,
well-dressed young man in long dark overcoat and silk hat.
"Gilbert," she said, turning to him, "you've not met Mr Ridgeway
before, I believe. Allow me to introduce you--Mr Gilbert Sternroyd,
Mr Stuart Ridgeway, one of my oldest friends."
We uttered mutual conventionalities, but an instant later, when my eyes
met his, the words froze upon my lips. The Countess's companion was the
original of the photograph that had been exhibited at my dead love's
request in the same frame as her own.
Of what words I uttered I have no remembrance. Bewildered by this
strange and unexpected encounter, on the very threshold of the
mysterious house that for months I had been striving in vain to
discover, I felt my senses whirl. Only by dint of summoning all my
self-possession I preserved a calm demeanour. That Mabel should have
admitted acquaintance with the strange and rather shady person who had
met me at Richmond was curious enough, but her friendship with Sybil's
whilom companion was a fact even more incomprehensible.
An hour ago I had discovered the picture of this man called Sternroyd,
yet here he stood before me in the flesh, accompanied by the one person
of my acquaintance who knew that nameless man who had inveigled me to
this house of shadows. Heedless of Mabel's amusing gossip, I surveyed
her companion's face calmly, satisfying myself that every feature agreed
with the counterfeit presentment I carried in my pocket. The portrait
was strikingly accurate, even his curiously-shaped scarf-pin in the form
of a pair of crossed daggers with diamond hilts being shown in the
picture. He was tall, fair, of fresh complexion, aged about
twenty-four, with grey eyes rather deeply set, and a scanty moustache a
little ragged. Lithe, active, and upright, his bearing was distinctly
athletic, although his speech was a trifle languid and affected. What,
I wondered, had been the nature of his relations with Sybil? The
horrifying thought flashed across my mind that he might have been her
lover, but next second I scorned such a suggestion, convinced that she
had been devoted to me alone.
Yet how could I reconcile the statement of the photographer that the
portrait had only been taken a few weeks with my own personal
investigation that she at that time was dead? Had I not, alas! kissed
her cold brow and chafed her thin dead hands, hoping to bring back to
them the glow of life? Had I not raised her gloved arm only to find it
stiffening in death? The remembrance of that fateful night chilled my
blood.
"Who are you calling upon, Stuart?" the Countess asked, her light words
bringing me at last back to consciousness of my surroundings.
"Upon--upon friends," I stammered.
"Friends! Well, they can't live here," she observed incredulously.
"They do," I answered. "This is number seventy-nine."
"True, but the place is empty." She laughed.
I glanced at the doorway, and my heart sank within me when I noticed
that the unwhitened stones were littered with drifting straws and scraps
of paper, the flotsam and jetsam of the street, that the glass of the
wide fanlight was thickly encrusted with dirt, and that the board fixed
over the door, announcing that the "imposing mansion" was to let, had,
judging from its begrimed, blistered, and weather-stained appearance,
been in that position several years.
To reassure myself, I glanced at my cuff and inquired of the cabman
whether the house was not Number 79 Gloucester Square.
"Quite right, sir," answered the plethoric driver. "This 'ere's Radnor
Place, but these 'ouses fronts into the square. This row 'ain't got no
entrances there, but the front doors are at the back here. I've known
these 'ouses ever since I was a nipper. This 'ere one's been to let
this last four years. A French gentleman lived 'ere before."
"I fancy you've mistaken the number," drawled the Countess's companion,
putting up his single eye-glass to survey the place more minutely. "So
confoundedly easy to make mistakes, don't yer know," and he laughed, as
if amused at his witticism.
I resented this apparent hilarity, and with difficulty restrained some
hot words that rose quickly to my lips. It had occurred to me that if I
preserved silence and gave no sign, I might perhaps discover the
identity of this foppish young man. The mansion, silent, dismal, and
deserted, was drab-painted and of unusually imposing proportions. The
drawing-room on the first floor was evidently of vast extent, running
the whole width of the house and commanding in front a wide view across
the square, while at the rear it opened upon a fine domed conservatory
constructed over the great portico.
"If you can't find your friends, Stuart, I'll give you a lift homeward.
My carriage is at the corner," Mabel said, evidently anxious to get
away. "I'm going down to the Reform, to fetch Fyneshade."
In this invitation I saw an opportunity of obtaining some further
knowledge of her mysterious companion, and, after settling with my
cabman, lost no time in embracing it. A few moments later the
Countess's smart victoria drew up, and entering, I took the place beside
her, while Sternroyd seated himself opposite.
As we drove around Southwick Crescent in the direction of Park Lane,
Mabel, in the course of conversation, let drop the fact that Gilbert, a
protege of her husband's, was spending a few days at Eaton Square prior
to returning to his studies at Oxford.
"Yes," he drawled. "A fellow appreciates town after poring over musty
volumes, as I unfortunately am compelled to do. Beastly bore!"
Then he told me he was at Balliol--my old college--and our conversation
afterwards turned mainly upon dons and duns.
"I always have such jolly times with Mab--Lady Fyneshade--each time I
come to town," he said. "Whenever I go back I feel absolutely
miserable."
"Yet memories of the past are sometimes painful," I observed, smiling.
At the same time I glanced at Mabel, knowing that the strange
circumstances in which we had parted at the cotton-king's reception must
still be fresh in her mind. Darting at me a swift look of inquiry, she
picked at the buttons of her pearl-grey glove, laughed lightly, and
exclaimed flippantly:
"We have no memories when we arrive at years of discretion. Idle memory
wastes time and other things. The moments as they drop must disappear
and be simply forgotten as a child forgets. Nowadays one lives only for
the future, and lets the past be buried."
"And if the past refuses to be interred?" I asked.
She started visibly, and a frown of annoyance rested for a brief moment
upon her handsome countenance. I fancied, too, that her companion
looked askance at me, but not waiting for either to reply, I said:
"I myself find it difficult to altogether forget. Some incidents in
each of our lives are indelibly engraven upon our minds, and there are
some tender memories that in our hours of melancholy we love to linger
over and brood upon. At such times we find solace in solitude and sup
on vain regrets."
"That's only when we have been in love," the Countess laughed, patting
the large pug beside her. "Gilbert has never been in love; have you,
Gilbert?"
"Never," he answered, grinning.
"With one exception," she observed with mock gravity. "Yourself, you
mean?" he drawled, twirling his flaxen moustache and smiling.
"Certainly not," she cried with feigned indignation. "How dare you
attempt to be complimentary at my expense? No, if I remember aright
there was one woman who in your eyes was a veritable angel, who--"
"Ah!" he said gravely, in a tone quite natural and unaffected. "Yes,
you are right. There was one woman." And he sighed as if painful
memories oppressed him.
One woman! Did he allude to Sybil? If so, it was apparent that Mabel
must be well aware of his acquaintance with the woman I had loved.
Silent I sat while the conversation quickly turned from grave to gay, as
it always did when the Countess chattered.
Suddenly, as we were passing into Piccadilly, it became impressed
vividly upon my mind that they were hiding some secret from me. Two
prominent facts aroused within me suspicion that their conversation was
being carried on in order to mislead me. The first was, that although I
had asked them what had brought them to Radnor Place neither of them had
given any satisfactory reply; the second was, that although Sternroyd
must have been associated in some mysterious way with that silent house
to which the photographs had been sent, he had made no allusion whatever
to it, nor did he make any observation when he noticed my dismay at
discovering it untenanted.
It was evident some secret understanding existed between them, and the
more I reflected upon it the more probable did it appear that they had
actually called at this house, and had only just left it when I arrived.
In order to ascertain my object in visiting it, and to learn the extent
of my knowledge regarding it, the Countess had greeted me with her usual
gaiety, and was now carrying me triumphantly back. I had, of course, no
proof; nevertheless, I had an intuition, strange and distinct, that in
close concert with my dead love's whilom friend, Sternroyd, she was
playing a deep mysterious game with considerable tact and consummate
ingenuity. But she was a most remarkable woman. Always brilliant and
fascinating, always sparkling with wit and bubbling with humour, she was
thoroughly unconventional in every respect. Society had long ago ceased
to express surprise at any of her eccentric or impetuous actions. She
held licence from Mother Grundy to act as, she pleased, for was she not
admitted on all hands to be "the smartest woman in London?" She had a
watchful confidence not only in a multitude of men, but in a multitude
of things.
She dropped me outside the New Lyric Club, close to Piccadilly Circus,
not, however, before she had expressed regret at Dora's unhappiness.
"What has occurred?" I asked concernedly.
"Oh! there has been a terrible upset at home about Jack Bethune," she
answered. "I've done my level best with Ma, but she absolutely forbids
Jack to pay his addresses to Dora."
"Because, as you have already told me, she wants her to marry a man she
can never love," I said gravely.
"Yes," she said hurriedly. "But here's your club. Captain Bethune is
certain to tell you all about it. Goodbye! I shall be at Lady
Hillingdon's to-morrow night, then we'll resume our chat."
"Good-bye!" I said, alighting and grasping her hand; then as the
commissionaire swung the club door open her companion raised his hat and
the carriage was driven rapidly away.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
SECRET UNDERSTANDING.
Idle memory shortens life, or shortens the sense of life, by linking the
immediate past clingingly to the present. In this may be found one of
the reasons for the length of time in our juvenile days and the brevity
of the time that succeeds. The child forgets, habitually, gayly, and
constantly. Would that I had never acquired the habit of recall!
Jack, in a well-worn velvet lounge coat, was seated at his writing-table
absorbed in his work when I entered, a couple of hours after I had left
Mabel. His small den, lined with books, contained but little furniture
beyond the big oak writing-table in the window, a heavy old-fashioned
horse-hair couch, and several easy chairs. Littered with newspapers,
books, magazines, and those minor worries of an author's life,
press-cuttings, the apartment was nevertheless snug, the bright fire and
the green-shaded reading lamp giving it a cosy appearance.
"Halloa, old chap!" he cried, throwing down his pen gayly and rising to
grip my hand. "So glad you've looked in. Have a weed?" and as we
seated ourselves before the fire he pushed the box towards me.
"I met Mabel to-day," I said at last, after we had been chatting and
smoking for some minutes.
"Did you? Well? What's the latest fad? Teas for poor children,
bicycling, golf, old silver, or what?"
"She's much concerned regarding Dora," I answered. "And she has hinted
that there are strained relations between Dora's mother and yourself.
I've come to hear all about it."
He hesitated, tugging thoughtfully at his moustache.
"There's not very much to tell," he replied, rather bitterly. "The old
lady won't hear of our marriage. When I mentioned it yesterday she went
absolutely purple with rage, and forbade me to enter her house again, or
hold any further communication with the woman I love."
"Which you will disregard, eh? Have you seen Dora to-day?"
"No. I've been waiting at home all day expecting a note, but none has
arrived," he said disappointedly; adding, "Yet, after all, there is no
disguising the fact, old chap, that I really haven't enough money to
marry a girl like Dora, and perhaps the sooner I recognise the truth and
give up all hope of marriage, the better for us both."
"No, no. Don't take such a gloomy view, Jack," I said sympathetically.
"Dora loves you, doesn't she?"
"Yes. You know well enough that I absolutely adore her," he answered
with deep earnestness.
I had known long ago that his avowed intention had been never to marry.
Until he became noted as a novelist his periods of life in town had been
few and fleeting. Not that he felt awkward or ill at ease in society;
his name was a passport, while his well-bred ease always insured him a
flattering welcome; but for the most part Society had no charm for him.
Sometimes, when among his most intimate friends, he would give the reins
to his high spirits, and then, gayest of the gay, he would have smoothed
the brow of Remorse itself. Private theatricals, dinner-parties,
dances, or tennis-matches, he was head and front of everything. Then
suddenly he would receive orders to remove with his regiment to another
town, and good-bye to all frivolity--he was a cavalry officer again, and
no engagement had power to keep him.
If he ever made any impression on the fair sex, he had remained
unscathed himself until a few months ago, and the eagerness with which
he obeyed each call to duty had been proof of the unfettered state of
his heart. His ardent love for his profession was, he used to be fond
of declaring, incompatible with domestic life. "The first requisite for
a good officer," he had told me dozens of times, "is absolute freedom
from all ties;" but now, having entered the profession of letters and
having discovered the power of the pen, he had paid Dora Stretton a
chivalrous attention that had developed into ardent and passionate
devotion. She was his goddess; he worshipped at her shrine.
"Well, having received the maternal conge, what do you intend doing?" I
inquired after a long silence.
"What can I do?" he asked despondently, gazing sadly into the fire. "I
love her with all my heart and soul, as you are aware, yet what can I
do?"
"Why, marry her all the same," cried a musical voice gayly, and as we
both jumped up, startled, we were surprised to find Dora herself
standing in the doorway, laughing at our discomfiture.
"You!" cried Jack, gladly rushing forward and grasping her hand. "How
did you get in?"
"I forbade your woman to announce me, because I wanted to surprise you,"
she laughed. "But I--I had no idea that Mr Ridgeway was with you. She
ought to have told me," she added, blushing.
"I'm surely not such a formidable person, am I?" I asked.
"Well, no," she answered. Then looking round the little book-lined room
rather timidly, she said, "I don't know that I ought to have come here,
but I wanted to see Jack. I'm supposed to be at Mabel's, dining. I
drove there in the brougham, and then came along here in a cab."
"Won't you sit down?" her lover asked. "Now you are here we must try
and make you as cosy as possible, providing you'll excuse the
Bohemianism of my quarters."
"Why apologise, Jack?" she asked, as he unclasped her cape, revealing
her handsome dinner-dress cut a trifle decollete. "If Ma will not let
us meet openly, then we must see each other surreptitiously."
"Well spoken," I exclaimed, laughing, and when she had seated herself in
Jack's arm chair, with her little satin shoes placed coquettishly upon
the fender, she told us how she had ingeniously arranged with her sister
to return to Eaton Square in a cab, and then drive home in the carriage,
as if she had been spending the whole evening with Mabel.
We laughed, and as I sat gazing at her, memories of Sybil, the woman I
had loved and lost, crowded upon me. Even though Lady Stretton's
consent was withheld, they were nevertheless happy in each other's love.
The love-look upon their faces told me how intense was the passion
between them, and I envied my friend his happiness. Dora was indeed as
charming to the sight as eyes could desire. Her bare shoulders, well
set-off by her black bespangled dress trimmed with pale-green chiffon,
were a trifle narrow, but that lent her a childish grace, and it was the
one fault that could be found with her; all the rest was perfect, and
the greatest charm of all that, unlike her sister, she was totally
unconscious of her loveliness.
In the warm atmosphere of their love and confidence their characters had
unfolded, and they had learned to know one another perfectly. Jack,
although he held a world-wide reputation for keen analysis of character
on paper, had been amazed at all the delicate susceptibilities cherished
in Dora's heart, at the freshness and innocent pleasures of which it was
capable, and not a little at the vein of malicious fun he had wholly
unsuspected.
I sat silent while they chatted, reflecting upon the strange discovery
of the photograph of my lost love, and the more remarkable encounter
that afternoon, I had called on Jack for the purpose of making a clean
breast of the whole affair, but Dora's arrival precluded me from so
doing. My sorrow, however, lost none of its bitterness by keeping, and
I resolved to return to him on the morrow, show him the portraits, and
ask his advice.
Jack had been admiring her gown, and the conversation had turned upon
the evergreen topic of dress. But she spoke with the air of a
philosopher rather than of a Society girl.
"Everyday life needs all the romance that can be crowded into it," she
said. "Dress, in my opinion, is a duty to ourselves and to others--is a
piece of altruism unsoured by sacrifice, a joy so long as it may last to
wearer and beholder, doing good openly nor blushing to find itself
famous."
"Your view is certainly correct," I said, smiling at her sedate little
speech. "You are a pretty woman, and without committing yourself to
affectation or eccentricity, you may choose the mode that shall best
become you, whether born of Worth's imagination or founded on some
picturesque tradition. You may be severe or splendid, avenante or
rococo, with equal impunity."
"Really you are awfully complimentary, Mr Ridgeway," she answered, with
just the faintest blush of modesty. "You are such a flatterer that one
never knows whether you are in earnest."
"I'm quite in earnest, I assure you," I said. "Your dresses always suit
you admirably. On any other woman they would look dowdy."
"I quite endorse Stuart's opinion," said Jack with enthusiasm. "In
writing it is often my misfortune to be compelled to describe feminine
habiliments, therefore I've tried to study them a little. It seems to
me that the ball-dress may be festal, the dinner-dress majestic, and the
outdoor frock combine the virtues of both; but romance must always
centre in the tea-gown. Before the advent of the tea-gown, the indoor
state of woman was innocent of comfort and beggared of poetry."
"Yes," she replied, clasping her hands behind her head and looking up at
him with her soft brown eyes, "the tea-gown is always ingenuous in
sentiment and not wanting in charm, even though its hues may be odious
or sickly. Once it was looked upon with disfavour as a garment too
graceful to be respectable, and stern parents, I believe, forbade its
use. But time, taste, and the sense of fitness have put Puritanism to
shame, and the useful tea-gown; bears witness now to our proficiency in
the long-lost art of living."
Her reference to stern parents caused me to refer to what Mabel had told
me regarding the attitude of her mother.
"Ah! I remember that you were discussing it when I interrupted you as I
came in," she said frankly. "Ma wants me to make a rich marriage, it is
true, but I love Jack, and I'm determined not to have any other man.
I've seen enough of the tragedy of rich unions."
"I know you are true to me, Dora," my old friend said, grasping her
hand, and looking into her eyes as he stood beside her chair. "I've
waited all day expecting a note from you, for I felt confident you would
write or see me after last night's scene."
"Don't refer to that again," she said quickly, putting up her little
hand as if to arrest his words. "It was too cruel of Ma to speak as she
did. She tried to wound my feelings, because I told her I would marry
the man of my own choice. She wants me to be smart, with a penchant for
flirtation, like Mabel," and her lips quivered with emotion.
"If you marry me, darling," he said, with an utter disregard for my
presence, "I will strive to provide you with fitting supplies, but if
you were poorer than Mabel you would at least love your husband dearly
and be his idol."
"I do not doubt it, Jack," she answered, her love-darting eyes fixed
earnestly upon his. "I love no man but yourself."
"Then nothing shall part us, dearest--nothing," he declared.
I sat gazing into the fire, thinking of some excuse whereby I might
leave them alone. The memories of my own love were too vivid, and this
passionate scene was to me painful. Alas! all that remained of the
ashes of my own romance was the photograph in my pocket. I had not torn
aside the veil of mystery that had surrounded Sybil; I did not even know
her true name.
"Stuart, old fellow, you will excuse us speaking in this manner," my
friend said apologetically. "If you had ever loved you would know the
depths of our feelings in this hour when estrangement seems probable."
If I had ever loved! The thought was galling. Was he taunting me?
"Ill go," I stammered, stifling with difficulty a sob that very nearly
escaped me. "Though your exchange of confidences may be made before me,
your old friend, without fear of their betrayal, it is best that you
should be alone," and stretching forth my hand I bade Dora adieu.
"No, don't go, Mr Ridgeway," she exclaimed concernedly. "As children,
you and I often played at being lovers. When I was a child you were
like a big brother, and I confess I then admired you. I regard you now
as Jack's firm and sincerest friend--as my own friend."
"I am gratified by your esteem," I said; "that you both may be happy is
my heartfelt desire. If I can be of any assistance to Jack or to
yourself, command me."
"We--we may want assistance," she said. Then she paused, plainly
stopped by the beating of her heart, for her breast rose and fell
convulsively as tears forced themselves up to her long eyelashes.
Bethune was leaning over her. The light of those brown eyes, seen
through the bright brimming tears, affected him in a manner strange and
touching.
"If we ask Stuart to help us I know he will do all in his power," he
assured her. "Ours must be a secret marriage if her ladyship will not
consent. Do you trust me?"
"Implicitly, Jack. I trust you because--because I love you."
"Then after all I have no need to be jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd," the
soldier-novelist said smiling.
"Gilbert Sternroyd!" I cried amazed. "Who is Gilbert Sternroyd?"
"Dora will answer your question," my friend replied.
I looked eagerly at her, and her eyes met mine with a look full of
surprise and mild reproach.
"He admires me, and because he is wealthy, Mabel has suggested that a
marriage is possible," she answered.
"He admires you!" I echoed. "Who is he? what is he?"
With some surprise she regarded me, perhaps alarmed at the fierce manner
in which I had demanded an explanation.
"I really know very little except that his income is fabulously large,
and that he is regarded by many mothers as a substantial matrimonial
prize," she replied, adding, "I really don't know his--well, I--"
"Suppose we go into the next room," Jack interposed, evidently to hide
Dora's embarrassment. "There is a piano there, although I'm afraid
you'll find it sadly out of tune."
"A piano! I really can't play to-night."
"Oh, but you must," I said laughing. "Remember, you came here to spend
the evening, and the penalty for coming to a man's chambers is to bring
brightness to his life."
We had both risen. With seeming reluctance she also rose, and together
we went into an adjoining room, well furnished with a few handsome
pieces of old oak, a quantity of bric-a-brac, and many strange arms and
curios which their owner had picked up in out-of-the-way corners of the
world.
The apartment was half dining-room, half drawing-room, with dark
upholstered chairs, the walls papered a dull red, the effect of the
whole being so severe that the shaded lamps seemed to cast no radiance
around, but to die out like water drunk up by sand.
Jack, noticing the inconvenient position of the piano, dragged it toward
the fire, then bringing a music-stool, he placed a fire-screen behind
it, and falling back into an easy-chair, said, "Now we are ready to
listen."
She blushed again, overcome with proof of his solicitude, but sat down
with murmured thanks; then, after a moment's pause, she turned to me,
exclaiming:
"It is not enough for you to say you like music. What is your favourite
style? Classical or modern?--grave or gay?"
"Whatever you please," I answered.
She thought for a moment, reviewing in her mind the works she knew, then
began a nocturne by Chopin. Then another and another, passing on
abruptly to the celebrated impromptu whose tempo agitato and vehement
bursts suddenly tone down into a movement of exquisite softness.
After the first few bars, Jack, rising, had gone to lean over the end of
the piano, attracted alike by the charm of the caressing touch and by
the strangeness of the music that pleased his ears. From where he stood
his eyes wandered over her, from the brown of her hair, softened still
more by the shaded light of the candles, to her bust, so white, frail,
and elegant. Even to me it seemed that what she was playing was as much
her own as her loveliness, and I fell into a reverie until her rich
contralto voice suddenly broke forth in Tosti's song:
"If in your heart a corner lies that has no place for me. You do not
love me as I deem that love should ever be."
Then, when she had concluded and risen, and I had thanked her, Jack
suddenly stooped over her tiny hand and kissed it, as he said in a low,
tender voice, "Thanks to the little fingers that have charmed me."
Chancing to glance at my watch, I found it was already past eight
o'clock. Enchanted by our fair visitor, neither of us had thought of
dinner, but a private room at Verrey's was quickly suggested by Jack,
and we went thither in a cab without waiting to dress and there
concluded an enjoyable evening, Dora's lover afterward escorting her
back to Eaton Square, while I strolled home.
Alone in my chambers that night I carefully examined the portraits of
Sybil and Gilbert Sternroyd, but the mystery surrounding them grew
hourly more puzzling. That Jack knew something of Sternroyd was
evident, therefore I resolved to call on him on the morrow, show him the
pictures, and seek his advice.
CHAPTER NINE.
WHO IS HER LADYSHIP?
When I sought Jack on the following morning I was informed by the
hall-porter that he had left a message for any callers that he had been
compelled to go to Barracks unexpectedly, and would be back from
Hounslow in the evening. Disappointed, I went into the City and had a
long talk with my father at the bank on the subject of finances, then
finished the day gossiping in the club and strolling in the Park. At
night, remembering the Countess' promise to be at Lady Hillingdon's
dance, I went there, but, in a marvellous gown of old rose, she was the
centre of a gay crowd of admirers, and I could obtain but few words with
her. I wanted to learn more of Sternroyd, but alas! I saw that
anything like a private conversation was out of the question, and was
compelled to content myself with waltzing and chatting with various
women I knew, for the most part gay, brainless butterflies.
In my state of mind the glare and glitter were nauseating and the music
jarred upon my nerves, therefore soon after one o'clock I left and drove
to Jack's chambers, anxious to seek the truth.
The outer door was shut, for the hall-porter had retired, but, as the
key of my own chambers had on many previous occasions opened it, I
quickly gained admittance. Mounting the great staircase to the door of
his flat, I rang twice, but Mrs Horton did not reside there and my
summons was not answered. Jack had evidently not returned, therefore
the thought suggested itself to enter with my key and leave a note, as I
had done many times before. Acting upon this suggestion, I went in,
groping my way down the small passage to his den, where the glimmering
light told me that his reading-lamp was burning; but just on the
threshold of the room my feet struck something in the darkness, and,
grasping wildly at air, I fell forward on my face, unable to save
myself.
I knew it was the prostrate body of a man, and a wild cry escaped me
when next second I raised myself and found my hands smeared with
something damp and sticky.
"Jack! Speak, old fellow, speak!" I cried, but in the darkness there
was neither sound nor movement.
Rushing into the study, I snatched up the light, and as its soft
radiance fell upon the blanched features I made a discovery so startling
that the lamp nearly fell from my trembling hand.
The man lying there was not Jack Bethune, as I had believed, but Gilbert
Sternroyd. He had been shot through the heart!
Placing the lamp upon the floor, I knelt and thrust my hand eagerly
beneath his shirt-front, but there was no movement of the heart. His
hands were cold; he must have been dead several hours.
His coat and vest were disarranged, as if the murderer had hurriedly
searched his victim's pockets, and on the mat outside the bedroom door
lay the shining weapon. I recognised the army revolver as Jack's.
Horrified, I took up the lamp again and stood gazing into the white
drawn face of the mysterious friend of the Lady Fyneshade, utterly at a
loss how to act. My first impulse was to raise an alarm, but I saw that
such a course must imperil my friend. I could not realise the terrible
truth, yet all the evidence pointed to the person who had perpetrated
the crime. Had he not, only on the previous night, admitted himself
jealous of this young man?
With uneven steps and scarce daring to tread lest I should create a
noise and betray my presence, I returned to the study. As I entered I
noticed for the first time that some of the drawers in the writing-table
were open, and that many letters were strewn about, evidently tossed
aside in rapid search. There was a strong smell of burnt paper in the
room, and as I bent toward the grate I found it full of dead, black
tinder.
The murderer, before his flight, had destroyed a number of documents.
Examining the drawers, I discovered to my surprise that they had been
forced. If Jack had destroyed any implicating evidence would he not
have used his keys? Some of the papers in the grate were not quite
consumed, and, picking them up, I examined the fragments under the lamp.
They were portions of letters in feminine handwriting, the
characteristics of which were unfamiliar to me.
I gathered them up, together with a whole letter that was lying at the
side of the table, evidently overlooked, and thrust them into my pocket.
In presence of the murdered man the darkness seemed filled with a
spectral horror, and even the noises I myself created startled me. The
reading-lamp gave scarcely sufficient light to illuminate the corners of
the room, and I knew not whether the murderer might still be lurking
there. Appalled by the ghastly discovery and at the sight of blood, I
knew that if discovered there I might be charged with the crime,
therefore, after a final glance at the dead man's face, I extinguished
the light and stole softly out, hurrying down the stairs and gaining the
street in fear lest any of the other tenants might encounter me.
But all was quiet. I escaped unobserved.
On arrival at my own chambers I cleansed my hands of Sternroyd's blood,
and entering my sitting-room turned up the gas. My eyes caught sight of
my own face in the mirror. It was pale and haggard as that of the
victim of the secret tragedy.
Having gulped down a stiff glass of brandy to steady my nerves, I
proceeded in breathless eagerness to examine the fragments of private
papers which effort had been made to destroy.
The first I inspected were apparently portions of a legal document. In
a firm clerk's hand were the words "...and the said John Arthur Bethune
on this fourteenth day of..." upon one, and on the other "...undertake
to preserve this secret knowledge until after my death..."
The other scraps were parts of letters, but the words I deciphered
conveyed to me no meaning. They contained no endearing terms, and were
evidently not billets-doux. One of them contained the passage "...to
give credence to these absurd rumours which I assure you are totally
unfounded..." and another, "...I look to you as my friend to preserve
the reputation of a defenceless woman..." The name "Markwick" occurred
several times, and once it was "that vile, despicable coward, Markwick."
"That vile, despicable coward, Markwick," I repeated aloud. I reflected
deeply, but remembered no one of that name. I could find no signature
upon these scraps of yellow, half-charred paper, neither was there
anything to show when they had been written. On both sides of each
portion there were words, but very few of them had context, and
consequently Conveyed no knowledge of their purport.
One of the scraps, however, held my eyes in fascination. It bore my own
name. The writing was a hand I knew, and the words decipherable were
"...desire that your friend Stuart Ridgeway should remain in ignorance
of the fact. He is your friend and mine, therefore I..."
"Great Heaven!" I cried aloud, "the writing is Sybil's!" I recognised
the hand. It was the same in which she had written me the cruel note of
farewell in Luchon, and this had been in Jack's possession! Even these
half-charred words brought back to me memories of those few days when we
were happy in each other's love.
At last I took up the letter that had been overlooked by the murderer in
his mad haste. The envelope bore a superscription in a fine regular
Italian hand and showed that it had been sent to Hounslow Barracks, the
post-mark being dated three days before. Taking out the sheet of
note-paper in eager expectancy, I opened it and read the following
words--"Tuesday--Dear Sir,--Her ladyship wishes me to write and say that
she will arrive at Feltham Station by the train leaving Waterloo at 3:08
on Friday afternoon. She desires to see you on a most important matter,
and hopes you will make the meeting apparently accidental, in case there
may be at the station any person known to her. Her ladyship also urges
that you should keep this appointment in order to avoid some
unpleasantness that appears imminent. If, however, you cannot meet her,
kindly telegraph to me personally.--Yours truly, Annie Ashcombe."
Thrice I read the letter through and stood holding it between my fingers
silent and puzzled. Who, I wondered, was "her ladyship?" Was it old
Lady Stretton, or was it Mabel? The writer was evidently a lady's maid,
and, as she signed her name, it seemed to me that she might be traced by
means of an ingeniously-worded advertisement. But this would
necessarily occupy time.
I had never heard of any maid named Ashcombe. Old Lady Stretton's maid,
Frewen, I had known for years, while Mabel's was a French girl, named
Celestine, all vivacity, frills, and ribbons. Feltham was, I
remembered, a small old-world village about a mile and a half from
Hounslow Barracks, on the line between Twickenham and Staines, a quiet,
unfrequented place whereat few trains stopped. On several occasions
when I had visited Jack in Barracks, I had returned to town from there,
and its choice as a place of meeting, combined with the words of Jack's
correspondent, showed that "her ladyship," whoever she was, took every
precaution to conceal her movements. What could be the important matter
upon which the fair patrician desired to consult him; of what nature the
unpleasantness that seemed imminent? Again, if he could not keep the
appointment he was urged to communicate not with her ladyship, but with
her maid. Was Jack Bethune this woman's lover? Was he playing a double
game?
I stifled these thoughts instantly. No! Although it was apparent that
he was aware of my love for Sybil and was her confidant, I would not
believe ill of him until I held absolute proof.
"Proof," I murmured aloud. "What greater proof can I have than the
evidence of the fearful tragedy I have discovered?"
I flung myself into my chair and thought over the strange discovery of a
portion of Sybil's letter. Apparently a secret had existed between
them.
From whatever standpoint I viewed the crime and its mysterious
surroundings I could not rid myself of the terrible suspicion that Jack
Bethune, the popular officer and celebrated writer, had fired the fatal
shot. If he were innocent why had he hurriedly destroyed his papers?
He had admitted himself jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd, and had betrayed
his hatred of the young man by his refusal to explain who he was and his
eagerness to avoid discussion regarding him. The words he used recurred
to me, and I now detected in his manner how intensely bitter was his
feeling.
Again and again I examined the scattered fragments that lay upon my
table, but from them could gather no further information. The message
from the mysterious lady seemed to contain some important clue, yet its
true significance was unintelligible. Somehow I felt confident that the
meeting at Feltham had some direct connection with the tragedy. Mabel
was Sternroyd's friend, for while driving me from Gloucester Square he
had inadvertently referred to her as "Mab;" therefore, after all, it
seemed highly probable that she was the mysterious woman who spoke in
such veiled terms of "unpleasantness."
The fire died down and went out, the clock upon the mantelshelf chimed
hour after hour on its musical bell, but I heeded not time. I was
wondering who was Markwick, the "vile, despicable coward," and dreading
the result of the discovery of the crime. I feared to telegraph to
Hounslow to ascertain Jack's whereabouts, lest by so doing I should
betray my knowledge of the tragedy. I held in my possession what might
perhaps prove to be evidence of a most important character, evidence
that might convict him of a foul murder, and I was determined to keep it
secret, at least for the present, and by that means assist my friend,
even if he were guilty, to escape.
In a few hours, I told myself, Mrs Horton and her daughter would go
there to do the cleaning, and would find the body. Then the police
would raise a hue and cry, and by noon the gloating gutter journals
would be full of "Another West-End Mystery."
I felt that by preserving my secret I was shielding an assassin, perhaps
assisting him to escape, but, dumbfounded at the overwhelming evidence
of Jack's guilt, I sat shuddering, awe-stricken, inanimate.
I dropped off to sleep in my chair and did not awake until Saunders
entered, and I found it was morning. My breakfast went away untouched,
but I scanned the paper and was gratified at my inability to find
mention of the ghastly discovery. Neither telegram nor letter came from
Jack, though I waited at home until afternoon. Oppressed by my terrible
secret, inactivity maddened me and I went out, feeling that I wanted air
or the companionship of friends. After a short walk I turned into the
club and ascended to the smoking-room, panelled in black oak, on the
first floor, where I expected to find someone with whom to gossip and
pass the time. When I entered I found several city men had grouped
themselves around the fire, and, lounging back in their chairs, were
discussing some deep scheme of company-promoting, in which I had no
interest. I sat down to scribble a note, caring not for their Stock
Exchange jargon, until suddenly the name of Fyneshade caused me to prick
up my ears.
"Bah! he'd become one of our directors at once if we made it worth his
while," an elderly man observed, sitting with hat tilted back and a long
cigar between his lips.
"I doubt it," another voice exclaimed. "His name carries weight, but
he's not in want of fees."
"If he isn't at this moment he very soon will be," the other answered
knowingly. "He's now got scarcely a fiver to bless himself with."
"I don't believe that," the others cried in chorus.
"My dear fellows," answered the elder man. "His pretty wife has
absolutely ruined him. Another year, and he'll be in the Bankruptcy
Court."
"Well, she's cutting a pretty brilliant figure just now," exclaimed one.
"I saw her at the Gaiety the other night and she looked simply
magnificent. She had some young fellow in her box, a fair,
insipid-looking youth. Nobody knew who he was."
"The latest lover, I suppose," laughed the man who had announced the
Earl's impending bankruptcy. "If report speaks true she's rather
addicted to flirtation."
"No doubt," observed one of his companions. "But we're discussing
business just now, not scandal. The virtues or shortcomings of the
Countess don't concern us; what we want is to get Fyneshade on our
board. Can it be done?"
"Yes," promptly answered the man who had first spoken. "I'll manage
it."
"If you do, then we need have no fear as to the future of the Great
Watersmeet Mining and Exploration Company. The Earl's name carries
weight, and, bankrupt or solvent, his influence will be extremely
beneficial to us."
"Very well. I'll call on him to-morrow," the man said, blowing a cloud
of smoke upward. Then their conversation quickly turned upon some
technicalities regarding the property they had acquired somewhere in
Mashona-land.
Their suggestion that Mabel had already caused her husband financial
difficulties was new to me. If true, it was certainly a startling fact,
and as I sat making pretence of continuing my letter, I could not help
feeling that there might be a good deal of truth in what I had
overheard. That Mabel was recklessly extravagant; that her
entertainments were among the most popular in London; and that her smart
circle included many of the Royalties and the wealthiest, were facts
known to everybody. She was a leader of fashion, and her bills at
Worth's and Redfern's since her marriage must have been as large as
those of an empress. Toward women she was unmerciful. With her,
dowdiness was a crime, and the wearing of a hat or gown a little out of
date an unforgivable offence against Society's laws. She had lately
been living at such a terrific rate that her extravagance had become
notorious; but I had always believed the rent-roll of Fyneshade to be
enormous, and such an eventuality as the Bankruptcy Court had never once
entered my mind. This man, a Jew company promoter, apparently had good
grounds for his assertion, and his words caused me to ponder deeply, as
I descended the stairs and went out with the intention to call at Lady
Stretton's, and ascertain whether Dora had heard from her lover.
Who was this mysterious Sternroyd who had admired Mabel and who now lay
dead, shot by an unknown hand? What connection could he have had with
my adored one, or with that grim untenanted mansion in Gloucester
Square? I took the portrait from my pocket and in the fading light
glanced at it as I slowly walked. Yes, there was no mistaking the
features, nor the oddly-shaped scarf-pin. It was undoubtedly the same
man.
CHAPTER TEN.
TATTLE AND TRAGEDY.
When half-an-hour later I sat drinking tea _en famille_ with Lady
Stretton and her daughter, I confess I felt ill at ease, notwithstanding
their light and pleasant gossip.
"I really don't think you are looking very well, Stuart," the old lady
was saying, as the footman handed her her cup. "Town life does not
agree with you, perhaps."
"No," I said. "I always prefer the country."
"So do I. If it were not for dear Dora's sake, I think I should live at
Blatherwycke altogether."
"You would very soon tire of it, mother," her daughter laughed. "You
know very well when we are down there you are always wanting to see your
friends in town." Lady Stretton looked always stiff and formal in her
rich satins. Nearly sixty, with a profusion of white hair and a rather
red face, she brimmed over with corpulence, and still preserved some
remnant of the beauty that was half sunken beneath her grossness. To me
she was always complimentary and caressing. But she said "My dear" to
everybody, spoke in a high-pitched voice, and played the child with that
doleful languor characteristic of corpulent persons. She loved secrets,
made everything a matter of confidence, talked gossip, and was fond of
speaking in one's ear. She pitied others; pitied herself; she bewailed
her misfortunes and her physical ills. Nothing could have been more
pathetic than her constant attacks of indigestion. She took a very real
interest in the career of her friends, for it was part of her
completeness to be the centre of a set of successful people.
"We are going to Blatherwycke the day after to-morrow," she said. "The
hunting this season has been excellent. Have you been out yet?"
"Not once," I replied. "I haven't been home this season, but I mean to
go down in a week or so and have a run with the hounds."
"Oh, that will be awfully jolly," Dora exclaimed, gleefully. "We're
having a house-party, so we shall hope to see something of you."
"Thanks," I said. "Memories of our many runs are distinctly pleasant,
so I hope we may be companions again."
"Of course. Why, the papers always speak of you as one of the familiar
figures in the field," she said. "The hounds are out three days a week
now, and foxes are awfully plentiful about Rockingham Forest and away
beyond Apethorpe."
"Let's hope we shall obtain a few brushes," I said, and then our
conversation was mainly upon past recollections of rapid runs, of the
artfulness displayed by various reynards, and of spills, amusing and
serious.
No woman who rode with the Fitzwilliam hounds sat her horse so
magnificently as Dora Stretton. Even my old friend William Raven, of
King's Cliffe, for many years one of the most prominent figures in
hunting circles in North Northamptonshire, but now of venerable age,
white-bearded, and unable to ride to the meet; a thorough hunting man of
the old school, who, when the hounds pass his window, rises from his
warm armchair, thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, and sighs
wistfully because he is not longer agile enough to take part in the
sport that he loves; an outspoken critic of all things pertaining to the
hunt, and never tired of comparing the splendid riding of twenty years
ago with the sloppy form now displayed by foppish youngsters who come
down from town and hunt "because it is the thing, you know," was
compelled to acknowledge the grace, daring, and firmness always
displayed by Lady Stretton's youngest daughter. Her pace was usually a
hot one; she took dangerous leaps with a recklessness that was
astounding, thought nothing of fatigue, and was almost invariably in at
the death.
The prospect of mad, exhilarating gallops with her was to me very
pleasant, for I was passionately fond of the saddle. But alas! my
anticipations were chilled by the knowledge of the fearful secret in my
inner consciousness.
Dora sat in her low chair, bright, radiant, and happy. Her hair was a
trifle disarranged, but it is the prettiest hair that sheds the most
hairpins. What if I told her the terrible nature of my discovery, of
the awful suspicion that the man who was her hero was a murderer, and
had fled?
But I chatted to them about mutual acquaintances, discussed Jack's
latest book, "The Siren of Strelitz," which the reviewers were declaring
to be the novel of the season, and talked of art at the Grosvenor and
the New, without scarcely knowing what words I uttered or what opinion I
endorsed. The mention of "The Siren of Strelitz" caused Lady Stretton
some little annoyance, and I could not help feeling amused. What, I
wondered, would this haughty woman of the world say when in a few brief
hours, the papers raised a hue and cry for the popular soldier-novelist,
in whose room a man had been found shot dead?
Even as I sat calmly gossiping over the tea-cups the police wires might
already be at work and the detectives lounging at the ports of departure
aroused from their cat-like lethargy to stand with keen eye, watching
every person embarking on Channel and other steamers. I had no interest
in her ladyship's idle talk; I was only waiting for her to go out of the
room so that I might ask a hurried question of her daughter.
At last, the corpulent old lady rose with an effort and a rustling of
silk, and left us.
"Well," I said, rising and taking up a position before the fire, "have
you seen anything of Jack to-day?"
"No," she replied, a faint blush suffusing her cheeks. "I was in the
Row this morning and looked out for him, but he was not there. I expect
he is still at Hounslow."
"Did he tell you he was going to Hounslow?" I asked. "Yes, he sent me
a note yesterday morning, saying that one of his brother-officers had
been compelled to obtain leave unexpectedly, and that he was going down
to do duty for him."
"For how long?"
"He said he would be back again last night," and placing her hand in her
pocket she drew forth the letter, and read it to reassure herself that
she had made no mistake.
"I want to see him on a most important matter; if he does not return I
shall have to run down to Hounslow," I said. Then, as if suddenly
remembering, I added, "Oh, by the way, do you know any maid named
Ashcombe--Annie Ashcombe?"
"Ashcombe," she repeated, puzzled. "Why do you want to know the names
of servant-maids? What interest have you in her?"
"I--er--well, I want to find her, that's all. If I can discover her
she'll hear something to her advantage, as the solicitors'
advertisements say."
"I'm sorry I can't help the young person to her good fortune," she
laughed. "However, I'll bear the name in mind, and if I come across her
I won't fail to let you know."
"Thanks," I said. "It is most important that I should find her as
quickly as possible, so you might render me a real service if you would
make inquiries among your friends."
"Of course, I'll do anything to oblige you," she said frankly.
"Ashcombe--I shall remember the name."
"And you will let me know as soon as you hear from Jack?"
"Certainly," she answered. "I'll send you word at once."
At that moment our tete-a-tete was interrupted by the reappearance of
Lady Stretton, who said:
"Dora and I are going to the Lyceum first night. If you'll join us in
our box we shall be charmed."
"Thanks very much," I replied. "I shall be delighted." I had no
especial desire to witness an Irving play, but in my gloomy frame of
mind any diversion seemed better than the loneliness of my own chambers.
"Very well. Run home and dress, return and dine with us, and we will go
along together. We shall meet Mr Gilbert Sternroyd there. Do you know
him?" her ladyship asked.
The mention of the name caused me to start, and I felt that a sudden
pallor overspread my face.
"Mabel introduced me," I stammered.
"Charming young fellow! So wealthy, too," exclaimed Lady Stretton, a
remark which was received with a little grimace by Dora, at that moment
standing behind her mother.
"I know very little of him," I said in a strained voice. "I only met
him once."
Then I left, went home, dressed and returned. Dinner was served with
that old-fashioned stateliness that characterised everything in the
Stretton household, and I was thoroughly glad when dessert was reached.
Afterward, we drove to the theatre, and found in several boxes and
scattered over the stalls many mutual acquaintances. Several men and
women came to us and exchanged greetings, and more than once her
ladyship observed:
"I wonder why Mr Sternroyd does not come, Dora? He promised me
faithfully."
"I don't know, mother," answered her daughter unconcernedly. "I suppose
he is better engaged at his club, or elsewhere."
"Well, it is decidedly ungentlemanly not to have sent a line of regret,"
the old lady observed, sniffing angrily.
Did they perceive by my silence and my face that their talk was
torturing me? Did they expect a dead man to seat himself in the vacant
chair awaiting him? These constant references to the victim of the
tragedy unnerved me. What would they think if they knew that the young
man who had promised to escort them was now lying stiff and cold?
The play proceeded, the calls were taken, the curtain fell, and when the
usual bouquets had been presented to Miss Terry, the great actor
addressed a few well-chosen words to his admirers. All was brilliant,
everyone was enthusiastic; the play was voted an unqualified success.
Yet I, the most lethargic, conscience-stricken wretch amid that gay,
well-dressed, bejewelled throng, was oppressed by the knowledge of an
awful secret, for upon me had been forced by Dora's words increased
suspicion that one of the most popular writers of the day was an
assassin.
Outside, under the portico, the vendors of "extra specials" were
shouting the latest news, varying their strident cries with the
monotonous question, "Keb or kerridge?" In eagerness I listened to
their words and glanced at the contents-bills--pink, green, amber, and
white--thrust under my nose, but in a few moments reassured myself that
the tragedy still remained undiscovered.
The Stretton carriage quickly drew up, and as the ladies were handed in
I thanked them for a pleasant evening and bade them good-night, not,
however, before I had managed to whisper to Dora, "If you hear from
Jack, telegraph at once to my chambers."
"You don't seem quite yourself to-night," she had replied. "I believe
something has happened."
"No," I stammered, "nothing unusual has occurred." Then I excused
myself by adding, "The heat of the theatre has been rather oppressive,
that's all."
The night air refreshed me, and as I strolled along the Strand westward
I suddenly overtook Thackwell, the cotton-king, also returning from a
theatre. His greeting was as usual, bluff and hearty, and we had supper
together at the National Liberal Club, of which institution he was one
of the shining lights.
I congratulated him upon the success of his recent reception, but he
smiled rather sadly, saying:
"Ay, ay, lad, it's only because aw've got a bit o' brass. Creawn a foo,
an' folk'll goo deawn o' their knees to him. Society's all very well,
if it's nobbut to see heaw th' nobs carry'n on, but a man is a sight
more happy as a journeyman than when he can reckon in millions. What
saysta?"
"But money makes the world hum," I said.
"Aw'll tell thee what, lad, for me it hums the wrong tune," he said, and
upon his frank, wrinkled face there settled a look of despondency.
"It's true the fine folk flatter me and teem warm wayter deawn my back,
makkin' it itch where it has no' been bitten, but my gowd is mixed wi'
brass and pain wi' pleasure. Awm a lonely mun, and aw find cross looks
among smiles and friendship wi' a bit o' suspicion o' booath sides."
I described minutely the strange man I had encountered in his rooms on
the night of the reception, and his girlish companion in pink, hoping to
obtain some clue to their identity, but although he was unusually,
confidential, his mind at this point seemed a perfect blank.
"Aw never know who's invited," he declared smiling. "They're all
welcome, all the folk, but they come to meet each other, and doant care
a bobbin for their host. Half of 'em come out o' sheer curiosity to see
my place, because they've 'eard from th' papers heaw mich it cost me.
Hawe, lad, awm baffled in every effort to improve my social standing;
while in business--in business everything aw touch turns to gowd."
When we entered the great smoking-room a little later I felt for my
match-box--a small gold one with my initials engraved upon it, that I
wore suspended from my watch-chain--but it was gone. I valued it
highly, as it was a present from my mother, and was much concerned
regarding its loss. On reflection I could not remember having used it
that day, and suddenly the possibility occurred to me that I might have
dropped it when I had stumbled and fallen over the body of Gilbert
Sternroyd. If it were found beside the corpse, I might be suspected of
the crime. I had no clear proof that I had dropped it there, but an
impression of dread gripped my heart. There is an infinite distance
between our fancies, however precise they may be, and the least bit of
reality. The discovery of the crime had stirred my being to its utmost
depths, and summoned up tragic pictures before my eyes. Even after I
had read the letter, and the half-burnt writing in Sybil's hand
repeatedly, I had cherished a secret hope that I was mistaken, that some
slight proof would arise and dispel suspicions that I denounced as
senseless, perhaps because I had a foreknowledge of the dreadful duty
which must devolve upon me when the body was discovered.
Excusing myself by lame apologies, I left the millionaire and went
straight to my chambers.
"Saunders," I cried as I entered, "you handed me my watch and chain this
morning. Did you notice anything remarkable about it?"
"Yes, sir," my man answered promptly. "I noticed your match-box was not
there."
"Then, confound it, I've lost it--I must have lost it last night," I
gasped. "I remember distinctly using it once or twice during the
evening."
"I thought you had taken it off and put it in your vest pocket," he
said. "You do sometimes."
"Yes," I answered. "But look here, the swivel has snapped from the
box," and taking off the chain I handed it to him to examine.
On my sitting-room table lay a note, and as I took it up I saw the
envelope bore a coronet and the wyvern's head couped at the neck vert,
the crest of the Strettons.
"That came by boy-messenger a quarter of an hour ago, sir," Saunders
said, as I eagerly tore it open.
It was a hurried scribble from Dora in pencil, and read as follows:
"Dear Mr Ridgeway,--I have found on my return a letter from Jack. I
must have your advice at once, and will therefore call at your chambers
at eleven o'clock to-morrow. The letter was posted at Dover this
morning.--Yours sincerely, Dora Stretton."
"I shall want nothing more, Saunders," I said, as calmly as I could, and
the man wishing me good-night withdrew.
"Posted from Dover!" I echoed. "Then he has decamped. Jack is a
murderer!"
I sank into my chair and re-read Dora's note carefully. What should my
course be if he were guilty? I put this question to myself plainly, and
perceived all the horror of the situation. Yes, I must see Dora and
ascertain the nature of this letter, but how could I bear to tell her
the truth, to strike her such a cruel blow, bright, fragile being that
she was? The first glimpse of the double prospect of misery and scandal
which the future offered, if my suspicions proved just, was too terrible
for endurance, and I summoned all my strength of will to shut out these
gloomy anticipations. I dreaded to meet Dora; I was already shrinking
from the pain that my words must inflict upon her.
What if detectives found my match-box beside the corpse? Might I not be
suspected? Might they not dog my footsteps and arrest me on suspicion?
If the slightest suspicion attached itself to me, I should be precluded
entirely from assisting my friend.
It was clear that I had lost it on that fatal night, for I now
remembered distinctly that as I fell my stomach struck heavily against
some hard substance. I could indeed still feel the bruise. That my
lost property was in Jack's chambers was evident. If I intended to
clear myself and assist him I should be obliged to act upon a
resolution.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE LOCKED ROOM.
At first I dared not look the exigency in the face. For fully an hour I
paced the room in nervous agitation, but the imperative necessity of
recovering the box impressed itself every moment more deeply upon me.
The crime was, as yet, still undiscovered; therefore, might I not enter,
search, find the piece of evidence that would link me with the terrible
tragedy, and return in the same manner as on the previous night?
Undoubtedly the body was lying silent and ghastly where I left it, and
if only I could get in and out of the flat unobserved, I should be free
to assist the wretched man who was my friend, and who had held in his
possession the extraordinary letter from Sybil.
The mantel-clock told me it was nearly three. At that hour there would
be little likelihood of meeting anyone on the staircases, therefore I
decided to go.
Taking one of the candles from the piano and a box of matches, I put on
my overcoat and walked quickly along the deserted streets, avoiding the
gaze of each constable I met, and eagerly scanning every dark nook as I
went forward to the entrance of the imposing pile of flats in which
Bethune resided.
My heart beat quickly as I placed my key in the lock and gained
admittance. Then, scarce daring to breathe, I sped swiftly upstairs,
and carefully unlocking the door of the flat, entered and closed it
again. For a moment I stood breathless. A piano sounded somewhere
overhead. The darkness unnerved me, for I knew I was in the presence of
the ghastly dead.
With trembling hands I drew forth the candle and lit it, afterwards
creeping silently forward toward the room in the doorway of which I had
discovered the body of the man whose association with my dead love was
so mysterious. By death his lips were sealed.
A loose board creaked ominously, and as I passed down the small narrow
hall a long grandfather's clock vibrated and startled me. In those
moments of terror every sound became magnified, and I could hear the
rapid thumping of my own heart.
Dreading to gaze upon the corpse, I held my breath and at last peered
round the corner to the study door, but judge my amazement when I
realised that the body was no longer there!
The crime had been discovered!
I dashed forward into the little book-lined den. It presented the same
appearance as when I had left it. Nothing had been disturbed. Only the
body had been removed, and all trace of the tragedy obliterated.
I bent to examine more closely the spot where the victim had fallen,
when suddenly the sound of someone moving appalled me. There was a
stealthy footstep in the hall.
Instantly I blew out the candle. But too late! I had been discovered.
In the impenetrable darkness the footsteps approached with soft
stealthiness. Drawing myself up I placed my back resolutely against the
wall, prepared to defend myself. The body of young Gilbert Sternroyd
had been secretly removed, but I had been detected in the act of
examining the spot, and had therefore betrayed knowledge of the crime.
The murderer might commit a second crime to hide the first. The
suggestion held me motionless.
Unarmed, I stood helpless against the unseen assassin, with only my
clenched fist uplifted to ward off a blow.
"Who are you?" cried a voice. "Speak! or by Heaven, I'll fire!" The
voice was that of my friend Bethune.
"Jack!" I gasped. "Don't you know my voice--Stuart?"
"You--old chap!" he exclaimed laughing. "What on earth do you mean by
frightening a fellow out of his senses at this hour? I thought you were
one of--" and he hesitated. "I thought you were a burglar," he added
quickly.
Then in a few moments we entered the study, and I saw how pale and
haggard he looked. His coat was off, and his sleeves were rolled up as
if he had been at work. There were dark rings about his bright fevered
eyes, and his complexion seemed a yellow clay-colour. In his trembling
hand gleamed a deadly weapon--the revolver that had caused the death of
Mabel's mysterious friend.
Startled by this sudden discovery I stood staring at him, unable to
utter a word. He laid the revolver upon the table, and gazed at me with
eyes in which was an expression of abject terror. In those brief
moments it flashed through my mind that some violent exertion had caused
the beads of perspiration that stood upon his cold, pale brow; that the
body might be still lying in the flat, and that I had entered just at a
time when he was in the act of concealing it Guilt was betrayed upon his
face; he appeared suspicious and utterly unnerved.
Yet he was my friend, and although I could scarce believe he had stained
his hands with blood, I nevertheless resolved to ascertain the truth at
all hazards. For a single instant I felt inclined to turn and leave him
abruptly, but I quickly realised the necessity of not betraying
suspicion if I desired to penetrate the mystery.
We had discovered each other in compromising attitudes. Neither of us
dared to speak.
"Well," I said at last, after a desperate effort to remain calm, "how is
it that you bring out a revolver to welcome your visitors--eh?"
"Visitors!" he echoed bitterly. "At this hour? You let yourself in
with your own key? Ah! I had never thought of that," he gasped, as if
the sudden recollection that my key fitted his door terrified him.
"Yes. I have been out late to-night, and not having seen or heard
anything of you for a couple of days, I dropped in just to see if you
were alive."
"Why shouldn't I be alive?" he snapped. "I've been down to barracks.
Thatcher got leave on account of his father's illness, and I had to do
duty for him. I wrote to Dora."
"I had no line from you. That's why I looked you up," I said, as
carelessly as I could.
"Then all I've got to say, Stuart, is that you might have waited until
morning, and not creep in and frighten a fellow just as he's going to
roost."
"I had no intention of frightening you. In fact, I did not know you
were at home."
"Then why did you come in?" he asked, with emphasis. I at once saw I
had inadvertently made a declaration that might arouse his suspicions,
and sought to modify it. "Well," I said, "I came in order to leave a
note for you. In the passage I heard something fall, and was looking
for it. I am leaving town early in the morning."
"You are?" he cried eagerly. "Where are you going?"
"To Wadenhoe, for some hunting. My object in leaving the note was to
ask you to run down and stay with us for a week or so. My people will
be awfully glad to see you, and as Dora and her mother are going to
entertain a house-party at Blatherwycke, you won't be lonely."
"Well, thanks, old fellow, it's exceedingly good of you," he answered,
evidently reassured. "I should be charmed to have a few runs with the
Fitzwilliam, for I've most pleasant recollections of three weeks last
season in your country. When shall I come?"
"Next Saturday."
"Very well. Give my compliments to your mother, and thank her for her
kind invitation. I'll be down on Saturday."
"But why were you so scared when you discovered me?" I asked, leaning
on the edge of the table and regarding him with feigned amusement.
"I don't think I was very scared, was I?" he asked, with a hollow laugh.
"There's a bit of a scandal in the regiment that has upset me, and I
don't feel quite myself just now. A night's rest, you know, will set me
right. Besides, I've been writing a good deal lately and it always
takes the nerve out of me."
He drew forth the spirit stand and poured out some whisky. At first I
could not bear the thought of drinking with a murderer, but again it was
impressed upon my mind that, to successfully solve the mystery of the
murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I must act with discretion and arouse no
suspicion that I had actually discovered the body. Therefore we drank
together, while Jack's demeanour quickly became calmer. It was apparent
that he had no idea of my previous visit, and it was also equally
manifest that the light-hearted gaiety succeeding his intense
nervousness was forced and quite unnatural. He was striving to hide
from me his terrible secret!
He flung himself into a chair while I stood upon the hearthrug, and our
conversation drifted mainly upon our proposed runs with the hounds. I
had not expected to find him at home nor to meet him with a revolver in
his hand, but now I had made the discovery I understood all its
importance. Yet his demeanour had in a few minutes so entirely changed;
he seemed so calm and reassured that I relapsed into discouraging
uncertainty.
Nevertheless, if he came to Wadenhoe I should have better opportunity of
observing him, and of ascertaining whether the murdered man was an
acquaintance. I could then test him by making observations and watching
his face; I could worm from him his secret. I had trusted this man as
my best friend, but now that I was half convinced he was an assassin I
was filled with a feeling of revulsion, and was determined that Dora's
life should never be wrecked by an alliance with one whose hands were
stained with blood.
Lying back in the American rocking-chair, with his hands clasped behind
his head, he was laughing tightly as he told me an amusing story he had
heard at mess that night, entirely forgetting the strange circumstances
of our meeting, and having apparently overlooked the extreme lameness of
my excuses. His appearance had been so unexpected that I had been quite
unprepared to answer his questions and my invitation had been given
entirely without previous contemplation. But I knew I had acted wisely,
and that I had entirely allayed any suspicions I had aroused.
Then I thought of my missing match-box. He had no doubt not yet
discovered it, and if he found it subsequently he would believe I had
lost it during my present visit. Good! I was in the position of a
detective holding an important clue, upon which I might work, and either
clear or convict him.
Presently, when I announced my intention to depart, he rose, exclaiming
with a laugh:
"When you call next time, old chap, you might ring, and not enter with
your key. It was a narrow squeak that I didn't wing you."
"Are you so fond of shooting at people?" I asked meaningly.
"Shooting! What do you mean?" he asked with a sickly smile. "As a
soldier I have to practice with the revolver, of course."
"But not upon your visitors, I hope," I said laughing as we were passing
along the narrow hall.
We were outside the door of the dining-room, which, being ajar, showed
there was no light inside, when suddenly there came from the room a
distinct sound.
"Halloa!" I cried gayly. "Who have you got in there? Let's have a
look."
I placed my hand upon the door to push it open, but with an agile
movement he sprang towards me and stood resolutely with his back to the
door, deathly pale in alarm.
"No, Stuart," he gasped. "You must not enter."
"Why? Who's your friend? You arouse my curiosity," I said.
"I forbid you to enter," he replied firmly, standing with his arms
akimbo and brows knit in determination.
"What's the meaning of this confounded secrecy?" I asked seriously.
"It means--well, it means that I have a visitor who has called to see me
privately."
"Male or female?"
"I refuse to answer any such question regarding my personal affairs," he
replied brusquely.
"Come, don't humbug. Let me go in and ascertain who it is," I said,
trying to push him aside and enter. But within a second he shut the
door, locked it, and removed the key, saying:
"I absolutely decline to allow you to enter that room, Stuart. Indeed,
your actions this evening are so strange and extraordinary that I'm
almost inclined to think you are not accountable for them."
"Then you refuse absolutely to tell me who your mysterious visitor is?"
"I do. It is neither my desire nor intention to compromise any person
who endeavours to do me a service, even to gratify this idle curiosity
of my best friend."
Such caustic words, uttered in a tone of bitter resentment, showed
plainly that he was resolved to preserve the secret of his visitor's
identity.
Was it some person who was assisting him to get rid of the hideous
evidence of the crime?
His hands trembled perceptibly as he stood before the locked door, and
there had returned to his ashen face that wild, haggard expression of
intense fear so noticeable when he had first discovered me.
"You speak of the person being compromised if discovered by me," I said.
"Then I presume your visitor is a woman?"
"You are at liberty to entertain whatever conviction you please. I
shall, however, tell you nothing."
"You refuse?"
"Yes, I refuse."
"Even though I should tell Dora that I found, in the middle of the
night, a mysterious woman in your rooms?"
"Even then I shall refuse to compromise my visitor," he answered, with
firmness that completely astounded me.
"Very well," I said abruptly. "Good-night. Remember your appointment,
and come down to Wadenhoe next Saturday."
"Good-night. Next time we meet I hope you will not be quite so
inquisitive," he replied, as he closed the door after me and I descended
the stairs.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
IN STRICT CONFIDENCE.
My first impulse was to remain outside and watch for any person who
might emerge, but I knew that his front windows commanded a wide view of
the street and he would soon detect me; and again, if anyone did come
out, I should not know whether they came from one of the other flats in
the same building. Slowly I walked round to my chambers, contemplating
the best course to pursue, and at length came to the conclusion that a
midnight vigil would be useless, for it might possibly further arouse my
friend's suspicions and so thwart my own efforts.
His refusal to disclose the identity of his guest and his firm
determination to keep the visit a secret, convinced me more than ever
that by his hand Gilbert Sternroyd had fallen, and that he was
endeavouring to get rid of the evidence of his crime. That night I
slept but little, and in the morning, remembering Dora's appointment, I
resolved to run round and see him before she called. It was my
intention to make pretence that I had a conviction that his visitor was
a woman, and wished to give him a chance of explaining to me. If he
again refused, then I would impart my suspicions to the woman who loved
him. I had no desire to cause her pain, but felt it best that she
should know the truth. Sooner or later the blow must fall, and I knew
alas! that it would crush her.
Just before ten I stood again outside Bethune's door and rang. My
summons was answered by Mrs Horton, who in reply to my question whether
Captain Bethune was in, answered:
"No, sir. The Captain hasn't been home these three days, sir. He's at
barracks, I believe."
"For three days!" I echoed. It was evident that he had returned and
again left unknown to this woman. Then I asked whether she had been
there every day.
"No sir. I've been down in Hampshire, sir, to bury my poor niece. The
Captain said he would be away, so my daughter went with me."
In answer to further questions she told me that she had returned to work
at eight that morning, and that the Captain was still absent. It was
evident, too, that she had no suspicion of the tragedy, every trace of
which had now been carefully removed.
Making an excuse that I wanted to obtain a paper from the rack in the
dining-room, I entered and looked around. Nothing had apparently been
disturbed, but on the mantel-shelf I saw a plain gold signet ring that
had evidently been overlooked. Taking it up, I examined it, and found
engraved on the inside the initials "G.S." It was evidently a ring from
the dead man's finger.
I put it down, scrutinised the room carefully, looked in the grate, but
saw nothing, then taking up a paper, went out, wishing Mrs Horton
"good-day."
Punctually at the hour appointed, Saunders ushered Dora into my room.
She was elegantly dressed in a smart tailor-made gown of dove-grey cloth
with a large black hat with feathers, and wore a flimsy veil that rather
enhanced than concealed her beauty.
"I feel I'm becoming awfully reckless in making this visit," she
commenced with a laugh when she had seated herself in my chair, "but
when I got home last night I received such a strange letter from Jack
that I felt compelled to seek your advice."
"If I can be of any service I shall be delighted," I said.
She seemed nervously agitated, and her eyes were, I thought, unduly
heavy, as if she were unusually anxious.
"Thanks, you are always kind," she said. "Both Mabel and myself always
look upon you as our big brother. We often wonder why you never marry.
We shall hear of it, however, some day."
"Never, I hope," I answered with a forced smile, remembering the grim
tragedy of my marriage, and recollecting that her lover had once made
the very same remark to me.
"Why never? If you had a wife you would be far happier. At present you
have only your man to look after your personal comforts, and surely your
dinners at your club can never be so pleasant as if you dined at home in
company with a pretty wife."
"Upon my word," I cried, laughing, "I shall believe that you actually
intend to propose to me next, Dora. I think if it were not--well, if it
were not for an obstacle whose name is Jack Bethune, I should be
inclined to offer you marriage."
"Oh! Don't talk like that," she protested with a demure look. "You
quite misconstrue my words. Once you and I were lovers, when we were in
our teens, but all that is past. We have both seen the world now, and
have met others whom we could love better."
"I don't know that I have," I said reflectively. She was one of the
most charming girls of the season, and I believe were it not for the
fact that I had already loved and lost, and that my feelings toward the
opposite sex had become sadly embittered by what I felt was unnecessary
pain that had been heaped upon me, I should have asked her to renounce
her lover and let me take his place.
But only during a few moments did I entertain such foolish thoughts, for
I quickly saw that she adored the soldier-novelist, and that I had no
right to be disloyal to a friend, even though that friend might be a
murderer.
"I'm afraid our conversation is drifting towards a rather dangerous
topic," she said. "But you are such a confirmed bachelor that I always
feel I can talk to you without fear that you will go down on your knees
or perform some other equally absurd antic."
"I'm sure I'm greatly gratified to know that I'm held in such high
esteem," I observed laughing. "But under the eyes of a pretty woman
like yourself, men are sometimes fascinated, you know."
"Yes, but fascination is not love. When a man is fascinated by a woman,
either the latter is an adventuress, or the former a fool." And she
threw back her handsome head and laughed at my discomfiture.
I had been fascinated by Sybil. Had she been an adventuress, I
wondered; or had I been a fool?
"True," I answered, earnestly. "But woman's beauty exercises a most
powerful influence over man." Then I added--"I confess that if I was
not aware of your love for Jack I should think of you tenderly, and very
possibly I should perform one of those gymnastic antics you denounce as
absurd."
"Then I'm very pleased you know of our attachment," she answered with a
coquettish laugh. "I mean to marry Jack, as you are aware, therefore I
can never be any more to you than a friend, but friend I will be always,
if you will allow me?"
"Of course," I said. "The many years we have known one another--I
mustn't count them or I shall mention your age, which won't be polite--
give us licence to talk with freedom without falling in love--eh? But
there, a truce to joking, what about this extraordinary letter from
Jack? Where is he?"
"Well, he writes from Dover," she said, drawing a note from her perfumed
muff. "Shall I read you an extract?"
"Certainly. I suppose I mustn't read it myself because it is all
`darling' love and kisses."
She blushed, saying: "I have read somewhere--in one of Jack's books, I
think--the proverb, _Les hommes aiment par jalousie, mais les femmes
sont jalouses par amour_. If you loved a woman, you too would call her
darling, and I know you would kiss her. Every man does."
"Your own experience--eh?" I laughed. "Perhaps I should make crosses
in representation of kisses. But if you intend to convey the idea of
male impossibilities I think those of your own sex are certainly more
numerous. It has always occurred to me that feminine impossibilities
would make a very remarkable and interesting study. For instance, woman
can't for the life of her make head nor tail out of a time-table; she
can't be jolly and appreciate the most enjoyable function if she thinks
her hair is a little out of curl; she can't help gauging a woman by her
clothes, even though experience has taught her that beggars sometimes
ride in fine carriages, and she can't, when it's a question between
Cupid and herself, help saying `No' where she means `Yes' and vice
versa."
"And man, when he sees a woman's pretty face, no matter if the
complexion is added by the hare's foot or the glorious tresses false,
must straightway flirt with her if he has a chance, just as you are
doing now."
Then she laughed heartily, and clapped her small gloved hands gleefully,
knowing that she had successfully turned my own sarcasm against myself.
This I was compelled to admit. She was apparently in the highest
spirits. Little, alas! did she dream of the terrible truth that the man
she loved was an assassin. After more good-humoured banter she pursed
her lips in pretty affectation, then opened the treasured letter,
saying:
"Now, this is what puzzles me. Jack, who gives no address, the postmark
only showing that it was posted at Dover, says: `I came up from Hounslow
intending to call and see you. I only had sufficient time, however, to
drive to Charing Cross and catch the night mail to the Continent. I am
writing this in the train, and shall post it at Dover before crossing.
I may be absent only a week, or I may be away a month or so. If I can I
will write, but I can give no address for I shall be constantly moving.
Therefore if you love me do not attempt to communicate with me. I am
sorry it is not possible for me to see you and explain, but immediately
you receive this letter destroy it, and if anyone inquires after me--
whoever they may be--tell them you know nothing. Do not mention my
letter to a soul. Trust in me, and when I return I will explain.
Good-bye.'"
"What else?" I asked.
"Good-bye, darling," she said in a low voice, blushing deeply.
"Certainly it is very strange--very strange," I said. "But if I were
you I should not trouble about it. It may be that he has been sent on
some special mission abroad."
"Oh, I shall not worry," she answered reassuringly. "In a week or two
he will return and explain."
It was upon my lips to tell her the sad news that he would never return,
but I stifled the words, and said instead:
"Of course. There is nothing very extraordinary in his omission to give
an address. If he is travelling quickly to an uncertain destination, as
I have done sometimes, letters are quite out of the question."
"Yes, I know. But there is yet a stranger fact," she said. "Last night
when we got home Lord Wansford came to supper with some other people,
and he told me he had a few hours before seen Jack at Victoria Station
talking to a lady who was leaving with a quantity of luggage."
This new feature was startling, but I saw it was best to scout the idea.
"Old Wansford is rather short-sighted," I observed. "No doubt he was
mistaken. Jack would not wilfully deceive you like that."
"No. I feel confident he wouldn't," she replied, toying with the
letter. "My opinion is the same as yours, that he mistook someone else
for Jack."
"No doubt. I've been round to his chambers half an hour ago, and seen
Mrs Horton. She says he has not been home for three days and that
fully bears out his letter."
"Do you think," she said hesitatingly a few moments later, "do you think
that if I went down to Hounslow I could find out where he has gone? I
know Major Tottenham quite well."
"No. If I were you I would not go. Had he known his destination he
would certainly have put it in his letter. I will endeavour to find out
for you, but in the meantime do not let his absence trouble you. I have
invited him down to Wadenhoe, so you will meet, and--"
"Oh, what a good angel you are," she cried joyously. "I've been
wondering how I could get him down there for the hunting now that Ma
declines to ask him."
"Well, I have asked him because I knew you wanted to have him near you.
So do not let your spirits flag nor trouble yourself regarding his
journey. He will be back soon, and you can have some jolly spins across
country together."
"I don't know how to thank you sufficiently," she said, rising slowly
and stretching forth her small hand. "You are an awfully good friend
both to Jack and to myself. But I must go, for I have to call at the
dressmaker's with Ma at twelve, and I've only just time to get back."
"Good-bye, Dora," I said earnestly. "If we do not meet again in town I
shall call on you at Blatherwycke. Then we can arrange plans."
We shook hands and she left, leaving behind her a delightful breath of
some subtle perfume that stirred my senses. Her beauty always brought
back to me sad memories of Sybil, the adorable woman who came into my
life, the one ray of happiness, brief and fleeting, as sunshine on an
April day. Like Dora, she had been bright, radiant, and happy, but the
grave, alas! had claimed her, and she had left me alone, gloomy and
forgotten.
I took her portrait--the one I had bought in Regent Street--from its
hiding-place, and as I gazed upon the pictured face, my throat
contracted and a mist rose before my eyes--the tearful mist caused by
life's bitterness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
BETWEEN THE DANCES.
I delayed my departure for nearly a fortnight in an endeavour to learn
something of Bethune but could glean no tidings, so at last went down to
the home of my childhood. My grandfather had purchased it in the early
part of the century because the county was a hunting one and the
neighbours a good set. I had spent the greater part of my youth there,
and my parents still resided there at frequent intervals. Situated
midway between Oundle and Deenethorpe, near Benefield village, Wadenhoe
Manor was a great rambling old place, a typical English home, half
hidden by ivy, with quaint gables and Elizabethan chimneys. As in the
fading sunlight I drove up to it I thought I had never seen the old
place looking so peaceful. Perhaps it was because my own mind was so
perturbed by recent events that the solitude seemed complete. From the
old mullioned windows the yellow sunset flashed back like molten gold
and the birds in the chestnuts were chattering loudly before roosting.
On the hill-slope farther down lay the quiet hamlet, a poem in itself.
By the grey tower of its church stood two tall poplars, like guardian
angels, the golden green of their young foliage all a-shimmer in the
sunlight Beneath them was the sombre shade of one old yew, while a line
of dark cypress trees, marshalled like a procession of mourners, stood
along the grey old wall, and here and there showed the brown thatch of
cottage roofs.
At home I found quite a party of visitors and the warmest welcome
awaited me. My parents, who had not enjoyed good health, had remained
there nearly all the winter, my father only coming to town now and then
on pressing business, so I had not seen my mother for several months.
The visitors, mostly friends from London, were a gay and pleasant
company and dinner was bright and enjoyable, while there was plenty of
brilliant chatter in the drawing-room afterwards.
Every one was full of expectancy of the meet on the morrow at Glapthorn,
and the ball that was to be given by Lady Stretton at Blatherwycke in
the evening, therefore all retired early, and were about again betimes.
The meet was a great success, and at night I accompanied our party to
the dance, not because I felt in any mood for dancing, but because I
wanted to get a chat with Dora and hear if she had received news of her
lover.
Blatherwycke Hall was situated at a beautiful spot. I knew the place
almost from the time I could toddle. It was a very ancient house. Its
massive walls and dark oak timbers, its open hearths and spacious
chimneys, its heavy doors with their antique locks and bars and hinges
went back to the Armada days when the Stretton who held it was, in the
words of a ballad of the time, "A hard-riding devil." As old as the
Hall, too, were the barns that clustered around it, the thatch of whose
pointed gables was weathered to every shade of brown and grey, green
with moss and golden with clinging lichens. Beyond was the green
woodland, musical with streams, its stately pine trees springing
straight and tall, its noble oaks just breaking into leaf, its larch and
elm and hawthorn in all the pride of their young beauty.
From without it looked warm and cheerful with its brightly-lit windows,
and within all was warm, comfortable, and brilliant. The party was a
large one, for all the best people in the county came to Lady Stretton's
dances, and as I entered the great oak-panelled ballroom with its stands
of armour and its quaint old chiming clock, I looked eagerly around and
saw Dora in a ravishing toilette with skirt and sleeves of soft white
satin, a bodice of rose-pink velvet, with the front lightly traced with
jet, talking to several men, while at that moment I heard my name
uttered by a well-known voice and turned to greet Mabel who, standing
with her husband, the Earl, was attired in a marvellous gown of palest
heliotrope.
As soon as dancing commenced, however, I managed to speak with Dora, and
found she had saved me several dances. Many of the guests were my
friends, and we spent altogether a most delightful night. Lady Stretton
always entertained in first-rate style, and this was no exception.
Outside, in the old-world garden, Chinese lanterns were hung in the
arched walks, and in the smaller paths similarly arched crossing the
central one at intervals those who desired air could find cool alleys,
where the starlight filtered through the trees.
Along one of these I wandered with Dora after we had been waltzing, and
finding a seat, we sat down to rest heedless of the chill air.
"Well," I exclaimed at length, "have you heard from him?"
"Yes," she answered rather gloomily. "Only three lines. I have brought
it in my pocket so that you may see," and producing a crumpled envelope,
she handed it to me.
Striking a vesta I opened the note and read the few words it contained,
written hurriedly in pencil; the message ran: "I cannot return yet, but
tell no one you have heard from me. I still love you, darling, better
than my life. Jack." Then I looked at the postmark, and found it had
been posted at Bardonnechia, an obscure village on the Italian frontier.
"He reassures you," I said, after a moment's silence. "We must wait."
"Wait," she echoed, sadly. "We can do nothing else. It is strange that
he desires his absence to be concealed," she continued. "Curiously
enough only this morning a well-dressed man called just as I was going
to the meet and saw me privately. He gave his name as Captain Allen, of
Jack's regiment, and said he had come from London to ask me his address,
as he wished to send him a telegram on some important business. I told
him I did not know. Then he asked if I had heard from him, and I told
him--"
"You told him what?" I gasped, starting up.
"I told him that the letter I received yesterday was posted at
Bardonnechia."
I sank back upon the seat, nerveless, paralysed.
"Did he not tell you that if you loved him you must remain silent?" I
demanded, fiercely. "Don't you know what you've done?"
"No," she gasped, alarmed. "What--what have I done? Tell me. What
will happen?"
But I knew I had nearly betrayed myself, and quickly recovering my
self-possession, said:
"You have--well, if he is on a secret mission, as I expect he is, it may
be that you may have placed those who desire to thwart its success in a
position to do so."
"Ah! Heaven! I never thought of that," she cried in despair. "Now, I
remember, the man spoke with a rather foreign accent."
"Yes," I said, severely. "By disobeying his injunctions you may have
placed him in the hands of his enemies!" She sat silent, her hands
clasped before her, and sighing heavily, she shuddered.
Then rising slowly she left me. I did not follow, for I saw she walked
unevenly with bent head, in order to hide her emotion.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE DEEPER INDISCRETION.
During a quarter of an hour I sat alone smoking a cigarette in
thoughtful silence under the trellis, when suddenly I heard the sound of
passionate voices on the other side of the ivy. Two persons had
evidently seated themselves in close proximity to myself, and I was, so
to speak, in the middle of a scene before I realised that I was
listening.
"You shall not do this thing," cried a woman's voice. "By God! you
shan't--you shall listen to reason. He has been murdered, foully done
to death, and--"
"Well, what of that? Can't you whisper, you fool?" and I heard an
imprecation from between a man's set teeth.
Stealthily, in order not to attract attention, I turned and parting the
foliage saw directly behind me the gleam of a light dress in the
darkness. At first I could not distinguish its wearer, but almost at
that moment her companion struck a match to light his cigar, and its
fickle flame illuminated both their faces.
The woman in the light dress was the Countess of Fyneshade, and the man,
wearing a heavy fur travelling-coat, and with several days' growth of
beard on his dark, frowning face, was the mysterious individual who had
met me on the night I had been married to Sybil.
"So you have come from Marseilles, for what purpose?" exclaimed Mabel
angrily. "Merely to run risk of compromising me, and to tell me
absolutely nothing. You must think me an idiot?"
"Have I not already told you the result of my inquiries into the
movements of Bethune?"
"I have surreptitiously read each letter that Dora has received from
him, and I was well aware of your devilish cunning, for I have already
had experience of it myself."
"So you entertain a suspicion that Gilbert Sternroyd has been murdered--
eh?" he said, with a low laugh, not deigning to remark upon the
uncomplimentary terms in which she had spoken. "Surely a young man
may--er--disappear for a week or so, without any great harm coming to
him?"
"Mine is not a mere suspicion," she declared quickly. "I am absolutely
certain he has met with foul play."
"Why?"
"Because three days before his disappearance he told me in confidence
that an enemy, whom he would not name, had threatened him."
"But if he had really been murdered, surely his body would have been
found by this time?" he observed. "You have, I am well aware,
communicated your suspicions to the police, and they have made every
inquiry, but without avail. In passing through London this morning I
called at Scotland Yard on your behalf and was informed that they had
succeeded in tracing the missing man to the Army and Navy Club on the
night of his disappearance. He left there at midnight to walk home, but
since that moment nothing has been heard of him."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing except the curious fact that on the following morning a check
for five thousand five hundred pounds in favour of some mysterious
individual, named Charles Collinson, was handed in at the Temple Bar
branch of the London and Westminster Bank, endorsed in an illiterate
hand by the bearer, and duly cashed. After that all traces are lost.
He has disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and
swallowed him."
"I care nothing for police theories," Mabel said firmly. "I feel
convinced that he has been brutally murdered."
"But who were his enemies?"
"As far as I am aware, he had none," she answered. "The discovery of
the check, however, is a curious fact, and if this Collinson could be
found he could, no doubt, give the police a clue."
"I think not," her companion replied dubiously. "The check was dated
three days before, and therefore, in all probability, had no connection
whatever with his disappearance."
"But now, with regard to Bethune. Where is he?"
"At the Trombetta at Turin, under the name of Harding. I had a telegram
concerning him this morning. At your instigation a detective has
followed him, but I confess I can see no object in this, because no
warrant can be obtained, for the simple reason that the police have no
knowledge that Sternroyd is actually dead. He may, after all, be
keeping out of the way for some purpose or another. The most exhaustive
inquiries have been made, but have failed to elicit any solution of the
mystery. Even a careful examination of Bethune's chambers, made by two
most expert officers, has failed to show that any tragedy has been
enacted. It is true that the Captain destroyed some papers before
leafing, but they were mostly billets-doux which he apparently thought
might prove compromising to some of his fair correspondents. Thoughtful
of him, wasn't it?"
"Very. He was a friend of Sybil's, I believe?"
"Yes, and was very much attached to her at one time, if reports are
true," the man answered, with a low, coarse laugh.
Sybil! The mention of her name thrilled me; the words pierced my
strained ears, causing me to remain dumbfounded and open-mouthed in
expectation.
"Were any of her letters discovered?" Mabel asked in a low tone.
"None. Fortunately all were carefully destroyed."
"But why should he have left so mysteriously if he were in no way
connected with Gilbert's disappearance? I suspect him of murder,
therefore I gave instructions to have him watched. I care nothing for
the cost, or for any scandal that may accrue, so long as I bring the
assassin to justice. Gilbert entrusted me with the secret of his fear,
and it is therefore my duty to seek out the murderer."
"Even at the risk of Dora's happiness?" he inquired. "Yes. At risk of
her happiness. At present she must know nothing--nothing beyond the
fact with which she is already well acquainted, namely, that marriage
with Bethune is entirely out of the question. But listen! Someone is
coming! It's Fyneshade! Go! he must not see you. Quick!"
The man jumped up quickly and slipped away in the darkness, while the
Countess also rose with a frou-frou of silk, and went forward to meet
her husband, laughing aloud, saying:
"Ah! you dear old boy, I knew you would be looking for me. The rooms
are so awfully hot that I came out to get a breath of air. It's simply
delightful out to-night."
"Yes," he answered dryly, turning and walking back with her, uttering
some rapid, earnest words that I could not catch as they crossed the
lawn.
That the Countess had been acquainted with Sybil was a fresh revelation.
The strange sinister-looking individual whose identity was enshrouded
in mystery, and with whom she appeared to be on such intimate terms, had
aroused in my heart fresh suspicions that I had been duped. He had
declared that Jack Bethune, the man I had trusted as a friend, and whom
I was now striving to shield, had been one of Sybil's lovers! The
thought was maddening. I sprang to my feet, clenched my fists, and
walked forward in a sudden outburst of fury. If Mabel had known her,
was it not highly probable that she was fully aware of the secret of my
marriage and the true story of her fate? The strange words inscribed
upon the wreath that had been so mysteriously placed upon the grave
recurred to me. "Seek and you may find." Those words danced before my
eyes in letters of fire. The whole enigma was one which grew more
puzzling daily, and, try how I would, I was unable to solve it.
From what I had overheard I had learnt more than one fact of the highest
importance. If no warrant had been issued against Bethune why should
not this be communicated to him; why indeed should I not seek of Mabel
the truth about the woman I had loved?
This course, after some consideration, commended itself to me, and I
walked on with firm resolve to obtain from the smart Society leader some
facts regarding Sybil's tragic end. With that object I again wandered
among the dancers in search of the striking study in heliotrope. I
could not, however, find her, but discovering Dora flushed by waltzing,
fanning herself, and enduring the inane chatter of an insipid young
sprig of the Stock Exchange, I managed to take her aside.
"Now, Dora, tell me," I said, when we were standing together alone on
the veranda, "do you really want Jack back again?"
"Want him back!" she cried in wistful tones. "If you can induce him to
return you will render me a service that I can never forget--a service
that will bring happiness to us both."
Happiness! I sighed, remembering the man who had fallen cold and stiff
in the narrow passage in Bethune's chambers. How could I allow her,
bright, pure and good, to marry a murderer? But was I not selfish? I
confess that in those moments of anguish and suspicion I cared for
nought save myself. I was determined to know the truth regarding his
relations with Sybil, and intended with that object to bring him back,
even at risk of his subsequent arrest.
"Very well," I said quietly, "within a week he shall be with you."
"But how will you induce him to return? Besides, we cannot communicate
with him."
"Leave all to me," I answered. "In a week he will be at your side, and
I--I--"
"And you will receive my most heartfelt thanks," she said in low,
earnest tones, laying her hand upon my arm and looking into my face.
"You know, Stuart, how I have suffered these long dreary days; how
intensely I love him. You are my friend. Yes, you have always proved
yourself my friend, although I fear I have on more than one occasion
ridiculed you as a confirmed bachelor with a heart of adamant."
"I also loved once," I said.
"Who was the woman?"
"Ah! it is a secret," I answered. "But I sympathise with you, because
I, alas! have experienced all that poignant bitterness, the dregs of
life's unhappiness that are too often the lot of the lover. I loved,
ah! I adored, one woman. She was my life, my very soul was hers, but
she has gone, gone, and I am left alone with nothing but the memory of
her face that comes back to me constantly in my day-dreams."
"She married someone else, I suppose?" she observed gloomily.
"Death parted us," I answered huskily, for the memory of her sad, sweet
countenance always caused a lump to rise in my throat.
Dora echoed my sigh and was silent, deeply absorbed in thought, gazing
away to where the moonbeams shimmered on the lake.
"Dead! then all is of the past," she said presently. "I never suspected
that you had really loved. I never knew that you had been guilty of any
deeper indiscretion than the mild flirtation which used to be carried on
between us in the old days. Now that you have told me your secret, I
can well understand why pretty women have no longer attraction for you,
and the reason you have become something of a misanthrope."
"Misanthrope. Yes, you are right, Dora. I am not old in years, but
unfortunately I have grown world-weary early, and
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