Chapter Eighteen.
Under the Stars.
Six months later.
Vera was now my wife. After spending a blissful honeymoon among the Cumberland Lakes we had taken up our abode at Elveham Dene, the home of my childhood, which I had inherited from my father. She was delighted with the old place, and, indeed, I myself have always been fond of it, and may be forgiven if I descant upon its old-world beauties.
It sounds egotistical, even snobbish, nowadays, to talk of ancient lineage, but ours was not a mushroom family, for the Burgoynes have been the possessors of the estate for the greater portion of three centuries.
Six miles from the nearest railway station, Stamford, and one from the village of Blatherwyke, Elveham stands high up, commanding magnificent views across that most fertile of the midland counties—Northamptonshire. Built when the First James was King, with its wings of brick and stone dressings, the centre entirely of stone shrouded by the ivy of years and decorated with Renaissance ornaments, its great charm lies in the air of unprofaned antiquity which surrounds it. There are no modern additions; and the broad balustraded terraces, the quaint old flower gardens with their sundials, and the venerable oaks and yew-trees, all call up visions of sturdy white-plumed cavaliers whose talk is of the unhappy fight at Cheriton and the downfall of “Loyalty.”
Through the long years the interior has been little changed, and contains some fine old tapestry, ancient furniture, and a gallery wherein hang the time-sombred portraits of my ancestors.
It is a quaint old place throughout, and it was my delight when I brought Vera there to point out and explain the curiosities, odd nooks and corners, and relate to her its many traditions.
The Dene itself is noteworthy, too: a long steep glade carpeted with turf, closed in by a wooded amphitheatre, which opens close to the house. The lower part forms a flower garden; the whole scene, with its occasional cypresses and sunny patches of greensward, is Poussinesque, and strictly classical, belonging not to English fairies, but to the wood spirit of the old world.
Beyond, a walk leads through a beech wood, the undergrowth of which consists of huge rhododendrons. Blatherwyke may be reached by this path, being a shorter distance than by the high-road.
Such was the home which, owing to a quarrel with my father, I had left seven years before to battle with the world and earn my living by dint of sheer hard work; the home to which I returned, my bride upon my arm, wealthy, happy, with a bright future of bliss unalloyed before me. Our welcome, too, was a very hearty one, possibly because from a child I had been popular with the servants and tenants, and since coming into possession of the place I had not stinted them.
It was scarcely surprising that my wife should have been charmed with the natural and artistic beauties of this dear home, for they were such as should content any one of good sense, even though their tastes were fastidious.
Mine were not. I was a happy, contented man, blessed with a beautiful and affectionate wife, and feeling glad, having at last secured the prize for which I risked so much.
As she had scarcely any friends in this country we had been married quietly at Richmond. Monsieur Hertzen performed the formality of giving away his niece, and at the church door we left him, as we understood he had to leave England upon pressing business. On our return from the Lakes I proposed that we should spend the autumn at Elveham and invite some people for the shooting. For the winter season it was my intention to take a house in London and introduce Vera in society. At these plans she expressed her utmost satisfaction, though she said she should be happy to live aways at Elveham.
In peaceful contentment, without thought, devoid of care, the days passed pleasantly after our arrival home.
As mistress, she soon set about arranging and reorganising the household, and I could not fail to notice that her quiet, kindly demeanour at once endeared her to the servants, all of whom spoke highly of her.
I had married her knowing absolutely nothing about her past, and this was a fact which she apparently had not forgotten, for on the night of our arrival, when we had dined, and were seated tête-à-tête in her boudoir, she rose, and coming behind my chair, said,—
“Frank, dear, I had no idea my future home was to be so beautiful a place; it is absolutely perfect. Few women begin their married life in happier circumstances than these.”
“Was it a pleasant surprise?” I asked, laughing. “Yes, very,” she answered. “But I cannot forget, dear, that you know nothing whatever about me. I might be a base adventuress for aught you know. How is it you trust me so?”
“Because—why, because I love you,” I replied. She passed her hand lightly through my hair, as she said, “In return I will always be true to you, Frank. The day will come, sooner or later, when I can tell you the story of my life, and much that will astonish you, perhaps.”
“And you promise there shall be no clouds to mar our happiness?—clouds caused by jealousy or distrust, I mean.”
“No, never. You love me truly, I know. No man who did not would have married me with appearances so much against me as they were. I am world-weary, tired of the wandering life I have led, and glad to be with you here—always. I swear I will ever be good and faithful to you,” and a light of great contentment shone in her eyes.
It was enough. I desired no more, for my cup of happiness was filled, and with all my heart I worshipped my wife as an angel of goodness and purity. Ah! if we men could but remember that there is no beauty beneath the skin, that a soft tongue is not an outward sign of genuine affection in that crisis in our lives when we take a woman for our wife, how many brief fools’ paradises should we avoid, how many hours, nay years of trouble and unhappiness, how much shame, how many broken hearts!
Alas! my bliss was but short-lived, for very soon the glamour fell from my eyes, and I made discoveries of a nature so horrible that I would gladly have given all I possessed as a ransom for my freedom.
Love is blind, ’tis true, but jealousy has a thousand eyes which hideously distort that which is seen, at the same time eating into our hearts like a corrosive acid, with results almost as dire. Yet what greater calamity could befall a man than to discover his wife’s perfidy, and to know that while she smiles and caresses him she is conspiring with others to bring about his death?
Fate decreed that such position, ere long, should be mine.
One morning, after we had been at Elveham several weeks, the post-bag contained a letter addressed to Vera, which I handed to her. There was nothing extraordinary in this, as she received many letters from friends, some of which bore the Russian stamp. But the postmark of this particular one was remarkable, inasmuch as it was from Oundle, a town but a few miles distant, where I knew none of her acquaintances resided.
Hastily glancing at its superscription, she turned pale and became visibly agitated; then glancing at me, as if to assure herself I had not noticed her anxiety, she broke the envelope and read the contents, afterwards thrusting it hurriedly into her pocket, evidently trying to hide it from my sight.
I am constrained to confess that in my then mood I attached but little importance to the matter, and not until subsequent events had occurred did I remember it, though I remarked inwardly that during the remainder of the day she seemed nervously anxious, and about her face there was a strange, careworn expression, such as I had only once before seen—on the night of our interview at Richmond.
In the evening, having some correspondence to attend to, I retired to the library, a fine old room, filled from floor to ceiling with books, and containing many choice editions, for bibliophilism had been my father’s hobby, and he had rendered this portion of the house extremely pleasant and comfortable. A lover of books himself, I, as a literary man, inherited his tastes, and now on my return home frequently spent several hours here daily, reading, and transacting that business which necessarily falls upon the owner of an estate.
It was pleasant enough in the daytime, with its windows opening upon the terrace, commanding an extensive view of the Dene, but at night, when the thick crimson curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and the fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, casting its inconstant light upon the stands of shining armour of departed Burgoynes, then it was one of the most snug and cosy rooms in the house.
We had dined, and I had been alone a couple of hours busily answering several important letters, when Vera entered.
She did not speak, fearing perhaps to interrupt me, but with a loving glance drew a lounge chair towards the fire, and sank into it. I was startled to notice how deathly pale she was, and asked whether she felt ill.
“I have a very painful headache, dear,” she replied in a tremulous voice. “I think I will go to my room and rest. If I am undisturbed I shall, perhaps, be better.”
“Very well,” I replied; “I will ring for Elise,” for my wife’s maid had been retained, and was devoted to her mistress.
“No, no, do not trouble her; I will go myself. Don’t disturb me, dear, and I shall be well to-morrow,” she replied, as I rose to touch the bell.
“As you wish, dearest,” I said, kissing her; “I hope sleep will refresh you.”
She rose and departed, but before she closed the door, added: “I shall not come down again to-night. You will not feel dull?”
“No, dear,” I replied. “Here’s a heap of writing before me, and while you are getting rid of your headache I can get through it. Good-night.”
She wished me bon soir in a low, strained voice, and closed the door.
Till nearly eleven o’clock I continued writing, but feeling cramped, lit a cigarette, and opening one of the French windows, stepped out into the night.
It was dark. There was no sound beyond my own footsteps, but as I left the house the thought of the strange murders in London by some chance recurred to me. Was it a presage of coming evil; of an approaching crisis of my fate? Somehow I felt that it was, and with my thoughts fixed upon the awful subject I wandered away over the gravelled paths, scarcely heeding the direction in which I was walking. Gradually, however, I became more composed; the surrounding peace, the soft air, and the thought of my wife’s strong affection, had their soothing effect upon me.
Recalled to myself by the weird hoot of an owl, I looked round, and saw I had penetrated into the beech wood, and that I trod noiselessly upon the mossy ground.
Pausing for a moment to take out a fresh cigarette, the sound of voices, close to where I stood, fell indistinctly upon my ears. It did not, and would not, have struck me as curious, had I not suddenly observed two figures, a man and a woman, who were standing together. I had no desire, nor inclination, to witness the love-making of a couple of rustics, yet what could I do? To move was to be discovered, so I remained motionless, hidden behind the trunk of a huge tree.
After a few moments they resumed their conversation earnestly, and my curiosity was aroused. I listened, but was unable to distinguish a single word. Suddenly, however, the truth became evident. I knew they were speaking in Russian!
I recognised the woman’s voice as that of Vera!
Scarce daring to breathe, I stood rooted to the spot, but just as I had made the startling discovery the moon appeared from behind a bank of cloud, shining down through the leafy branches, and revealing my wife leaning upon the arm of her companion.
He was bending over her, with his face hidden from me. My first impulse was to rush forward and surprise them; but reflecting a moment, I stood eagerly watching. He was uttering tenderly-spoken words, and her head was resting upon his shoulder, when suddenly he turned and glanced in my direction.
The moonlight fell full upon his face, and in a moment I recognised it as one I had seen before!
It was a countenance every feature of which was impressed only too deeply upon my memory—that of the man I had seen leaving the house in Bedford Place!—the man I had vowed to deliver up to justice whenever he should cross my path!
There was a rustling among the bracken, and the branches of the trees gently swaying, cast weird shadows around which a heated imagination could easily have transformed into the shapes and forms of supernatural creatures.
Again peeping from my place of concealment, I saw my wife and her companion were moving onward; indeed I was compelled to draw back quickly, for she passed so close that I could touch her.
Conversing in the same earnest tones they strolled slowly along to the edge of the wood; but I did not follow them: I had heard and seen enough.
Stunned and bewildered, no tears welled from my eyes, but, nevertheless, I began to bitterly repent the implicit trust I had placed in Vera, and firmly resolved not to rest until I could bring to justice the inhuman monster who, not content with his horrible deeds, had ruined that happiness that I foolishly believed would last always.
The shock was so great it prostrated me. The impulse to follow them never suggested itself—fool that I was!
Chapter Nineteen.
False!
Utterly broken down at this manifestation of Vera’s deception and faithlessness, I wandered away through the grounds in an opposite direction.
Those only who have experienced a suddenly overwhelming grief at discovering the perfidy of the person on whom their affection is set know the intense regret, the anger, and the jealous hatred of the one by whose instrumentality their idol has been shattered. If ever the spirit of murder enters a man’s soul it is then.
I thought only of revenge.
Did I not know enough of this man who had blighted my wife’s happiness to prove him a murderer and to send him to the gallows? Should I not be even fulfilling my duty in doing so, as well as avenging my own wrongs at the same time?
Yes. I resolved, after much commune with myself, to do this on the morrow. First I would compel Vera to disclose his name, then seek him out, and hand him over to the police.
With these and other maddening thoughts coursing through my brain I had cast myself upon the trunk of a fallen tree, and must have sat there for some time as, when I became conscious of things about me, the grey dawn had appeared through the fast-falling foliage.
Rising, I slowly retraced my steps to the house, pacing the terrace several times in deep soliloquy. The stars had disappeared, the chill breeze stirred the boughs softly, and the air was impregnated with the perfume of decaying leaves. How well I remember leaning upon the stone balustrade, gazing away down the misty Dene, and reflecting that ere the morrow’s sun had set Vera and I would be parted forever; for after such a discovery I could trust her no longer, neither could we be anything more to each other than strangers.
Need I say how heartily I cursed myself for having been prevailed upon to visit her at Richmond, to listen to her lame excuses, to be softened by her endearing words? No. For the thousandth time I told myself I had been fascinated by her beauty in the way the bird is fascinated by the snake; her toils were about me, and until the present moment I had always been too weak to tear them asunder, to lift the veil from my own eyes, and see her in her true character—that of an adventuress.
But that time had now arrived, and though I confess I was beside myself with grief to find the woman I had loved so fondly, guilty of such scheming and such treachery, I was, nevertheless, pleased to be in possession of the truth. Now I was aware of the worst, and should know how to act.
Presently I turned and passed through the French window into my study. It was useless retiring, for I could not sleep with such thoughts gnawing at my heart, so I flung myself into my writing-chair and thought.
I sat motionless until the warm sun shone through the open window and the birds outside had broken forth into song, when it occurred to me that as I had resolved to leave the place in a few hours it would be well to place my papers in order. This I commenced to do.
There lay scattered upon the table a deed relating to some property, and several letters of a private nature, upon which I had been engaged before taking my stroll on the previous night. With the object of placing them under lock and key I was thoughtfully collecting them when there fell from amongst the heap of papers a piece of red sealing-wax, about the size of a sixpence.
Rarely having occasion to use wax myself I took up the fragment, and found it had the appearance of being the rough corner of a seal that had chipped off the paper to which it had been affixed.
“Some one must have been here in my absence,” I exclaimed aloud, glancing at the taper which also lay upon the table, at the same time noticing a small spot of wax that had apparently been dropped upon the leather. Then I remembered that if any one had been in the study during the night they had, without doubt, made themselves acquainted with the contents of the paper, and with the rough copy of my will which I had carelessly left about.
I glanced at the scrap of wax again and found upon the margin, close to where it was broken, there was an impression of something.
This might give me a clue to the identity of the member of my household who required sealing-wax in the middle of the night.
Going to the window, the stronger light revealed a strange character, something of the shape of the letter B, but having a long excrescence in front.
In a moment I recognised it as one of the hieroglyphics of the mystic seal!
Nervousness is not one of my afflictions, yet I looked round that room involuntarily viewing the curtains with suspicion, as if half afraid I should witness something supernatural appear from behind them.
It was obvious that some one with the seal in his or her possession had come to my study in my absence during the dark hours of the night for the purpose of obtaining an impression in wax, and that the piece which had served as a clue had accidentally chipped off, alighting amongst the papers.
That some one in the house held the seal there could not be the slightest doubt, and my thoughts at once flew to the man whom Vera had clandestinely met—he whom I knew to be the murderer of Mrs Inglewood.
Who had he marked out as his next victim?
If he entertained affection for Vera, and she reciprocated it, what was more natural than that they should wish to rid themselves of me? I shuddered at the thought. My wife could surely never be an accessory to a murder—yet such things were not unknown, I told myself.
Yes; my surmise must be correct. My wife’s lover was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to strike the fatal blow.
He was not aware, however, that I had espied his presence, had recognised him; nor that by mere chance I had learned that an attempt was to be made upon my life.
“I can thwart their vile plot, even now!” I said bitterly, holding the piece of wax in my hand, and gazing upon it. “I will see Vera and first give her an opportunity to justify herself. If it is unsatisfactory I shall then give information to the police, and have the murderer arrested,” and I even smiled at the thought that, after all, I held the trump card.
Just at that moment the door opened, a head was poked in, and a voice exclaimed: “Halloa, old fellow, why you look as if you hadn’t been to bed! I heard somebody chattering, and thought there must be visitors, yet it’s rather early. Talking to yourself, it seems.”
“What’s the time?” I exclaimed rather brusquely, at the same moment taking out my watch.
“Half-past five,” he replied. “Coming out with me for a walk? A stretch at this hour of the morning will do you good.”
“No, thanks; I’m not an athlete,” I replied. “Very well. But, by Jove, what’s the matter with you this morning? If you’d had a bad night at baccarat and were stone broke you couldn’t look worse.”
“Matter with me? Nothing!” I replied, endeavouring to smile, “except that I’ve been very busy writing.”
“Take my tip and go to bed, old fellow. A couple of hours there will freshen you up wonderfully. But, good-bye, if you won’t come for a stroll.”
“Good-bye: see you at breakfast,” I replied abruptly, as the head withdrew and the door closed.
The intruder was Demetrius Hertzen, Vera’s cousin, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow about my own age, who had an abundance of spirits, which made him a most agreeable companion.
In response to my invitation he had arrived from Brussels a fortnight previously, and had signified his ability to remain my guest for another month. I had only met him once before, at our marriage, but when he had been with us a few days, I found he had many tastes in common with myself,—that he knew London quite as well as Paris or Brussels, and that although used to rather fast society perhaps, he was nevertheless a thoroughly good fellow.
Vera and he had been children together, and laughingly admitted they were sweethearts before they had gained their teens, but that when Demetrius arrived at the mature age of fifteen he transferred his affections. Cautiously I had approached my guest with a view to learn something of his cousin’s past, but he seemed remarkably shrewd, and carefully warded off every indirect question I put to him on the subject.
Possibly it was at Vera’s request that he would not tell me what he knew, yet upon this matter only was he silent, as he conversed freely of his own doings and acquaintances, and of his life since leaving the paternal roof, for though a Russian, he spoke English almost perfectly, and only in certain words could the accent be detected.
Somehow, though our acquaintance had been but brief, I had become greatly attached to him, such a mirthful cosmopolitan was he, brimming over with humour and good-fellowship and as light-hearted as his father was dark and sullen. He seemed to be untroubled by any thought or care, the sole object of his existence being to get the greatest amount of enjoyment out of life, and cause amusement to his companions.
Perplexed and uneasy, I longed for some one in whom to confide, and after he had gone, as I stood there brooding, I almost regretted I had not told him of my suspicions, and enlisted his sympathy and aid in tracking the murderer.
I knew, were I to tell him of my discovery of Vera’s faithlessness, he would readily render any assistance, and even give me advice that I might follow with advantage. I had no one else near to whom I could speak, and after considerable deliberation I at last determined to take him into my confidence, provided I obtained an opportunity of speaking with him alone after breakfast.
To my pocket-book I transferred the mysterious piece of sealing-wax, and then sadly and thoughtfully resumed the task of putting my papers in order.
It took some time, and when finished I set about making preparations for my journey.
First I drew a cheque in favour of myself for a good round sum, then I sat down and wrote a long letter to Vera, which I intended she should read after I had gone.
Full of sorrow and regret, it was a letter in which I told her of my dejection and my inconsolable grief, yet expressing a bitter hope that her life might be happier in the future than mine would be, and explaining the arrangements I proposed whereby she would have a fair income, and Elveham to reside in as long as she wished.
More than once in the course of writing I was so overcome I could scarce proceed, and throwing down my pen was tempted to tear the letter up. But it was a duty; the last communication between myself and she who had been dearest to me. I felt constrained to write on to the end, and append my signature.
After carefully reading it through, I placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to her, “to be opened after my departure.”
The hours had crept on unnoticed; the servant had long ago come in for the purpose of dusting the place, but, seeing me, had retired. Just as I had written the superscription on the envelope the door again opened, and I found myself face to face with Vera.
Chapter Twenty.
A Mystery Still.
I rose with a resolute determination that it should be our last interview.
“Why, Frank,” she exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise, as she advanced, “you haven’t been to bed, and—why, what’s the matter, dear?” she added, noticing the expression of anger upon my countenance.
“You ought to know well enough,” I replied sternly.
“How should I know?” she asked. “Why, the gas is still burning! Surely you’ve not been writing all night!”
“It seems your headache has left you,” I exclaimed curtly, without answering her question.
“Yes, I feel better this morning.”
“In fact, the pain disappeared as soon as you left me last night, eh?”
“What!—what do you mean, Frank?” she asked anxiously, in a strange voice, a sudden pallor overspreading her statuesque face.
“You plead ignorance; it is exactly what I expected. My meaning, I should have thought was pretty clear. You are not usually so dull.”
“I do not understand you.”
Her eyes wavered, she trembled with excitement, and I could see she was bent upon concealing the truth. This increased my anger.
“It is a lie!” I said sharply. “You are trying to deceive me, but I know the truth at last.”
“Deceiving you! Why, what have I done that you should accuse me in this manner? Surely you are not yourself this morning?”
“You left me here writing last night, did you not?”
“Yes,” she answered, gloomily.
“And thought that I was safe for a few hours, and would not keep an eye upon your movements?”
“What has that to do with it?”
“Simply this. A couple of hours after you shammed illness and left me, I went out into the Dene, and there I saw—”
“There you saw me!” she cried wildly, swaying forward, and clutching at the back of a chair for support. “Dieu! it is true, Frank; yes, true, I—I confess—I deceived you.”
“Then you admit it!” I ejaculated, hardly believing my own ears.
“Yes; yes, I do,” she moaned in tones of anguish. “But forgive me, and say no more about the occurrence. It was unfortunate, and no harm has been done.”
I tried with difficulty to restrain my passionate indignation. Such a cool request maddened me.
“Unfortunate?” I cried. “No; for me it is the reverse, for it has opened my eyes to your faithlessness. Forgive you this! The thing’s absurd!”
“I unfaithful!” she repeated, looking vacantly about her, and clasping her hands. “I never thought it could be misconstrued into that! I unfaithful! Am I not your wife?” and with heaving breast and tearful eyes she bent her head as if to avert my gaze.
“Yes; you are my wife, but she who brings dishonour upon her husband is unworthy that name,” I said, in a tone of disgust.
“I have not brought you dishonour,” she declared, drawing herself up with dignity.
“You have, I tell you! Late last night you met a strange man in the Dene, and that man is your lover!” I retorted, decisively.
“That I am to blame, Frank, I admit,” she said, dashing the tears from her eyes, “but he is not my lover. I swear you are mistaken. Nothing was further from my thoughts.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that! I know enough of the world to distinguish the meaning of such clandestine meetings,” I replied, sickened at the manner she was endeavouring to clear herself.
“There is no love between us,” she exclaimed; “but,”—and she paused.
“Then why meet him in such a secret manner?” I demanded, adding with a sneer, “perhaps you will tell me next that it was not you I saw, but a twin sister.”
She still hesitated, with her eyes cast down as if in thought.
“You can give no answer,” I continued with warmth, “because you are guilty.”
“Guilty only of meeting him,” she said, drawing a deep breath: “but I assure you there is no love between us—nay, I swear it—only a secret tie.”
“I don’t wish you to perjure yourself,” I remarked coldly. “You ‘assure me’! What utter nonsense.”
“I tell you the truth.”
“You have told me so many falsehoods that a little truth is certainly refreshing!” I replied with sarcasm.
“I cannot force you to believe me,” she continued in a low voice, still steadying herself by the chair.
“Do you think me such a confounded idiot, then, as to believe you could have business with a strange man at that hour of the night?”
“Business, nevertheless, was the object of our meeting.”
“Bah! your excuses are positively intolerable. What was the nature of this business?”
“You must not know,” she replied, hesitatingly.
Her brows contracted, and her tiny hands clenched tightly upon the chair-back, as if summoning all her courage to be firm.
“Ah! the old story. More mystery. Look here! I’ve had enough of it!” I shouted in anger. “In fact, I’ve had too much of it already, and I demand an explanation, or you and I must part!”
A shudder ran through her slim frame as I spoke, and she lost her support and almost fell. With a sudden movement she pushed back the mass of dark curls from her forehead, her bright eyes gleamed with an earnest fire as they met mine, and she said, hysterically, “You are cruel—you do not know how I suffer, for your surmise is not correct in the smallest degree. You, my husband, I love, and no one else. And you accuse me. Mon Dieu!”
My self-control was very nearly exhausted. If she had been a man I might have struck her! As it was, I was powerless, and as I looked at her my eyes must have gleamed with fury.
“Last night proved the great extent of your love for me,” I exclaimed fiercely.
All that latent fire which exists in every woman’s nature, ready to burst into flame when her self-respect is wounded, was aglow in Vera as I uttered that retort.
“I cannot see that it did. I have done absolutely nothing of which I am ashamed,” was her answer.
She spoke with a cool, reckless candour that shocked me. My thoughts were soured by disappointment.
“What!” I cried, “have you no compunction?”
“I am sorry it was my ill-luck to be seen by you, and thus cause you unnecessary pain.”
“Oh, spare me your expressions of sorrow, pray,” I said, in a hard tone. “They are out of place.”
“I had thought to keep his presence a secret,” she continued in that dead-calm voice, which was like some one speaking in a dream.
“If he were not your lover, why should you do that? Your own words prove your guilt?”
“Because I had reasons,” she replied. “Reasons!” I repeated, my thoughts at once reverting to the piece of seal I had discovered. “Strange reasons they must be, surely. What is his name?”
“It is nobody you know. You have never heard of him.”
It was upon the tip of my tongue to denounce him as the perpetrator of the crime in Bedford Place, but with difficulty I restrained myself, and, impelled by the strangeness of her manner, demanded:
“Who is he? Answer me!”
“I am very sorry, Frank, but I cannot,” she replied, her face deathly pale, and her limbs trembling with agitation.
“Then you refuse to answer?” I cried, stung to the quick by her dogged persistency.
“Yes; I must.”
Her hands clasped, her teeth firmly set, her bloodless face tear-stained and haggard, and her hair disordered, she stood rigidly beside the chair that supported her, striving by an almost superhuman effort to suppress her emotion.
“Vera,” I shouted fiercely, “it seems I’ve been fooled. Curse that man who has brought misery and destruction to us both! By heaven if—”
“He is not to blame: it is I,” she interrupted. “You shield him at the expense of yourself. I see. Now, hear me. All my questions you have evaded; to none will you give direct answers. Enough of mysteries which you have refused to reveal ever since knowing me; therefore, we can do naught else but part.”
“What—you will leave me because of this?” she moaned, with a wild, hysterical cry. “Why don’t you go a step further—why don’t you say at once you are tired of me?” she cried, with an outburst of passion. “Say that you wish me dead.”
“That would be untrue,” I answered. “You know well I have lived only for you, Vera, and at nothing should I rejoice more than to be able to prove myself mistaken; yet, until that can be done, we must separate.”
She was grave and thoughtful for a moment, then, looking into my face, said haughtily:
“If you are determined upon this step, I am powerless to prevent it.”
“No, you are not,” I asserted.
“Why?”
“Because you might answer satisfactorily the questions I put to you just now.”
“No; no, anything but that,” she replied promptly, as with a frantic gesture she covered her face with her hands, continuing, “It—it would be far better for us to part, or the result—the result—might prove fatal.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded incredulously, as the mystery of the seal recurred to me.
“I mean that my secret must be kept, even if we part,” she gasped, with a futile endeavour to compose herself.
“This is your final decision, then?”
“Alas! it must be.”
“Very well, Vera, I wish you adieu,” I said sadly, for I was completely broken-hearted at the thought of my idol’s deceit, and the transparent subterfuges by which she had endeavoured to conceal her guilt. “We have been happy during the few months of our wedded life, but that is a thing of the past. Henceforth mine will be a dark, hopeless existence, while yours, I trust, may be as pleasant as it has hitherto been; for though you have dishonoured me, I love you too well, even now, to wish any calamity should ever befall you.”
“No, Frank, don’t leave me. I could not bear it!” she shrieked, bursting into a torrent of tears. “I have told you the truth—I have, by heaven! It is my terrible misfortune that I am unable to explain who that man was, and from the same cause it has not been possible for me to acquaint you with anything relating to my past. Wait patiently for a little, and I promise you faithfully—I swear you shall know everything.”
She was terribly in earnest, I could see; her whole future depending upon my decision that moment. It was the secret of her life I was anxious to learn beyond anything, and I asked:
“How long must I wait?”
She gazed at me for a few seconds blankly, apparently making some calculation.
“Three weeks. Wait till then before you condemn me—do, I implore of you!”
What ingenious motive could there be in thus gaining time, I asked myself. Could it be that in three weeks’ time the murderer would be safely out of the country?
This seemed more than probable.
I felt half inclined to demand an immediate explanation or carry out the alternative, when, on a moment’s reflection, I resolved not to resort to extremes without giving her an opportunity of disproving my allegations.
“Very well,” I said impatiently, at last; “the matter shall rest for the present; but this day three weeks I shall be prepared—I shall expect to hear a complete explanation. Bear that in mind.”
As I spoke the door had opened noiselessly, and Demetrius, with an expectant expression on his good-humoured face, and a cigarette in his mouth, stood upon the threshold.
Vera, who had been awaiting my reply with breathless agitation, murmured in a low, intense voice, “In three weeks you shall know all, I—promise—you,” and before I could save her she had swayed forward helplessly and fallen full length in a dead swoon.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed Demetrius; “why, what has happened?” as he rushed forward in consternation and assisted me to lift her upon the couch.
“Nothing,” I replied. “A little difference of opinion between us, that’s all;” and ringing the bell violently to summon the servants, I left the room without further utterance.
Chapter Twenty One.
Storms of Fate.
It will readily be imagined that it was in no amiable state of mind I left the house. Distraction was what I wanted—distraction from thoughts of the sad events which had just transpired, and which threatened to wreck all the hopes of wedded happiness I had founded upon Vera’s supposed love for me. It was a bitter experience of the vanity of human pleasures, and was one more proof of the falsity and hollowness of her whom I had loved more than life itself.
Determined to leave the Dene and rid myself of these remorseful thoughts, I jammed on my hat and rushed from the house.
While walking down the drive the postman passed me, bearing the second delivery of letters. The sight of him recalled to my mind the fact that, in the midst of the morning’s excitement, the usual batch of correspondence had escaped my notice. Turning hastily, I made for the study, where a number of letters were awaiting me.
There was only one communication which possessed for me any interest. It was from my old friend Bob Nugent, and a thrill of pleasure passed through me as I recognised the familiar scrawl—Bob was never a neat writer.
The letter was as follows: “Dear Old Frank,—I am writing in great haste, and at the usual high pressure, to give you the welcome news that Teddy Rivers has turned up after his New Zealand experiences, as fresh as paint. He hasn’t much time to spare; so if you want to have one of the old dinners at the Junior Garrick, my boy, and can tear yourself away from the little wife for a few hours, why—come soon.—Yours ever, Bob Nugent.”
“Tear yourself away from the little wife!” I repeated to myself with a groan. Bob was quite right; Vera had truly charmed me, laying me under the spell of her beauty and the vivacity of her manner—for what! With a savage stamp of my foot I threw the letter upon the fire.
A moment’s reflection convinced me that my best course would be to run up to town and meet my friends. As a matter of fact, the opportunity was just what I needed. It would afford a little excitement to drown the weary hours, and cause the time to pass more quickly.
I decided to go.
My preparations were soon complete, and the afternoon mail saw me being rapidly conveyed to town, after having left an explanatory note for Vera, to the effect that I should in all probability be absent three weeks.
That journey I shall ever remember. The mad noisy whirl of the express train was as nothing compared with the wild tormenting dance of my thoughts as they again and again reverted to the unhappy events of the morning. At one time I blamed my precipitation; at another I bemoaned my weakness in allowing myself to be wheedled into waiting another three weeks. Should I ever live those fearful twenty-one days? Some presentiment seemed to fill my brain, and as the train rushed through the stations one after another, every moment seemed bearing me nearer and nearer to some catastrophe.
With a sense of vast satisfaction, therefore, I alighted from a cab in Adam Street, Strand, the same evening, and found myself standing outside the time-stained old building, with which so much of my past had been associated. As its well-known entrance met my gaze it appeared to be but yesterday when I left that very spot on the morning the first murder was committed in Bedford Place.
Brushing aside these memories—for they threatened to become very dismal—I walked quickly upstairs to the well-remembered smoking-room, and glanced around.
As I did this it occurred to me that I had made a great omission. I had forgotten to inform Bob by telegram that I so promptly accepted his invitation, and consequently he was not awaiting me, nor did I know a single face about me.
Evidently there was no utility in staying there, for it might be hours before my friend put in an appearance. I knew his address, but did not feel in the humour for going to hunt him up; finally I resolved to go to a hotel at once.
On regaining the street I noticed, crouching beside the iron railings, which, however, afforded him very little shelter, a haggard-looking man. His threadbare coat was buttoned tightly across his chest, and a battered silk hat, which had seen better days, was pulled down over his eyes, giving him a peculiar, almost repulsive, appearance. Under the rim of his hat a pair of sharp keen eyes glittered with a baleful yet anxious glare, and these two orbs were the most striking part of the man’s tout ensemble. Something about the fellow’s appearance caused me to regard him with attention.
He did not withdraw his glance as mine rested on him. On the contrary, he seemed to become satisfied of my identity. With earnest gesture he rose and stopped me as I was about to enter the cab.
“Now then; move on!” shouted a harsh voice, as the unknown placed his hand, lean, thin and dirty, upon the sleeve of my ulster. The figure of a constable loomed up suddenly in the flickering gaslight.
“Stay! What is it you want?” I asked, for my heart seemed to tell me he was no ordinary alms-seeker.
He was about to reply, and I could feel his hand upon my arm trembling with eagerness, when the policeman again interposed.
“He’s only a-beggin’ again, sir,” said that worthy. “I often turn him away when he’s bothering the gents—and that’s pretty nigh always,” he added, in a grumbling undertone.
“What’s the matter with him?” I inquired, noting the paleness of the poor fellow’s face. Before I could say another word his hold on my arm had relaxed, and he fell backwards, almost into the arms of the too zealous officer.
Bending beside him, I ordered some brandy to be brought, and in spite of the assurance from my astute friend that “he was not worth the trouble,” I did all I could to restore the inanimate form to consciousness.
“I’ve never seen ’im like this ’ere before, blow me!” observed the cabby, who was lending a little assistance, because, as I supposed, he thought there might be some profit attaching to the operation. My authority was not to be slighted when I was in earnest, which was the case just then.
The unfortunate man presently showed signs of reviving, having been carried into the cloak-room of the club, while I questioned the constable as to who he was and where he lived.
“As for who he is, sir, that’s more than any one knows barrin’ hisself,” and he laughed. “He lives ’ere, or has done so for the last eight or nine months and always seems to be lookin’ out for somebody wot he thinks he’ll know when he sees.”
This appeared rather enigmatical. Why had the stranger sought to detain me? A momentary thought crossed my mind—was Vera concerned in this?
With a new interest I turned to the constable.
“Has he ever stopped any one else and spoken like this?” I asked.
“Bless you, yes,” he replied. “But I never knew him so earnest as this time—hullo, old fellow, how do you feel now?”
A faint flush of colour tinged the careworn face; the stimulant had done its work. How sickening it was, I thought, to hear the affectation of friendliness in this man’s voice, now he thought that because my sympathy had been attracted towards the sufferer there was a chance of gaining a few shillings!
“It’s him—it’s him! I knew I’d find him some day,” cried the prostrate man, raising himself on his arm and pointing eagerly at me, as if awakening from some bad dream. Then, as he saw the interested faces of those who had gathered around, and noted the keen looks with which he was regarded, he scowled darkly, and struggled into a sitting posture. As he noticed me again watching him intently, he started.
“Did you want to speak to me, my poor fellow?” I inquired kindly.
“For mercy’s sake wait a few moments, sir, please. Let me get breath. Send these people away, I—I’m better now. See,” and he rose and walked unsteadily to the door, watching me all the time with a keen scrutiny which made me feel rather uncomfortable.
A moment or two later we were on the pavement outside, where the cab I had ordered still remained.
“We must hurry, or we shall be too late,” he urged. “Follow quickly, sir.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, my prudence for the moment mastering my curiosity. “What do you want with me, and where are you going to take me?” With a searching stare he faced me, but I did not flinch. There was an ominous gleam in his dark eyes scowling fiercely into mine, as he said impetuously,—
“Don’t stand here, wasting precious time in useless questions. You cannot know now what it is I want you for—if you are the right man—and Heaven grant you may be—you shall know all.”
“You are talking nonsense,” I said quietly, and with determination. “What’s at the bottom of all this? Come, tell me quickly; my time is being wasted.”
My watch, as I glanced at it in the gaslight, showed that the hour was about half-past ten, but my earnestness to find the real meaning of this mysterious adventure, coupled with my curiosity, would probably have kept me there for hours.
Soon, however, I became impatient.
My unknown questioner looked at me with a resolute smile. His features, or as much of them as could be seen beneath the shabby hat, were not unhandsome, and the smile became him well.
“You are coming with me to-night and soon,” he said, in the same cool and determined manner I had myself displayed.
This was too much. Without word or sign I sprang into the cab, and as the Jehu touched the animal with his whip, my face was determinedly turned away from my strange acquaintance.
My action was so sudden that at first he seemed disconcerted. The cab had only moved a few yards before, with a sudden bound, he gained the horse’s head.
“Leave go that ’orse!” shouted the cabman with an oath.
For a few seconds there was a scene of confusion. The man still holding the reins, and heedless of the plunging and affrighted animal, approached me. He was evidently exhausted, and could withstand the excitement no longer. His coat had burst asunder, revealing in all its raggedness the soiled shirt underneath, through the holes in which his panting chest was plainly visible.
“One word, sir,” he implored, springing with the wildness of despair upon the front of the hansom. “Just one more word, and then if you won’t come, the consequence will lie upon your own head. Do, do stop!”
Thoroughly alarmed at his vehemence, I again ordered the cabman to pull up. There must, I reflected, be something in this matter, after all.
“Will you tell me, without delay, the reason I’m stopped here; or do you wish me to give you into custody as a beggar?” I sternly asked.
There was a crowd around us. It was a rather unusual spectacle, and the passers-by gave eager attention to it.
“Very well, then, I’ll show you something that will decide you, if you will let the man drive on a little, out of this crush,” he rejoined, diving his hand into his breast-pocket.
Impatiently I told him to jump in, giving the order to drive away, anywhere. After the lapse of a few minutes I turned to the strange being by my side.
He held a piece of torn paper, but what was on it I could not then see. Putting his shaking hand upon my shoulder, and his ashen face with its wild, glaring eyes, close to my own, he hissed, with a kind of vicious pleasure.
“You think me an impostor, eh? Well, look at this, and remember what it has revealed to you before. Then say if I have stopped you without cause. Its author may yet be found!”
His face wore a smile of triumph as he held before my eyes a torn fragment of paper. With an indefinable thrill of excitement, not unmingled with alarm—for his words were ominous—I took it. So dark was it in the vehicle that I held it close to my eyes till we approached the next street-lamp. As we did so, and the light fell across the crumpled and dirty paper, my heart almost stopped beating, and my pulses, for a moment ceased.
There, in all its frightful reality, was the seal!