Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

CHAPTER ELEVEN

But he only quivered, and crouched against the wall like a whipped dog.

“Speak!” I said. “Who are you?”

He gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, almost a screech, and then grinned horribly in my face.

“Who are you?” I repeated. “Where do you live?”

But though his mouth moved, as though he replied, no sound escaped him.

I spoke again, but he only laughed wildly, his thin fingers twitching.

“Ho! ho! ho!” he ejaculated, pointing back to the neglected garden.

“I wonder what he means!” exclaimed Jack.

“Why, I believe he’s an idiot!” I remarked.

“He has every appearance of one,” declared my companion, who then addressed him, with the same negative result.

Again the weird, repulsive youth pointed back to the garden, and, laughing hideously, uttered some words in gibberish which were quite unintelligible.

“If we remain here chattering, the constable will find us,” I remarked, so we all three went forth into the street, the ugly hunchback walking at my side, quite tractable and quiet.

Presently, unable to gather a single intelligible sentence from him, Jack and I resolved to leave him, and afterwards follow him and ascertain where he lived.

Why had he pointed to the garden and laughed so hilariously? Had he witnessed any of those nocturnal preparations—or interments?

At last, at the corner of Bishop’s Road, we wished him farewell and turned away. Then, at a respectable distance, we drew into a gateway to watch. He remained standing where we had left him for some ten minutes or so, until a constable slowly approached, and, halting, began to chat to him.

Apparently he was a well-known figure, for we could hear the policeman speaking, and could distinguish the poor fellow laughing that queer, harsh, discordant laugh—the laugh of the idiot.

Presently the constable moved forward again, whereupon I said—

“I’ll get on and have a chat with the policeman, Jack. You follow the hunchback if he moves away.”

“Right-ho,” replied my friend, while I sped off, crossing the road and making a detour until I met the constable.

Having wished him good-night, I inquired the identity of the deformed youth.

“Oh, sir,” he laughed, “that’s Mad ’Arry. ’E’s quite ’armless. ’E’s out most nights, but we never see ’im in the day, poor chap. I’ve known ’im ever since he was about nine.”

“Does no work, I suppose?”

“None. ’Ow can ’e? ’E’s as mad as a hatter, as the sayin’ goes,” replied the constable, his thumbs hitched in his belt as he stood.

“A kind of midnight wanderer, eh?”

“Yes, ’e’s always a-pryin’ about at night. Not long ago ’e found burglars in a ’ouse in Gloucester Terrace, and gave us the alarm. We copped four of ’em. The magistrate gave ’im a guinea out o’ the poor-box.”

“Ah! so he’s of use to you?”

“Yes, sir, ’e’s most intelligent where there’s any suspicious characters about. I’ve often put ’im on the watch myself.”

“Then he’s not quite insane?”

“Not on that point, at any rate,” laughed the officer.

“Where does he live?”

“’Is father’s a hackney-carriage driver, and ’e lives with ’im up in Gloucester Mews, just at the back of Porchester Mews—I don’t know if you know it?”

I was compelled to confess ignorance of the locality, but he directed me.

“Are you on night-duty in Porchester Terrace, constable?” I asked a few moments later.

“Yes, sir, sometimes. Why?”

“You know Althorp House, of course?”

“Yes, the ’aunted ’ouse, as some people call it. Myself, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither do I,” I laughed, “but I’ve heard many funny stories about that place. Have you ever heard any?”

“Lots, sir,” replied the man. “We’re always being told of strange things that ’ave ’appened there, yet when we ’ave a look around we never find anything, so we’ve ceased to trouble. Our inspector’s given us orders not to make any further inquiries, ’e’s been worried too often over idle gossip.”

“What’s the latest story afloat concerning the place?” I asked. “I’m always interested in mysteries of that sort.”

“Oh, I ’eard yesterday that somebody was seen to get out of a taxi-cab and enter. And ’e ’asn’t been seen to come forth again.”

“That’s curious,” I said. “And haven’t you looked over the place?”

“I’m not on duty there. Perhaps my mate ’as. I don’t know. But, funnily enough,” added the officer, “Mad ’Arry has been tellin’ me something about it a moment ago—something I can’t understand—something about the garden. I suppose ’e’s been a-fancyin’ something or other. Everybody seems to see something in the garden, or at the windows. Why, about a week ago, a servant from one of the ’ouses in the Terrace came up to me at three o’clock in the afternoon, in broad daylight, and said as how she’d distinctly seen at the drawin’-room window the face of a pretty, fair-haired girl a-peerin’ through the side of the dirty blind. She described the girl, too, and said that as soon as she saw she was noticed the inmate of the place drew back instantly.”

“A fair-haired girl!” I exclaimed, quickly interested.

“Yes; she described her as wearin’ a black velvet band on her hair.”

“And what did you do?” I asked anxiously.

“Why, nothing. I’ve ’eard too many o’ them kind o’ tales before.”

“Yes,” I said reflectively. “Of course all kinds of legends and rumours must naturally spring up around a house so long closed.”

“Of course. It’s all in people’s imagination. I suppose they’ll say next that a murder’s been committed in the place!” he laughed.

“I suppose so,” I said, and then, putting a shilling in his hand, wished him good-night, and passed along.

Jack and the idiot had gone, but, knowing the direction they had taken—for the youth was, no doubt, on his way home—I was not long before I caught up my friend, and then together we retraced our steps towards the Bayswater Road, in search of a taxi.

I could not forget that curious statement that a girl’s face had been seen at the drawing-room window—a fair-headed girl with a band of black velvet in her hair.

Could it have been Sylvia Pennington?

It was past three o’clock in the morning before I retraced my steps to Wilton Street. We were unable to find a cab, therefore we walked down Park Lane together.

On the way Jack had pressed me to tell him the reason of my visit to that weird house and the circumstances in which my life had been attempted. For the present, however, I refused to satisfy his curiosity. I promised him I would tell him the whole facts of the case some day.

“But why are you at home now?” he asked. “I can’t really make you out lately, Owen. You told me you hated London, and preferred life on the Continent, yet here you are, back again, and quite settled down in town!”

“Well, a fellow must come here for the London season sometimes,” I said. “I feel that I’ve been away far too long, and am a bit out of touch with things. Why, my tailor hardly knew me, and the hall-porter at White’s had to look twice before he realized who I was.”

“But there’s some attraction which has brought you to London,” he declared. “I’m sure there is!”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him how cleverly the two scoundrels had used his name wherewith to entrap me on the previous night. But I refrained. Instead, I asked—

“Have you ever met two men named Reckitt and Forbes, Jack?”

“Not to my knowledge,” was his prompt reply. “Who are they? What are they like?”

I gave him a minute description of both, but he apparently did not recognize them.

“I suppose you’ve never met a fellow called Pennington—eh? A stoutish, dark-haired man with a baldish head and a reddish face?”

“Well,” he replied thoughtfully, “I’ve met a good many men who might answer to that description. What is he?”

“I don’t exactly know. I’ve met him on the Continent.”

“And I suppose some people one meets at Continental hotels are undesirables, aren’t they?” he said.

I nodded in the affirmative.

Then I asked—

“You’ve never known a person named Shuttleworth—Edmund Shuttleworth? Lives at a little village close to Andover.”

“Shuttleworth!” he echoed, looking straight into my face. “What do you know of Edmund Shuttleworth?” he asked quickly.

“Very little. Do you know him?”

“Er—well—no, not exactly,” was his faltering reply, and I saw in his slight hesitation an intention to conceal the actual knowledge which he possessed. “I’ve heard of him—through a friend of mine—a lady friend.”

“A lady! Who’s she?” I inquired quickly.

“Well,” he laughed a trifle uneasily, “the fact is, old chap, perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to tell the story. You understand?”

I was silent. What did he mean? In a second the allegation made by that pair of scoundrels recurred to me. They had declared that Sylvia had been in a house opposite, and that my friend had fallen in love with her.

Yet he had denied acquaintanceship with Pennington!

No doubt the assassins had lied to me, yet my suspicions had been aroused. Jack had admitted his acquaintance with the thin-faced village rector—he knew of him through a woman. Was that woman Sylvia herself?

From his manner and the great curiosity he evinced, I felt assured that he had never known of Althorp House before. Reckitt and Forbes had uttered lies when they had shown me that photograph, and told me that she was beloved by my best friend. It had been done to increase my anger and chagrin. Yet might there not, after all, have been some foundation in truth in what they had said? The suggestion gripped my senses.

Again I asked him to tell me the lady’s name.

But, quite contrary to his usual habit of confiding in me all his most private affairs, he steadfastly refused.

“No, my dear old chap,” he replied, “I really can’t tell you that. Please excuse me, but it is a matter I would rather not discuss.”

So at the corner of Piccadilly we parted, for it was now broad daylight, and while he returned to his rooms, I walked down Grosvenor Place to Wilton Street, more than ever puzzled and confounded.

Was I a fool, that I loved Sylvia Pennington with such an all-absorbing passion?

It was strangely true, as Shuttleworth had declared, the grave lay as a gulf between us.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I shuddered when I lived that hour of terror over again. I longed once more to see that pale, sweet, wistful face which was now ever in my dreams. Had not Shuttleworth told me that the grave lay between my love and myself? And he had spoken the truth!

Jack met me at the club daily, but he only once referred to our midnight search and the gruesome discovery in the neglected garden.

Frequently it crossed my mind that Mad Harry might have watched there unseen, and witnessed strange things. How many men reported to the police as missing had been interred in that private burying-ground of the assassins! I dreaded to think of it.

In vain I waited for Mr. Shuttleworth to call again. He had inquired if I were at home, and, finding me absent, had gone away.

I therefore, a week later, made it an excuse to run down to Andover and see him, hoping to obtain from him some further information regarding Sylvia.

The afternoon was bright and warm, and the country looked its best, with the scent of new-mown hay in the air, and flowers everywhere, as I descended from the station fly and walked up the rectory garden to the house.

The maid admitted me to the study, saying that Mr. Shuttleworth was only “down the paddock,” and would be back in a few minutes. And as I seated myself in the big, comfortable arm-chair, I saw, straight before me, in its frame the smiling face of the mysterious woman I loved.

Through the open French windows came the warm sunlight, the song of the birds, and the drowsy hum of the insects. The lawn was marked for tennis, and beyond lay the paddock and the dark forest-border.

I had remained there some few minutes, when suddenly I heard a quick footstep in the hall outside; then, next moment, the door was opened, and there, upon the threshold, stood Sylvia herself.

“You!” she gasped, starting back. “I—I didn’t know you were here!” she stammered in confusion.

She was evidently a guest there, and was about to pass through the study into the garden. Charming in a soft white ninon gown and a big white hat, she held a tennis-racket in her hand, presenting a pretty picture framed by the dark doorway.

“Sylvia!” I cried, springing forward to her in joy, and catching her small white trembling hand in mine. “Fancy you—here!”

She held her breath, suffering me to lead her into the room and to close the door.

“I had no idea you were here,” I said. “I—lost you the other day in Regent Street—I——”

She made a quick gesture, as though she desired me to refrain from referring to that incident. I saw that her cheeks were deadly pale, and that in her face was an expression of utter confusion.

“This meeting,” she said slowly in a low voice, “is certainly an unexpected one. Mr. Shuttleworth doesn’t know you are here, does he?”

“No,” I replied. “He’s down in the paddock, I believe.”

“He has been called out suddenly,” she said. “He’s driven over to Clatford with Mrs. Shuttleworth.”

“And you are here alone?” I exclaimed quickly.

“No. There’s another guest—Elsie Durnford,” she answered. “But,” she added, her self-possession at once returning, “but why are you here, Mr. Biddulph?”

“I wanted to see Mr. Shuttleworth. Being a friend of yours, I believed that he would know where you were. But, thank Heaven, I have found you at last. Now,” I said, smiling as I looked straight into her fathomless eyes, “tell me the truth, Miss Pennington. I did not lose you the other morning—on the contrary, you lost me—didn’t you?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she gave vent to a nervous little laugh.

“Well,” she answered, after a moment’s hesitation, “to tell the truth, I did. I had reasons—important ones.”

“I was de trop—eh?”

She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, and smiled reproachfully.

“But why?” I asked. “When I found you, it was under very curious circumstances. A man—a thief—had just cashed a cheque of mine for a thousand pounds, and made off with the proceeds—and——”

“Ah! please do not refer to it, Mr. Biddulph!” she exclaimed quickly, laying her slim fingers upon my arm. “Let us speak of something else—anything but that.”

“I have no wish to reproach you, Miss Pennington,” I hastened to assure her. “The past is to me of the past. That man has a thousand pounds of mine, and he’s welcome to it, so long as——” and I hesitated.

“So long as what?” she asked in a voice of trepidation.

“So long as you are alive and well,” I replied in slow, meaning tones, my gaze fixed immovably on hers. “In Gardone you expressed fear for your own safety, but so long as you are still safe I have no care as to what has happened to myself.”

“But——”

“I know,” I went on, “the ingenious attempt upon my life of which you warned me has been made by those two scoundrels, and I have narrowly escaped. To you, Miss Pennington, I owe my life.”

She started, and lowered her eyes. Apparently she could not face me. The hand I held trembled within my grasp, and I saw that her white lips quivered.

For a few seconds a silence fell between us. Then slowly she raised her eyes to mine again, and said—

“Mr. Biddulph, this is an exceedingly painful subject to me. May we not drop it? Will you not forget it—if you really are my friend?”

“To secure your further friendship, I will do anything you wish!” I declared. “You have already proved yourself my friend by rescuing me from death,” I added.

“How do you know that?” she asked quickly.

“Because you were alone with me in that house of death in Bayswater. It was you who killed the hideous reptile and who severed the bonds which held me. They intended that I should die. My grave had already been prepared. Cannot you tell me the motive of that dastardly attack?” I begged of her.

“Alas! I cannot,” she said. “I warned you when at Gardone that I knew what was intended, but of the true motive I was, and am still, entirely ignorant. Their motives are always hidden ones.”

“They endeavoured to get from me another thousand pounds,” I exclaimed.

“It is well that you did not give it to them. The result would have been just the same. They intended that you should die, fearing lest you should inform the police.”

“And you were outside the bank with Forbes when he cashed my cheque!” I remarked in slow tones.

“I know,” she answered hoarsely. “I know that you must believe me to be their associate, perhaps their accomplice. Ah! well. Judge me, Mr. Biddulph, as you will. I have no defence. Only recollect that I warned you to go into hiding—to efface yourself—and you would not heed. You believed that I only spoke wildly—perhaps that I was merely an hysterical girl, making all sorts of unfounded assertions.”

“I believed, nay, I knew, Miss Pennington, that you were my friend. You admitted in Gardone that you were friendless, and I offered you the friendship of one who, I hope, is an honest man.”

“Ah! thank you!” she cried, taking my hand warmly in hers. “You have been so very generous, Mr. Biddulph, that I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is true an attempt was made upon you, but you fortunately escaped, even though they secured a thousand pounds of your money. Yet, had you taken my advice and disappeared, they would soon have given up the chase.”

“Tell me,” I urged in deep earnestness, “others have been entrapped in that dark house—have they not? That mechanical chair—that devilish invention—was not constructed for me alone.”

She did not answer, but I regarded her silence as an affirmative response.

“Your friends at least seem highly dangerous persons,” I said, smiling. “I’ve been undecided, since discovering that my grave was already prepared, whether to go to Scotland Yard and reveal the whole game.”

“No!” she cried in quick apprehension. “No, don’t do that. It could serve no end, and would only implicate certain innocent persons—myself included.”

“But how could you be implicated?”

“Was I not at the bank when the cheque was cashed?”

“Yes. Why were you there?” I asked.

But she only excused herself from replying to my question.

“Ah!” she cried wildly a moment later, clutching my arm convulsively, “you do not know my horrible position—you cannot dream what I have suffered, or how much I have sacrificed.”

I saw that she was now terribly in earnest, and, by the quick rising and falling of the lace upon her bodice, I knew that she was stirred by a great emotion. She had refused to allow me to stand her friend because she feared what the result might be. And yet, had she not rescued me from the serpent’s fang?

“Sylvia,” I cried, “Sylvia—for I feel that I must call you by your Christian name—let us forget it all. The trap set by those blackguards was most ingenious, and in innocence I fell into it. I should have lost my life—except for you. You were present in that house of death. They told me you were there—they showed me your picture, and, to add to my horror, said that you, their betrayer, were to share the same fate as myself.”

“Yes, yes, I know!” she cried, starting. “Oh, it was all too terrible—too terrible! How can I face you, Mr. Biddulph, after that!”

“My only desire is to forget it all, Sylvia,” was my low and quiet response. “It was all my fault—my fault, for not heeding your warning. I never realized the evil machinations of those unknown enemies. How should I? As far as I know, I had never set eyes upon them before.”

“You would have done wiser to have gone into hiding, as I suggested,” she remarked quietly.

“Never mind,” I said cheerily. “It is all past. Let us dismiss it. There is surely no more danger—now that I am forearmed.”

“May they not fear your reprisals?” she exclaimed. “They did not intend that you should escape, remember.”

“No, they had already prepared my grave. I have seen it.”

“That grave was prepared for both of us,” she said in a calm, reflective voice.

“Then how did you escape?” I inquired, with curiosity.

“I do not know. I can only guess.”

“May I not know?” I asked eagerly.

“When I have confirmed my belief, I will tell you,” she replied.

“Then let us dismiss the subject. It is horrible, gruesome. Look how lovely and bright the world is outside. Let us live in peace and in happiness. Let us turn aside these grim shadows which have lately fallen upon us.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a sigh, “you are indeed generous to me, Mr. Biddulph. But could you be so generous, I wonder, if you knew the actual truth? Alas! I fear you would not. Instead of remaining my friend, you would hate me—just—just as I hate myself!”

“Sylvia,” I said, placing my hand again tenderly upon her shoulder and trying to calm her, and looking earnestly into her blue, wide-open eyes, “I shall never hate you. On the contrary, let me confess, now and openly,” I whispered, “let me tell you that I—I love you!”

She started, her lips parted at the suddenness of my impetuous declaration, and stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, pale and rigid.

Then I felt a convulsive tremor run through her, and her breast heaved and fell rapidly. She placed her hand to her heart, as though to calm the rising tempest of emotion within her. Her breath came and went rapidly.

“Love me!” she echoed in a strange, hoarse tone. “Ah! no, Mr. Biddulph, no, a thousand times no! You do not know what you are saying. Recall those words—I beg of you!”

And I saw by her hard, set countenance and the strange look in her eyes that she was deadly in earnest.

“Why should I recall them?” I cried, my hand still upon her shoulder. “You are not my enemy, Sylvia, even though you may be the friend of my enemies. I love you, and I fear nothing—nothing!”

“Hush! Do not say that,” she protested very quietly.

“Why?”

“Because—well, because even though you have escaped, they——” and she hesitated, her lips set as though unable to articulate the truth.

“They what?” I demanded.

“Because, Mr. Biddulph—because, alas! I know these men only too well. You have triumphed; but yours is, I fear, but a short-lived victory. They still intend that you shall die!”

“How do you know that?” I asked quickly.

“Listen,” she said hoarsely. “I will tell you.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Yes. But cannot you see that while you live you are a menace to their dastardly plans? They dare not return to that deserted house in Bayswater.”

“Where are they now?”

“Abroad, I believe. They always take care to have an outlet for escape,” she answered. “Ah! you don’t know what a formidable combination they are. They snap their fingers at the police of Europe.”

“What? Then you really admit that there have been other victims?” I exclaimed.

“I have no actual knowledge,” she declared, “only suspicions.”

“Why are you friendly with them?” I asked. “What does your father say to such acquaintances?”

“I am friendly only under compulsion,” she answered. “Ah! Mr. Biddulph, you cannot know how I hate the very sight or knowledge of those inhuman fiends. Their treatment of you is, in itself, sufficient proof of their pitiless plans.”

“Tell me this, Sylvia,” I said, after a second’s pause. “Have you any knowledge of a man—a great friend of mine—named Jack Marlowe?”

Her face changed. It became paler, and I saw she was slightly confused.

“I—well, I believe we met once,” she said. “His father lives somewhere down in Devonshire.”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “What do you know of him?”

“Nothing. We met only once.”

“Where?”

“Well—our meeting was under rather curious circumstances. He is your friend, therefore please pardon me if I do not reply to your question,” was her vague response.

“Then what do you anticipate from those men, Reckitt and Forbes?” I asked.

“Only evil—distinct evil,” she replied. “They will return, and strike when you least expect attack.”

“But if I do not go to the police, why should they fear me? They are quite welcome to the money they have stolen—so long as they allow me peace in the future.”

“Which I fear they will not do,” replied the girl, shaking her head.

“You speak very apprehensively,” I said. “What is there really to fear? Perhaps it would be best if I went to the police at once. They would then dig over that neglected garden and reveal its secrets.”

“No!” she cried again, starting wildly from her chair as though in sudden terror. “I beg of you not to do that, Mr. Biddulph. It would serve no purpose, and only create a great sensation. But the culprits would never be brought to justice. They are far too clever, and their conspiracies are too far-reaching. No, remain patient. Take the greatest care of your own personal safety—and you may yet be able to combat your enemies with their own weapons.”

“I shall be able, Sylvia—providing that you assist me,” I said.

She held her breath, and remained silent. She evidently feared them.

I tried to obtain from her some details of the occurrences of that night of horror, but she refused to satisfy my curiosity. Apparently she feared to incriminate herself. Could it be possible that she had only learnt at the last moment that it was I who was embraced in the next room by that fatal chair!

Yet it was all so puzzling, so remarkable. Surely a girl with such a pure, open, innocent face could not be the accomplice of dastardly criminals! She was their friend. That much she had admitted to me. But her friendship with them was made under compulsion. She urged me not to go to the police. Why?

Did she fear that she herself would be implicated in a series of dark and terrible crimes?

“Where is your father?” I inquired presently.

“In Scotland,” was her prompt reply. “I heard from him at the Caledonian Hotel, at Edinburgh, last Friday. I am staying here with Mr. Shuttleworth until his return.”

Was it not strange that she should be guest of a quiet-mannered country parson, if she were actually the accomplice of a pair of criminals! I felt convinced that Shuttleworth knew the truth—that he could reveal a very remarkable story—if he only would.

“Your father is a friend of Mr. Shuttleworth—eh?” I asked.

She nodded in the affirmative. Then she stood with her gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the sunlit lawn outside.

Mystery was written upon her fair countenance. She held a dread secret which she was determined not to reveal. She knew of those awful crimes committed in that dark house in Bayswater, but her intention seemed to be to shield at all hazards her dangerous “friends.”

“Sylvia,” I said tenderly at last, again taking her hand in mine, “why cannot you be open and frank with me?” She allowed her hand to lie soft and inert in mine, sighing the while, her gaze still fixed beyond as though her thoughts were far away. “I love you,” I whispered. “Cannot you see how you puzzle me?—for you seem to be my friend at one moment, and at the next the accomplice of my enemies.”

“I have told you that you must never love me, Mr. Biddulph,” was her low reply, as she withdrew her hand slowly, but very firmly.

“Ah! no,” I cried. “Do not take offence at my words. I’m aware that I’m a hopeless blunderer in love. All I know, Sylvia, is that my only thought is of you. And I—I’ve wondered whether you, on your part, can ever entertain a spark of affection for me?”

She was silent, her white lips pressed close together, a strange expression crossing her features. Again she held her breath, as though what I had said had caused her great surprise. Then she answered—

“How can you love me? Am I not, after all, a mere stranger?”

“I know you sufficiently well,” I cried, “to be aware that for me there exists no other woman. I fear I’m a blunt man. It is my nature. Forgive me, Sylvia, for speaking the truth, but—well, as a matter of fact, I could not conceal the truth any longer.”

“And you tell me this, after—after all that has happened!” she faltered in a low, tremulous voice, as I again took her tiny hand in mine.

“Yes—because I truly and honestly love you,” I said, “because ever since we have met I have found myself thinking of you—recalling you—nay, dreaming of happiness at your side.”

She raised her splendid eyes, and looked into mine for a moment; then, sighing, shook her head sadly.

“Ah! Mr. Biddulph,” she responded in a curious, strained voice, “passion may be perilously misleading. Ask yourself if you are not injudicious in making this declaration—to a woman like myself?”

“Why?” I cried. “Why should it be injudicious? I trust you, because—because I owe my life to you—because you have already proved yourself my devoted little friend. What I beg and pray is that your friendship may, in course of time, ripen into love—that you may reciprocate my affection—that you may really love me!”

A slight hardness showed at the corners of her small mouth. Her eyes were downcast, and she swallowed the lump that arose in her throat.

She was silent, standing rigid and motionless.

Suddenly a great and distressing truth occurred to me. Did she believe that I pitied her? I hoped not. Any woman of common sensibility would almost die of shame at the thought of being loved out of pity; and, what is more, she would think none the better of the man who pitied her. The belief that “pity melts the heart to love” is an unfounded one.

So I at once endeavoured to remove the wrong impression which I feared I had conveyed.

What mad, impetuous words I uttered I can scarcely tell. I know that I raised her soft white hand to my lips and kissed it fervently, repeating my avowal and craving a word of hope from her lips.

But she again shook her head, and with sadness responded in a low, faltering tone—

“It is quite impossible, Mr. Biddulph. Leave me—let us forget all you have said. It will be better thus—far better for us both. You do not know who or what I am; you——”

“I do not know, neither do I care!” I cried passionately. “All I know, Sylvia, is that my heart is yours—that I have loved only once in my life, and it is now!”

Her slim fingers played nervously with the ribbon upon her cool summer gown, but she made no response.

“I know I have not much to recommend me,” I went on. “Perhaps I am too hulking, too English. You who have lived so much abroad are more used, no doubt, to the elegant manners and the prettily turned compliments of the foreigner than the straight speech of a fellow like myself. Yet I swear that my only thought has been of you, that I love you with all my heart—with all my soul.”

I caught her hand and again looked into her eyes, trying to read what response lay hidden in their depths.

I felt her tremble. For a moment she seemed unable to reply. The silence was unbroken save for the drowsy hum of the insects in the summer heat outside, while the sweet perfume of the flowers filled our nostrils. In the tension of those moments each second seemed an hour. You who have experienced the white heat of the love-flame can only know my eager, breathless apprehension, the honest whole-heartedness of my declaration. Perhaps, in your case, the flames are all burnt out, but even now you can tell of the white core and centre of fire within you. Years may have gone, but it still remains—the sweet memory of your well-beloved.

“Tell me, Sylvia,” I whispered once more. “Tell me, will you not break down this strange invisible barrier which you have set up between us? Forget the past, as I have already forgotten it—and be mine—my own!”

She burst into tears.

“Ah!” she cried. “If I only could—if I only dared!”

“Will you not dare to do it—for my sake?” I asked very quietly. “Will you not promise to be mine? Let me stand your friend—your champion. Let me defend you against your enemies. Let me place myself beside you and defy them.”

“Ah, no!” she gasped, “not to defy them. Defiance would only bring death—death to both of us!”

“Your love, Sylvia, would mean life and happiness, not death—to me—to both of us!” I cried. “Will you not give me your promise? Let our love be in secret, if you so desire—only let us love each other. Promise me!” I cried, my arm stealing around her narrow waist. “Promise me that you will try and love me, and I, too, will promise to be worthy of your affection.”

For a moment she remained silent, her handsome head downcast.

Then slowly, with a sweet love-look upon her beautiful countenance, she raised her face to mine, and then for the first time our lips met in a fierce and passionate caress.

Thus was our solemn compact sealed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Like so many other men of my age, I had vainly believed myself to be a philosopher. Yet are not philosophers merely soured cynics, after all? And I certainly was neither cynical nor soured. Therefore my philosophy was but a mere ridiculous affectation to which so many men and women are prone.

But in those moments of ecstasy I abandoned myself entirely to love, imprinting lingering, passionate kisses upon her lips, her closed eyes, her wide white brow, while she returned my caresses, smiling through her hot tears.

Presently, when she grew calmer, she said in a low, sweet voice—

“I—hardly know whether this is wise. I somehow fear——”

“Fear what?” I asked, interrupting her.

“I fear what the future may hold for us,” she answered. “Remember I—I am poor, while you are wealthy, and——”

“What does that matter, pray? Thank Heaven! I have sufficient for us both—sufficient to provide for you the ordinary comforts of life, Sylvia. I only now long for the day, dearest, when I may call you wife.”

“Ah!” she said, with a wistful smile, “and I, too, shall be content when I can call you husband.”

And so we sat together upon the couch, holding each other’s hand, and speaking for the first time not as friends—but as lovers.

You who love, or who have loved, know well the joyful, careless feeling of such moments; the great peace which overspreads the mind when the passion of affection burns within.

Need I say more, except to tell you that our great overwhelming love was mutual, and that our true hearts beat in unison?

Thus the afternoon slipped by until, of a sudden, we heard a girl’s voice call: “Sylvia! Sylvia!”

We sprang apart. And not a moment too soon, for next second there appeared at the French windows the tall figure of a rather pretty dark-haired girl in cream.

“I—I beg your pardon!” she stammered, on recognizing that Sylvia was not alone.

“This is Mr. Biddulph,” exclaimed my well-beloved. “Miss Elsie Durnford.”

I bowed, and then we all three went forth upon the lawn.

I found Sylvia’s fellow-guest a very quiet young girl, and understood that she lived somewhere in the Midlands. Her father, she told me, was very fond of hunting, and she rode to hounds a good deal.

We wandered about the garden awaiting Shuttleworth’s return, for both girls would not hear of me leaving before tea.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shuttleworth are certain to be back in time,” Sylvia declared, “and I’m sure they’d be horribly annoyed if you went away without seeing them.”

“Do you really wish me to stay?” I asked, with a laugh, as we halted beneath the shadow of the great spreading cedar upon the lawn.

“Of course we do,” declared Elsie, laughing. “You really must remain and keep us company, Mr. Biddulph. Sylvia, you know, is quite a stranger. She’s always travelling now-a-days. I get letters from her from the four corners of the earth. I never know where to write so as to catch her.”

“Yes,” replied my well-beloved, with a slight sigh. “When we were at school at Eastbourne I thought it would be so jolly to travel and see the world, but now-a-days, alas! I confess I’m already tired of it. I would give anything to settle down quietly in the beautiful country in England—the country which is incomparable.”

“You will—one day,” I remarked meaningly.

And as she lifted her eyes to mine she replied—

“Perhaps—who knows?”

The village rector returned at last, greeting me with some surprise, and introducing his wife, a rather stout, homely woman, who bore traces of good looks, and who wore a visiting gown of neat black, for she had been paying a call.

“I looked in to see you the other day in town, Mr. Biddulph,” he said. “But I was unfortunate. Your man told me you were out. He was not rude to me this time,” he added humorously, with a laugh.

“No,” I said, smiling. “He was profuse in his apologies. Old servants are sometimes a little trying.”

“Yes, you’re right. But he seems a good sort. I blame myself, you know. He’s not to blame in the least.”

Then we strolled together to a tent set beneath the cedar, whither the maid had already taken the tea and strawberries, and there we sat around gossiping.

Afterwards, when Shuttleworth rose, he said—

“Come across to my study and have a smoke. You’re not in a great hurry to get back to town. Perhaps you’ll play a game of tennis presently?”

I followed him through the pretty pergola of roses, back into the house, and when I had seated myself in the big old arm-chair, he gave me an excellent cigar.

“Do you know, Mr. Biddulph,” he said after we had been smoking some minutes, “I’m extremely glad to have this opportunity of a chat with you. I called at Wilton Street, because I wished to see you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, for several reasons,” was his slow, earnest reply. His face looked thinner, more serious. Somehow I had taken a great fancy to him, for though a clergyman, he struck me as a broad-minded man of the world. He was keen-eyed, thoughtful and earnest, yet at the same time full of that genuine, hearty bonhomie so seldom, alas! found in religious men. The good fellowship of a leader appeals to men more than anything else, and yet somehow it seems always more apparent in the Roman Catholic priest than in the Protestant clergyman.

“The reason I called to-day was because I thought you might wish to speak to me,” I said.

He rose and closed the French windows. Then, re-seating himself, he removed his old briar pipe from his lips, and, bending towards me in his chair, said very earnestly—

“I wonder whether I might presume to say something to you strictly in private, Mr. Biddulph? I know that I ought not to interfere in your private affairs—yet, as a minister of religion, I perhaps am a slightly privileged person in that respect. At least you will, I trust, believe in my impartiality.”

“Most certainly I do, Mr. Shuttleworth,” I replied, somewhat surprised at his manner.

“Well, you recollect our conversation on the last occasion you were here?” he said. “You remember what I told you?”

“I remember that we spoke of Miss Sylvia,” I exclaimed, “and that you refused to satisfy my curiosity.”

“I refused, because I am not permitted,” was his calm rejoinder.

“Since I saw you,” I said, “a dastardly attempt has been made upon my life. I was enticed to an untenanted house in Bayswater, and after a cheque for a thousand pounds had been obtained from me by a trick, I narrowly escaped death by a devilish device. My grave, I afterwards found, was already prepared.”

“Is this a fact!” he gasped.

“It is. I was rescued—by Sylvia herself.”

He was silent, drawing hard at his pipe, deep in thought.

“The names of the two men who made the dastardly attempt upon me were Reckitt and Forbes—friends of Sylvia Pennington,” I went on.

He nodded. Then, removing his pipe, exclaimed—

“Yes. I understand. But did I not warn you?”

“You did. But, to be frank, Mr. Shuttleworth, I really did not follow you then. Neither do I now.”

“Have I not told you, my dear sir, that I possess certain knowledge under vow of absolute secrecy—knowledge which it is not permitted to me, as a servant of God, to divulge.”

“But surely if you knew that assassination was contemplated, it was your duty to warn me.”

“I did—but you took no heed,” he declared. “Sylvia warned you also, when you met in Gardone, and yet you refused to take her advice and go into hiding!”

“But why should an innocent, law-abiding, inoffensive man be compelled to hide himself like a fugitive from justice?” I protested.

“Who can fathom human enmity, or the ingenious cunning of the evil-doer?” asked the grey-faced rector quite calmly. “Have you never stopped to wonder at the marvellous subtlety of human wickedness?”

“Those men are veritable fiends,” I cried. “Yet why have I aroused their animosity? If you know so much concerning them, Mr. Shuttleworth, don’t you think that it is your duty to protect your fellow-creatures?—to make it your business to inform the police?” I added.

“Probably it is,” he said reflectively. “But there are times when even the performance of one’s duty may be injudicious.”

“Surely it is not injudicious to expose the methods of such blackguards!” I cried.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I am compelled to differ with that opinion. Were you in possession of the same knowledge as myself, you too, would, I feel sure, deem it injudicious.”

“But what is this secret knowledge?” I demanded. “I have narrowly escaped being foully done to death. I have been robbed, and I feel that it is but right that I should now know the truth.”

“Not from me, Mr. Biddulph,” he answered. “Have I not already told you the reason why no word of the actual facts may pass my lips?”

“I cannot see why you should persist in thus mystifying me as to the sinister motive of that pair of assassins. If they wished to rob me, they could have done so without seeking to take my life by those horrible means.”

“What means did they employ?” he asked.

Briefly and vividly I explained their methods, as he sat silent, listening to me to the end. He evinced neither horror nor surprise. Perhaps he knew their mode of procedure only too well.

“I warned you,” was all he vouchsafed. “Sylvia warned you also.”

“It is over—of the past, Mr. Shuttleworth,” I said, rising from my chair. “I feel confident that Sylvia, though she possessed knowledge of what was intended, had no hand whatever in it. Indeed, so confident am I of her loyalty to me, that to-day—yes, let me confess it to you—for I know you are my friend as well as hers, to-day, here—only an hour ago, I asked Sylvia to become my wife.”

“Your wife!” he gasped, starting to his feet, his countenance pale and drawn.

“Yes, my wife.”

“And what was her answer?” he asked dryly, in a changed tone.

“She has consented.”

“Mr. Biddulph,” he said very gravely, looking straight into my face, “this must never be! Have I not already told you the ghastly truth?—that there is a secret—an unmentionable secret——”

“A secret concerning her!” I cried. “What is it? Come, Mr. Shuttleworth, you shall tell me, I demand to know!”

“I can only repeat that between you and Sylvia Pennington there still lies the open gulf—and that gulf is, indeed, the grave. In your ignorance of the strange but actual facts you do not realize your own dread peril, or you would never ask her to become your wife. Abandon all thought of her, I beg of you,” he urged earnestly. “Take this advice of mine, for one day you will assuredly thank me for my counsel.”

“I love her with all the strength of my being, and for me that is sufficient,” I declared.

“Ah!” he cried in despair as he paced the room. “To think of the irony of it all! That you should actually woo her—of all women!” Then, halting before me, his eye grew suddenly aflame, he clenched his hands and cried: “But you shall not! Understand me, you shall hate her; you shall curse her very name. You shall never love her—never—I, Edmund Shuttleworth, forbid it! It must not be!”

At that instant the frou-frou of a woman’s skirts fell upon my ears, and, turning quickly, I saw Sylvia herself standing at the open French windows.

Entering unobserved she had heard those wild words of the rector’s, and stood pale, breathless, rigid as a statue.

“There!” he cried, pointing at her with his thin, bony finger. “There she is! Ask her yourself, now—before me—the reason why she can never be your wife—the reason that her love is forbidden! If she really loves you, as she pretends, she will tell you the truth with her own lips!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“No, no!” she protested quickly, covering her face with her hands as though in shame. “Not that—never that! Do not let us speak of it!”

“Then you have no right to accept this man’s love,” he said reproachfully, “no right to allow him to approach nearer the brink of the grave than he has done. You know full well that, for him, your love must prove fatal!”

She hung her head as though not daring to look again into my eyes. The strange clergyman’s stern rebuke had utterly confused and confounded her. Yet I knew she loved me dearly. That sweet, intense love-look of hers an hour ago could never be feigned. It spoke far more truly than mere words.

Perhaps she was annoyed that I had told Shuttleworth the truth. Yes, I had acted very foolishly. My tongue had loosened involuntarily. My wild joy had led me into an injudicious confession—one that I had never dreamed would be fraught with sorrow.

“Mr. Shuttleworth,” I said at last, “please do not distress yourself on my account. I love Sylvia, and she has promised to be mine. If disaster occurs, then I am fully prepared to meet it. You seem in close touch with this remarkable association of thieves and assassins, or you would hardly be so readily aware of their evil intentions.”

“Ah!” he responded, with a slight sigh, “you are only speaking in ignorance. If you were aware of the true facts, you would, on the contrary, thank me for revealing the peril in which love for this young lady will assuredly place you.”

“But have I not already told you that I am fearless? I am prepared to meet this mysterious peril, whatever it is, for her sake!” I protested.

A curious, cynical smile overspread his grey, ascetic face.

“You speak without knowledge, my dear sir,” he remarked. “Could I but reveal the truth, you would quickly withdraw that assertion. You would, indeed, flee from this girl as you would from the plague!”

“Well,” I said, “your words are at least very remarkable, sir. One would really imagine Miss Pennington to be a hell-fiend—from your denunciation.”

“You mistake me. I make no denunciation. On the other hand, I am trying to impress upon you the utter futility of your love.”

“Why should you do that? What is your motive?” I asked quickly, trying to discern what could be at the back of this man’s mind. How strange it was! Hitherto I had rather liked the tall, quiet, kind-mannered country rector. Yet he had suddenly set himself out in open antagonism to my plans—to my love!

“My motive,” he declared, “is to protect the best interests of you both. I have no ends to serve, save those of humanity, Mr. Biddulph.”

“You urged Miss Pennington to make confession to me. You implied that her avowal of affection was false,” I said, with quick indignation.

“I asked her to confess—to tell you the truth, because I am unable so to do,” was his slow reply. “Ah! Mr. Biddulph,” he sighed, “if only the real facts could be exposed to you—if only you could be told the ghastly, naked truth.”

“Why do you say all this, Mr. Shuttleworth?” protested Sylvia in a low, pained voice. “Why should Mr. Biddulph be mystified further? If you are determined that I should sacrifice myself—well, I am ready. You have been my friend—yet now you seem to have suddenly turned against me, and treat me as an enemy.”

“Only as far as this unfortunate affair is concerned, my child,” he said. “Remember my position—recall all the past, and put to yourself the question whether I have not a perfect right to forbid you to sacrifice the life of a good, honest man like the one before you,” he said, his clerical drawl becoming more accentuated as he spoke.

“Rubbish, my dear sir,” I laughed derisively. “Put aside all this cant and hypocrisy. It ill becomes you. Speak out, like a man of the world that you are. What specific charge do you bring against this lady? Come, tell me.”

“None,” he replied. “Evil is done through her—not by her.”

And she stood silent, unable to protest.

“But can’t you be more explicit?” I cried, my anger rising. “If you make charges, I demand that you shall substantiate them. Recollect all that I have at stake in this matter.”

“I know—your life,” he responded. “Well, I have already told you what to expect.”

“Sylvia,” I said, turning to the pale girl standing trembling at my side, “will you not speak? Will you not tell me what all this means? By what right does this man speak thus? Has he any right?”

She was silent for a few moments. Then slowly she nodded her head in an affirmative.

“What right has he to forbid our affection?” I demanded. “I love you, and I tell you that no man shall come between us!”

“He alone has a right, Owen,” she said, addressing me for the first time by my Christian name.

“What right?”

But she would not answer. She merely stood with head downcast, and said—

“Ask him.”

This I did, but the thin-faced man refused to reply. All he would say was—

“I have forbidden this fatal folly, Mr. Biddulph. Please do not let us discuss it further.”

I confess I was both angry and bewildered. The mystery was hourly increasing. Sylvia had admitted that Shuttleworth had a right to interfere. Yet I could not discern by what right a mere friend could forbid a girl to entertain affection. I felt that the ever-increasing problem was even stranger and more remarkable than I had anticipated, and that when I fathomed it, it would be found to be utterly astounding!

Sylvia was unwavering in her attachment to myself. Her antagonism towards Shuttleworth’s pronouncement was keen and bitter, yet, with her woman’s superior judgment, she affected carelessness.

“You asked this lady to confess,” I said, addressing him. “Confess what?”

“The truth.”

Then I turned to my well-beloved and asked—

“What is the truth? Do you love me?”

“Yes, Owen, I do,” was her frank and fervent response.

“I did not mean that,” said Shuttleworth hastily. “I meant the truth concerning yourself.”

“Mr. Biddulph knows what I am.”

“But he does not know who you are.”

“Then you may tell him,” was her hoarse reply. “Tell him!” she cried wildly. “Tear from me all that I hold sacred—all that I hold most dear—dash me back into degradation and despair—if you will! I am in your hands.”

“Sylvia!” he said reproachfully. “I am your friend—and your father’s friend. I am not your enemy. I regret if you have ever thought I have lifted a finger against you.”

“Are you not standing as a barrier between myself and Mr. Biddulph?” she protested, her eyes flashing.

“Because I see that only misfortune—ah! death—can arise. You know full well the promise I have made. You know, too, what has been told me in confidence, because—because my profession happens to be what it is—a humble servant of God.”

“Yes,” she faltered, “I know—I know! Forgive me if I have spoken harshly, Mr. Shuttleworth. I know you are my friend—and you are Owen’s. Only—only it seems very hard that you should thus put this ban upon us—you, who preach the gospel of truth and love.”

Shuttleworth drew a deep breath. His thin lips were pursed; his grey eyebrows contracted slightly, and I saw in his countenance a distinctly pained expression.

“I have spoken with all good intention, Sylvia,” he said. “Your love for Mr. Biddulph must only bring evil upon both of you. Surely you realize that?”

“Sylvia has already realized it,” I declared. “But we have resolved to risk it.”

“The risk is, alas! too great,” he declared. “Already you are a marked man. Your only chance of escape is to take Sylvia’s advice and to go into hiding. Go away—into the country—and live in some quiet, remote village under another name. It is your best mode of evading disaster. To remain and become the lover of Sylvia Pennington is, I tell you, the height of folly—it is suicide!”