And so it was in Lady Meltoun's drawing-room that they met again, after those few minutes in the pine plantation which had given color and passion to her life, and which had formed an epoch in his. Neither were unmindful of the fact that if they were not exactly the centre of observation, they were still liable to it in some degree, and their greeting was as conventional as it well could have been. After all, she thought, why should it be otherwise? There had never a word of love passed between them—only those few fateful moments of tragic intensity, when all words and thoughts had been merged in a deep reciprocal consciousness which nothing could have expressed.
He stood before her, holding her hand in his for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, and looking at her intently. It was a gaze from which she did not shrink, more critical than passionate, and when he withdrew his eyes he looked away from her with a sigh.
"You have been living!" he said. "Tell me all about it!"
She moved her skirts to make room for him by her side.
"Sit down!" she said, "and I will try."
He obeyed, but when she tried to commence and tell him all that she had felt and thought, she could not. Until that moment she scarcely realized how completely her life had been moulded by his influence. It was he who had first given her a glimpse of that new world of thought and art, and almost epicurean culture into which she had made some slight advance during his absence, and it was certain vague but sweet recollections of him which had lived with her and flowed through her life—a deep undercurrent of passion and poetry, throwing a golden halo over all those new sensations—which had raised her existence, and her ideals of existence on to a higher level. How could she tell him this? The time might come when she could do so, and if ever it did come, she knew that it would be the happiest moment of her life. But it was not yet.
"Tell me a little of yourself," she said evasively. "You have been traveling, have you not?"
"Yes, I have been traveling a little!" he answered. "In Spain I was taken ill, and Lady Meltoun was kind to me. That is why I am here."
"But you do not say how it was that you were taken ill," she said, her cheeks suddenly glowing. "You saved her son's life. We saw all about it in the papers, but of course we did not know that it was you. It was splendid!"
"If you saw it in the papers at all, depend upon it, it was very much exaggerated!" he answered quietly. "Your father received my letter, I suppose?"
"Yes; the cottage has been shut up, just as you desired. Are you ever coming to take possession again?"
"I hope so—some day—and yet I do not know. There are strange things in my life, Miss Thurwell, which every now and then rise up and drive me away into aimless wanderings. Life has no goal for me—it cannot have. I stand for ever on the brink of a precipice."
There was a sadness in his voice which almost brought the tears into her eyes—mostly for his sake, partly for her own. For, though he might never know it, were not his sorrows her sorrows?
"Are they sorrows which you can tell to no one?" she asked softly. "Can no one help you?"
He shook his head.
"No one."
"And yet no sorrow can last for ever that has not guilt at its root," she said.
"Mine will last while life lasts," he answered; "and there is—no guilt at the root."
"You have taken up another's burden," she said. "Is it well? Do you owe nothing to yourself, and your own genius? Sorrow may shorten your life, and the world can ill spare your work."
"There are others who can do my work," he said. "No other can——But forgive me. I wish to talk of this no more. Tell me of your life since I left you. Something in your face tells me that it has been well spent. Let me hear of it."
And, gathering up all her courage, she told him. Piece by piece she took up the disconnected thoughts and ideas which had come to her, and wove them together after the pattern of her life—to which he listened with a calm approval, in which was sometimes mingled a deeper enthusiasm, as she touched a chord which in his own being had often been struck to deep tremulous music. And as she went on he grew sad. With such a companion as this woman, whose sensibilities were his sensibilities, and whose instincts so naturally cultured, so capable of the deeper coloring and emotional passion which his influence could speedily develop—with such a woman as this—whom already he loved, what might not life mean for him? Well, it must pass. Another of those bright butterfly visions of his fancy, gorgeous with hope and brilliancy—another one to be crushed by the iron hand of necessity. He had gone away wounded, and he had come back to find the wound still bleeding.
Gradually the rooms were thinning, and at last Lady Thurwell, impatient of her niece's long absence, came to fetch her. When she found her tête-à-tête with the lion of the day, however, her manner was most gracious.
"I hope you have been able to persuade Mr. Maddison to come and see us," she said to her niece. "We are at home on Thursdays at Cadogan Square, and we lunch every day at two," she added, turning towards him. "Come whenever you like."
"You are very good, Lady Thurwell," he said, accepting her offered hand. "I am only passing through London, but if I have the opportunity I shall avail myself of your kindness."
She left them together for a moment while she made her adieux to her hostess. In that moment Helen found courage to yield to a sudden impulse.
"Please come," she said softly.
He had no time to answer, for Lady Meltoun had come up to them.
"Miss Thurwell," she said good-naturedly, "I don't know when I shall forgive you for monopolizing Mr. Maddison in this shameful manner. Why, there were quite a crowd of people came this afternoon only to catch a glimpse of him, and there was nothing to be seen but his boots behind that screen. I am in terrible disgrace, I can assure you!"
"The fault was mine," he interposed, "altogether mine. In an ungovernable fit of shyness, I took refuge with the only person except yourself, Lady Meltoun, whom I was fortunate enough to know. I simply refused to come away."
"Well, I suppose I must forgive you, or you won't come again," Lady Meltoun said. "But now you are here, you must really stop and see Edgar. When every one has gone we will go up to the nursery, and in the meantime you may make yourself useful by taking Lady Thurwell out to her carriage. I'm afraid there's rather a crush."
So they all three went out together, and while they stood waiting for Lady Thurwell's victoria, he managed to say a word to her alone.
"I will come and see you," he whispered.
She looked up at him a little shyly, for in handing her into the carriage he had assumed a certain air of proprietorship which had brought a faint color into her cheeks.
"Come soon," she whispered. "Good-bye!"
She nodded brightly, and Lady Thurwell smiled as the horses started forward, and the carriage drove away.
"I wonder who Mr. Maddison really is?" she said, half to herself, just as they reached home.
Lady Thurwell shrugged her shoulders.
"Do you mean who his family are?" she asked. "My dear, it isn't of the slightest consequence. Bernard Maddison is Bernard Maddison, and his position would be just what it is, even though his father were a coal heaver."
Which remark showed that Lady Thurwell, as well as being a woman of society, was also a woman of sense. But Helen was not thinking of his family.
It was ten o'clock in the morning, and the usual routine of business had commenced in the office of Messrs. Levy & Son. Mr. Levy, senior, was sitting at his desk opening his letters, and Mr. Benjamin, who had only just returned from a long journey on business of the firm, and did not feel inclined for office work, was leaning back in the client's chair, with his feet up against the mantelpiece, and a partly smoked cigar in his mouth. He had just finished a long account of his adventures, and was by no means inclined to quit the subject.
"Altogether, dad," he was saying, "it's about the prettiest piece of business we ever struck. But one thing is very certain. We must get some more tin from Miss Thurwell. Why, I've been at it five months now, and the expenses at some of those foreign hotels were positively awful. Not knowing the confounded lingo, you see, I was forced to stump up, without trying the knocking-off game."
"Yes, Benjamin. Yes, my son. We must certainly have some more of the rhino. Your expenses have been positively e-normous, e-normous," declared the old man, with uplifted hands and eyes. "Some of your drafts have brought tears into my eyes. Positively tears," he echoed mournfully.
"Couldn't be helped, guv'nor. The thing had to be done."
"And you have got it nearly all in order now, Benjamin, eh? You've got him under your thumb, eh? He can't escape?"
"Not he! Mark my words, dad. The rope's already woven that'll go round his neck."
The old man looked doubtful.
"If he's such a learned, clever man as you say—writes books and such like—they'll never hang him, my son. They'll reprieve him. That's what they'll do."
"I don't care a blooming fig which it is, so long as it comes off. Do you remember what I told you when Miss Thurwell first came here, dad?"
"Perfectly, my son, perfectly. You said that our fortune was made. Those were your very words," he added, with glistening eyes. "Our fortune is made."
"And what I said I'll stick to," Mr. Benjamin declared. "When this case comes off, it'll be the biggest thundering sensation of the day. And who'll get the credit of it all? Who tracked him down for all his false name and sly ways; hunted him all over Europe, found out who he really was, and why he hated Sir Geoffrey Kynaston so much that he murdered him? Why, I did, dad—Benjamin Levy, of Levy & Son, Carle Street, Strand. Ain't it glorious, guv'nor? Ain't it proud?"
Mr. Benjamin's enthusiasm was catching. It was reflected in his father's face, and something glistened in his eyes. He removed his spectacles, and carefully wiped them. After all, he was a father, and he had a father's feelings.
"When will the time come, Benjamin?" he inquired.
"A month to-day, I hope," was the prompt reply. "I have one more journey to take, and it will be all square."
"Where to? How far?" inquired the old gentleman uneasily.
Mr. Benjamin looked at him, and shook his head. "Come, dad, I know what you are thinking of," he said. "It's the expense, ain't it?"
"It is, Benjamin," his father groaned. "I hate parting with hard-earned money for exorbitant bills and these long journeys. Couldn't it be done without it, Ben?" he inquired, in a wheedling tone. "There's piles of money gone already in expenses. Piles and piles."
"And if there is, ain't it Miss Thurwell's, you old stupid?" remarked Mr. Benjamin. "'Tain't likely that we should find the money ourselves."
"Of course, of course. But, Benjamin, my son, the money is thrown away for all that. We could charge it, you know—charge it always. We must have a margin—we must positively have a margin to work with."
"Dad, dad, what an old sinner you are!" exclaimed his hopeful son, leaning back in his chair and laughing. "A margin to work with. Ha! ha! ha!"
Mr. Levy looked uncertain whether to regard his son's merriment as a compliment, or to resent it. Eventually, the former appeared to him the wisest course, and he smiled feebly.
"Dad, just you leave this matter with me," Mr. Benjamin said at last. "I know what I'm doing, and unless I'm very much mistaken, I see my way to make this a bigger thing, even as regards the cash, than you and I ever dreamed of. Leave it to me. Hullo! who's that?"
He peered up over the office blind, and sat down again at once. In a moment his cigar was behind the grate, and his expression completely changed.
"Ah! Miss Thurwell, dad," he said coolly, "and I'll bet ten to one I know what she wants. Mind you leave it all to me. I've no time to explain, but you'll spoil it if you interfere. Come in. Why, Miss Thurwell, we were this moment talking of you," he continued, springing to his feet and offering her a chair. "Please come in."
Helen advanced into the room, and lifted her veil. One swift glance into her flushed face confirmed Mr. Benjamin's idea as to the reason of her visit, and he commenced talking rapidly.
"I'm glad you've come this morning, Miss Thurwell. I only got back from Spain yesterday, and I'm thankful to tell you our case is nearly complete. Thankful for your sake, because you will have the satisfaction of seeing the murderer of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston brought to book, and thankful for ours, because we shall at one stroke establish our reputation. I need not tell you that that is far more to us than the reward will be, for our expenses have been enormous."
"Enormous!" groaned Mr. Levy, senior.
"However, we have decided not to take another penny of money from you, Miss Thurwell," he continued, casting a warning glance at his father. "After all, the money is not so much to us as our reputation, and this will be made for ever, now."
Mr. Benjamin paused, a little out of breath, but quite satisfied with himself. Opposite, his father was purple with anger, and almost choking at his son's folly. Take no more money from Miss Thurwell! Was the boy mad?
"I'm afraid, from what you say, Mr. Levy," Helen said hesitatingly, "that you will be rather disappointed when I tell you the reason of my visit."
Mr. Benjamin, who knew perfectly well what she was going to say, assumed an expression of deep concern.
"I find," she continued, "that we must have been making a mistake all along, and you have evidently been misled. This Mr. Brown, who appeared such a mysterious personage to us, and whom we therefore suspected, is no other than Bernard Maddison."
"Yes. I knew that," Mr. Benjamin remarked quietly. "I found that out very soon, of course. Author, and all that sort of thing, isn't he? Well, go on, Miss Thurwell, please. I am anxious."
She looked surprised.
"Don't you see that this does away with our theory at once? It is quite impossible that a man like Bernard Maddison could have committed a horrible crime like this."
Mr. Benjamin looked ingenuously perplexed.
"I can't say that I follow you, Miss Thurwell," he said, shaking his head. "All I know is that I can prove this Mr. Bernard Brown, or Bernard Maddison, or whatever else he chooses to call himself, guilty of that murder. That's what we want, isn't it?"
A cold chill passed over her, and she was compelled to sink into the chair which stood by her side. Like a flash she suddenly realized the impossibility of convincing such men as these of his innocence. Yet, even then, the worst side of the situation did not occur to her.
"Perhaps we had better put it in this way, Mr. Levy," she said. "I gave you certain instructions to follow out, which I now rescind. I wish nothing further done in the matter."
Mr. Benjamin's face was a study. He had contrived to conjure up an expression which combined the blankest surprise with the keenest disappointment. Helen began to feel still more uncomfortable.
"Under the circumstances," she said, "and as you seem rather disappointed, I will pay you the reward just as though the thing had gone on."
Mr. Benjamin shook his head slowly.
"Do you know, Miss Thurwell, that you are proposing a conspiracy to me?"
"A conspiracy!" she repeated. "I don't understand."
"It's very simple," he went on gravely. "I have in my possession, or shortly shall have, every particular of this Mr. Maddison's life. I can show the connection between him and Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, and, in short, I can prove him guilty of murder. What you ask me to do is to suppress this. That is the moral side of the question. Then, with regard to the practical side, if this thing is gone on with, we shall get the reward you promised and, what is far more important to us, a reputation which we have looked forward to as a certain foundation for a great extension of our business. If, on the other hand, we drop it, we get simply the reward, which, pardon my saying so, would be a miserable return for all our labor. That is how the matter stands from our point of view. I think I've expressed it fairly, father?"
Mr. Levy, who had assumed a far more contented expression, solemnly assented. What a son this was of his, he thought. Bless him!
Helen was very pale, and her heart was beating fast. Why had she come to this place, and put herself in the power of these men? It was too dreadful.
"I do not desire to hear a word of Mr. Maddison's history," she said. "This thing must be stopped. I have my cheque book with me. Cannot you take money to withdraw from it?"
Mr. Benjamin looked at his father gravely, and Mr. Levy shook his head.
"My dear young lady," he said, "this is a very serious thing, a very serious thing."
"The fact is," said Mr. Benjamin, "I was going to Scotland Yard for a warrant this morning."
Helen looked from one to the other appealingly, with tears in her eyes. Mr. Benjamin appeared to be somewhat moved thereby.
"Look here, dad," he said, "suppose we go into the other room and talk this thing over for a few minutes. Miss Thurwell will not mind excusing us."
"Oh, no. Only don't be long!" she pleaded.
They left her for barely five minutes, although to her, waiting in an agony of impatience, it seemed much longer. When they returned, they both looked very solemn.
"We have talked this matter over thoroughly, Miss Thurwell," said Mr. Benjamin, taking up his old position at the desk, "and we cannot help seeing that it is a great risk for us to run to suppress our information, and a great disappointment."
"Quite so, quite so," interrupted Mr. Levy. "A great risk, and a great disappointment!"
"Still, we are willing and anxious to help you," Mr. Benjamin continued, "and, if you like, we will do so on these terms. If you like to give us a cheque for a thousand pounds, we will agree to let the matter stand over for the present. We cannot give you any undertaking to absolutely destroy or suppress any evidence we may have against Mr. Maddison, as that would be a distinct conspiracy, but we will agree to suspend our present action, and to do nothing without communicating with you."
She moved to the desk, and drew out her cheque book.
"I will do it," she said. "Give me a pen, please."
There was not the slightest sign of emotion on either of their faces. They received the cheque, bowed her out, and watched her disappear into the street without making any sign. Then Mr. Benjamin's exultation broke out.
"Dad, I told you that our fortune was made, didn't I. Was I right or wrong?"
Mr. Levy was so overcome with parental affection, that he could scarcely command his voice. But he did so with an effort.
"You were right, my son," he exclaimed. "You were right, Benjamin. We will go together and cash the cheque."
A March wind was roaring over the open moorland, driving huge masses of black clouds across the angry sky, and whistling amongst the dark patches of pine trees, until it seemed as though their slender stems must snap before the strain. All around Falcon's Nest the country, not yet released from the iron grip of a late winter, lay wasted and desolate; and the heath, which had lost all the glowing touch of autumn, faded into the horizon bare and colorless. Nowhere was there any relief of outline, save where the white front of Thurwell Court stretched plainly visible through a park of leafless trees.
And of all the hours of the day it was at such a season the most depressing. Faint gleams of the lingering day still hung over the country, struggling with the stormy twilight, and a pale, wan glare, varied with long black shadows, moved swiftly across the sea and the moor—the reflection of the flying clouds overhead.
A single human being, the figure of a tall man clad in an ulster buttoned up to the throat, was making his way across the open country. He walked rapidly—and, indeed, there was nothing to tempt any one to linger—and his destination was obvious. He was on his way to Falcon's Nest.
A drearier abode than it appeared that afternoon never raised its four walls to the sky. The grounds which surrounded it had been swept bare by the storms of winter, and nothing had been done to repair the destruction which they had accomplished. Uprooted shrubs lay dead and dying upon the long dank grass, and the creepers torn from the walls hung down in pitiful confusion. Every window reflected back the same blank uninviting gloom. There was no light, no single sign of habitation. Mr. Thurwell had evidently respected his tenant's wish to the letter. The place had not been touched or entered during his absence.
The pedestrian, Mr. Bernard Brown himself, leaned over the gate for a moment, silently contemplating the uninviting scene with a grim smile. He had reasons of his own for being satisfied that the place had not been interfered with, and it certainly seemed as though such were the case.
After a few minutes' hesitation he drew a key from his pocket and fitted it in the lock. There was a resistance when he tried to turn it that he did not understand. Stooping down, he suddenly tried the handle. It opened smoothly. The gate was unlocked. He withdrew the key with trembling fingers. All his relief at the dismantled appearance of the cottage had disappeared. A strange unquiet look shone in his eyes, and his manner suddenly became nervous and hurried. He had locked the gate on his departure, he was sure, and Mr. Thurwell's steward had told him that there was no duplicate set of keys. How could it have been opened save with a skeleton key.
He walked quickly up the path to the front door. Here a greater shock still awaited him. The latch-key which he held ready in his hand was not needed. He tried the handle, and the door opened.
Mr. Brown grew white to the lips, and he shrank back as though afraid or reluctant to enter the house. The door stood ajar. He pushed it open with his stick, and peered in upon the darkness. Everything was silent as the grave. He listened for a moment, and then, his natural courage returning, he stepped inside, and closed the door after him. The shutting out of the few gleams of daylight which lingered in the sky left him in utter darkness. Fumbling in his pocket, he produced a wax candle wrapped in a piece of newspaper, and a box of matches, one of which he carefully struck.
At first the gloom seemed too profound to be dispersed by the feeble flickering light, but gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to it, he began to distinguish the more familiar objects. Half fearfully he glanced towards the door on the right-hand side. It stood half open. There was no longer room for any doubt. The house had been opened during his absence.
The full realization of any disaster often brings with it a calm which, to all outward appearance, contrasts favorably with the prior state of anxiety. This appeared to be the case with Mr. Bernard Brown. His entrance to the house had been hesitating and anxious, but as soon as he was convinced that what he dreamed had really come to pass, his nervousness seemed to fall away from him, and he was his old self again, calm and resolute. Holding the flickering candle high above his head, he moved steadily forward into the room on the right-hand side of the entrance.
Everything here was exactly as he had left it. The cases filled with books, some half emptied, some untouched, still lay about the floor, with the dust thick upon them. He cast one swift glance around, and then walked across and opened the door of the small inner room. The sudden draught extinguished his candle, and he found himself suddenly in total darkness. The closely barred shutters, which protected the low window, were securely fastened, and effectually shut out the lingering remnants of daylight. Stooping down, he re-lit the candle which he was still carrying, and holding it high over his head, looked anxiously around. One glance was sufficient. In the corner of the room opposite to him was a small table, where he always kept a basin of cold water and some clean towels. Round here the carpet had been torn up, and rearranged, with little pretence at concealment. Nearer the window stood a large oak cabinet, the most important piece of furniture in the room, and this he saw again in a moment had been tampered with. It had been moved a little out of its position, and one of the lower drawers stood partly open.
Like a man in a dream he slowly walked across to it and drew out a bunch of keys from his pocket. The final test had yet to be applied, and the final blow to fall.
He unlocked the topmost partition, and revealed a number of small drawers. Eagerly he drew out the topmost one, and looked inside. Then he knew the worst. It was empty. There was no longer any doubt whatever. His cottage had been entered by no ordinary housebreaker, for the purpose of plunder, but with a set of false keys, and with a far more serious object. The secret on which more than his life depended was gone!
For a certain space of time, which seemed to him indefinite, but which was indeed of no great length, he stood there stunned, gazing at the rifled cabinet. Then, as consciousness returned to him, the roar of the storm without fell upon his ears, and struck some strange note of accord with the tumult in his brain. Turning round, he unbarred the shutters, and, opening the window, stepped outside. With slow, uncertain steps he made his way through the dense black plantation of shrieking fir trees, and out on to the cliffs. Here he paused, and stood quite still, looking across the sea. There was no light in the sky, but the veil of absolute darkness had not yet fallen upon the earth. Far away on the horizon was a lurid patch of deep yellow storm-clouds, casting a faint glimmer upon the foaming sea, which seemed to leap up in a weird monotonous joy to catch the unearthly light. From inland, rolling across the moorland, came phantom-like masses of vaporous cloud, driven on by the fierce wind which boomed across the open country, and shrieked and yelled amongst the pine plantations as though mad with a sudden hellish joy. On the verge of the cliff he stretched out his arms, as though to welcome the wild din of the night. The thunder of the ocean, seething and leaping against the rocks below, shook the air around him. The salt spray leaped up into his white face, and the winds blew against him, and the passionate cry of saddened nature rang in his deafened ears. At that moment those things were a joy to him.
And there came to him then something of that strange sweet calm which lays its soothing hand for a moment upon those who stand face to face with death, or any other mighty crisis. Looking steadfastly far away, beyond the foaming waste of waters to where one faint streak of stormlight shone on the horizon, pictures of the past began to rise up before his eyes. He saw himself again a happy, light-hearted child, riding gaily upon his father's shoulder, and laughing up into the beautiful face of his youthful mother. The memories of that time, and of his first home, came back to him with a peculiar freshness and fragrance, like a painting by one of the old masters, perfect in design, and with its deep rich coloring softened and mellowed by age. He remembered the bright beauty of those sunny southern gardens, where he had passed long hours listening to the gentle splashing of the water in the worn grey fountain bowl, and breathing in the soft spring-like air, faint with the sweetness of Roman violets. And, half unconsciously, his thoughts travelled on to the time when all the pure beauty of his surroundings—for his had been an artist's home—had begun to have a distinct meaning for him, and in the fervor of an esthetic and unusually thoughtful youth, he had dreamed, and felt, and tasted deep of pleasures which the world yields only to those who stoop to listen to her secrets, with the quickened sensibilities and glowing imagination of the artist—one of her own children. He had read her in such a way that he found himself struggling, even in early boyhood, for some means of expression—but at that time none had come to him. The fruits of his later life had been the result of his early experience, but how embittered, how saddened by the unchanging gloom, which, at one period, had seemed as though it must dry up for ever all enthusiasm from his boyish heart. What a fire of passions had blazed up and died away within him; and as he thought of that sudden dying away, he thought of the moment when they had been quenched for ever, and of the voice which had quenched them. Again he crouched on his knees by the side of the sofa drawn up close to the high open windows of the Italian villa, and felt that thin white hand laid gently upon his trembling lips, checking in a moment the flood of angry words which in his heart had been but the prelude to a curse. The calm of that death-white face, with its marble passionless pallor and saint-like beauty, lingered still, faithfully treasured up in the rich store-house of his memory. Death alone would wipe it out. It was one of the experiences of his life, written alike into his undying recollection, and into his heart.
And then had come that period of severe struggle with himself, out of which he had emerged not only a conqueror, but with all the spoils of conquest. For he had found himself, after the battle was fought out and won, possessed of a more triumphant self-control, and a complete mastery over those fierce earthly passions which, had they held sway for long, would in time most surely have weakened that higher and purer part of his nature from which all the good of his life had come. It was, indeed, in some measure owing to the wholesome discipline of this struggle that he had found at last the long-sought-for gift of expression, and, taking up the pen, had sent forth golden words and thoughts into an age where such metal was rare indeed. Always there had been this dark cloud of anxiety looming over him, and leading him into many countries and constantly denying him the peace for which he longed. Then had come the climax of it all, the tragedy which had thrown over him the lowering cloud of a hideous danger. Failure was his. The moment of trial had come, and he had been unequal to it; and day and night there rang ever in his ears the faint far-off whisper of those tremulous lips, and the pleading light in those burning eyes seemed ever before him. Again he felt the touch of that icy cold hand, and again he remembered the words of the oath which, alas! he had not kept. Oh, it was horrible!
Once more his thoughts moved on a stage, and this time they reached their climax. Before his fixed eyes there floated the image of a sweet, wistful face glowing with healthy physical life, and yet with all that delicate refinement of coloring and feature which had made her face linger in his artist's memory for years before she had dwelt in his man's heart. It was a torture of hell, this, that the fairest and sweetest part of a man's life—his love—should come to him at such a time. And then for one brief moment all memory of his misery passed away from him, and his whole being became absorbed in a luxury of recollection. He thought of the change which his love had wrought in him. What had life been before? A long series of artistic and philosophical abstractions, bringing their own peculiar content, but a content never free from disquieting thought and restless doubts. How could it be otherwise? Was he not human like other men? Asceticism and intellect, and a certain purity of life which an almost epicurean refinement had rendered beautiful to him, these, easily keeping in sway his passionate temperament through all the long years of his life, now only served to fan the flame of that great pure love which had suddenly leaped up within him, a blazing, unquenchable fire. Human emotion once aroused, had thrilled through all his being with a sweet, heart-stirring music, and his whole nature was shaking from its very foundation. To him such a love seemed like the rounding of his life, the panacea for all that vague disquiet which, even in the moments of most perfect intellectual serenity, had sometimes disturbed him. The love of such a man was no light thing. It had mingled with his heart's blood, with the very essence of all his being. No death, no annihilation was possible for it. It was a part of himself, woven unchangeably into his life in a glowing skein, the brilliant colors of which could never fade. He looked into the future, golden with the light of such a love, and he saw a vision of perfect happiness, of joy beyond all expression, of deep, calm content, surpassing anything which he had known. Hand in hand he saw two figures, himself and her, gliding through the years with a sort of effortless energy, tasting together of everything in life that was sweet, and pure, and beautiful; scattering all trouble and worldly vexation to the winds, by the touchstone of their undying love. There was intoxication—ethereal intoxication in such a vision. The winds blew against him, and the torrents of driven rain, cold and stinging, dashed themselves against his pale, steadfast face. Down on the beach below the mad sea was thundering upon the cliffs, flinging its white spray so high that it glittered like specks of luminous white light against the black waters. Yet he noticed none of it. Until the brilliancy of that vision which glowed before him faded, nothing external could withdraw his thoughts.
And fade away it did at last, and neither the cold rain nor the howling wind had given him such a chill as crept through all his body, when memory and realization drove forth this sweet flower of his imagination. All the cruel hopelessness, the horror of his position, rushed in upon him like a foul nightmare. He saw himself shunned and despised, the faces of all men averted from him; all that had gone to make his life worthy, and even famous, forgotten in the stigma of an awful crime. He saw her eager, beautiful face, white and convulsed with horror, shrinking away from him as from some loathsome object. God! it was madness to think of it! Let this thought go from him, fade away from his reeling brain, or he would surely go mad.
Heedless of the fury of the winds that roared over the moorland, and sobbed and shrieked in the pine grove, he threw himself upon his knees close to the very verge of the cliff, and stretched out his hands to the darkened heavens in a passionate gesture of despair. It was the first time during all the fierce troubles of a stormy life that he had shrunk down, beaten for the moment by the utter hopelessness of the struggle which seemed to him now fast drawing toward its end.
"God! that I may die!" he moaned. "That I may die!"
And, as though in answer to his prayer, life for him suddenly became a doubtful thing. A wild gust of wind had uprooted a young fir tree from the plantation, and bearing it with a savage glee toward the cliff side, dashed it against the kneeling man. There was no chance for him against it. Over they went, man and tree together, to all appearance bound for inevitable destruction.
Even in that second, when he felt himself being hurled over the cliff, by what force he knew not, the consciousness of the sudden granting of his prayer flashed across his mind, and, strange though it may seem, brought with it a deep content. It was as he would have it be, death sudden and unfelt. But following close upon it came another thought, so swiftly works the brain in the time of a great crisis. He would be found dead, and everyone, in the light of what would soon be made known, would surely call it suicide. She would think so, too. Death on such terms he would not willingly have.
Effort followed swiftly upon thought. He clutched wildly at the cliff side during the first second of that flying descent, and the wind bending it almost double, brought a stunted fir tree sapling within his reach. He grasped it, and he was saved. Only a yard or two away, the cliff side was black with them growing so closely together that he pulled himself with ease from one to another till he climbed over the cliff top, and stood again upright on the ground.
His hands were bleeding, and his clothes were hanging round him in rags. Yet, in a certain sense, his narrow escape had done him good, for it had brought very vividly before him the impiety of his prayer. He had given way too long to maddening thoughts, and they had unnerved him. With the consciousness of his escape, all the manliness of his nature reasserted itself. He had faced this thing so long that he would face it now to the end. Let it come when it would, he would summon up all his strength, and meet it like a man. After death was peace for everlasting. God keep him in that faith!
He turned away from the cliff, and walked quickly back to the cottage, making his plans as he went. First he changed all his clothes, and then opening again his rifled cabinet, he transferred the remaining papers to a small handbag. These were all his preparations, but when he stepped out again and walked down the path of his garden, a change had fallen upon the earth. Faint gleams of dawn were breaking through the eastern sky, and though the sea was still troubled and crested with white-foamed breakers, the wind had gone down. Compared with the violence of the storm a few hours back, the stillness of the gray twilight was full of a peculiar impressiveness. Peace after the storm. Rest after trouble.
And something of this saddened peace crept into the heart of the solitary figure crossing the moorland—on his way back to face a doom which seemed closing in fast around him.
Sir Allan Beaumerville, Bart., dilettante physician and man of fashion, was, on the whole, one of the most popular men in London society. He was rich, of distinguished appearance, had charming manners, and was a bachelor, which combination might possibly account in some measure for the high esteem in which he was held amongst the opposite sex. He had made his début in society quite late in life, for he had succeeded to the baronetcy, which was one of the oldest and richest in the country, unexpectedly; and, as a young man, London—fashionable London, at any rate—had seen or known nothing of him. Nor, indeed, had he at any time had much to say to anyone about the earlier period of his life. It was generally understood that he had lived abroad, and that he had been in some sort of practice, or how else could he have acquired his knowledge of the technical part of his profession? Beyond this, nothing was known; and although he was evidently a traveled man, having much to say at times about all the interesting parts of Southern Europe, no one ever remembered meeting him anywhere. For the rest, he had passed through none of the curriculum of English youth. No public school had had his name upon its books, nor had he even graduated in his own country. But he had taken a very high degree indeed at Heidelberg, which had won him considerable respect among those who knew anything about such matters, and his diplomas included half the letters of the alphabet, and were undeniable. And so when he had suddenly appeared in London on the death of his uncle and cousin, a middle-aged, distinguished gentleman, with manners a little foreign, but in their way perfect, society had voted him a great improvement on the former baronet, and had taken him by the hand at once. That was a good many years ago, and very soon after his first introduction to the London world he had become a notable figure in it. He had never missed a town season, and at all its chief functions was a well-known and popular figure, always among the best and most exclusive set, and always welcome there. He had a yacht at Cowes, a share in a Scotch moor, a dozen or so hunters at his little place near Melton, a shooting box in Derbyshire, and a fine old mansion and estate in Kent, where everyone liked to be asked; and where he had more than once had the honor of entertaining royalty. There was only one thing in the world wanted to make Sir Allan Beaumerville perfect, women declared, and that one thing was a wife. But although no one appeared to appreciate more highly the charms of feminine society—as he showed in more ways than one, both in St. John's Wood and in Belgravia—he had never shown the least inclination to perform his duty to society in this respect. How he managed to steer clear of the many snares and pitfalls laid for him in the course of his career puzzled a good many men. But he did it, and what was more remarkable still, he made no enemies. He had friendships among the other sex such as no man save he dared have indulged in to a like extent; but with infinite skill he always seemed to be able to drop some delicate insinuation as to the utter absence of any matrimonial intention on his part, which left no room for doubt or hope. He was, in short, possessed of admirable powers of diplomacy which never failed him.
Of course his impregnability gave rise to all manner of stories. He had been jilted in his youth, he had a wife alive, or he had had one, and she was dead, none of which rumors met any large amount of credence. As to the first, the idea of anyone jilting Sir Allan Beaumerville, even before his coming into the baronetcy, found no favor in the feminine world. No woman could have shown such ill judgment as that; and, besides, he had very little of the melancholy which is generally supposed to attend upon such a disappointment. As to the second, it was never seriously entertained, for if any woman had once claimed Sir Allan Beaumerville as a husband, she was scarcely likely to keep away from him, especially now that he was occupying such a distinguished position. The third was quite out of the question, for even had he ever been married—which nobody believed—he was scarcely the sort of man to wear the willow all his life, and, indeed, it was very evident that he was not doing anything of the sort. Everyone knew of a certain little establishment beyond Kensington way, where Sir Allan's brougham was often seen, but of course no one thought the worse of him for that. And without a doubt, if Sir Allan had yielded to that gentle wish so often expressed, and commenced domestic life in a more conventional manner in the great house at Grosvenor Square, he would have forfeited at once a great deal of his popularity, at any rate among the feminine part of his acquaintance. As it was, there was always a faint hope of winning him to add a zest to his delightful companionship, and Sir Allan, who was a very shrewd man, was perfectly aware of this. He was a sybarite of refined taste, with an exquisite appreciation of the finer and more artistic pleasures of life; and the society of educated and well-bred women was one of the chief of them. Rather than run any risk of deterioration in its quality he preferred to let things remain as they were, and that he might enjoy it the more thoroughly without the restraint placed upon other men, was the sole reason that he had not altogether abandoned his profession. He never took any fee, nor did he ever accept any casual patient. But on certain days of the week, at certain hours, he was at home as a physician to certain of his lady acquaintances to whom he had already offered his services. The number was always few, for the invitations were rarely given, and the patients generally remained upon the sick list for an indefinite period. But there were few invitations more sought after. Something—perhaps the very slight spice of impropriety which certain prudes, who had not been asked, affected to see in such an arrangement—had made them the fashion; and, then, Sir Allan was undeniably clever. Altogether, the idea was a great success for him.
It had been one of Sir Allan's afternoon receptions, and, as usual, every patient on his list had paid him a visit. Having seen the last and most favored to her carriage, Sir Allan returned to his study with a slight smile on his handsome face, and the recollection of some delightfully confidential little speeches still tingling in his ears. For a moment he stood on the hearth rug recalling them, then he looked round the room and rang the bell. A servant appeared almost immediately.
"Clear these things away, Morton," Sir Allan said, pointing to some dainty marvels of china and a Japanese teapot, which stood on a little round table between two chairs, "and bring me a loose jacket from my room. I am dining in Downing Street to-night, and shall not want to dress before eight."
The man obeyed, and Sir Allan, lighting a thick Egyptian cigarette, took up a French novel, and stretched himself out in his easy chair.
"You are not at home to anyone else this afternoon, sir?" the servant inquired before quitting the room.
"Certainly not," Sir Allan answered, yawning. "Has anyone been inquiring for me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Lady or gentleman?"
"Gentleman, sir—at least, I think so. He looks like one."
"Any name?"
"I didn't inquire, sir. I said that you were not at home; but, as he seemed very pressing, I promised to try and ascertain when you would be at liberty."
"Ask him his name," Sir Allan directed.
The man withdrew, and returned in a moment or two looking a little puzzled.
"His name is Brown, sir—Mr. Bernard Brown."
Sir Allan was seldom clumsy in little things, but at that moment he dropped the book which he had been reading upon the floor. The servant hastened toward it, but Sir Allan waved him away. He preferred to pick it up himself.
"I'm afraid I've lost my place," he remarked, turning over the leaves. "You can show Mr. Brown in here, Morton," he added. "I may as well see what he wants."
The man withdrew, and Sir Allan recommenced the chapter. Then the door was opened again, and the visitor was admitted. Sir Allan laid the paper knife carefully in his place, and shutting the book, rose from his chair.
"Mr. Brown," he said, "I am very pleased to see you. Come and take a seat here."
He stood up in an easy attitude upon the hearthrug, and pointed with a smile to the chair which his last visitor had occupied. But he did not offer his hand to Mr. Brown, nor did Mr. Brown appear to expect it.
The apartment was in the semi-gloom of twilight, for the silver lamp burning on the bracket by Sir Allan's side was covered with a rose-colored shade, and threw all its light downward. The art treasures with which the room was crowded, and the almost voluptuous grace of its adornment and coloring, were more suggested than seen. Mr. Brown, who had advanced only a few steps from the closed door, covered his eyes with his hand, and looked a little dazed.
"Do you live in darkness?" he said in a low tone. "I want to see your face."
Sir Allan shrugged his shoulders, and turned up the lamp a little higher than it was. The faces of the two men were now distinctly visible to each other, and the contrast between them was rather startling. Sir Allan's was placid, courteous, and inquiring. Mr. Brown's was white almost to ghastliness, and his eyes were burning with a strange light.
"I wish you'd sit down, my dear fellow!" Sir Allan remarked in a tone of good-natured remonstrance. "It worries me to see you standing there, and I'm sure you look tired enough."
Mr. Brown took no notice whatever of the invitation.
"I have come to see you, Sir Allan Beaumerville," he said slowly, "to lay certain facts before you, and to ask your advice concerning them—as a disinterested party."
"Very happy, I'm sure, to do the best I can," Sir Allan murmured, lighting a fresh cigarette. "I wish you'd sit down to it, though. I suppose it's about that murder we were mixed up in? Horrid affair it was."
"Yes, it was a very horrid affair," Mr. Brown repeated slowly.
"They haven't caught the man yet, I suppose?"
"They have not—yet."
Sir Allan shrugged his fine shoulders.
"I fancy their chance is a poor one now, then," he remarked, emitting a little cloud of smoke from his lips, and watching it curl upward in a faint blue wreath to the ceiling. "How differently they manage affairs on the Continent! Such a crime would not go undetected a day there."
"It will not be undetected here many more days," Mr. Brown said. "My own belief is that a warrant is already issued for the apprehension of the supposed murderer, and I should not be surprised to hear that at this very moment the police were watching this house."
Sir Allan looked hard at his guest, and elevated his eyebrows.
"This is a very serious matter, Mr. Brown," he said, looking at him steadily in the face. "Do I understand——?"
"I will explain," Mr. Brown interrupted quietly. "On my return to Falcon's Nest yesterday, I find that during my absence the cottage has been entered, apparently by some one in authority, for keys have been used. My cabinet has been forced open, and a number of my private letters and papers have been taken away. Certain other investigations have also been made, obviously with the same object."
Sir Allan maintained his attitude of polite attention, but he had stopped smoking, and his cigarette was burning unnoticed between his fingers.
"I scarcely see the connection yet," he said suavely. "No doubt I am a little dense. You speak about a number of private papers having been abstracted from your cabinet. Do I understand—is it possible that anything in those papers could lead people to fix upon you as the murderer of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston?"
The two men looked steadily into each other's faces. There was nothing in Sir Allan's expression beyond a slightly shocked surprise; in Mr. Brown's there was a very curious mixture indeed.
"Most certainly!" was the quiet reply. "Those letters plainly point out a motive for my having committed the crime."
"They are from——"
"Stop!"
Sir Allan started. The word had burst from Mr. Brown's lips with a passion which his former quietude rendered the more remarkable. There was a dead silence between them for fully a minute. Then Mr. Brown, having resumed his former manner, spoke again.
"Those letters," he said, "tell the story of a certain episode in the life of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. No other person is mentioned or alluded to in them. Yet the fact of their having been found in my possession makes them strong evidence against me."
Sir Allan nodded.
"I don't know why on earth you've come to me for advice," he remarked. "I'm not a lawyer."
"Neither do I quite know. Still, I have come; and, as I am here, give it me."
"In a word, then—bolt," said Sir Allan laconically.
"That is your advice, is it?"
"I don't see anything else to do. I don't ask you whether you are guilty or not, and I do ask myself whether I am doing my duty in giving you any advice calculated to defeat the ends of justice. I simply consider the facts, and tell you what I should do if I were in your unfortunate position. I should bolt."
"Thank you, Sir Allan, for your advice so far," Mr. Brown said quietly. "There is just one little complication, however, which I wish to tell you of."
"Yes. Might I trouble you to put the matter in as short a form as possible, then?" Sir Allan remarked, looking at his watch. "I am dining with the Prime Minister to-night, and it is time I commenced to dress."
"I will not detain you much longer," Mr. Brown said. "The complication, I fear, will scarcely interest you, for it is a sentimental one. If I fled from England to-night, I should leave behind me the woman I love."
"Then why the devil don't you take her with you?" asked Sir Allan, with a shrug of the shoulders. "She'll go right enough if you ask her. Women like a little mystery."
"The woman whom I love appears to be of a different class to those from whom you have drawn your experience," Mr. Brown answered quietly. "I am not married to her."
Sir Allan shrugged his shoulders lightly.
"Well, if she's a prude, and won't go, and you haven't pluck enough to run away with her, I don't know how to advise you," he remarked.
Mr. Brown looked steadily into the other's face. Sir Allan met his gaze blandly.
"Your speech, Sir Allan, betrays a cynicism which I believe is greatly in fashion just now," Mr. Brown said slowly. "Sometimes it is altogether assumed, sometimes it is only a thin veneer adopted in obedience to the decree of fashion. Believing that, so far as you are concerned, the latter is the case, I beg you to look back into your past life, and recall, if possible, some of its emotions. Again I tell you that if I fly from England, I shall leave behind me the woman I dearly love. I have come to you, Sir Allan Beaumerville, with an effort. I lay all these facts before you, and I ask you to decide for me. What shall I do?"
"And I repeat, my dear fellow," answered Sir Allan suavely, "that the only advice I can give you is, to leave England to-night!"
Mr. Brown hesitated for a moment. Then he turned away toward the door without a word or gesture of farewell.
"By the by," Sir Allan remarked, "one moment, Mr. Brown! Have you any objection to telling me the name of the lady who has been honored with your affection. Do I know her?"
"You do. Her name is no concern of yours, though."
Suddenly an unpleasant idea seemed to flash across Sir Allan's mind. He was more disturbed than he had been during the whole of the interview.
"Of course you don't mean that charming Miss Thurwell?" he said quickly.
The limits of Mr. Brown's endurance seemed to have been passed. He turned suddenly round, his eyes blazing with passion, and walked across the room to within a few feet of Sir Allan. He stood there with one hand grasping the back of a chair, and looked at him.
"And if I did mean her, sir, what is that to you? By what right do you dare to——"
Suddenly his upraised hand fell. Both men stood as though turned to stone, listening, yet scarcely daring to glance toward the door. It was the sound of Morton's quiet voice and the trailing of skirts which had checked Mr. Brown's passionate speech.
"Lady and Miss Thurwell!"
There was no time to move, scarcely time for thought. Morton stood respectfully at the door, and the two ladies were already on the threshold.
"My dear Sir Allan"—in Lady Thurwell's silvery voice—"what will you think of such a late visit? I felt ashamed to ask for you, only we have been at the Countess of Applecorn's in the next square, and I could positively not pass your door when I remembered that it was your afternoon. But you are all in darkness; and you have a visitor, haven't you?"
The figures of the two men were barely visible in the deep gloom of the apartment, for the lamp had burned low, and gave little light. Lady Thurwell had stopped just inside the room, surprised.
If only Sir Allan's companion had been a patient! What a delightful piece of scandal it would have been!
"Lady Thurwell! Ah, how good of you!" exclaimed Sir Allan, coming forward out of the shadow; "and you, too, Miss Helen. I am honored indeed. Morton, lights at once!"
"We must not stay a moment," declared Lady Thurwell, shaking hands. "No, we won't sit down, thanks! You know why we've called? It's about the opera to-night. You got my note?"
"I did, Lady Thurwell, and I can trustfully say that I never read one from you with more regret."
"Then you have an engagement?"
"Unfortunately, yes! I am dining at Downing Street."
"Well, we must send for that schoolboy cousin of yours, Helen!" said Lady Thurwell, laughing. "You see how dependent we are upon your sex, after all. Why, is that really you, Mr. Maddison!" she broke off suddenly, as a tall figure emerged a little out of the gloom. "Fancy meeting you here! I had no idea that you and Sir Allan Beaumerville were friends. Helen, do you see Mr. Maddison?"
"I can't say that I do," she answered, with a low happy laugh; "but I'm very glad he's here!"
The lights were brought in as she finished her little speech, and they all looked at one another. Lady Thurwell broke into a little laugh.
"Really, this is a singular meeting," she said, "but we mustn't stop a moment. Mr. Maddison, we were hoping to see you yesterday afternoon. Do come soon!"
He bowed with a faint smile upon his lips.
"Come out to the carriage with us, please, Mr. Maddison," Helen said to him in a low tone as Lady Thurwell turned to go; and he walked down the hall between them and out on to the pavement, leaving Sir Allan on the steps.
"You will come and dine with me soon, won't you, Mr. Maddison?" Lady Thurwell asked him, as she touched his hand stepping into the brougham.
"I will come whenever you ask me!" he answered rashly.
"Then come now!" said Helen quickly. "We are all alone for the evening, fancy that, and we can't go out anywhere because we haven't an escort. Do come!"
He looked at Lady Thurwell.
"It will be a real charity if you will," she said, smiling graciously. "We shall be bored to death alone."
"I shall be delighted," he answered at once. "About eight o'clock, I suppose?"
"Half-past seven, please, and we'll have a long evening," said Helen. "That will give you time to get to your club and dress. Good-by!"
They drove off, and Mr. Bernard Brown walked swiftly away toward Pall Mall. Once he stopped in the middle of the pavement and broke into an odd little laugh. It was a curious position to be in. He was expecting every moment to be arrested for murder, and he was going out to dine.