[A]Pronounced "mi-mi."
When Reg and Amy, accompanied by Mrs. Whyte, arrived, the ball was in full swing. This Bachelors' Ball was an annual affair of some more than local reputation and the suburban element was frequently enforced, and leavened, by guests from the West End, who at other periods of the year professed never to have heard of Brixton. The ball-room was beautifully decorated with hangings of dainty tints. Palms and ferns, artistically placed with fairy lamps glimmering through the masses of greenery, made inviting corners, that attracted the weary dancers. No expense had been spared to make the scene one of splendour and attraction, and it fairly took good Mrs. Whyte's breath away. Reg succeeded in finding two vacant seats near a Colonel's widow, who was anacquaintance of Mrs. Whyte and, having comfortably settled the old lady, offered his arm to Amy and they were soon whirling together in the mazy throng of waltzers.
They made a striking couple; the tall, handsome man and the slight, willowy girl, with her beautiful face flushed with the exercise, and many were the enquiries made as to who and what they were. The dance over, Reg reserved for himself nine of the items on her card, leaving the remainder, as he laughingly said, to her numerous admirers to fight over. Then he left her for a moment to greet some friends.
"Miss Johnson, may I introduce a great friend of mine?" said a voice behind her.
Amy turned to find Tommy smiling complacently at her, accompanied by a handsome, dark stranger.
"Certainly, Mr. Thomas."
"Miss Johnson—Mr. Wyckliffe," and the two met. Amy was too full of enjoyment to notice more than that her new acquaintance had a quiet manner, soft attractive voice, and a peculiarly penetrating gaze. She surrendered her programme, and, as he passed it back to her, he merely bowed, and said:
"I have taken sixteen and eighteen, thank you."
The ball went merrily forward, both Reg and Amy enjoying themselves to the full. At the sixteenth dance Reg found himself disengaged, and went outside to have a smoke. He was scarcely half through his cigarette, when the fancy seized him to go back to the ball-room and watch Amy dancing. Standing in the doorway he marked each couple pass him, but without discovering the object of his search. He made his way round to Mrs. Whyte, but that good lady could only tell him that she had been claimed by her partner, Mr. Wyckliffe. Reg felt vaguely disturbed, how or why he scarcely knew; but he remembered Amy had once told him she never sat out a dance except with an old friend. He wandered away aimlessly, and when the next dance had begun and still Amy did not appear, he decided to look for her. Pausing at the refreshment buffet he was in the act of raising a glass to his lips when his eye caught sight of a portion of a dress he knew too well, partly hidden by some drapery hanging over a corner of the gallery. In the twinkling of an eye he ran up the stairs. Amy saw him coming, and drawingthe drapery on one side, smiled at him. It was enough to dispel all his troublesome thoughts, and he came up to her and laughingly said:
"Ah, here you are, you truant. It is too bad to disappoint your partners in this way."
"Reg, this is Mr. Wyckliffe," said she, referring to her partner.
"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Morris," said that gentleman, rising with a smile and extending his hand.
"Thanks. I am delighted to make your acquaintance," answered Reg, shaking warmly in his genuine way the hand extended to him.
"Miss Johnson has been good enough to make a confidant of me," continued Wyck, lightly. "She has told me of your engagement and I hope you will let me congratulate you. You are a lucky man."
"I am, indeed," answered Reg, as politely as he could, though he felt strongly inclined to resent the familiarity from a man who had only met him and hisfiancéefor the first time that evening.
"Miss Johnson mentioned that she was engaged for this dance with you, but as I have the next she agreed to sit them both out with me."
Reg began to grow uncomfortable, and turned to Amy, and said, "It's very cold here, Amy, I think you ought to go back, as Mrs. Whyte is looking for you."
"Oh! you won't desert me, will you, Miss Johnson?" said Wyck, gazing at her in an intense way, and exerting his will-power to the utmost.
"I'd rather stay, Reg," she answered, but the decision seemed to come from her reluctantly.
"I'll take care of her, Morris, never fear," said Wyck, smiling.
Reg looked from one to the other. He felt helpless, and in a predicament from which only a scene, which he abhorred, would extricate him. It was galling in the extreme to find a total stranger dictating to the girl he was engaged to.
"Then you won't come?" he asked.
"Not yet, Reg," she replied, in a languid manner, and he turned sharply on his heel and descended the stairs in a mood the reverse of amiable. Here he ran against Tommy, whom he stopped and asked:
"Who's your friend Wyckliffe, Thomas?"
"Oh, old Wyck is a great friend of mine.Why do you ask? You don't look well, old chap. Come and have something to pull you together."
"No thanks. Look here, Thomas, I don't like the way your friend is going on."
"Why, what's he done?" asked Tommy, in feigned surprise, though he was rather enjoying the joke of badgering the jealous lover.
"Miss Johnson is an innocent girl, not up to the free-and-easy flirting ways of your Society friends, and she should not be compromised by sitting out three dances with a stranger."
"Come, old chap. You make too much fuss over a small matter. But look, there is Mrs. Whyte beckoning to you," said he, pointing to the lady in question, who was anxiously watching them. "I won't keep you."
"Where's Amy, Reg?" said Mrs. Whyte as he came near, in an anxious voice, somewhat louder than strict etiquette demanded.
Reg sat down beside her and told her Amy was sitting out with Mr. Wyckliffe.
"What, three dances, Reg. I think I had better go to her."
"There is no need for that, for here she comes," answered Reg, quickly, as he saw Amysuddenly appear in the ball-room. A fierce pang of jealousy seized him when he noticed how she hung on her partner's arm. "Hadn't we better go home, mother?" he said, "I am tired of this."
"Really, Mrs. Whyte," said Wyck, coming up to her with a bland expression of unconsciousness, "I must apologize for keeping Miss Johnson away from you so long; but it was so cool and pleasant in the gallery."
Mrs. Whyte merely bowed and said:
"Amy, come and let us fetch our cloaks, we are going home."
"All right, mother," she answered, quietly, her eyes fixed on Wyck's departing figure.
They passed him again in the entrance hall, and as Amy shook hands with him and bade him good-night, Reg was maddened to notice Wyck stoop and whisper something to her, and to see her smile and nod in return.
The demeanour of the party on their return was so different, that even the old cabby could not help noticing it. Incessant chattering and gay bursts of laughter marked their journey to the ball-room, that "it did one's heart good," as the cabby put it. But on the return journeyeveryone was silent, gloomy and depressed. Whyte was waiting at the gate for them and, as he opened the door, cried out in his cheery voice, "Back again, my children," but, to his surprise, there was no response and, seeing Mrs. Whyte signal him to be quiet, he gave a low whistle and murmured under his breath, with a chuckle, "a lover's quarrel, by Jove."
Amy, on entering the house, went straight to her room and locked herself in; an occurrence so unique in the history of the Mia-Mia, that old Whyte stared open-mouthed at Reg, who had flung himself on the sofa, and asked:
"What's the matter, Reg?"
"I don't know, dad. I don't understand it at all."
"Have you quarrelled?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
Reg told him all he knew about the matter, which certainly did not seem much in the telling, and sitting-out being a common occurrence at balls Whyte was disposed to look at it in the light of an attack of lovers' jealousy, until Mrs. Whyte entered the room, looking very concerned, and, taking her husband's arm, burst into tears.
"Don't give way like that, missus. Why, what's the matter?" said he, tenderly.
"Oh, dad, dad, it's horrible. She has locked herself in her room, and is crying bitterly, but she won't open the door. Who would have thought our Amy would do such a thing. Oh, these horrid balls!"
"It's not the ball," said Reg, fiercely. "It's that scoundrel Wyckliffe who is the cause of all this. I'll murder him."
"Reg, I am surprised at you talking like that," said Mrs. Whyte. "If Amy wished to stay with him, she—"
"Prefers him to me, is that it?" put in Reg, rising, and pacing the room, angrily.
"No, not that. I mean she is to blame."
"She's not to blame. If she had not met that fellow, there would have been no trouble."
"Come, come," said Whyte, anxious to make peace. "Let's get to bed; perhaps she will have forgotten all about it in the morning." And he led his wife away.
Reg did not go to bed, but walked restlessly to and from the garden to cool his heated brain and collect his thoughts. At last he entered his room, and casually picked up a copy ofTruthto while away the time until he felt inclined for sleep. His eye happened to light on a paragraph drawing attention to the ruin of the prospects of a young actress by a gentleman "well-known in Society." No names were mentioned, but fuller details were promised. Had names been mentioned an amount of sorrow, with its appalling consequences, would have been saved and this story never have been written. At last Reg tumbled into bed, only to toss about and dream of dreadful accidents to Amy, with which Wyck was somehow connected, while he himself lay powerless to rescue her, fighting fiercely against the invisible hands which kept his hands tied, and his limbs stiff and helpless.
"Reg, Reg, get up," said Whyte, entering Morris's room the next morning.
"Hallo, dad, what time is it?"
"One o'clock, lad."
Ten minutes later Reg was down to his breakfast. The reminiscences of the previous night had come back to him, and were very bitter.
"Is Amy up yet?" he asked.
"Yes, and gone out," said Whyte, looking anxiously at him.
"What!" cried Reg, in surprise.
"About an hour ago," continued Whyte. "She came out of her room fully dressed for walking out, and looking as miserable as possible. I asked her where she was going, but she seemed not to notice, and only came up to me and flungher arms round my neck, kissed me, and left the room."
"Did she not say where she was going to?"
"No, lad; she said nothing."
"What would you suggest doing, Whyte? Shall I go and hunt this fellow Wyckliffe up, and ask him what he means?"
"No, lad. That will do little good. We will speak to Amy herself when she returns. Dear, dear! I fancy her brain must be touched," and the sympathetic old fellow walked hurriedly away to conceal the tears that would fall.
Reg walked to the garden with a heavy heart. There were all the pets waiting for their mistress. The dogs ran to him with yelps of enquiry; the birds twittered plaintively, as if they felt something was wrong. Reg stooped and patted the dogs, and it seemed a relief to his bursting heart to tell them all his forebodings for the happiness of their home.
The weary hours passed, and Amy returned. Her usually bright manner had disappeared; her step had lost its lightness, and there was an air of languor about her, very foreign to her nature. As she caught sight of Reg she hung down her head, and passed rapidly into the house, takingno notice of the dogs who bounded towards her barking with delight. Reg slowly followed her, his face revealing the troubles of his heart.
"My darling girl," said Mrs. Whyte, as she met her in the passage and, fondly throwing her arms around her, drawing her into the room. "Won't you trust us and tell us what is the matter?"
"Don't ask me, mother," said Amy, bursting into tears.
"Look here, Amy," said Whyte, coming forward and vainly trying to put a trace of sternness in his voice. "You must give us some explanation of your conduct, dear. You are not acting fairly by Reg."
"Oh, Amy, darling, I'll forgive anything. Only do tell me what has come between us," said Reg, coming quickly forward, and taking her hand he led her to a sofa.
At length her sobs became less violent, and she tried to say with some air of decision:
"I want you to release me, Reg. I find I do not love you sufficiently to be your wife."
"Release you!" cried Reg, starting.
"Yes, Reg dear. I cannot marry you now.I thought I loved you, but I find now I love another."
"Ishethe other?" asked Reg, sternly.
"Yes, I love Wyck."
"Wyck! is that Mr. Wyckliffe?"
"Yes. He told me to call him Wyck;" and here she began feverishly to pull off her engagement ring.
"Oh, don't take that off," cried Reg, in a pained voice.
"I must, Reg, I must. He told me to;" and she handed back the ring she had worn and caressed so long.
"Then all is over between us," said Reg, quietly.
"Yes, Reg. I am sorry, but it must be," and she slowly rose and went to her room, not noticing any of the others.
"Reg, my dear boy, bear up; be a man. God knows, it is a severe blow for us. So changed; so different! Had anyone told me that such a catastrophe could happen in such a short time, I would have given him the lie direct."
"Yes, Whyte, you are right. It is a blow, but there are times in every man's life when he is called on to bear the heaviest burdens, and itis his duty to submit. She has told me she prefers Wyck, as she calls him, to me; so I give way, and God grant he may make her happy."
"He is a stranger to us and, if he does marry her, he will take her away from us, and we may never meet again. With her all our happiness disappears," and tears again welled in the good old man's eyes.
"Whyte, I must see this man," said Reg, firmly, but threateningly.
"Reg, I beg you won't interfere. It will do no good. Promise me you will not interfere," said Whyte, imploringly, for he feared the consequences if Reg and his rival met.
"What shall I do then, dad?" he said, sadly.
"Go away for a few days. This sudden infatuation may go as quickly as it came, and when you return, perhaps we may see a change."
"Very well, dad. Your advice is always good. I will go away for a week, and wander about somewhere to kill time."
That evening he took the mail to Dover, and with a heavy heart crossed to France. The Whytes missed Reg sadly, and Whyte himself deeply regretted having advised him to go away, forAmy, instead of noticing his absence, seemed to become more and more absorbed every day in her new attraction, that she took no notice whatever of her surroundings. She made no enquiry for Reg, and scarcely addressed anyone in the house. The second day after his departure she went out in the same mysterious manner as before without explanation. Whyte thereupon determined to follow her.
He saw her take a 'bus going in the direction of the city, and managed to catch another running close behind it. At Westminster Bridge she quitted the 'bus, and looked round eagerly, till her gaze rested on a young man, who was laughing and talking with two others. After waiting in their vicinity, Whyte saw one of the trio lounge carelessly towards her and, without raising his hat or making any formal or respectful greeting, take her hand and kiss her on both cheeks. A roar of laughter greeted this proceeding from the two companions left on the pavement.
"Well, and how's little Amy to-day?" said Wyck, carelessly.
"Quite well and happy now, Wyck dear, thank you," replied Amy, in a bright tone, butin a dreamy, absent manner, walking away by his side along the Embankment.
Whyte remained watching these proceedings, but did not attempt to interfere. He had seen sufficient, and hailed a return omnibus going homewards with a heavier heart than ever. "Why did I send Reg away?" he murmured to himself. "No good will come from this, I see. I'll put a stop to it, for he can't mean square." The whole journey through he puzzled his brains to find an explanation for this peculiar conduct of Amy's so unusual with her. On his arrival home he told his wife all he had seen, and in their helplessness the two old people could only offer a silent prayer to Heaven to protect the child they loved so devotedly.
When Amy returned from her visit, Whyte went to her and said:
"Amy, I forbid you to see that man again."
"You cannot stop me, dad, for he said I was to go," she answered, looking at him in a curiously absent way.
"We shall see," he answered, vaguely, for her opposition startled him. Amy said nothing, but passed on to her room and locked herself in.
The next day, and for several days afterwards, she eluded Whyte's vigilance with a cunning so abnormal, and so unlike herself, that the poor old man was nearly driven frantic with perplexity. Each day she returned in the same silent, oppressed mood, and avoided everyone in the house.
A letter in a man's hand-writing came for her one evening, which she opened in the Whytes' presence, and made no comment. Since the mysterious change in her behaviour she was in the habit of rising early and retiring to her room with the morning paper. The morning following the receipt of the letter she acted as usual, and shortly after, the Whytes were startled by hearing a loud cry coming from her room, followed by a heavy thud, as if something had fallen. A vague terror seized them, and in an instant both rushed to her room and, flinging open the door, they were horrified to find their darling child stretched on the floor with the paper clenched in her hand. They gently raised her and, while Mrs Whyte undressed her and put her to bed, Whyte himself ran for a doctor.
Reg meanwhile had found his resolve to keepaway intolerable, and had, in a moment of impulse, returned to London in time to meet Whyte hurriedly entering the house, followed by a young doctor.
"What's the matter, Whyte?" said Reg, running forward.
"Thank God, my boy, you are back again. I feel the change is coming, one way or another," answered Whyte, solemnly, as he motioned the doctor upstairs. Then, in answer to Reg's breathless questions, he told him all that had happened during his absence.
At this juncture the doctor returned. His face was grave and troubled, and a nameless chill seized the two.
"Well, doctor," cried both together.
"I'm afraid it's for the worst," he answered, sadly. "I would advise you to send for a specialist's opinion at once. Sir Charles Edward I would recommend, for there is grave heart trouble."
In all haste the celebrated specialist was summoned, but his examination was sickening in its brevity, and his verdict held out no hope. "The nervous system has received some terribly sudden shock," he said; "and there is a seriousrupture of the vessels of the heart. She may recover consciousness, but it will be only momentary. We see many appalling sights in my profession, but rarely one so sad as this. A young life so beautiful, and apparently so strong, to be suddenly cut off; it is terrible! What can have caused it?"
Whyte hurriedly told him all he knew. Meanwhile Reg, in his restlessness, had seized the paper left lying on the floor, and began aimlessly to scan the columns. Suddenly his eyes were arrested by a familiar name, and he read as follows:
BANQUET TO MR. VILLIERS WYCKLIFFE.
This popular and fortunate young gentleman, who is on the point of starting for a tour of the Australian Colonies, was entertained at dinner at the Angora Club, last evening. Lord Hardup presided, and in proposing the health of the guest of the evening in eulogistic terms, presented him, on behalf of the Club, with a handsome diamond pin, and heartily wished him God-speed. The pin was in the shape of a broken heart, which curious badge has been adopted by Mr. Wyckliffe. Mr. Wyckliffe left by the night express for Naples, to join thes.s. Himalayaen route for Adelaide.
This popular and fortunate young gentleman, who is on the point of starting for a tour of the Australian Colonies, was entertained at dinner at the Angora Club, last evening. Lord Hardup presided, and in proposing the health of the guest of the evening in eulogistic terms, presented him, on behalf of the Club, with a handsome diamond pin, and heartily wished him God-speed. The pin was in the shape of a broken heart, which curious badge has been adopted by Mr. Wyckliffe. Mr. Wyckliffe left by the night express for Naples, to join thes.s. Himalayaen route for Adelaide.
"The —— scoundrel," said Reg, emphatically. Whyte and Sir Charles turned round upon him in surprise. "Here is the cause of it," said Reg, handing the paper to Whyte.
Barely time to express their surprise at the discovery was given them before they were all hurriedly summoned to Amy's bedside. Mrs.Whyte and a nurse, who had been at once sent for, were watching the still figure on the bed, with the doctor in attendance.
"Will she die, Sir Charles?" asked Reg, in a feverish whisper.
"My dear young sir, there is no hope. She may recover consciousness, but if she does it will only be for a few moments. Doctor Carr will remain till the end;" and giving the young man's hand a sympathetic squeeze, while he brushed away something dangerously like a tear, he hurried away to his carriage.
They remained in the darkened room in anxious silence. Suddenly, the nurse moved to the bedside, and held up her hand in warning. The nervous tension of each watcher was extreme, that the movement seemed to give relief.
"Wyck! Wyck!" came from the lips of Amy, in a mournful whisper. "Wyck gone; Reg gone. Poor Amy."
"No, my darling," burst from Reg's lips, but the doctor held up a warning finger and hushed his impetuous outburst.
It was a terrible scene. To watch helplessly while a few stifled words broke in interjectionsfrom the dying girl's lips, and note the manifest struggle to give them utterance.
"Reg, Reg, forgive—forgive daddy, mammy! God—bless—you;" and with a convulsive shudder, her spirit had passed away.
Doctor Carr had seen many death-beds in his career, but never one so affecting as this. Kneeling by the bedside were the two old people, and a hale and hearty youth, sobbing as if their hearts were broken. He was about to leave the sombre chamber, when he was startled by a voice saying in loud, firm tones:
"I call God to witness and hear me swear. By the hand of this corpse, than which I hold nothing more sacred in this world, I, Reginald Morris, solemnly swear vengeance upon her murderer. Henceforth I have but one hope; henceforth I dedicate my fortune and my future to avenging Amy Johnson's death. Amen!"
A deep echoing "Amen" broke from Oliver Whyte, and the two men joined hands over the fair dead form each loved so much.
Two days later all that remained of Amy Johnson was carried to its last resting-place.
The bright and sunshiny little domicile "The Mia-Mia," was now silent and desolate, as ifunder a spell. Whyte and his wife had aged visibly since their darling's death, while Reg had grown into a sad, silent man with a stern, relentless expression of face. Even the pets seemed subdued; the flowers seemed to droop; the sun to shine less brightly, for the hope and the light of the house was dead.
One solemn duty had yet to be performed, when Whyte took Reg by the arm and led him to the room of the dead girl. Here the gay pictures on the walls, and the pretty draperies so daintily arranged seemed to mock them. On the table lay her writing desk, one of his first presents to her, and Reg, with a feeling of sacrilege, slowly opened it. On the top lay a letter, which read as follows:
"Tuesday."Dearest Amy,Come to the Park to-morrow as usual. I have procured a special licence, and we can be married right away.Tout à toi,Wyck."
"Tuesday.
"Dearest Amy,
Come to the Park to-morrow as usual. I have procured a special licence, and we can be married right away.
Tout à toi,
Wyck."
"Why this was written the evening before he sailed," cried Reg. "This is a worse villainythan I dreamed of. Stay, here is another in her own writing," and he read the following:
"Tuesday night,"My dearest Reg, Mammy and Daddy,"By the time this reaches you I shall be married to Wyck. Forgive me. I cannot help myself, for he said I was to go, and I do love him. Good-bye. Forgive, but do not forget,"Your undutiful girl,"Amy."
"Tuesday night,
"My dearest Reg, Mammy and Daddy,
"By the time this reaches you I shall be married to Wyck. Forgive me. I cannot help myself, for he said I was to go, and I do love him. Good-bye. Forgive, but do not forget,
"Your undutiful girl,
"Amy."
"At last," said Whyte. "Now we see what caused the shock."
"Yes, he had promised to marry her at the time he had arranged to leave England for his trip. Why the Angora Club presented him with his badge, set in diamonds, and, by Heaven, I will do the same. I'll brand the scoundrel on both ears with the same distinguishing mark."
"It was all my fault, Reg. If only I had not persuaded you—" began Whyte, blaming himself.
"Stay, Whyte; it is too late for praise or blame, however undeserved. I have only one sentiment left to guide me, and that is Revenge."
Villiers Wyckliffe had added the fiftieth notch to his stick, and with the air of a hero at the close of a brilliant campaign, had started on a tour of pleasure to Australia—for, as he expressed it, he liked that "Australian kid" so well that he must needs go to her native land to make acquaintance with others of her sort. Little did he think that on his track was one dominated with a relentless purpose that would never grow weak, whose motto was—REVENGE.
Reg had now fully determined to follow Wyck to Australia, and he lost no time in making his preparations. His first step was to go to a firm of die-sinkers, where he ordered a die to be cut in the shape of a broken heart, exactly similar to the device on Wyckliffe's letter-paper.
"Make it of the finest steel," he said, "and have its edges as sharp as that of a razor. Have a case made to fit it, so that it can be kept constantly sharp and bright, and ready for use at any time."
"It will be an expensive article, sir," said the shopman.
"Never mind, have it made exactly to order. Let me know when it will be ready, and I will call and pay the bill."
That done, he called a cab, drove to Finsbury Pavement, and got out at a large warehouse.
"Is Mr. Bridgland in?" he asked at the Inquiry Office, and was ushered into a small room on the door of which was painted the word "Manager."
"Good morning, Bridgland," he said, entering and shaking hands with a man sitting at a desk.
"What, Morris!" he replied. "You look like a ghost. Are you ill, man?"
"She's dead and buried, old chap."
"Who?—not Miss Johnson," almost gasped Bridgland.
"Yes, Amy Johnson is dead. She was murdered."
"Murdered!"
"Yes, murdered." And sitting down, Reg told Bridgland everything, omitting not the slightest detail from the day of the ball to the present.
Joseph Bridgland was the only man in London Reg had ever called a friend. He had met him through a business transaction shortly after his landing, and had taken a great fancy to him. Bridgland was a self-made man, andhad started in life as the office boy to the large firm of whose business he was now manager. He was short and stout, with a full-moon-like face that was always twinkling with good-humour. He always faced his troubles with a smile; met all difficulties lightly, and generally conquered them in the end. But Reg's trouble was too serious to be smiled at, the sight of the pale, drawn face of the friend who had always been so gay and light-hearted was a shock to him, and when Reg had told his pitiful story, he found it difficult to restrain his tears. He was fairly intimate with Reg and Amy Johnson, and looked upon them as an ideal couple.
"My dear old chap, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. This fellow Wyckliffe must be a miserable scoundrel, but I think I can help you."
"You can, Bridgland?" said Reg, starting.
"Yes, sit down and I will tell you. Listeners are people I despise, but I was compelled to overhear a conversation, which has troubled me ever since, but now I see there must have been something in the fact that I was given this chance. One of the partners here leads the life of a man about town. His office is there, nextto mine, and he frequently has a young fellow called Tommy drop in and have a chat with him."
"I know him," said Reg.
"Well, on this particular day the door I suppose was not closely shut, and I chanced to hear them talking about a certain secret club called the Detlij Club, or some such name. It is nothing more or less, I believe, than an association of youthful rakes who lay plans to ruin women. Tommy and he were apparently members, and they frequently spoke of Wyck."
"That's my man, Bridgland," said Reg, fiercely.
"From what I could gather, this Wyck boasts of the possession of a diabolical faculty for making girls fall in love with him. His next move is to throw them over and one more is added to his record, which is kept by means of notches on a stick. Now I distinctly heard Tommy say that Wyck had his fiftieth notch booked, and that she was an Australian."
"My God! that was Amy. Bridgland, I will see you again, but I cannot stay longer now. I begin to see my way clear. A thousand thanks and good-bye." To Bridgland's astonishmenthe left the office hurriedly, without another word.
Calling a cab, Reg drove to the Angora Club in Piccadilly, and asked for Mr. Thomas. Finding he was not in, he left a letter asking him to meet him on business of importance at a certain hotel at three o'clock the following afternoon.
That evening he and the Whytes discussed his project.
The old couple were bearing up well, and so deep was their indignation against the man who had ruined the peace of their home that they encouraged Reg in his revenge.
"You are young and strong, Reg. I wish I was too, then I would go with you," said Whyte; "but I am getting too old."
"Leave it to me, Whyte. I have sworn to brand him, and as long as I have breath in my body, I will not give in."
The following day, Reg engaged a private room in the hotel, and gave instructions that Mr. Thomas was to be shown up immediately on his arrival, an event which soon happened.
"How do you do, Morris?" said Tommy, genially coming towards him. "Awfully good of you to think of me."
"Yes, I wanted to have a chat with you."
"You don't look well, old fellow. Nothing wrong, I hope."
"I have a little trouble, but—"
"Then let me share it, old fellow."
"What will you have to drink?" asked Reg, disregarding the invitation.
"Ah! the best way to kill trouble. Drink, and put your care in the grave."
The liquor was brought, and the waiter dismissed with instructions that they were not on any account to be disturbed.
"Do you mind my drawing the curtains?" said Reg, "the light affects my eyes."
"Not at all, old man. Here's good luck to you," answered Tommy, filling his glass.
Reg did not reply, but going to the door, he locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Tommy looked on in amazement. The little man had not much pluck, and he felt his knees tremble.
"What's the joke, old chap!" he asked, in a voice intended to be jocular.
"Thomas Thomas, listen to me. Amy Johnson is dead."
"Dead!" gasped Tommy, upsetting his glass in astonishment.
"Yes, she is dead. Your friend Wyck murdered her."
"Murdered her!"
"Yes, murdered her," reiterated Reg.
"My God, old chap, I'm——"
"Silence!" cried Reg, in a stern voice. "You were the man who introduced her to him, and it is to you I look for some explanation. Who is this Villiers Wyckliffe, and what is his power?"
"My dear Morris, really I don't know. I always thought he was a straight chap."
"Tommy, you're a liar. You do know, so out with it."
"But I've sworn not to divulge," almost whined Tommy.
"Then you refuse," said Reg, placing pen, ink and paper before Tommy, and producing a revolver from his pocket. Then he quietly placed his watch on the table in front of him, and said:
"There are pen and paper. If you want to write to your friends, do so, for you have five minutes to live."
This was too much for Tommy. All his dapper gaiety had disappeared. His clothes seemed to hang loosely on his limbs, and a perspiration broke out on his forehead. All hisself-control vanished, and he fell abjectly on his knees and cried out for mercy.
"Get up, you lying scoundrel," said Reg. "What mercy did you or he show."
"I'll tell you all, Morris. I'll tell you all," gasped his victim.
"Then get up and do so at once, for you have but three minutes."
"What do you want to know?"
"All you know about Villiers Wyckliffe, and this power he is said to possess."
Tommy started with a tremulous voice, and narrated in disjointed sentences all that is known to the reader, the Detlij Club, all Wyck's secrets, his affair with Miss Williamson, and his own share in procuring the invitations for the Bachelors' Ball.
"Where has he gone now?" said Reg, still fingering the revolver.
"To Adelaide by theHimalaya."
"Is he going direct?"
"Yes he is, I swear."
"Then go down on your knees, Tommy, and swear you will never divulge that you have told me all this, and that you will not communicate with him."
"I swear, Morris," and Tommy was fairly on his knees.
"Now go. You are only his accomplice. You did not do the deed, so I'll let you go; but mark my words, if ever I hear of you mixing my name up with yours, I shoot you like a dog. Now go," said Reg, unlocking the door, through which Tommy rapidly slipped without a second bidding.
"It's really wonderful what an empty pistol can do with some fellows," said Reg to himself, as he drank a glass of wine and straightened the table.
"Miss Williamson," he continued, musing to himself, "Marjorie Williamson; you are the poor victim who lost your mother and your livelihood through the same man. I must see you, for you and I ought to shake hands."
Half-an-hour later, he entered the Caledonian Theatre by the stage-door, at the entrance of which he was confronted by an old fellow, who gruffly enquired his business.
"Have you been here long?" he asked.
"Yes, close on twenty years; why?"
"I want a little information. What's your name?"
"Jones. What's yours?"
"Mine is Morris."
"Well, what is it you want to know?" said Jones, looking suspiciously at him.
"Do you know Miss Williamson?"
"Yes, I do."
"Can you tell me where she lives?"
"No, I can't; and what's more, you'd better clear. She was ruined by one of you cursed—"
"Stay, Jones, I understand you. I don't come here as one of those vile cattle who hang round stage doors. I want to offer help and sympathy."
"Then you can go away, for she don't want either," said Jones, pointing to the door.
"My good fellow, I see you are a friend of hers, and I am glad to find she has one so good and true."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Can I trust you, Jones?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Then listen. The same man who ruined that girl, and killed her mother, killed also the girl I loved, the girl I had been engaged to for years. And I now look for my revenge."
"But what has she to do with it?" asked he, in a softer voice.
"I want to know her. I want her to have her revenge too. I am a rich man and I am off on his tracks to Australia next Friday."
"I don't think she'd see you, sir. She's never seen a gent since."
"You are an old friend, I can see?"
"Yes, sir, I am. Her dead mother and I were old friends. She was one of the good sort. She didn't put on airs because her daughter was a great actress. She used to sit and talk to me every night."
"Jones, you can manage it. Come, we'll go together."
As they drove along very little conversation passed between the two. At length the cab stopped at a house in a shabby street in Camden Town. "You stay here, sir, until I've seen her," said Jones, as he knocked at the door. The curtain was drawn aside for a moment before he was admitted. Five, ten minutes elapsed, and he did not return. Reg became impatient, but at last he heard the door open, and Jones was saying, "You see him, Miss Marjorie, he has a good face." But still she seemed to hesitate,and Reg, without waiting for more, walked up to her and grasping her hand, said in an earnest voice:
"Miss Williamson, Imustsee you."
She offered no further resistance, and Reg passed with her into a small sitting-room.
"Stay where you are, Jones," said Reg, as he saw him about to leave them alone. "You can hear all I have to say. Miss Williamson, I have heard all about your troubles, and I want you to listen to mine:" and again his sad story was recited.
"Now Miss Williamson I am off to Australia to take vengeance, and I want you to assist me."
"Assist you! how? Mr. Morris."
"In this way. You are here toiling your life away for a meagre pittance. You must give it up."
"Indeed I—"
"Stay, let me finish. I want you to clear your name and honour before the world. I want you to rise again to your old position, and be revenged that way."
"Impossible," she said.
"No it's not, sir," chimed in Jones, eagerly.
"She could get a good engagement to-morrow if she liked."
"Miss Williamson, as I said before, I am a rich man. I have thousands a year, and now I have no use for the money I want you to accept—"
"I shall accept nothing, sir," said she, sharply.
"I want you to accept," resumed Reg, tranquilly, "a small loan in order to enable you to have a fair start, and as you will not quite trust me, I will place it in Jones's hands. Here, Jones," he continued, handing him a roll of notes, "are a hundred and fifty pounds. You are to watch over Miss Williamson and see that she resumes her calling. Miss Williamson, once more I beg of you to assist me, and when you are a successful woman again, and making lots of money, you can repay me."
"Miss Marjorie, do it. I'll help you," said Jones, appealingly.
"Then I'll do it, Mr. Morris, and God bless you;" then words failed her, and she laid her head on the sofa and burst into tears.
Reg bid her good-bye and, followed by Jones left the house, feeling lighter-hearted than hehad been for several days. And Jones, when he was put down at the theatre door, said, in a choking voice:
"You'll never regret this day's work, sir. God bless you."
Reg next went to the shop at which he had ordered his die, and found it a most satisfactory piece of workmanship. Then he drove to the offices of the Orient Company, and found if he left London on the following Friday he could catch theOrltuzat Naples.
"There's only one berth left, sir," said the clerk. "It's in a two-berth cabin, and a Mr. Allen Winter has the other."
"Then cable and secure it for me," he said, putting down the money and receiving his ticket.
The next day he called on Bridgland, related all he had done, and told him his plans.
"You are a marvel, Morris," said that worthy man. "I could not understand why you left me so suddenly. So you leave England to-morrow for certain?"
"Yes. Wyck has a clear week's start and, as theHimalayais a faster boat, I expect he will reach Adelaide eight days ahead of me."
"And when you catch him what will you do?"
"Do you see this die, Bridgland?" asked Reg, as he produced his case. "This is his device. I'll brand him with it on both ears. He shall be a marked man for life."
"But that's rather dangerous, is it not?"
"Listen, Brigland. I have sworn by the corpse of the girl I loved that I would avenge her death, and I will do it at any cost. Your high-class Englishman looks upon a woman's honour as his legitimate prey, and his fellows feast and toast and testimonialise his success in his nefarious deeds; but we Australians are made of different stuff from the rotten fabric of European civilisation. We hold the honour of our women in respect, and we have only one law for those who sully or sport with it—the law that a right-minded man makes for himself. Here is a murderer gone to our country to continue his infamous amusement. Mark my words, Bridgland, if he ever returns alive to England, he will return so that it is impossible for him to hold up his head. Now good-bye, old chap. When you see me again, rest assured Australia will have been revenged."
"My God!" said Bridgland to himself when Reg had left him. "I would rather be dead than have a sleuth-hound like that on my track. Wyck, your time has come, but not before you deserve it."
The final arrangements were completed, and Reg started on his journey. He bade a fond farewell to the Whytes, and his last word rang in Oliver Whyte's ears for many a day. It was "Revenge."
"Now then, Reginald Morris, my name is Allen Winter. I am going to have it out with you," said a tall, handsome man, fully six feet in his socks and broad in proportion, as he closed the cabin door, and stood with his back to it.
Reg had been lounging on his bunk, deep in his own thoughts, when he was disturbed by the abrupt entrance of his fellow-passenger, and the above good-humoured demand. Reg got up from his bunk, and faced him without speaking.
"You've shared my cabin since we left Naples, three days ago. Not a word have you spoken. You have done nothing but mope about, and look as miserable as a boiled owl. I say again, I won't have it, for you are infecting me with your low spirits," said Winter.
Reg looked at him with curiosity, but stillanswered nothing, so that Winter began to show signs of annoyance.
"Hang it all! can't you speak, man? I can box, shoot, fence, fight, or anything you like. I don't think I am a bad sort of fellow myself, and it's because I know you are a good sort that I feel so annoyed to see you moping."
"I am much obliged to you for the compliment; still I fancy I can do what I please," said Reg, quietly.
The other showed no signs of resentment, but continued smiling at him as he rattled off the following, "You are in trouble, I know. You have had a severe blow lately. There was a woman in it, and she's dead. You loved that woman; her name was Amy, and the man who came between you was a certain Wyck. You are an Australian, and have plenty of money. You are seeking revenge, and your instrument of vengeance is in your breast pocket. These are details I have gathered from what I have seen of you, or what I have heard you mutter in your sleep; and knowing this much I am curious to know more."
"You are quite an up-to-date detective, sir," said Reg, frankly.
"Ah! then you acknowledge that I have hit the mark."
"But pray, sir, are there not enough people on board to amuse you without the need of exercising your powers on me. I am in trouble, I acknowledge, but I prefer keeping my troubles to myself," answered Reg, really angry this time.
"I apologise, Morris, if I have been abrupt, but really I did not mean to be so. It is strange that though there are over two hundred passengers on board, I have not seen a face I care about but yours, and when I see you fretting away I feel for you, for I have gone through the mill, and know what it is."
"What do you mean?" said Reg, growing interested.
"Let me tell you my history. I was born in Victoria. My father died when I was fifteen, and left me to look after my mother, who was a confirmed invalid. She died twelve months later, and I was left alone. While walking down Collins Street one day I had an adventure which changed the course of my career. A carriage and pair of flash horses were being driven by, the coachman lounging on the box holding the reinscarelessly, when a tram-car rounded the corner at a good pace. The horses gave a bound, the sudden shock sent the coachman off his box, and away they galloped. They turned one corner, and then another safely, and I was able by cutting through a cross street to come up with them. Well I was always a handy youngster, and as they dashed by me I made a run for the back of the carriage, caught one of the springs, scrambled on the top of the carriage, and reached the box, only to find the reins hanging round the pole beyond my grasp; but it did not take me long to slip along the pole, pick them up, and get back to the box. I, like most Australians can handle the ribbons, but it took me all my time to pull those horses up in time to avoid a collision. I didn't think much of the feat, in fact I rather liked the fun of it, but the old gentleman inside, who was the only occupant, chose to think differently, and when the coachman came up in a cab, in which he had been following us, not much hurt, the old gentleman made me get in beside him.
"'What's your name?' he asked.
"'Allen Winter,' said I.
"Then he asked me my history. I told himthat I was an orphan and had to work for my living. Well, to make this long story short, I have never had to work since, for he gave me twelve months at the Scotch College in Melbourne, and during my holidays he died, leaving me the whole of his fortune. He was an old bachelor, and his money was well invested, so I have now an income of a thousand a year. I have been over every inch of Australia; I know the Colonies well, and I have been round the world twice."
"But you have not explained your interest in me," said Reg.
"No, I thought I would keep that to the last," he said, his voice growing sadder. "I never was much of a Society man, for although I have been through a lot, I never feel at home amongst fashionable folk, and Australian Society is rotten—I don't like it. But I chanced to be thrown into contact with a young girl, with whom I fell madly in love, and whom I endowed, as every man in love does, with all the virtues. I courted her for two years, and she professed to return my devotion. Now, her mother had a great fondness for Society ways and fads, and we were not the best of friends in consequence, butI thought we loved each other too well for that defect in my character to make any difference. The wedding-day was at last fixed. I had presented her with funds to buy her trousseau, as they were not at all well off, when a young sprig of English nobility visited the Colonies, and became acquainted with them. The mother played her cards well, for that cursed snob married my girl under my very nose, and used the trousseau I had provided. She sent me a letter, in which she stated she had never loved me as I deserved to be loved, and that she would offend her mother if she refused the Englishman."
"Did you care for her very much?" asked Reg.
"Except my mother, she was the only woman I ever loved, and when she threw me over it nearly killed me."
"She married this man?"
"Yes; and her mother had the cheek to ask me to the wedding, but, needless to say, I did not go. I very nearly went to the devil instead."
"Now, just listen to me. Suppose that man had come between you two, and, after separating you, had jilted and deserted the girl, and wasdirectly the cause of her death, what would you have done then?" said Reg, excitedly.
Winter did not reply at once. He guessed instantly that Reg was referring to his own case.
"What would you have done?" asked Reg, again, impatiently.
"I think I should have shot him dead, or marked him for life," he answered, deliberately.
"Winter, shake hands. You are a man," said Reg, jumping off his bunk. "I apologise for my previous rudeness."
"Accepted, with pleasure," said Winter, cordially; and the two men shook hands.
Reg thereupon unfolded to him his whole history, which the reader knows. Winter listened attentively and, when he had finished, stood like a man dazed with horror. For the second time he put out his hand, and gripped Reg's hand with a grip that spoke volumes of sympathetic help. For a minute or two there was silence between the two men, which Winter broke by saying:
"Morris, I am an Australian. I know the Colonies well. You will let me join you?"
"Thanks, Winter; but I live for nothing but revenge."
"Then I will join you. You swore an oath to devote all your time and money to vengeance upon this man who has so foully wronged you. Let me swear too that I will join you. I will go with you, and the same spirit that animates you shall animate me too."
There was no mistaking the genuineness of the appeal, and Reg frankly gave him his hand. From that day they were "Reg" and "Hal" to each other, and Wyck had two determined men on his track, the one endowed with all the shrewdness of a keen detective, possessing also a thorough knowledge of Australian life and habits; the other of strong determination and obstinate will that no obstacles would foil. Both awkward customers to deal with, and whose bitter enmity no man could afford to despise.
From that day they were observed by all the passengers to be close friends, and they showed very plainly how little they wished to be disturbed by, or to come into contact with, the other passengers. Now it happened that, although there was a large number of passengers, eligible young men were scarce, and when two of the best-looking young fellows on board gave it to be clearly understood that they intendedkeeping aloof from the general company it naturally caused a little sensation.
"I can't understand them two gents. They be always together, always talk, talk; and when anybody speaks to them they appear offended. It's a shame they ain't more sociable, 'specially as my gals is fond of gentleman's company."
Both Reg and Hal overheard this remark from a stout, florid lady, who with her two daughters was starting on a tour through Australia. She was the wife of Samuel Lewis, cheesemonger, of Drury Lane: they had noticed a label on one of her boxes.
"I feel sorry for her and her daughters, don't you, Reg?" said Hal.
"I've not noticed them, old chap," he answered, indifferently.
"Look here, my boy. You must enliven up a bit. It's no use fretting. You can do nothing till you get to Adelaide, so let's have a bit of fun."
"I'll come round in time, old chap. I have felt better every day since meeting you."
"Yes, and I mean you to feel better still; but come away, here's that confounded old Tickellcoming, he's dead set on us," as they dodged round some deck-chairs.
"Ha, gentlemen, here you are! I am so glad to see you. Would you try one of my cigars; they are really a first-class brand. No; you don't smoke cigars, eh? Sorry for that. Prefer a pipe, eh? Well, that's a nice one you are smoking, and it seems to colour well. Splendid thing, a meerschaum. I always smoke cherry-wood myself; see, this is one. I have some more down below like it. Would you care for one? I assure you they are something special; and this tobacco's simply—"
"Yes, yes," said Hal, stopping him abruptly. "I am sure all you say is quite correct, but we do not require anything to-day, and, moreover, we are engaged—"
"But, my dear sir, you know on board ship people are—"
"Supposed to mind their own business," said Hal, exasperated with the man's importunity.
"Yes, exactly, my dear sir, but when—"
"Look, Mr. Tickell, there's Mrs. Morgan beckoning to you," said Reg.
"Where? Ah, yes, I am sorry I must leaveyou: ta, ta; I'll see you again," and away he skipped to annoy someone else.
"Tickell is a specimen of that irritating species of human kind, the unsnubbable," said Hal.
Various attempts were made to penetrate their reserve, but without success, for they clearly gave everyone to understand that they preferred the company of each other, which did not tend to their popularity on board. Amongst the passengers was a young man who rejoiced in the high-sounding name of Hugh St. John Wilson-Mainwaring, and whose sense of self-importance was as extensive as his appellation. He was the younger son of a bishop, and intended to tour the Colonies at the expense of the inhabitants, feeling satisfied that he had only to make it known that his father was the Bishop of Doseminster to have the door of every aristocrat-loving Australian flung open wide in his honour. His voice had a delightful drawl that attracted the female portion of the passengers, and the little time of each day that was left to him after that which was occupied in the management of this characteristic, the manipulation of his eye-glass, and the exposure of the correct fourinches of shirt-cuff, was devoted to the invention of inane practical jokes. He had successfully played "ripping good jokes, don't yer know" on most of the passengers, and one old squatter who was returning with his "missus" after doing England felt highly honoured at being made the butt of such aristocratic ingenuity.
"We must invite him to the station, missus," he said to his wife the evening after that event. "He would be such a catch for our Eliza."
Now Mr. Hugh St. John Wilson-Mainwaring had noticed that Hal and Reg invariably took possession of a couple of the most comfortable chairs on deck, which they placed in a sunny corner while they read, smoked, or talked together, and he determined to have a joke at their expense. He took the ladies into his confidence in his charming, affable way, and the Misses Lewis, especially, were delighted to be made partners in the attempt of a bishop's son to make these two young men who thought so much of themselves look ridiculous.
One afternoon Hal and Reg, coming on deck, found all the chairs occupied, and were compelled to seat themselves in a couple of hammock chairs, ingenious contrivances in which theback is supported in a notch cut for the purpose. Fortune favoured the bishop's hopeful offspring, for they were not only convenient for his purpose, but they occupied a conspicuous position. Reg and Hal were just dozing off, when he seized his opportunity and crawled quietly on his hands and knees behind Reg's chair, and tied a piece of string on to the support. Cautiously, and in the same monkey-like fashion, he returned, paying out his line as he went, and gleefully drew all his lady admirers' attention to his huge joke.
"You'll come down directly, Reg. They've tied a string to your chair," said Hal, in a whisper.
"Right! old chap. We'll see who will have the best joke. If I come down my back will be broken: understand?"
"Rather! Look out, he's got his string taut."
Scarcely had Hal finished when Reg's chair collapsed, and he fell on the broad of his back. Hal jumped up as if startled, and a violent peal of laughter burst out in all directions, but still Reg lay motionless. Hal went to his assistance, and in a scared voice, called out for the doctor. That gentleman happened to be close at hand, and soon a crowd gathered round.
"My back; it's broken," moaned Reg; and a litter was improvised, and he was carried to the surgery.
"Poor fellow!—How could you do it?—What a shame!—He'll die"—and similar expressions were hurled at the bishop's son, who became seriously alarmed.
When they reached the surgery, the doctor ordered all to leave, except Hal, and began to examine the wounded man.
"Stop," said Reg, pulling himself up. "It's all a joke. Keep it up, doctor."
The doctor was amazed at first, but expressed himself as quite agreeable to join in the plot. Hal left the cabin with a serious face, and met all the anxious enquirers at the door with one stern remark:
"He's dying. I'm going for the Captain."
Mr. Wilson-Mainwaring became seriously alarmed, turned pale, wrung his hands in despair, and gave vent to disjointed appeals and ejaculations. "It was only a joke. Oh! you know it was only a joke. Oh, my poor father! Why did I come? What shall I do?" until they were afraid he would throw himself overboard.
Hal, who had been enjoying his dilemma, nowthought the joke had gone far enough, and opening the surgery door, pulled out Reg, smoking his pipe, and looking as if nothing had happened.
The laugh was now turned against Mr. Hugh St. John Wilson-Mainwaring, who disappeared below, and did not venture on deck for several days.
No one after this attempted to interfere with the two friends' mode of passing their time, and they were left undisturbed, and remained engrossed in each other's society. After an eventful voyage the ship arrived in due time at Adelaide.