Although Mr. O'Shea be not one of the most foreground figures in this piece, we are obliged to follow his fortunes for a brief space, and at a moment when our interests would more naturally call us in another direction. Thus, at a dinner-party, will it occasionally happen that our attention is engaged on one side, while our sympathies incline to the other; so, in life, the self-same incident continues to occur. We have said that he had many a sore misgiving about the enterprise he was engaged in. He felt that he was walking completely in the dark, and towards what he knew not. Mrs. Morris was, doubtless, a clever pilot, but shemightmistake the course, shemightgo wrong in her soundings, and, lastly, shemightchance to be on the shore when the ship was scuttled. These were dire mistrusts, not to say very ungallant suspicions, to haunt the heart and the head of a bridegroom; but—alas! that we must own it—Mr. O'Shea now occupied that equatorial position in life equally distant from the zones of youth and age, where men are most worldly, and disposed to take the most practical views of whatever touches their interests. It was very hard for him to believe that a woman of such consummate cleverness as the widow had ever written a line that could compromise her. He took a man's view of the question, and fancied that a cool head is always cool, and a calculating heart always alive to its arithmetic. These letters, therefore, most probably referred to money transactions; they were, in fact, either bills, or securities, or promises to pay, under circumstances, possibly, not the pleasantest to make public. In such affairs he had always deemed a compromise the best course; why had she not given him a clearer insight into his mission? In fact, he was sailing with sealed orders, to be opened only on reaching a certain latitude. “At all events, I can do nothing till she writes to me;” and with this grain of comfort he solaced himself as he went along his road, trying to feel at ease, and doing his utmost to persuade himself that he was a lucky fellow, and “on the best thing” that had ever turned up in his life.
It is unpleasant for us to make the confession, but in his heart of hearts Mr. O'Shea thought of a mode of guiding himself through his difficulties, which assuredly was little in keeping with the ardor of a devoted lover. The ex-Member for Inch was a disciple of that sect—not a very narrow one—which firmly believes that men have a sort of masonic understanding amongst them always to be true to each other against a woman, and that out of a tacit compact of mutual protection they will always stand by each other against the common enemy. If, therefore, he could make Paten's acquaintance, be intimate with him, and on terms of confidence, he might learn all the bearings of this case, and very probably get no inconsiderable insight into the fair widow's life and belongings.
Amidst a vast conflict of such thoughts as these he rolled along over the Splügen Alps, down the Via Mala, and arrived at last at Baden. The season was at its full flood. There were a brace of kings there, and a whole covey of Serene Highnesses, not to speak of flocks of fashionables from every land of Europe. There was plenty of gossip,—the gossip of politics, of play, of private scandal. The well-dressed world was amusing itself at the top of its bent, and every one speaking ill of his neighbor to his own heart's content. Whatever, however, may be the grand event of Europe,—the outbreak of a war, or a revolution, the dethronement of a king, or the murder of an emperor,—at such places as these the smallest incident of local origin will far out-top it in interest; and so, although the world at this moment had a very fair share of momentous questions at issue, Baden had only tongues and ears for one, and that was the lucky dog that went on breaking the bank at rouge-et-noir about twice a week.
Ludlow Paten was the man of the day. Now it was his equipage, his horses; now it was the company he entertained at dinner yesterday, the fabulous sum he had given for a diamond ring, the incredible offer he had made for a ducal palace on the Rhine. Around these and such-like narratives there floated a sort of atmosphere of an imaginative order: how he had made an immense wager to win a certain sum by a certain day, and now only wanted some trifle of ten or twelve thousand pounds to complete it; how, if he continued to break the bank so many times more, M. Bennasset, the proprietor, was to give him fifty thousand francs a year for life to buy him off, with twenty other variations on these themes as to the future application of the money, some averring it was to ransom his wife from the Moors, and others, as positively, to pay off a sum with which he had absconded in his youth from a great banking-house in London; and, last of all, a select few had revived the old diabolic contract on his behalf, and were firm in declaring that after he retired to his room at night he was heard for hours counting over his gains, and disputing with the Evil One, who always came for his share of the booty, and rigidly insisted on having it in gold. Now, it was strange enough that these last, however wild the superstructure of their belief, had really a small circumstance in their favor, which was that Paten had been met with three or four times in most unfrequented places, walking with a man of very wretched appearance and most forbidding aspect, who covered his face when looked at, and was only to be caught sight of by stealth. The familiar, as he was now called, had been seen by so many that all doubt as to his existence was quite removed.
These were the stories which met O'Shea on his arrival, and which formed the table-talk of the hotel he dined in; narratives, of course, graced with all the illustrative powers of those who told them. One fact, however, impressed itself strongly on his mind,—that with a man so overwhelmed by the favors of Fortune, any chance of forming acquaintance casually was out of the question. If he were cleaned out of his last Napoleon, one could know him readily enough; but to the fellow who can break the bank at will, archdukes and princes are the only intimates. His first care was to learn his appearance. Nor had he long to wait; the vacant chair beside the croupier marked the place reserved for the great player, whose game alone occupied the attention of the bystanders, and whose gains and losses were all marked and recorded by an expectant public. “Here he comes! That is he, leaning on the Prince of Tours, the man with the large beard!” whispered a person in O'Shea's hearing; and now a full, large man, over-weighty, as it seemed, for his years, pushed the crowd carelessly aside, and seated himself at the table. The low murmur that went round showed that the great event of the evening was about to “come off,” and that the terrible conflict of Luck against Luck was now to be fought out.
More intent upon regarding the man himself than caring to observe his game, O'Shea stationed himself in a position to watch his features, scan their whole expression, and mark every varying change impressed upon them. His experience of the world had made him a tolerable physiognomist, and he read the man before him reasonably well. “He is not a clever fellow,” thought he, “he is only a resolute one; and, even as such, not persistent. Still, he will be very hard to deal with; he distrusts every man.” Just as O'Shea was thus summing up to himself, an exclamation from the crowd startled him. The stranger had lost an immense “coup;” the accumulation of five successful passes had been swept away at once, and several minutes were occupied in counting the enormous pile of Napoleons he had pushed across the table.
The player sat apparently unmoved; his face, so far as beard and moustache permitted it to be seen, was calm and impassive; but O'Shea remarked a fidgety uneasiness in his hands, and a fevered impatience in the way he continued to draw off and on a ring which he wore on his finger. The game began again, but he did not bet; and murmuring comments around the room went on, some averring that he was a bad loser, who never had nerve for his reverses, and others as stoutly maintaining that he was such a consummate master of himself that he was never carried away by impulse, but, seeing fortune unfavorable, had firmness enough to endure his present defeat, and wait for a better moment. Gradually the interest of the bystanders took some other direction, and Paten was unobserved, as he sat, to all seeming, inattentive to everything that went on before him. Suddenly, however, he placed twenty thousand francs in notes upon the table, and said, “Red.” The “Black” won; and he pushed back his chair, arose, and strolled carelessly into another room.
O'Shea followed him; he saw him chatting away pleasantly with some of his most illustrious friends, laughingly telling how unfortunate he had been, and in sportive vein declaring that, from the very fact of her sex, a man should not trust too much to Fortune. “I 'll go and play dominoes with the Archduchess of Lindau,” said he, laughing; “it will be a cheap pleasure even if I lose.” And he moved off towards a smallersalon, where the more exclusive of the guests were accustomed to assemble.
Not caring to attract attention by appearing in a company where he was not known to any, O'Shea sauntered out into the garden, and, tempted by the fresh night air, sat down. Chilled after a while, he resolved to take a brisk walk before bed-time, and set out in the avenue which leads to Lichtenthal. He had plenty to think of, and the time favored reflection. On and on he went at a smart pace, the activity of mind suggesting activity of body, and, before he knew it, had strolled some miles from Baden, and found himself on the rise of the steep ascent that leads to Eberstein. He was roused, indeed, from his musings by the passage of a one-horse carriage quite close to him, and which, having gained a piece of level ground, drew up. The door was quickly opened, and a man got out; the moonlight was full upon his figure, and O'Shea saw it was Paten. He looked around for a second or two, and then entered the wood. O'Shea determined to explore the meaning of the mystery, and, crossing the low edge, at once followed him. Guided by the light of the cigar which Paten was smoking, O'Shea tracked him till he perceived him to come to a halt, and immediately after heard the sound of voices. The tone was angry and imperious on both sides, and, in intense eagerness, O'Shea drew nigher and nigher.
“None of your nonsense with me,” said a firm and resolute voice. “I know well how much you believe of such trumpery.”
“I tell you again that I do believe it. As certain as I give you money, so certain am I to lose. Thursday week I gave you five Naps; I lost that same night seventy thousand francs; on Wednesday last the same thing; and to-night two thousand Napoleons are gone. You swore to me, besides, so late as yesterday, that if I gave you twenty Louis, you 'd leave Baden, to go back to England.”
“So I would, but I 've lost it. I went in at roulette, and came out without sixpence; and I'm sure it was not lending brought bad luck uponme.” added he, with a bitter laugh.
“Then may I be cursed in all I do, if I give you another fraction! You think to terrify me by exposure; but who 'll stand that test best,—the man who can draw on his banker for five thousand pounds, or the outcast who can't pay for his dinner? Let the world know the worst of me, and say the worst of me, I can live without it, and you may die on a dunghill.”
“Well, I 'm glad we 're come to this at last. Baden shall know to-morrow morning the whole story, and you will see how many will sit down at the same table with you. You 're a fool—you always were a fool—to insult a man as reckless as I am. What have I to lose? They can't trymeover again any more thanyou. But you can be shunned and cut by your fine acquaintances, turned out of clubs, disowned on every hand—”
“Look here, Collier,” broke in Paten; “I have heard all that rubbish fifty times from you, but it does n't terrify me. The man that can live as I do need never want friends or acquaintances; the starving beggar it is who has no companionship. Let us start fair to-morrow, as you threaten, and at the end of the week let us square accounts, and see who has the best of it.”
“I 'll go into the rooms when they are most crowded, and I 'll say, 'The man yonder, who calls himself Ludlow Paten, is Paul Hunt, the accomplice of Towers, that was hanged for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, at Jersey. My name is Collier; I never changed it. I, too, was in the dock on that day. Here we stand,—he in fine clothes, and I in rags, but not so very remote as externals bespeak us.'”
“In two hours after I 'd have you sent over the frontier with a gendarme, as a vagabond, and without means of support, and I 'd be travelling post to Italy.”
“To see the widow, I hope; to persecute the wretched woman who once in her life thought you were not a scoundrel.”
“Ay, and marry her, too, my respected friend, if the intelligence can give you pleasure to hear it. I 'm sorry we can't ask you to the wedding.”
“No, that you 'll not; she knows you, and while you cheated every one ofus, shediscovered you to be the mean fellow you are,—ready, as she said, to have a share in every enterprise, provided you were always spared the peril. Do you recognize the portrait there, Paul Hunt, and can you guess the painter?”
“If she ever made the speech, she 'll live to rue it.”
“Not a bit of it, man. That woman is your master. You did your very best to terrify her, but you never succeeded. She dares you openly; and if I have to make the journey on foot, I 'll seek her out in Italy, and say, 'Here is one who has the same hate in his heart that you have, and has less hold on life; help him to our common object.' It's not a cool head will be wanting in such a moment; so, look out ahead, Master Paul.”
“You hint at a game that two can play at.”
“Ay, but you 're not one of them. You were always a coward.”
ONE0570
A savage oath, and something like the noise of a struggle, followed. Neither spoke; but now O'Shea could distinctly mark, by the crashing of the brushwood, that they had either both fallen to the ground, or that one had got the other under. Before he could resolve what course to take, the sharp report of a pistol rung out, the hasty rustle of a man forcing through the trees followed, and then all was still. It was not till after some minutes that he determined to go forward. A few steps brought him to the place, where in a little alley of the wood lay a man upon his face. He felt his wrist, and then, turning him on his back, laid his hand on the heart. All was still; he was warm, as if in life, but life had fled forever! A faint streak of moonlight had now just fallen upon the spot, and he saw it was Ludlow Paten who lay there. The ball had entered his left side, and probably pierced the heart, so instantaneous had been his death. While O'Shea was thus engaged in tracing the fatal wound, a heavy pocket-book fell from the breast-pocket. He opened it; its contents were a packet of letters, tied with a string; he could but see that they bore the address of Paul Hunt, but he divined the rest. They werehers. The great prize, for which he himself was ready to risk life, was now his own; and he hastened away from the place, and turned with all speed towards Baden.
It was not yet daybreak when he got back, and, gaining his room, locked the door. He knew not why he did so, but in the fear and turmoil of his mind he dreaded the possibility of seeing or being seen. He feared, besides, lest some chance word might escape him, some vague phrase might betray him as the witness of a scene he resolved never to disclose. Sometimes, indeed, as he sat there, he would doubt the whole incident, and question whether it had not been the phantasm of an excited brain; but there before him on the table lay the letters; there they were, the terrible evidences of the late crime, and perhaps the proofs of guilt in another too!
This latter thought nearly drove him distracted. There before him lay what secured to him the prize he sought for, and yet what, for aught he knew, might contain what would render that object a shame and a disgrace. It lay with himself to know this. Once in her possession, he, of course, could never know the contents, or if by chance discovery came, it might come too late. He reasoned long and anxiously with himself; he tried to satisfy his mind that there were cases in which self-preservation absolved a man from what in less critical emergencies had been ignominious to do. He asked himself, “Would not a man willingly burn the documents whose production would bring him to disgrace and ruin? and, by the same rule, would not one eagerly explore those which might save him from an irreparable false step? At all events,” thought he, “Fortune has thrown the chance in my way, and so—” He read them.
There was something actually artistic in the choice old Holmes had made for his daughter's residence near Bregenz. It was an old-fashioned farmhouse, with a deep eave, and a massive cornice beneath it. A wooden gallery ran the entire length, with a straggling stair to it, overgrown with a very ancient fig-tree, whose privilege it was to interweave through the balustrades, and even cross the steps at will, the whole nearly hidden by the fine old chestnut-trees which clothe the Gebhardts-Berg to its very summit. It was the sort of spot a lone and sorrowing spirit might have sought out to weep away unseen, to commune with grief in solitude, and know nothing of a world she was no more to share in. The simple-hearted peasants who accepted them as lodgers asked no reason for their selection of the place, nor were they likely, in their strange dialect, to be able to discuss the point with others, save their neighbors. The chief room, which had three windows opening on a little terrace, looked out upon a glorious panorama of the Swiss Alps, with the massive mountains that lead to the Splugen; and it was at one of these Mrs. Morris—or rather, to give her that name by which for the last few pages of our story she may be called, Mrs. Hawke—now sat, as the sun was sinking, watching with an unfeigned enjoyment the last gorgeous tints of declining day upon the snow peaks.
Perhaps at that moment the sense of repose was the most grateful of all sensations to her, for she had passed through a long day of excitement and fatigue. Like a great actress who had, in her impersonation of a difficult part, called forth all her powers of voice, look, and gesture, straining every fibre to develop to the utmost the passion she would convey, and tearing her very heart to show its agony, she was now to feel the terrible depression of reaction, the dreary void of the solitude around her, and the death-like stillness of her own subdued emotions. But yet, through all this, there was a rapturous enjoyment in the thought of a task accomplished, an ordeal passed.
On that same morning it was Trover had arrived with Mr. Winthrop, and her first meeting took place with the friend of her late husband,—perhaps the one living being whom alone of all the world she felt a sort of terror at seeing. The fear he inspired was vague, and not altogether reasonable; but it was there, and she could not master it. Till she met him, indeed, it almost overcame her; but when she found him a mild old man, of gentle manners and a quiet presence, unsuspecting and frank, and extending towards her a compassionate protection, she rallied quickly from her fears, and played out her part courageously.
How affecting was her grief! It was one of those touching pictures which, while they thrill the heart, never harrow the feelings. It was sorrow made beautiful, rather than distressing. Time, of course, long years, had dulled the bitterness of her woe, and only cast the sombre coloring of sadness over a nature that might have been—who knows?—made for joy and brightness. Unused to such scenes, the honest American could only sit in a sort of admiring pity of such a victim to an early sorrow; so fair a creature robbed of her just meed of this world's happiness, and by a terrible destiny linked with an awful event! And how lovely she was through it all, how forgiving of that man's cruelty! He knew Hawke well, and he was no stranger to the trials a woman must have gone through who had been chained to his coarse and brutal nature; and yet not a harsh word fell from her, not a syllable of reproach or blame. No; she had all manner of excuses to make for him, in the evil influences by which he was surrounded, the false and bad men who assumed to be his friends.
It was quite touching to hear her allude to the happiness of their early married life,—their contentment with humble fortune, their willing estrangement from a world of luxury and display, to lead an existence of cultivated pursuits and mutual affection. Winthrop was moved as he listened, and Trover had to wipe his eyes.
Of the dreadful event of her life she skilfully avoided details, dwelling only on such parts of it as might illustrate her own good qualities, her devotion to the memory of one of whom she had much to pardon, and her unceasing affection for his child. If the episode of that girl's illness and death was only invented at the moment of telling, it lost nothing by the want of premeditation; and Winthrop's tears betrayed how he took to heart the desolate condition of that poor bereaved woman.
“I had resolved,” said she, “never to avail myself of this fortune. To what end could I desire wealth? I was dead to the world. If enough remained to support me through my lonely pilgrimage, I needed no more. The simple life of these peasants here offered me all that I could now care for, and it was in this obscure spot I meant to have ended my days, unnoticed and unwept. My dear father, however, a distinguished officer, whose services the Government is proud to acknowledge, had rashly involved himself in some speculations; everything went badly with him, and he finished by losing all that he had laid by to support his old age. In this emergency I bethought me of that will; but even yet I don't believe I should have availed myself of its provisions if it were not that my father urged me by another and irresistible argument, which was that in not asserting my own claim, I was virtually denying yours. 'Think of Winthrop,' said he. 'Why should he be defrauded of his inheritance because you have taken a vow of poverty?' He called it a vow of poverty,” said she, smiling through her tears, “since I wore no better dress than this, nor tasted any food more delicate than the rough fare of my peasant neighbors.”
If the costume to which she thus directed their attention was simple, it was eminently becoming, being, in reality, a sort of theatrical travesty of a peasant's dress, made to fit perfectly, and admitting of a very generous view of her matchless foot and ankle; insomuch, indeed, that Mr. Winthrop could not help feeling that if poverty had its privations, it could yet be eminently picturesque.
If Winthrop wished from time to time to ask some question about this, or inquire into that, her answers invariably led him far afield, and made him even forget the matter he had been eager about. A burst of emotion, some suddenly recalled event, some long-forgotten passage brought back to mind in a moment, would extricate her from any difficulty; and as to dates,—those awful sunk rocks of all unprepared fiction,—how could she be asked for these,—she, who really could not tell the very year they were then living in, had long ceased to count time or care for its onward course? There were things he did not understand; there were things, too, that he could not reconcile with each other; but he could not, at such a moment, suggest his doubts or his difficulties, nor be so heartless as to weary that poor crushed and wounded spirit by prolonging a scene so painful.
When he arose to take his leave, they were like old friends. With a delicate tact all her own, she distinguished him especially from Mr. Trover; and while she gave Winthrop both her hands in his, she bestowed upon his companion a very cold smile and a curtsey.
“Are they gone,—positively gone?” asked she of her father, who now entered the room, after having carefully watched the whole interview from a summer-house with a spy-glass.
“Yes, dear; they are out on the road. I just overheard the American, as he closed the wicket, remark, 'She's the most fascinating creature I ever talked to!'”
“I hope I am, papa. When one has to be a serpent, one ought surely to have a snake's advantages! What a dear old creature that American is! I really have taken a great liking to him. There is a marvellous attraction in the man that one can deceive without an effort, and, like the sheep who come begging to be eaten, only implores to be 'taken in again.'”
“I never took my eyes off him, and I saw that you made him cry twice.”
“Three times, papa,—three times; not to speak of many false attacks of sensibility that went off in deep sighs and chokings. Oh dear! am I not wearied? Fetch me a little lemonade, and put one spoonful—only one—of maraschino in it. That wretch Trover almost made me laugh with his absurd display of grief. I 'll not have him here to-morrow.”
“And is Winthrop to come to-morrow?”
“Yes; and this evening too. He comes to-night to tea; he is so anxious to know you, papa; he has such a pleasant theory about that dear old man covered with wounds and honors, and devoting his declining year's to console his poor afflicted child. You have put too much maraschino in this.”
“One spoonful, on honor; but I mean to treat myself more generously. Well, I 'm heartily glad that the interview is over. It was an anxious thing to have before one, and particularly not knowing what manner of man he might be.”
“That was the real difficulty. It 's very hard to 'play up' to an unknown audience!”
“I 'd not have asked them back this evening, Loo. It will be too much for you.”
“I did not do so. It was Winthrop himself begged permission to come; but he promised that not a syllable of business was to transpire, so that I have only to be very charming, which, of course, costs nothing.”
“I gather that all went smoothly on this morning. No difficulty anywhere?”
“None whatever. The account Trover gave us is fully borne out. The property is immense. There are, however, innumerable legal details to be gone through. I can't say what documents and papers we shall not have to produce; meanwhile our American friend most generously lays his purse at our disposal, and this blank check is to be filled at my discretion.”
“'Barnet and King,'” read he; “an excellent house. 'Please to pay to Mrs. Hawke, or order.' Very handsome of him, this, Loo; very thoughtful.”
“Very thoughtful; but I'd as soon Trover had not been present; he's a greedy, grabbing sort of creature, and will insist upon a large discount out of it.”
“Make the draft the bigger, darling; the remedy is in your own hands.”
“Strange there should be no letter from O'Shea. I was full certain we should have heard something before this.”
“Perhaps we may by this post, dear. It ought to have arrived by this time.”
“Then go and see, by all means. How I hate a post that comes of an evening! One ought to begin the day with one's letters; they are the evil fates, whose machinations all our efforts are directed against. They are, besides, the whispering of the storm that is brewing afar off, but is sure to overtake us. One ought to meet them with a well-rested brain and refreshed spirit, not wearied and jaded and unstrung by the day's toil.”
And the Captain prepared to obey, but not without a variety of precautions against catching cold, which seemed somewhat to try his daughter's patience.
“You really,” said she, with a half-bitter smile, “take very little account of the anxiety I must feel about my future husband.”
“Nonsense, dear; the O'Shea is not to be thought of. It would really be a gross misuse of wealth to share it with such a man.”
“So it might, if one were free to choose. But it's the old story, papa,” said she, with a sigh. “To be cured of the ague, one is willing to take arsenic. There, you are surely muffled enough now; lose no more time, and, above all things, don't get into a gossiping mood, and stay to talk with Trover, or be seduced by Mr. Winthrop's juleps, but come back at once, for I have a sort of feverish foreboding over me that I cannot control.”
“How silly that is, dear!—to have a stout heart on the high seas and grow cowardly in the harbor.”
“Butarewe in the harbor? Are we soverycertain that the voyage is over?” said she, with increased eagerness, “But pray go for the letters, or I will myself.”
He set out at last, and she watched him as he shut the wicket and crossed out upon the high-road; and then, all alone as she sat, she burst into a passionate flood of tears. Was this the relief of a nature strained like an over-bent bow? Was it the sorrowful outburst of a spirit which, however bold and defiant to the world, was craven to itself; or was it simply that fear had mastered her, and that she felt the approach of the storm that was to shipwreck her?
She must have been partly stunned by her sorrow, for she sat, no longer impatient, nor watching eagerly for his return, but in a sort of half-lethargic state, gazing out unconsciously into the falling night that now closed in fast around her.
It is neither a weak nor an ignorant theory that ascribes, even to the most corrupt natures, moments of deepest remorse, sincere and true, aspirations after better things, and a willingness to submit to the severest penalties of the past, if only there be a “future” in store for them. Who can tell us what of these were now passing through the mind of her who sat at that window, brooding sorrowfully?
“Here 's a letter for you, Loo, and a weighty one too,” said Holmes, entering the room, and approaching her before she was aware. “It was charged half a dollar extra, for overweight. I trust you 'll say it was worth the money.”
“Fetch a light! get me a candle!” cried she, eagerly; and she broke the seal with hands all trembling and twitching. “And leave me, papa; leave me a moment to myself.”
He placed the candles at her side, and stole away. She turned one glance at the address, “To Mrs. Hawke,” and she read in that one word that the writer knew her story. But the contents soon banished other thoughts; they were her own long-coveted, long-sought letters; there they were now before her, time-worn and crumpled, records of a terrible season of sorrow and misery and guilt! She counted them over and over; there were twenty-seven; not one was missing. She did not dare to open them; and even in her happiness to regain them was the darkening shadow of the melancholy period when they were written,—the long days of suffering and the nights of tears. So engrossed was she by the thought that they were now her own again, that the long tyranny of years had ended and the ever-impending shame departed, that she could not turn to learn how she came by them, nor through whom. At length this seemed to flash suddenly on her mind, and she examined the envelope, and found a small sealed note, addressed, as was the packet, “Mrs. Hawke.” O'Shea's initials were in the corner. It contained but one line, which ran thus:—
“I have read the enclosed.—G. O'S.”
Then was it that the bitterness of her lot smote her with all its force, and she dropped down upon her knees, and, laying her head on the chair, sobbed as if each convulsive beat would have rent her very heart.
Oh, the ineffable misery of an exposed shame! the terrible sense that we are to meet abroad and before the world the stern condemnation our conscience has already pronounced, and that henceforth we are to be shunned and avoided! There is not left to us any longer one mood of mind that can bring repose. If we are depressed, it is in the mourning of our guilt we seem to be dressed; if for a moment we assume the air of light-heartedness, it is to shock the world by the want of feeling for our shame! It is written that we are to be outcasts and live apart!
“May I come in, Loo?” said a low voice from the half-opened doorway. It was her father, asking for the third time before she heard him.
She uttered a faint “Yes,” and tried to rise; but her strength failing, she laid her head down again between her hands.
ONE0580
“What is this, darling?” he said, stooping down over her. “What bad tidings have you got there? Tell me, Loo, for I may be able to lighten your sorrow for you.”
“No,” said she, calmly, “that you cannot, for you cannot make me unlive the past! Read that.”
“Well, I see nothing very formidable in this, dear. I can't suppose that it is the loss of such a lover afflicts you. He has read them. Be it so. They are now in your own hands, and neither he nor any other will ever read them again. It would have been more interesting had he told us how he came by them; that was something really worth knowing; for remember, Loo,—and it is, after all, the great point,—these are documents you were ready and willing to have bought up at a thousand pounds, or even more. Paten often swore he 'd have three thousand for them, and there they are now, safe in your own keeping, and not costing you one shilling. Stay,” said he, laughing, “the postage was about one-and-sixpence.”
“And is it nothing to cost me open shame and ignominy? Is it nothing that, instead of one man, two now have read the dark tracings of my degraded heart? Oh, father, evenyoumight feel for the misery of exposure!”
“But it is not exposure: it is the very opposite; it is, of all things, the most secret and secure. When these letters are burned, what accusation remains against you? The memory of two loose men about town. But who 'll believe them, or who cares if they be believed? Bethink you that every one in this world is maligned by somebody, and finds somebody else to credit the scandal. Give me a bishop to blacken to-morrow, and see if I won't have a public to adopt the libel. No, no, Loo; it's a small affliction, believe me, that one is able to dispose of with a lucifer-match. Here, girl, give them to me, and never waste another thought on them.”
“No,” said she, resolutely, “I 'll not burn them. Whatever I may ask of the world to think of me, I do not mean to play the hypocrite to myself. Lend me your hand, and fetch me a glass of water. I cannot meet these people tonight. You must go over to the inn, and say that I am ill,—call it a headache,—and add that I hope by to-morrow I shall be quite well again.”
“Nay, nay, let them come, dear, and the very exertion will cheer you. You promised that American to sing him one of his nigger melodies,—don't forget that.”
“Go and tell them that I have been obliged to take to bed, father,” said she, in a hollow voice. “It is no falsehood to call me very ill.”
“My dear Loo,” said he, caressingly, “all this is so unlike yourself. You, that never lacked courage in your life!you, that never knew what it was to be faint-hearted!”
“Well, you see me a coward at last,” said she, in a faint voice. “Go and do as I bade you, father; for this is no whim, believe me.”
The old man muttered out some indistinct grumblings, and left the room on his errand.
She had not been many minutes alone when she heard the sharp sounds of feet on the gravel, and could mark the voices of persons speaking together with rapidity. One she quickly recognized as her father's, the other she soon knew to be Trover's. The last words he uttered as he reached the door were, “Arrested at once!”
“Who is to be arrested at once?” cried she, rushing wildly to the door.
“We, if we are caught!” said Holmes. “There's no time for explanation now. Get your traps together, and let us be off in quick time.”
“It is good counsel he gives you,” said Trover. “The game is up, and nothing but flight can save us. The great question is, which way to go.”
She pressed her hands to her temples for a moment, and then, as if recalled, by the peril, to her old activity of thought and action, said,—
“Let Johann fetch his cousin quickly; they both row well, and the boat is ready at the foot of the garden. We can reach Rorschach in a couple of hours, and make our way over to St. Gall.”
“And then?” asked Trover, peevishly.
“We are, at least, in a mountain region, where there are neither railroads nor telegraphs.”
“She is right. Her plan is a good one, Trover,” broke in Holmes. “Go fetch what things you mean to take with you, and come back at once. We shall be ready by that time.”
“If there be danger, why go back at all?” said she. “Remember, I know nothing of the perils that you speak of, nor do I ask to know till we are on the road out of them. But stay here, and help us to get our pack made.”
“Now you are yourself again! now I know you, Loo,” said Holmes, in a tone of triumph.
In less than half an hoar after they were skimming across the Lake of Constance as fast as a light skiff and strong arms could bear them. The night was still and calm, though dark, and the water without a ripple.
For some time after they left the shore scarcely a word was spoken amongst them. At last Holmes whispered something in his daughter's ear, and she rejoined aloud,—
“Yes, it is time to tell me now; for, though I have submitted myself to your judgment in this hasty flight, I am not quite sure the peril was as imminent as you believed it What did you mean by talking of an arrest? Who could arrest us? And for what?”
“You shall hear,” said Trover; “and perhaps, when you have heard, you 'll agree that I was not exaggerating our danger.”
Not wishing to impose on our reader the minute details into which he entered, and the narrative of which lasted almost till they reached the middle of the lake, we shall give in a few words the substance of his story. While dressing for dinner at the inn, he saw a carriage with four posters arrive, and, in a very few minutes after, heard a loud voice inquiring for Mr. Harvey Winthrop. Suddenly struck by the strangeness of such a demand, he hastened to gain a small room adjoining Winthrop's, and from which a door communicated, by standing close to which he could overhear all that passed.
He had but reached the room and locked the door, when he heard the sounds of a hearty welcome and recognition exchanged within. The stranger spoke with an American accent, and very soon placed the question of his nationality beyond a doubt.
“You would not believe,” said he, “that I have been in pursuit of you for a matter of more than three thousand miles. I went down to Norfolk and to St Louis, and was in full chase into the Far West, when I found I was on the wrong tack; so I 'wore ship' and came over to Europe.” After satisfying, in some degree, the astonishment this declaration excited, he went on to tell how he, through a chance acquaintance at first, and afterwards a close friendship with the Laytons, came to the knowledge of the story of the Jersey murder, and the bequest of the dying man on his daughter's behalf, his interest being all the more strongly engaged because every one of the localities was familiar to him, and his own brother a tenant on the very land. All the arts he had deployed to trace out the girl's claim, and all the efforts, with the aid of the Laytons, he had made to find out Winthrop himself, he patiently recounted, mentioning his accidental companionship with Trover, and the furtive mode in which that man had escaped him. It was, however, by that very flight Trevor confirmed the suspicion he had attached to him, and so the stranger continued to show that from the hour of his escape they had never “lost the track.” How they had crossed the Atlantic he next recorded,—all their days spent in discussing the one theme; no other incident or event ever occupying a moment's attention. “We were certain of two things,” said he: “there was a deep snare, and that girl was its victim.” He confessed that if to himself the inquiry possessed a deep interest, with old Layton it had become a passion.
“At last,” continued Trover, “he began to confess that their hopes fell, and each day's discomfiture served to chill the ardor that had sustained them, when a strange and most unlooked-for light broke in upon them by the discovery of a few lines of a note written by you to Dr. Layton himself years before, and, being produced, was at once recognized as the handwriting of Mrs. Penthony Morris.”
“Written byme!How could I have written to him? I never heard of him,” broke she in.
“Yes, he was the doctor who attended Hawke in his last illness, and it appeared you wrote to beg he would cut off a lock of hair for you, and bring it to you.”
“I remember that,” said she, in a hollow voice, “though I never remembered his name was Layton. And he has this note still?”
“You shall hear. No sooner had his son—”
“You cannot mean Alfred Layton?”
“Yes; the same. No sooner had he declared that he knew the hand, than they immediately traced you in Mrs. Penthony Morris, and knowing that Stocmar had become the girl's guardian, they lost no time in finding him out. I was too much flurried and terrified at this moment to collect clearly what followed, but I gathered that the elder Layton held over him some threat which, if pushed to execution, might ruin him. By means of this menace, they made Stocmar confess everything. He told who Clara was, how he had gained possession of her, under what name she went, and where she was then living. Through some influence which I cannot trace, they interested a secretary of state in their case, and started for the Continent with strong letters from the English authorities, and a detective officer specially engaged to communicate with the foreign officials, and permit, when the proofs might justify, of an arrest.”
“How much do they know, then?” asked she, calmly.
“They know everything. They know of the forged will, the false certificate of death, and Winthrop has confirmed the knowledge. Fortunately, I have secured the more important document I hastened to his room while they were yet talking, opened his desk, and carried away the will. As to the certificate, the Laytons and the detective had set off for Meisner the moment after reaching Bregenz, to establish its forged character.”
“Who cares for that?” said she, carelessly. “It is a trifling offence. Where is the other,—the will?”
“I have it here,” said he, pointing to his breast-pocket
“Let us make a bonfire, then,” said she, “for I, too, have some inconvenient records to get rid of. I thought of keeping them as memories, but I suspect I shall need no reminders.”
While Trover tore the forged will in pieces, she did the like by the letters, and, a match being applied to the fragments, the flames rose up, and in a few seconds the blackened remnants were carried away by the winds, and lost.
“So, then, Mr. Trover,” said she, at length, “Norfolk Island has been defrauded of your society for this time. By the way, papa, is not this Dr. Layton your friend as well as mine?”
“Yes, Loo, he is the man of ozone and vulcanized zinc, and I don't know what else. I hoped he had died ere this.”
“No, papa, they don't die. If you remark, you 'll see that the people whose mission it is to torment are wonderfully long-lived, and if I were an assurance agent, I 'd take far more account of men's tempers than their gout tendencies and dropsies. Was there any allusion to papa, Mr. Trover?”
“Yes; old Layton seems to have a warrant, or something of the kind, against him, on a grave charge, but I had no mind to hear what.”
“So that, I suppose,” said she, laughing, “I am the only 'innocent' in the company; foryouknow, Mr. Trover, that I forged nothing, falsified nothing; I was betrayed, by my natural simplicity of character, into believing that a fortune was left me. I never dreamed that Mr. Trover was a villain.”
“I don't know how you take it so easily. We have escaped transportation, it is true, but we have not escaped public shame and exposure,” said Trover, peevishly.
“She's right, though, Trover,—she's right. One never gets in the true frame of mind to meet difficulties till one is able to laugh a little at them.”
“Not to mention,” added she, “that there is a ludicrous side in all troubles. I wonder how poor dear Mr. Winthrop bears his disappointment, worse than mine, in so far that he has travelled three thousand miles to attain it.”
“Oh, he professes to be charmed. I heard him say, 'Well, Quackinboss, I 'm better pleased to know that the poor girl is alive than to have a million of dollars left me.
“You don't say the stranger was Quackinboss, the dear Yankee we were all so fond of long ago at Marlia, and whom I never could make in love with me, though I did my very best? Oh, father, is it not provoking to think of all the old friends we are running away from? Colonel Quackinboss, Dr. Layton, and Alfred! every one of them so linked to us by one tender thought or another. What a charming little dinner we might have had to-morrow; the old doctor would have taken me in, whispering a little doleful word, as we went, about the Hawke's Nest, and long ago; and you and he would have had your scientific talk afterwards!”
How old Holmes laughed at the pleasant conceit! It was really refreshing to see that good old man so cheery and light of heart; the very boat shook with his jollity.
“Listen!—do listen!” said Trover, in an accent of terror. “I'm certain I heard the sound of oars following us.”
“Stop rowing for a moment,” said she to the boatmen; and as the swift skiff glided noiselessly along, she bent down her head to listen. “Yes,” said she, in a low, quiet voice, “Trover is right; there is a boat in pursuit, and they, too, have ceased pulling now, to trace us. Ha! there they go again, and for Lindau too; they have heard, perhaps, the stroke of oars in that direction.”
“Let our fellows pull manfully, then, and we are safe,” cried Trover, eagerly.
“No, no,” said she, in the same calm, collected tone. “The moon has set, and there will be perfect darkness till the day breaks, full two hours off. We must be still, so long as they are within hearing of us. I know well, Trover, what a tax this imposes on your courage, but it can't be helped.”
“Just so, Trover,” chimed in Holmes. “She commands here, and there must be no mutiny.”
The wretched man groaned heavily, but uttered no word of reply.
“I wish that great chemical friend of yours, papa,—the wonderful Dr. Layton,—had turned his marvellous mind to the invention of invisible fire. I am dying for a cigar now, and I am afraid to light one.”
“Don't think of it, for mercy's sake!” broke in Trover.
“Pray calm yourself, I have not the slightest fancy for being overtaken by this interesting party, nor do I think papa has either,—not that our meeting could have any consequence beyond mere unpleasantness. If they should come up with us, I am as ready to denounce the deceitful Mr. Trover as any of them.”
“This is very poor jesting, I must say,” muttered he, angrily.
“You'll find it, perhaps, a very serious earnest if we're caught.”
“Come, come, Loo, forgive him; he certainly meant all for the best. I 'm sure you did, Trover,” said old Holmes, with the blandest of voices.
“Why, what on earth do you mean?” cried he. “You are just as deep in the plot as I am. But for you, how should I have known about Hawke's having any property in America, or that he had any heir to it?”
“I am not naturally suspicious, Trover,” said she, with mock gravity, “but I declare I begin to believe you are a bad man,—a very bad man!”
“I hope and trust not, Loo,” said old Holmes, fervently; “I really hope not.”
“It is no common baseness that seeks for its victim the widow and the fatherless. Please to put that rug under my feet, Trover. There are barristers would give their eye-tooth for such an opening for invective. I have one fat friend in my eye would take the brief for mere pleasure of blackguarding you. You know whom I mean, papa.”
“You may push a joke too far, Mrs. Morris,—or Mrs. Hawke, rather,” said Trover, rudely, “for I don't know by which name you will be pleased to be known in future.”
“I am thinking very seriously of taking a new one, Trover, and the gentleman who is to share it with me will probably answer all your inquiries on that and every other subject. I trust, too, that he will meet us to-morrow.”
“Well, if I were Trover, I'd not pester him with questions,” said Holmes, laughingly.
“Don't you think they might take to their oars again, now?” asked Trover, in a very beseeching tone.
“Poor Mr. Trover!” said she, with a little laugh. “It is really very hard on him! I have a notion that this night's pleasuring on the Lake of Constance will be one of the least grateful of his recollections.” Then turning to the boatmen, she bade them “give way” with a will, and pull their best for Rorschach.
From this time out nothing was said aloud, but Holmes and his daughter spoke eagerly together in whispers, while Trover sat apart, his head turned towards where the shadow of large mountains indicated the shore of the lake.
“A'n't you happy now, Mr. Trover?” said she, at length, as the boat glided into a little cove, where a number of fishing-craft lay at anchor. “A'n't you happy?”
Either smarting under what he felt the sarcasm of her question, or too deeply immersed in his own thoughts, he made no reply whatever, but as the boat grated on the shingly beach he sprang out and gained the land. In another minute the boatmen had drawn the skiff high and dry, on the sand, and assisted the others to disembark.
“How forgetful you are of all gallant attentions!” said she, as Trover stood looking on, and never offering any assistance whatever. “Have you got any silver in your purse, papa?”
“I can't see what these pieces are,” said Holmes, trying to peer through the darkness.
“Pay these people, Trover,” said she, “and be liberal with them. Remember from what fate they have saved you.” And as she spoke she handed him her purse. “We'll saunter slowly up to the village, and you can follow us.”
Trover called the men around him, and proceeded to settle their fare, while Holmes and his daughter proceeded at an easy pace inland.
“How much was there in your purse, Loo?” asked Holmes.
“Something under twenty Napoleons, papa; but it will be quite enough.”
“Enough for what, dear?”
“Enough to tempt poor Mr. Trover. We shall never see more of him.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I am certain of it. He was thinking of nothing else than how to make his escape all the time we were crossing the lake, and I, too, had no more pressing anxiety than how to get rid of him. Had I offered him a certain sum, we should have had him for a pensioner as long as he lived, but by making him steal the money I force him to be his own security that he 'll never come back again. It was for this that I persisted in acting on his fears in the boat; the more wretched we made him the cheaper he became, and when he heaved that last heavy sigh, I took ten Napoleons off his price.”
Holmes had to stop walking, and hold his hands to his sides with laughter. The device seemed to him about the best practical joke he had ever heard of. Then ceasing suddenly, he said,—
“But what if he were to go back to the others, Loo, and turn approver against us?”
“We are safe enough on that score. He has nothing to tell them that they do not know already. They have got to the bottom of all the mystery, and they don't want him.”
“Still it seems to me, Loo, that it might have been safer to keep him along with us,—under our eye, as it were.”
“Not at all, papa. It is as in a shipwreck, where the plank that will save two will sink with three. The stratagem that will rescueuswould be probably marred byhim, and, besides, he'll provide for his own safety better than we should.”
Thus talking, they entered the little village, where, although not yet daybreak, a smallcaféwas open,—one of those humble refreshment-houses frequented by peasants on their way to their daily toil.
“Let us breakfast here,” said she, “while they are getting ready some light carriage to carry us on to St. Grail. I have an old friend there, the prior of the monastery, who used to be very desirous to convert me long ago. I intend to give him a week or ten days' trial now, papa; and he may also, if he feel so disposed, experiment uponyou.”
It was in this easy chit-chat they sat down to their coffee in the little inn at Rorschach. They were soon, however, on the road again, sealed in a little country carriage drawn by a stout mountain pony.
“Strange enough all this adventure seems,” said she, as they ascended the steep mountain on foot, to relieve the weary beast. “Sometimes it appears all like a dream to me, and now, when I look over the lake there, and see the distant spires of Bregenz yonder, I begin to believe that there is reality in it, and that we are acting in a true drama.”
Holmes paid but little attention to her words, wrapped up as he was in some details he was reading in a newspaper he had carried away from theCafé.
“What have you found to interest you so much there, papa?” asked she, at last.
Still he made no reply, but read on.
“It can scarcely be that you are grown a politician again,” continued she, laughingly, “and pretend to care for Austria or for Italy.”
“This is all about Paten,” said he, eagerly. “There's the whole account of it.”
“Account of what?” cried she, trying to snatch the paper from him.
“Of his death.”
“His death! Is he dead? Is Paten dead?” She had to clutch his arm as she spoke to support herself, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she kept her feet. “How was it? Tell me how he came by his death. Was it O'Shea?”
“No, he was killed. The man who did it has given himself up, alleging that it was in an altercation between them; a pistol, aimed at his own breast, discharged its contents in Paten's.”
She tore the paper from his hand, and, tottering over to a bank on the roadside, bent down to read it. Holmes continued to talk over the event and all the details, but she did not hear what he said. She had but senses for the lines she was perusing.
“I thought at first it was O'Shea in some disguise. But it cannot be; for see, they remark here that this man has been observed loitering about Baden ever since Paten arrived. Oh, here's the mystery,” cried she. “His name is Collier.”
“That was an old debt between them,” said Holmes.
“I hope there will be no discovery as to Paten's real name. It would so certainly revive the old scandal.”
“We can scarcely expect such good luck as that, Loo. There is but one thing to do, dear; we must put the sea between us and our calumniators.”
“How did O'Shea come by the letters if he had no hand in it?”
“Perhaps he had; perhaps it was a concerted thing; perhaps he bought up the letters from Collier afterwards. Is it of the least consequence to us how he got them?”
“Yes, Collier might have read them,” said she, in a hollow voice; and as Holmes, startled by the tones, turned round, he saw that she had a sickening faintness over her, and that she trembled violently.
“Where's your old courage, Loo?” said he, cheeringly. “Paten is gone, Collier has a good chance of being sent after him, and here we are, almost the only actors left of the whole drama.”
“That's true, papa, very true; and as we shall have to play in the afterpiece, the sooner we get the tragedy out of our heads the better.”
They remounted the carriage, and went on their way. There, where the beech-trees bend across the road, it is there they have just disappeared! The brisk tramp of the pony can be heard even yet; it grows fainter and fainter, and only the light train of dust now marks their passage. They are gone; and we are to see them no more!