A few days later the train deposited Winslade at Solchester, one of those third-rate provincial towns where it is next to impossible to hide anything from one's neighbours, and where it seems to be the rule for everybody to know everything, or to assume that they do, about everybody else's business.
From this it followed that Phil experienced little difficulty in finding plenty of people ready and willing tell him all there was to tell about the early life and antecedents of the Denia Lidington who later on became the wife of Mr. James Melray. The fact of her husband's tragical fate and the mystery which still enshrouded his death, had served to bring everything connected with her freshly to people's minds; indeed, the good folk of Solchester had come to look upon the Loudwater Tragedy as being a matter which concerned them nearly, if not quite, as much as their Merehampton neighbours.
The one fresh fact pertinent to his inquiry elicited by Winslade was that, while still little more than a school-girl, Miss Lidington had had a very pronounced flirtation with a handsome, but impecunious, ne'er-do-well, Evan Wildash by name, which had so alarmed the girl's uncle that he had sought out the young fellow and had there and then made him an offer of two hundred pounds on condition that he took himself off for good and all to one or other of the colonies. This Wildash had made no difficulty in doing, and, a couple of years later, tidings, the authenticity of which nobody had seen reason to doubt, had come to hand of his death by fever at the Cape. In any case, Evan Wildash had never been seen in Solchester again.
The information thus obtained seemed to Robert Melray to supply strong and convincing reason for accepting as an authentic record the MS. which such a strange chance had put into the hands of Mr. Timmins. To him it now appeared clearly manifest that Wildash hadnotdied abroad as was reported, but had come back, had surreptitiously sought out the Denia Lidington of former days, had had more than one meeting with her, the last of which had been interrupted by the justly indignant husband, and that in the quarrel which ensued the latter had been foully murdered. Of all this Robert Melray was fully convinced in his mind. Scarcely more difficult did he find it to believe that Wildash himself was the writer of the MS. (although what his object had been in penning such a document was by no means clear), as also that he was the unknown man who was killed in the railway accident.
Winslade, while fully admitting the plausibility of the theory thus advanced, was by no means inclined to allow his judgment to be overridden by opinions so positive as those cherished by Mr. Melray. That the latter's theory might prove to be in consonance with the facts of the case, should those facts ever be brought to light, he was quite open to allow; but, on the other hand, there was a possibility that it might be at total variance with the truth. What he was willing to grant was that, had such a thing been feasible, it might have been advisable to reopen the case on the assumption that the statements embodied in the manuscript might be based on certain circumstances which all previous inquiries had failed to elicit.
But to have gone to the widow and challenged her with being cognisant of the existence and return of Wildash, as also with being an accessory after the event, if not a passive agent at the scene of her husband's death, would have been a brutal thing to do in any case, and infinitely more so in the event of the theory of her having had a former lover who was implicated in the affair turning out to be nothing more than a wild invention on the part of the writer of the manuscript. Be the truth what it might, such an accusation would only be met by an indignant denial, and one which there would be no means whatever of refuting. Finally, the two men parted without having arrived at a decision of any kind, to meet again by appointment a couple of days later.
Then Mr. Melray said to Winslade, "It seems clear to me that I can do nothing, that I am bound hand and foot. Unless some further evidence bearing on my brother's fate, of which at present we have no cognisance, should turn up from some unexpected quarter, the mystery must rest where it does. It is a terribly unsatisfactory state of affairs, but one which I am powerless to alter."
It was at Mr. Layland's house that the meeting took place; and now, when Phil rose to take his leave, the merchant, who had been present at the interview, pressed him so cordially to stay and dine that he could not well have refused, even had he been wishful of doing so.
As they sat after dinner over their wine, Robert Melray said to his friend: "You have helped me from time to time in more ways than I could reckon up, and now I want you to help me once more. My mother has given me orders to look out for a governess for my little boy. He is just turned six, and I am told that his education is being shamefully neglected. Now, if you and Miss Layland will put your heads together and pick me out a likely person for the post in question, you will oblige me more than I can say."
Phil pricked up his ears. Miss Mawby had died quite suddenly about three weeks before, and Fanny Sudlow was already looking out for another situation. After spending a few days at home she had gone to stay for a time at the house of one of her old school friends who was lately married. Her mother had not yet forgiven her for her refusal to break off her engagement to Phil, and Fanny felt that, for the sake of domestic peace and harmony, it was better that they should still remain apart; besides which she had no inclination to again become a burden on her father's resources, which were taxed to the utmost by the necessity of having to provide for those younger than herself. All these were matters within Phil's cognisance.
"There ought to be no difficulty in finding you the article you require," said Mr. Layland. "I will get my sister to pick out a few likely advertisements and see what can be done."
"I hope you won't think it presumptuous on my part," remarked Phil, addressing himself to Mr. Melray, "but I may just mention that my mother is acquainted with a young lady, the eldest daughter of the Vicar of Iselford, who, from what I know and have heard of her, would, I imagine, exactly suit your requirements."
"Nothing could be better. Let the young lady call upon Miss Layland, and ifsheis satisfied as to her qualifications, I am quite sure that I shall be."
Thus it came to pass that within a fortnight from that date Miss Sudlow entered upon her new duties at Loudwater House as governess to Master Freddy Melray.
With all the emphasis of which he was capable, and, indeed, with far more than he had ever ventured to bring to bear before, the Rev. Louth Sudlow had impressed upon his wife the obligation they were under, as a matter of principle and honour, to keep inviolate the secret which had been entrusted to them by Philip Winslade. It was one of those things as to which it was not permissible to open their lips to a soul. It must remain with them as though it had never been spoken. To all which Mrs. Sudlow agreed; and although her agreement might be of that negative kind which is implied by the phrase that "silence gives consent," in her own mind she honestly meant to carry out the condition laid upon her by her husband. All that, however, could not, or, in any case did not, keep her from letting Mrs. Winslade see, whenever they chanced to encounter each other, that she knew the latter's secret, and in that fact found her justification for looking down upon her in a way she had never ventured to do before. Heretofore there had always been a certain show of cordiality between the two ladies. Whenever they met they stopped to shake hands and smile, and take stock of each other's bonnet, and make a few mutual inquiries about nothing in particular; but now Mrs. Sudlow passed Mrs. Winslade with the most frigid of bows, and a sort of drawing round her of her skirts, more metaphorical, perhaps, than actual; but none the less a palpable fact to the other. All of which said as plainly as words could have done: "I know you for what you are--a woman passing under a name not your own; the widow of a forger and a felon; and, as such, not fit to move in that circle in which you have hitherto been received in ignorance of your antecedents." These were moments of triumph to Mrs. Sudlow, and at such times she felt half inclined to condone the act which had been the means of putting such a power into her hands. Sweet to her was it to be able to stab this woman again, and yet again, who for twelve long years had so persistently kept her at arm's length, and whose airs of quiet superiority (on this point the Vicaress allowed her fancy too wide a margin) and generalnoli-me-tangeremanner had been to her as a perpetual hidden sting, the existence of which was known to herself alone.
As time went on Mrs. Sudlow found her secret becoming more and more of a burden. If only she could have shared it with someone--if only she could have had one confidant with whom to dissect and discuss it in all its bearings. There were times when the longing to whisper it became almost irresistible; but she knew that her husband would never forgive her if she were to breathe the slightest hint of it to anyone. Weakly good-natured, and somewhat of a time-server, as the Rev. Louth Sudlow might be in some things, no man could be more rigid than he on a point of honour, or have a more genuine contempt for the mean and ungenerous motives which prompt the actions of so many people. No; however painful its continued presence might be, Mrs. Sudlow--so indifferent, as a rule, to her husband's wishes, so contemptuous of his opinions, and so habituated to having her own way--was yet in this matter afraid to take the embargo off her tongue which the Vicar (so foolishly and weakly, as it seemed to her) had seen fit to lay upon it.
One of Mrs. Sudlow's most intimate friends was a certain well-to-do maiden lady, of middle age, Miss Tuttilow by name, who, being very hospitable and fond of society, and without a grain of malice in her composition, was deservedly popular.
Miss Tuttilow had one brother, who, like herself, was unmarried, and who was a partner in a firm of London lawyers. In the spring of each year Gregory Tuttilow made a point of stealing away from business for a few days, and of spending a brief holiday with his sister, in order that he might be able to indulge in the fishing for which the neighbourhood of Iselford is so justly famed.
It was on an afternoon in the pleasant month of May that Miss Tuttilow, who never let a week go by without calling at least once at the Vicarage, said to her "dear friend," Mrs. Sudlow: "Gregory has gone back home after a week of the best fishing he has had for years. By the way, the mention of his name reminds me of a rather curious circumstance which happened the other day. He and I had walked into the town together--he to buy some tobacco and I some feminine fal-lals--when whom should we meet face to face but Mrs. Winslade. She favoured me with one of her indefinite smiles, bowed slightly, and passed on. 'You seem to know that lady. Who is she?' queried my brother, as he turned for a moment to look after her. Whereupon I told him as much as anybody in Iselford knows about Mrs. Winslade, which, as you and I are aware, is very little; and then, of course, asked him whatheknew about her? 'Nothing at all,' was his reply. 'it was merely that she put me very strongly in mind of a person, one of your sex, whom I had occasion to meet professionally two or three and twenty years ago. The person in question was the wife of a notorious forger, Philip Cordery by name, who engaged our firm to defend him at his trial. I found Mrs. Cordery to be a very charming woman, and I pitied her from the bottom of my heart for being wedded to such a scoundrel. As it happens, I have a very excellent memory for faces, and really, allowing for the lapse of time, your friend Mrs. Winslade bears a quite startling likeness to the Mrs. Cordery of so long ago. But, of course, it can be nothing more than a coincidence.' Singular, was it not, my dear friend? And it would be still more singular, would it not? should Mrs. Winslade and Mrs. Cordery turn out to be one and the same person. But even if such were the case nobody in Iselford would be able to prove it."
"You are mistaken," said Mrs. Sudlow, "Icould prove it. I have known of it for the last two months."
Miss Tuttilow jumped up as if a cracker had exploded under her chair. "Goodness gracious me!" was all she was able to gasp out in the first access of her amazement.
Next moment Mrs. Sudlow could have bitten her tongue off with vexation. She had had no intention whatever of enlightening her visitor as to the extent of her knowledge, and it was not until the latter ventured the assertion that nobody in Iselford would be able to identify Mrs. Winslade with Mrs. Cordery, that she, all unwittingly, let slip that fatal sentence, which it was impossible to recall, and equally impossible to soften down, or twist to any other meaning than its few simple words conveyed. She felt excessively annoyed with herself; but that in nowise altered what was done. All she could now do was to minimise the effects of her indiscretion as far as it might be in her power to do so.
What passed further between the two ladies need not detain us. It is enough to say that when Miss Tuttilow left the Vicarage she was under a solemn bond of secrecy; but, whether purposely or by accident, she quite omitted to inform Mrs. Sudlow that she had already informed two other "dear friends" of her brother's meeting with Mrs. Winslade, and of the remarkable likeness which he averred she bore to the wife of a notorious criminal.
As time went on it seemed to Mrs. Winslade that people, even some of those she had known longest, were beginning to look upon her with changed eyes. At first she told herself that it was nothing more than fancy; but, before long, what had been a doubt deepened into a certainty. She could not be mistaken. Many with whom she had been on speaking terms for years now passed her with a curt nod, or a frigid bow, or even in some cases averted their eyes of set purpose, and made believe not to see her. Whenever an errand took her into the town she was aware that not infrequently people turned and stared at her, and sometimes whispered to one another, as if there was something about her which differentiated her from others of her sex. It was impossible for her any longer to doubt that her life's secret had become public property.
She would not blame Mrs. Sudlow even in her thoughts; she would not believe that the Vicaress, notwithstanding the veiled hostility which had existed between them for years, would, knowingly and of her own free will, do her so ill a turn. But, indeed, it would have been a matter of small moment to her to be able to ascertain by what mischance the truth had become known. The situation was an intolerable one, for beneath that calm and equable exterior lay hidden a proud and sensitive spirit, which, now that its secret armour had been pierced, lay at the world's mercy. Iselford as a home was no longer possible to her; she must seek another elsewhere.
"Where should she go but to London and keep house for her son?" demanded Phil, not without a show of reason, when the case was laid before him. She had given in her adhesion to the plan, but had not quite settled the date of her departure, when Phil came down to spend the week-end with her. Together they went to church on the Sunday morning, but, as they left after service was over, so unmistakable was the way in which they were avoided--it may be said shunned--by one group of whilom acquaintances after another, that, as they quitted the churchyard, Mrs. Winslade let her veil drop over her face, and Phil could feel that the arm resting within his was trembling. "My dear boy," she said presently with a pathetic quaver in her voice, "if you can arrange to stay over to-morrow I will go back with you. The furniture and other things can follow later on."
Thus did it come to pass that Mrs. Winslade was driven from the home which had sheltered her for so long a time by the "look askance, the cut direct" of a number of so-called "good" people, whose views, both mental and ethical, were as restricted and as incapable of expansion as the horizon of the petty provincial town in which their lot happened to be cast.
Miss Sudlow and Phil made a point of writing to each other twice a week. With the ordinary run of their correspondence we have nothing to do; it concerned themselves only and was sacred to their own eyes. But there came a day, after Fanny had been about three weeks at Loudwater House, when she addressed to her lover a long epistle, which, as having an important bearing on the events of which this narrative is a record, is here transcribed in so far as it is needful to do so.
"In accordance with a promise which I made you some time ago, I now proceed to jot down a few impressions and opinions anent the new--and strange--little world and its inmates into the midst of which I was so suddenly transplanted three weeks ago.
"First of all, let me gratefully record the fact that everybody is very kind to me, that my comfort is studied in a score of different ways, and that I am treated more like one of the family than a dependent. My pupil is a dear little fellow, quick at learning and of an affectionate disposition, and I am really becoming quite attached to him.
"I confess that for the first few days I stood somewhat in awe of Mrs. Melray the elder. You know what a stately, almost imperious, old dame she is, with a manner which at first strikes one as being reserved almost to the point of frigidity; but by degrees one discovers that it is nothing more than manner, and that under it beats a warm woman's heart, in which there is no lack of generous sympathies.
"That, at least, is how I construe her character, and I don't think that I am far out in my diagnosis. But it may be that I have been exceptionally fortunate, in view of the fact that two or three days ago Mr. Melray said to me, with one of his dry smiles: 'I find that my mother has conceived quite a liking for you, Miss Sudlow. It is not often that she takes to anyone as she has taken to you.' Of course it was very gratifying to me to be told this, especially as I had in no way laid myself out to conciliate the old lady.
"Of Mrs. Melray the younger what shall I say? I confess that in many respects she is an enigma to me. I was scarcely prepared to find her so attractive as she really is. Beautiful she is not, and it would be a misnomer to apply the term to her, but her face is one which I should think that seven out of every ten men would find singularly fascinating, in addition to which there is a strange but indefinable charm about her personality, which even I, one of her own sex, find it impossible wholly to resist. She is still curiously girlish, not merely in appearance, but in many of her ways, and when I first set eyes on her in her widow's weeds, it caused me the oddest sensation imaginable; indeed, I would not like to assert that a moisture, rare with me, did not dim my eyes as her tiny hand lingered for a moment or two in mine.
"To connect, even in thought, those guileless blue eyes, that milk-white brow, and that expression at once so candid and innocent, with crime of any kind, much more with a crime so mysterious and terrible as the murder of Mr. Melray, seems to me as if one were to draw up an indictment in opposition to Nature's own instincts. And yet there have been occasions when, taking her unawares, I have caught her scrutinising me with a certain indescribable something in her gaze which has not merely puzzled me, but rendered me vaguely uneasy. At such times it has seemed to me that, instead of its being I who was studying and trying to read her, it was she who was submitting me to a like process.
"I remember your giving it as your opinion that Mr. Robert Melray entertained no very friendly feeling towards his brother's widow, and the longer I stay here the more inclined I am to think you were right. But then, Mr. Melray is one of those dry, reserved, undemonstrative men, as to whose likes or dislikes it is somewhat rash to formulate too positive an opinion. Being the gentleman he is, it goes without saying that he treats her with uniform courtesy and consideration; but underlying it all there is a certain hardness and frigidity which, no doubt, are partly natural to him, but in part only as it seems to me.
"But, if one may be allowed to entertain some doubt as to the quality of the feeling with which Mr. Melray regards the youthful widow, there can be no room for doubt as far as his mother is concerned. That Mrs. Melray the younger is distinctly antipathetic to Mrs. Melray the elder unfortunately admits of no dispute. Not that they see much of each other, save at luncheon and dinner, and perhaps for an hour afterwards in the drawing-room. The dowager always breakfasts in her own apartments and spends the major part of her time there with her companion, a middle-aged spinster, Miss Armishaw by name, and an amiable nonentity. More than once young Mrs. Melray has spoken to me, in her prettily pathetic, girlish way, of the evident dislike in which the elder woman holds her: 'I have done all I can in the effort to conciliate her, but in vain,' she says; 'so now I have given up the attempt as useless. I have been told that there are some women so constituted that they always dislike their daughters-in-law unless they themselves have had a hand in choosing them; and yet that seems a hard thing to believe.'
"From this you will gather that the widow and I are on very good terms with each other; and such, indeed, is the case. On first coming here I arranged with the elder Mrs. Melray that the hour from twelve till one each day, weather permitting, should be devoted to taking Freddy out for a run in the fresh air. There is a big old-fashioned garden at the back of Loudwater House to which we sometimes limit our constitutional; but more frequently we make our way into the meadows which skirt one shore of the river and extend for miles, where the air is the purest imaginable. Well, on the third morning, as I was getting ready to go out, young Mrs. Melray came to me. 'I should so much like to go out now and then with you and Freddy, Miss Sudlow, if you will kindly allow me to accompany you,' she said. 'Since my husband's death my life has necessarily been a very quiet one. I have hardly anyone to talk to and I go nowhere. It would be a charity to let me join you.'
"What could I say except that I should be very glad of her company, and since then she has made a point of joining me in my walk every other day, or thereabouts. Usually she has not much to say on these occasions, and, as you know, I do not shine as a conversationalist, so that it sometimes happens that we pace along for a quarter of an hour, side by side, without a word passing between us; but she seems quite content that it should be so. Now and again, however, she expands a little and begins to talk of her own accord. In this way I have heard a good deal about her early home life at Solchester, together with sundry particulars concerning her school-days; but no syllable bearing, directly or indirectly, on the existence of any possible lover in the days before her late husband asked her to be his wife. Her mention of Mr. Melray is of the rarest; but when she does speak of him, it is more as if she were referring to some near and dear elderly relative than to a husband whom she has lost. I see no reason for doubting that she cherishes a very warm regard for his memory. To the tragic circumstances of his death she never alludes even in the remotest degree. One can well imagine that for her the subject is too dreadful a one to bear talking about. It is impossible to help feeling sorry for her when one calls to mind the nature of the calamity which has overshadowed her young life.
"Loudwater House has few visitors. Occasionally someone calls upon the dowager Mrs. Melray, and since my arrival. two of young Mrs. Melray's former associates at Solchester have been to visit her. The people we see most of are staid, practical-minded Mr. Cray, who has been head-clerk to the firm for the last quarter of a century, and Mr. Richard Dyson, a kinsman of the Messrs. Melray, who has been in the employ of the firm since he was quite a youth. These two Mr. Melray frequently brings upstairs with him to dinner. Knowing so little of the business as he does, and liking it still less, he is almost wholly dependent on them for its conduct and efficient working. You will remember Mr. Dyson as a particularly good-looking young man, with a cooldégagémanner, stylishly dressed, and with the air of one who knows how to appraise his personal advantages at their full value. He is a great favourite with the elder Mrs. Melray--a result probably due in part to his own pleasant qualities, and in part to the fact that he is the only son of a niece whom in bygone years the dowager regarded almost in the light of a daughter. As his kinsman's assistant in business, he has proved to be everything that could be wished--so Mrs. Melray herself gives me to understand--and there is little doubt that, had Mr. James Melray lived, he would, in the course of a few years, have been made a partner in the firm.
"But if Richard Dyson is a favourite with his own relatives, the same cannot be said of him with regard to his kinsman's widow. That there is a marked coolness between the two cannot escape the notice of anyone who has eyes to see. They address each other no oftener than is absolutely necessary, and on those evenings when Mr. Dyson dines with us Mrs. Melray retires to her room an hour or more before her usual time. But whatever this state of things may be the outcome of in no wise concerns me. In our frequent walks together Mr. Dyson's name is never mentioned between the widow and myself.
"And now, my dear Phil, I think I have told you all there is to tell that would be likely in any way to interest you. After having been used for a long time to Miss Mawby's restless peregrinations, life at Loudwater House is, in comparison, pleasant and home-like. Dull I have not yet found it; indeed, on that point I have no fear whatever. It seems hard to believe that so short a time ago a tragedy so dire was enacted under the roof of this old mansion, where already the wheels of life move as noiselessly and methodically as if actuated by clockwork, and where one might easily imagine, but for the black dresses of the ladies, that nothing out of the common ever had happened or ever could happen. Has the drama, then, come to an end? Is there nothing more to follow? or has the curtain yet to rise on another act?Chi vivra verra. Not a word more; but, instead, a kiss--nay, a score. (Oh, fie! fie!)
"Fan."
One morning, about a fortnight subsequently to the date of the letter embodied in our last chapter, Winslade was surprised to receive by post a somewhat bulky package addressed to him in Fanny's familiar hand. He opened it wonderingly, and his wonder was in nowise lessened by what he found therein. First of all there was a long letter from Fanny, and, secondly, a manuscript in a different writing, tied round with narrow white ribbon.
After requesting that Phil would not open the manuscript till he should have read what she had to say, Fanny went on as follows:
"From what I have already told you at different times, you will readily comprehend that Mrs. Melray the younger has a great deal of spare time on her hands which, I have no doubt, she sometimes finds it rather difficult to get through with satisfaction to herself. Previously to her husband's death (this is what she tells me), she subscribed to the local library; but, as a consequence of that event, her subscription has been allowed to lapse, and she is unwilling to take it up again just yet, feeling sure in her own mind that such a step would be disapproved of by her mother-in-law as savouring of disrespect for the dead. Now, the stock of books at Loudwater House is limited in number, and comprises but few volumes which would be likely to interest a young woman like Mrs. Melray, who has no special pursuits and no tastes in particular, unless it be a love of fiction (in its narrative form), which seems to be a part of the natural endowment of our sex. Under these circumstances, Mrs. Melray has several times asked me for the loan of whatever books or magazines I may happen to have by me (and, thanks to you, dear, I am kept pretty well supplied with both), a request with which I have very willingly complied.
"Well, in the course of the afternoon of Tuesday last, she came to me in the school-room to ask me whether I had anything by me which she had not yet read. As it happened, she had already pretty well exhausted my current supply. Then suddenly, while I stood with my finger on my lip, wondering whether I had anything left which would be likely to suit her, a great temptation assailed me. Low down in my heart a voice whispered: 'Why not give her "How, and Why" to read? That it will startle and surprise her can hardly be doubted, for whether she is as innocent as I believe her to be, or whether, if she chose to do so, she could clear up the mystery of her husband's death, the story can scarcely fail to recall vividly to her mind every circumstance connected with that event, while it is next to impossible to credit that she can be so blind as not to comprehend that, intermixed with a lot of fictitious matter, it is the story of Mr. Melray's tragical end which is being thus retold by some unknown pen. Scarcely less can she fail to see that the "old man's darling," who plays such an important part in the narrative, is intended for none other than herself. In any case, the reading of it by her can do no possible harm, and there is just a chance--a very faint one, I admit--that something unforeseen may result therefrom.'
"(That something unforeseenhasresulted therefrom you will presently have ample proof.)
"Such were the thoughts that flashed through my mind during the three or four seconds that I stood with my finger on my lip. Then, turning to Mrs. Melray, I said: 'I am afraid that you have all but exhausted my supply till a fresh one comes to hand. However, I will see what I can find.'
"I confess that my heart beat a little faster than common as I brought from my bedroom the number ofThe Family Cornucopia, and placed it in her hands. So lonely is her life that she spends an hour or two most forenoons in the school-room with Freddy and me; accordingly I was not at all surprised when she drew her chair up to the fire and settled herself for what she calls a 'comfortable read.'
"I watched her furtively, feeling pretty sure that, as a child picks the biggest currants out of its cake first of all, so would she pick out the story 'How, and Why' from the rest of the somewhat dry and jejune contents of the magazine. First her face flushed, and then, a few seconds later, paled as suddenly; then she flashed a look at me and caught my eyes fixed on her, with, it may be, a directness in their gaze which she found somewhat disconcerting. Anyhow, hers were the first to drop. For a minute or more she sat staring into the fire, her little pearly teeth biting into the crimson of her under-lip. Then, as if she had come to some resolve, she got up suddenly, and, looking me steadily in the face, said in tones as steady as her gaze: 'It is not often that I am troubled with a headache, but one has laid hold of me this afternoon. If you don't mind, dear Miss Sudlow, I will take this magazine to my own room and read it there.' Of course I told her that I did not mind in the least, and that I hoped her headache would soon pass off. Whereupon, with the palm of one hand pressed to her brow, and smiling a little strangely, she went, taking the story with her.
"For the rest of the day nothing more was seen of Mrs. Melray. At dinner-time she sent down word that she had a bad headache, and apparently she had not got rid of it by next morning, seeing that she failed to appear at the breakfast-table, neither was she visible at luncheon. But a surprise was in store for me. In the course of the afternoon a note was brought me by Charlotte the housemaid. Here it is:
"'Dear Miss Sudlow,--Will you oblige me by coming to my room as soon as Freddy's lessons for the day are over?
"'Yours sincerely,
"'Denia Melray.'
I am afraid that for the rest of the afternoon Master Freddy and his lessons received but a very perfunctory attention at my hands. Much to the boy's delight, I dismissed him a quarter-of-an-hour before the usual time, and five minutes later found me at the door of the widow's private sitting-room, which, during her husband's lifetime, had been known as the small drawing-room. After a preliminary tap I turned the handle and went in.
"Mrs. Melray was half sitting, half reclining on a couch. The blinds were part way down, so that the room was in semi-darkness, and as she reclined there in the glow of the firelight, with her aureole of pale gold hair, with the delicate ivory contours of her face thrown into relief against the embroidered cushion which supported her head, and with the graceful folds of her sombre draperies wrapping her round, she made indeed a charming picture.
"'I have asked you to come here,' she began, 'because we shall be more free from interruption than we should be anywhere else.' Then, with a touch of bitterness, she added: 'From morning till night no one ever intrudes upon me here. In all England there can be few more lonely mortals than I. But I am getting used to it by this time. Don't sit there, Miss Sudlow, half a mile away from me. Here is a chair that will suit itself deliciously to the curves of your back. Come and try it.'
"As soon as I was settled in the chair indicated by her, she said: 'That was rather a curious stor--y you gave me to read yesterday. But before saying more about it, I want to ask you a certain question. Of course you can please yourself about answering it; but, in any case, I trust you will not be offended by my asking it.'
"She paused as if expecting me to say something.
"'I don't think there's much likelihood, Mrs. Melray, of my being offended by any question you may choose to put to me.'
"'It is very nice of you to say so, and yet---- But here is my question without further preface. (Now, dear, remember, no offence!) Are you, or are you not, thefiancéeof Mr. Philip Winslade, who was here on a visit of several weeks' duration a little while ago?'
"Her question took me so by surprise that not to save my life could I have kept back the rush of telltale colour that dyed my cheeks.
"Next moment, to my surprise, Mrs. Melray clapped her hands, as a child might have done, and broke into a low rippling laugh.
"'I can see that I guessed rightly," she exclaimed, "for, after all, my question was only a guess.'
"'Yes,' I said, 'you have guessed rightly. Mr. Winslade and I are, and have been for some time, engaged.' Although I spoke gravely, I felt in no degree offended by her question, and she saw it. 'But, if I may put a question in my turn, Mrs. Melray,' I went on after a momentary pause, 'what were the grounds which led you to the assumption that a tie of any kind existed between Mr. Winslade and myself, or even that we were as much as known to each other?'
"'The explanation is a very simple one, as you shall hear. One day last week I had just come in from my walk and was passing through the hall, when my eye was caught by some letters on the table, which had arrived by the afternoon post. Thinking that perhaps one of them might be for me (although such an event would indeed be a rarity) I took them up to examine the addresses. There was none for me, but there was one for Miss Sudlow," which was sealed with wax as though it might contain something of value. I suppose it was a touch of natural curiosity that caused me to turn the letter over and examine the seal, which proved to be a representation of an Assyrian winged bull, and the same instant my memory recalled the fact that attached to Mr. Winslade's watch-guard was an intaglio which represented a winged bull. The inference to be drawn was an obvious one, at least it seemed so to me, and, as the event has proved, it was a correct one.'
"It began to dawn upon me that there might be more, much more, behind those guileless blue orbs and that candid brow than either you or I had dreamed of.
"'Your powers, both of observation and deduction, seem to have been cultivated to some purpose,' I remarked drily.
"'I am not quite sure that I follow you,' she answered, with a puzzled look, which might be genuine, but might just as easily be assumed. 'You must bear in mind that I am not clever in the way you are. But now that you have been so frank with me on one point, perhaps you will be equally so on another. What special object, may I ask, had you in view in giving me a certain story to read?'
"This was a question the answer to which demanded some consideration. For once in a way, my dear Phil, your generally ready and quick-witted Fan was undoubtedly nonplussed.
"'Suppose I answer the question for you,' said Mrs. Melray presently, with a smile which brought both rows of her pearly teeth into view; but, for all that, it was not a pleasant smile by any means.
"'The story in question having come under the notice of my estimable brother-in-law, and he being satisfied that, as far as some of the incidents it treated of were concerned, it could refer to one case and no other, brought you, my dear Miss Sudlow, to Loudwater House, hoping, by your help (that is to say, by matching one woman against another) to be able to sift to the bottom sundry statements embodied in the opening pages of the narrative, as to the truth or falsehood of which neither he nor anyone else had any knowledge whatever. Finding, after a time, that your design was no nearer its fulfilment than at first, you took the only step left open to you--you gave me the story itself to read, hoping to gain goodness only knows what advantage thereby. Tell me, now, are my surmises, or guesses, or whatever you like to call them, very wide of the mark?'
"This, as you must admit, was very plain speaking indeed, and if I had been taken aback before, I was doubly so now. Her blue eyes were bent on me as she finished speaking with a sort of hard keenness in their concentrated gaze, such as heretofore I should not have deemed them capable of expressing. One thing was clear to me, that she was labouring under an altogether erroneous belief, of which it became my duty at once to disabuse her.
"'If you are under the impression, Mrs. Melray,' I said, 'as your words seem to imply, that I was invited here by your brother-in-law to act as a sort of private detective, or, in other words, to play the part of a spy on you and your actions, I can only say that you are wholly mistaken. I am here to fill the post of Freddy's governess, and with no ulterior motive of any kind. It was entirely of my own accord, and unprompted by anyone, that I yesterday gave you the story, "How, and Why" to read. At the same time, I admit that when I put it into your hands it was with the object of enabling you, should you feel so disposed, to disprove certain allegations, which, as I take it, can refer to no other person than yourself.'
"'Allegations which concern me most seriously, for I quite agree with you that, in the eyes of anyone acquainted with the case, they point unmistakably to Denia Melray. But tell me this: Should I be very wide of the mark in assuming that the story has already been read both by Mr. Winslade and Mr. Robert Melray?'
"'It has been read by both of them.'
"'So much I surmised. And now, will you be good enough to enlighten me as to anything you may happen to know about the authorship of this very remarkable composition? I am also curious to learn by what chance it fell into your hands.'
"Frankness being apparently the order of the day, I at once proceeded to recount to her everything as it had happened, from my purchase ofThe Family Cornucopiaonward through all the details of your interview with Mr. Timmins, ending with a mention of the letter from the railway company, in which it was stated that one out of the four people killed in the accident had never been identified. She seemed to drink in every word with an almost breathless avidity. I fancied that her face paled perceptibly when I told her how, on Mr. Timmins coming to his senses, the first thing he saw was the dead body of his unknown travelling companion stretched out beside him. Neither of us broke the silence for a little while after I had come to an end. Mrs. Melray was the first to speak.
"'Did'--here her hand went up to her throat for a moment--'did Mr. Timmins describe to Mr. Winslade--what I mean is, did he give him any description of the stranger who was killed?'
"'The notice Mr. Timmins took of his fellow-traveller was of the most casual kind. All he could call to mind was that he was young and dark-complexioned, with a black moustache.'
"'Yes--yes--young and dark-complexioned, with a black moustache,' she repeated like an echo. 'It must have been he--it could have been no other than he! Poor Evan! What an end--what a terrible end!"
"She turned and buried her face in the sofa-cushions, and presently her slight frame was shaken by those dry-eyed, almost silent sobs which bear witness to a grief that, for the time being, is beyond the consolation of tears.
"I knew not what to do--of no way in which I could comfort her. The conditions of the case were so exceptional that I felt myself utterly helpless. I could only sit and look dumbly on.
"'Poor Evan!' she had said. I did not forget that Evan Wildash was the name of her one-time lover, who was said to have gone to the Cape years before, and to have died there.
"After a time, without lifting her face from the cushions, she said, 'Leave me now, dear Miss Sudlow. Come to me at the same time to-morrow, when I shall have more to say to you.'
"I need not tell you, my dear Phil, with what impatience I awaited the afternoon of the morrow. In the interim Mrs. Melray kept closely to her rooms, being waited upon by her own maid and being present at none of the family meals.
"I found her on the second afternoon just as I had found her on the first; it might have been five minutes instead of twenty-four hours since I had left her last. She was very pale, but perfectly composed. 'I want you to sit, please, where you sat yesterday,' she said.
"For a little while she lay back on her cushions with drooping eye-lids and close-drawn brows.
"'When I came to think over what passed at our interview yesterday,' at length she began, 'I saw that two courses were open to me. I might have professed my entire ignorance of the writer of the manuscript found in the railway carriage; have averred that all that part of the narrative prior to the murder which concerns itself with the "young wife" and her lover was sheer romance, that I had never had a lover since I was sixteen, and that he had died in Africa years ago; and, finally, I might have defied anyone to prove that I knew one iota more in connection with my husband's death than was given by me in evidence at the inquest. That was one of the two courses open to me, and to most women in my position it is the one which would have recommended itself to them.
"'The other course was to tell the truth as far as it is known to me, to reveal that which I have hitherto hidden in my own breast--and that is what I have made up my mind to do. Ah! you don't know how often I have been tempted to do this before today; but, like the coward I am at heart, I have hitherto shrunk from the ordeal. I am quite aware of the feeling with which both Mr. Melray and his mother regard me, and that the knowledge is very painful to me I need scarcely say. I think it very likely that if their attitude towards me had been one of greater sympathy (affection I hardly looked for), they would long ago have been made aware of all that I have to tell. But be that as it may, the truth shall now be told, whatever its effect may be on the relations between them and me in time to come. For more reasons than one, however, I have thought it advisable not to recount, to you by word of mouth what there is to make known, but rather to set it down in black and white, so that you and others may be able to read it at your leisure. It took me till far into the night to accomplish my self-imposed task. Here is the result."
"As she finished speaking she thrust her hand under the sofa cushion and brought forth a thin roll of manuscript, which she handed to me.
"'Read this first yourself,' she said, 'and then oblige me by handing it to my brother-in-law. I should like it to be understood that I shall expect not to be cross-questioned about this, that, or the other statement comprised in it. That would simply be to torture me. The paper tells all there is to tell. I have nothing to add to it.'
"The enclosed is a copy, written out by myself, of Mrs. Melray's narrative. The original was this morning placed by me in the hands of Mr. Robert Melray."