Several weeks after the wandering woman, who called herself ‘Jane Peartree,’ became an inmate of Mount Eden, that cosmic creature, Auguste de Gavrolles, author of the immortal ‘Parfums de la Chair,’ was entertained at a little supper in the house of Ponto, the art-critic. The occasion was an interesting one, originating in the fact that London was about to lose, for a time at least, the light of the French poet’s presence. Urgent private affairs, no less than the home-sickness of a great man for the scene of his struggles and his triumphs, were the reason of his departure. Frankly, as he confessed to his admirers, London was insufferablybêteafter the true centre of the universe, Paris. It contained many choice spirits, notably those who had nourished their sublime youth with the fiery fleshliness of the Impeccable Master, but even these could not compensate for the fine atmosphere of Parisiansalons, the soul-satisfying sunlight of Parisian streets. In a word, both duty and pleasure beckoned the cosmic creature back to his Cosmos, and he was compelled, though with a certain reluctance, to say farewell.
The gathering was a very quiet one Ponto’s house, situated in the dismally aesthetic region of Chiswick, was a small but elegant artistic villa, furnished in the superbest spirit of enlightened chilliness and elegant squalor. There, in a tiny reception room with golden-spotted walls and a cerulean ceiling, some dozen gentlemen and about half a dozen ladies assembled; among the company being the young aesthetic poets, Botticelli Jones and Omar Milde; Lady Milde, mother of the bard, known in her girlhood as the fair ‘Lachryma’ of the albums; Gass and Barbius, Ponto’s brother-critics; the editor of the ‘Megatherium’; Clothilde Max, daughter of the Teutonic patriot, Hermann Max; and a few others. The affair was affecting, if not festive. There were gay spongecakes and nondescript confectionery on a sideboard, together with the finest Marsala wine, for those who sought refreshment. When, in a few well-chosen words, Ponto wished Godspeed to the guest of the evening, several persons present were dismally affected. Gavrolles, more than usually jubilant, replied, thanking perfidious Albion, in the person of its noblest representatives, for their cordial treatment of him, a stranger, an exile. He had come to them on his merits, a poorartiste, a lover of the beautiful, a pupil of Gautier, and they had received him as a brother. He should bear back to his beloved Paris the memory of their kindness. He should inform his countrymen that France and England were thenceforth bound together by a tie stronger than all commercial treaties—the tie of sympathy in poetic aspirations, in divine Art. He should tell his compatriots that even in England, despite its Philistinism, despite its climate, there were singers as sweet and critics as profound as even those who possessed the inestimable advantages of a Parisian education. Need he mention, as a sample of all that was superb in song, his friend, Botticelli Jones? Need he cite, as an example of all that was subtle in perception and perfect in expression, the name of his friend and host—nay, might he not say, his brother?—Ponto, prince of critics?
The lank and limp ladies clung around him, with every expression of sympathy and affection, until the hour of parting came. Then Gavrolles, with tears in his eyes, read aloud, with considerable emphasis, a French sonnet which he had composed for the occasion, and in which the names of many present were touchingly introduced. This effusion was afterwards passed from hand to hand until it reached the editor of the ‘Megatherium,’ who claimed the privilege of publishing it in the forthcoming number of his journal, along with a reply (in the same language) from Young Botticelli Jones. Finally, the party separated, and Gavrolles, triumphant, drove home to his lodgings in a hansom cab.
The next evening, bearing with him in a small portmanteau and a morocco hand-bag all his worldly goods, Gavrolles left Charing Cross by the night mail,en routefor Boulogne.
It was a wild wintry night, pitch dark, with gusts of rain and sleet; even the station looked dreary and forlorn, despite the pale brilliance of the electric light. Wrapt in a large travelling cloak, profusely trimmed with fur, and wearing an artistic felt hat, the broad brim of which was drawn down over his face, Gavrolles strolled up and down the platform with a theatrical swagger, taking care to clutch always his little handbag of black morocco. When the ticket office opened he approached the aperture, and, opening a purse full of bright new sovereigns, took a first-class ticket to Boulogne. He looked at nobody, heeded nobody, he seemed too obviously wrapt up in his own happy thoughts. His air, his walk, the feverishly delighted laugh in which he indulged from time to time, all seemed to betoken some special good fortune; and what wonder, seeing he had that very day cashed a large open cheque—payable to ‘Bearer’—at a London bank, and afterwards, at a neighbouring money-changer’s, converted the greater portion of the amount into glittering coin of the French realm.
Perhaps, had he been less jubilant and self-involved, he might have taken some little notice of his fellow-passengers—particularly of two individuals who, closely wrapped up and muffled almost to the eyes, observed him from a distance, listened in the shadow when, in a loud voice, he demanded his ticket, and then, after he had withdrawn, took two tickets, also for Boulogne, but second-class.
The express left London and plunged into the darkness. Gavrolles found himself alone—for there were few passengers that night—in the smoking compartment of a first-class carriage. While the rain hissed upon the window pane, and the noise of the train drowned even the roaring of the wind, he opened his little handbag, and eagerly recounted his treasure. His eye glittered with delight as he fingered the glittering gold pieces, and found them all safe. Then he wrapt his cloak around him, and resigned himself to a doze.
At Folkestone the weather looked ugly in the extreme; the wind roared, and the sea flashed in the darkness, while the packet rocked and throbbed with an uneasy motion. At first Gavrolles hesitated, but his horror of sea-sickness yielded to his intense longing to be again among certain choice spirits on his native soil, and with a few shivering compatriots he crept on board. Among those who followed him were the two men who had watched him so curiously at Charing Cross.
The passage was a miserable one. Gavrolles, to whom expense was no consideration when he was in funds, occupied the deck cabin, and suffered agonies through seasickness. In the grey of a wintry morning, he alighted, a piteous spectacle, ghastly, dishevelled, hideous, on the quay at Boulogne.
Among the groups assembled to see the voyagers alight was a white-haired woman, respectably but plainly dressed in black. She watched the passengers alighting one by one, until her eye fell upon a sinister-looking individual smoking, with serene defiance of the elements, a clay pipe. She at once greeted him by name, and, leading him aside, accosted him in French.
‘What! do you come alone? Where are those in your charge?’
‘Calm yourself, madame,’ said the man with gruff politeness. ‘I shall fulfil my contract. They would not cross in such weather.’
‘But they remain?’
‘Safe in the charge of my wife, at Folkestone. You will find two of them charming; the third not so good-looking, buttrès gentille. As I wrote you, one is a domestic servant, another a tradesman’s runaway daughter, the third a figurante of the theatre. They all seek situations, which I have promised them, as you are aware.’ ‘But do they understand? With the last there was a scandal, and I want no more trouble.’
‘Trust my wife, madame; there will be no difficulty. As usual, when they find themselves under your kind care, they will behave discreetly.’
At this juncture Gavrolles crawled up the gangway, the picture of misery and collapse. No sooner did the woman espy him than she uttered an exclamation.
‘I see another friend!’ she exclaimed to her companion. ‘Go on to my house, and await me there.’
Gavrolles, followed by a porter carrying his portmanteau, elbowed his way along the pier. Suddenly he felt a touch upon his arm, and, turning sharply, saw the woman.
‘Well met, Belleisle!’ she said with a grim smile and a not too amiable compression of the lips.
So worn and washed out was the cosmic creature that at the first glance he failed to recognise his old companion, Madame de Fontenay.
‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you forget me?’
At last, his glazed and fish-like countenance expressed a dim and irritated recognition.
‘Is it you, Madame Louise?’
‘Yes; it is I!—And you? It is many a long day since we met, though I have often inquired after you in vain. You are a sly rascal, Belleisle; you forget old friends, old services, old debts. Ah! butIremember.’
‘I have been in England,’ replied Gavrolles, surveying her with strong dislike.
‘Ah, yes, so I heard. Have you been fortunate there,mon ami?’
‘On the contrary. But you? You live here?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman.
‘You follow the old trade, madame?’
The woman nodded, and the two passed on in conversation. Gavrolles did not look back, or he would have seen, still watching him with curiosity, the two men who had followed him from Charing Cross.
Gavrolles slept that night in the Hôtel de Rouen, a chilly place, half-hotel, half-prison, in a back street of Boulogne. Here he had the pleasure of meeting two or three gentlemen of his acquaintance, who earned their money at the card table and in the billiard room, and spent it in dingy dissipation, like cavaliers of pleasure.
With one of these individuals, an elderly man in a seedy military undress, and with the face and manners of a fire-eater, Gavrolles strolled out next morning, cigar in mouth. Roaming along by the sea, he came face to face, in a quiet spot, with two Englishmen—James Forster and Edgar Sutherland.
Gavrolles started and turned livid, clinging to his companion’s arm, as Sutherland accosted him.
‘I salute you, Monsieur Gavrolles. A word with you, if you please.’
‘What do you seek with me?’ cried Gavrolles, shrilly, ‘I see you are not alone. Ifmonsieur le mariyonder wishes to recede from his bargain, it is too late. As for you, monsieur, I once warned you; and, as we are no longer in England, beware!’
Sutherland smiled. Forster, who looked pale as death, was about to interpose, when the younger man continued: ‘Monsieur Gavrolles, it is precisely because we are no longer in England that I accost you. Once, in London, you did me the honour to express a hope that we might meet on French soil. It was simply to realise that hope that my friend supplied you with money. You came—wefollowed—you understand?’
Gavrolles shrank back from the powerful figure, and eyed the determined face with baleful hate.
‘I have no quarrel with you. I—I do not know you.’ Before Sutherland could say another word Forster interfered.
‘The man is right. As I said to you from the first—his quarrel is with me. Listen to me, man!’ he continued, facing Gavrolles. ‘I am not a duellist, I know nothing of your weapons, but unless you consent to fight me I shall have you arrested as an extortioner and a thief.
You are still wanted in London, and if you refuse——’
Gavrolles, who had been watching the speaker keenly, and had paid particular attention to his words, answered with a scowl:—
‘With you it is another affair, monsieur. I am at your service.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as you please. I am sorry that we could not end our little disagreement amicably, but since you are determined——’
And Gavrolles shrugged his shoulders.
Sutherland pulled Forster aside, while Gavrolles, with an ugly smile, turned and volubly explained matters to his companion.
‘You are mad!’ Sutherland cried. ‘You should have left this affair to me. He is an expert duellist, and may kill you.’
‘And if he does, so much the better.’
‘You are determined?’
‘Yes. For God’s sake settle the matter as soon as possible.’
Here Gavrolles’ companion with pompous dignity approached Sutherland.
‘Monsieur, that is my card. I am the Chevalier de Beauvoisin, and I represent my friend. Where and when can I see you and arrange the preliminaries?’
‘Now, on this spot.’
The two men walked aside, and remained for some minutes in conversation. Then Sutherland returned to Forster, took his arm, and led him away.
‘It is arranged for to-morrow at daybreak,’ he said, ‘on the sands yonder, two miles from Boulogne. As you are the challenger, they had the choice of weapons. They have chosen pistols.’
‘Very well.’
‘Have you ever practised at a mark?’
Forster-shook his head.
‘I have never fired a pistol in my life.’
‘Then it is an ugly affair. Let me entreat you, accept me as your substitute—I will force them to consent——’
‘No,’ answered Forster with determination. ‘It is my place, not yours. I shall either avenge my poor martyred wife or follow her to the grave.’
In the early grey of the next morning, Forster and Sutherland stood waiting at the place appointed, a solitary spot just above high water mark. Far as the eye could see nothing was visible but the cold sea on the one hand, and the long, flat stretch of a great marsh, blackened here and there by leafless tree, upon the other.
‘They are late,’ said Forster impatiently. ‘If he should take flight after all.’
‘I think he will come. But you are shaking like a leaf.’
‘Do you think I am afraid?’ asked Forster with a strange smile.
Sutherland knew better, and shook his head sadly. But Forster’s agitation, caused mainly by the mental strain of the last few days, filled him with deep concern.
A few minutes later three figures emerged on the open space of sand. These were Gavrolles, the Chevalier, his second, carrying a case of duelling pistols, and a little baldheaded man, carrying another case filled with surgical instruments.
The Chevalier led Sutherland apart.
‘These are the weapons. Do they meet with your approbation?’
Sutherland examined the pistols, and nodded.
‘Will you load them, monsieur, or shall I?’ asked the Chevalier, still politely.
Sutherland undertook the operation, while the Chevalier watched him keenly. The pistols loaded, Gavrolles took one, Forster the other, and they moved to their places. It was arranged that the Chevalier and Sutherland should simultaneously count ten, and then utter the word “Fire,” which should be the signal for the duellists to discharge their weapons.
Sutherland placed his man in position. So little did Forster know of how to protect himself, so clumsy was his exposure of his vital parts, that the surgeon in attendance uttered an exclamation.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he cried. ‘It is not like a duel—but an assassination!’
Trembling with fear for Forster, who seemed quite helpless, Sutherland made one last appeal for him to withdraw, but the appeal was altogether useless.
‘Well, then, since it must be, cover your man well, and aim low. The moment the word is given, raise your aim and fire; don’t lose an instant, or he will anticipate you. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
The seconds moved away, while Gavrolles and Forster faced each other. On the face of the Frenchman there was a curious blending of self-confidence, malignity, and nervous anticipation.
The sun rose coldly over the damp sands, but the air was still dank and cold, and the seconds, in slow monotonous voices, began simultaneously to count.
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—‘fire!’
Before the last word was half pronounced, Gavrolles had raised his weapon, covered his opponent with lightning rapidity, and fired.
At the very moment he was about to raise his pistol in the air, Forster felt his arm suddenly grow powerless, while the weapon dropped from his hand.
Sutherland and the little surgeon simultaneously uttered an exclamation. The former reached his friend just in time to catch him in his arms.
‘He is wounded!’ he cried. ‘I call you all to witness, it is a murder, not a duel.’
Swift as thought, the surgeon placed Forster on the ground, stripped off his coat, and cutting away a portion of his shirt, which was saturated with blood, disclosed an ugly wound in the shoulder. Forster, who had scarcely lost consciousness, opened his eyes with a twinge of pain, as the surgeon began to probe the wound for the bullet. It was the work of a moment; for the lead, after striking and partially fracturing the bone, had embedded itself in the fleshy part of the arm.
‘It is not so bad as I feared,’ said the surgeon; ‘but it was not fairly done.’
‘It was most foully done,’ cried Sutherland, springing up and facing Gavrolles, who had approached and stood very pale, looking on. ‘Monsieur Gavrolles, it is now my turn. You shall fightme!’
‘I shall do nothing of the kind,’ returned the Frenchman, turning on his heel.
‘But youshall!’ Sutherland exclaimed, seizing him by the arm and whirling him savagely round. ‘If you do not, I will shoot you like a dog.’
As he spoke he stooped and picked up Forster’s undischarged pistol, and covered Gavrolles, who cowered and shook like a leaf.
‘I repeat, my friend has fallen by foul play. You fired too soon—ah I I know the old device of scoundrels like yourself. I demand satisfaction.’
Here the Chevalier thought it time to interfere.
‘If that is so,Iam at your service.’
‘All in good time, but my business is first with the assassin. I appeal to you as his second and a man of honour. Was it a fair duel?’
The Chevalier scowled and looked uneasily from one to another.
‘It was a mistake, doubtless,’ he said; ‘your principal was so slow.’
‘It was no mistake; it was aruse. He shall fight me—by God he shall!’
The Chevalier turned to Gavrolles.
‘What do you say?’
Gavrolles shrugged his shoulders.
‘The man is mad—I have no quarrel with him—nevertheless, if he wishes to be served like his companion——’
‘No, it is impossible,’ said the Chevalier. ‘An affair of honour must be conducted according to the code. Even if my friend consented to this preposterous arrangement, you would have to be properly represented, and, there being no second present, I decline, on my friend’s account.’
But here the little surgeon, who had carefully drest Forster’s wound, and placed him carefully and comfortably in a sitting posture against a large fragment of stone, leapt up in excitement.
‘Pardon, monsieur! I am here, and I will act as the English monsieur’s second.’
‘You?’ exclaimed the Chevalier.
‘Yes, Beauvoisin, I! I saw it all, and I repeat—it was not a duel, but an assassination.’
‘Monsieur, take care!’
‘Do you take care, Beauvoisin!’ screamed the little man fiercely. ‘I refuse to be a party to a cheat, either with pistols or cards.’
More high words ensued, and the two combatants seemed likely to fly at each other’s throats, when Gavrolles, who saw Sutherland still ready to fire upon him if he attempted to leave the ground, seized his second angrily by the arm.
‘It is enough—I will fight the scoundrel. If he falls he will have himself to blame.’
So at last it was arranged. Gavrolles’ pistol was reloaded, while Sutherland still retained the weapon undischarged by Forster. The ground was measured; the men took their places, and the seconds stood aside, ready to give the signal.
It was arranged this time that ‘three’ only should be counted, and the moment the last number was given the men were to fire.
Sutherland stood cold and collected; Gavrolles, this time, shook violently, and seemed to lose his self-possession.
‘Stop!’ he cried, just as the second prepared to count.
‘No! It is infamous! I will not fight again.’
And he threw down his pistol.
‘A coward,’ said Sutherland; ‘I thought so!’
But the fire-eating Chevalier now walked over, lifted the weapon, and handed it back to his principal.
‘On the contrary, youmustfight now,’ he said grimly. ‘If not, I shall proclaim you to be what the Englishman calls you, a coward.’
With one fierce glare into his friend’s face, Gavrolles snatched the pistol, uttered an execration, and again took his stand facing Sutherland.
The Chevalier walked back to his place.
‘One—two—three!’
Before the last number was uttered, Gavrolles had raised his pistol; but Sutherland, who had watched him keenly, was as quick as he. The weapons were discharged simultaneously, and one sharp report rang out in the air.
Sutherland stood unscathed, though the bullet had almost grazed his brow. Gavrolles, with a stifled scream, threw up his arms, and fell forward on his face—shot through the heart.
The stream of my narrative, instead of lingering round that group of excited duellists on the French coast, turns again back to England, and to that place of refuge which the wandering woman, ‘Jane Peartree,’ found in the extremity of her distress.
After her first night under the roof of Mount Eden, and after her first wild impulse to rise and fly on and on, she subsided into a kind of restless slumber, accompanied with violent shivering and nausea, and before twenty-four hours had passed violent fever had set in. Over the details of this illness, which lasted many weeks, I have no intention to linger. We pass on to the period when the invalid, sufficiently convalescent to sit up in the smaller chamber to which she had been conveyed, began thoroughly to realise the fiery ordeal through which her life had passed.
It was a room overlooking the lawn and shrubberies, which, at that season, were carpeted and draped with snow; and she sat one morning, looking out—on the white ground, on the shrouded trees, on the red sun beyond, hanging like a pink balloon close to the cold and foggy marshes, through which flowed the sullen Thames.
By her side stood the French girl Adèle, who, throughout the sickness, had been her voluntary nurse, and had watched her with extraordinary tenderness and care.
‘You are stronger to-day than ever, mademoiselle,’ she was saying in French; ‘you will soon be able to leave this room.’
The invalid sat silent, her eyes on the dreary, winter landscape, her pale beautiful face set like a mask of utter forlornness and despair; then slowly, convulsively, her bosom shook, her eyes filled, and large tears coursed silently over her cheek.
‘O mademoiselle, do not weep! It breaks my heart to see you. Courage! Are you not nearly well? Ah, yes! and there will be happy days in store for you, after so great trouble.’
The invalid smiled sadly, and shook her head; then reaching out a wasted hand, she took one of the French girl’s.
‘Adèle!’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you ever care for any one very, very much? I don’t mean foolishly, like young girls who think they love; but passionately, religiously, with your whole heart and soul? I do not speak of women, but of men, Adèle; though there are good women too.’
With a curiously beautiful shame Adèle turned her face away, while a faint flush crept over her face. After a moment she replied evasively:—
‘There are few good men, mademoiselle.’
‘But have you known none?’
‘Yes, one—one only,’ replied Adèle with sudden warmth, ‘and I think there is no other like him in the world. Ah, mademoiselle, it is so strange that you should ask me, since he is coming here to see me this very day.’
‘Tell me about him, Adèle,’ said the invalid gently.
‘To tell you truly all he is, mademoiselle, I should have to tell you all I have been, and then, you might hate me! But no, you are too good. I know you have never beenthere—-where he found me—in the life which is worse than hell. If you have been unfortunate, you have not-been to blame; but I—I have been a devil, tempted by a devil! Ah, yes!’
As she proceeded, the girl seemed to yield more and more to the hysterical excitement of her temperament and race. Her face went ghastly pale, her eyes swam with tears, her hands opened and shut convulsively.
‘Do not speak of it,’ said the other, taking her hand again gently—‘since it gives you such pain.’
‘No, mademoiselle, let me speak,’ returned Adèle struggling with her agitation, ‘but I will not speak ofthat, but of him who raised me from it and saved my life for God. Twice, mademoiselle, he came like the angel he is; the first time it was too soon; the second time I thought it was the Lord Himself, standing—ah, so beautiful!—at my bedside.’
She ceased, and, pressing her hands upon her bosom, gazed out through the window, as if indeed she saw before her the heavenly vision of which she spoke. Then, after a little time, the invalid broke the silence, saying:—
‘I think I understand you. I, too, have known such a man as you describe—all goodness, all kindness—so different to the rest. But I brought great misery to him, and sometimes I think his heart must be quite broken. That is what fills me with despair.’
‘Truly, mademoiselle?’
‘Yes. If I could be certain that he was happy, that he had forgotten me, I should not mind.’
‘Was he your lover, mademoiselle?’ asked Adèle, suddenly looking into her companion’s eye.
‘He was my husband,’ was the reply.
Adèle uttered an exclamation.
‘Ah, that is different!’ she cried in wonder. ‘And—and—you left him,madame?’
‘Yes, Adèle.’
‘Although you loved him so much!’
‘Because I loved him.’
‘And does he live,madame?’
Again the softly summoned word ‘madame,’ so significant of a new curiosity and a new respect.
‘Yes, he lives, unless he has died of sorrow. I brought disgrace upon him; it was unhappy for him that we ever met; and so—I left him.’
‘Does he know you arehere, madame?’
Jane Peartree started nervously; then, smiling sadly at her own terror, shook her head.
‘God forbid!’
‘And you are reallyhis wife, madame?’
‘Yes.’
Adèle walked to the window thoughtfully, and stood there continuing the conversation.
‘It must be so dreadful,’ she said, ‘for husband and wife to part. I was never married, madame, but I understand. A little time ago I was reading in an English newspaper, of an English merchant, a rich man, whose wife left him suddenly, and no one knew why. She had been an actress in the theatre, and he had fallen in love with her upon the stage. Then, owing to some disagreement, she ran away.’
Fortunately, Adèle was not looking at her companion; otherwise she would have been startled by the change that had come over her. Leaning back in her invalid chair, with the last trace of colour faded from her cheek, and her form trembling violently, she murmured, in a voice of forced composure—
‘Yes;—and did she return?’
‘Ah, no, madame. The lady drowned herself that very night, and the body was afterwards found in theMorgue, at the police station, and identified by her husband. It was the account of the inquest which I read in the journals. Though the body had been long in the water, and was quite disfigured, the husband recognised it at once.’
‘But how?’
‘Easily. By the clothes upon it, and by a pair of bracelets which the gentleman’s sister had given to the lady, as a birthday gift.’
The invalid uttered a low moan, and Adèle, approaching her, saw with surprise that she had fainted in her chair.
Reproaching herself for having wearied out her charge, the French girl knelt by her side, chafed her hands, and gradually drew her back to consciousness. At last opening her eyes, she shuddered violently, and shrank away as if possessed by some unaccountable terror.
‘Jane! Madame! Calm yourself. It is I, Adèle. Forgive me for tiring you with my foolish chatter, since you are so weak. I will fetch you your beef-tea, and then you will be better.’
Gradually the invalid became more composed, and partook of the nourishment which the kind nurse brought to her; but she still, from time to time, seemed to fix her eyes on some sight of horror, and to tremble with secret agitation.
A little later in the day, as she sat leaning back in her chair and gazing in the fire, she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. Adèle, who was at the window, uttered a joyful cry.
‘Madame! it is he! it is my friend!’
A few minutes later came a message from Sister Ursula saying that Adèle was wanted below, and that during her absence the messenger, a young country girl of seventeen, was to remain in the sick room.
Adèle, with sparkling eyes and heightened colour, kissed the invalid, and departed.
A long time elapsed. Jane Peartree, with her eyes on the fire, fell into a light sleep, broken by feverish flashes of dream. She was awakened by the sound of voices at her door. Then Adèle, smiling brightly, entered, accompanied by Sister Ursula.
‘I have brought my friend,’ she cried, ‘to speak to you before he goes. Come in, Mr. Sutherland.’
Before Jane Peartree could reply, a gentleman, hat in hand, entered the room. The invalid looked up as if startled, sat erect in her chair, and the full light of the wintry afternoon fell upon her beautiful face.
She did not recognise the gentleman, but at the first glance he, to her horror and alarm, seemed to recognise her. Turning ghastly pale, and uttering a wild exclamation, he stood and gazed upon her, as upon a spirit risen from the dead.
‘What is the matter?’ cried Sister Ursula, in astonishment, while Adèle Lambert stood by trembling, and Jane Peartree, startled and terrified, shrank back in her chair.
But directly the first shock of surprise was over Sutherland mastered his agitation, and quietly advanced into the room.
‘It is nothing,’ he said to Sister Ursula. ‘Pray forgive my stupidity, but for the moment I was startled out of my self-possession by a somewhat singular resemblance.’
He added, looking steadily at Jane Peartree:—
‘They tell me you have been very ill. I trust you are now almost well.’
He waited for a reply, but none came. Jane Peartree still shrank back in terror or aversion, and endeavoured to turn away her face.
‘You spoke of a resemblance,’ said Sister Ursula. ‘What did you mean?’
Sutherland still kept his eyes upon the averted form of Jane Peartree, and saw that it trembled violently, as he replied:—
‘It is scarcely worth mentioning further, for such resemblances are common; but at the first glance, this lady seemed very like a person I once knew.’
To his intense surprise, Jane Peartree now turned her eyes and looked steadily up at him. Her face was white as death, but firm and resolved. Again the peculiar likeness struck him, and he gazed in wonder; but she bore his gaze steadily, as she asked, in a low deep tone, very unlike that of her usual voice—
‘Who is the person of whom you speak?’
‘A lady—a married lady.’
‘A friend of yours, sir?’
‘Scarcely that; one whom I met on several occasions, and whose character I greatly admired.’
‘Is she still living, sir?’
‘No, she is dead,’ answered Sutherland.
Jane Peartree turned her eyes away, and sighed heavily, while Adèle stepped to the side of the chair, and adjusted the pillows behind her head.
‘Her life was unhappy,’ Sutherland, continued, ‘and her death was very pitiful. She had just this lady’s eyes, her hair, even something of her voice. If a human being could rise from the grave, I should say this lady was the same; that I know is impossible. Ah! if she only lived—if I could only see her again—if I could only tell her of what has passed since she died!’
As he spoke, he quietly watched the invalid, and saw that she was still greatly agitated. Eager to spare her pain, though still strangely curious and suspicious, he changed the conversation, and talked lightly for some minutes to Adèle and Sister Ursula. Finally he glanced towards the door, and held out his hand to the invalid.
‘Good-night,’ he said.
‘Good-night, sir,’ said Jane Peartree, not turning her face again.
‘Good-night, Adèle,’ he said, smiling.
‘Good-night, monsieur,’ answered Adèle, looking at him with bright, almost worshipping eyes; then, lifting his hand to her lips, she kissed it gently.
Accompanied by Sister Ursula, Sutherland descended to the lower part of the house, and entered a small sitting-room, or office, reserved for the superior’s private use.
‘Tell me something more of your invalid,’ he said quickly. ‘I feel rather interested in her. What did you say was her name?’
‘Jane Peartree.’
‘Jane Peartree?’
‘Yes; but it may be assumed. I have noticed one thing which I may tell you in confidence. The initials on the clothes she wore when she came here are quite different.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Not “J. P.”—but “M. F.”’
Sutherland started in new surprise.
‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, “M. F.” Do you know any person with those initials? Who was the person to whom you referred upstairs?’
Sutherland’s reply was singular.
‘I cannot tell you; not, at least, to-night. Promise me, however, before I go, that this lady—she is a lady, that is clear, and very different to the usual inmates of the Home—shall not go away from Mount Eden until you hear from me again. In the meantime assure her, should she question you, that I havenotrecognised her.’
‘That you have not recognised her?’ echoed Sister Ursula, puzzled and anxious.
‘Just so. It is important that you should not alarm her; it is equally important that she should not be lost sight of, if what I suspect is possible.’
‘But can you not explain?’
‘Do not ask me to-night. As soon as I can I will write—or come to you. Pray trust me in this matter; it is a sort of miracle, not quite comprehended even by myself.’
‘As you please,’ returned Sister Ursula, smiling, ‘since you are determined to be inscrutable.’
And now before I go,’ said Sutherland, changing his manner, ‘I have something for you: I think it will be a surprise. Look there!’
So speaking, he took out a pocket-book and drew from it a cheque for fifty pounds, payable to ‘bearer.’
‘I see,’ said Sister Ursula; ‘another contribution to Mount Eden. Ah! you are indefatigable.’
‘I assure you this is quite a windfall; I did not even shake the tree. Look at the signature. Do you know it? 5 ‘“Hubert Lagardère.” No!’ ‘Lagardère, the editor of the “Plain Speaker.”’ Sister Ursula raised her eyebrows and lifted her hands.
‘That man! Why, I thought——’
‘And so did I,’ cried Sutherland, laughing. ‘So thorough a worldling did I think him, that I have been twice on the point of horsewhipping him. Well, I was sitting yesterday morning in my rooms when he was shown in. It turned out afterwards that he had seen my name connected in some way with this institution. He entered mysteriously, carefully closed the door, and before I could address him he handed me that cheque, with the intimation that it was to be paid over to you. “It seems to me rather a good sort of idea,” he said in his drawling way; “so I have brought you a trifle I won from Banbri Pasha last night at nap.”
“Really, Mr. Lagardère,” I said, “I didn’t give you credit for so much sympathy with misfortune.” I added: “I shall have much pleasure in making public acknowledgment of your liberality.” As I spoke the words he trembled violently and clutched me by the arm.’ ‘How singular!’ said Sister Ursula.
‘“For God’s sake,” he cried, “do nothing of the kind.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “it is only just. To be frank, I, in common with many others, have held your style of journalism in the utmost detestation. In one case, at least, I know you have helped to wreck a human life; it is only fair to proclaim that you are perhaps penitent, and——”
He interrupted me with an expletive. “Nothing of the sort,” he exclaimed; “I don’t profess to be a saint, and I won’t have my character taken away. Damme, sir, what would the readers of the ‘Plain Speaker’ think, if they thought I had any commonplace compunctions? They’d all go back to the ‘Whirligig,’ vote me a molly-coddle, and, as a journalist, I should be ruined.” So I took the cheque, on the condition that I should not disturb the public in its happy confidence in the moral perversity of the donor.’
Sister Ursula joined heartily in Sutherland’s laughter.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you have certainly discovered a phenomenon. Most men, even some good men, like to have their charities written large for the world to read; whereas Mr. Lagardère is actually ashamed of a good action.’
‘After all,’ answered Sutherland, as they shook hands, ‘he is what the world has made him. In a society which sets success above goodness, and despises any kind of sentiment, he poses as a Cockney Mephistopheles. For the future I shall never think of him without calling up the lines of Burns:—
Then fare-thee-weel, auld Nickie-Ben,
Ah, wad you tak’ a thoucht, and men’!
You aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake!
I’m wae to think upon yon den,
E’en foryoursake!
For “den” substitute “journal,” and the allusion—though not the rhyme—would be perfect. I, for one, am “wae to think” of the diabolic journalism of the period, even for the sake of—Lagardère!’
As Sutherland hurried away through the night, driving to catch a late train at a lonely railway station seven miles from Mount Eden, his thoughts were not of Lagardère and the newest thing in journalism, but of her whom that man and that system had helped to destroy. A wild suspicion, deepening almost to certainty, and based upon the extraordinary resemblance between Madeline Forster and the woman calling herself Jane Peartree, had complete possession of his mind. Strange and impossible as it seemed, he could not shake away the belief that Jane Peartree was, in flesh or spirit, the living image of the woman whose death he had avenged on the body of Gavrolles.
It may bea propos, at this point, to allay the reader’s curiosity as to what took place at Boulogne after Gavrolles fell by Sutherland’s hand. Of course there was an inquiry and a great scandal—duels with fatal terminations being very unusual in these days. Forster lay at the hotel slowly recovering from his wound, under surveillance. Sutherland was under arrest for some hours, and was only released on giving substantial pledges to appear when called upon. For a time it seemed likely that a prosecution of a serious nature would ensue; but money and influence were brought to bear on the authorities, and the two Englishmen were eventually suffered, whilst the police pretended to ‘look another way,’ to cross the Channel.
After the death of Gavrolles, Forster seemed to resign himself more and more to melancholic prostration; and more than once when his wound was slowly healing, he avowed his regret that it was not to have a fatal termination. He would sit for days in a sort of mental stupor, scarcely looking up when spoken to, seldom or never uttering a word. On his return to England, instead of again occupying his house at Kensington, he took chambers near Bond Street for himself and his little son, and had the family mansion closed. His sister Margaret wished to remain with him, but at his strong desire she went away to dwell with some relations in the country. To tell the truth, he had not quite forgiven her the want of sympathy she had shown for the lost idol of his life.
The morning after his return from Mount Eden, Sutherland found Forster, sad, despairing, but convalescent, in his lonely chambers. The two had by this time become great friends, or more than friends; and Sutherland was welcomed with as bright a smile as the weary face could wear.
‘I have been looking over some old photographs,’ said Forster presently. ‘Strange! how they one and all fail to represent her I have lost. Here is one of “Imogen.” The features are there, but the soul is altogether wanting.’
Sutherland glanced over the pictures, which were lying on a small writing-table at Forster’s side; then he said quietly—
‘Do you think it wise to open up old wounds in this way? Can you not try to forget?’
‘Never, never!’ returned Forster, while his eyes filled with tears. ‘My only comfort,now, is to think of my darling—to wait and pray until, with God’s blessing, we meet again.’
‘Can you bear to speak of her,now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you bear to think it possible that, after all, you might yet meet—not up yonder in the heaven of the preacher, but here, on solid earth, in broad day?’
‘What do you mean!’ cried Forster, trembling violently. ‘Alas, she is dead! dead!’
‘The dead have once risen. Might they not rise again?’