Chapter Five.Under St. Clement Danes.The office was small, dingy, and undusted, with a threadbare carpet that had once been green, long rows of pigeon-holes filled with faded legal papers, and windows so dirt-begrimed that they only admitted a yellow light, which added to the characteristic gloom.Before a large writing-table sat Mr Bernard Graham, solicitor and commissioner for oaths, interestedly reading some documents which had apparently been taken from a black tin box that was standing open near him. He was a clean-shaven, wizened man of sixty, with scanty white hair, a forehead denoting considerable self-esteem, a pair of small, cold grey eyes, and an aquiline nose, surmounted by pince-nez with tortoiseshell frames. Attired in broadcloth of an antiquated cut, he looked exactly what his clients believed him to be—a respectable family solicitor, the surviving partner of the once popular firm of Graham and Ratcliff.“Hum! the dates correspond,” he was murmuring aloud, as he jotted down some memoranda, after glancing through an affidavit yellow with age. “There can be no doubt that my surmise is correct; yet the whole affair is the most extraordinary within my experience. I wonder whether there are any minor points that will require clearing up?”Selecting another document, somewhat larger than the former, he opened it, and readjusting his glasses, read it through slowly and carefully, breaking off several times to make notes of dates and names therein set forth.“No,” he exclaimed at last, as he laid the paper aside; “we must first establish the identity, then everything will be straightforward. It all seems remarkably dear.”Leaning back in his writing chair, his features relaxed into a self-satisfied smile.“Some one must benefit,” he observed aloud, his face again assuming a thoughtful look. “There is such a thing as murder through revenge. Now, I wonder how I should fare if—”The door suddenly opened, and a clerk appeared bearing a card.“Show him in,” commanded the solicitor, after glancing at it.A moment later Hugh Trethowen entered.Dressed fashionably, with a flower in his coat, he looked spruce and gay. The settled look of despair had given place to a pleasant smile, and as he advanced with elastic tread and greeted the old gentleman in his usual easy, familiar manner, it would have been hard to believe that twelve hours ago he had been on the point of taking his life.“Well, Graham,” he began, as he put down his hat, and took the chair opposite the solicitor; “now, what is it you want with me? I’ve been breathing an atmosphere of debts and duns lately, so, if any of my creditors have been so misguided as to put their claim into your hands, I may as well give you the tip at once that I’m not worth sixpence.”“Creditors are out of the question, Mr Hugh,” the old solicitor replied, smiling, and leaning back in his chair.“I wish they were,” said Hugh fervently. “Give me a recipe to get rid of them, and I’ll try the experiment at all hazards.”“You have no need, my dear sir,—no need whatever.”“No need!” repeated the younger man in astonishment, for the words seemed like an insinuation that he knew the secret means by which he intended to evade his difficulties. “Why, what do you mean?” he asked seriously. “I tell you, it is pay or smash with me.”“I regret to hear that, but you will adopt the former course,” Graham replied mysteriously.Hugh laughed sarcastically.“That’s very likely, when I have no money. But, look here, what do you want with me?”“To impart some news.”“News!” exclaimed Trethowen, suddenly interested. “Good or bad?”“Both.”“What is it? Tell me quickly,” he demanded, with an impatient gesture.“Simply this. I wish to congratulate you upon your inheritance.”“What inheritance?”“Well, the information it is my pleasure to communicate will undoubtedly cause you mingled pain and satisfaction. Briefly, your brother, Douglas Trethowen, is dead, and—”“What!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet in amazement. “You’re humbugging me!”“I repeat, your brother is dead,” resumed the old solicitor calmly, looking intently into the face of the man before him. “In consequence of that event you inherit the whole of the estate.”“Good heavens, is this true, Graham?” he asked breathlessly.“It is. Therefore I don’t think you need trouble yourself over creditors any longer. You can now pay, and wipe them out.”The old man laughed at the effect his words had produced, for Hugh Trethowen was standing in mute astonishment.“But how do you know Douglas is dead?” he asked.“There is little doubt of it,” answered Mr Graham coolly. “Read this,” and he handed him a newspaper cutting.Hugh scanned it eagerly, with an expression of abject amazement. The statement was to the effect that it had just transpired that the man found murdered in an omnibus at Charing Cross had been identified as Mr Douglas Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall. Upon the body some cards and letters had been found, which, for some unaccountable reason, had at first been kept secret by the police.“I can scarcely believe it,” Hugh ejaculated at length. “Besides, after all, it is not absolutely certain that it is he.”“Not at all,” admitted Graham, with a puzzled look. “Of course, you, as his brother, must identify him.”“Yes,” said the other, very thoughtfully; for it had suddenly occurred to him that he had not recognised the features when he saw the body taken from the omnibus.“No time must be lost,” observed the solicitor. “The identity must be established at once. The inquest will, I believe, be held to-morrow.”Hugh hesitated, and for some moments remained silent.“You see, I’ve not met my brother for six years, therefore I might be unable to recognise him. He has been abroad during the greater part of that period, and his appearance may have altered considerably.”“Nonsense, my dear sir,—nonsense. You would surely know your own brother, even if a dozen years had elapsed,” he answered decisively.“And suppose he really is Douglas?”“The will is explicit enough,” the elder man said, pointing to an open document before him. “This is a copy of it, and no codicil has been added. In the same manner as your late respected father, Mr Douglas left the whole of his affairs in my hands. Fortunately for you, he never married, and the property is yours.”He felt bewildered. Such agreeable news was sufficient to animate with immoderate joy a ruined man who, a few hours previously, had contemplated suicide.“Now, speaking candidly, Graham, have you any doubt that it is Douglas?”“None.”“Why?”“Well—for the simple reason that I believe he is dead.”“That’s an evasive answer. Tell me the reason.”“Unfortunately, I cannot divulge secrets entrusted to me, Mr Hugh. You may, however, at once rest assured that I am absolutely ignorant both of the motive of the terrible crime and the existence of any one likely to commit it. If I possessed any such knowledge, of course, I should communicate with the police without delay,” the old gentleman said calmly.“Then you refuse to state your reasons?” exclaimed Trethowen, a trifle annoyed.“I do, most decidedly. All I can tell you is that I knew your brother had returned from abroad; and, as a matter of fact, he wrote making an appointment to meet me yesterday, but did not keep it.”“From that you conclude he is dead?”“Combined with various other circumstances.”“Well, Graham, it’s hardly satisfactory, you’ll admit,” observed Hugh. And then he added: “Of course, if you refuse to tell me anything else, I can do nothing.”“Excuse me, Mr Hugh,” answered the solicitor blandly. “You can go to the mortuary at once and identify the body.”“If I fail, what then?”“I don’t think you will fail,” replied Graham, with a meaning smile.“You’ll come and assist me?”“I shall be very pleased to accompany you, but must claim your indulgence for a few moments while I put away these papers;” and he commenced gathering up the scattered documents and replacing them in the box.When he had finished he locked it carefully, and then, struggling into his overcoat, and putting on his hat, he followed Hugh Trethowen out.An hour later they returned and reseated themselves. “The whole affair is so enshrouded in mystery that I doubt very much whether the murderer will ever be discovered,” Graham remarked, taking up some letters that had been placed upon his table during his absence.“I agree with you. It’s a most remarkable crime.”“But, after all, what’s the use of puzzling one’s brain?” the solicitor asked. “You inherit the estate, with an income that should keep you in luxury for the remainder of your days, therefore why trouble about it?”“That is so; but supposing Douglas is still alive—I only say supposing—now what would be the result?” Graham shrugged his shoulders, and his visage elongated.“It’s no use apprehending such adénouement. You are absolutely certain that the body is his, are you not?” he asked.“I’m positive of it. The curious deformity of the ear I remember quite distinctly.”“Then you will swear before the coroner to-morrow that he is your brother?” he observed, regarding the young man keenly.“I shall.”“In that case no more need be said. We shall immediately proceed to prove the will, and you will be master of Coombe.”“Indeed,” exclaimed Hugh, with a light laugh, as he rose to depart. “I’m in luck’s way to-day. A few hours ago I little thought myself so near being a wealthy man.”“No; it must be a very pleasant surprise,” the old gentleman said, rising and grasping his new client’s hand. “I heartily congratulate you on your good fortune, Mr Hugh. I shall call upon you at noon to-morrow, and we will attend the inquest together. Your interests will be safe in my hands, so for the present good-bye.”“Good-day, Graham. I’ll expect you to-morrow,” Hugh replied, and, lighting a cigar, he went out.
The office was small, dingy, and undusted, with a threadbare carpet that had once been green, long rows of pigeon-holes filled with faded legal papers, and windows so dirt-begrimed that they only admitted a yellow light, which added to the characteristic gloom.
Before a large writing-table sat Mr Bernard Graham, solicitor and commissioner for oaths, interestedly reading some documents which had apparently been taken from a black tin box that was standing open near him. He was a clean-shaven, wizened man of sixty, with scanty white hair, a forehead denoting considerable self-esteem, a pair of small, cold grey eyes, and an aquiline nose, surmounted by pince-nez with tortoiseshell frames. Attired in broadcloth of an antiquated cut, he looked exactly what his clients believed him to be—a respectable family solicitor, the surviving partner of the once popular firm of Graham and Ratcliff.
“Hum! the dates correspond,” he was murmuring aloud, as he jotted down some memoranda, after glancing through an affidavit yellow with age. “There can be no doubt that my surmise is correct; yet the whole affair is the most extraordinary within my experience. I wonder whether there are any minor points that will require clearing up?”
Selecting another document, somewhat larger than the former, he opened it, and readjusting his glasses, read it through slowly and carefully, breaking off several times to make notes of dates and names therein set forth.
“No,” he exclaimed at last, as he laid the paper aside; “we must first establish the identity, then everything will be straightforward. It all seems remarkably dear.”
Leaning back in his writing chair, his features relaxed into a self-satisfied smile.
“Some one must benefit,” he observed aloud, his face again assuming a thoughtful look. “There is such a thing as murder through revenge. Now, I wonder how I should fare if—”
The door suddenly opened, and a clerk appeared bearing a card.
“Show him in,” commanded the solicitor, after glancing at it.
A moment later Hugh Trethowen entered.
Dressed fashionably, with a flower in his coat, he looked spruce and gay. The settled look of despair had given place to a pleasant smile, and as he advanced with elastic tread and greeted the old gentleman in his usual easy, familiar manner, it would have been hard to believe that twelve hours ago he had been on the point of taking his life.
“Well, Graham,” he began, as he put down his hat, and took the chair opposite the solicitor; “now, what is it you want with me? I’ve been breathing an atmosphere of debts and duns lately, so, if any of my creditors have been so misguided as to put their claim into your hands, I may as well give you the tip at once that I’m not worth sixpence.”
“Creditors are out of the question, Mr Hugh,” the old solicitor replied, smiling, and leaning back in his chair.
“I wish they were,” said Hugh fervently. “Give me a recipe to get rid of them, and I’ll try the experiment at all hazards.”
“You have no need, my dear sir,—no need whatever.”
“No need!” repeated the younger man in astonishment, for the words seemed like an insinuation that he knew the secret means by which he intended to evade his difficulties. “Why, what do you mean?” he asked seriously. “I tell you, it is pay or smash with me.”
“I regret to hear that, but you will adopt the former course,” Graham replied mysteriously.
Hugh laughed sarcastically.
“That’s very likely, when I have no money. But, look here, what do you want with me?”
“To impart some news.”
“News!” exclaimed Trethowen, suddenly interested. “Good or bad?”
“Both.”
“What is it? Tell me quickly,” he demanded, with an impatient gesture.
“Simply this. I wish to congratulate you upon your inheritance.”
“What inheritance?”
“Well, the information it is my pleasure to communicate will undoubtedly cause you mingled pain and satisfaction. Briefly, your brother, Douglas Trethowen, is dead, and—”
“What!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet in amazement. “You’re humbugging me!”
“I repeat, your brother is dead,” resumed the old solicitor calmly, looking intently into the face of the man before him. “In consequence of that event you inherit the whole of the estate.”
“Good heavens, is this true, Graham?” he asked breathlessly.
“It is. Therefore I don’t think you need trouble yourself over creditors any longer. You can now pay, and wipe them out.”
The old man laughed at the effect his words had produced, for Hugh Trethowen was standing in mute astonishment.
“But how do you know Douglas is dead?” he asked.
“There is little doubt of it,” answered Mr Graham coolly. “Read this,” and he handed him a newspaper cutting.
Hugh scanned it eagerly, with an expression of abject amazement. The statement was to the effect that it had just transpired that the man found murdered in an omnibus at Charing Cross had been identified as Mr Douglas Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall. Upon the body some cards and letters had been found, which, for some unaccountable reason, had at first been kept secret by the police.
“I can scarcely believe it,” Hugh ejaculated at length. “Besides, after all, it is not absolutely certain that it is he.”
“Not at all,” admitted Graham, with a puzzled look. “Of course, you, as his brother, must identify him.”
“Yes,” said the other, very thoughtfully; for it had suddenly occurred to him that he had not recognised the features when he saw the body taken from the omnibus.
“No time must be lost,” observed the solicitor. “The identity must be established at once. The inquest will, I believe, be held to-morrow.”
Hugh hesitated, and for some moments remained silent.
“You see, I’ve not met my brother for six years, therefore I might be unable to recognise him. He has been abroad during the greater part of that period, and his appearance may have altered considerably.”
“Nonsense, my dear sir,—nonsense. You would surely know your own brother, even if a dozen years had elapsed,” he answered decisively.
“And suppose he really is Douglas?”
“The will is explicit enough,” the elder man said, pointing to an open document before him. “This is a copy of it, and no codicil has been added. In the same manner as your late respected father, Mr Douglas left the whole of his affairs in my hands. Fortunately for you, he never married, and the property is yours.”
He felt bewildered. Such agreeable news was sufficient to animate with immoderate joy a ruined man who, a few hours previously, had contemplated suicide.
“Now, speaking candidly, Graham, have you any doubt that it is Douglas?”
“None.”
“Why?”
“Well—for the simple reason that I believe he is dead.”
“That’s an evasive answer. Tell me the reason.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot divulge secrets entrusted to me, Mr Hugh. You may, however, at once rest assured that I am absolutely ignorant both of the motive of the terrible crime and the existence of any one likely to commit it. If I possessed any such knowledge, of course, I should communicate with the police without delay,” the old gentleman said calmly.
“Then you refuse to state your reasons?” exclaimed Trethowen, a trifle annoyed.
“I do, most decidedly. All I can tell you is that I knew your brother had returned from abroad; and, as a matter of fact, he wrote making an appointment to meet me yesterday, but did not keep it.”
“From that you conclude he is dead?”
“Combined with various other circumstances.”
“Well, Graham, it’s hardly satisfactory, you’ll admit,” observed Hugh. And then he added: “Of course, if you refuse to tell me anything else, I can do nothing.”
“Excuse me, Mr Hugh,” answered the solicitor blandly. “You can go to the mortuary at once and identify the body.”
“If I fail, what then?”
“I don’t think you will fail,” replied Graham, with a meaning smile.
“You’ll come and assist me?”
“I shall be very pleased to accompany you, but must claim your indulgence for a few moments while I put away these papers;” and he commenced gathering up the scattered documents and replacing them in the box.
When he had finished he locked it carefully, and then, struggling into his overcoat, and putting on his hat, he followed Hugh Trethowen out.
An hour later they returned and reseated themselves. “The whole affair is so enshrouded in mystery that I doubt very much whether the murderer will ever be discovered,” Graham remarked, taking up some letters that had been placed upon his table during his absence.
“I agree with you. It’s a most remarkable crime.”
“But, after all, what’s the use of puzzling one’s brain?” the solicitor asked. “You inherit the estate, with an income that should keep you in luxury for the remainder of your days, therefore why trouble about it?”
“That is so; but supposing Douglas is still alive—I only say supposing—now what would be the result?” Graham shrugged his shoulders, and his visage elongated.
“It’s no use apprehending such adénouement. You are absolutely certain that the body is his, are you not?” he asked.
“I’m positive of it. The curious deformity of the ear I remember quite distinctly.”
“Then you will swear before the coroner to-morrow that he is your brother?” he observed, regarding the young man keenly.
“I shall.”
“In that case no more need be said. We shall immediately proceed to prove the will, and you will be master of Coombe.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed Hugh, with a light laugh, as he rose to depart. “I’m in luck’s way to-day. A few hours ago I little thought myself so near being a wealthy man.”
“No; it must be a very pleasant surprise,” the old gentleman said, rising and grasping his new client’s hand. “I heartily congratulate you on your good fortune, Mr Hugh. I shall call upon you at noon to-morrow, and we will attend the inquest together. Your interests will be safe in my hands, so for the present good-bye.”
“Good-day, Graham. I’ll expect you to-morrow,” Hugh replied, and, lighting a cigar, he went out.
Chapter Six.Valérie Dedieu.“Look! there she goes! Isn’t she lovely? By Jove, she’s the most charming woman I’ve ever met!”“The less of her sort there are about, the better for society at large, old fellow.”“What? You know her?”“Yes. Unfortunately.”“Oh, of course. Some frivolous tale; but I’ll not hear a word of it. Some people are never satisfied unless they are polluting a fair name, or washing their neighbour’s dirty linen.”“That’s meant to be personal, I suppose?”“As you please.”“And where did you make her acquaintance, pray?”“Quite casually; a week ago.”“And you’ve taken her for three drives, and walked on the promenade with her?”“If I have, what crime have I committed beyond arousing your jealousy?”“I’m not jealous in the least, I assure you, old chap,” replied Jack Egerton, smiling. “But the fact is, Hugh, I’ve always considered you a man, and never believed that you could develop into a brainless, lovesick swain. Yet it appears you have. We’ve known each other long enough to speak plainly, and if you take my advice you’ll steer clear of her.”“Why do you give me this mysterious warning, old chap?”“She’s bewitching, I admit: but a pretty face is not all that is desirable in a woman. If you’re on the lookout for a suitable partner—and it seems you are—I advise you not to make her your wife, or you’ll repent it. Besides, a rich man like yourself can choose from among the younger and possibly better-looking bargains offered by anxious but impecunious mothers.”“Oh yes; I know all about that,” replied Hugh impatiently. “I shall never take any advice upon matrimony, so you are only wasting breath. The man who frowns at coquetry is often willing enough to wink at the coquette. I’m master of my own actions, and were we not old friends, Jack, I should consider this abominable impertinence on your part.”“But, my dear fellow, it is in your own interests that—”“Bother my interests! Have another cigar and shut up!”“Very well, as you please.”The two men, who were thus discussing the merits of a female form which had just passed, were seated at an open window at the Queen’s Hotel, at Eastbourne. It was an August morning, warm, with scarcely a breath of wind. The cerulean sky reflected upon the clear sea, glassy and calm in the sunlight, while the white sails of the yachts and the distant outlines of larger vessels relieved the monotonous expanse of blue, and added effect and harmony to the scene.A fashionable crowd of loungers were passing and reusing the window, keeping under the shadow of the uses: for the fair ones who frequent seaside resorts, presumably for health, never desire their faces tanned. Now that the legal formalities had been accomplished, and Hugh Trethowen found himself with a comfortable competence, he, no longer world-weary, had recommenced a life of enjoyment. It was a pleasant reflection to know that his creditors had been paid in full, that he had repaid the thousand pounds he had obtained dishonourably, that he was no longer likely to be troubled by duns, and that his trusted servant Jacob had been reinstalled master of his chambers. He had spent a few weeks at Coombe, and formally taken possession of the home of his youth; then he returned and went to Eastbourne, having induced Egerton to put aside work and spend a short holiday with him.After this discussion regarding the lady, he sat back in his chair, with a cigar in his mouth, looking unutterably bored. Truth to tell, he was a little out of temper; the weather was oppressive, and he hated discussions, as he always argued that life was too short, and breath too precious, to waste on trying to convince any one against his will.As he sat there he gazed out upon the expanse of blue, and lapsed into silent contemplation.The object of his admiration, who had just passed their window, was dressed with elegance and taste in a dainty pearl-grey creation of Worth’s, a hat of the latest French mode, the whole being surmounted by a cool-looking lace sunshade, the tint of which served to enhance her extraordinary beauty.She was one of those women frequently met with in Society, whose past is enveloped in a mist of uncertainty, yet they cannot be termed adventuresses, for their adventures, as far as known, are nothing extraordinary, andles conveyanceshave always been respected and rigorously preserved. Men liked her because her foreign accent and gesture added a vivacious piquancy to her manner, and women tolerated her because she was affable, fashionable, andchic. Scandalous tongues had certainly done their utmost to injure her reputation, but had failed. She numbered many smart people among her friends, but not even her enemies could accuse her of vulgarity or indiscretion. All that was known was that she possessed ample means, moved in a good set, and was a conspicuous figure wherever thehaut mondepoured forth her children—at Trouville, Royat, Brighton, on theplageat Arcachon, or the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, according to the season and fashion.“Let’s go for a stroll, old fellow,” suggested Hugh, rising, and tossing his cigar out of the window.“I’ve some letters to write.”“Oh, let them wait. Come along.”Egerton’s features were clouded by a frown of displeasure. He yawned wearily, but rose and accompanied his friend.They strolled along the parade, and back, and then out to the end of the pier. Trethowen’s eager eyes soon descried the object of his admiration, seated alone under the shadow of the pavilion, apparently engrossed in a novel. She looked up in surprise at their approach, and after mutual greetings they seated themselves beside her.Valérie Dedieu, whose features were flushed—for she had been startled by their sudden appearance—was certainly remarkably pretty. She was gentle and winning, with a well-formed head, and a tall, graceful figure that any woman might have envied. Her large, expressive dark eyes, protected by their fringe of long lashes, had that look, at once stubborn and gentle, provocative and modest, wanton and ardent, of the Frenchwoman. The expression of her face was ever changing; now her eyes, cast down demurely, seemed to indicate a coy modesty; now her pouting lip betrayed a slight annoyance, only to be succeeded by a charming smile which disclosed an even row of pearly teeth.As Hugh gazed upon her he remembered his friend’s mysterious warning, and asked himself what evil could lurk under so innocent a countenance.“I had no idea you were acquainted with M’sieur Egerton,” she exclaimed, suddenly turning to him.“Oh yes; we are old friends,” Hugh replied, smiling.“Ah! what an age it is since we met,” she said, addressing the artist, her words just tinged with an accent that added charm to her musical voice.“It is, mademoiselle,” he answered, somewhat sullenly; “I scarcely expected to come across you here.”She darted a sharp, inquiring glance at him, and frowned, almost imperceptibly. Next second she recovered her self-possession, and with a light laugh said: “Well, there seems some truth in the assertion that the world is very small after all.”“There does, and encounters are sometimes unpleasant for both parties,” he remarked abruptly. “But you’ll excuse me, won’t you? I see a man over there that I know, and want to speak to him.”Valérie gracefully inclined her head, and Egerton, rising, lounged over to the man he had recognised.The moment he was out of hearing, she turned to Trethowen, and said:“Then you and Jack Egerton are friends?”“Yes; I find him a very agreeable and good hearted fellow.”“That may be.” She hesitated thoughtfully; then she added: “You do not know him as well as I do.”“And what is your objection to him?” asked he in surprise.“Hugh, yesterday you told me you loved me,” she said, looking seriously into his face.“Yes, dearest, I did. I meant it.”“Then; as I explained to you, I have many enemies as well as friends. Jack Egerton is one of the former, and will do all in his power to part us when he finds out our affection is mutual. Now you understand my antipathy.”“Clearly,” he replied, puzzled. “But I know Jack too well; he would not be guilty of an underhand action.”“Do not trust him, but promise meone thing.”“Of course, I’ll promise you anything to make you happy. What is it?”“That you will take no heed of any allegations he may make against me.”She was intensely in earnest, and gazed at him with eyes that were entirely human in their quick sympathy, their gentleness—in their appeal to the world for a favouring word.“Rest assured, nothing he may say will ever turn me from you, Valérie.”She heaved a sigh of relief when he gave his answer.“Somehow or other I am always being scandalised,” she exclaimed bitterly. “I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, yet my select circle of enemies seem to conspire to cause the world to deride me. Because I am unmarried, and do not believe in burying myself, they endeavour to besmirch my fair name.”She spoke with a touch of emotion, which she ineffectually tried to hide.Then, as Hugh addressed her in a tone in which respect melted into love, she quivered at the simple words in which he poured forth his whole soul:“I love you. Why need you fear?”He uttered these words with a slight pressure of the hand, and a look which sank deep into her heart.Then they exchanged a few tremulous words—those treasured speeches which, monotonous as they seem, are as music in the ears of lovers. The artist and his friend were by this time out of sight, and they were left to themselves to enjoy those brief half-hours of happiness which seldom return, which combine the sadness of parting with the radiant hopes of a brighter day, and which we all of us grasp with sweet, trembling joy, as we stand on the threshold of a new life.And Valérie—forgetting everything, absorbed in a dream which was now a tangible reality—sat silent, with moist and downcast eyes. Hugh continued to smile, and murmured again and again in her ear:“I love you.”The pier was almost deserted, and, heedless of the rest of the world, they sat enraptured by love, lulled by the soft splashing of the sea, and bathed in the glorious golden sunshine.
“Look! there she goes! Isn’t she lovely? By Jove, she’s the most charming woman I’ve ever met!”
“The less of her sort there are about, the better for society at large, old fellow.”
“What? You know her?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“Oh, of course. Some frivolous tale; but I’ll not hear a word of it. Some people are never satisfied unless they are polluting a fair name, or washing their neighbour’s dirty linen.”
“That’s meant to be personal, I suppose?”
“As you please.”
“And where did you make her acquaintance, pray?”
“Quite casually; a week ago.”
“And you’ve taken her for three drives, and walked on the promenade with her?”
“If I have, what crime have I committed beyond arousing your jealousy?”
“I’m not jealous in the least, I assure you, old chap,” replied Jack Egerton, smiling. “But the fact is, Hugh, I’ve always considered you a man, and never believed that you could develop into a brainless, lovesick swain. Yet it appears you have. We’ve known each other long enough to speak plainly, and if you take my advice you’ll steer clear of her.”
“Why do you give me this mysterious warning, old chap?”
“She’s bewitching, I admit: but a pretty face is not all that is desirable in a woman. If you’re on the lookout for a suitable partner—and it seems you are—I advise you not to make her your wife, or you’ll repent it. Besides, a rich man like yourself can choose from among the younger and possibly better-looking bargains offered by anxious but impecunious mothers.”
“Oh yes; I know all about that,” replied Hugh impatiently. “I shall never take any advice upon matrimony, so you are only wasting breath. The man who frowns at coquetry is often willing enough to wink at the coquette. I’m master of my own actions, and were we not old friends, Jack, I should consider this abominable impertinence on your part.”
“But, my dear fellow, it is in your own interests that—”
“Bother my interests! Have another cigar and shut up!”
“Very well, as you please.”
The two men, who were thus discussing the merits of a female form which had just passed, were seated at an open window at the Queen’s Hotel, at Eastbourne. It was an August morning, warm, with scarcely a breath of wind. The cerulean sky reflected upon the clear sea, glassy and calm in the sunlight, while the white sails of the yachts and the distant outlines of larger vessels relieved the monotonous expanse of blue, and added effect and harmony to the scene.
A fashionable crowd of loungers were passing and reusing the window, keeping under the shadow of the uses: for the fair ones who frequent seaside resorts, presumably for health, never desire their faces tanned. Now that the legal formalities had been accomplished, and Hugh Trethowen found himself with a comfortable competence, he, no longer world-weary, had recommenced a life of enjoyment. It was a pleasant reflection to know that his creditors had been paid in full, that he had repaid the thousand pounds he had obtained dishonourably, that he was no longer likely to be troubled by duns, and that his trusted servant Jacob had been reinstalled master of his chambers. He had spent a few weeks at Coombe, and formally taken possession of the home of his youth; then he returned and went to Eastbourne, having induced Egerton to put aside work and spend a short holiday with him.
After this discussion regarding the lady, he sat back in his chair, with a cigar in his mouth, looking unutterably bored. Truth to tell, he was a little out of temper; the weather was oppressive, and he hated discussions, as he always argued that life was too short, and breath too precious, to waste on trying to convince any one against his will.
As he sat there he gazed out upon the expanse of blue, and lapsed into silent contemplation.
The object of his admiration, who had just passed their window, was dressed with elegance and taste in a dainty pearl-grey creation of Worth’s, a hat of the latest French mode, the whole being surmounted by a cool-looking lace sunshade, the tint of which served to enhance her extraordinary beauty.
She was one of those women frequently met with in Society, whose past is enveloped in a mist of uncertainty, yet they cannot be termed adventuresses, for their adventures, as far as known, are nothing extraordinary, andles conveyanceshave always been respected and rigorously preserved. Men liked her because her foreign accent and gesture added a vivacious piquancy to her manner, and women tolerated her because she was affable, fashionable, andchic. Scandalous tongues had certainly done their utmost to injure her reputation, but had failed. She numbered many smart people among her friends, but not even her enemies could accuse her of vulgarity or indiscretion. All that was known was that she possessed ample means, moved in a good set, and was a conspicuous figure wherever thehaut mondepoured forth her children—at Trouville, Royat, Brighton, on theplageat Arcachon, or the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, according to the season and fashion.
“Let’s go for a stroll, old fellow,” suggested Hugh, rising, and tossing his cigar out of the window.
“I’ve some letters to write.”
“Oh, let them wait. Come along.”
Egerton’s features were clouded by a frown of displeasure. He yawned wearily, but rose and accompanied his friend.
They strolled along the parade, and back, and then out to the end of the pier. Trethowen’s eager eyes soon descried the object of his admiration, seated alone under the shadow of the pavilion, apparently engrossed in a novel. She looked up in surprise at their approach, and after mutual greetings they seated themselves beside her.
Valérie Dedieu, whose features were flushed—for she had been startled by their sudden appearance—was certainly remarkably pretty. She was gentle and winning, with a well-formed head, and a tall, graceful figure that any woman might have envied. Her large, expressive dark eyes, protected by their fringe of long lashes, had that look, at once stubborn and gentle, provocative and modest, wanton and ardent, of the Frenchwoman. The expression of her face was ever changing; now her eyes, cast down demurely, seemed to indicate a coy modesty; now her pouting lip betrayed a slight annoyance, only to be succeeded by a charming smile which disclosed an even row of pearly teeth.
As Hugh gazed upon her he remembered his friend’s mysterious warning, and asked himself what evil could lurk under so innocent a countenance.
“I had no idea you were acquainted with M’sieur Egerton,” she exclaimed, suddenly turning to him.
“Oh yes; we are old friends,” Hugh replied, smiling.
“Ah! what an age it is since we met,” she said, addressing the artist, her words just tinged with an accent that added charm to her musical voice.
“It is, mademoiselle,” he answered, somewhat sullenly; “I scarcely expected to come across you here.”
She darted a sharp, inquiring glance at him, and frowned, almost imperceptibly. Next second she recovered her self-possession, and with a light laugh said: “Well, there seems some truth in the assertion that the world is very small after all.”
“There does, and encounters are sometimes unpleasant for both parties,” he remarked abruptly. “But you’ll excuse me, won’t you? I see a man over there that I know, and want to speak to him.”
Valérie gracefully inclined her head, and Egerton, rising, lounged over to the man he had recognised.
The moment he was out of hearing, she turned to Trethowen, and said:
“Then you and Jack Egerton are friends?”
“Yes; I find him a very agreeable and good hearted fellow.”
“That may be.” She hesitated thoughtfully; then she added: “You do not know him as well as I do.”
“And what is your objection to him?” asked he in surprise.
“Hugh, yesterday you told me you loved me,” she said, looking seriously into his face.
“Yes, dearest, I did. I meant it.”
“Then; as I explained to you, I have many enemies as well as friends. Jack Egerton is one of the former, and will do all in his power to part us when he finds out our affection is mutual. Now you understand my antipathy.”
“Clearly,” he replied, puzzled. “But I know Jack too well; he would not be guilty of an underhand action.”
“Do not trust him, but promise meone thing.”
“Of course, I’ll promise you anything to make you happy. What is it?”
“That you will take no heed of any allegations he may make against me.”
She was intensely in earnest, and gazed at him with eyes that were entirely human in their quick sympathy, their gentleness—in their appeal to the world for a favouring word.
“Rest assured, nothing he may say will ever turn me from you, Valérie.”
She heaved a sigh of relief when he gave his answer.
“Somehow or other I am always being scandalised,” she exclaimed bitterly. “I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, yet my select circle of enemies seem to conspire to cause the world to deride me. Because I am unmarried, and do not believe in burying myself, they endeavour to besmirch my fair name.”
She spoke with a touch of emotion, which she ineffectually tried to hide.
Then, as Hugh addressed her in a tone in which respect melted into love, she quivered at the simple words in which he poured forth his whole soul:
“I love you. Why need you fear?”
He uttered these words with a slight pressure of the hand, and a look which sank deep into her heart.
Then they exchanged a few tremulous words—those treasured speeches which, monotonous as they seem, are as music in the ears of lovers. The artist and his friend were by this time out of sight, and they were left to themselves to enjoy those brief half-hours of happiness which seldom return, which combine the sadness of parting with the radiant hopes of a brighter day, and which we all of us grasp with sweet, trembling joy, as we stand on the threshold of a new life.
And Valérie—forgetting everything, absorbed in a dream which was now a tangible reality—sat silent, with moist and downcast eyes. Hugh continued to smile, and murmured again and again in her ear:
“I love you.”
The pier was almost deserted, and, heedless of the rest of the world, they sat enraptured by love, lulled by the soft splashing of the sea, and bathed in the glorious golden sunshine.
Chapter Seven.Aut Tace, aut Pace.On the following afternoon there was held in the Floral Hall of the Devonshire Park one of those brilliant orchestral performances which always attract the fashionable portion of Eastbourne visitors. The concerts, held several times each week, are extensively patronised by the cultured, and even the crotchety, who hate music, and regard Mozart and Mendelssohn as inflictions, look upon them as a pleasant means of idling away an hour. This afternoon, however, was devoted to operatic selections, and the hall was filled with a gay throng.Trethowen had gone over to Hastings to visit some friends, and Egerton, who found time hanging heavily upon his hands, strolled in to hear the music. As he entered, the first object which met his eye was Valérie, who, dressed with becoming taste and elegance, was sitting alone, casting furtive glances towards the door, as if expecting someone.After a moment’s hesitation he walked over to where she sat, and greeting her briefly with a pleasant smile, took a chair beside her.“Where is your friend?” she asked abruptly.“He went to Hastings this morning.”“When will he return?”“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the artist carelessly.“I suppose the attraction of your fascinating self will not allow him to remain absent long. Am I to—er—congratulate you?”Her dark eyes flashed angrily, as she exclaimed in a low, fierce tone:“You’ve tricked me! You’ve told him!”“And if I have, surely it is no reason why you should make an exhibition of your confounded bad temper in a public place. If you wish to talk, come into the grounds,” he said in a tone of annoyance.“Yes; let’s go. I’ve something to say.”The conductor’s baton was tapping the desk as they rose and passed out upon the pleasant lawn beyond. Walking a short distance, they seated themselves under the shadow of a tree, in a nook where there were no eavesdroppers.“Well, Valérie, what have you to say to me? I’m all attention,” said Egerton, assuming an amused air, and calmly lighting a cigarette.“Diable! You try to hide the truth from me,” she said, her accent being more pronounced with her anger. “You have warned Hugh; you have told him to beware of me—that my touch pollutes, and my kisses are venomous. Remember what you and I were once to each other—and you, of all men, try to ruin my reputation! Fortunately, I am well able to defend it.”“Your reputation—bah!”“Yes, m’sieur, you may sneer; but I tell you, we are not so unequally matched as you imagine. If you have breathed one word to Hugh of my past, I can very easily prove to him that you have lied; and, further, you appear to forget that certain information that I could give would place you in a very ugly predicament.”“Oh! you threaten, do you?”“Only in the event of your being such an imbecile as to reveal to Hugh the secret.”“Then, I may as well tell you that up to the present he knows nothing. Yet, remember, he and I are old friends, therefore it will be my endeavour to prevent him falling into your accursed toils, as others have!” he exclaimed angrily.“Cursed toils, indeed!” she echoed, with a contemptuous toss of her pretty head. “The idea of a man like you setting himself up as Hugh Trethowen’s protector! It’s too absurd. I wonder whether you would still be friends were he to know the truth about you, eh?”“It matters little,” he answered sternly. “You’ll keep your mouth closed for your own sake.”“What have I to fear, pray?” she asked impatiently. “It seems you think me a weak, impressionable schoolgirl, who will tremble under your menaces. Why, the worst accusation you can make, is that I have been guilty of that crime so terrible to the eyes of the hypocritical English—unconventionality. Don’t you think I could easily disprove your statements, especially to a man who loves me?”“Loves you!” repeated the artist, with a harsh, derisive laugh. “He wouldn’t be guilty of such romantic folly.”“You are mistaken.”“Then I can quickly put an end to his fool’s paradise.”“How?” she asked breathlessly.“I will find the means. If nothing else avails, he shall be made acquainted with the history of La—”“Hear me!” she interrupted fiercely. “We are both past masters in the art of lying, John Egerton; we have both led double lives, and graduated as deceivers. Breathe one word to him, and I swear that at any cost the world shall know your secret. You should know by this time how futile it is to trifle with me, especially when I hold the trump card. Hugh has been your friend, but now he is my lover; and, furthermore, I mean that he shall marry me.”The man was silent.He admitted to himself that her bold, passionate words were true. He was powerless to give his friend an insight into her true character, fearing the consequences, and knowing too well how relentless she was, and that she would not spare him.“If I carry out my intentions and tell him everything—”“Then you will suffer, and in his eyes I shall remain immaculate,” she exclaimed quickly, watching his face intently.Calm indifference had been succeeded by a wearied, anxious expression, and in his eyes there was a look of unutterable hatred. She waited for him to answer, but he continued smoking thoughtfully.“Ne m’échauffez pas les oreilles,” she urged in a less irritated tone. “You must admit, Jack, there are certain bonds between us that for our own sakes must not be broken. The folly of disclosing my past to Hugh is palpable, for it would mean speedy ruin to yourself, and be of no possible benefit. Therefore but one solution of the difficulty remains.”“What is it?”“Well, I have already told you what form my revenge would take were you to expose me, and I think you acknowledge that to tell all I know would be most undesirable from your point of view.”He bowed in assent.“I’m glad you admit the inefficacy of your attempt to bounce me,” she continued. “I can suggest but one thing, namely, that we resolve to preserve our compact of secrecy.”“At the cost of my friend’s happiness?”“At any risk. But let me first assure you that Hugh’s happiness will not be jeopardised by the adoption of this course.”“There will be no—er—danger, I suppose?”“What do you mean?”“Men die sometimes.”“I don’t understand your insinuation. I confess I love him, so it is scarcely probable that any harm will befall him if it is in my power to prevent it.”He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and frowned. Then he exclaimed decisively:“Your words have no effect upon me. I am determined he shall judge you in your true light.”She glanced at him in anxious surprise, for, truth to tell, she was unprepared for this bold reply. She hesitated whether she should change her tactics, as she was well acquainted with his obdurate nature, and in her heart feared to lose the man whose tender passion she half reciprocated. But her quick, impetuous character quickly asserted itself, and attained the mastery.“You—you blighted my life!” she cried in a towering rage, her face blanched with passion. “And even now, when I have an opportunity, you debar me from atoning for the past, and becoming an honest woman! I am not such a blind fool, however, as to bow calmly to your tyranny. I have already sacrificed too much, so I give you but one chance to save yourself.”“To save myself. Bah! you are talking nonsense.”“No, believe me, I’m not,” she declared, her dark eyes flashing with anger. “Either you give your promise of secrecy now, at once, or before the day is out I will give you up to the police.”Jack Egerton drew a long breath, and his countenance grew visibly paler. He was cornered, and saw no possible means of evading the dire alternative. If he divulged the secret, it would mean disgrace, ruin, even worse.She smiled triumphantly at his bewilderment. It was true, as she assured him, she held the trump card, and was playing the dangerous game dexterously, as only a clever, scheming woman could.“Which do you choose?” she asked in a cool, indifferent tone, as if putting forward some very commonplace plan.“You’re an idiot,” he exclaimed in vehement disgust.“I’m well aware of that fact,mon ami,” replied she, with a supercilious curl of the lip. “Such a compliment is particularly appropriate. I was an idiot to allow you to have the freedom you now enjoy. Remember, however, I have yet a talisman that will sooner or later cause you to cringe at my feet.”“Never.”“Then you must put up with the consequences,” she answered calmly, nervously twisting the ribbons of her sunshade. “But I warn you, that if we are to be enemies you will find me even more merciless than yourself. Your own folly alone will bring upon you the retribution you so richly deserve.”“Bah! what’s the use of being dramatic? If it’s a fight between us, your record is quite as black as mine.”“Ah! you would have to prove that; but in the meantime I should have the satisfaction of seeing you sent to penal servitude. You have been acquainted with me long enough to know that I do nothing by halves. I am determined that now, before we part, you shall swear to keep my secret, or I will put you in a convict’s cell.”“But think of the injury you would—”“Enough! Words are useless. You must choose now.”Her handsome face was perfectly impassive; a cruel, sarcastic smile played about her lips.She had been watching his features narrowly, for the pallor and the nervous twitchings clearly showed the agitation her decisive alternative had produced. Passionate love for Hugh Trethowen had alone prompted her, for she saw that if this man gave him an insight into her past he would turn his back upon her in ineffable disgust. Hers was a Bohemian nature, and she had led a strangely adventurous life, though few were aware of it. Her early education in the Montmartre quarter of Paris had effectually eradicated any principles she might have originally possessed, and up to this time she had enjoyed the freedom of being absolute mistress of her actions. Yet, strangely enough, now she had met Hugh, her admiration of his character had quickly developed into that intense affection which is frequently characteristic of women of her temperament, and she discovered that his love was indispensable to her existence. There was but one barrier to her happiness. Egerton knew more of the unpleasant incidents of her life than was desirable, and for the protection of her own interests she was compelled to silence him.From the expression on his face she felt she had gained her point, and rose with a feeling of absolute triumph.“Now,” she demanded impatiently, “what is your decision?”“Your secret shall be kept on one condition only,” he said, rising slowly, and standing beside her.“What is that, pray?”“That no harm shall befall Hugh,” he replied earnestly. “You understand my meaning, Valérie?”“It isn’t very likely that I should allow anything of that sort to occur. You seem to forget I love him.”The artist was convinced that her affection for his friend was unfeigned. She was but a woman after all, he argued, and probably her life had changed since they last met. Her answer decided him.“Well, which will you do?” she again asked, with an anxious look.“I will tell Hugh nothing of the past,” he said briefly.“Ah! I thought you would come to your senses at last,” she exclaimed, with a short, hysterical laugh. “Then it is a compact between us. You take an oath of silence.”“I swear I will divulge nothing,” he stammered.Then Valérie breathed again, and it was impossible for her to hide the satisfaction with which she regarded his words.“Divulge nothing,” she repeated, quite cheerfully. “Undoubtedly it will be the best course, especially as we both have hideous secrets which, if exposed, would bring inevitable ruin upon us both. Was it not Marmontel who said ‘La fortune, soit bonne ou mauvaise, soit passagère ou constante, ne peut rien sur l’âme du sage?’”They chatted for a few moments, then moved away together in the direction of the Floral Hall—not, however, before she exclaimed—“If you break your oath you will bitterly repent.”
On the following afternoon there was held in the Floral Hall of the Devonshire Park one of those brilliant orchestral performances which always attract the fashionable portion of Eastbourne visitors. The concerts, held several times each week, are extensively patronised by the cultured, and even the crotchety, who hate music, and regard Mozart and Mendelssohn as inflictions, look upon them as a pleasant means of idling away an hour. This afternoon, however, was devoted to operatic selections, and the hall was filled with a gay throng.
Trethowen had gone over to Hastings to visit some friends, and Egerton, who found time hanging heavily upon his hands, strolled in to hear the music. As he entered, the first object which met his eye was Valérie, who, dressed with becoming taste and elegance, was sitting alone, casting furtive glances towards the door, as if expecting someone.
After a moment’s hesitation he walked over to where she sat, and greeting her briefly with a pleasant smile, took a chair beside her.
“Where is your friend?” she asked abruptly.
“He went to Hastings this morning.”
“When will he return?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the artist carelessly.
“I suppose the attraction of your fascinating self will not allow him to remain absent long. Am I to—er—congratulate you?”
Her dark eyes flashed angrily, as she exclaimed in a low, fierce tone:
“You’ve tricked me! You’ve told him!”
“And if I have, surely it is no reason why you should make an exhibition of your confounded bad temper in a public place. If you wish to talk, come into the grounds,” he said in a tone of annoyance.
“Yes; let’s go. I’ve something to say.”
The conductor’s baton was tapping the desk as they rose and passed out upon the pleasant lawn beyond. Walking a short distance, they seated themselves under the shadow of a tree, in a nook where there were no eavesdroppers.
“Well, Valérie, what have you to say to me? I’m all attention,” said Egerton, assuming an amused air, and calmly lighting a cigarette.
“Diable! You try to hide the truth from me,” she said, her accent being more pronounced with her anger. “You have warned Hugh; you have told him to beware of me—that my touch pollutes, and my kisses are venomous. Remember what you and I were once to each other—and you, of all men, try to ruin my reputation! Fortunately, I am well able to defend it.”
“Your reputation—bah!”
“Yes, m’sieur, you may sneer; but I tell you, we are not so unequally matched as you imagine. If you have breathed one word to Hugh of my past, I can very easily prove to him that you have lied; and, further, you appear to forget that certain information that I could give would place you in a very ugly predicament.”
“Oh! you threaten, do you?”
“Only in the event of your being such an imbecile as to reveal to Hugh the secret.”
“Then, I may as well tell you that up to the present he knows nothing. Yet, remember, he and I are old friends, therefore it will be my endeavour to prevent him falling into your accursed toils, as others have!” he exclaimed angrily.
“Cursed toils, indeed!” she echoed, with a contemptuous toss of her pretty head. “The idea of a man like you setting himself up as Hugh Trethowen’s protector! It’s too absurd. I wonder whether you would still be friends were he to know the truth about you, eh?”
“It matters little,” he answered sternly. “You’ll keep your mouth closed for your own sake.”
“What have I to fear, pray?” she asked impatiently. “It seems you think me a weak, impressionable schoolgirl, who will tremble under your menaces. Why, the worst accusation you can make, is that I have been guilty of that crime so terrible to the eyes of the hypocritical English—unconventionality. Don’t you think I could easily disprove your statements, especially to a man who loves me?”
“Loves you!” repeated the artist, with a harsh, derisive laugh. “He wouldn’t be guilty of such romantic folly.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Then I can quickly put an end to his fool’s paradise.”
“How?” she asked breathlessly.
“I will find the means. If nothing else avails, he shall be made acquainted with the history of La—”
“Hear me!” she interrupted fiercely. “We are both past masters in the art of lying, John Egerton; we have both led double lives, and graduated as deceivers. Breathe one word to him, and I swear that at any cost the world shall know your secret. You should know by this time how futile it is to trifle with me, especially when I hold the trump card. Hugh has been your friend, but now he is my lover; and, furthermore, I mean that he shall marry me.”
The man was silent.
He admitted to himself that her bold, passionate words were true. He was powerless to give his friend an insight into her true character, fearing the consequences, and knowing too well how relentless she was, and that she would not spare him.
“If I carry out my intentions and tell him everything—”
“Then you will suffer, and in his eyes I shall remain immaculate,” she exclaimed quickly, watching his face intently.
Calm indifference had been succeeded by a wearied, anxious expression, and in his eyes there was a look of unutterable hatred. She waited for him to answer, but he continued smoking thoughtfully.
“Ne m’échauffez pas les oreilles,” she urged in a less irritated tone. “You must admit, Jack, there are certain bonds between us that for our own sakes must not be broken. The folly of disclosing my past to Hugh is palpable, for it would mean speedy ruin to yourself, and be of no possible benefit. Therefore but one solution of the difficulty remains.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I have already told you what form my revenge would take were you to expose me, and I think you acknowledge that to tell all I know would be most undesirable from your point of view.”
He bowed in assent.
“I’m glad you admit the inefficacy of your attempt to bounce me,” she continued. “I can suggest but one thing, namely, that we resolve to preserve our compact of secrecy.”
“At the cost of my friend’s happiness?”
“At any risk. But let me first assure you that Hugh’s happiness will not be jeopardised by the adoption of this course.”
“There will be no—er—danger, I suppose?”
“What do you mean?”
“Men die sometimes.”
“I don’t understand your insinuation. I confess I love him, so it is scarcely probable that any harm will befall him if it is in my power to prevent it.”
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and frowned. Then he exclaimed decisively:
“Your words have no effect upon me. I am determined he shall judge you in your true light.”
She glanced at him in anxious surprise, for, truth to tell, she was unprepared for this bold reply. She hesitated whether she should change her tactics, as she was well acquainted with his obdurate nature, and in her heart feared to lose the man whose tender passion she half reciprocated. But her quick, impetuous character quickly asserted itself, and attained the mastery.
“You—you blighted my life!” she cried in a towering rage, her face blanched with passion. “And even now, when I have an opportunity, you debar me from atoning for the past, and becoming an honest woman! I am not such a blind fool, however, as to bow calmly to your tyranny. I have already sacrificed too much, so I give you but one chance to save yourself.”
“To save myself. Bah! you are talking nonsense.”
“No, believe me, I’m not,” she declared, her dark eyes flashing with anger. “Either you give your promise of secrecy now, at once, or before the day is out I will give you up to the police.”
Jack Egerton drew a long breath, and his countenance grew visibly paler. He was cornered, and saw no possible means of evading the dire alternative. If he divulged the secret, it would mean disgrace, ruin, even worse.
She smiled triumphantly at his bewilderment. It was true, as she assured him, she held the trump card, and was playing the dangerous game dexterously, as only a clever, scheming woman could.
“Which do you choose?” she asked in a cool, indifferent tone, as if putting forward some very commonplace plan.
“You’re an idiot,” he exclaimed in vehement disgust.
“I’m well aware of that fact,mon ami,” replied she, with a supercilious curl of the lip. “Such a compliment is particularly appropriate. I was an idiot to allow you to have the freedom you now enjoy. Remember, however, I have yet a talisman that will sooner or later cause you to cringe at my feet.”
“Never.”
“Then you must put up with the consequences,” she answered calmly, nervously twisting the ribbons of her sunshade. “But I warn you, that if we are to be enemies you will find me even more merciless than yourself. Your own folly alone will bring upon you the retribution you so richly deserve.”
“Bah! what’s the use of being dramatic? If it’s a fight between us, your record is quite as black as mine.”
“Ah! you would have to prove that; but in the meantime I should have the satisfaction of seeing you sent to penal servitude. You have been acquainted with me long enough to know that I do nothing by halves. I am determined that now, before we part, you shall swear to keep my secret, or I will put you in a convict’s cell.”
“But think of the injury you would—”
“Enough! Words are useless. You must choose now.”
Her handsome face was perfectly impassive; a cruel, sarcastic smile played about her lips.
She had been watching his features narrowly, for the pallor and the nervous twitchings clearly showed the agitation her decisive alternative had produced. Passionate love for Hugh Trethowen had alone prompted her, for she saw that if this man gave him an insight into her past he would turn his back upon her in ineffable disgust. Hers was a Bohemian nature, and she had led a strangely adventurous life, though few were aware of it. Her early education in the Montmartre quarter of Paris had effectually eradicated any principles she might have originally possessed, and up to this time she had enjoyed the freedom of being absolute mistress of her actions. Yet, strangely enough, now she had met Hugh, her admiration of his character had quickly developed into that intense affection which is frequently characteristic of women of her temperament, and she discovered that his love was indispensable to her existence. There was but one barrier to her happiness. Egerton knew more of the unpleasant incidents of her life than was desirable, and for the protection of her own interests she was compelled to silence him.
From the expression on his face she felt she had gained her point, and rose with a feeling of absolute triumph.
“Now,” she demanded impatiently, “what is your decision?”
“Your secret shall be kept on one condition only,” he said, rising slowly, and standing beside her.
“What is that, pray?”
“That no harm shall befall Hugh,” he replied earnestly. “You understand my meaning, Valérie?”
“It isn’t very likely that I should allow anything of that sort to occur. You seem to forget I love him.”
The artist was convinced that her affection for his friend was unfeigned. She was but a woman after all, he argued, and probably her life had changed since they last met. Her answer decided him.
“Well, which will you do?” she again asked, with an anxious look.
“I will tell Hugh nothing of the past,” he said briefly.
“Ah! I thought you would come to your senses at last,” she exclaimed, with a short, hysterical laugh. “Then it is a compact between us. You take an oath of silence.”
“I swear I will divulge nothing,” he stammered.
Then Valérie breathed again, and it was impossible for her to hide the satisfaction with which she regarded his words.
“Divulge nothing,” she repeated, quite cheerfully. “Undoubtedly it will be the best course, especially as we both have hideous secrets which, if exposed, would bring inevitable ruin upon us both. Was it not Marmontel who said ‘La fortune, soit bonne ou mauvaise, soit passagère ou constante, ne peut rien sur l’âme du sage?’”
They chatted for a few moments, then moved away together in the direction of the Floral Hall—not, however, before she exclaimed—
“If you break your oath you will bitterly repent.”
Chapter Eight.Under Seal.Surrounded by a thickly-wooded park, where the deer abound in ferny coombes and hollows, stood the home of the Trethowens.The house, to which a long elm avenue formed the principal approach, was an imposing pile, and dated for the most part from the reign of Queen Anne. Standing out prominently, its grey walls were almost wholly ivy covered, and from its grey slate roofs rose stacks of tall chimneys backed by thick masses of foliage. Striking as was its exterior, within the arrangements were antiquated and behind the times; for comfort had not been sacrificed to modern improvement, and vandalism had never been a distinctive quality of any of its masters.In the great old entrance-hall, with its wide hearth and firedogs, were paintings by Fuseli and carvings by Gibbon, in which the motto of the Trethowens,Sit sine labe fines, was conspicuous, while the rooms, furnished with that elegant taste in vogue when the house was built, contained many unique specimens of Guercino, Chari, and Kneller.Indeed, Coombe Hall was one of the finest mansions in North Cornwall.During Douglas Trethowen’s absence the place had been left with only a gardener and his wife as caretakers. The park had been neglected, grass had grown in the gravelled carriage-drive, and the fine old gardens had been allowed to become choked with weeds. Though the whole place had a potency to set men thinking, perhaps the most quaint, old-world spot was the flower garden, with its spreading cedars and shady elms, its lichen-covered walls overrun with tea-roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle, with black yew hedges forming pleasant shades to the pretty zigzag walks. Here, long ago, dainty high-born dames in patches, powdered wigs, and satin sacques fed the peacocks and gathered the roses, or, clad as Watteau shepherdesses, danced minuets with pink-coated shepherds with crooks in their hands. Here, the scene of many a brilliantfête champêtre, syllabubs were sipped, and gorgeousbeauxuttered pretty phrases, and, perchance, words that were the reverse of delicate, and were punished by being lightly tapped by fans.Amid these unprofaned, old-world surroundings, Hugh Trethowen found himself, having been called thither by urgent business, for a portion of the house was in process of renovation, and the architect required his instructions.Familiar as was the home of his childhood, yet he had not been there a week before his habitualblasérestlessness returned. Only a few days ago he had bade farewell to the woman he loved, but already he was longing to be again at her side, and had decided to return to her on the morrow.He had been inspecting the progress of the work of putting the garden in order, and the various other improvements, but time hung heavily upon his hands, and it was merely for the purpose of whiling away an hour or two that he resolved to ascertain the nature of the private papers left by his dead brother.Thus it was that he was sitting in the fine old library, cigar in mouth, lazily scanning some letters and documents scattered before him. He found little of interest, however; but as his chair was comfortable, and as the golden sunset streaming in through the diamond panes illumined the room with a warm light, he experienced a languid satisfaction in making himself acquainted with his brother’s secrets.One by one he took the letters and digested their contents. Many were Cupid’s missives, couched in extravagant language, and still emitting an odour of stale perfume. Some were tied together in bundles from various fair correspondents, others were flung indiscriminately among a heterogeneous accumulation of bills, receipts, and other papers similarly uninteresting.At last, when he had finished the whole of those before him, he sat back, and for a long time smoked in meditative silence.“By Jove,” he exclaimed at last, aloud, “Douglas must have had a variety of lady friends of whose existence nobody knew. And they all loved him, poor little dears. No doubt his money attracted them more than his precious self, yet he was too wide awake to allow himself to become enmeshed in the matrimonial net.” And he laughed amusedly. “Their pretty sentiments, kisses indicated by crosses, and mouldy scents, were all to no purpose,” he continued, taking up one of the letters, and contemplating the address. “What a disappointment it must have been when he went abroad, and left the whole of the artless damsels to pine—or rather to seek some other fellow likely to prove a prize. And their presents! Good heavens! he might have set up a bazaar with the jewellery, slippers, smoking caps, cigarette cases, match-boxes, and other such trash mentioned in their dainty notes. I suppose I shall find the whole collection bundled into a cupboard somewhere, for they must have been forgotten as soon as received. What strange beings women are, to be sure!”Having finished his cigar, he stretched himself lazily, yawned, and exclaimed:“Now I wonder whether there’s anything else worth looking at? Such letters are quite as amusing as the comic papers.”He glanced at them carelessly, with an uninterested listlessness, for he felt half inclined to burn them, as at best they were only rubbish. It was a pity, he thought, that such a fine old piece of furniture as the Chippendale bureau should be used for no better purpose than to store these forgotten and useless communications. Again, why should he harbour the evidences of his dead brother’s flirtations.As these and similar thoughts were passing through his mind, he suddenly gave vent to an exclamation of intense surprise. Withdrawing his hand quickly from the bureau, he rushed across to the window in order to examine more closely the object which had evoked his astonishment.It was a coloured cabinet photograph.He gazed upon it in dumb amazement, for the light revealed the pictured face of Valérie Dedieu!Evidently it had been taken several years ago, as the hair was dressed in a style that was now out of date; still there was no doubt as to the identity of the original. With the exact contour of the features he was too well acquainted to regard it as a striking resemblance heightened by imagination. He examined every detail with eager eyes, and was convinced that the photograph was hers. The colouring, so far from altering the expression of the features, added a lifelike look, enhancing the beauty of the picture. The lips were parted, disclosing even rows of small white teeth; the counterfeit presentment seemed to smile mockingly at him.“Valérie’s photograph!” he ejaculated, running his fingers through his hair, and gazing around in blank bewilderment. “How could it have come into Douglas’s possession? Strange that I should find it here, unless—unless she, too, loved him.”“No,” he added savagely, a moment afterwards. “Why should I think that? I’ll not believe it until I have proof. And then, after all, they may not have been acquainted; the photograph may have come into his possession in some roundabout way. By the way,” he continued, as a sudden thought occurred to him, “I might possibly discover something further.”Again he returned to the bureau, still holding the photograph in his hand, and after a few moments’ eager search drew forth a small packet of letters tied with pink tape and sealed with red wax.They had evidently been carefully preserved, for he discovered the packet concealed at the back of one of the small drawers in the interior.With hands trembling with feverish excitement he took them to the window. Hastily he broke the seals, drew off the tape, and found there were three letters.He felt a sudden throb at his heart, a touch of suspense that was painful, as he opened the first anxiously.“Her handwriting!” he ejaculated excitedly, at the same time taking from his pocket a letter he had received that morning from Valérie, and placing them side by side.The peculiarities of the fine angular calligraphy were exactly similar.He read the letter. It was disappointing.Merely a plain, curt note, commencing: “Dear Douglas,” making an appointment to meet at the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras, from which place it was dated and signed with the initial “V.”The discovery had wrought a great change in him. He was not the same man. A cloud overspread his countenance, and he remained buried in thought.When he roused himself to glance at the second letter, he seemed yet more melancholy.It certainly was an interesting and correspondingly mysterious communication.Dated from 14 Rue d’Amsterdam, Paris, it commenced without any prefix, endearing or formal, and bore unmistakable signs of having been hastily written. It read as follows:If you do not call before midday to-morrow I shall know that you refuse to entertain any conciliatory measure. Time does not admit of argument; I must act. At least, I must leave Paris to-morrow night, and even then all may be known. Fail to come, and I shall know you are my enemy. If I am unfortunate, rest assured I shall not suffer alone. Take my advice and seek me the moment you receive this, as it is imperative we should arrange matters before my departure. This course will be the best for you.V.“There was some secret between them!” Hugh said to himself in a strange half-whisper, as he finished the curious epistle. “I wonder what it was? It is clear she had a very strong motive in her desire to see him, and the letter, from its general tone, appears to relate to some transaction in which they were both implicated.”Suddenly the words of Jack Egerton, when he had pointed Valérie out at Eastbourne, recurred to him.“The less of her sort the better,” he mused, gazing out of the window abstractedly. “I never asked Jack what he meant by that mysterious allusion. Perhaps, however, he didn’t mean it seriously, and only said it in chaff.”He remained silent for some moments.“Why,” he suddenly exclaimed, “why should I believe malignant stories, when there is nothing to prove them? These letters are certainly strange, yet, after all, they may relate to some purely matter-of-fact affair.”Truth to tell, he felt half inclined to believe there had been a deeper meaning in the artist’s words than he imagined, and was stupefied in the agony of mental struggle. He stood rigid and confounded, gazing in turn at the letters and photograph, utterly unable to account for the curious and secret correspondence that had evidently taken place between his late brother and the woman who had promised to become his wife.At last he opened the remaining letter, and was astonished to find it merely a blank sheet of notepaper, inside which was carefully preserved a scrap of half-burned paper about two inches square. Apparently it was a portion of a letter which, after being torn across, had been thrown into the fire. By some means the edges had been burned, the remainder being severely scorched.It was written on one side of the paper, and the words, which were in French, and in a disguised hand, revealed a fact which added interest to the discovery. Necessarily few, they were very pointed, and translated they read:Our agreement... dies I will... meet in London... of that sum on June 13th... Montabello to his rooms on the Boulevard... defy detection by...He read and re-read these words, but could glean little from them. The small piece of blackened paper had presumably formed part of a note, but it was clear that the writer was illiterate, or intentionally ignorant, for in two instances the orthography was faulty.Try how he would, Hugh was unable to disguise the fact that it was a promise to pay a certain sum, and the mention of the word “dies” seemed as if it had connection with some dark deed. Perhaps it alluded to the secret referred to by Valérie in the former letter! With tantalising contrariety, any names that had been mentioned had been consumed, and nothing but the few words already given remained as indication of what the communication originally contained.Nevertheless, thought Hugh, it must have been regarded as of considerable importance by his brother, or it would not have been so carefully preserved and concealed. So crisp was it in its half-consumed condition, that he was compelled to handle it tenderly, otherwise it would have crumbled.Having satisfied himself that nothing further could be gathered from the almost obliterated words, he replaced it carefully inside the sheet of notepaper, and proceeded to make a thorough search of the bureau.In vain he took out the remaining letters and scanned them eagerly, hoping to find something which would throw a further light upon the extraordinary missives. None, however, contained any reference to Valérie, or to Paris. When he had finished, he summoned old Jacob, and ordered him to make a fire and burn all except about half a dozen, which appeared of a business character.Placing the photograph and the three letters in his pocket, he stood thoughtfully watching the old man as he piled the bills and the billets-doux upon the wide-open hearth and ignited them.The mysterious correspondence sorely puzzled him, and he was determined to find out its meaning. Undoubtedly, Douglas and Valérie were intimately acquainted, and from the tone in which she wrote, it appeared as if from some reason she was afraid of him, and, further, that she was leaving Paris by compulsion.His thoughts were embittered by a vague feeling of jealousy and hatred towards his brother, yet he felt himself on the verge of a discovery which might possibly lead to strange disclosures.Curiously enough, our sins find us out very rapidly. We cannot tamper with what is right and for the best in order to secure what is temporarily convenient without invoking Nemesis; and sometimes she comes with a rapid tread that is a little disconcerting.Though he experienced a strange apprehensive feeling, Hugh Trethowen little dreamed of the significance of the communications which, by a strange vagary of Fate, had been placed under his hand.
Surrounded by a thickly-wooded park, where the deer abound in ferny coombes and hollows, stood the home of the Trethowens.
The house, to which a long elm avenue formed the principal approach, was an imposing pile, and dated for the most part from the reign of Queen Anne. Standing out prominently, its grey walls were almost wholly ivy covered, and from its grey slate roofs rose stacks of tall chimneys backed by thick masses of foliage. Striking as was its exterior, within the arrangements were antiquated and behind the times; for comfort had not been sacrificed to modern improvement, and vandalism had never been a distinctive quality of any of its masters.
In the great old entrance-hall, with its wide hearth and firedogs, were paintings by Fuseli and carvings by Gibbon, in which the motto of the Trethowens,Sit sine labe fines, was conspicuous, while the rooms, furnished with that elegant taste in vogue when the house was built, contained many unique specimens of Guercino, Chari, and Kneller.
Indeed, Coombe Hall was one of the finest mansions in North Cornwall.
During Douglas Trethowen’s absence the place had been left with only a gardener and his wife as caretakers. The park had been neglected, grass had grown in the gravelled carriage-drive, and the fine old gardens had been allowed to become choked with weeds. Though the whole place had a potency to set men thinking, perhaps the most quaint, old-world spot was the flower garden, with its spreading cedars and shady elms, its lichen-covered walls overrun with tea-roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle, with black yew hedges forming pleasant shades to the pretty zigzag walks. Here, long ago, dainty high-born dames in patches, powdered wigs, and satin sacques fed the peacocks and gathered the roses, or, clad as Watteau shepherdesses, danced minuets with pink-coated shepherds with crooks in their hands. Here, the scene of many a brilliantfête champêtre, syllabubs were sipped, and gorgeousbeauxuttered pretty phrases, and, perchance, words that were the reverse of delicate, and were punished by being lightly tapped by fans.
Amid these unprofaned, old-world surroundings, Hugh Trethowen found himself, having been called thither by urgent business, for a portion of the house was in process of renovation, and the architect required his instructions.
Familiar as was the home of his childhood, yet he had not been there a week before his habitualblasérestlessness returned. Only a few days ago he had bade farewell to the woman he loved, but already he was longing to be again at her side, and had decided to return to her on the morrow.
He had been inspecting the progress of the work of putting the garden in order, and the various other improvements, but time hung heavily upon his hands, and it was merely for the purpose of whiling away an hour or two that he resolved to ascertain the nature of the private papers left by his dead brother.
Thus it was that he was sitting in the fine old library, cigar in mouth, lazily scanning some letters and documents scattered before him. He found little of interest, however; but as his chair was comfortable, and as the golden sunset streaming in through the diamond panes illumined the room with a warm light, he experienced a languid satisfaction in making himself acquainted with his brother’s secrets.
One by one he took the letters and digested their contents. Many were Cupid’s missives, couched in extravagant language, and still emitting an odour of stale perfume. Some were tied together in bundles from various fair correspondents, others were flung indiscriminately among a heterogeneous accumulation of bills, receipts, and other papers similarly uninteresting.
At last, when he had finished the whole of those before him, he sat back, and for a long time smoked in meditative silence.
“By Jove,” he exclaimed at last, aloud, “Douglas must have had a variety of lady friends of whose existence nobody knew. And they all loved him, poor little dears. No doubt his money attracted them more than his precious self, yet he was too wide awake to allow himself to become enmeshed in the matrimonial net.” And he laughed amusedly. “Their pretty sentiments, kisses indicated by crosses, and mouldy scents, were all to no purpose,” he continued, taking up one of the letters, and contemplating the address. “What a disappointment it must have been when he went abroad, and left the whole of the artless damsels to pine—or rather to seek some other fellow likely to prove a prize. And their presents! Good heavens! he might have set up a bazaar with the jewellery, slippers, smoking caps, cigarette cases, match-boxes, and other such trash mentioned in their dainty notes. I suppose I shall find the whole collection bundled into a cupboard somewhere, for they must have been forgotten as soon as received. What strange beings women are, to be sure!”
Having finished his cigar, he stretched himself lazily, yawned, and exclaimed:
“Now I wonder whether there’s anything else worth looking at? Such letters are quite as amusing as the comic papers.”
He glanced at them carelessly, with an uninterested listlessness, for he felt half inclined to burn them, as at best they were only rubbish. It was a pity, he thought, that such a fine old piece of furniture as the Chippendale bureau should be used for no better purpose than to store these forgotten and useless communications. Again, why should he harbour the evidences of his dead brother’s flirtations.
As these and similar thoughts were passing through his mind, he suddenly gave vent to an exclamation of intense surprise. Withdrawing his hand quickly from the bureau, he rushed across to the window in order to examine more closely the object which had evoked his astonishment.
It was a coloured cabinet photograph.
He gazed upon it in dumb amazement, for the light revealed the pictured face of Valérie Dedieu!
Evidently it had been taken several years ago, as the hair was dressed in a style that was now out of date; still there was no doubt as to the identity of the original. With the exact contour of the features he was too well acquainted to regard it as a striking resemblance heightened by imagination. He examined every detail with eager eyes, and was convinced that the photograph was hers. The colouring, so far from altering the expression of the features, added a lifelike look, enhancing the beauty of the picture. The lips were parted, disclosing even rows of small white teeth; the counterfeit presentment seemed to smile mockingly at him.
“Valérie’s photograph!” he ejaculated, running his fingers through his hair, and gazing around in blank bewilderment. “How could it have come into Douglas’s possession? Strange that I should find it here, unless—unless she, too, loved him.”
“No,” he added savagely, a moment afterwards. “Why should I think that? I’ll not believe it until I have proof. And then, after all, they may not have been acquainted; the photograph may have come into his possession in some roundabout way. By the way,” he continued, as a sudden thought occurred to him, “I might possibly discover something further.”
Again he returned to the bureau, still holding the photograph in his hand, and after a few moments’ eager search drew forth a small packet of letters tied with pink tape and sealed with red wax.
They had evidently been carefully preserved, for he discovered the packet concealed at the back of one of the small drawers in the interior.
With hands trembling with feverish excitement he took them to the window. Hastily he broke the seals, drew off the tape, and found there were three letters.
He felt a sudden throb at his heart, a touch of suspense that was painful, as he opened the first anxiously.
“Her handwriting!” he ejaculated excitedly, at the same time taking from his pocket a letter he had received that morning from Valérie, and placing them side by side.
The peculiarities of the fine angular calligraphy were exactly similar.
He read the letter. It was disappointing.
Merely a plain, curt note, commencing: “Dear Douglas,” making an appointment to meet at the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras, from which place it was dated and signed with the initial “V.”
The discovery had wrought a great change in him. He was not the same man. A cloud overspread his countenance, and he remained buried in thought.
When he roused himself to glance at the second letter, he seemed yet more melancholy.
It certainly was an interesting and correspondingly mysterious communication.
Dated from 14 Rue d’Amsterdam, Paris, it commenced without any prefix, endearing or formal, and bore unmistakable signs of having been hastily written. It read as follows:
If you do not call before midday to-morrow I shall know that you refuse to entertain any conciliatory measure. Time does not admit of argument; I must act. At least, I must leave Paris to-morrow night, and even then all may be known. Fail to come, and I shall know you are my enemy. If I am unfortunate, rest assured I shall not suffer alone. Take my advice and seek me the moment you receive this, as it is imperative we should arrange matters before my departure. This course will be the best for you.
V.
“There was some secret between them!” Hugh said to himself in a strange half-whisper, as he finished the curious epistle. “I wonder what it was? It is clear she had a very strong motive in her desire to see him, and the letter, from its general tone, appears to relate to some transaction in which they were both implicated.”
Suddenly the words of Jack Egerton, when he had pointed Valérie out at Eastbourne, recurred to him.
“The less of her sort the better,” he mused, gazing out of the window abstractedly. “I never asked Jack what he meant by that mysterious allusion. Perhaps, however, he didn’t mean it seriously, and only said it in chaff.”
He remained silent for some moments.
“Why,” he suddenly exclaimed, “why should I believe malignant stories, when there is nothing to prove them? These letters are certainly strange, yet, after all, they may relate to some purely matter-of-fact affair.”
Truth to tell, he felt half inclined to believe there had been a deeper meaning in the artist’s words than he imagined, and was stupefied in the agony of mental struggle. He stood rigid and confounded, gazing in turn at the letters and photograph, utterly unable to account for the curious and secret correspondence that had evidently taken place between his late brother and the woman who had promised to become his wife.
At last he opened the remaining letter, and was astonished to find it merely a blank sheet of notepaper, inside which was carefully preserved a scrap of half-burned paper about two inches square. Apparently it was a portion of a letter which, after being torn across, had been thrown into the fire. By some means the edges had been burned, the remainder being severely scorched.
It was written on one side of the paper, and the words, which were in French, and in a disguised hand, revealed a fact which added interest to the discovery. Necessarily few, they were very pointed, and translated they read:
Our agreement... dies I will... meet in London... of that sum on June 13th... Montabello to his rooms on the Boulevard... defy detection by...
He read and re-read these words, but could glean little from them. The small piece of blackened paper had presumably formed part of a note, but it was clear that the writer was illiterate, or intentionally ignorant, for in two instances the orthography was faulty.
Try how he would, Hugh was unable to disguise the fact that it was a promise to pay a certain sum, and the mention of the word “dies” seemed as if it had connection with some dark deed. Perhaps it alluded to the secret referred to by Valérie in the former letter! With tantalising contrariety, any names that had been mentioned had been consumed, and nothing but the few words already given remained as indication of what the communication originally contained.
Nevertheless, thought Hugh, it must have been regarded as of considerable importance by his brother, or it would not have been so carefully preserved and concealed. So crisp was it in its half-consumed condition, that he was compelled to handle it tenderly, otherwise it would have crumbled.
Having satisfied himself that nothing further could be gathered from the almost obliterated words, he replaced it carefully inside the sheet of notepaper, and proceeded to make a thorough search of the bureau.
In vain he took out the remaining letters and scanned them eagerly, hoping to find something which would throw a further light upon the extraordinary missives. None, however, contained any reference to Valérie, or to Paris. When he had finished, he summoned old Jacob, and ordered him to make a fire and burn all except about half a dozen, which appeared of a business character.
Placing the photograph and the three letters in his pocket, he stood thoughtfully watching the old man as he piled the bills and the billets-doux upon the wide-open hearth and ignited them.
The mysterious correspondence sorely puzzled him, and he was determined to find out its meaning. Undoubtedly, Douglas and Valérie were intimately acquainted, and from the tone in which she wrote, it appeared as if from some reason she was afraid of him, and, further, that she was leaving Paris by compulsion.
His thoughts were embittered by a vague feeling of jealousy and hatred towards his brother, yet he felt himself on the verge of a discovery which might possibly lead to strange disclosures.
Curiously enough, our sins find us out very rapidly. We cannot tamper with what is right and for the best in order to secure what is temporarily convenient without invoking Nemesis; and sometimes she comes with a rapid tread that is a little disconcerting.
Though he experienced a strange apprehensive feeling, Hugh Trethowen little dreamed of the significance of the communications which, by a strange vagary of Fate, had been placed under his hand.