A FEW FACTS CONNECTED WITH THE CASE.
Whenthe two young men left Lincoln's Inn Fields after the momentous interview with Hilliston, they walked on in silence for some distance, each busied with his own thoughts. Like most solitaries, Tait had a habit of speaking aloud, and, unmindful of the presence of Claude, he stopped short at the gate of the New Law Courts to give vent to his feelings.
"It is decidedly suspicious," he said in a low tone, "and quite inexplicable."
"What are you talking about?" asked Claude irritably, whereupon Tait became aware that he was not alone, but nevertheless showed no disposition to balk the question.
"I was thinking of Mr. Hilliston," he returned quietly. "I am not at all satisfied with his conduct. He is hostile to us, Claude."
"Hostile? Impossible! He is doing all in his power to help us."
"So it appears," answered Tait dryly. "Nevertheless I think that he intends to thwart us in our plans—if he can."
"Now you are talking nonsense," said Claude, as they resumed their walk. "Why, he first brought the case under my notice."
"And why? Because he wanted to be beforehandwith Mrs. Bezel. If he had not told she would have done so, and naturally enough he wished to be first in the field."
"But I can't think ill of him," protested Larcher. "He has been a second father to me."
"No doubt! There is such a thing as remorse."
"Remorse? You are mad!"
"Not at all. I am suspicious. We will discuss Mr. Hilliston later on, when I will give you my reasons for speaking thus. Meanwhile he has decided to play a game against us!"
"Nonsense! He has no motive."
"Pardon me. I think he has, but what it is I am unable to say—as yet. However, he will make two moves in the game within the next twenty-four hours."
"Indeed," said Claude ironically, "perhaps you can tell me what those two moves will be."
"Certainly," answered Tait serenely. "As to the first, he will call at my rooms to find out if we have gone to see Mrs. Bezel to-night, and——"
"Why at your rooms?"
"Because he thinks you are staying with me. And, moreover, knowing that we are acting together, he knows your movements will coincide with mine."
"Ah! And the second move?"
"He will write you a letter asking you to stay with him at Kensington Gore."
"I don't see what there is suspicious about that," said Claude petulantly.
"I know you don't. But it is my belief that he is afraid of your investigations in this case, and wishes to keep you under his eye."
"But good Heavens, man! he advised me to pursue the matter."
"On the contrary, he advised you to let sleeping dogs lie."
"So he did," cried Claude, with a sudden recollection of the interview. "But why? What harm can my investigations do to him?"
"Ah! That is a difficult question to answer," said Tait reflectingly. "To my mind they will show that Hilliston was not the friend of your father he pretended to be."
"But according to those papers he acted like a friend throughout."
"Yes, according to those papers."
Larcher faced round suddenly, struck by the significance of the remark. He was a clever young man, but could not see clearly before him, and honest himself, was far from suspecting dishonesty in others. Instead of agreeing with Tait in his estimate of Hilliston, he vehemently defended the lawyer.
"You must not speak like that, Tait," he said angrily. "Mr. Hilliston is an honest man, and has been like a father to me. I owe all to him."
"Perhaps you do," retorted Tait significantly. "However, we need not quarrel over the matter. I am content to wait, and will bet you five pounds that the inquiry is made to-night, and the letter is sent to-morrow."
Larcher did not accept the bet thus confidently offered, but walked on stiffly with his head in the air. He was seriously annoyed with Tait for daring to cast an imputation on the character of a man to whom he owed all. Never could he bring himself to believethat Hilliston intended him evil, and deemed that the lawyer, despite his manifest reluctance, would help him by all the means in his power to discover the assassin.
Nevertheless, Tait proved to be in the right. As the two young men passed down the stairs on their way to the theater—whence Tait insisted on taking Claude with a view of distracting his mind—they were met by the porter.
"Beg pardon, sir," addressing himself to Tait, "but a gentleman called some time ago and asked for you and Mr. Larcher."
"Who was he? Why did you not show him up?"
"He would not give his name, sir, and did not wish to come up. He only asked if you had a box for the theater, and when I said you had stalls, drove off."
"Ah! Can you describe his appearance?"
"Not very tall, sir. Clean shaven, with white hair and a red face. Looked like a country gentleman, sir."
"Thank you! that will do," replied Tait quietly, and left the house with Claude.
For a few minutes he enjoyed his companion's astonishment at this proof of Hilliston's double-dealing, and it was not till they were in the cab that he spoke.
"Well," he said, smiling, "was I not right when I said that he would make the first move?"
"You are right so far," muttered Claude, who looked ill at ease, "but I cannot bring myself to suspect my guardian."
"You want another proof, perhaps. Well, we will wait for your invitation to Kensington Gore."
Claude shook his head, and seemed so indisposed totalk that Tait judged it wise to humor his silence. The young man's thoughts were anything but pleasant. He had been accustomed to look up to Hilliston as the model of an English gentleman, honest, honorable, upright, and noble. If, then, this suspicion of Tait's should prove correct,—and the last act of Hilliston certainly gave color to it,—where was he to find honest and honorable men? If Hilliston proved false, then Claude felt he could no longer trust the human race. Still he fought against the supposition, and secretly hoped that the second prophecy of his friend would not be fulfilled.
Alas, for his hopes! At eleven the next morning, while they were discussing the situation, a letter was delivered to Claude by special messenger. It proved to be from Hilliston, and contained a warm invitation for Larcher to take up his abode at the Kensington Gore house. "As you may only be in London for a short period, my dear Claude," wrote his guardian, "my wife and I must see as much of you as possible." With a bitter smile Claude tossed the letter across to Tait.
"You see I was right," said the latter, for the second time, after skimming the note. "Mr. Hilliston is playing a double game. He wishes to keep you under his eye, thinking that, as you trust him, you will keep him informed as to your doings, so that being forewarned he may be forearmed."
"Do you really think he is my enemy, Tait?"
"I am really not prepared to say," replied the little man, with some hesitation. "His behavior of yesterday struck me as suspicious. He seemed unnecessarily agitated, and moreover urged you not to see Mrs.Bezel. Perhaps he thinks she will tell you too much. Taking all these facts into consideration I cannot help thinking that Hilliston is asking you to his house for some motive in connection with our search."
"But he showed me the papers."
"I know that, but as I told you yesterday it was Hobson's choice with him. If he hadn't imparted the information, Mrs. Bezel would have done so. Of two evils he chose the least, and by showing you the papers proved to all outward appearance that he was your firm friend. Should you bring any charge against him, he will meet it by the very argument you have just made use of."
"Good Heavens!" groaned Claude, in despair, "is everybody as treacherous as you think him to be."
"A good number of people are," replied Tait suavely. "A long residence in London does not strengthen one's belief in human nature. It is a city of wild beasts,—of wolves and foxes,—who rend and betray for the gaining of their own ends. If Hilliston is what I believe him to be, we must do our best to baffle him; and so you must continue to be his friend."
"How can I, if he wishes to betray me?"
"Ah, you are so unsophisticated, Claude," said the hardened man of the world; "you betray your feelings too plainly. In this city it is worse than madness to wear your heart on your sleeve. If you are convinced that Hilliston bears you ill——"
"I am not convinced. I can't believe any man would be so base."
"Ah, bah, that is a want of experience," retorted Tait, raising his eyebrows; "I'll pick you out a dozen of my decent friends who are as base or baser than Ibelieve them to be. Respectability is all a question of concealment nowadays, and it must be confessed that your guardian wears his mask very prettily."
"But do you think he is——"
"Never mind what I think," interrupted Tait impatiently. "Hilliston may turn out to be an angel, after all. But his conduct of yesterday and this morning appears to be suspicious, and in dealing with the matters we have in hand it is as well to be careful. Keep your faith in Hilliston if it assists you to continue the friendship. He must suspect nothing."
"Do you then wish me to accept this invitation?"
"No. Why go into the lion's den? Write and thank him and—decline."
"I have no excuse."
"Indeed! Then I will provide you with one. You are engaged to stay with me at Thorston for a month. By the end of that time you will know sufficient of Hilliston to decide for yourself as to the wisdom of accepting or declining his invitation."
"But if we go to Thorston we cannot prosecute our inquiries."
"Yes, we can. I tell you that book, which contains the story of your father's murder, also contains a description of Thorston. I recognize every scene."
"Well?"
"Well," repeated Tait sharply, "can't you see? The author of that book must either live at Thorston or have stayed a few months there. Else he could not have described the village so accurately. We must make inquiries about him there, and should we be fortunate enough to discover him, we must extract his secret."
"What secret?"
"Upon my word, Claude, you are either stupid or cunning. Why, find out where he got his material from. That may put us on the right track. Now, write to Hilliston, and then go up to Hampstead and find out what Mrs. Bezel has to say."
"Won't you come, too?" said Claude, going to the writing desk.
"No. I have my own business to attend to."
"Is it connected with our enterprise?"
"I should think so. It is my intention to call on the firm who published 'A Whim of Fate,' and find out all I can concerning the author. When you return from Mrs. Bezel we will compare notes, and on what information we obtain will depend our future movements."
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
Inone of his novels Balzac makes the pertinent remark that "It is impossible for man to understand the heart of woman, seeing that her Creator himself does not understand it." These are not the precise words, but the sentiment is the same. And who, indeed, can understand a woman's heart; who can aver that he has a complete comprehension of her character? Very young men lay claim to such knowledge, but as they grow older, and the vanity of youth gives way to the modesty begotten by experience, they no longer pretend to such omniscience, and humbly admit their inability to solve the riddle of femininity. Had the Sphinx proposed such an enigma to Œdipus he would not have been able to guess it, and so, meeting the fate of other victims, would have deprived Thebes of a king and Sophicles of a tragedy.
Yet, if we bear in mind that women work rather from impulse than from motive, we may arrive at some knowledge of the organ in question. If a woman is impulsive, and most women are, she acts directly on those impulses; and so startles men by paradoxical actions. As a rule, the male intellect has logical reasons wherefrom it deduces motives upon which to act. Not so with women. They obey the impulse of the moment, reckless of the consequence to themselvesor to anyone else. Consequently, it is impossible to foretell how a woman will act in a given circumstance, but it may be asserted that she will obey the latest thought in her mind. Even from this point of view, the feminine mind is still a riddle; but one which is more capable of explanation.
For example, Mrs. Bezel read "A Whim of Fate," and thus, after five-and-twenty years, the Horriston tragedy was freshly impressed on her brain. Seized with remorse, terrified by the memory of the crime, she, acting on the impulse, wrote to Hilliston stating that she intended to see Claude Larcher and reveal all. The dismay of the lawyer at this mad proposal, and his steady opposition thereto, turned what was originally a mere whim into a fixed idea. She saw a way of punishing the man for the withdrawal of his love ten years before, when she lost her beauty and became paralyzed. Delighted at learning that she had still some power to wound him, she persisted in her project, and so wrote the letter to Larcher, which he received the day after his arrival in London.
To baffle Hilliston, and prevent him from intercepting the letter, she was obliged to use all her wits, and so hit on the idea of learning the name of the young man's club. How she managed to obtain it is best known to herself; but Hilliston, never dreaming of this pertinacity, was unable to thwart her schemes, and, beyond writing to Claude, telling him to call, could do nothing. Had he guessed that she would address her invitation to the club, he might have called and obtained it in the character of Larcher's guardian; but, knowing her helpless condition, the thought that it might be there never entered his mind. So the letterarrived, was duly answered, and Claude was coming to-day at three o'clock to hear what Mrs. Bezel had to say.
The visit, though due to her own action, was a source of considerable anxiety; for she was not at all certain of what she would say. It was impossible to tell all without inculpating Hilliston, and this, for reasons of her own, Mrs. Bezel was unwilling to do. All her talk of the previous night had been so much rodomontade to frighten the man she hated, but she was too well aware of her dependent position to think of doing him an injury. Her impulse had led her into deep water, as she knew instinctively.
She was a woman who had lived every moment of her life, but now, stretched on a bed of sickness, she missed her former triumphs and excitements. This visit promised a great deal of amusement, and the use of much diplomacy, therefore she was unwilling to abandon her plans. At the same time she determined to give the young man as little information as she possibly could. It would not be through her agency that the mask would be torn from Hilliston's face. She was resolved on that point.
Yet the matter, starting originally from an impulse, had now gone too far for her to draw back. Claude had seen the papers, and therefrom must have guessed that she desired to impart certain information with regard to the crime which had cost him a father. Mrs. Bezel therefore compromised the matter, and settled in her own mind to tell him half the truth, or, at all events, only sufficient to interest him without aiding him. Had she been a man, and had taken this decision, all would have gone well, but being a womanshe reckoned without her impulse, and it betrayed her.
Moreover, she had a revelation to make which would effectively tie Larcher's hands should he learn too much; but this she did not intend to make unless driven into a corner. She was in that corner before the interview was finished, though she little expected to get there. Hilliston, clever as he was, could not understand her present actions; she did not understand them herself, else she would not have ventured to receive Claude Larcher.
He duly arrived at three o'clock, and Mrs. Bezel glanced approvingly at his stalwart figure and handsome face. Claude had one of those sympathetic, yet manly, natures, to which women are instinctively drawn by the law of sex, and Mrs. Bezel proved no exception to this rule. She was too thoroughly a woman not to relish masculine society, and, despite her perplexity, was glad she had sent the invitation, if only for the sake of talking to this splendid looking young man. There was another reason, which she revealed in a moment of impulse. But that was later on.
Meanwhile Claude, seated by her couch in the window, was wondering who she was, and why she had sought this interview. He was certainly aware that she had some information to impart concerning the fate of his parents, but as he had not seen her name in the papers containing the account of the case, he was at a loss to fix her identity. His doubts were soon set at rest. Mrs. Bezel was a more prominent actor in the Horriston tragedy than he had any idea of.
"You were doubtless astonished to get my letter," said Mrs. Bezel, when the first greetings were over,"especially as you do not remember your parents, and my name is also unknown to you."
"Were you a friend of my parents, madam?" asked Claude, too anxious for information to reply directly to her remark.
"Yes. I—I knew them. That is, I lived at Horriston," stammered Mrs. Bezel, passing a handkerchief across her dry lips.
"You lived at Horriston? At the time of the murder?"
Mrs. Bezel nodded; she was not yet sufficiently self-controlled for speech.
"In that case," continued Claude eagerly, "you must know all the details of the crime."
"Only those that were reported in the papers."
"Still you must be acquainted with those concerned in the tragedy. With my father, with Jeringham, Denis Bantry, with Mona, his sister."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bezel calmly; "I knew them all."
"Have you any idea who committed the crime?"
"Not the slightest."
"But you must have some suspicions?"
"Oh, yes! But they may be wrong. I believe that Mr. Jeringham had something to do with it."
"Oh!" said Claude, remembering Hilliston's opinion, "some believe him to be guilty."
"I cannot say for certain," replied Mrs. Bezel, shaking her head. "The flight of Mr. Jeringham certainly showed that he had something to conceal."
"What kind of a man was Mr. Jeringham?"
"Tall and fair. Amiable as a rule, but liable to violent passions."
"Was he not in love with my mother before she married my father?"
Mrs. Bezel turned away her head, and the color rose to her face. The nervous movement of her hands plucking at her dress showed how profoundly she was moved by this question.
"I believe so. But she—Mrs. Larcher loved her husband."
"Then why was my father jealous of Jeringham?" said Claude, who could not reconcile this statement with the evidence given at the trial.
"How should I know?" cried Mrs. Bezel, turning on him with sudden passion. "If George Larcher had not been so blinded by jealousy he would have seen that there was nothing between them. Your mother knew Jeringham all his life; they were like brother and sister. It is true he wished to marry her, but when he saw that her heart was given to your father, he bowed to her decision. He came to Horriston as her friend, not as her lover."
"But he was constantly with her."
"Do you dare to speak thus of your mother, sir?"
"I—I cannot help doing so," stammered Claude, startled by the anger in her voice. "God knows I wish to revere the memory of my mother, but I cannot help seeing that she was morally responsible for the tragedy."
"She was not! She was not!" said Mrs. Bezel vehemently. "How dare you speak thus? Your father neglected her. He left her to the companionship of Mark Jeringham, while he indulged in his predilection for literary work. All day long he shut himself up in his study, and let his wife sit alone, andmiserable. Was it any wonder, then, that she should turn to her old friend for consolation? There was nothing between them—nothing to which any Pharisee could have taken exception."
"But surely my father was sufficiently sensible to see all this?"
"He saw nothing, or what he did see was distorted by his jealousy. The police, in their endeavors to fix the crime on your mother, took the same view of the relations between her and Jeringham. Oh, I know what you read in those papers shown to you by Mr. Hilliston!"
So surprised was Claude by this unexpected introduction of his guardian's name that he could not suppress a start.
"How do you know that Mr. Hilliston showed me the papers?"
Mrs. Bezel saw that she had said too much, but, unable to go back on her words, rapidly resolved to make that revelation which she had hitherto intended to keep as a last resource.
"Mr. Hilliston told me that he had done so."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Bezel, seizing her opportunity to lead up to the revelation. "I know him as the best and kindest of men. I know him as one who has been a good friend to you—orphan as you thought yourself."
"Orphan as I thought myself," muttered Claude, turning pale. "Is it not true—am I not an orphan?"
"No!"
"Great Heavens! What is this you tell me? My father——"
"Your father is dead. He was murdered, as you know."
"Then my mother?"
Mrs. Bezel looked at the agonized face of the young man, and covered her own, with a quick indrawn breath.
"She lives!"
"My mother! She lives! Are you mad? She died in London shortly after her acquittal."
"So it was supposed, but it was not true. Could you expect that unhappy woman to face the scorn and contempt of the world after having been accused of her husband's murder? She did not die, save to the world. She fled from society and sought refuge here—here where she lies a helpless invalid."
"Mrs. Bezel!"
"I am not Mrs. Bezel. I am your mother."
"God! My mother!"
REVELATIONS.
Itwas only natural that a silence should ensue between these two so strangely brought together. Claude, seated pale and anguished in his chair, tried to collect his thoughts, and stared wildly at his mother. She, with her face buried in the cushions, sobbed bitterly. After the way in which her son had spoken, it was cruel that she should have been forced to make such a revelation at such a moment. He condemned, he reproached, her conduct in the past, and she again tasted the full bitterness of the cup which had been held to her lips twenty-five years before.
On his part Claude did not know what to say; he hardly knew what to think. Convinced by a perusal of the papers that his mother was morally guilty of his father's death, he was overwhelmed to find that she was still alive, and capable, for all he knew, of offering a defense for her share in the tragedy. After all, he had no right to judge her until he heard what she had to say. Blood is thicker than water, and she was his mother.
Now he saw the reason why Hilliston objected to his calling at Hampstead; why he advised him to let sleeping dogs lie. After so long a period it was worse than useless to bring mother and son together. Their thoughts, their aims, their lives, were entirelydiverse, and only pain could be caused by such a meeting. Claude silently acknowledged the wisdom of Hilliston's judgment, but at the same time could hardly refrain from condemning him for having kept him so long in ignorance of the truth.
Mrs. Bezel—as we must still continue to call her—was astonished at this long silence, but raised her head to cast a timid glance at Claude. His brow was gloomy, his lips were firmly set, and he looked anything but overjoyed at the revelation which she had made. Guessing his thoughts, the unhappy woman made a gesture of despair, and spoke in a low voice, broken by sobs.
"You, too, condemn me?"
"No, mother," he replied, and Mrs. Bezel winced as she heard him acknowledge the relationship; "I do not condemn you. I have heard one side of the question. I must now hear the other—from you."
"What more can I tell you than what you already know," she said, drying her eyes.
"I must know the reason why you let me think you dead all these years."
"It was by my own wish, and by the advice of Mr. Hilliston."
Claude bit his lip at the mention of this name, and cast a hasty glance round the splendidly furnished room. A frightful suspicion had entered his mind; but she was his mother, and he did not dare to give it utterance. His mother guessed his thoughts, and spared him the pain of speaking. With a womanly disregard for the truth she promptly lied concerning the relationship which her son suspected to exist between his guardian and herself.
"You need not look so black, Claude, and think ill of me. I am unfortunate, but not guilty. All that you see here is mine; purchased by my own money."
"Your own money?" replied Claude, heaving a sigh of relief.
"Yes! Mr. Hilliston, who has been a good friend to me, saved sufficient out of my marriage settlement to enable me to furnish this cottage, and live comfortably. It is just as well," added she bitterly, "else I might have died on the streets."
"But why did you let Hilliston bring me up to think I was an orphan?"
"I did not wish to shadow your life. I did not wish you to change your name. I had to change mine, and retire from the world, but that was part of my punishment."
"Still if——"
"It was impossible, I tell you, Claude," interrupted his mother impatiently. "When you grew up you would have asked questions, and then I would have been forced to tell you all."
"Yet, in spite of your precautions, I do know all. If you took all this trouble to hide the truth, why reveal it to me now?"
Mrs. Bezel pointed to three books lying on an adjacent table. Claude quite understood what she meant.
"I see," he remarked, before she could speak, "you think that the author of that book knows about my father's murder."
"I am certain he does. But what he knows, or how he knows, I cannot say. Still, I am certain of one thing, that he tells the story from hearsay."
"What makes you think that?"
"It would take too long to tell you my reasons. It is sufficient to state that the fictitious case differs from the real case in several important particulars. For instance," she added, with a derisive smile, "the guilty person is said to be Michael Dene, and he is——"
"Is drawn from Mr. Hilliston."
"How do you know that?" she asked, with a startled air.
Claude shrugged his shoulders. "I have eyes to read and brains to comprehend," he said quietly; "There is no doubt in my mind that the lawyer of the fiction is meant for the lawyer of real life. Otherwise, I think the writer drew on his imagination. It was necessary for him to end his story by fixing on one of the characters as a criminal; and owing to the exigencies of the plot, as developed by himself, he chose Michael Dene, otherwise Mr. Hilliston, as the murderer."
"But you don't think——"
"Oh, no! I don't think Mr. Hilliston is guilty. I read the trial very carefully, and moreover I do not see what motive he could have to commit the crime."
"The motive of Michael Dene is love for the murdered man's wife."
"In other words, the author assumes that Hilliston loved you," said Claude coolly; "but I have your assurance that such is not the case."
"You speak to me like that," cried Mrs. Bezel angrily; "to your mother?"
Larcher's expression did not change. He turned a trifle paler, and compressed his lips firmly, otherwise he gave no outward sign of his emotion. Knowing somuch of the case as he did, he could not look on this woman in the light of a mother; she had indirectly contributed to his father's death; she had deserted him for twenty-five years; and now that she claimed his filial reverence, he was unwilling to yield it to her. Perhaps he was unjust and harsh to think this, but the natural tie between them was so weakened by time and ignorance that he could find no affection in his heart to bestow on her. To him she was a stranger—nothing more.
"Let us understand each other," he said coldly. "That you are my mother is no doubt true, but I ask you if you have performed your maternal duties? You obliterated yourself from my life; you left me to be brought up by strangers; in all ways you only consulted your own desires. Can you then expect me to yield you that filial obedience which every mother has a right to expect from her son? If you——"
"Enough, sir," said Mrs. Bezel, white with anger, "say no more. I understand you only too well, and now regret that I sought this interview, which has resulted so ill. I hoped that you would be glad to find your mother still alive; that you would cherish her in her affliction. I see I was wrong. You are as cold and bitter as was your father."
"My father?"
"Yes. Do you think that all the wrong was on my side. Had I nothing to forgive him? Ah! I see by your face that you know to what I allude. It was your father and my husband who betrayed me for Mona Bantry."
"You have no proof of that," said Claude, in a low voice.
"I have every proof. The girl told me with her own lips. I returned from that ball at three o'clock in the morning, and Mr. Jeringham left me at the door. I entered the house alone and proceeded to my sitting room. There I found Mona and—my husband."
"Ah! He did return from London on that night?"
"Yes. He returned, thinking I was out of the way, in order to see his mistress. In his presence she confessed her guilt. I looked to him for denial, and he hung his head. Then hardly knowing what I did, overcome with rage, I snatched the dagger which I wore as part of my costume, and——"
"And killed him," shrieked Claude, springing to his feet. "For Heaven's sake, do not confess this to me!"
"Why not? I did no wrong! I did not kill him. I fainted before I could cross the room to where he stood. When I recovered I was alone. My husband and Mona Bantry had disappeared. Then I retired to bed and was ill for days. I know no more of the case."
"Is this true?" asked Claude anxiously.
"Why should it not be true? Do you think I would invent a story like that to asperse the memory of your father? Vilely as he treated me, I loved him. I do not know who killed him. The dagger I wore disappeared with him. It was found in the garden; his body in the river four miles down. But I declare to you solemnly that I am ignorant of whose hand struck the blow. It might have been Mona, or Jeringham, or——"
"Or Hilliston!"
"You are wrong there," replied his mother coolly, "or else your judgment has been perverted by thatbook. Mr. Hilliston was still at the ball when the tragedy occurred. His evidence at the trial proved that. Don't say a word against him. He has been a good friend to you—and to me."
"I do not deny that."
"You cannot! When I was arrested and tried for a crime which I never committed, he stood by me. When I left the court alone and friendless, he stood by me. I decided to feign death to escape the obloquy which attaches to every suspected criminal. He found me this refuge and installed me here as Mrs. Bezel. He took charge of you and brought you up, and looked after your money and mine. Don't you dare to speak against him!"
Exhausted by the fury with which she had spoken, the unfortunate woman leaned back in her chair. Claude, already regretting his harshness, brought a glass of water, which he placed to her lips. After a few minutes she revived, and feebly waved him away; but he was not to be so easily dismissed.
"I am sorry I spoke as I did, mother," he said tenderly, arranging her pillows. "Now that I have heard your story, I see that you have suffered greatly. It is not my right to reproach you. No doubt you acted for the best; therefore, I do not say a word against you or Mr. Hilliston, but ask you to forgive me."
The tears were rolling down Mrs. Bezel's cheeks as he spoke thus, and without uttering a word, she put her hand in his in token of forgiveness. Claude pressed his lip to her faded cheek, and thus reconciled—as much as was possible under the circumstances—they began to talk of the case.
"What do you intend to do?" asked Mrs. Bezel weakly.
"Find out who killed my father."
"It is impossible—after five-and-twenty years. I have told you all I know, and you see I cannot help you. I do not know whom to suspect."
"You surely have some suspicion, mother?"
"No, I have no suspicions. Whomsoever killed your father took the dagger out of my sitting room."
"Perhaps Mona——"
"I think not. She had no reason to kill him."
"He had wronged her."
"And me!" cried Mrs. Bezel vehemently. "Do not talk any more of these things, Claude. I know nothing more; I can tell you nothing more."
"Then I must try and find John Parver, and learn how he became acquainted with the story."
"That is why I sent for you; why I revealed myself; why I told you all I have suffered. Find John Parver, and tell me who he is, what he is."
This Claude promised to do, and, as his mother was worn out by the long conversation, he shortly afterward took his leave. As he descended Fitzjohn's Avenue a thought flashed into his mind as to the identity of John Parver.
"I wonder if John Parver is Mark Jeringham?" said Claude.
The question was to be answered on that very evening.
ON THE TRACK.
Itwas nearly six o'clock when Claude returned to Earls Street, and Tait, already dressed for the evening, was waiting his arrival with considerable impatience. His usual imperturbability had given place to a self-satisfied air, as though he had succeeded in accomplishing a difficult undertaking. He uttered a joyful exclamation when he saw Claude enter, but a look of apprehension passed over his face when he noted the altered appearance of his friend.
"What is wrong?" he asked, as Claude threw himself into a chair, with a sigh of fatigue. "Do you bring bad news? My dear fellow, you are completely worn out. Here, Dormer, a glass of sherry for Mr. Larcher."
The servant, who was putting the finishing touches to the dinner-table, speedily obeyed this order, and Tait made his friend drink the wine without delay. Then he proceeded to question him regarding the reason of his pallor, but with his usual caution first sent Dormer out of the room. Only when they were alone did he venture to speak on the subject about which both were thinking.
"Well!" he demanded anxiously, "you saw Mrs. Bezel?"
"Yes; I was with her for two hours."
"Ah!" said Tait, with great satisfaction; "she must have told you a good deal in that time."
"She did. She told me more than I expected."
"Did it concern your parents?"
"It did."
"Good! Then you no doubt heard her version of the crime."
"Yes!"
These unsatisfactory replies, which dropped so strangely from Larcher's lips, at once puzzled and irritated the questioner.
"You don't seem anxious to confide in me," he said, in a piqued tone.
"I will tell you all. I am anxious to tell you all," replied Larcher, finding his tongue, "but I do not know how to begin."
"Oh, I shall save you that trouble by asking you questions. In the first place, who is Mrs. Bezel?"
"My mother!"
Tait bounded from his chair with an expression of incredulity. This unexpected information, so abruptly conveyed, was too much for his self-control.
"Your mother!" he stammered, hardly thinking he had heard aright. "Are you in earnest? I cannot believe it. According to the notice in the newspapers, according to Hilliston, your mother died in London in 1867."
"She did not die. Her death was a feigned one, to escape the notoriety gained by her trial at Canterbury."
"Did Mr. Hilliston know she was alive?"
"Yes. It was by his advice that she changed her name."
"Oh! Oh!" said Tait, with marked significance;"Hilliston knew, Hilliston advised. Humph! John Parver may be right, after all."
"Tait, be silent! You are speaking of my mother."
"I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, but I really do not understand."
"You will shortly. I will tell you the story of my mother's troubles, and Hilliston's kindness."
"Hilliston's kindness," repeated Tait, in a skeptical tone. Nevertheless he resumed his seat, and signified his willingness to hear the narrative.
The wine had done Claude good, and restored his self-possession; so, now master of himself, he related all that had passed between himself and Mrs. Bezel. Gifted with a retentive memory, and no mean powers as a narrator, he succeeded in giving Tait a vivid impression of the conversation. The little man, with his head slightly on one side, like a bright-eyed sparrow, listened attentively, and not till the story was finished did he make an observation thereon. To this capability of listening without interruption Tait owed a great deal of his popularity.
"Truth is stranger than fiction, after all," said he, when Claude ended; "and the novel is less dramatic than the episode of real life. John Parver did not dare to insinuate that the supposed dead widow of the murdered man was alive. Humph! this complicates matters more than ever."
"At least it clears the character of Hilliston."
"Yes," assented Tait doubtfully; "I suppose it does."
"Can you doubt it?" said Larcher, dissatisfied with this grudging consent. "You can now see why Hilliston was agitated at our interview; why he asked menot to see Mrs. Bezel, so-called; why he called here the same evening to find out if I had gone; and finally why he wished to prepare me before seeing her, by telling of the tragedy."
"Oh, I see all that," said Tait quietly. "Nine men out of ten would consider Hilliston a most disinterested person. But I am the tenth man, and am therefore skeptical of his motive."
"But what motive can he have for——"
"That is just it," interrupted Tait vivaciously. "I can't see his motive, but I will find it out some day."
"Well, you can speak for yourself," said Claude, frowning. "After what my mother has told me, I believe Hilliston to be an upright and honorable man."
"You are quite right to do so on the evidence. Still, if I were you I would not keep him informed of all our movements, unless——Do you intend to go on with the matter?" he asked abruptly.
"Assuredly! I am determined to find out who killed my father."
Tait walked to the fireplace and took up his position on the hearth-rug. An idea had entered his mind, which he did not intend to put into words. Nevertheless it was indirectly the reason for his next speech.
"I think, after all, it would be best to take Hilliston's advice, and let sleeping dogs lie."
He had not calculated the effect of these words on his hearer, for Claude also arose from his chair, and looked at him with angry surprise.
"I don't understand you," he said coldly. "Some hours back, and you were more eager than I to pursuethis unknown criminal. Now you wish to withdraw. May I ask the reason of this sudden change."
"It seems to be useless to hope to find the assassin," replied Tait, shrugging his shoulders. "One cannot discover a needle in a haystack."
"Oh, yes you can—by patient research."
"Well, even that would be easier than to hope to solve a mystery which has been impenetrable for five-and-twenty years."
"It has been impenetrable for that time because no one has tried to solve it. This is not your real reason for wishing to end the case. What is your reason? Speak! I insist upon knowing the truth."
The other did not reply, but thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, and maintained a masterly silence. Irritated by this negative attitude, Claude placed his hands on the little man's shoulders and looked at him indignantly.
"I know what your reason is, Tait," he said rapidly; "it is not that you fear we may learn too little, but that you expect we will learn too much."
"Yes," replied Tait simply, "that is the reason. Is it not an all-sufficient one for you to pause?"
"No!" shouted Claude savagely; "it is all-sufficient for me to go on. You think that I may discover that Hilliston is the criminal, or learn that my mother is accountable for the crime. I tell you no such thing will happen. Hilliston was not near The Laurels on the fatal morning. My mother—I have told you how she exonerated herself, and the exoneration was substantiated by Denis Bantry. Both are innocent."
"It may be so. But who is guilty?"
"Jeringham. I believe that he discovered that myfather had returned, and perhaps knowing of this intrigue between him and Mona Bantry, remained at The Laurels, unknown to my mother, in order to assist her as a friend."
"How did Jeringham obtain possession of the dagger?"
"I cannot say. We must find out. But he did obtain possession of the dagger, and during a quarrel with my father killed him with it. He fled to avoid the consequences. Oh, yes! I swear that Jeringham is guilty. But I will hunt him down, if I have to do it alone."
"You will not do it alone," said Tait quietly. "I am with you still."
"But you said——"
"I know what I said! I think it is best to leave well alone. But since you are set on learning the truth, I will help you to the best of my ability. Only," added Tait explicitly, "should you discover the truth to be unpalatable, do not blame me."
"I won't blame you. I am certain that you will find that I am right, and that Hilliston and my mother had nothing to do with the affair. Help me, that is all I ask. I will bear the consequences."
"Very good! Then we had better get to work," said Tait dryly. "Just go and dress, my dear fellow, or you'll keep dinner waiting."
"Why should I dress? I am not going out to-night."
"Indeed you are! We are due at Mrs. Durham's 'At Home' at ten o'clock."
"I shan't go. I am in no mood for frivolity. I would rather stay at home and think over the case.It is only by hard work that we can hope to learn the truth."
"Very true. At the same time it is necessary for you to go out to-night, if only to meet with John Parver."
"The author of 'A Whim of Fate,'" asked Claude eagerly, "is he in town?"
"Yes. And he will be at Mrs. Durham's to-night. We must see him, and find out where he obtained the materials for his novel."
"Do you think such information will lead to any result?" asked Claude dubiously.
"I don't think. I am sure of it," retorted Tait impatiently. "Now go and dress."
Larcher departed without a word.
THE UPPER BOHEMIA.
Thename Bohemia is suggestive of unknown talent starving in garrets, of obdurate landladies, of bacchanalian nights, and shabby dress. Murger first invested the name with this flavor, and since his time the word has become polarized, and indicates nothing but struggling humanity and unappreciated genius. Yet your true Bohemian does not leave his country when he becomes rich and famous. It is true that he descends from the garret to the first floor; that he fares well and dresses decently; but he still dwells in Bohemia. The reckless air of the hovels permeates the palaces of this elastic kingdom of fancy.
Mrs. Durham was a Bohemian, and every Thursday received herconfrèresin the drawing room of a very elegant mansion in Chelsea. She had written a novel, "I Cling to Thee with Might and Main," and this having met with a moderate success, she posed as a celebrity, and set up hersalonon the lines of Lady Blessington. Everyone who was anyone was received at her "At Homes," and by this process she gathered together a queer set of people. Some were clever, others were not; some were respectable, others decidedly disreputable; but one and all—to use an expression usually connected with crime—had done something. Novelists, essayists, painters, poets, andmusicians were all to be found in her rooms, and a more motley collection could be seen nowhere else in London. Someone dubbed the Chelsea Mansions "The Zoo," and certainly animals of all kinds were to be found there, from monkeys to peacocks.
It was considered rather the thing to be invited to "The Zoo," so when brothers and sisters of the pen met one another there they usually said: "What! are you here?" as though the place were heaven, and the speaker justifiably surprised that anyone should be saved except himself or herself. Literary people love one another a degree less than Christians.
Hither came Tait and Claude in search of John Parver. That young man had made a great success with his novel, and was consequently much sought after by lion hunters. However, Tait had learned that he was to be present at Mrs. Durham's on this special evening, and hoped to engage him in conversation, so as to learn where he had obtained the materials for his story.
When they arrived the rooms were quite full, and Mrs. Durham received them very graciously. It was true that they were not famous, still as Tait was a society man, and Claude very handsome, the lady of the house good-humoredly pardoned all mental deficiencies. Tait knew her very well, having met her at several houses, but she addressed herself rather to Claude than to his friend, having a feminine appreciation of good looks.
"My rooms are always crowded," said she, with that colossal egotism which distinguished her utterances. "You know they call me the new George Eliot."
"No doubt you deserve the name," replied Claude, with mimic gravity.
"Oh, I suppose so," smirked the lady amiably. "You have read my novel, of course. It is now in its fourth edition, and has been refused by Smith and Mudie. I follow the French school of speaking my mind."
"And a very nasty mind it must be," thought Larcher, who had been informed about the book by Tait. He did not, however, give this thought utterance, but endeavored to generalize the conversation. "You have many celebrities here to-night, I presume?"
"My Dear Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Durham, in capitals, "every individual in this company is famous! Yonder is Mr. Padsop, the great traveler, who wrote 'Mosques and Mosquitoes.' He is talking to Miss Pexworth, the writer of those scathing articles inThe Penny Trumpet, entitled 'Man, the Brute.' She is a modern woman."
"Oh, indeed!" said Claude equably, and looked at this latest production of the nineteenth century, "she is rather masculine in appearance."
"It is her pride to be so, Mr. Larcher. She is more masculine than man. That is her brother, who designs ladies' dresses and decorates dinner tables."
"Ah! He isn't masculine. I suppose nature wanted to preserve the balance in the family. The law of compensation, eh?"
"Oh, you are severe. Tommy Pexworth is a dear little creature, and so fond of chiffons. He knows more about women's dress than his sister."
"So I should think," replied Claude dryly. He took an instant and violent dislike to Mr. Pexworth,who was one of those feminine little creatures, only distinguished from the other sex by wearing trousers. "A charming pair," he added, smiling. "I don't know which I admire the most. The sister who is such a thorough gentlemen, or the brother who is a perfect lady."
"You are satirical," smiled Mrs. Durham, enjoying this hit at her friends. "Now you must take me down to have some refreshment. Really, you must."
Thus inspired, Claude elbowed the hostess through the crush, and escorted her to a bare counter in the dining room, whereon were displayed thin bread and butter, very weak tea, and fossil buns. Mrs. Durham evidently knew her own refreshments too well to partake of them, for she had a mild brandy and soda, produced from its hiding place by a confidential waiter. She asked Claude to join her, but he refused on the plea that he never drank between meals.
"But you are not a brain-worker," said Mrs. Durham, hurriedly finishing her brandy and soda, lest her guests should see it and become discontented with the weak tea; "if I did not keep myself up I should die. Ah! Why, here is Mr. Hilliston."
"Hilliston!" said Claude, astonished at seeing his guardian in this house.
"Yes. Do you know him? A dear creature—so clever. He was my solicitor in a libel action againstThe Penny Trumpet, for saying that I was an ungrammatical scribbler. Just fancy! And they call me the new George Eliot. We lost our case, I'm sorry to say. Judges are such brutes! Miss Pexworth says they are, ever since she failed to get damages for her breach of promise case."
"Here comes Mr. Hilliston," said Larcher, rather tired of this long-tongued lady. "I know him very well, he is my guardian."
"How very delightful!" said Mrs. Durham, with the accent on the "very." "Oh, Mr. Hilliston," she continued, as the lawyer approached, "we were just talking about you!"
"I trust the absent were right for once," replied Hilliston, with an artificial smile and a swift glance at Claude. "I have just come to say good-by."
"Oh, not yet, surely not yet! Really!" babbled Mrs. Durham with shallow enthusiasm. Then finding Hilliston was resolved to go, and catching sight of a newly arrived celebrity, she hastened, after the amiable fashion of her kind, to speed the parting guest. "Well, if you must, you must. Good-by, good-by! Excuse me, I see Mr. Rawler, a delightful man—writes plays, you know. The new Shakspere; yes!" and thus talking she melted away with a babble of words, leaving Hilliston and his ward alone.
They were mutually surprised to see one another, Claude because he knew his guardian did not affect Bohemianism, and Hilliston because he thought that the young man had left town. The meeting was hardly a pleasant one, as Hilliston dreaded lest Mrs. Bezel should have said too much, and so prejudiced Claude against him.
"I understood from your refusal of my invitation that you had gone to Thorston with Tait," said he, after a pause.
"I am going to-morrow or the next day," replied Claude quickly, "but in any event I intended to call on you before I left town."
"Indeed!" said Hilliston nervously; "you have something to tell me?"
"Yes. I have seen Mrs. Bezel."
"Good. You have seen Mrs. Bezel."
"And I have made a discovery."
"Oh! Has the lady informed you who committed the crime?"
"No. But she told me her name."
"Margaret Bezel!" murmured Hilliston, wondering what was coming.
"Not Margaret Bezel, but Julia Larcher, my mother."
"She—she told you that?" gasped Hilliston, his self-control deserting him for the moment.
"Yes. I know why she feigned death; I know how you have protected her. You have been a kind friend to me, Mr. Hilliston, and to my mother. I am doubly in your debt."
Hilliston took the hand held out to him by Claude, and pressed it cordially. The speech relieved him from all apprehension. He now knew that Mrs. Bezel had kept their secret, and immediately took advantage of the restored confidence of Claude. His quick wit grasped the situation at once.
"My dear fellow," he said with much emotion, "I loved your poor father too much not to do what I could for his widow and son. I hope you do not blame me for suppressing the truth."
"No. I suppose you acted for the best. Still, I would rather you had informed me that my mother was still alive."
"To what end? It would only have made you miserable. I did not want to reveal anything; butyour mother insisted that you should be made acquainted with the past, and so—I gave you the papers."
"I am glad you did so."
"And now, what do you intend to do?" asked Hilliston slowly. "You know as much as I do. Is there any clew to guide you in the discovery that your mother still lives?"
"No. She can tell me nothing. But I hope to find the clew here."
"Ah! You intend to speak with John Parver?"
"I do," said Claude, rather surprised at this penetration; "do you know him?"
"I exchanged a few words with him," replied Hilliston carelessly. "I only came here to-night at the request of Mrs. Durham, who is a client of mine. As I paid my respects to her, she was talking to John Parver, and he was introduced to me as the latest lion. So you still intend to pursue the matter?" added Hilliston, after a pause.
"Assuredly! If only to clear my mother, and restore her to the world."
"I am afraid it is too late, Claude. You know she is ill and cannot live long."
"Nevertheless, I wish her to take her own name again. She will not do so until the assassin of her husband—of my father—is discovered, so you see it is obligatory on me to find out the truth."
"I trust you may be successful," said Hilliston, sighing; "but my advice is still the same, and it would be best for you to let the matter rest. After five-and-twenty years you can discover nothing. I cannot help you; your mother cannot help you, so——"
"But John Parver may," interrupted Larcher sharply. "I will see how he learned the details of the case."
Before Hilliston could make further objection, Tait joined them, and not noticing the lawyer, hastily took Claude by the arm.
"I have been looking for you everywhere," said he. "Come and be introduced to Mr. Linton."
"Who is Mr. Linton?"
"John Parver. He writes under that name. Ah, Mr. Hilliston, I did not see you. How do you do, sir?"
"I am quite well, Mr. Tait, and am just taking my departure," replied Hilliston easily. "I see you are both set on finding out the truth. But you will learn nothing from John Parver."
"Why not, Mr. Hilliston?"
"Because he knows nothing. Good-night, Claude—good-night, Mr. Tait!"
When Hilliston disappeared Tait looked at Claude with a singular expression, and scratched his chin.
"You see," said he quietly, "Mr. Hilliston has been making inquiries on his own account."
"You are incurably suspicious," said Claude impatiently. "Hilliston is my friend."
"Yes. He was your father's friend also, I believe."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing! Nothing! Come and cross-examine Frank Linton, alias John Parver."
Clearly Tait was by no means so satisfied with Hilliston as Claude.