A TEMPORARY BRIDE
Though I was not, as a rule, fond of society, it was impossible to
resist the infection of the merry-making spirit at Mürren and in
consequence I joined heartily in all the fun that was going forward.
The night of the bob-sleigh trip found me playing the drum in the
amateur jazz band--a dance-orchestra formed among the visitors each
year, to carry on the dancing after midnight. Mrs. Audley and her
husband came into the dance-hall of the Kürhaus just as the merriment
began, and they danced together while I sat behind the drum with a
little comic, flat-brimmed hat in imitation of George Robey, upon my
head.
“Really your amateur band is more amusing than the professional one,”
declared Audley, during the interval. “Last night we watched you. It
seems that the visitors wait until you start up.”
“Well,” I laughed. “We try and keep things humming along until two, or
even three o’clock. We like to play and the others like to dance.”
“My wife loves it,” he declared. “She’s only just been saying that she
would like to join you.”
“Right!” I said, laughing. “She shall be our pianist tomorrow--if she
will.”
But the bride hesitated. “I’m afraid, Mr. Yelverton,” she said, “that
I’m not so good as the American girl you’ve got. She’s a professional,
surely.”
As a matter of fact she was studying the piano in Paris, and was in
Mürren for the winter holiday.
And then we struck up again and the crowd danced merrily till nearly
three o’clock.
The following day was a Saturday. I spent a large part of the morning
gossiping with old Mr. Humphreys, whose chief pleasures as an invalid
seemed to be to play bridge and to smoke his pipe. Though his was
rather a thoughtful disposition, as his deep-sunken eyes and shaggy
brows suggested, yet he was always a cheerful and entertaining
companion.
“I sometimes stay with my sister at Weybridge, in Surrey,” he
explained, as I walked beside him while he wheeled his chair over the
snowy road which leads out of the village along the edge of the deep
precipice overlooking Lauterbrunnen in the misty valley far below.
While we were in the bright keen air high-up above the clouds, with the
sun shining brilliantly over a white picturesque world, below, in the
valley, it was dark dull winter. “Very soon,” added my friend, “very
soon I’ll have to go back to Constantinople, where I have a good many
interests. But I shall only be there a few weeks. All this political
trouble makes things very difficult financially. Have you ever been in
Turkey?”
I replied in the negative, but added that it had long been my desire to
go there, and see the beauties of the Bosphorus.
“Yes,” he said, “You ought to go. You’d find lots to interest you. Life
in the Turkish capital and Turkish life is quite different from life
in Europe. The Turk is always a polished gentleman and, moreover, the
foreigner is now better protected in every way than the Turk himself,
thanks to the laws made years ago.”
“That, I suppose, is why Constantinople before the war was such a
hot-bed of European sharks, swindlers and bogus concession-hunters,” I
remarked, with a smile, for I had heard much of the “four-flush” crowd
from a friend who had interests in the Ottoman Empire.
“Exactly,” he laughed. “It is true that in Pera we have a collection
of the very worst crooks in all Europe. But it is hoped that, under
the new conditions, Turkey will expel them and begin a new and cleaner
regime.”
As he spoke we turned a sharp corner, and Stanley Audley and his
pretty wife, smart in another sports suit of emerald green that I
had not before seen her wearing, shouted simultaneously the warning,
“_Achtung!_”
Next second, recognizing us, they greeted us cheerily as they slid
swiftly past upon their skis.
“A very charming pair--eh?” remarked old Humphreys. “The more I see of
them the more interesting they become. What do you think of the girl?
You are young, and should be a critic of feminine beauty,” he added,
with a smile.
“I agree. She is very charming,” I said, “Audley is, however, rather
too serious, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. She’s too go-ahead for him--she’s a modern product as they
call it. If a man marries he ought to have a comrade, not a cushion.
A woman, to be a perfect wife, should not be too intellectual. A
knowledge of literature, art and science does not necessarily make for
domestic happiness. In a wife you want heart more than brains. Yet a
giddy, brainless wife is even a worse abomination.”
“Do you mean Mrs. Audley,” I asked.
“Not in the least,” he replied quickly. “I don’t think she is either
brainless or giddy. I am only giving you my idea of the perfect wife.
The real wife would be a _mate_--the term is used by the lower classes
and expresses the ideal perfectly. It sums up the whole thing. And I
don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Audley are really _mated_, though at present
they are evidently very much in love with one another. I think they
married in a hurry.”
This was a new line of thought for me, and, naturally, I was
astonished. But I kept silence. Old Humphreys had seen far more of the
world than I had and I had a good deal of respect for his judgment.
When we got back to the hotel Dr. Feng was waiting for me and we went
in to lunch together. We were late and the big dining room was almost
empty. After we had finished our meal Feng went to his room and I
strolled into the lounge intending to have a cup of coffee there and
then go to my room to write some letters.
To my surprise--for I thought they were out skiing--I found Audley and
his wife seated on a settee. Both were obviously upset and the bride’s
eyes showed unmistakable traces of tears.
To this day I cannot imagine what prompted me, but I think it must have
been sheer nervous bravado for, without passing, I stepped across to
them, and with a laugh exclaimed,--
“Well--and what is the matter now?”
Both stared at me in natural resentment. I could have bitten my tongue
out in my vexation at having perpetrated such a banality. I started a
stumbling apology.
“Oh, all right, Yelverton,” said Audley, his resentment vanishing, “the
fact is we are in a difficulty and I don’t quite know what to do.”
“Can I help you anyhow?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not. But I’ll tell you how things are. We were married in
London only four days ago and now I have to go back and Thelma doesn’t
like it. I’m an electrical engineer at the head offices in Westminster
of Gordon & Austin, the big combine which holds concessions for the
supply of electricity to about forty towns in England. I’ve just had a
wire calling me to attend a meeting of the directors on Monday morning.
It is proposed to promote me to be manager of the power works at
Woolwich, which means a big lift that will be a great thing for me in
the future.”
“Well, of course, you’ll go,” I said.
“I suppose I must,” he replied. “But according to the papers there’s
a big gale in the Channel and only the little boat is crossing from
Boulogne. Thelma doesn’t want me to leave her and she is such a bad
sailor that if she came with me she would certainly be very seriously
ill. The last time she was seasick she collapsed very dangerously. She
cannot possibly make the crossing.”
The girl was obviously on the edge of a flood of tears.
“But surely,” I said to her husband, “Mrs. Audley will be all right
here for a few days. If you care to trust me so far I shall be
delighted to look after her and so, I am sure, will Dr. Feng and Mr.
Humphreys. She could be with us. You ought to be back by Wednesday
evening.”
“It’s awfully kind of you, Yelverton,” said Audley, “but it rather
looks like taking advantage of your good nature.”
“Nonsense,” I said, “we shall all be delighted. If you catch the
Boulogne express from Interlaken tonight you will be in Victoria
tomorrow evening in good time for your appointment on Monday. You can
leave again on Tuesday and be up here on Wednesday. We will keep Mrs.
Audley amused until then.”
Both expressed their thanks and we went to the telephone to get on to
the Sleeping-car Company in Interlaken and reserve a berth.
I arranged to leave with them at four o’clock that afternoon and
descend by the funicular into Lauterbrunnen, where Audley would take
train for Interlaken to catch the night-mail for Boulogne.
Thus, having fixed things up, I left them and went up to the Doctor’s
room where I told him what had occurred.
The old fellow at first laughed immoderately and declared I was
extremely foolish to intrude. However, he was sympathetic enough.
“Poor little girl!” he said. “Of course she would be very lonely.
We must have her to sit at our table, Yelverton, and of course, my
dear boy, you must entertain her. Poor little girl!--she has only one
honeymoon, and to think that it should be so interrupted! Yes. You did
quite the right thing,--quite right!”
At six o’clock I stood on the snowy platform at Lauterbrunnen station
with “The Little Lady,” as I called her, and we watched her husband
wave us farewell as the train left. It was dark, damp and dreary down
there. A thaw had set in and it was sloppy under foot. Lauterbrunnen is
not a pleasant place in winter. Suddenly she turned to me and with a
merry laugh exclaimed:
“Well, Mr. Yelverton, I suppose I am now your temporary bride--eh?”
We laughed together, and then crossed back to the little station of the
funicular railway and slowly ascended until, just in time for dinner,
we were back again in Mürren.
Naturally, the fun-loving guests at the hotel made the best of the
news that Stanley Audley had had to dash off to London and had left
his pretty wife in my charge. Chaff and banter flew freely, practical
jokes were played on us by the score and the excitement helped to chase
away Mrs. Audley’s depression. And, perhaps, wisely, she sought to get
rid of her natural sorrow by flinging herself into the whirl of the
Kürhaus life. She danced, laughed and even flirted mildly with one or
two young fellows in a way she certainly would not have dreamed of
doing had Stanley Audley been present. But it was all very innocent and
above-board and not even the strictest moralist would have found fault
with this gay abandon which, I fancy, was half assumed. For, disguise
it how she would, she was quite clearly devoted to her husband and
longed only for his return.
Next day she lunched with Dr. Feng and myself and in the afternoon we
put on our skis and I took her out over the snow to the Grütsch Alp
by a way which commanded a magnificent view of the high Bernese Alps.
We took our cameras with us and, on my table, as I write there is a
snap-shot I took of her as, in her smart winter sports kit, she sped
swiftly down a steep slope with her ski-sticks held behind her in real
professional style.
She proved a delightful companion. She was, I found, a Londoner born
and bred, and she had all the genuine shrewdness and good humor of the
town girl. She was well educated, a perfect encyclopædia of books and
plays, and she was, as I knew, a splendid dancer. Her mother, the widow
of an ex-naval officer named Shaylor, lived at Bexhill. Of her father
she remembered very little: he had been on the China Station for many
years and his visits home had been infrequent. He had died in China the
year before.
The humor of my position struck me forcibly. Here was I, a young
bachelor fairly well off and sufficiently good-looking, left in charge
of a beautiful young girl who was a bride of only a few days! In
England, of course, such a position would have been unthinkable. It did
not seem so strange in the free and easy camaraderie of Mürren where
the free and easy sporting life bred a harmless unconventionality and
where even the British starchy reserve was very early sloughed off.
Everybody made a joke of the whole affair and Dr. Feng and old Mr.
Humphreys laughed like boys at this novel status I had acquired.
Of course there was some malice: there always is in a mixed company.
After we had glided some miles across the snow, we halted and I poured
out some tea from the vacuum flask I carried. Just as Mrs. Audley was
drinking a party of men and girls from the hotel passed. Noticing us,
one of the girls made some remark. What it was I did not hear, but
it produced a burst of ill-mannered laughter and my companion turned
scarlet.
“They’re horrid, aren’t they?” she said and I agreed. “But it is
really delightful here,” she said, looking up into my face. “You are
most awfully kind to us, Mr. Yelverton. Stanley and I shall never
forget it. If he gets the position of manager at Woolwich it will mean
so much to us--and it will greatly please my mother.”
“Was your mother--er--against your marriage?” I inquired.
“Well--yes, she was. She thought I was too young. You see I’m not
nineteen yet, though people think I’m older,” she confessed with a
charming little moue. “Stanley is an awfully good boy, and I love him
so very much.”
“Naturally, and I hope you always will,” I said. “Of course, I’m older
than you, but our position here today is really a bit unconventional,
isn’t it?”
“It is,” she laughed, “I wonder how you like being bothered with a
temporary bride?”
“I’m not bothered, but most charmed to have such a delightful companion
as yourself, Mrs. Audley,” I declared.
We returned to dinner after an enjoyable afternoon amid those wild
mountains and snowy paths, and when she came to table she provided one
of us, at any rate, with a startling surprise.
We had taken our seats at our table and were waiting for her. Seated
with my back to the door I did not see her enter the room, but I saw
Dr. Feng, who was facing me, suddenly stiffen in his chair and not
even his Chinese impassivity could disguise the look of amazement,
almost of fear, which leaped suddenly into his eyes.
“Whatever is the matter, doctor?” I jerked out in amazement.
Instantly the old man had himself in hand again. But that glimpse of
his vivid emotion had startled me. Before I could say anything he had
risen and was greeting Thelma Audley. I sprang to my feet.
Mrs. Audley was wearing a dainty gown of ivory silk--her wedding dress,
she told us later, put on in compliment to the old doctor. She looked
very sweet and girlish in it. But Dr. Feng, I could plainly see, had no
eyes for the dress: his attention was concentrated on the extraordinary
pendant which Mrs. Audley wore on her bosom, suspended from a thin
platinum chain round her neck.
“Look what I have had sent me!” she cried as she called our attention
to it. “Did you ever see anything so quaint?” And she took it off and
handed it to the doctor. He took it from her with what, had the brooch
been some sacred emblem, I should have thought was an expression of
deep reverence, and examined it closely.
It was a sufficiently striking ornament to have attracted attention
anywhere. It was fashioned in the form of a peacock’s foot, about three
inches long. The shank, at the end of which was a tiny ring through
which the platinum chain was passed, was of rough gold studded with
small diamonds and each of the claws was composed of a single crystal,
cut to the natural shape of the claw. The jewels blazed in the glare of
the electric lights. The pendant was of exquisite workmanship and was
quite obviously enormously valuable.
“Why, wherever did you get that, Mrs. Audley?” I exclaimed. “It’s
really wonderful.”
“Isn’t it pretty?” she said. “It came by registered post this evening
and I found it waiting for me when I went up to dress. Mother had sent
it on from Bexhill. I don’t know who sent it--there was no letter--but
perhaps I shall find out when I get home.” It was evident she had not
the least idea of the value of this quaint jewel.
I was keenly watching Dr. Feng. For some reason I could not explain, I
connected the crystal claw with the unmistakable agitation he had shown
as he caught sight of Mrs. Audley entering the room.
“Did you say there was no letter with it? Perhaps you have kept the
packing,” he asked, gravely regarding the jewel as it lay in the palm
of his hand.
“Oh, it came from some foreign place,” Mrs. Audley said. “I could not
make out the name, but I will fetch the wrapper, perhaps you can tell,”
and she darted from her seat.
Feng sat silent, turning the claw over and over in his hand and
closely examining it. He seemed to have forgotten me entirely in his
abstraction.
A few moments later Mrs. Audley returned with a small box and some
peculiar paper in which it had been wrapped. The whole had been
rewrapped in brown paper in England and the original address--“Miss
Thelma Shaylor, care of Mrs. Shaylor, Bexhill-on-Sea, Sussex, England,”
was undamaged. It was a queer cramped handwriting, evidently that of a
foreigner.
Dr. Feng glanced at it. “This was posted in Pekin,” he said, “Have you
any friends out there, Mrs. Audley?”
“No, certainly not,” was the startling reply. “I have never known
anyone in China. Are you sure it is from Pekin?”
Dr. Feng smiled. “You forget I am a Chinese, Mrs. Audley,” he said.
“You can be quite sure that package came from Pekin. It is wrapped in
Chinese rice paper as you will see, and the address was written by a
Chinese.”
Mrs. Audley looked puzzled. “Well,” she said at last, “someone who
knows me must have gone to China. But it’s very pretty, and I wish I
knew who sent it.”
“You must take great care of it,” said Dr. Feng. “It is very valuable,
apart from sentimental considerations.”
Then our talk drifted to other topics and the crystal claw, for the
moment, was apparently forgotten. But I noticed that Dr. Feng could
not keep his eyes off it for long, and he was unusually silent and
abstracted during the meal.
Tired from her ski excursion Mrs. Audley left us early and went to bed.
The old doctor and I were sitting in the lounge drinking coffee when I
made up my mind to ask him about the crystal claw.
“What does the crystal claw mean, Doctor?” I said quietly, shooting the
question at him suddenly in an interval of our chat.
He glanced at me keenly. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What makes you
think I know anything about it?”
“All right, Doctor,” I laughed. “I happened to be looking at you when
Mrs. Audley came into the dining room and saw your face. Also I saw you
looking at the claw afterward. Don’t tell me you don’t know anything
about it. Remember I’m a lawyer.”
The old man laughed. “You’re right enough, my boy,” he said pleasantly.
“I know a good deal about the crystal claw. But what I don’t know is
why it was sent Mrs. Audley--or rather to Miss Shaylor.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Not by any means,” he rejoined quickly. “That claw was sent to Miss
Shaylor--to Miss Shaylor,” he repeated emphatically. “The fact that she
is Mrs. Audley has nothing whatever to do with it. She thinks it is a
wedding present. It is nothing of the kind. The man who sent her the
crystal claw could not have known of her wedding, anyhow.”
“Tell me all about it, Doctor,” I begged.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t suppose it will do any harm if I do.
But you had better keep what I tell you to yourself, at any rate for
the present.
“The crystal claw,” he went on, “is the badge or sign of the Thu-tseng,
a powerful Manchu secret society. There is nothing illegal about the
society; it simply works for the political regeneration of China.
Hsi-yuan himself is one of its leading lights--you know of him, of
course. The claw is given, so far as outsiders are concerned, only
to those who have rendered some signal service to the society. Now,
I cannot see how Mrs. Audley, by any conceivable stretch of the
imagination, can have helped the Thu-tseng. Excepting myself, she has
probably never spoken to a Chinese in her life.”
“Did you know her father was a naval officer and was for many years on
the China Station?” I asked.
Feng started violently, “Is that so?” he asked quickly.
“Yes,” I replied, “she told me so only today.”
The old man sank back into his chair and pondered deeply.
“That may explain it,” he said slowly. “It is just possible the claw
has been sent to her in recognition of something her father did. But,
if so, it must have been something of very great importance. How long
has her father been dead?”
“About a year,” I replied.
“Well,” he said, after another period of thought, “there must have been
some reason why the sending of the claw was delayed. But,” he went
on with growing animation, “you can take it from me she has powerful
friends. With that claw in her possession she could ask almost anything
she liked in any part of China today. It would be a magic talisman
there.”
Of course, I was as completely bewildered and amazed as Dr. Feng. But
I could only assume that his solution of the mystery was correct. Mrs.
Audley apparently knew next to nothing of her father’s life abroad:
certainly she would and could know nothing of his political activities
there. But Feng was confident he had somehow been associated with
powerful members of the Thu-tseng.
“I will send some cables tomorrow,” he said, as we parted for the
night. “I am deeply interested in this affair. China is the land of
mysteries, and this is beyond me. The last time I saw the crystal claw
was when I was in Tibet twenty years ago. It was worn by a monk of a
Buddhist monastery there. But, of course, I could never find out why he
got it.”