A STRANGE BIRTHDAY PARTY
It was close upon midnight, and one of the oldest and most exclusive of
West-end clubs was in a state of great bustle and excitement. Sir Allan
Beaumerville was giving a supper party to his friends to celebrate his
sixtieth birthday, and the guests were all assembled.
Sir Allan himself was the last to arrive. The final touches had been
given to the brilliantly decorated supper table, and the _chef_, who had
done his best for the greatest connoisseur and the most liberal member
in the club, had twice looked at his watch. As midnight struck, however,
Sir Allan's great black horses turned into Pall Mall, and a few minutes
later he was quietly welcoming his guests, and leading the way into the
room which had been reserved for the occasion.
As a rule men are not quick at noticing one another's looks, but
to-night more than one person remarked upon a certain change in their
host's appearance.
"Beaumerville's getting quite the old man," remarked Lord Lathon, as he
helped himself to an ortolan. "Looks jolly white about the gills
to-night, doesn't he?"
His neighbor, a barrister and wearer of the silk, adjusted his eyeglass
and looked down the table.
"Gad, he does!" he answered. "Looks as though he's had a shock."
"Not at all in his usual form, at any rate," put in Mr. Thurwell, _sotto
voce_, from the other side of the table.
"Queer thing, but he seems to remind me of some one to-night," Lord
Lathon remarked to the Home Secretary, who was on the other side. "Can't
remember who it is, though. It's some fellow who's in a devil of a
scrape, I know. Who the mischief is it?"
"You mean Maddison, don't you?" Sir Philip Roden answered. "Plenty of
people have noticed that. There is a likeness, certainly."
"By Jove, there is, though!" Lord Lathon assented; "I never noticed it
before. I'm devilish sorry for Maddison, Roden, and I hope you won't let
them hang him."
The conversation turned upon the Maddison case and became general.
Everybody had something to say about it except Sir Allan. He himself, it
was noticed, forbore to pass any opinion at all, and at the first
opportunity he diverted the talk into another channel.
The quality of his guests spoke volumes for the social position and
popularity of their entertainer. Probably there were not half a dozen
men in London who could have got together so brilliant and select an
assembly. There were only twenty, but every man was a man of note.
Politics were represented by the Home Secretary, Sir Philip Roden, and
the First Lord of the Treasury; the peerage by the Duke of Leicester and
the Earl of Lathon. There were two judges, and a half a dozen Q.C.'s,
the most popular novelist of the day, and the most renowned physician. A
prince might have entertained such a company with honor.
It had been arranged that the advent of cigars should be the signal for
the Duke of Leicester to rise and propose their host's health. But to
the surprise of every one, whilst his grace was preparing for the
ordeal, and was on the point of rising, Sir Allan himself slowly rose to
his feet, with a look in his still, cold face so different from anything
that might be expected of a man who rises at two o'clock in the morning
after a capital supper to make a speech to his guests, that every one's
attention was at once arrested.
"I am given to understand, gentlemen," he said slowly, "that his grace
the Duke of Leicester was about to propose my health on your behalf. I
rise to prevent this for two reasons. First, because to a dying man such
a toast could only be a mockery; the second reason will be sufficiently
apparent when I have said what I have to say to you."
Every one was stupefied. Had their host suddenly gone mad, or had those
empty bottles of Heidseck which had just been removed from his end of
the table anything to do with it? Several murmurs for an explanation
arose.
"I had forgotten for the moment," Sir Allan continued, "that none of you
are yet aware of what I have only known myself during the last few days.
I am suffering from acute heart disease, which may terminate fatally at
any moment."
A sudden awed gloom fell upon the party. Cigars were put down, and
shocked glances exchanged. A murmur of condolence arose, but Sir Allan
checked it with a little gesture.
"I need scarcely say that I did not ask you to meet me here this evening
to tell you this," he continued. "My object is a different one. I have a
confession to make."
The general bewilderment increased. The air of festivity was replaced
by a dull restrained silence. Could it be that their host's illness had
affected his brain? A painful impression to that effect had passed into
the minds of more than one of them.
"You will say, perhaps," Sir Allan continued, speaking very slowly, and
with a certain difficulty in his articulation, which did not, however,
prevent every word from being distinctly audible, "that I am choosing a
strange time and place for making a personal statement. But I see
amongst those who have done me the honor of becoming my guests to-night,
men whom I should wish to know the whole truth from my own lips--I refer
more particularly to you, Sir Philip Roden--and to-night is my last
opportunity, for to-morrow all London will know my story, and I shall be
banned forever from all converse and intercourse with my fellow-men.
"Very few words will tell my story. Most of you will remember that I
came into my title and fortune late in life. My youth was spent in
comparative poverty abroad, sometimes practicing my profession,
sometimes living merely as a student and an experimenting scientist. In
my thirtieth year I married a woman of good family, with whom I was very
much in love, so much so that in order to win her I forged a letter from
the man whom she would otherwise have married, and obtained her consent
in a fit of indignation at his supposed infidelity. That man, gentleman,
was Sir Geoffrey Kynaston."
There was a subdued murmur of astonishment. Every one's interest was
suddenly redoubled. Sir Allan proceeded, standing at the head of the
table, motionless as a statue, but with a strange look in his white
face.
"In every possible way I failed in my duty as a husband toward my wife.
She was light-hearted, fond of change, gayety, travel. I shut her up in
a quiet, old-fashioned town while I pursued my studies, and expected her
to content herself with absolute solitude. For years I crushed the life
out of her by withdrawing every interest and every amusement from her
life. We had one child only, a son.
"From bad, things grew to worse. What I had dreaded came to pass. She
discovered my treachery. Still, she was faithful to me, but we were
husband and wife in name only.
"Time passed on, and she made a few friends, and went out occasionally.
Then, who should come by accident to the little town where we lived but
Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. I was madly, insanely jealous, and I forbade my
wife to meet him. She declined to obey me, and she was quite right to do
so. At that time she was as faithful to me as any woman could be, and
she treated my suspicions, as they deserved to be treated, with
contempt. Sir Geoffrey and she met as friends, and if it had not been
for my brutality they would never have met in any other way.
"One night there was a fete and dance in our little town. My wife went,
against my orders, and Sir Geoffrey escorted her home. A demon of
jealousy entered into my soul that night. Although all the time I knew
that my wife was faithful to me, the worse half of my nature whispered
to me that she was not, and, wretch that I was, I stooped to listen to
it. When she returned I was mad with a fit of ungovernable rage. I shut
my doors against her, and refused to allow her to enter my house. I
taunted her with her infidelity. I bade her go to her lover. She went to
some friends, and for two days she waited for a message from me. I sent
none, and on the third day she left the place with Sir Geoffrey
Kynaston. In less than a month she was in a convent, and from that day
to this she has lived the life of a holy woman."
There was a slight tremor in his voice for the first time, and he
paused. The silence was profound. Everyone sat motionless. Everyone's
eyes were fixed upon him. In a moment he continued.
"Although by sheer brutality, by coarse insults and undeviating cruelty,
I had driven my wife to the edge of the precipice, my rage against the
man, whom I knew she had always loved, burned as fiercely as though he
had won her from me by the cruelest means. I followed them to Vienna,
and insulted him publicly. My wife left him on that very night, and he
has never seen her since; but Sir Geoffrey and I fought on the sands
near Boulogne, and I strove my utmost to kill him. Fortune was against
me, however, and I was wounded. I returned to my home with my thirst for
vengeance unabated. I taught my son to curse the name of Sir Geoffrey
Kynaston, and as soon as I had recovered from my wounds I hunted him all
over Europe. Where he spent those years I cannot tell, but he eluded me.
Often I reached a town only to learn that he had left it but a few days;
once, I remember, at Belgrade, I was only a few hours behind him. But
meet him face to face I could not.
"When at last I saw my son again, I found him grown up, and in his first
words he told me boldly that he had espoused his mother's cause, and
that he withdrew altogether from his vow of vengeance against Sir
Geoffrey Kynaston. I left him in a fury, and almost immediately
afterwards came the unexpected news of my accession to the baronetcy of
Beaumerville. I made up my mind then to turn over the past chapter of my
life, and start the world afresh. I had always been known by the family
name of Martival, and my wife was unaware of my connection with the
Beaumerville family. Taking advantage of this, I sent her false news of
my death at Paris, and started life afresh as Sir Allan Beaumerville.
"The past, however, soon began to cast its shadows into the future. A
new author, calling himself Bernard Maddison, was one night introduced
to me at a crowded assembly. I held out my hand, which he did not take,
and recognized my son."
There was a general start. The first gleam of light struggled into the
minds of the little group of listeners. They began to see whither this
thing was tending, and everyone looked very grave.
"I had nothing to fear," Sir Allan continued. "My son showed by his
looks the contempt in which he held me. We met frequently after that,
but we never exchanged a single word. He kept my secret, too, from his
mother--not for my sake, but for her own.
"Six months after our first meeting Sir Geoffrey Kynaston returned to
England. It may seem strange to you, gentlemen, but my hate for this man
had never lessened, never decreased. The moment I heard the news I began
to lay my plans.
"Then, for the first time, my son sought me. He had come, he said, to
make one request, and if I granted it, he would leave me in peace
forever. Would I tell him that my oath had been buried with the old
life, and that I would seek no harm to my old enemy? I simply declined
to discuss the matter with him, and he went away.
"From that time he commenced to watch me. I laid my plans deeply, but
somehow he got to hear of them. When I went down on a visit to you, Lord
Lathon, that I might be near Sir Geoffrey, he took a small cottage in
the neighborhood, intending to do his best to counteract my schemes. But
I was too cunning for him.
"On the morning of Sir Geoffrey's murder I was on the cliffs, under the
pretence of botanizing. While there I heard the guns of a shooting
party, and through a field-glass I saw Mr. Thurwell and Sir Geoffrey
Kynaston. At that time I scarcely thought that chance would bring Sir
Geoffrey within my power, but I made up my mind to watch them.
"Accordingly I descended from the cliffs, and, on my way, passed close
to my son's cottage. I looked in at his sitting-room through the open
windows, and it seemed as though the devil must have guided my eyes. His
cabinet was open, and right opposite my eyes was a pair of long Turkish
daggers carelessly thrown down with a heap of other curios. I listened.
There was no one about. I stepped through the window, seized one of
them, and hurried away. About a hundred yards from the cottage was a
long narrow belt of plantation running from a considerable distance
inland almost to the cliff side. Here I concealed myself, and looked out
at the shooting party. I could see them all hurrying across the moor
except Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. While I was wondering what had become of
him, I heard footsteps on the other side of the plantation. I stole back
to the edge and looked out. Coming slowly down by the side of the ditch
was Sir Geoffrey, with his gun under his arm, and whistling softly to
himself. He was alone. There was no one within sight. Gentlemen, it is
an awful confession which I am making to you. I stole out upon him as
he passed, and stabbed him to the heart, so that he died without a
groan."
Rembrandt might have found a worthy study in the faces of the men seated
round that brilliant supper table. Blank horror seemed to hold them all
speechless. Sir Allan, too, was trembling, and his hand, which rested
upon the table, was as white as the damask cloth.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a waiter entered.
"A gentleman wishes to speak with Sir Allan Beaumerville," he announced.
Sir Philip Roden rose to his feet, and pointed to the door.
"The gentleman must wait, Nillson," he answered. "Leave the room now,
and see that we are not interrupted until I ring the bell."
The servant bowed and withdrew, after a wondering glance at the faces of
the little party. Sir Philip Roden left his seat and, crossing the room,
locked the door.
"Sir Allan Beaumerville," he said quietly, "there can be only one course
to take with regard to the painful disclosures which you have laid
before us to-night. If you have anything to add, please let us hear it
quickly."
Sir Allan continued at once.
"I went back to my son's cottage. I washed my hands in his room, and the
towel I concealed in his cabinet. Just as I was leaving he entered. What
passed between us I need not mention. I took up my botanizing case and
hurried away along the cliffs, and afterward was met by Mr. Thurwell's
servant, with whom I returned once more to look upon my work. Then came
the time when suspicion commenced to fall upon my son. I implored him
to leave the country. He refused. At last he was arrested. For the
father whom he can only despise he has been willing to die. To-night I
had made up my mind to leave a confession of my guilt and fly. My plans
are changed. Only a few hours ago I looked into the face of one whom I
had never thought to see again in this world. Her advice I am now
following. To her care I entrusted my confession, and to your ears I
have detailed it. My story is done, gentlemen. Sir Philip Roden, I place
myself in your hands."
His last words had been almost drowned by a clamorous knocking at the
closed door. When he had ceased, Sir Philip Roden rose and opened it.
Two men entered at once, followed by Mr. Benjamin Levy. The men
recognized Sir Philip, and saluted.
"What is your business?" he asked.
"We hold a warrant for the arrest of Sir Allan Beaumerville, sir," was
the respectful answer, "granted on the sworn information of Mr. Benjamin
Levy there, by Mr. Pulsford, half an hour ago. Which is he, sir?"
Sir Philip pointed to where his late host was standing a little away
from the others, his hand resting on the carved knob of his high-backed
chair, and his eyes fixed wildly upon them. The man advanced to him at
once.
"You are my prisoner, Sir Allan Beaumerville," he said quietly. "I hold
a warrant here for your arrest on the charge of having murdered Sir
Geoffrey Kynaston on the 12th of August of last year."
Those who were watching Sir Allan's face closely saw only a slight
change. Its deep pallor grew only a shade more livid, and there was a
faint twitching of the features. Then with an awful light flashing into
his burning eyes, and a cry which rang through the whole building, he
threw up his arms and fell like a log across the hearth rug. Every one
sprang up and crowded round him, but the physician pushed his way
through the group and fell on his knees. He was up again in a moment,
looking very pale and awed.
"Keep back, gentlemen; keep back, please," he said in a low tone. "Never
mind about the brandy, Sir Philip. Every one had better go away. These
people from Scotland Yard need not wait. Sir Allan will answer for his
crime at a higher court than ours."
And so it indeed was. Tragical justice had herself added the last and
final scene to the drama. Sir Allan Beaumerville's lips were closed for
ever in this world.