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THE SLAVE OF SILENCE
[Illustration: "Nothing daunted, the pair made a rush at Berrington who
fired right and left." FRONTISPIECE. _See page 191._]
THE
SLAVE OF SILENCE
BY
F. M. WHITE
AUTHOR OF "TREGARTHEN'S WIFE" "THE WHITE BATTALION"
"THE ROBE OF LUCIFER" ETC ETC
ILLUSTRATED
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1906
Copyright, 1904,
BY FRED M. WHITE.
Copyright, 1906,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
* * *
_All Rights Reserved_
Published November, 1906
Printers
S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 9
CHAPTER III 17
CHAPTER IV 25
CHAPTER V 33
CHAPTER VI 41
CHAPTER VII 49
CHAPTER VIII 57
CHAPTER IX 65
CHAPTER X 73
CHAPTER XI 81
CHAPTER XII 89
CHAPTER XIII 97
CHAPTER XIV 105
CHAPTER XV 113
CHAPTER XVI 121
CHAPTER XVII 129
CHAPTER XVIII 137
CHAPTER XIX 145
CHAPTER XX 153
CHAPTER XXI 161
CHAPTER XXII 169
CHAPTER XXIII 177
CHAPTER XXIV 185
CHAPTER XXV 193
CHAPTER XXVI 201
CHAPTER XXVII 209
CHAPTER XXVIII 217
CHAPTER XXIX 225
CHAPTER XXX 233
CHAPTER XXXI 241
CHAPTER XXXII 249
CHAPTER XXXIII 256
CHAPTER XXXIV 264
CHAPTER XXXV 272
CHAPTER XXXVI 280
CHAPTER XXXVII 288
CHAPTER XXXVIII 296
CHAPTER XXXIX 304
CHAPTER XL 312
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Nothing daunted, the pair made a rush
at Berrington, who fired right and
left" _Frontispiece_
"Richford stood there shaking and quivering
with passion" _Page_ 49
"The police-officer looked suspiciously at
the figure" " 107
THE SLAVE OF SILENCE
CHAPTER I
The girl turned away from the splendour of it and laid her aching head
against the cool windowpane. A hansom flashed along in the street below
with just a glimpse of a pretty laughing girl in it with a man by her
side. From another part of the _Royal Palace Hotel_ came sounds of mirth
and gaiety. All the world seemed to be happy, to-night, perhaps to mock
the misery of the girl with her head against the windowpane.
And yet on the face of it, Beatrice Darryll's lines seemed to have
fallen in pleasant places. She was young and healthy, and, in the eyes
of her friends, beautiful. Still, the startling pallor of her face was
in vivid contrast with the dead black dress she wore, a dress against
which her white arms and throat stood out like ivory on a back-ground of
ebony and silver. There was no colour about the girl at all, save for
the warm, ripe tone of her hair and the deep, steadfast blue of her
eyes. Though her face was cold and scornful, she would not have given
the spectator the impression of coldness, only utter weariness and a
tiredness of life at the early age of twenty-two.
Behind her was a table laid out for a score of dinner guests. Everything
was absolutely perfect and exceedingly costly, as appertained to all
things at the _Royal Palace Hotel_, where the head waiter condescended
to bow to nothing under a millionaire. The table decorations were red in
tone, there were red shades to the low electric lights, and masses of
red carnations everywhere. No taste, and incidentally no expense had
been spared, for Beatrice Darryll was to be married on the morrow, and
her father, Sir Charles, was giving this dinner in honour of the
occasion. Only a very rich man could afford a luxury like that.
"I think everything is complete, madame," a waiter suggested softly. "If
there is anything----"
Beatrice turned wearily from the window. She looked old and odd and
drawn just for the moment. And yet that face could ripple with delighted
smiles, the little red mouth was made for laughter. Beatrice's eyes
swept over the wealth of good taste and criminal extravagance.
"It will do very nicely," the girl said. "It will do--anything will do.
I mean you have done your work splendidly. I am more than satisfied."
The gratified, if slightly puzzled, waiter bowed himself out. The bitter
scorn in Beatrice's eyes deepened. What did all this reckless
extravagance mean? Why was it justified? The man who might have answered
the question sauntered into the room. A wonderfully well-preserved man
was Sir Charles Darryll, with a boyish smile and an air of perennial
youth unspotted by the world, a man who was totally unfitted to cope
with the hard grip and sordid side of life. There were some who said
that he was a grasping, greedy, selfish old rascal, who under the guise
of youthful integrity concealed a nature that was harsh and cruel.
"Well, my dear child," Sir Charles cried. "And are you not satisfied?
That table-setting is perfect; I never saw anything in more exquisite
taste."
"It will all have to be paid for," Beatrice said wearily. "The
money----"
"Will be forthcoming. I have no doubt of it. Whether I have it at the
bank or not I cannot for the moment say. If not, then our good friend
Stephen Richford must lend it me. My dear child, that black dress of
yours gives me quite a painful shock. Why wear it?"
Beatrice crossed over and regarded her pale reflection in the glass
opposite. The little pink nails were dug fiercely into the still pinker
flesh of her palm.
"Why not?" she asked. "Is it not appropriate? Am I not in the deepest
mourning for my lost honour? To-morrow I am going to marry a man who
from the bottom of my heart I loathe and despise. I am going to sell
myself to him for money--money to save your good name. Oh, I know that I
shall have the benediction of the church, less fortunate girls will envy
me; but I am not a whit better than the poor creature flaunting her
shame on the pavement. Nay, I am worse, for she can plead that love was
the cause of her undoing. Father, I can't, can't go through with it."
She flung herself down in a chair and covered her face with her hands.
The boyish innocence of Sir Charles's face changed suddenly, a wicked
gleam came into his eyes. His friends would have found a difficulty in
recognizing him then.
"Get up," he said sternly. "Get up and come to the window with me. Now,
what do you see in this room?"
"Evidences of wealth that is glittering here," Beatrice cried.
"Shameless extravagance that you can never hope to pay for. Costly
flowers----"
"And everything that makes life worth living. All these things are
necessary to me. They will be with me till the end if you marry Stephen
Richford. Now look outside. Do you see those two men elaborately doing
nothing by the railings opposite. You do? Well, they are watching _me_.
They have been dogging me for three days. And if anything happened now,
a sudden illness on your part, anything to postpone to-morrow's
ceremony, I should pass the next day in jail. You did not think it was
as bad as that, did you?"
The man's face was livid with fury; he had Beatrice's bare arm in a
cruel grip, but she did not notice the pain. Her mental trouble was too
deep for that.
"It's that City Company that I hinted at," Sir Charles went on. "There
was a chance of a fortune there. I recognized that chance, and I became
a director. And there was risk, too. We took our chance, and the chance
failed. We gambled desperately, and again fortune failed us. Certain
people who were against us have made unhappy discoveries. That is why
those men are watching me. But if I can send the chairman a letter
to-morrow assuming innocence and regret and enclosing a cheque for
L5,000 to cover my fees and to recover all the shares I have sold, then
I come out with a higher reputation than ever. I shall shine as the one
honest man in a den of thieves. That cheque and more, Richford has
promised me directly you are his wife. Do you understand, you sullen,
white-faced fool? Do you see the danger? If I thought you were going to
back out of it now, I'd strangle you."
Beatrice felt no fear; she was long past that emotion. Her weary eyes
fell on the banks of red carnations; on the shaded lights and the
exquisite table service. The fit of passion had left her indifferent and
cold. She was not in the least sullen.
"It would be the kindest act you could do, father," she said. "Oh, I
know that this is no new thing. There is no novelty in the situation of
a girl giving herself to a man whom she despises, for the sake of his
money. The records of the Divorce Court teem with such cases. For the
battered honour of my father I am going to lose my own. Be silent--no
sophistry of yours can hide the brutal truth. I hate that man from the
bottom of my soul, and he knows it. And yet his one desire is to marry
me. In Heaven's name, why?"
Sir Charles chuckled slightly. The danger was past, and he could afford
to be good-humoured again. Looking at his daughter he could understand
the feelings of the lover who grew all the more ardent as Beatrice drew
back. And Stephen Richford was a millionaire. It mattered little that
both he and his father had made their money in crooked ways; it mattered
little that the best men and a few of the best clubs would have none of
Stephen Richford so long as Society generally smiled on him and fawned
at his feet.
"You need have no further fear," Beatrice answered coldly. "My weakness
has passed. I am not likely to forget myself again. My heart is dead and
buried----"
"That's the way to talk," Sir Charles said cheerfully. "Feeling better,
eh? I once fancied that that confounded foolishness between Mark
Ventmore and yourself,--eh, what?"
A wave of crimson passed over Beatrice's pale face. Her little hands
trembled.
"It was no foolishness," she said. "I never cared for anyone but Mark, I
never shall care for anybody else. If Mark's father had not disowned
him, because he preferred art to that terrible City, you would never
have come between us. But you parted us, and you thought that there was
an end of it. But you were wrong. Let me tell the truth. I wrote to Mark
in Venice, only last week, asking him to come to me. I got no reply to
that letter. If I had and he had come to me, I should have told him
everything and implored him to marry me. But the letter was not
delivered, and therefore you need have no fear of those men in the
street. But my escape has been much nearer than you imagine."
Sir Charles turned away humming some operatic fragment gaily. There was
not the least occasion for him to give any display of feeling in the
matter. It had been an exceedingly lucky thing for him that the letter
in question had miscarried. And nothing could make any difference now,
seeing that Beatrice had given her word, and that was a thing that she
always respected. All Beatrice's probity and honour she inherited from
her mother.
"Very foolish, very foolish," Sir Charles muttered benignly. "Girls are
so impulsive. Don't you think that those carnations would be improved by
a little more foliage at the base? They strike me as being a little set
and formal. Now, is not that better?"
As if he had not either care or trouble in the world, Sir Charles added
a few deft touches to the deep crimson blooms. His face was careless and
boyish and open again. From the next room came the swish of silken
skirts and the sound of a high-bred voice asking for somebody.
"Lady Rashborough," Sir Charles cried, "I'll go and receive her. And do
for goodness' sake try to look a little more cheerful. Stay in here and
compose yourself."
Sir Charles went off with an eager step and his most fascinating smile.
Lord Rashborough was the head of his family. He was going to give
Beatrice away to-morrow; indeed, Beatrice would drive to the church from
Rashborough's town house, though the reception was in the _Royal Palace
Hotel_.
Beatrice passed her hand across her face wearily. She stood for a moment
looking into the fire, her thoughts very far away. Gradually the world
and its surroundings came back to her, and she was more or less
conscious that somebody was in the room. As she turned suddenly a tall
figure turned also, and made with hesitation towards the door.
"I am afraid," the stranger said in a soft, pleading voice; "I am afraid
that I have made a mistake."
"If you are looking for anybody," Beatrice suggested, "my father has
these rooms. If you have come to see Sir Charles Darryll, why, I
could----"
It struck Beatrice just for a moment that here was an adventurer after
the silver plate. But a glance at the beautiful, smooth, sorrowful face
beat down the suspicion as quickly as it had risen. The intruder was
unmistakably a lady, she was dressed from head to foot in silver grey,
and had a bonnet to match. In some vague way she reminded Beatrice of a
hospital nurse, and then again of some _grande dame_ in one of the
old-fashioned country houses where the parvenue and the Russo-Semitic
financier is not permitted to enter.
"I took the wrong turn," the stranger said. "I fancy I can reach the
corridor by that door opposite. These great hotels are so big, they
confuse me. So you are Beatrice Darryll; I have often heard of you. If I
may venture to congratulate you upon----"
"No, no," Beatrice cried quickly. "Please don't. Perhaps if you tell me
your name I may be in a position to help you to find anybody you may
chance----"
The stranger shook her head as she stood in the doorway. Her voice was
low and sweet as she replied.
"It does not in the least matter," she said. "You can call me the Slave
of the Bond."