MRS. BEZEL.
ONE cannot always judge by appearances either as regards human beings or
houses. Mr. Hilliston was one excellent illustration of this rule;
Clarence Cottage was another. It was in a narrow and crooked lane
trending downward to the right, at the summit of Fitzjohn's Avenue; an
unpretentious two-story building, divided from the public thoroughfare
by a well-cultivated garden. Therein grew thyme and lavender, marigolds
and pansies; for the owner of the cottage loved those homely flowers,
and daily gazed at them from the bow-window wherein her couch was
placed.
Mrs. Bezel never walked in her garden, for the all-sufficient reason
that she was a helpless paralytic, and had not used her limbs for over
ten years. Still a moderately young woman of forty-five, she possessed
the remains of great beauty, ravaged by years of anxiety and mental
trouble. Those passing along the lane usually saw her pale face at the
window, and pitied the sufferings written in every line; sufferings
which were apparent even to a casual glance. Noting the homely garden,
the mean-looking dwelling, the anxious expression of the invalid, they
deemed her to be some poor sickly creature, the scapegoat of nature and
the world, who had sought this secluded spot in order to hide her
troubles. This view was not entirely correct.
She was in ill-health, it is true; she dwelt in a small house certainly;
and the anxious expression was seldom absent from her face. But she was
in easy circumstances, untroubled by pecuniary worries, and the interior
of the cottage was furnished with a magnificence more suggestive of Park
Lane than of Hampstead. The outward aspect of the house, like that of
Mr. Hilliston, was a lie.
Her sitting room resembled the boudoir of some Mayfair beauty. The
curtains were of silk, the carpet velvet pile, the walls were adorned
with costly pictures, and every corner of the small apartment was filled
with sumptuous furniture. All that art could contribute, all that
affection could suggest, were confined in the tiny space, and had Mrs.
Bezel possessed the mines of Golconda she could not have been more
luxuriously lodged. The house was a gem of its kind, perfect and
splendid.
Mrs. Bezel took little interest in these material comforts. Her life was
passed between a couch in the bow-window, a well-cushioned chair by the
fire, and a downy bed in the next room. She had little appetite and did
not enjoy her food; mental anxiety prevented her interesting herself in
the splendors around her; and the only pleasure she took was her dreary
journey in a Bath-chair when the weather permitted. Then, as she inhaled
the fresh breeze blowing across the Heath, she gazed with longing eyes
at London, almost hidden under its foggy veil, far below, and always
returned with reluctance to the familiar splendors of her narrow
dwelling. Fortune had given her much, but by way of compensation had
deprived her of the two things she most desired--of health and of love.
Even on this warm June evening a fire burned in the grate, for Mrs.
Bezel was a chilly creature, who shrunk at the least breath of wind.
According to custom, she had left the window couch at seven o'clock, and
had taken her simple meal while seated in her large chair to the right
of the fireplace. After dinner she took up a novel which was placed on a
small table at her elbow, and tried to read; but her attention was not
fixed on the book, and gradually it fell from her hands, while she gazed
idly at the fire.
What she saw therein Heaven only knows. We all have our moments of
retrospection, and can picture the past in the burning coals. Some even
picture the future, but there was none for this woman. She was old,
weary, diseased, worn-out, and therefore saw in the fire only the
shadows of past years. Faces looked out of the flaming valleys, scenes
arranged themselves in the red confusion; but among them all there was
always one face, one scene, which never vanished as did the others. This
special face, this particular scene, were fixed, immovable, cruel, and
insistent.
The chime of the clock striking half-past nine roused her from her
reverie, and she again addressed herself to the novel with a sigh.
Tortured by her own thoughts, Mrs. Bezel was not accustomed to retire
before midnight, and there were nearly three hours to be got through
before that time. Her life was as dreary, and weary, and heart-breaking
as that of Mariana in the Moated Grange.
The tread of a firm footfall in the distance roused her attention, and
she looked expectantly toward the door, which faced her chair. The
newcomer passed up the narrow garden path, entered the house, and, after
a pause in the hall, presented himself in the sitting room. Mrs. Bezel
knew who it was before the door opened; for standing on the threshold
was the man with the face she had lately pictured amid the burning
coals. Francis Hilliston and the woman who called herself Mrs. Bezel
looked steadily at one another, but no sign of welcome passed between
them. He was the first to break the awkward silence.
"How are you this evening, Margaret?" he asked, advancing toward her;
"better, I hope. There is more color in your cheeks, more brightness in
your eyes."
"I am the same as ever," she replied coldly, while he drew a chair close
to the fire, and stretched out his hands to the blaze. "Why have you
come here at this hour?"
"To see you."
"No doubt! But with what purpose?"
Hilliston pinched his nether lip between finger and thumb, frowning the
while at the fire. Whatever had been, there was now no love between this
woman and himself. But on no occasion had he noted so hostile a tone in
her voice. He was aware that a duel of words and brains was about to
ensue, and, knowing his antagonist, he took the button off his foil.
There was no need for fine speaking or veiled hints in this
conversation. It was advisable that all should be plain and
straightforward, for they knew each other too well to wear their masks
when alone. Under these circumstances he spoke the truth.
"I think you can guess my errand," he said suavely. "It concerns the
letter you wrote to Claude Larcher."
"I thought as much! And what more have you to say in connection with
that affair?"
"I have merely to inform you that the man whom you desire to see is in
London, and will no doubt answer your kind invitation in person."
Mrs. Bezel stretched out her hand and selected a letter from the little
pile on her table.
"If you will look at that," she said coldly, "you will see that Claude
intends to call on me at three o'clock to-morrow."
Taking the letter in silence, Hilliston turned frightfully pale, and the
perspiration stood in large beads on his forehead. He expected some such
appointment to be made, yet the evidence in his hand startled him all
the same. The promptitude of action spoke volumes to one of his acute
perceptions. To defend his good name would require all his skill and
experience, for he had to do with men of action, who acted as quickly as
they thought. The duel would be more equal than he had thought.
"Are you still determined to tell all," he said in a low tone, crushing
the paper up in his hand.
"Yes."
The monosyllable was uttered in so icy a manner that Hilliston lost his
temper completely. Before this woman there was no need for him to retain
his smiling mask, and in a frenzy of rage he hurried into rapid speech,
frantic and unconsidered.
"Ah, you would ruin me!" he cried, springing to his feet; "you would
drag up those follies of '66, and make London too hot to hold me! Have I
not implored, threatened, beseeched, commanded--done everything in my
power to make you hold your peace? Miserable woman, would you drag the
man you love down to----"
"The man I loved you mean," responded Mrs. Bezel, in nowise moved by
this torrent of abuse. "Pray do not be theatrical, Francis. You know me
well enough to be aware that when my mind is made up I am not easily
moved. A man of your brains," she added scornfully, "should know that
loss of temper is but the prelude to defeat."
Recognizing the truth of this remark, Hilliston resumed his seat, and
subdued his anger. Only the look of hatred in his eyes betrayed his real
feelings; otherwise he was calm, suave, and self-controlled.
"Have you weighed the cost of your action?" he demanded quietly.
"Yes. It means ruin to us both. But the loss is yours, not mine.
Helpless and deserted, life has no further charms for me, but you, Mr.
Hilliston, doubtless feel differently."
"Margaret," he said entreatingly, "why do you speak like this? What harm
have I done you that----"
"What harm!" she interrupted fiercely. "Have you not ruined me, have you
not deserted me, have you not robbed me of all that I loved? My life has
been one long agony, and you are to blame for it all. Not a word," she
continued imperiously. "I shall speak. I insist upon your knowing the
truth!"
"Go on," he said sullenly; "I listen."
"I loved you once, Francis. I loved you to my own cost. For your sake I
lost everything--position, home, respect, and love. And you--what did
you do?"
Hilliston looked round the room, and shrugged his shoulders. Look and
gesture were so eloquent that she commented on them at once.
"Do you think I valued this splendor? I know well enough that you gave
me all material comforts. But I wanted more than this. I wanted love."
"You had it."
"Aye! I had the passion such as you call love. Did it endure? You know
well that it did not. So long as I was healthy and handsome and bright
your attentions continued, but when I was reduced to this state, ten
years ago, what did you do? Left me to marry another woman."
"It was not my fault," he muttered uneasily; "my affairs were involved,
and, as my wife had money, I was forced to marry her."
"And you did marry her, and no doubt neglect her as you do me. Is Mrs.
Hilliston any happier in her splendid house at Kensington Gore than I in
this miserable cottage? I think not. I waited and waited, hoping your
love would return. It did not; so I took my own course--revenge!"
"And so wrote to Claude Larcher!"
"Yes. Listen to me. I wrote the first letter on the impulse of the
moment. I had been reading a book called 'A Whim of Fate,' which
contained----"
"I know! I know! I read it myself this evening."
"Then you know that someone else is possessed of your secret. Who is
John Parver?"
"I don't know. I intend to find out. Meanwhile I am waiting to hear the
conclusion of your story."
Mrs. Bezel drew a long breath, and continued:
"The book, which contained an account of the tragedy at Horriston,
brought the fact so visibly before me that I wrote on the impulse
telling you that I wished to see Claude, and reveal all. You came and
implored and threatened. Then my impulse became a fixed determination. I
saw how I could punish you for your neglect, and so persisted in my
scheme. I wrote to Claude, and he is coming here to-morrow."
"What do you intend to tell him?"
"So much of the death of his father as I know."
"You must not--you dare not," said Hilliston, with dry lips. "It means
ruin!"
"To you, not to me."
"Impossible," he said curtly. "Our relations are too close for one to
fall without the other."
"So you think," rejoined Mrs. Bezel coolly; "but I know how to protect
myself. And of one thing you may be assured, I will say nothing against
you. All I intend to do is to tell him of his father's death."
"He knows it already."
"What?"
"Yes! Did you think I was not going to be beforehand with you," sneered
Hilliston triumphantly. "I guessed your intention when you wrote me that
letter, and when Claude arrived in town I saw him before he could call
here. I did not intend to tell him of the matter till your action forced
me to do so. He has read all the papers in connection with his father's
death, and intends to hunt down the murderer. Now, do you see what you
have done?"
Apparently the brutal plainness of this speech strongly affected Mrs.
Bezel. It seemed as though she had not comprehended till that moment
what might be the result of her actions. Now an abyss opened at her
feet, and she felt a qualm of fear.
"Nevertheless, I intend to go on now that I have begun," she said
gloomily. "I will answer any questions Claude may ask me."
"You will put him in possession of a clew."
"It is not improbable; but, as I said, life has no charms for me."
"You don't think of my sufferings," said Hilliston bitterly, rising to
his feet.
"Did you think of mine during all these lonely years?" she retorted,
with a sneer. "I shall punish you, as you punished me. There is such a
thing as justice in this world."
"Well, I warn you that I shall protect myself."
"That is your lookout. But I will show you this mercy, as I said before.
That nothing will be told by me of your connection with this affair. As
to myself, I will act as I think best."
"You will tell him who you are?"
"Yes; I will tell him my real name."
"Then I am lost!"
"Surely not," she rejoined scornfully. "Francis Hilliston is old enough
in villainy and experience to protect himself against a mere boy."
"It is not Claude I fear, but his friend, Spenser Tait. He is the
dangerous person. But enough of this," added Hilliston, striking the
table imperiously. "I forbid you to indulge in these follies. You know I
have a means whereby to compel your obedience."
"It is your possession of that means that has turned me against you,"
she retorted dauntlessly. "If you give me back my----"
"Margaret! Not a word more! Let things remain as they are."
"I have said what I intend to do."
Hilliston ground his teeth. He knew that nothing he could say or do
would shake the determination of this woman. He had already experienced
her resolute will, and not even the means of which he spoke would shake
her immovability. There was nothing more but to retire and protect
himself as best he could. At all events, she promised to remain neutral
so far as he was concerned. That was something gained. Before leaving
the house, however, he made one final effort to force her to his will.
"I will not give you any more money."
"I don't care, Francis. This cottage and its contents are settled on me.
A sale of this furniture will produce sufficient money to last my life.
I can't live long now."
"I will deny all your statements."
"Do so!"
"I will have you declared insane and shut up in an asylum."
Mrs. Bezel laughed scornfully, and pointed toward the door.
"If that is all you have to say you had better go," she said jeeringly.
"You know well enough that you cannot harm me without jeopardizing your
own position."
They looked at one another fiercely, each trying to outstare the other.
Hilliston's eyes were the first to fall, and he hastily turned toward
the door.
"So be it," he said, with his hand on the knob; "you want war. You shall
have it. See Claude, tell him all. I can defend myself."
On leaving the house a few minutes later, he paused irresolutely by the
gate and looked back.
"If I could only find the paper," he muttered, "she could do nothing. As
it is----"
He made a gesture of despair and plunged into the darkness.