THE BOND OF SILENCE
Two days later Dick Jervoise called upon Captain Berentsen and his
daughter at the house in Talbot Road, Bayswater, where they had
established themselves in apartments. The first-floor rooms of the
usual London lodging type had been recommended to them by some friends
in Christiania, and as Dick was shown up by the maid-of-all-work he
greeted Thyra, in pretence that they had not already met in secret.
The old captain invited him to remain and have tea. They expected to
stay in London for a month at least, he said—indeed, until the long
Arctic night at Vardo had passed, when they would return to their
treeless coast again.
In his thick, blue reefer suit, and with a distinctly nautical air, the
old fellow looked strangely out of place in a Bayswater lodging. He had
made no mention to Thyra of his visit to Peter Sundt. He was absent on
many occasions “doing business,” as he had explained to her.
Dick offered to show London to Thyra, an offer which was gladly
accepted. Therefore, on the following day, he again called, and,
finding her alone, they went forth together.
Her attitude towards him was at once friendly and mysterious. It seemed
as though, while she held him in distinct disfavour, in abhorrence, yet
somehow he exercised over her a power which was inexorable, as though,
almost, he held her beneath a spell.
That her mind was full of the terrible tragedy of a few months before
was shown by the frequent sighs that would escape her, and by her
constant dread of their secret being suspected.
In that dread secret between them lay the power and influence which
Dick Jervoise possessed over her. And, somehow, in those covert
glances of hers there was another and yet more curious expression—the
expression of admiration, even of devotion.
How full of strange incoherence and contradiction is the soul of woman!
Thyra was thankful to Dick for his offer to take her to see London. The
few days she had spent in that Bayswater lodging with her father absent
had been very dismal and dispiriting. It rained almost incessantly;
the sitting-room with the lace curtains, the cheap ornaments upon
the mantelshelf, and the strong-smelling apples upon the mahogany
sideboard, was oppressed the whole day long by a grey twilight.
Occasional hansoms or tradesmen’s carts passed along the melancholy
street into the square beyond, and the tempestuous wind, which made
the room draughty, howled incessantly, the whole making on Thyra an
impression of unutterable dreariness.
The splendid city of her dreams, the great and brilliant London, seemed
pervaded by this howling wind, that had followed her from the icy sea
at Vardo, through which sounded the roar of a thousand other voices,
the ceaseless roar of the traffic, the booming of toilsome life, dismal
under never-ending rain.
With profound tenderness Dick Jervoise took her forth to show her
some of the principal “sights”—the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham
Palace, the National Gallery, and such-like institutions of which
London boasts, but of which the average Londoner knows nothing. The
first morning they spent in the British Museum, after which he gave her
luncheon at the Trocadero, where the life, movement, and music brought
back to her some of her old brightness.
Many of her naive remarks filled him with amusement. On the night of
her arrival in London she had, it appeared, believed the asphalte
roadways to be polished; but now they were drying she had discovered
her mistake.
The weather had cleared after luncheon, and they walked down Regent
Street and through the Strand to the law Courts, where for a few
moments they sat listening to counsel making an able defence in some
Chancery action. Then they took a motor-omnibus to Trafalgar Square,
where he showed her the lions and the Nelson monument, after which they
entered the National Gallery and took a cursory glance at some of the
art-treasures preserved there.
She examined everything with the keen inquisitiveness of a child, while
he, on his part, took the greatest interest in showing and explaining
everything.
The crowds and hustle of the Strand bewildered her. More than once, as
they passed along, he noticed men’s heads turned to admire her striking
beauty. But, all unconscious of the sensation she created, she walked
on at his side listening intently to his explanations.
There was a bond between them—a bond that was unbreakable. She could
not disguise that fact from herself. Were it not for that one thought,
grim and terrible, she would have been happy, perhaps even been able to
forget the black shadow that had so suddenly fallen upon and clouded
her young life.
Along Pall Mall they went, and up St. James’s Street. He pointed out
Marlborough House, St. James’s Palace, the various clubs—including his
own, a great, dark, smoke-blackened building close to Piccadilly.
As they passed, the liveried hall-porter, who chanced to be standing
upon the steps, recognised and saluted him.
She peered within the hall with curiosity, and inquired what the place
was like inside. She had never seen a club before.
“It looks very old,” she declared, gazing at the sombre but handsome
exterior.
“Over a century and a half ago it was opened,” he answered. “At that
time it was the principal gaming-club in London, and huge sums were
lost and won here every night. Nowadays it is a place where men dine
and smoke and chat, and into which no lady is ever allowed to set her
foot.”
“Isn’t that rather selfish?” she laughed.
But he explained to her that there were also ladies’ clubs, known to
the irreverent men as “catteries.”
As they turned into Piccadilly she half closed her eyes, and before
her there arose a vision of the man so suddenly snatched from her.
Instantly she hated the tall Englishman striding along at her side. Her
depression reasserted itself.
Twilight was falling. The people passed rapidly along the pavements,
umbrellas under their arms; here and there the lights were springing
up in the shops, and through the moist air strayed the odours of the
stream of motor-omnibuses and private cars with the confused noise that
dulled her senses.
That man, walking by her side in silence, gave her a vague sensation of
terror.
She fixed her great eyes upon the crowd, fascinated by the coming and
going, as by the flowing of a stream. Dick, the man who, with her, held
the secret, uttered some words, but she did not heed them. Casting her
eyes upward, she saw the network of telegraph wires hiding the grey
sky, and it renewed her oppression.
The elegance of the women who passed her caused her envy. It was
impossible that there could be so many shapely or beautiful women in
London. They were all painted and padded and powdered, and some had
false hair. Oh, yes—she knew! Those London women were artificial,
unreal, “made up” by their hairdressers, their tailors and their maids.
They were women of falsity, corruption and hidden misery.
And this was London!
Dick fixed his enamoured eyes upon her, and seeing the strange
expression upon the beloved features, fell to wondering.
He hailed a passing taxicab at the corner of Park Lane, and drove to
Westbourne Grove, for she had expressed a desire to look at the windows
of the drapers’ shops there. Besides, it was close to her home.
For a long time she enjoyed the delights of the goods so temptingly
displayed in the windows. A hat she saw there—the latest French
creation—interested her far more than the Madonna of Raphael, while
over an evening gown in cream lace she went into ecstasies. How would
she herself look in it, she wondered?
Before those gaily lit windows her oppression again vanished.
“Look!” she cried in childish delight. “Look at that lovely lace. How
exquisite! And that _robe de chambre_—you call it tea-gown. Is it not a
lovely colour? It would suit a blonde to perfection. Ah! I have never
seen in Christiania such lovely things as these! Very costly. I suppose
they are—far too costly for me.”
And she ran on in that strain, while her companion stood behind her,
much amused at her excitement and at her pretty broken English.
At the side of one of the windows was a long mirror, in which she
examined herself from top to toe. He noticed it, and smiling, forgave
her the little feminine vanity.
They turned down a dark street of private houses, and the moment they
had left the shops Thyra felt the weight of sadness again upon her soul.
There arose that phantom of the past—the white face of the man
now lying in his grave. She shuddered, and went on down the dull,
melancholy street in silence. The man at her side was no longer the
tall, good-looking Englishman she had met at Vardo, but an evil shadow
that haunted her everywhere.
Yet she could not evade him. How could she?
“What if the world knew!” she reflected as she walked along at his
side. “What if the shameful truth ever became known? How would the
world judge her—and him?”
In the cheaply furnished upstairs drawing-room in Talbot Road they
found that the Captain had not returned. Therefore Thyra rang for the
tea, while her companion stirred the fire and lit the gas. Then she
went into the next room to remove her hat.
When alone, he stood staring blankly into the fire in deep reflection.
Was he not playing a very dangerous game? he asked himself. Were not
they both in equal peril? What if Owen discovered his visits, and that
he was her constant escort about the town? Already his friend, he knew,
entertained certain suspicions which might very easily be confirmed by
this too frequent companionship.
And yet, when he thought over it all—when he came to reflect—how
could he keep apart from her? True, her husband had only been
dead a few brief months. Yet there were circumstances quite
exceptional—circumstances which none knew beside their own two selves.
A few moments later, having taken off her hat and furs, she re-entered
the room and poured out his tea.
He watched all her movements with eyes full of admiration. She had
sipped her tea in silence, her gaze fixed upon the flames.
Then, of a sudden, she raised her face to his. He saw it was pale and
anxious. Upon her countenance the shadows had deepened, like a black,
impalpable cloud. She glanced across at the door, as though to reassure
herself that it was closed.
Then, looking him in the face, she whispered:
“I have just been thinking that if you are in my company too much, your
friend, Doctor Odd, might suspect!”
He started. She had voiced his own thoughts of only a few moments
before.
“Well—let him suspect,” her companion answered, laughing quietly. “Of
what can he accuse us?”
She placed her white hand upon his; he felt it trembling.
“Ah, no!” she whispered hoarsely. “Do not let us discuss it! Let us
both take every precaution. We are in peril—you have said so yourself.
We have enemies—both of us. Therefore it behoves us to beware!”
“I know,” he said, placing his hand upon her shoulder reassuringly.
“But you are too apprehensive, Thyra. Leave all to me. No one knows the
truth—and no one shall ever learn it.”
Thus, ignorant of Peter Sundt’s statement to the Captain—ignorant,
indeed, that the ruler of those northern settlements was in London, or
that he had discovered Dick’s previous knowledge of the dead man—the
pair remained conversing and exchanging confidences, Thyra receiving
from her companion certain instructions how to act.
Notwithstanding all these precautions they were taking to avoid any
revelation of a ghastly truth, the pitfall—a secret and well-concealed
one—now lay open before them.