THAT SECRET.
The clouds may rest on the present,
And sorrow on days that are gone,
But no night is so utterly cheerless
That we may not look for the dawn;
And there is no human being
With so wholly dark a lot,
But the heart by turning the picture,
May find some sunny spot.
PHEBE CARY.
Very early the next morning the baron arose, rung for his valet, ordered
a cup of coffee and a roll to be brought to him in his dressing-room,
and the horses to be put to the brougham and brought round to take him
to the station.
By seven o’clock he was seated in his carriage rolling towards Miston
Station.
By very rapid driving and fresh horses he made the distance in two hours
and a half, and reached the station at half-past nine, in time to catch
the train for the Junction.
Leaving his letters with his coachman to post, and orders to put up for
the day at the Dolphin, and meet him at the nine-fifty special, he
jumped aboard the car and started on his journey.
No sooner was the train off than a frightful anxiety seized him. It was
lest Vivienne Desparde should see in the morning papers some account of
the railroad compartment tragedy in conjunction with her brother’s name.
He had intended to stop at the news-agent’s in Miston who furnished the
hall with papers, and leave orders that they should be withheld until
his return in the evening, when he would call for them himself; but in
the hurry of catching the train he had forgotten to do this, and now he
was a prey to the most tormenting uneasiness.
If Vivienne should suddenly discover the truth through the newspaper
WHAT might not be the consequences of its effect upon her sensitive and
highly-strung organization!
Lord Beaudevere dared not answer the question to himself.
He wished now that he had had the moral courage to break the news gently
to the sister by softening all the circumstances as much as possible,
rather than have exposed her to the danger of hearing a garbled and
exaggerated account of the arrest and accusation of her brother through
some gossiping newspaper or neighbor.
He was horribly exercised over this danger. He would gladly have turned
back to remedy his own forgetfulness about stopping the papers; but the
railway train held him fast and whirled him forward relentlessly as
destiny.
It was half-past twelve when he reached Yockley.
There at the station he took the same cab that he had engaged on the day
before, and drove out to the jail.
After the usual formula he was admitted to see his cousin.
He found Valdimir in a small cell of seven feet by four, with bare pine
floor, bare whitewashed walls, and a high, grated window. There was no
furniture but a cot-bed, and no recommendation about the spot but its
extreme cleanliness.
The young man was seated on the side of his cot engaged in reading the
morning paper, for which he had sent out and purchased through the
civility of one of the turnkeys.
He looked up, immediately arose, laid aside the paper, greeted his
kinsman, and made room for him to sit down on the side of the cot.
“Is that the morning’s _Times_?” inquired the baron, as he took the
indicated seat.
“Yes; but there is nothing in it about the murder except a few lines in
the telegraphic dispatches announcing the fact. My name is not used,”
replied the young man.
“Glad of it!”
“But it will all be out to-morrow.”
Beaue looked around upon the bareness of the place and shuddered.
“Great Heaven! my boy, cannot you have more comforts than these bare
walls and floor?” were the next words uttered by the baron, as he
surveyed the cell.
“Well, yes, I suppose so, if I pay for them; but I really miss nothing.
I have come from a long sea voyage, remember, Beaue,” replied the young
man, composedly.
“Yes, but—I never saw such a bare place! I had no idea a prison-cell was
so destitute of all comforts!” ruefully exclaimed the baron.
Here Valdimir could not refrain from laughing as he answered:
“My dear Beaue, I fancy that ‘comfort’ is about the last thing that
would be considered in prison building and furnishing.”
“But—where do you wash your face and brush your hair? I see no
conveniences for anything! Absolutely nothing but this cot-bed in this
bare cell! Where do you wash?”
“There is a room at the end of this corridor used by all the prisoners
on this floor. It is very clean. That is a consolation.”
“Humph! You don’t mean to say that you wash and dress in company with—”
“Dear Beaue, what does _that_ detail matter, under the circumstances?”
“Well, I must try to get the warden to transfer you to a larger cell.”
“I think they are all of one size and pattern,” laughed Valdimir.
“I don’t see how you can make so light of such a heavy misfortune! And,
anyway, we must get a piece of carpet to cover these bare boards, and a
curtain to that window and a little stand and table put in.”
“Not worth while, Beaue, for the short time I shall stay here. The
Assizes are near at hand. I shall soon be tried and acquitted, and then,
you know, I shall enjoy the luxuries of carpets, curtains, tables,
chairs, perfumes, privacy, liberty, and so on, and so on, all the more
for having been deprived of them so long.”
“You feel confident of an acquittal, then, Valdimir?”
“Perfectly. It is only a question of a little time. We have only to hunt
up my fellow-passengers from Southampton to the Grand Junction, to prove
that I could not have been at Paddington at the time that mistaken guard
swore that I engaged the reserved compartment from him. You must set
detectives at that work, Beaue.”
“I telegraphed yesterday to Fox, of Scotland Yard, to meet me here
to-day. I shall put the whole care of hunting up the witnesses in his
hands—and also that of tracing the murderer. I know who that caitiff is,
my boy!”
“You do?” exclaimed the young man.
“Certainly, most certainly, even as if I had seen the crime committed!
Did I not hint as much at the preliminary examination?”
“My dear Beaue, whom do you suspect, then?” anxiously inquired the young
man.
“I suspect no one. I _know_ that Brandon Coyle was the assassin of
Christelle Ken, and so, also, does her unhappy father know it!”
“Why, then, did you not accuse him?”
“I fear we have not yet grounds sufficient to convince a magistrate,
although we have much more than enough to assure ourselves. Ah! my boy,
you know, and it has often been shown, that the strongest possible moral
and mental conviction is not legal evidence. We must get more facts
against Mr. Brandon Coyle, and in order to do so we must put the case in
the skillful hands of Fox and his associates.”
“And have you thought of what counsel we shall employ?” inquired
Desparde.
“Certainly; I have written to Stair and Turner, two of the most eminent
lawyers in the kingdom, and both on this circuit. They will meet me here
to-day. And now, my dear Valdimir, that we are alone, perhaps you will
give me the long promised explanation of your sudden flight from
England,” rather abruptly proposed Lord Beaudevere.
“I have no objection, if we have time. And afterwards, Beaue, will you
tell me the secret of my own and my sister’s early life?” demanded the
young man.
“There was no secret, Valdimir, as I have often assured you!” exclaimed
the baron, not, however, without the strong agitation that he always
betrayed whenever this subject was introduced.
Young Desparde looked at his relative keenly for a moment, and then
changed his phraseology without abandoning his point, by saying:
“Then, if not the _secret_, will you tell me the _story_ of our early
life?—for every life has a story, and therefore ours must have one; and,
Beaue, it was my total ignorance of the story of my early life that left
me a prey to a most designing villain, for he foisted upon me his own
disgraceful history as mine. There were external circumstances to
support the terrible falsehood and compel me to receive it as the truth.
I did so, and fled the country to hide my dishonored head in the wilds
of America. I fled without assigning any cause for my flight lest the
disclosure of my shameful secret should blast the peace and ruin the
prospects of my innocent sister.”
While the young man spoke the strongest emotion shook his frame, but
that seemed as nothing to the storm that whirled through the soul of
Baron Beaudevere.
Thrice he attempted to speak before he could utter the words:
“Brandon Coyle—the mulatto! The son of a felon! He did this?”
Valdimir Desparde bowed his head in silence.
“I see it all! I see it all! This accursed villain! He made the stolen
_alias_ of his felon father the means of misleading you! Why? Oh, why
did you not come to me immediately—to _me_, to contradict that infamous
slander before taking your desperate flight?” demanded the baron, with a
frenzied gesture.
“Beaue, it was because you never would tell me the secret—that is, the
story of our early life. Only that morning, Beaue, I had besought you to
do so, and you had refused—refused in such a manner as to silence my
questions completely. Then came Coyle’s revelation to me, supported by
the strongest as well as the most fallacious circumstantial evidence. I
thought that story was the truth, and that it explained the reason of
your persistent silence. Beaue, if I had known the true story of our own
early life—my sister’s and mine—I could not have been deceived by a
false one!” said Valdimir.
“Scoundrel! Idiot!” exclaimed the baron, bringing down his fist
emphatically upon the cot.
But who was the scoundrel and who the idiot was not made quite clear by
his words.
“At some more fitting time, Beaue, I will tell you the whole tale of
this deception that drove me nearly mad and sent me an exile from my
native land and from all that man holds dear in life; and also I will
tell you the providential means through which I discovered the truth. It
was a very singular chain of circumstances. But I presume, by what you
have let fall, Beaue, that _you_ at least knew this disgraceful story of
Brandon Coyle always?”
“Yes,” slowly replied the baron. “I knew it from the circumstance of the
felon having stolen your father’s money, jewels, letters of credit and
name, and the complications that followed therefrom; but I do not
believe that there was another man in the world, outside of the Coyle
family, that _did_ know it—that did know, I mean, anything whatever of
that mulatto felon who was hanged in New Orleans, or of Mr. Brandon
Coyle’s close connection with him.”
“But if this brother and sister are the children of that criminal, then
their name must be Sims, not Coyle,” said Valdimir.
“It _is_ Sims! But old Christopher Coyle, when he adopted these children
of his unhappy niece, the widow of Sims, gave them his name. And I
suppose that in his will he has taken care to make Brandon’s inheritance
of Caveland conditional upon his legal assumption of the name of Coyle.”
“I suppose so; but now, Beaue, is there really any serious objection to
your telling me the secret—I mean the story of our early years?”
inquired Valdimir.
Again the face of the baron changed, and his voice faltered as he
answered:
“I will tell you, but you—when you have heard all—you must not dare to
blame—”
“For Heaven sake!” interrupted the young man, in alarm at the word
“blame,” “tell me this at the outset—I have suffered so much that I
cannot bear suspense upon this subject—was there, then, any reproach,
merited or _un_merited, attached to the name and memory of my father or
my mother?”
“What in the deuce do you mean by such a question?” indignantly demanded
the baron. “‘_Reproach_’ attached to your father or your mother? Of
course not! not the shadow of the shade of reproach!”
“Thank heaven! And since there is no reproach I cannot understand the
reason of your great reluctance to speak of them,” said Valdimir.
“That reluctance can be explained in three words.”
Before Lord Beaudevere could utter another syllable the cell door was
opened by the turnkey, who ushered in Mr. Reynolds Fox, the detective
from Scotland Yard.
Lord Beaudevere had known and employed this officer before, and now he
introduced him to Mr. Desparde.
No time was lost. The case was immediately set before him. He took it
all down in short-hand cipher.
Then a consultation upon it ensued, and he took down notes, and
suggestions, also in short-hand cipher.
Just as he had concluded this preparatory work, and was about to take
his leave, the cell door was again opened and the turnkey ushered in Mr.
Stair.
The eminent lawyer entered, bowed and shook hands with the baron, and
was by the latter introduced to the prisoner.
The lawyer also had his note-book, but it was in the hands of his clerk
who waited in the corridor. The little cell was too limited in space to
admit the presence of five men at the same time.
As soon, therefore, as Fox had bowed himself out of the cell, Mr. Stair
called his clerk in.
And then the consultation began.
The clerk took down such notes as his chief suggested.
The conference lasted a long time.
The three gentlemen sat upon the side of the cot. The clerk stood before
them, leaning his back against the wall and taking down the brief in
short-hand on his tablets.
There was one circumstance that brought the greatest strength and
comfort to the baron and his cousin—they saw that the counsel was
perfectly convinced of Valdimir Desparde’s innocence.
While they were still engaged there was a third arrival—Mr. Turner, who
was duly admitted to the cell.
The last-named gentleman bowed to the party within, and then shook hands
with his brother lawyer and with Lord Beaudevere, whom he had long known
and by whom he was introduced to Mr. Desparde.
Room could scarcely be found for the new-comer.
The clerk was permitted to withdraw for a few minutes.
The baron now foresaw a recommencement of the whole case for the
information of Mr. Turner and he knew that Mr. Stair and Valdimir
Desparde were quite competent to the task. He was, besides, very anxious
to get home earlier than he had first planned to do. He was troubled on
account of Vivienne, lest she should have seen the account of Valdimir
Desparde’s arrest in the paper.
He therefore arose, and telling his cousin that he felt he was leaving
him in good hands, he took his leave promising to return the next day.
He reached home about half-past ten.
But he found no brilliantly-lighted drawing-room or dining-room—no
sumptuously-spread supper table.
The porter met him in the hall.
“Is—where is Miss Desparde?” he inquired, as his heart sank with the
heavy thought that she had learned the great misfortune that had
befallen the family, and had been prostrated by it.
“Miss Desparde, my lord, is ill in bed, I am grieved to say, your
lordship,” solemnly replied the porter.
It was true, then! Vivienne had learned the news, and it had crushed
her—killed her, perhaps.
Beaue shelled himself out of his ulster as swiftly as he could have
turned a bean out of a pod, sprang up stairs three steps at a bound, and
paused before Miss Desparde’s door.
There he stopped, panted, and finally rapped softly.
The lady’s maid opened the door.
“_How is she?_” breathed Beaue, in eager tones.
Before the girl could answer a word, a weak, hoarse, nasal voice, half
stifled by catarrh, but by no means laden with grief, inquired:
“Id thad hid lordshid! Led him come bin.”
In rushed Beaue and up to the closely curtained bed, around which hung
the mingled aromas of squills, paregoric, honey, borax, and what not!
“Did Valdimir come bid you?” inquired the invalid from her muffling
flannels.
“No, my love, he has not recovered his property yet,” answered the
much-relieved baron, who knew by her question that she had not yet
learned the terrible truth.
“Whad a nuidance!” she said.
“I am sorry to see you so much indisposed, my dear,” said he.
“Oh, Beaue, I hab god the worst gold in my head I ebber had in my lipe!”
“Yes, my dear, you must have taken it while standing out of the door
last night with nothing around your head and shoulders,” said the baron.
“Well, den, why don’t you day ‘I dold you do?’” saucily inquired the
invalid.
“Because that would be unkind, my dear, though I _did_ tell you you
would take cold.”
“But I dibn’t dake gold danding oud od doors, Beaue! I dook gold dedding
in the drawing-droom over the fire,” retorted Vivienne, defiantly.
“There, my dear, don’t try to talk longer! It must hurt you to do so—at
least it is—excruciating to hear you!” said the baron.
Then turning to the maid he asked:
“Has she had advice?”
“Yes, sir, I sent for doctor Bennet early this morning.”
“Quite right. Where are the day’s papers?”
“In the library, sir. No one has touched them.”
Very much relieved in mind, Lord Beaudevere bade his young cousin
good-night, wished her sound sleep and sweet dreams and went down stairs
to his library.
There he found the newspapers, still unfolded.
He looked through them all carefully; but only in the telegraphic
columns of the London papers did he see any notice of the yesterday’s
murder in the railway carriage, and that was without any allusion to his
cousin, Valdimir Desparde.
The country papers were all weeklies, and would not be out until
Saturday.
“There will be a full account of this tragedy in the papers to-morrow,”
he said to himself, “and I must take care that Vivienne does not see
them. I am rather glad than otherwise that she _is_ laid up with a cold,
since it is not a dangerous one. The circumstance will enable me to keep
this dreadful affair from her for some time yet. I must, however, call
at Bennet’s office to-morrow and warn him not to speak of it to her,”
concluded the baron, as he rang the bell for the footmen to come and
shut up the house, and then took his bedroom candle and went up to his
chamber.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]