Surrounded by a thickly-wooded park, where the deer abound in ferny
coombes and hollows, stood the home of the Trethowens.
The house, to which a long elm avenue formed the principal approach, was
an imposing pile, and dated for the most part from the reign of Queen
Anne. Standing out prominently, its grey walls were almost wholly ivy
covered, and from its grey slate roofs rose stacks of tall chimneys
backed by thick masses of foliage. Striking as was its exterior, within
the arrangements were antiquated and behind the times; for comfort had
not been sacrificed to modern improvement, and vandalism had never been
a distinctive quality of any of its masters.
In the great old entrance-hall, with its wide hearth and firedogs, were
paintings by Fuseli and carvings by Gibbon, in which the motto of the
Trethowens, _Sit sine labe fines_, was conspicuous, while the rooms,
furnished with that elegant taste in vogue when the house was built,
contained many unique specimens of Guercino, Chari, and Kneller.
Indeed, Coombe Hall was one of the finest mansions in North Cornwall.
During Douglas Trethowen's absence the place had been left with only a
gardener and his wife as caretakers. The park had been neglected, grass
had grown in the gravelled carriage-drive, and the fine old gardens had
been allowed to become choked with weeds. Though the whole place had a
potency to set men thinking, perhaps the most quaint, old-world spot was
the flower garden, with its spreading cedars and shady elms, its
lichen-covered walls overrun with tea-roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle,
with black yew hedges forming pleasant shades to the pretty zigzag
walks. Here, long ago, dainty high-born dames in patches, powdered
wigs, and satin sacques fed the peacocks and gathered the roses, or,
clad as Watteau shepherdesses, danced minuets with pink-coated shepherds
with crooks in their hands. Here, the scene of many a brilliant _fete
champetre_, syllabubs were sipped, and gorgeous _beaux_ uttered pretty
phrases, and, perchance, words that were the reverse of delicate, and
were punished by being lightly tapped by fans.
Amid these unprofaned, old-world surroundings, Hugh Trethowen found
himself, having been called thither by urgent business, for a portion of
the house was in process of renovation, and the architect required his
instructions.
Familiar as was the home of his childhood, yet he had not been there a
week before his habitual _blase_ restlessness returned. Only a few days
ago he had bade farewell to the woman he loved, but already he was
longing to be again at her side, and had decided to return to her on the
morrow.
He had been inspecting the progress of the work of putting the garden in
order, and the various other improvements, but time hung heavily upon
his hands, and it was merely for the purpose of whiling away an hour or
two that he resolved to ascertain the nature of the private papers left
by his dead brother.
Thus it was that he was sitting in the fine old library, cigar in mouth,
lazily scanning some letters and documents scattered before him. He
found little of interest, however; but as his chair was comfortable, and
as the golden sunset streaming in through the diamond panes illumined
the room with a warm light, he experienced a languid satisfaction in
making himself acquainted with his brother's secrets.
One by one he took the letters and digested their contents. Many were
Cupid's missives, couched in extravagant language, and still emitting an
odour of stale perfume. Some were tied together in bundles from various
fair correspondents, others were flung indiscriminately among a
heterogeneous accumulation of bills, receipts, and other papers
similarly uninteresting.
At last, when he had finished the whole of those before him, he sat
back, and for a long time smoked in meditative silence.
"By Jove," he exclaimed at last, aloud, "Douglas must have had a variety
of lady friends of whose existence nobody knew. And they all loved him,
poor little dears. No doubt his money attracted them more than his
precious self, yet he was too wide awake to allow himself to become
enmeshed in the matrimonial net." And he laughed amusedly. "Their
pretty sentiments, kisses indicated by crosses, and mouldy scents, were
all to no purpose," he continued, taking up one of the letters, and
contemplating the address. "What a disappointment it must have been
when he went abroad, and left the whole of the artless damsels to pine--
or rather to seek some other fellow likely to prove a prize. And their
presents! Good heavens! he might have set up a bazaar with the
jewellery, slippers, smoking caps, cigarette cases, match-boxes, and
other such trash mentioned in their dainty notes. I suppose I shall
find the whole collection bundled into a cupboard somewhere, for they
must have been forgotten as soon as received. What strange beings women
are, to be sure!"
Having finished his cigar, he stretched himself lazily, yawned, and
exclaimed:
"Now I wonder whether there's anything else worth looking at? Such
letters are quite as amusing as the comic papers."
He glanced at them carelessly, with an uninterested listlessness, for he
felt half inclined to burn them, as at best they were only rubbish. It
was a pity, he thought, that such a fine old piece of furniture as the
Chippendale bureau should be used for no better purpose than to store
these forgotten and useless communications. Again, why should he
harbour the evidences of his dead brother's flirtations.
As these and similar thoughts were passing through his mind, he suddenly
gave vent to an exclamation of intense surprise. Withdrawing his hand
quickly from the bureau, he rushed across to the window in order to
examine more closely the object which had evoked his astonishment.
It was a coloured cabinet photograph.
He gazed upon it in dumb amazement, for the light revealed the pictured
face of Valerie Dedieu!
Evidently it had been taken several years ago, as the hair was dressed
in a style that was now out of date; still there was no doubt as to the
identity of the original. With the exact contour of the features he was
too well acquainted to regard it as a striking resemblance heightened by
imagination. He examined every detail with eager eyes, and was
convinced that the photograph was hers. The colouring, so far from
altering the expression of the features, added a lifelike look,
enhancing the beauty of the picture. The lips were parted, disclosing
even rows of small white teeth; the counterfeit presentment seemed to
smile mockingly at him.
"Valerie's photograph!" he ejaculated, running his fingers through his
hair, and gazing around in blank bewilderment. "How could it have come
into Douglas's possession? Strange that I should find it here, unless--
unless she, too, loved him."
"No," he added savagely, a moment afterwards. "Why should I think that?
I'll not believe it until I have proof. And then, after all, they may
not have been acquainted; the photograph may have come into his
possession in some roundabout way. By the way," he continued, as a
sudden thought occurred to him, "I might possibly discover something
further."
Again he returned to the bureau, still holding the photograph in his
hand, and after a few moments' eager search drew forth a small packet of
letters tied with pink tape and sealed with red wax.
They had evidently been carefully preserved, for he discovered the
packet concealed at the back of one of the small drawers in the
interior.
With hands trembling with feverish excitement he took them to the
window. Hastily he broke the seals, drew off the tape, and found there
were three letters.
He felt a sudden throb at his heart, a touch of suspense that was
painful, as he opened the first anxiously.
"Her handwriting!" he ejaculated excitedly, at the same time taking from
his pocket a letter he had received that morning from Valerie, and
placing them side by side.
The peculiarities of the fine angular calligraphy were exactly similar.
He read the letter. It was disappointing.
Merely a plain, curt note, commencing: "Dear Douglas," making an
appointment to meet at the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras, from which place
it was dated and signed with the initial "V."
The discovery had wrought a great change in him. He was not the same
man. A cloud overspread his countenance, and he remained buried in
thought.
When he roused himself to glance at the second letter, he seemed yet
more melancholy.
It certainly was an interesting and correspondingly mysterious
communication.
Dated from 14 Rue d'Amsterdam, Paris, it commenced without any prefix,
endearing or formal, and bore unmistakable signs of having been hastily
written. It read as follows:
_If you do not call before midday to-morrow I shall know that you refuse
to entertain any conciliatory measure. Time does not admit of argument;
I must act. At least, I must leave Paris to-morrow night, and even then
all may be known. Fail to come, and I shall know you are my enemy. If
I am unfortunate, rest assured I shall not suffer alone. Take my advice
and seek me the moment you receive this, as it is imperative we should
arrange matters before my departure. This course will be the best for
you_.
_V_.
"There was some secret between them!" Hugh said to himself in a strange
half-whisper, as he finished the curious epistle. "I wonder what it
was? It is clear she had a very strong motive in her desire to see him,
and the letter, from its general tone, appears to relate to some
transaction in which they were both implicated."
Suddenly the words of Jack Egerton, when he had pointed Valerie out at
Eastbourne, recurred to him.
"The less of her sort the better," he mused, gazing out of the window
abstractedly. "I never asked Jack what he meant by that mysterious
allusion. Perhaps, however, he didn't mean it seriously, and only said
it in chaff."
He remained silent for some moments.
"Why," he suddenly exclaimed, "why should I believe malignant stories,
when there is nothing to prove them? These letters are certainly
strange, yet, after all, they may relate to some purely matter-of-fact
affair."
Truth to tell, he felt half inclined to believe there had been a deeper
meaning in the artist's words than he imagined, and was stupefied in the
agony of mental struggle. He stood rigid and confounded, gazing in turn
at the letters and photograph, utterly unable to account for the curious
and secret correspondence that had evidently taken place between his
late brother and the woman who had promised to become his wife.
At last he opened the remaining letter, and was astonished to find it
merely a blank sheet of notepaper, inside which was carefully preserved
a scrap of half-burned paper about two inches square. Apparently it was
a portion of a letter which, after being torn across, had been thrown
into the fire. By some means the edges had been burned, the remainder
being severely scorched.
It was written on one side of the paper, and the words, which were in
French, and in a disguised hand, revealed a fact which added interest to
the discovery. Necessarily few, they were very pointed, and translated
they read:
_Our agreement... dies I will... meet in London... of that sum on June
13th... Montabello to his rooms on the Boulevard... defy detection
by_...
He read and re-read these words, but could glean little from them. The
small piece of blackened paper had presumably formed part of a note, but
it was clear that the writer was illiterate, or intentionally ignorant,
for in two instances the orthography was faulty.
Try how he would, Hugh was unable to disguise the fact that it was a
promise to pay a certain sum, and the mention of the word "dies" seemed
as if it had connection with some dark deed. Perhaps it alluded to the
secret referred to by Valerie in the former letter! With tantalising
contrariety, any names that had been mentioned had been consumed, and
nothing but the few words already given remained as indication of what
the communication originally contained.
Nevertheless, thought Hugh, it must have been regarded as of
considerable importance by his brother, or it would not have been so
carefully preserved and concealed. So crisp was it in its half-consumed
condition, that he was compelled to handle it tenderly, otherwise it
would have crumbled.
Having satisfied himself that nothing further could be gathered from the
almost obliterated words, he replaced it carefully inside the sheet of
notepaper, and proceeded to make a thorough search of the bureau.
In vain he took out the remaining letters and scanned them eagerly,
hoping to find something which would throw a further light upon the
extraordinary missives. None, however, contained any reference to
Valerie, or to Paris. When he had finished, he summoned old Jacob, and
ordered him to make a fire and burn all except about half a dozen, which
appeared of a business character.
Placing the photograph and the three letters in his pocket, he stood
thoughtfully watching the old man as he piled the bills and the
billets-doux upon the wide-open hearth and ignited them.
The mysterious correspondence sorely puzzled him, and he was determined
to find out its meaning. Undoubtedly, Douglas and Valerie were
intimately acquainted, and from the tone in which she wrote, it appeared
as if from some reason she was afraid of him, and, further, that she was
leaving Paris by compulsion.
His thoughts were embittered by a vague feeling of jealousy and hatred
towards his brother, yet he felt himself on the verge of a discovery
which might possibly lead to strange disclosures.
Curiously enough, our sins find us out very rapidly. We cannot tamper
with what is right and for the best in order to secure what is
temporarily convenient without invoking Nemesis; and sometimes she comes
with a rapid tread that is a little disconcerting.
Though he experienced a strange apprehensive feeling, Hugh Trethowen
little dreamed of the significance of the communications which, by a
strange vagary of Fate, had been placed under his hand.