"Good heavens! Why, it can't be true."
The exclamation escaped Jack Egerton's lips as he sat in his studio
enjoying his matutinal pipe, and glancing through the _Daily News_ prior
to commencing work.
The paragraph he had read contained nothing startling to the ordinary
newspaper reader. It was merely an announcement that the will had been
proved of the late Mr. Hugh Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall, who
died suddenly at the Hotel du Nord, Antwerp, and that the whole of the
estate, valued at 112,000 pounds, had been left to his wife Valerie.
"Dead! Dead! And I knew nothing of it, poor fellow!" he cried,
starting up, and, after re-reading the words, standing motionless.
"Died suddenly," he reflected bitterly. "An ominous expression where
Valerie Dedieu is concerned. More than one person who has enjoyed her
acquaintance has _died suddenly_. If I thought he had met with foul
play, and could prove it, by Heaven! I'd do so--even at the risk of my
own liberty. Poor Hugh," he added in a low, broken voice. "We have
been almost brothers. God! shall I ever forgive myself for not warning
him of his danger? Yet I did tell him she was not fit to be his wife,
but he took no heed. No; he was infatuated by her fatally seductive
smiles and accursed beauty."
Pushing the hair from his forehead he flung the paper from him with a
gesture of despair.
"Dead," he murmured. "How much I owe to him. In the days when I
scarcely earned enough to keep body and soul together, we shared one
another's luck, Bohemians that we were, often living from hand to mouth,
and not knowing whence the next half-crown was to come. Always my
warmest friend from that time until his marriage: he was an
irrepressible, genial, good fellow, whom everybody held in high esteem.
Always merry, always light-hearted; in many a dark hour, when I've been
on the verge of despair, it has been his perfect indifference to
melancholy that has cheered and given me heart; nay, it was by his
advice and encouragement that, instead of going out to the Transvaal as
I intended, I remained here to work and win fame."
He sighed deeply, and tears welled in his eyes.
"I have no brother; he was one--and--and I've lost him. I should have
liked to have been at the funeral to have paid a last tribute to his
memory. Had I placed a wreath upon the grave, it would have been with
hands more tender than any of those persons who showed outward
bereavement. Where was the widow, I wonder?"
As he paused, his face grew stern and he clenched his hands.
"Bah! The widow who, by his death, has gained one hundred and twelve
thousand pounds--the woman who, staking life for gold, held him in her
fatal toils until death severed the bond. I wonder--I wonder, if I went
to Antwerp, whether I could discover evidence of foul play? Is it not
my duty to try? If he has met the same terrible fate as--"
"Good-morning, Jack!" exclaimed Dolly Vivian brightly, tripping into the
room.
"Good-morning," he assented sullenly, without looking up at her.
"How disagreeable you are to-day," she observed, as she commenced
unbuttoning her glove. "Anything wrong?"
"Yes, a good deal. I shan't want you; I can't work to-day," he replied
sadly.
"What's the matter?" she asked in alarm, advancing towards him and
placing her hand upon his arm.
Turning with a sigh, he looked into her face and said, in a low, earnest
tone--
"Dolly, I've received bad news."
"What is it--tell me? Don't keep me in suspense."
"It is about some one you know."
"News of Hugh?" she cried, her thoughts at once reverting to the man she
loved.
He nodded, but did not reply.
"What of him? Where is he?"
"Dolly," he said hesitatingly,--"he is dead."
"Dead!" she gasped, clutching at a chair for support.
She would have fallen had he not rushed to her and placed his arm around
her waist. In a few moments, however, she recovered herself.
"You--you tell me he is dead. How do you know?"
"By the newspaper."
"Dead! Hugh dead! I can't--no, I won't believe it," she cried wildly.
"There must be some mistake."
"He died suddenly at Antwerp," Jack said mechanically.
"You mean he has been killed--that his wife is a murderess."
"Hush, Dolly," he exclaimed quickly; "you cannot prove that, remember."
"Oh, can't I? If he has been murdered, I will discover the truth. Her
past is better known to me than she imagines. I'll denounce Valerie
Duvauchel as the woman who--"
"Why, how did you know that was her name?" he asked in amazement and
undisguised alarm.
"What was I saying? Forgive me if I made any unjust remark, but I could
not help it," she urged. "It is all so sudden--and--and he is dead."
She knew she had said too much, and tried to hide her confusion in the
intense grief which his announcement had caused.
"You said her name was Duvauchel?" he said quietly.
"Did I? Well, what of that?"
"You are acquainted with incidents of her past. What is it you know?
Tell me."
She hesitated. Her face was white and agitated, but she had shed no
tears. Her heart was stricken with grief, yet she strove to conceal her
intense love for the man who was reported dead.
"Why," she answered slowly, "I know that she--but--indeed, I know
nothing," she added hysterically.
"That's not the truth," he said reproachfully.
"Perhaps not. Nevertheless, what I know I shall keep secret. The time
may come when I shall have my revenge upon the woman who has robbed me
of the man I love--the vile, heartless woman who has killed him."
"You cannot prove that he met with his death by foul means," he said
reflectively. "The report says he died suddenly--nothing more. Read
for yourself," and he handed her the paper, at the same time pointing to
the paragraph.
"Then she has obtained all his money?" Dolly observed mechanically,
after she had glanced at it. "Is not that sufficient motive for his
death?"
The artist admitted that it was. The unutterable sadness of ten minutes
before had given place to a strange apprehensive dread. It was clear
that Dolly was in possession of some facts connected with the hidden
pages of the Frenchwoman's history. In that case, he told himself, it
was more than probable she would ultimately discover his own secret--the
secret which fettered him to this clever, handsome adventuress, even if
she were not acquainted with it already. His heart sank within him as
he recognised that alienation and loathing would be the inevitable
result Dolly would shrink from his touch as from some unclean thing.
She would regard him as a debased criminal.
He tried to fix upon some means by which to ascertain the extent of her
information. The thought suggested itself that he should tell her
something of Valerie's history, and lead her on to divulge what she
knew. Such a course, however, did not commend itself to him. He was
bound to preserve the secret, for full well he knew that Valerie's
threats were never idle--that she would show him no mercy if he
divulged.
Thus he was as powerless as before. The maddening thought flashed
through his mind that a plain, straightforward statement of facts to
Hugh when first he had met her would have obviated his ruin and
prevented his death.
To and fro he paced the studio in a frenzy of grief and despair.
The pretty model watched him for a moment, then, sinking upon a couch,
and covering her face with her hands, burst into a torrent of tears.
Unable to control her bitter sorrow, her pent-up feelings obtained vent
in a manner that was heart-rending to the kind, sensitive man who stood
before her.
"Dolly, I know what a terrible blow this is to you," said he
sympathetically, removing her hat, and tenderly stroking her hair. "You
loved him?"
She did not answer at once, hesitating even then to admit the truth.
"Yes," she sobbed at last, "I did. You little know what I have endured
for his sake."
"Ah! I can well understand. You loved him dearly, yet he left you for
the woman who exercised a fatal fascination upon him. With scarcely a
word of farewell, he cast your love aside and offered Valerie marriage.
I know the depth of your disappointment and terrible sorrow. Don't
think that because I have never made love to you that I am utterly
devoid of affection. I loved--once--and it brought me grief quite as
poignant as yours; therefore I can sympathise with you."
He spoke with sadness, and with a heavy sigh passed his hand with aweary
gesture across his care-lined brow.
"It's so foolish of me," she murmured apologetically, in a low, broken
voice. "I ought not to have made this confession."
"Why not? I had noticed it long ago. Love always betrays itself."
Lifting her sad, tear-stained face, she looked earnestly into his eyes.
"What can you think of me, Jack?" she asked.
"Think of you?" he repeated. "Why, the same as I have always done--that
you are an upright, honest woman. Neither blame nor dishonour attaches
to you. When he left you so cruelly, you bore your sorrow bravely,
thinking, no doubt, that some day he might return and make you happy.
Was not that so?"
She nodded an affirmative. Her gaze was fixed thoughtfully on the
canvas which stood on an easel behind him; her slim, white hands were
crossed in front of her.
"Since we parted," she said, in a strained, broken voice, as if speaking
to herself, "he has been uppermost in my thoughts. Often when I have
been alone, indulging in dreamy musings, I have looked up and seemed to
see him standing contemplating me. Then all the regret has fled from my
heart, and paradise has stolen in. He has spoken to me, smiled at me,
as he did in those pleasant days when first we knew each other. Yet
next moment the vision would fade before my eyes, and I have found
myself deceived by a mere chimera, tricked by an idle fancy. But now he
is dead: gone from me never to return--never."
And she again gave way to tears, sobbing bitterly.
"Come, come, Dolly," said the artist, again passing his hand lightly
over her hair, endeavouring to soothe her; "don't be downhearted. Yours
is a cruel and heavy sorrow, I know; but try to bear up against it, try
to think that perhaps, as you suggested, he is not dead. Even if you
have lost your lover, you have in me a true and trusted friend."
"Yes, I know," she sobbed brokenly. "You are my only friend. It is
extremely kind of you to talk like this; yet you cannot know the extent
of my love for him."
"I quite realise how much you cared for him," he said slowly, in a
pained voice. "If he had married you, his life would have been peaceful
and happy. Fate, however, decreed different, and, that being the case,
you must try to forget him."
"Forget him! Never!" she cried. Then recovering herself, she added:
"Excuse what I say; I hardly know what I've been telling you."
"Whatever has passed between us will always be kept secret," he assured
her.
"Ah! I feel sure you will tell no one; you are always loyal to a
woman."
"Now, promise to think less about him," he urged, looking down into her
grief-stricken face.
"I cannot," she replied firmly. "Somehow, I don't believe that he is
dead. I shall endeavour to clear up the mystery and ascertain the
truth."
"And I will render you what assistance I can. Count upon my help," he
said enthusiastically. "We'll get at the real facts somehow or other."
"You are very kind," she answered, drying her tears, and putting on her
veil before the mirror. "I have a terrible headache, and am fit for
nothing to-day, so I'll go home."
To this proposal the artist offered no objection. Her inconsolable
grief pained him, and he wanted to be alone to think; so, grasping her
hand warmly, he again urged her to bear up under her burden, and watched
her walk slowly out, with bowed head and uneven steps.