A wet winter's night in London.
Heedless of the heavy rain and biting east wind that swept in violent
gusts along the dismal, deserted Strand, Hugh Trethowen, with bent head,
plodded doggedly on towards Westminster. His scanty clothes, or rather
the patched and ragged remains of what once were garments, were
saturated and clung to him, while the icy wind blew through him,
chilling him to the bone. Although unprotected by either umbrella or
overcoat, he neither hesitated nor sought shelter, but, apparently quite
unconscious of the inclement weather, continued to walk as briskly as
his tired limbs would allow. Trudging onward, without glancing either
to right or left, he splashed with heavy, careless steps through the
muddy street, absorbed in his own sad thoughts.
Weary, hungry, and penniless, he nevertheless experienced a feeling of
satisfaction, not unmingled with surprise, at finding himself again
treading the well-remembered London streets, after escaping death so
narrowly.
The two years' absence had aged him considerably. The hard lines on his
still handsome features told of the privations and sufferings he had
undergone, and he no longer carried himself erect, but with a stoop
which was now habitual, the result of hard toil in the mine.
His rescue had been almost providential.
The shock at finding both his companions dead, combined with the agony
of mind caused by the revelations made by Berard, overwhelmed him. In
despair he felt that his end was near, and as a natural consequence soon
lapsed into unconsciousness. For hours, days, he may have remained in
that condition, for aught he knew. When he recovered his senses he was
astonished at finding himself lying in a berth in a clean, cool cabin.
A man was bending over him--a big, bearded, kindly-looking seaman, who
smoothed his pillow, and uttered some words in an unfamiliar language.
By using French, however, both men were able to converse, and it was
then he learnt that he had been picked up by the Norwegian steamer
_Naes_, which was on a voyage from Sydney to San Francisco. The utmost
kindness was shown to him by the captain, to whom he told the story of
his imprisonment and escape, and after an uneventful voyage he landed at
the American port. Utterly destitute, with only two dollars in his
pocket, which had been given to him by a passenger for rendering some
little services, he at once sought work, intending to earn enough to
enable him to cross America and return to England.
Berard's allegations against Valerie and Egerton were mysterious and
incomprehensible, and, with the sole object of getting to London and
seeking a full explanation, he toiled diligently at various menial
occupations, always moving from town to town in the direction of the
Atlantic. Successively he pursued the vocations of cattle drover,
watchman, farm labourer, and railway stoker, until at length, after many
months of anxious work, he arrived at New York, and shipped on board a
steamer bound for London, giving his services as fireman in return for
the passage home.
Thus he had reached the Metropolis that evening without possessing a
single penny, and was therefore compelled to tramp the whole distance
from the docks through the steadily-falling rain.
Had he written to Egerton for money to pay his passage he knew he should
have obtained it, but he was determined to make his reappearance in
London unexpectedly. He intended to descend suddenly upon both his
friend and Valerie, to ascertain how much truth was contained in the
dying confession of the convict. If he sent for money, he told himself
that he might be asking a favour of his wife's lover, hence he decided
to work his own way towards his goal, if slowly, nevertheless with
effect.
Once only he raised his head. He was passing the entrance of Terry's
Theatre, where upon the step there stood two young men in evening dress,
who were smoking during the _entr'acte_. Looking up he recognised them
as bachelor acquaintances, but desirous of being unobserved in that
plight, he quickly bent his head again, and continued his dreary walk.
The keen wind blew through his scanty garments, causing him to shiver,
yet the atmospheric change from the hot, stifling stokehold to the
midwinter blast troubled him not. He merely drew his wet jacket closer
around him, quickened his pace, and strode across Trafalgar Square,
turning in the direction of Victoria Street.
Indeed, he had little upon which to congratulate himself. True, he had
escaped a terrible death; yet even this was counterbalanced by the fact
that all that was nearest and dearest to him had been swept away. His
idol had been thrown from her pedestal; the woman he had trusted and
loved, turning a deaf ear to warning and entreaty alike, had been
denounced as a crafty, shameless adventuress. Nevertheless, even in the
depths of his despair he refused to give entire credence to the words of
his dead comrade, and, arguing against himself, resolved to face her
before judging her.
Strange it is how we men cling to the belief that the woman we love is
pure, notwithstanding the most obvious proofs of infamy are thrust under
our very noses. The moment we regard a woman as our ideal, we at once
close our eyes to her every fault; and the more beautiful and
kind-mannered she is, the less prone are we to accept what is told us of
her past. It is so in every case of passionate affection. Woman always
holds the whip-hand, while her adorer is weak and helpless as a child,
easily misled, deceived with impunity, and made the shuttlecock of
feminine caprice.
After marriage, when the glamour fails and man's natural caution asserts
itself, then follows remorse--and frequently divorce.
Hugh had little difficulty in discovering Victoria Mansions, in which
Valerie's flat was situated. Shortly before their marriage he had
renewed the lease of the suite in order that they might have a place of
their own in town; therefore he felt certain that he should find her
there. With anxious feelings he ascended the broad staircase, and rang
the bell of the outer door.
There was neither response nor sound of movement within, and although he
repeated his summons several times it was evident no one was at home.
As he stood before the door the porter ascended, and, noticing his
attire, inquired gruffly what his business was.
"I want Mrs. Trethowen," he replied.
"She's away."
"Where is she?"
"How should I know?"
"When did she leave?"
"A week ago. She and the gentleman and the two maids went away
together. I believe they've gone to their country place."
"The gentleman! Who's he?" asked Hugh in surprise.
"Why, madame's husband, I suppose. But there--I don't know anything
about people's business in this place. Got enough to do to look after
my own," he added, with a sardonic grin.
"What sort of man is this gentleman?" inquired Trethowen excitedly.
"Find out," replied the man in uniform arrogantly. "I don't want any of
your cross-examination. She's gone away, and that's enough for you."
Then he turned and ascended the stairs to the next floor, leaving Hugh
disconcerted and perplexed.
The gentleman! Madame's husband! Could it be that Valerie had already
forgotten him? It was clearly useless to remain there, so he quickly
resolved to go to Egerton, seek what information he could afford, and
endeavour to obtain an explanation of the terrible allegations made by
Berard.
With this object he descended into the street, and with hastening steps
pursued his way to Chelsea.
The artist was sitting alone before the studio fire, lazily smoking, and
reading a novel, when Mrs. O'Shea opened the door for Hugh to enter.
Unaware of the presence of a visitor, he did not glance up from his book
for a few seconds, but when his eyes suddenly fell upon the gaunt,
ragged figure before him, he was speechless with amazement.
"Good God!--Hugh!" he cried, springing to his feet, and making a
movement as if to grasp his friend's hand.
But his visitor calmly put his hand behind his back, and, in a deep,
earnest tone, he replied coldly--
"Yes, Jack. Before we shake hands, however, I have some questions to
put to you."
"Questions!" exclaimed the artist. "Why, what's the matter?" Then,
noticing the state of his clothing, he added. "You were reported dead.
Where have you been; what's the reason of your long silence?"
"I've been in prison."
"In prison!"
The other nodded an affirmative, and briefly described how he had been
arrested and transported, and the manner in which he had effected his
escape.
The artist listened in dumb amazement.
"But what was your crime?" he asked, when Hugh had concluded his
narrative. "Surely there must have been some very serious mistake."
"No, none. I have been the victim of a foul conspiracy, in which you,
my old and best friend, have assisted," he replied bitterly.
"Why, Hugh, what do you mean? Of what do you accuse me?"
"Valerie was your mistress!"
"Valerie!" he cried, starting up. "I--indeed, I--"
"It is useless to deny it," interrupted Hugh coolly. "Your villainy has
been exposed to me. Perhaps in your endeavour to prove your innocence
you will disclaim acquaintance with Victor Berard, with `La Petite
Hirondelle' or with a diamond-dealer named Nicholson, who--"
The colour left the artist's countenance at the mention of the latter
name.
"Stop!" he cried hoarsely, clutching his companion's arm, and gazing
earnestly into his eyes. "What is this you say? What do you allege?"
"That the police are still seeking for the perpetrator of the murder in
the Boulevard Haussmann!"
Egerton raised his head quickly. The keen eyes of his friend were fixed
upon him searchingly. Under that piercing gaze he tried to look as if
the words had not disturbed him.
"How have you discovered that, pray?" he asked, with a calmness that was
forced.
"Berard has confessed."
"God! Hugh! Then--_then you know my secret_!" he gasped hoarsely,
looking at his companion with wild, staring eyes.
"I do--at least, a portion of it," was the calm reply. "But you and I,
Jack, are friends, and before believing anything base of you I seek an
explanation from your own lips."
The artist paced up and down his studio with quick, short steps,
endeavouring to control his agitation. Suddenly he halted and raised
his head; his face was flushed, and the small mouth was closed firmly.
"I will trust you, Hugh. My life will depend upon your silence," he
said in a low, distinct voice.
"I shall observe your confidence; if you doubt me, do not speak."
"I do not doubt you--I only doubt myself."
And he began to pace the room again, with head bent and hands clasped
behind him.
Hugh waited.
"I know you will loathe me--that you will never again clasp my hand in
friendship," said Egerton, as he walked up and down, with an agitation
in his manner which increased as he went on. "You may tell me so, too,
if you like, for I hate myself. There were no extenuating circumstances
in the crime which I committed--none--"
"Hush!" cried Trethowen. "Don't speak so loud. We may be overheard."