A MEMORY OF THE PAST.
I.
"The present becomes the future.
Yes! but the present does not again become the past;
Time goes forward forever--we cannot return on his footsteps,
For the laws of the universe are unalterable, unchangeable and
fixed.
II.
"Yet when I see you before me,
I am inclined to doubt all that has existed since the shaping of
the earth from chaos.
For you appear as you did in those far-distant days,
When love and sin made up the sum of our lives.
III.
"Phantom!
Vanish again into the darkness from whence my memory hath
called thee!
As a God I have re-created thee--as a God I condemn thee to
disappear.
I live the present, the future--but the past I will not renew.
Lest such phantoms as you should turn the past into the present."
In a private sitting-room of the Langham Hotel sat Mr. Silas P. Oates,
of New York City, millionaire, who had come to England with his wife
and daughter to spend his money, secure a titled husband for his only
child, and look round generally.
He had made his money in a somewhat unexpected way by sundry dealings
in stocks and shares, besides which he had bought a clever invention
cheaply of the inventor--a poor man--and by dint of dexterous
advertising and persistent pushing had boomed it into a big success. A
far-seeing man was Mr. Oates, none too scrupulous, who regarded his
fellow-men as so many sheep to be shorn of their rich fleece; but he
always kept to the letter if not the spirit of the law, and therefore
regarded himself as a keen business man, who had made his enormous
fortune honestly. All his little knavish tricks, his taking advantage
of his fellow-creatures when they were in difficulties, and his
unscrupulous, unblushing lying, he designated under the collective
name of business; and however scandalous his dealings might appear to
God, they certainly appeared legitimate to his brother business men,
who mostly acted the same way.
Therefore Silas was called "a sharp business man." All his twistings
and turnings and chicanery and sailing close to the wind went to pile
up the dollars; and however he might have ruined less clever men than
himself, however he imposed, gulled, and swindled the public, he was
generally admitted in the Land of Freedom to be a 'cute man, who was a
worthy representative of the great god Mammon. Charity, according to
the Bible, covers a multitude of sins, but money occupies a much
higher place nowadays in the covering process, and all the doubtful
ways by which he had acquired his fortune disappeared in the eyes of
the condoning world under the golden cover of the fortune itself.
This worthy product of the nineteenth century was a short, thin,
active little man, with a parchment-coloured skin, dark hair,
moustache, beard, eyebrows, and eyes, and a quick, delicate
restlessness about him, like a bright-eyed bird. He was dressed neatly
in a quiet gray suit, wore no jewellery, not even a watch-chain, and
was always on the alert to see something to his advantage. Outwardly,
he was a quiet, respectable, decent little fellow, who, as the saying
goes, would not harm a fly; inwardly, he was an astute blackguard, who
called his evil doing "business," who always kept well within the law,
and had dethroned the Deity in favour of himself. His past was bad and
tricky, so much so that it would hardly bear looking into by a man
with a conscience; but even though Mr. Oates had no conscience, he did
not indulge much in retrospection: not that he dreaded remorse, but
simply looked upon such dreaming as a waste of time.
At present he was perfectly happy. He had made a lot of money, he had
a pretty wife for whom he cared nothing, a charming daughter for whom
he cared a great deal, and was now going to show the Old World what
the New World could do in the way of making a splash. It was a very
enviable frame of mind to be in, and one quite beyond the reach of an
honest man, who would have been disturbed at the memory of how he had
made his money. But Silas only thought how pleasant it was he had made
so much money, for the making of which he had to thank no one--not
even God, who, in His inexplicable mercy permitted this gilded worm to
reap the golden reward of a life of legitimate legalised rascality.
Mr. Oates, therefore, was happy, and thought no one could upset that
happiness in any way; but he found out his mistake when the waiter
brought in a card inscribed, "Mrs. Belswin."
"Well, sir," drawled Silas, looking doubtfully at the card, "this lady
wants to look me up?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Belswin!" soliloquised the American in deep thought. "I can't
fix her nohow. Ask the lady to step this way."
"Yes, sir."
The alert, active waiter disappeared, and Mr. Oates pondered. He did
not know the name; he had only arrived in England the previous day,
and was unacquainted with any one. What then did this strange lady
want with him? Luckily, Mrs. Hatty K. Oates had gone out shopping with
her daughter, else the situation might have been awkward for Silas,
whose domestic hearthstone was not quite free from connubial rows
caused by jealousy. His wife, however, was away, and would not be home
for the next few hours, so Mr. Oates, feeling rather curious as to the
business of his fair visitor, was by no means sorry that he had a
chance of passing his afternoon in feminine society.
His visitor entered the room heralded by the waiter; then the latter
retired, closing the door carefully after him, leaving the pair alone.
The lady was dressed in black, and wore a heavy crape veil, which
suggested mourning to the astute Silas; and after he had gathered as
much as he was able from a keen glance at this draped veiled figure,
he politely placed a chair for her.
"You wish to see me, madam?" he asked, resuming his own seat.
"I do, for a few minutes. I am an old friend of yours."
Mrs. Belswin's voice was muffled by the veil, and moreover Silas had
not heard it for nearly twenty years, so he did not recognise his
visitor in the least, and was considerably puzzled by the concluding
part of her speech.
"An old friend!" he said doubtfully, smoothing his chin. "From the
States?"
"Yes; down 'Frisco way."
"Oh!"
Mr. Oates started. He had many acquaintances down 'Frisco way, but
they could hardly be called friends, as they very much disapproved of
his method of doing business.
"I've got an eye for faces," said Silas, in a jaunty manner, "so if
you put up that veil I've no doubt I can fix you."
"I'm afraid I shall startle you."
"I'm not easily startled, madam. My nerves are in good working order."
"Are they? Then I'll put them to the test."
Mrs. Belswin suddenly threw back her veil and bent forward so that her
face was in the strong light, whereupon Silas gave a whoop like a wild
Indian, bounded from his chair and gasped.
"I'm afraid you over-estimate the working order of your nerves,
Silas," said Mrs. Belswin, scoffingly; and then leaning back in her
chair, waited for Mr. Oates to make the next move in the game.
"Great Scott! It's Mrs. Pethram. I thought you were dead!"
"And wished it too, I've no doubt," said Mrs. Belswin, bitterly.
"Well, are you not glad to see me?"
"No!" replied Silas, truthfully; "I'm uncommon sorry."
"Ah! you've learned to speak the truth since I saw you last," observed
the lady, raising her eyebrows, "otherwise you're not much changed.
The same ugly little monkey with whom I ran away from New Zealand.
I've often wondered why I did run away with you," pursued Mrs. Belswin
with charming candour, "and now I see you again I wonder more than
ever."
Silas grinned in an uneasy manner. He would have preferred her to be
less cool, to pay more deference to his position, but she seemed as
candid as ever, and he almost expected to have something damaging
flung at his head, as had been her custom in the old days. It was a
very disagreeable position, so Silas rose to the occasion, and
immediately set to work to emulate her coolness, and find out how he
could circumvent this unwelcome visitor from the past.
"I see you're still in the vinegar line," he said easily, resuming his
seat. "I guess you did turn me over for a bit. It takes a pretty stiff
dose to do that, but this time you've raised Cain proper."
They were delightfully amiable to one another, the more so as a
feeling of distrust pervaded the whole conversation; but as Mrs.
Belswin wanted to waste no time, in case the wife of her former lover
should turn up, she opened fire at once--
"I dare say you're surprised to see me."
"It's no good beating round the bush. I'm surprised and sorry."
"You'll be sorrier before I've done with you."
"Hello! What are y' going to show your teeth about?"
"Nothing, if you'll do what I ask."
"See here, Mrs. Pethram," said Silas, leaning forward with his shrewd,
sharp, foxy face, "it's no good your tryin' to play low on me. I've
cut my eye teeth, I can tell you. You think you've got the whip hand
of me. That's as I take it. Well, you can drop that dodge. I ran off
with you to 'Frisco 'cause I was a born fool. I did love you, only you
were more like a redskin than a civilised woman. We agreed to part
company twenty years ago, and I've kept my part of the contract. I've
gone right along in the money line, and this time I've come home on
the winner. I'm married and straight now, and I don't want no one to
put things wrong between my wife and me. As you're an old friend I'll
act square by you if it's money, but if it's blackmail your looking
after, it's no go, and you'd better believe it."
Mrs. Belswin was in all things a headstrong, impulsive woman, without
any craft or power to disguise her feelings. She had come to Oates
with the fullest intention of threatening to tell his wife their
former relations if he refused to give her money; but here was her
adversary calmly placing the whole of her nefarious scheme before her,
and she felt completely nonplussed. Oates, on the other hand, was so
accustomed to trickery that Mrs. Belswin was a mere child in his
hands, and the course he was now adopting was certainly the only means
by which he could hope to checkmate her.
"Well, madam!" said Silas, triumphantly, seeing his plain speaking
had taken Mrs. Belswin aback, "what do you say?"
Mrs. Belswin acted like a fool, lost her temper and stormed.
"You despicable little wretch," she said, starting to her feet, with
her eyes blazing with anger, "how dare you speak to me like this? Was
it not for your sake that I lost my husband, my good name, my position
in the world? And yet you dare to taunt me with it. You are now rich,
married, and respectable. I, on the other hand, am poor--yes, poor,
otherwise my life for these last twenty years has been above reproach.
Oh, you may laugh! You judge me by yourself, but I tell you since I
left you I have led a decent life. The reason I refuse to tell you.
Now hear what I have to say. I would not have come to you unless it
was a case of dire necessity, I hate you too much to have ever desired
to set eyes on you again, but I was compelled to come, because I want
money. Give me a cheque for £500 and I won't trouble you again.
Refuse, and I'll tell your wife all."
"Will you, indeed?" sneered Silas, mockingly. "Don't try the
black-mailing game, for you won't bounce a cent out of me. That's so,
Mrs. Pethram. My wife knows all about you. I told her all when I was
married."
"That's a lie," said Mrs. Belswin, fiercely. "I don't believe it."
"I reckon it's true, though."
"I won't take your word for it, so I'll ask your wife."
"She'll be here at three-forty. You can wait."
It was all bravado on the part of Oates, as he was in deadly fear lest
his wife should come in and learn all. True this discreditable
connection had taken place before his marriage: but Mrs. Oates would
not take that fact into consideration, and would make things very
unpleasant for him. With all his cleverness and craft, Silas was a
coward at heart; so as Mrs. Belswin sat there, evidently determined to
await the arrival of his wife, he skirmished round, in order to find
out some weak spot in her armour by which he could beat her. Had he
betrayed fear, Mrs. Belswin would have at once perceived that she had
the advantage; but he did nothing but sit smiling before her, and all
she could do in her mad rage was to tell all to Mrs. Oates, thereby
cutting her own throat, and benefiting nothing by revelation.
"Say," queried Mr. Oates, airily, "why don't you look up Pethram?"
"He is dead.'
"Is that so?" said Oates, somewhat startled. "Died in New Zealand, I
guess?"
"No, he didn't. He died in England."
"What did you kill him for?"
It was simply an idle, malicious question, as Silas never for a moment
dreamed that the husband and wife had met, or that there had been
anything strange about the husband's death. Foolish Mrs. Belswin,
never thinking, flashed out at once, on the impulse of the moment,
quite forgetting that she was putting a sword into her enemy's hand.
"I didn't kill him. How dare you say so? No one knows who murdered
him."
Silas jumped up from his seat with an exclamation of surprise, as his
apparently idle question had evidently drawn forth something
important.
"Oh, he was murdered, then?"
"Didn't you know," said Mrs. Belswin, haughtily, "when you spoke to me
like that?"
"I know nothing," returned Silas, coolly. "I only spoke because I know
if you had met Pethram in one of your fiendish tempers you would have
put a knife in him."
Mrs. Belswin saw that she had raised a suspicion in the mind of Silas,
so was now careful as to what she said.
"You're talking at random. Pethram is dead, and some one shot him; I
don't know who. You can see all about it in the papers."
Silas made no answer, as he was thinking. Owing to Mrs. Belswin's
unsuspicious nature he had learned a very important fact, which might
possibly lead to his circumventing her demands for money. So he made
up his mind at once how to act, and acted.
"See here," he said, good-humouredly, pulling out his cheque-book;
"I'll do what I can for you. Tell my wife or not, if you like; but
now, if five hundred dollars are of any use, I'll give you that lot
straight off."
"Five hundred dollars," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly--"one hundred
pounds. Well, that will do in the meantime; but I'm to have the rest
next week, or I'll make things hot for you, Silas."
The American had his own opinion on the subject, but, with his
habitual craft, said nothing. Filling up the cheque, he gave it to
Mrs. Belswin, who took it without a word of thanks, and put it in her
purse.
"I've made it payable to Mrs. Belswin," said Oates. "That's your last
name, I guess?"
"It has been my name ever since I left you in 'Frisco," retorted Mrs.
Belswin, fiercely. "You need not insinuate that I have been leading a
bad life. I've no doubt my past would bear more looking into than
yours."
"You've the same old style, I see," said Silas, insolently, "all
gunpowder and dynamite. Well, I guess that now you've got what you
came for you'll get."
"As you elegantly phrase it, I'll get," rejoined the lady, letting
down her veil. "But let me hear from you next week about the rest of
the money, or I'll come and interview your wife."
"Oh, I'll write you straight," answered Silas, with a peculiar smile,
as he accompanied her to the door. "Good-bye, Mrs. Pethram--beg
pardon, Mrs. Belswin."
"Neither correct, sir," said his visitor, jeeringly. "My Lady
Pethram."
Silas closed the door after her, with a smile which faded from his
face when he found himself alone.
"Lady Pethram!" he echoed thoughtfully "I reckon then that Pethram got
his handle. Well, now I'd better look after that murder case, and then
I'll fix that she-devil right along the line."
Having thus made up his mind, he sent for a file of the _Daily
Telegraph_ of the previous month, and went steadily to work to read up
the Thornstream case, which he had no difficulty in finding. He also
discovered the address of a private inquiry office, and at once wrote
a letter instructing them to send him a detective. This business being
concluded, he lighted a cigar, rubbed his dry, lean hands together and
chuckled.
"Two can always play at a game, my lady," he muttered; "but this time
I guess you'll stand out."