A Vision of the Night
The news that Halley and Ena were engaged was the last straw to
Fletcher. One thing was now firm in his mind, to find out the truth of
the whole matter, and not to fail in this at any rate, for failure was
intolerable after all the indignities he had suffered.
In spite of his common-sense mind, he began to have a feeling that
something not altogether natural had played a hand in the affair.
There was the mysterious “Other Man” who obtruded himself at every
turn, elusive and vague, but always felt.
The man who had talked with Reckavile, and whose voice Brown had sworn
was Halley’s. The man who had been in the library with one who, he was
morally certain, was Southgate. The one who had appeared to him in the
library under such strange circumstances, and the man with a bleeding
wound who had been bandaged up by Sefton.
At every turn he was met by this mysterious individual. Was there
anything in this Curse theory after all? Surely we had outgrown these
ideas!
There was only one thing to do; for some unexplained reason attempts
had been made to get into the library after the murder. What was the
object? And had that object been accomplished?
The queer old man, the memory of whom sent a cold shudder down his
back, had done nothing, and the supposed burglars had been disturbed,
but had they tried to come again?
Here was evidently the key to the mystery.
Fletcher made up his mind that he would spend his nights in the room,
and stake all on this chance.
For nights he watched, a tortured man. He sat in the dark, and tried
to reconstruct the scene. Here was Lord Reckavile talking to—someone.
Then there was a sudden attack—but by whom? Reckavile or the other. By
the evidence Reckavile was the aggressor, but nothing could alter the
fact that a knife was sticking in his ribs.
His mind turned in a curious way to the round leather object found on
the dead man. What was it, and had it any bearing on the crime?
There were signs of the coming dawn, and a very dim light was
filtering into the room, for the blinds were not drawn, when very
faintly a slight jarring noise came to his ears; someone was
approaching through the Hall. He silently slid behind the sofa, and
lay there clutching the powerful electric torch which he had brought
with him. The sounds grew louder and there was a creak of a board,
then he heard a whisper which told him that more than one person was
approaching. His senses were strained to catch the slightest
indication as to who the visitors might be. He was convinced now that
they were standing close to him. He could hear rapid breathing, but no
other sound broke the silence. Now was the time for action. This time
he had come armed, and holding his revolver in the right hand, he rose
to his feet and switched on the torch.
Utter amazement kept him spellbound. Close to the old desk, and
bending over it were two men, who rose and faced him at the sudden
flood of light. The one was his mysterious visitor, the old man who
had appeared before, but strange as this was, the sight of the other
is what filled him with astonishment, for this was no other than
Sinclair, his own Chief at Scotland Yard.
“Who is that?” asked Sinclair shading his eyes from the glare of the
torch.
Fletcher advanced. “I am Fletcher, sir. But what on earth are you
doing here?”
With all his sense of respect, there was a note of suspicion in his
voice, at which Sinclair laughed heartily.
“Oh! we are not committing a burglary,” he said “but as things were
hanging fire, I thought I had better come down and have a look at
matters for myself.”
“And may I ask,” said Fletcher rather annoyed that his Chief had come
without informing him, “who is that with you?”
The old detective seemed to hesitate for a moment.
“Giles I be,” said the old man, with a senile chuckle, and Fletcher
recalled that he had used exactly the same words on the former
occasion. Was the place really haunted, and were these two figments of
his own brain?
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming down, sir?” he said to
Sinclair.
“To tell you the truth, I did not know myself until this afternoon,
but something has happened which led me to intervene in the case. I
was pretty certain of the true solution from the very first.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand even now. You say you are not
committing a burglary, sir,” said Fletcher, and stopped.
The old man drew himself up with some dignity, and said in a very
different voice.
“As the castle belongs to me I do not think we need discuss that; if
anyone is unlawfully intruding, it is you.”
He turned on an electric lamp, though the dawn shed a ghostly light
into the room.
Sinclair broke the silence.
“I think we had better have a round-table conference. We wanted to
make the final discovery first, but as things have gone so far, we had
better have all the cards on the table.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Fletcher “if you know everything, who
was the murderer, and who is this—gentleman?”
“As to the first question,” said Sinclair impatiently, “there is no
doubt about that, and as to the other, you shall know. Now go off, and
ask these people to come here at ten o’clock punctually. Remember, you
have not done too well in this case, so I rely on you to carry out
these instructions. You will ’phone for Sergeant Andrews and Brown.
Use my name. Then you must get Southgate and Giles, and Mr. Sefton and
his sister.” He looked at the old man, who nodded.
“Giles must come and tidy the place a bit and arrange a conference
room. Everything hangs on that. Don’t forget. At ten o’clock.”
Fletcher went out like a man in a dream: What on earth was the meaning
of it all? Even now he was as much in the dark as ever. Why this
conference and who among those invited was the murderer? Also why had
the very man of all others whom he suspected still, Halley, been
omitted. Or, stay, was it because Sinclair had already got Halley? The
thought thrilled him.
At any rate he had a job of work to do.
Thanks to old Giles’ efforts the library was transformed when the
strange party began to arrive, and it looked more like a Board Room,
with a large table and chairs set round it.
The police representatives were the first to arrive, as nonplussed as
Fletcher, and feeling rather aggrieved that such a man as Sinclair
should have acted without telling them anything.
This drew them together, and Fletcher, Andrews and Brown seated
themselves at one end of the table, and waited. Jack Sefton and his
sister came next, the latter nervous and rather pale. She gave a
formal bow to the other men and with her brother took the opposite end
of the long table.
The genial Southgate, who had obviously prepared himself for the
meeting with refreshment from his cellar, entered and greeted the
others with a cheery good morning. He looked at Fletcher, and laughed.
“Young man,” he said “you’ll ’ave a ’igh old time in a moment,” and he
slapped his leg.
Giles had been hovering about, making things comfortable, and was
quite the old butler again, but all waited for the principal figure.
It seemed as though the whole thing had been staged for effect.
The door opened and Sinclair entered accompanied by the old man whom
Fletcher had seen, and they took their seats in astonished silence.
There was one vacant chair, which Fletcher supposed was reserved for
Halley.
“He’s late,” said Sinclair looking at his watch.
“I think I hear someone, sir,” said Giles, going to the door.
“Mr. Cook,” Giles announced, and the house agent came in and smiled
nervously at the company.
“Take a seat, Mr. Cook,” said Sinclair. “Now I think we are all here.
We are going to piece together this mystery.”
The others looked at the house agent in astonishment. What was he
doing in this gathering? Their speculations were interrupted by
Sinclair who spoke slowly and with a solemn tone in his voice.
“This has been a problem of some difficulty and I am not going to
disguise the fact that at one time it nearly baffled the authorities.
Now it is quite clear.”
“It may be to you, sir,” said Fletcher “but to me it is as dark as
ever.”
A flicker of a smile came to Sinclair’s grim face.
“Perhaps you would like to ask a question or two?” he asked.
“Who was talking with Lord Reckavile in this room when the murder took
place?” said Fletcher.
“No one, at least no living thing.”
“How did the other man escape from the room?”
“He did not escape, there was no other man.”
“Had the Reckavile Curse anything to do with the crime?”
“Yes, everything.”
“Did it kill him?”
“Yes,” said Sinclair solemnly.
“This is absurd,” said Fletcher impatiently, “I don’t believe in
bogies.”
“Go on,” said Sinclair imperturbably.
“I suppose you will say Lord Reckavile committed suicide?”
“In one sense, yes.”
“Then he was not murdered?”
“Oh yes he was, and . . .” Sinclair leaned forward in his chair and
said slowly: “The murderer is in the room at the present moment.”
There was utter silence, except for the breathing of those present.
The room seemed to grow dark, and the air became oppressive. Those
round the table looked at each other with horror and suspicion in
their eyes, and a vague shadowy something seemed to be gathering in
the room.
Ena shuddered. Where was her lover? Why was he not there of all
people, when he had actually been accused of the crime?
Was there something in the Curse after all, and some unseen visitant
hovering about them?
She could bear it no longer, and in a strained voice asked:
“Where is Mr. Halley, Mr. Sinclair, and why is he not here?”
“Mr. Halley does not exist,” then hastily as he saw the girl’s face.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Sefton, he never did exist.”
Doubts as to Sinclair’s sanity began to fill the minds of the others.
“But why all this mystery, sir? If you know all about it, why not tell
us?” asked Fletcher.
“I did not say I knew _all_ about it. Well as no one seems disposed to
speak, we had better get on with the story, eh Lord Reckavile?” He
turned to the old man beside him.
An exclamation of astonishment, mixed with superstitious terror came
to those present. Giles reeled and turned ashen, while the breath
soughed between his teeth, and his eyes bulged from his head. He was
standing behind the old man. Sinclair saw him.
“Oh, I am sorry Giles, you should not have been standing, come and sit
down, no I insist, it was too bad keeping you standing all this time,”
and he conducted the old servant to a chair. “Are you feeling better
now?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” he answered faintly.
The strange old man addressed as Lord Reckavile deliberately took hold
of his hair and beard and removed them disclosing the face of Halley,
looking grotesque enough with patches of grease paint where the hair
had not covered his face, and white eyebrows which he pulled off with
difficulty.
“Well I’m damned,” said Fletcher and hastily apologised to Ena.
“I give it up,” said Sefton.
Ena’s eyes were fixed on Halley. An awful suspicion was gathering in
her mind that he too was a detective in disguise and had been acting a
part, perhaps with her, but she dismissed it as unworthy.
Sinclair was speaking. “I had hoped for a final link in the chain, but
since we have not got it I am going to ask Lord Reckavile to tell us
his story. It is a long one, but you will find it interesting I
think.”
“Lord Reckavile. . . ?” began Fletcher.
“Wait,” said Sinclair “you shall know the truth now.”
Book II
The Reckaviles
Chapter I
The Convent School
A great Cathedral Church rises high over the river, a beautiful
landmark for miles round. It is not an old Gothic church, for these
passed into the hands of the Anglicans at the Reformation, but is a
model of modern Gothic, stately and tall, with stained glass windows
between the slender buttresses.
Below nestles the little town, terraced on the slope above the
marshland where a sluggish river winds to the sea.
Here in this quiet world a convent school was bedded in the woods,
where the patient nuns devoted their lives to the education of
all—whether of their own religion or not—who came under their charge.
On a summer day nearly half a century ago, there came to the convent
school an Italian lady, with a young girl, fresh as a rose bud, half
formed, but giving promise of rare beauty.
The mother was past her first youth, and like so many southerners was
showing signs of fading charms, but still dangerously beautiful.
The child, who spoke no English, gazed shyly round, as they were
admitted through the gates to the lovely garden within, and into a
cool large room, there to await the Mother Superior.
The woman was dressed in excellent taste, the only jarring note being
the quantity of jewelry she wore, which betrayed a certain vulgarity
in her otherwise faultless appearance.
The Mother Superior entered with a calm and sweet face as of one whose
life was one long sacrifice.
“I wish to leave my little daughter Carlotta with you,” said the
Italian. “She is fourteen years old, and has been educated in Verona,
but circumstances have arisen which render it necessary for me to part
with her—for a time at any rate.”
The Mother Superior bowed and waited. Although shut up in seclusion
she knew the world, and was a shrewd judge of its people.
“Her father is dead,” said the other, in a careless voice and crossed
herself. “And I am about to marry a very dear friend, Count —, but
perhaps I had better leave the name unsaid.
“He has known me for many years, and at last I have agreed to yield to
his appeal.” She shook out a fold of her cloak, and looked at the
other.
A grim look came to the eyes of the Mother Superior, seldom seen
there, as she said. “And so the little one is to be left in our care?
And is she to remain in our charge during the holidays? It is far to
go to Italy.”
“Yes, it would be better. You see Marco does not care for her to be at
home, when we are first married, and I—well, it reminds me of
advancing years,” and she gave a hard laugh.
“I understand,” said the Mother Superior, then “poor child. She has
been confirmed?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I have the certificate here,” and she opened her bag.
“And her birth certificate? That may be necessary for examinations.”
“No, I am afraid I have not got that. I lost it—I did not think it
would be necessary.” She hesitated.
“I think I understand,” said the other looking straight at her.
“Our fold is open to all, especially to those children—without birth
certificates.”
“The fees shall be paid regularly,” the Italian went on hastily.
“Marco is very rich, and will grudge nothing, you need have no
anxiety.”
The conversation had gone on in English of which Carlotta understood
no word, but looked questioningly at each in turn, clinging shyly to
her mother.
When the time for parting came, she cried bitterly, silently.
Her mother gave her a formal kiss, and told her to behave well in her
new school. She would write to her, she said, and perhaps come and see
her next year. Meanwhile the Sisters would look after her.
And so she took her departure, impatient to be gone, and would not
even stay for food which was offered her.
“Poor lamb,” said the Mother Superior, and brought her to the Sisters.
She handed her over to Sister Ursula, who was versed in these cases,
who soon had Carlotta smiling, and in a few days her troubles were
almost forgotten. Life was fair, and the English June beautiful as a
picture. Roses were out in the gardens, the trees were in fresh green,
and the flowers along the old wall were such as she had never seen.
The Sisters were particularly kind to Carlotta; she was so fragile,
with an exotic prettiness, given to sudden crying at times. And there
was a wistful look in her eyes, as though gazing out over the sea to
her southern home. She had beautiful dark eyes, with long lashes, was
grave and composed at her lessons, and attentive in the dim chapel,
where she would kneel with a devotion beyond her years, at the
wonderful services, her eyes fixed as though in ecstasy.
But she was happiest in the Chapel of Our Lady, where she would adore
with clasped hands. The Mother Superior was disturbed, she did not
like to see too much fervour in one so young. She knew the reactions
which so often come later.
“It is all so beautiful,” Carlotta said to Sister Ursula. “When I grow
up I shall be a sister. Do you think they will let me or am I too
wicked?”
The Sister smiled and stroked her black hair. “My dear, we must do as
Our Blessed Lady directs,” she said, “we can seldom choose for
ourselves. To some is given the quiet and holiness of a religious
life, but others are called to go out into the world, and to face the
evil there—perhaps to marry.”
A far away look came into her eyes, and a sigh escaped her.
Carlotta did not see it; she rose and stamped her little foot. “I
shall never marry,” she cried with passion “Never! Never!”
“Hush, my child, you must not speak like that,” but she folded her in
her arms.
Of her mother Carlotta never spoke, and the promised letters never
came. The fees were paid regularly for a year, but there was no
mention of a visit from her mother, and then came silence, and when a
letter was sent to her address, it was returned, undelivered. The
Mother Superior sent for Ursula, and showed it to her without comment.
“But you will not send her away?” she cried in alarm.
The other was grave, but she smiled as she said. “I expected this, the
so-called Count has got tired of her. We shall hear no more of them,
but this sweet child, no, she shall remain with us. She must not be
told. Mother Church does not cast out her children.”
And so another year passed, and the promise of the bud was revealed in
the flower. Carlotta ripened early as southerners do, and at sixteen
would have lured St. Anthony from his devotions. Black curls fell
round her sweet face, and the great, dark, innocent eyes, wondrous as
the mirror of the sea, in their changeful emotions, looked out on the
world fearless yet timid, dreaming of what lay in the glory of the
future.
Her figure was straight and supple, like one of the flowers in the
garden she loved so passionately.
Ursula was anxious. The child had fits of silence, when she would get
away from the others, and sit motionless in the garden.
With the other girls she was a favourite, for though she did not excel
either at work or games, she was always kind and gentle, and took keen
delight in the success of others.
The early summer had come which was Carlotta’s happiest time, for she
pined in the winter.
The girls were allowed in the woods with the Sisters, and Carlotta
loved the green and fragrant hollows where the bluebells made a
carpet, and the birds sang for joy.
One day she had wandered off by herself, for she was allowed a certain
freedom, on account of her queer moods, and the others were not far
off.
She was aroused from her dreaming by the sound of a voice.
“What a face to paint! Ye gods! I’ve never seen so perfect a picture.”
She looked up in alarm and saw a young man standing before her. In her
secluded life she had spoken to no men save the old priest who heard
her blameless confessions. This one was tall and clean, and the face
was moulded like one of the old Greek gods.
Had she known more of the world she would have seen a restless hungry
look in the eyes, but at present they were filled with the light of
admiration.
“Who are you, little goddess?” he asked in a musical voice. “And what
do you among these woods? Perchance you are an Oread strayed from your
home.”
Carlotta was unafraid, and replied innocently.
“I am at the convent school, The Convent of the Sacred Heart, and the
others are near here, but I came to hear the birds, they sing so
sweetly.”
“And what do they tell you, little Daphne?”
“They sing of something I cannot understand,” she said with a smile,
“but it is very beautiful.”
The man laughed outright. “What a quaint little girl you are. Shall I
tell you what they sing about? It is Love. They are telling each other
how much they love, and that all should love on such days as this.” He
stretched his hands out to the sky.
Carlotta suddenly remembered herself.
“I must not talk to you,” she said “it is forbidden. I must go and
find the others. Sister Ursula would be very angry if she knew I had
been talking to a man.”
The man smiled. “And is a man so very dreadful?” he asked.
“I suppose you are taught that they are terrible creatures, ogres who
are waiting to eat little girls.”
“I don’t know,” she said “I have never spoken to one before,” and she
opened wide her great eyes.
“I must not keep you,” said the man. “I am a painter, I won’t say
artist, and when I saw you, I thought what a beautiful picture I could
make of you, for a Madonna.”
“Oh, hush!” said Carlotta shocked. “I, as a picture of Our Blessed
Lady, I must not listen,” and she rose in haste.
“What a funny little girl you are,” he said, laying a hand on her arm.
“We always have to use models; all artists have, even for the Christ
or the Blessed Virgin; there is nothing wicked in that.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“Well if you must go, tell me when I can see you again,” he said.
“You’ve haven’t told me your name yet?”
“My name is Carlotta, but they call me Carlot,” she said.
“Carlot! That’s the name of my dog,” and he laughed boisterously.
Carlotta was hurt. “That is not kind of you,” she said and turned to
go.
“One moment. I am sorry, but so sweet a face deserves a better name. I
shall call you Daphne. When can we meet?”
For the first time she was alarmed. Sitting on the ground was one
thing, but standing beside him and seeing how tall and strong he was,
she felt a vague fear.
“Carlot . . . Carlot . . . where are you?” came a call.
A sudden realisation of her wickedness in talking to a man came to
her, and she turned and fled away.
He did not try to detain her.
“What a sweet face. What lovely eyes,” he said, and the sight of her
little breast rising and falling with emotion as she spoke, appealed
to more than the artist in him.
“Now which is it?” he said aloud. “You blackguard, is this going to be
a dream to think of and something on the credit side, or a mere
seduction? You devil, I never know which way the balance will turn.”
He went slowly into the town, the vision with him all the way.
“Mr. Desmond, there is a Mrs. Wheatland to see you,” said the head
waiter deferentially.
“Oh! Damn!” said he, “that spoils the vision beautiful. All right,
show her to my sitting room.”
A young woman was ushered in, with a fascinating rather than pretty
face, one who, a keen judge would have said, would not stand the wear
and tear of life for long. The hands and feet were large, and though
at present she was in the glory of early womanhood, there were
unmistakable signs of latent vulgarity.
She came forward at once, and flung her arms round the man’s neck, and
almost smothered him.
“Oh, Hugh! I have found you at last. Where have you been all this
time? I have been longing for you. And my husband is getting worse
than ever. I could just bear with him until I met you, but since then
everything has been so different, and he is so common, so plebeian.
But what is the matter, dear? You don’t seem glad to see me?”
“Of course I am, Winnie, but you have taken me by surprise,” he said
disengaging himself. “I am delighted to see you, but you know it is
dangerous coming here.”
“You need not be afraid,” she answered in a tone almost of contempt.
“My husband is in Germany buying goods, or something of that sort—I
don’t understand trade—and he will be away a fortnight.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, let’s have something to eat.”
“What’s the matter with you, you don’t seem a bit pleased to see me?”
she said petulantly. Desmond roused himself; the vision was still with
him, but here was something more tangible.
“I am sorry, dear, I have been having a long walk in the woods, and I
got tired. When we have had a decent dinner and a bottle of the best
we can talk over things.”
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then said:
“Perhaps you would rather I went?”
He laughed. “Of course not. It is delightful seeing you. Come on, go
and get dressed, I suppose you have brought your things?”
“I left my bag at the station, as I was not certain you were here.
Shall I send for it?”
For the moment he hesitated. “Yes, of course. I will tell the waiter.
But you gave your name as Mrs. Wheatland?”
“Never mind.”
Desmond rang the bell.
“Have Mrs. Wheatland’s bag fetched. Here is the ticket, and reserve a
room for her,” he said in a tone used to command.
When he saw her enter the dining room he was thrilled.
She was certainly a very beautiful woman, he thought, and after all
one must have some fun out of life.
Her evening gown was not lacking in scantiness, and displayed as much
of her body as could reasonably be expected in those austere times.
Soon they were deep in the enjoyment of the other’s company, and
oblivious of the other guests.
They had much to talk over, for a jealous husband had kept them apart
in a most unfeeling fashion. Perhaps that was what had whetted
appetite. Two bottles of champagne—for she was fond of a glass of good
wine helped to cheer the evening.
By the time bedtime came, he took both her hands in his, and
whispered. “And what did you say was the number of your room?”
“I did not say any number, you silly boy,” she answered, showing her
fine teeth, “but as a matter of fact it is No. 13.”
“An easy one to remember,” he said lightly, “Good-night,” and he
turned to the smoking room for a night-cap.
Chapter II
Flight
Hugh Desmond was more of a hunter than a libertine. What he desired,
he pursued, but after the capture he was sated, and would turn to a
fresh venture. If he could stop short before the “kill” he would have
been content. A devil drove him on to the very edge, and then some
instinct less ignoble urged him to restraint.
For, though he went as Hugh Desmond, which was his family name, he was
in reality the seventh Lord Reckavile, with a reputation so sinister
that every decent woman shrunk from him till she knew him, and then
fell in love with him.
A soldier of fortune, who had not the patience to remain in the Army,
he had sought death deliberately instead of glory, in each of the
foreign campaigns in which he had fought, always driven from country
to country by the Curse, and too poor to take a position in which he
might have earned distinction. He was hounded by a desire which knew
no satisfaction, and a pride which claimed a high regard for honour.
Such had been the contradiction and the Curse of his race. It was with
a sigh of relief that he stood on the platform and saw the train
bearing Winnie back to London, and to her husband, slowly steam away.
She had been lacrimose and vowed that she would never have a day’s
happiness till he saw her again.
He had agreed to her acclamations, but wished to be quit of her,
feeling angry with himself for a lack of ardour he could not induce.
On the way back to the hotel he made up his mind for another of those
wild expeditions abroad which had filled most of his life.
Some evil fate led him to pass the Cathedral Church, where the organ
was playing. The artist in him made him pause in rapture, and he
entered softly. The sensuous odour of incense and the gorgeous music
of the benediction service greeted him, and the dim lights, the
towering pillars, and the blaze of the high altar, appealed to his
aesthetic fancy, after the gross life of the last few days. How
happily he could have become a monk, mortifying the flesh and flogging
himself when unholy desires came to taunt him.
To devote his life to the Holy Virgin, and crush down the base part
would be a fight worthy of his pride.
The organ ceased and the dreams with it. He looked round, and in the
seats opposite to him, were the girls from the convent school, for
this was a saint’s day.
With a sudden quickening of the pulse he saw his little wood nymph,
her hands clasped and her face alight with devotion, but now a saint,
transfigured, adorable.
He watched entranced; he could have bent before her, offering fealty,
pleading only for some token so that he might remain her true knight,
serving only in her cause.
The baser part of him was gone at that moment, and then she looked
round for a brief moment, and their eyes met.
She turned quickly away, but he could see a dark flush spread over her
lovely face; she had seen him, and the sight had not affected her as
that of a mere stranger. The blood rushed to his head. He hastily
scribbled a note on a leaf from his pocket book, and wrapped it in his
hand.
The mood of piety had gone, and the hunting instinct was dominant. As
the worshippers left the building he passed to her side, and as she
turned to bow to Christ on His altar, he slipped the note into her
hand.
The awful impiety of the act almost made her drop it, but she clutched
it to her with a look of pain, and went out of the sacred building. In
the privacy of her room, she furtively opened the crumpled piece of
paper and read:
Dear little Angel. When I saw you tonight I adored you. You are far
removed from all other beings. If you wish to save a suffering
mortal, meet me in the woods where we last saw each other. Otherwise
my death may be on your hands. Fear nothing, I will guard you as my
own sister. At three tomorrow, but I will wait till you come.
Your devoted servant and knight,
Hugh Desmond.
In her maiden breast strange feelings were stirring. She knew it was
wrong, that she ought to take the note to Sister Ursula at once and
tell her the story which she had even withheld from the father at
confession, but that was not possible. He had been so kind, he had not
tried to stay her, or to say anything at which she could take offence.
And now he said his life was at stake; perhaps he had some terrible
trouble in which she could help him. If so surely she was doing right
to give him aid.
So she hid the note under her pillow and dreamt of the morrow.
Desmond waited in the woods, picturing her as she had sat there in her
girlish sweetness, when he had seen her, till the dusk of evening was
coming on and the birds had ceased to sing. He rose stiff and cramped.
Well, the gods had decided against him, so there was no use
complaining. She had probably torn up the note or perhaps even handed
it over to the Mother Superior.
Suddenly she stood before him, panting, and like a fairy in the
twilight. He had not heard her approach, and stood enraptured with the
sight.
“Oh, I know I ought not to have come,” she said “but we did not go out
this afternoon, and then I thought that you would be waiting, and
after what you said about being in trouble, I felt I must come, but I
cannot stop or they will miss me.”
“Little Daphne, you have been very kind. I have ached to see you. I
have been here all the afternoon, and would have stayed all night if
there had been a chance of meeting you.” He approached her, and she
did not shrink from him, only crossed her hands over her breast, and
stood expectant.
“What did you want to tell me?” she asked.
“Only that you are the loveliest maid in the world, and I have longed
for you since we met. You have been with me night and day. Oh Daphne,
I love you dearly, and without you I shall certainly die.”
She drew back then with a quick movement.
“But you said your death would be on my hands if I did not come?”
“If you will not love me I shall die,” he said, but the phrase sounded
hollow to him.
The setting sun was on her, and an expression of bewilderment showed
on her face. She could not understand deliberate deceit, and thought
she must have misunderstood him. They remained for a moment in
silence, and in that pause a fight was taking place in Desmond’s mind,
but the sight of her proved too much, and with one swift tiger-like
movement he took her in his arms.
Had she resisted, or struggled, his hunting instinct would have
overmastered him, but she remained, neither consenting nor resisting,
just as a child might lie in the arms of its father.
His hot breath was on her cheek, and in a whisper he said, “I love
you, little Daphne, the night is round us, come, we will love while we
may.” His lips were close to hers, but some invisible force restrained
him. What had he written; he would treat her as a sister. The word of
a Reckavile was inviolate, whether for good or evil, and slowly he
released her from his close embrace.
“I will take you back,” he whispered. “It is too late for you to be
out.”
“Thank you, I ought to go, but it is so lovely here, and you are so
good to me.”
“Come with me,” he said unable to trust himself further.
He took her to the garden wall where she had jumped down, and lifted
her young warm body like a feather.
She was again adorable, and his mood was exalted. She reached down,
and he took her hand to kiss, but she put two soft arms round his neck
and kissed him frankly as a child might kiss.
“I shall be here every night till you come again,” he said, disarmed
completely.
There was a movement above, and she was gone.
This meeting was the first of many. Desmond stayed on at the hotel,
and the foreign expedition was postponed.
Each night he would wait beneath the wall, which bordered the woods,
till all hope of seeing her had gone. Then he would go to the hotel
not angry but hoping for a happier chance on the morrow.
She would slip out when she could, fearfully at first, but as
discovery seemed remote, with growing confidence.
A change came over her. She found herself thinking more of Hugh as he
had taught her to call him, and less of her devotions. Even at mass
his image was before her, and she felt wicked, but could not alter her
feelings. Longing seized her for something she only dimly
comprehended; she became moody and irritable, and neglected her work.
Sister Ursula was distressed, she had grown to love the girl. She
misread the symptoms and thought Carlotta was pining to be free, like
a caged bird. When they met the talk was all of the strange places he
had seen, and she would listen all eyes and ears, drinking in every
word. And so Desmond stayed on, cursing himself for the vile thing he
was planning, yet persisting in his scheme. At last he came to the
same spot now sacred to both, and lifted her down. Both were
disturbed. The autumn was coming on, the time Carlotta dreaded, for
she hated the cold and damp, and the death of the flowers.
“Daphne, my darling,” he said holding her in his arms, “I have to go
away tomorrow to my own home to see to matters there. I shall be away
for a week at least. When I come back I will see you again.” He spoke
almost coldly, and she gave a little cry of pain, and realised perhaps
for the first time what his absence would mean. She held fast to him.
“Oh, must you go?” she asked with a moan.
“I must, I have been here too long as it is, but I will come back.”
“Don’t be long, I shall miss you. It is so lonely without you.”
“Would you come with me to Italy for the winter?” he whispered, “away
from all this cold and wet, into the sunlight. We can see Venice, you
have never been there, and find your mother,” he added falsely.
Her body quivered in his embrace, but she stood silent. When it came
to leaving the Convent and its quiet shelter, and the good Sisters, a
gulf seemed to open beneath her feet.
“I could not,” she said, but the vision of all the beauties he had
pictured, actually possible to her was dazzling her very soul.
“I will come for you,” he said “and you must decide for yourself. Only
if you don’t come with me, I must go away altogether.”
“Don’t,” she answered, “it would be too cruel. If you leave me I shall
die. I cannot live without you.” Her fierce passion was something he
had not seen before. He took her in his arms then, and kissed her on
the mouth, the eyes and hair, holding her close, and she returned his
kisses with utter abandon, her soft arms round his neck. He was the
first to recover, and gently disengaged himself. He was trembling; he
had never felt like this in any of his affairs.
“You must go, my darling,” he said very gently, and lifted her to the
wall, not daring to say more.
She was crying now, softly as she always did, and the tears fell on
him like rain.
“Good-bye,” he said hoarsely, and turned away through the dark woods.
“You scoundrel,” he said to himself. “Now what are you going to do?
She is not like the others, she will never forget.
“Are you going to leave her, and break her very soul. She has no
mother and no friends outside the convent. Or are you going to take
her, she is yours for the asking, and ruin her?”
There was another possibility, but he would not allow his thoughts in
that direction—marriage, but that was horrible. To settle down as a
married man; no that could never be for him.
And so he went irresolute, torn by conflicting feelings, the sweetness
of her kisses an abiding and tormenting memory.
And Carlotta, for her the old life was done. It was all biting pain
now. She had been instructed by the Sisters, and she knew right from
wrong. She had been playing with fire, and now she was burnt.
The days passed in weariness; she tried to forget in her devotions,
but the old fervour would not come. Perhaps she might have recovered
in time, might even have forgotten, but fate was playing a part.
He had been gone a week when the Mother Superior sent for Carlotta.
“Come here, my child,” she said, “I want to talk to you about your
future. We must discuss what you are to do.”
“I do not understand,” said Carlotta.
“My poor child, it is time you were told the truth,” and she recounted
the story of her mother, and of her treatment. Carlotta could have
died with shame; her sensitive soul was deeply wounded. That she had
been kept on out of charity, a foundling; it was awful.
“And so you see, my dear,” the Mother continued, “we must look out for
something for you. We have places where we train girls, and I think we
can get you into one of those.”
“And I am to leave here?” Carlotta gasped.
“I am afraid so, my dear child, the rules will not allow you to stay
after you are seventeen, and that will be in a few months.”
She went on talking quietly, but Carlotta heard nothing. It was as
though she were sinking in deep waters, and a faint sound of a voice
far away was speaking.
She did not cry, but her face was white and pinched.
“You understand?” asked the Mother and kissed her.
“Yes, Mother, I will do what you want.”
“That’s a good child, run along now. I will have another talk when I
have heard from the training college.”
For once her judgment was at fault; she thought Carlotta had taken it
very well, and would be reconciled to her new life.
No sleep came to Carlotta that night. She tossed on her bed, and a dry
fever tormented her.
“Oh, Holy Mother!” she prayed “take this shame from me, what can I
do?”
When dawn came she was calm; she had made up her mind once and for
all. She was Italian, and had not the calculating mind of the
northerner; she would go to him, yes, this very evening, and her
courage rose high at the thought.
Desmond was waiting by the wall; the Curse had driven him back. He
must see her, if only to say good-bye. How often has the Devil tried
this game with success.
She came to the wall, which on the garden side was low, and leant on
the parapet. He noticed with a start that she was holding a little
hand-bag, so small and dainty that even at the moment he wondered what
on earth she could get into it.
“I am coming with you, if you will take me,” she said quite calmly.
“My God!” he said, staggering back, “do you mean it?”
“Of course. You asked me last week, and said you would come for me.”
He was at a loss. This dainty little girl was talking like some
practiced woman of the world, or was it sheer innocence?
Then he was swept away, and all moderation left him. He gathered her
from the wall and seized her roughly in his arms.
“Daphne, my darling, come. We will fly together, over the blue seas,
and love each other dearly, and no one shall come between us. It will
be all Heaven, and you shall be my angel, my Love! My Queen!”
The hours sped by in the soft velvet night, and he took her by the
hand, and led her to the town. His senses came to him, and his quick
mind saw the danger. She would be missed, and a search made. He went
to his hotel, but not to the front door. He had brought a young fellow
from his estate to look after him, Southgate, son of a publican, who
had some training as a valet. He had taken him with him before and
knew his loyalty and discretion.
He roused him up from the servants’ quarters.
“Go to the _King’s Head_ down the street, and hire a trap. Mention no
name except a false one, and say it is an urgent case—an accident.
Here is money. You can return the trap tomorrow evening. Bring it to
the Cross by the London Road. Hurry, mind, and don’t arouse any
suspicion.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the valet, who was used to his master’s vagaries.
Desmond led Carlotta down the silent street, and waited at the Cross.
She was quiet, and filled with pure happiness and trust. She had
yielded herself to this man absolutely, and for ever. The die was
cast, and she was content.
They drove off into the night, and he held her in his arms where she
slept like a tired child.
Mile after mile was covered, and dawn was breaking when she woke to
find herself at the door of an old inn. Southgate jumped down, and
held the steaming horses, while Desmond lifted her down, and carried
her to the house. The door was opened by an old woman, who curtseyed
to Desmond.
He said something to her in a low voice, and passed on up the stairs
to a door, which the woman opened, holding a candle for them.
Very gently Desmond laid her on the bed, and kissed her.
“This good woman will see to you,” he said. “You will be quite safe
here.”
She was so weary that she could scarcely touch the hot soup which the
woman brought her, and soon was lost in happy dreams.
Chapter III
The Marriage
“When are we going to Italy?” asked Carlotta. She was sitting happily
on Hugh’s knee, and the sunlight came through the window of the old
Inn.
“I have got the tickets, and booked our passages. The boat sails on
Saturday from Dover, and we go through France by train.”
She clapped her hands with pleasure.
He looked at her with delight, what a perfect little girl she was!
“And I’ve got lots of clothes for you. You must come and see them.
Mrs. Southgate has laid them all out in your bedroom.”
“You are a dear,” she said, and kissed him.
His method had been simple. He had written to London, explaining that
he required a complete outfit, and giving a description of the lady.
It was not the first time, and the articles had arrived by return. He
had a wealth of faults, but always paid his debts; it was a
peculiarity of the family.
Carlotta was delighted; what a child she was. She had worn the school
costume, sombre and uninteresting, so long that the sight of all these
lovely things made her joyous.
Desmond sat and watched her with a glow of pleasure.
Nothing would satisfy her but to try them on, and she came to him to
do up fastenings or hooks.
It was all joy and happiness, then quite suddenly she came and put her
arms round his neck, and said:
“Where are we going to get married, here or in Italy?”
The question staggered him. There was nothing coaxing or challenging
in the voice, and the question was asked so simply, as though she was
asking where they were going to dine.
Her great dark innocent eyes looked at him, and a wave of pity, and
something as near remorse as he was capable of, touched him.
“Why, damme,” he said with a laugh, and with one of those strange
resolutions which madness dictated. “I had not thought of that, little
Daphne, so you would really like to marry me?” He watched her
narrowly. If there had been tears or reproach he would have stiffened,
but she merely said “Yes please, if you would like to,” and he was
disarmed. He gave a great laugh and held her to him.
“Caught! By Jove. Very well, sweetheart, we will get married. Why not,
after all? Married women have a pretty good time, so why not men?” She
looked at him with grave eyes.
“Fancy being your wife. It will be lovely.”
They had no time to spare, as although the Southgates were loyal and
true, the search for the girl might find them at any moment. He
obtained a special license, and they set out by road for Dover with
gaiety in their hearts, and in his case an unusual sense of virtue. If
she wondered that she had not met his family or friends, she put it
down to the fact that they must escape pursuit. He told her they would
come back when all the bother was over and he would show her London.
At a little village church, where a friend of Desmond’s was parish
priest, and keener on hunting than his work, they were made man and
wife. She was a Catholic, and did not understand the ceremony, which
was witnessed by young Southgate and the verger, but when he placed
the ring on her finger, whispering “It was my Mother’s,” she thought
it all very beautiful.
The parson entertained them to a gargantuan meal, and both the men
were soon happily and noisily drunk, but Carlotta noticed nothing.
“Reckavile, you ruffian, this is the last straw,” said the parson.
Carlotta had never heard the name before, but in after years she
remembered.
“You married! Oh Lord! I thought your line would at last end with
you—at any rate on the right side. You dog!”
Drunk as he was Reckavile turned grey. “I had sworn the Curse should
die with me. The Devil has a hand in most things. Pass the bottle.”
Southgate and the parson’s man helped him into the chaise, and the
parson kissed the bride.
“God bless you, my dear,” he said unsteadily. “Come and see me again.”
But it was not to be. A stroke took the worthy man off the next night
with consequences which none of them could have foreseen.
The weeks that followed were one dream of delight to Carlotta.
They journeyed from town to town, discovering fresh beauties
everywhere. He was charmed with his young bride, and for a moment the
horrible craving for something new was stayed.
She thought he was showing her Italy, but the restless craze drove him
on, only now he was happy at last, and satisfied with her sweetness.
At Ancona, where they stayed for several days, he got his letters.
He was utterly careless in these matters, but his butler sent him a
batch now and then.
They had been watching the Bay from the battlements, with the sun
flashing on the Adriatic waters, when he took a bulky packet from his
pocket, and opened it carelessly.
There were some bills, some letters from his Club, and statement from
his butler. Nothing to worry about. Then his eye caught a familiar
writing, and with a quick catch in his breath, and a dull presentiment
of evil he broke the seal.
It was from Winnie, as he had known by the writing, and he read it
through twice. The large scrawly handwriting was clear enough, but the
news was startling.
My Darling Hugh,
Where have you hidden yourself all this time? I have enquired
everywhere, but no one knows anything about you. I am in such
dreadful trouble, I must see you at once. It is too awful. My
husband knows all about us. When he came back from Germany the
servants told him I had been away, and he found that we had been
stopping at that hotel. He put a lawyer on the track, and discovered
everything. Oh! What are we to do! You must come and advise me, and
you will stand by me won’t you? You know how much I love you, and
you know you made me unfaithful to my husband. You will not leave me
now? He is getting a divorce and what am I to do? I am staying with
my mother, as he will not have me. Do come to me.
Your broken-hearted
Winnie
There were tear stains, and corrections, and crosses at the end. The
letter was unfair and gross, and as Hugh looked up from reading it, he
contrasted in his mind the fair young girl, now throwing little stones
over the hedge to see them drop far below, and the flamboyant beauty
of the other, to whom now he must go, for so the twisted honour of his
race would have it.
“Come, Daphne, let us go back. It is getting late,” he said, but there
was a solemn note in his voice, which made her ask. “Have you had bad
news?”
“Oh no, just the ordinary worries, but it will probably mean I shall
have to go to England. Business affairs you know, but don’t trouble,
little girl, I shall not be away from you for long.”
A shadow crossed her lovely face. It was the first separation.
“Can’t I come too? I would love to see England properly, London and
the big cities.”
“I am afraid not this time, and besides you would hate the winter. I
must get a villa for you, and you can make everything ready for me
when I come back. It will be quite exciting for you, furnishing.”
And so it was arranged. Everything had to be done in a hurry, but then
he was used to that. He bought a charming little Villa at Murano, and
obtained servants for her, while she was to stay in Venice till she
had furnished it. On the last night she was sad.
“Come back soon,” she said “I shall be so lonely without you,
and . . .” she stopped.
He was tender with her, but there was a hunted look in his eyes. He
could see only one way out of the mess, and that he could not tell
her.
She faced the parting bravely, and he was proud of her. There was no
scene such as he had been accustomed to with others; she smiled at
him, and waved as the train moved out. Only when she got home to the
hotel, she went to her room and burst into a passionate flood of
tears.
Reckavile found all London talking about the case. The worthy draper
had filed his petition, and only awaited his turn to come to the
courts. Winnie he would not see, and rumour gathered round the action
Reckavile would take. Betting was about even on his marrying the woman
or killing the draper.
Those who knew him were certain he would face the music.
He paid two visits, one to his family lawyer to enter a defence, and
one to an intimate friend, Captain Wynter. He found the latter at the
Club, and with his usual abruptness opened at once.
“You’ve heard of this silly business about the man Wheatland, eh?”
Wynter nodded.
“Well, I want you to take a challenge to him. Tell him I’ll fight him
for the lady.”
“My dear fellow,” said the other, dropping his eyeglass in his
astonishment, “are you joking? That sort of thing is quite out of
date, unfortunately, otherwise one would not have to put up with the
insults one meets with nowadays.”
“I mean it quite seriously, I am in a devil of a mess, and if he can
plug me, all the better. It will end the line, and everyone will be
satisfied.”
Wynter looked at him, and realised he was serious, and in a dangerous
mood. It would be best to pacify him, and rather a joke to frighten
the draper; perhaps even it might stay proceedings.
He drew up the challenge with all the formality of a century ago, and
showed it to Reckavile, who gravely agreed, without apparently seeing
any humour in the situation.
Wynter dressed himself in his best, and hailing a hansom cab, drove to
Wheatland Emporium in Highbury.
He found him, an anxious worried little man, pompous and vain, with
horrible mutton chop whiskers.
He had risen by energy and hard work through the stages of assistant
to shop-walker and manager, until he had obtained a shop of his own,
and his middle aged affection had been lavished on his cashier Winnie,
then a beautiful young girl, and ambitious.
She had married him for his money, hoping to twist him round her
fingers, and found him vain and jealous, and exacting in his ideas
both of marital duty and spending limits.
Wynter he greeted with the artificial smile of the business man
expecting custom, and the latter bowed politely; he was enjoying his
part. “Mr. Wheatland, I believe?” he said.
“The same, sir, at your service,” answered the other.
“May I have a word with you, sir?” said the soldier.
“Certainly, come to my office.”
Seated in Wheatland’s private room, Wynter felt a sudden distaste at
his mission. After all, this poor man had been treated badly, and he
had his rights like anyone else.
“I am afraid I have come on an unpleasant errand,” he said “I
represent Lord Reckavile.”
The draper stiffened. “I do not wish to hear anything from that man,
my lawyer has the matter in hand.”
Wynter waved his hand. “This is not a lawyer’s business, but a
personal one—my friend Reckavile feels that you have a distinct
grievance, in fact that you have the right to demand satisfaction. He
is willing to waive his rank, and will meet you, if you will nominate
a second with whom I may arrange details.”
“A second, I don’t understand,” said the bewildered Wheatland.
“Exactly, a friend who will act for you. You can then fight for the
lady. He feels that as the aggrieved party you have the right to
challenge, but you might feel diffident on account of the disparity in
rank.” He produced his Cartel and spread it out.
The little man’s eyes fairly bulged in his head.
“Either you are playing a very discreditable practical joke, or your
friend is mad. Fight, sir, I never heard such rubbish. Are we back in
the Middle Ages? The Law, sir, will give me protection, and I shall
immediately communicate with my solicitor to stop this murderous
ruffian.”
Then his manner changed, and in a whining tone he said, “Is it not
enough that he has seduced my wife, whom I loved with all my heart,
but he must seek my life as well.”
Wynter felt uncomfortable, and cursed himself for coming.
He rose to his feet, and buttoned up his coat, thrusting his famous
challenge into his pocket.
“Then I may take it, Mr. Wheatland, that you will not fight,” he said.
“Certainly not, sir, I never heard anything so preposterous in my
life,” said the other.
“Very good, but on one point you are wrong. Reckavile is a strange
creature, and he does not wish to kill you; in fact he was hoping you
would kill him.”
Wheatland gazed at him open-mouthed.
“Kill him, sir, and how much better off should I be if I were hanged
for murder, than if I were murdered myself. And what would become of
my business; I should look ridiculous.”
Wynter felt he had better terminate the interview.
“Good-day, Mr. Wheatland,” he said bowing slightly.
Wheatland laid a hand on his arm.
“He will marry her, won’t he sir, when I have my divorce; I should not
like to think he would desert her.”
There was something in the tone which went to Wynter’s heart. This
stubborn man, who would not forgive, and who was willing to face
publicity for the sake of his personal honour, yet hoped that the
woman would find happiness or at any rate safety by marrying the man.
“I’ll tell him,” said Wynter hurriedly, and went out.
Reckavile was waiting for him in the Club. He had occupied his time in
tossing a friend for sovereigns, and had liberally attended to his
needs for liquid refreshment.
He listened in scornful silence to Wynter’s recital.
“And so the merchant won’t fight,” he said.
“Not likely,” said Wynter with a loud laugh “and the best of the joke
is he wants you to marry the woman.”
Reckavile sat up straight and Wynter eyed him narrowly.
“Of course, that’s your affair, old man, but it certainly looks as
though you are caught at last,” and he slapped the other on the back.
“We all know about the Reckavile honour. You are all blackguards of
the worst type, but men of honour of a sort—a curious sort.”
There were several in the group, and they laughed boisterously.
“Damn you, you need not remind me of that,” said Reckavile, his
thoughts were with a little lady with great eyes in Italy, watching
for his coming with a lovelit face, whom this same sense of honour has
compelled him to marry. He shook himself.
“You’ll all dine with me,” he said “and we’ll have a flutter
afterwards, but I’m sorry the merchant would not fight.”
Chapter IV
The Divorce and After
Wheatland got his divorce. There was no defence, for when Reckavile
considered the matter with his family lawyer, he decided not to have
certain letters read in court, and all the details published in the
papers.
He wandered restlessly between London and his castle at Portham, not
able to leave for Italy till the case was over. He wrote Carlotta,
passionate love letters, but gave no address, for to her he was Hugh
Desmond, and no other.
In spite of all the appeals made to him by Winnie in tearful and
illiterate letters, he made no answer, nor would he see her. He told
his lawyer to look to it that she wanted for nothing, and there the
matter rested.
It was the day after the decree nisi had been pronounced when
Reckavile went to his lawyer, Mr. Curtis, head of Curtis, Figgis and
Brice, for a final interview as he was leaving for Italy the next day.
The thought thrilled him, as he pictured her whose whole longing was
bound up in him, with no aspiration after title, or social position,
and trust—absolute trust—that was the very devil.
Curtis was speaking.
“Of course, I don’t know what you propose to do, Lord Reckavile, when
the decree is made absolute—it is hardly my affair, except—ahem—as the
old family lawyer who knew your father, perhaps . . .” he stopped
confused.
“Well?”
“What I meant to convey was, that if you made the lady an allowance as
you are doing, it would appear sufficient. In your position I do not
think an alliance would be desirable or even necessary.”
Reckavile’s face hardened.
“You mean as I have compromised the lady, I should now desert her—of
course, with an allowance,” he added bitingly.
Curtis was uneasy, for he knew the Reckaviles; but the marriage must
be stopped. He tried once more.
“It would never do. You know that the estate is heavily mortgaged, and
you are well—rather careless in money matters. I had hoped that you
would marry some desirable lady of your class, with sufficient funds
to put the family in a satisfactory position. I think that is very
necessary.”
He paused at the look on Reckavile’s face. His eyes were dull black,
like a snake’s, and his mouth was twisted in a fiendish smile.
Curtis knew that look only too well.
“Thank you, Curtis,” he said “I was undecided, and thought of tossing
for it, but you have made up my mind for me. I shall certainly marry
the woman—or at least give her my name for what it is worth, and that
should be sufficient punishment for anyone.”
“But, my Lord . . .”
Reckavile held up his hand. “There is no need for further discussion.”
A knock sounded at the door, and the clerk came in.
“A lady wishes to see Lord Reckavile,” he said to Curtis “she would
not wait, sir, and seemed very impatient.”
He was brushed aside, and Winnie swept into the office. Her colour was
high, and she certainly looked a beauty at that moment.
The worry of the last few months instead of marring her looks, had
softened the lines of her face, and her fine eyes were appealing. She
came straight to Reckavile, ignoring the lawyer altogether, but
something in the sternness of his face made her pause.
“Oh Hugh!” she said, not venturing to go to him, “why have you treated
me like this? You have taken no notice of my letters, and refused to
see me. Are you going to desert me after you have ruined me?” Her
voice broke, and there were signs of coming tears.
“You need have no apprehension on that score,” he answered coldly. “I
have already discussed the matter with Mr. Curtis here. When the time
comes, you shall become Lady Reckavile, and have my _honoured_ name.
You have a witness here,” and he smiled like Satan at Curtis.
“But Hugh, you are so hard, so cold. It is your love I want as well as
to be your wife,” she added hastily.
He was unmoved.
“I have said, Winnie, that you shall become my wife. Anything else I
do not care to discuss, especially before another.” Curtis had
remained in the hope that he could dissuade Reckavile from his
purpose, but he now hastily made to go, when the other stopped him.
“No, Curtis, don’t go. There is nothing to add. I am leaving England,
and you know where to find me. This lady can communicate with you, and
you will continue her allowance. When my presence is necessary I will
come. You can arrange the details at a registry office, as quietly as
possible. No fuss, please, and above all keep it out of the papers.”
Winnie turned red with anger and shame. How brutal he was and callous,
it was worse than anything that had gone before. Before she could
collect her thoughts Reckavile had turned on his heel, and strode from
the room.
She would have tried tears, or a passionate appeal, but what was the
good of that with a dry old lawyer, whose face was impassive.
“What a way to treat me after all I have been through for him,” she
blazed out, but Curtis remained silent.
“He said he loved me, and that he would remain true to me,” she went
on.
“I am afraid Lord Reckavile has said that to many,” said Curtis dryly,
drawing a paper towards him, “and as for standing by you, you are the
first who has had the honour of becoming Lady Reckavile.”
His tone was final, and she felt the futility of talking to a
parchment faced lawyer, whose sympathies were obviously with Lord
Reckavile, and who considered she was getting out of it very well.
With a toss of her head she went, vowing she would never enter the
place again.
And Reckavile paced the deck of the Channel boat, deep in thought. His
mind ran on suicide, which was the common weakness in his family, and
generally the solution of impossible positions.
Then another thought came to him, and the more he turned it over, the
better he liked it. Why not end the Line without violent means. He
would give Winnie his name and the Estate for what it was worth. As
Lord Reckavile he would cease to exist, but in sunny Italy, Hugh
Desmond would bury himself with his little wife, and he would earn a
living by his painting, for he was no mean artist.
The idea pleased him. Flowers and kisses, and lying in the sun, with
not too much work, and perhaps a minor war or so to chase away
boredom. By the time he had reached Italy he had made up his mind.
There was only one more hurdle, the ceremony in London, and then
happiness awaited him. The bigamy did not worry him in the least, such
trifles were nothing to a Reckavile.
At Venice he waited all day, and a strange feeling of apprehension
came to him. Suppose something had happened to Carlotta in his
absence; he had left her, a mere girl—alone, with only servants of
whom he knew nothing. Suppose she were ill, or even dead. A
nervousness never felt before beset him. Impatiently he drove out to
Murano, and came to the Villa San Rocco. Night was falling as he
passed through the lovely garden, and approached the windows from
which a soft light shone. She was sitting inside, a piece of work had
dropped from her hands to the floor, and her great eyes were gazing at
nothing. How sweet she looked and how dainty, but so sad. He had never
seen her thus, and pity filled his heart, and reproach.
He entered through the open window, and with a great cry she came to
him, holding out both arms. He took her to himself in a passionate
embrace, and with a feeling deeper than the old stirring of desire.
She raised her radiant face to his in perfect happiness.
“Oh, Hugh, I am so happy. You’ve come back to me.”
There was no word of reproach, no shadow of fretfulness at his long
absence.
The past and future were gone, and for the moment the pure bliss of
being together absorbed their beings.
She roused herself with a happy laugh, and kissed him, her face rosy
with delight.
“I must tell the servants about dinner, and you will want to dress
won’t you?”
She looked older, more self assured, but more beautiful than ever, he
thought.
He had left his bag in the carriage, and went for it, and to pay the
driver.
When he returned, she was waiting for him, and led him shyly to their
room, fragrant with flowers, and the odours of the night.
She showed him everything with childish pleasure, all arranged for his
return, and his dressing room on which she had lavished such care,
overlooking the rose garden.
Dinner was laid in the loggia, and he seated himself with a sigh of
contentment. The spotless linen and sparkling glass and silver added
to his sense of happiness. She rose and filled his glass, and he made
her sip from it first, the scent of her hair and the nearness of her
warm body intoxicating him. He would have taken her into his arms, but
that the servants were hovering near.
She was dressed in a soft evening gown, which showed the perfect lines
of her young body, and he wondered at her beauty.
Never once did she ask him where he had been, or what he had been
doing, but listened as he told her of England, and then recounted the
little trifles of her life, so pathetically filled with the sorrow at
his absence though she did not speak of it.
They sat over their coffee while he smoked a cigar from his Club,
which had never seemed so fragrant before.
At last he rose.
“It is getting chilly, darling,” he said in a voice he tried to
steady. “Let’s go to bed.”
A deep blush dyed her neck and face, as she rose and took his hand.
Chapter V
The Second Marriage
The summons had come, and Hugh braced himself to meet the call. Would
to God he could have refused to go; to pretend that he was dead,
anything to get out of it. But the perverted honour of the Curse drove
him to play the last scene to the end.
“I shall only be away for a week, Darling,” he told her. “There is a
certain property of mine I must look after.” That was true.
“When I come back this time, I shall not leave you again.”
She smiled at him; the wrench was not so bad this time, and she had
other things to think of. When he came back she would tell him, and
she hid her secret close, nursing the thought in her breast.
She came with him to Venice, careful that he had everything for the
journey, papers and cigars. He watched her with a dull sense of pain;
the deception hurt him as nothing had done before.
He had converted a shed into a studio, and she had posed for him, as
he had said at their first meeting. Already one picture was finished,
and he would have sold it, but could not bear to part with it. Another
was half done, which he would finish when he came back, he told
himself.
In London, summer was at its height, but he had no pleasure in it. The
Club nauseated him, and the old companions found him changed, dull and
uninteresting. He was out of touch with things. Only Wynter and a few
intimates who knew, surmised that the prospect of marriage had caused
the change, and behind his back betted how long he would retain
faithful to his marriage vows.
Winnie he met only at the lawyer’s the day before the wedding. She
found him cold and reserved, but he was startled with the change in
her. She was sweetness itself, her voice subdued and a look in her
eyes he had never seen before. He thought her much improved, and was
glad of it. She made no mention of his absence, nor did she speak of
the past, she seemed to be seeing a vision. Wynter and two friends had
promised to come to the registry office with him, prepared for a joke,
but his face subdued them, and they became silent. A visit to the Club
first was insisted upon. Reckavile wore his ordinary clothes, with no
sign of the bridegroom about him.
“Cheer up, man,” said Wynter “it’s not an execution you know, and
after all there are worse things. You will have a better chance as a
married man, they always get the pick of the bunch.”
They all laughed, and Reckavile seemed to rouse himself.
“Another bottle,” he said with his old gaiety, “why are we going
thirsty? Call that damned waiter.”
They were far from thirsty, when they came to the place where Curtis
looking like an undertaker, met them with the marriage settlement. It
was the most wicked document he had ever drawn up, for Reckavile had
made over everything which was not entailed to his wife, no doting
swain sick with love could have bartered himself away so completely.
It was the price he was paying for his folly, but Curtis little knew
what was in his mind. It appeared to him sheer madness. Winnie had
scarcely looked at it, and she went up in the opinion of the old
lawyer, who expected a sordid interest. She seemed quite content to
have Hugh without any thought of money. And she certainly was
beautiful, more so than ever before, thought Hugh, not realising that
every woman is transfigured on her bridal day.
Then for a moment something comes to her in a flash, whether with the
organ pealing in some grand old Church, or in the squalid surroundings
of the registry office, a light from the Unknown illuminates her soul,
and departs leaving only the memory of a guest that tarrieth but an
hour.
Winnie had brought a girl friend with her, a devoted little soul who
had stuck by her all through and borne with her moods. That she was
young and attractive was quite enough for the amorous Wynter, who
began to make violent love to her at once.
The ceremony was over, with that blinding swiftness which has an
element of indecency in it. Before they realised that it had started,
they were signing their names, and the step had been taken from which
there is no retreat. The situation was beginning to appeal to
Reckavile’s cynical mind. After all Italy was far, and why the devil
should one be tied up with one woman. To hell with convention. He had
been too solemn, too wrapped up in domesticity; it was a great
mistake. There was an awkward pause, and Winnie looked shyly at him,
while the fussy little registrar buzzed around getting signatures of
witnesses.
Well, why not? Reckavile took Winnie by both hands and kissed her, if
not with affection, at any rate with a satisfying thoroughness.
The ice was broken, and Wynter and the two friends he had brought
followed suit, taking liberal toll both with Winnie and Florrie, her
friend, whose surname no one troubled to ask.
Even the old lawyer began to thaw, now that the irrevocable step had
been taken.
Wynter had arranged for a private room at the Gloucester, and thither
they adjourned. Curtis protested, but was lifted bodily into a cab by
the others, and brought along as a trophy.
The lunch was a merry one; Reckavile threw off all his moodiness. It
would be time enough to tell Winnie what he intended to do later on.
He was going to send her to Reckavile Castle, where he had arranged
matters with the butler, and he was for Italy. He knew there would be
a scene, and it would be as well to play the farce out first.
Soon corks were popping, the wine was running free and Wynter filled
Curtis’ glass to the brim.
“But I never take anything now,” he protested “I suffer much with the
gout.”
“That shows what a wicked youth you were,” said Wynter “but all
doctors agree about the hair of the dog that bit you. Drink up old
Deed Box, and smile at the Bride.”
As the meal proceeded the guests became more riotous. Wynter was one
who seldom showed signs of excess; he became solemnly humorous, and
then slept, but now he rose unsteadily to his feet and gazed around
with an owlish expression.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I rise to propose t’health of the Bride. ’Ont
congratulate you. Reckavile is sad dog, like all his family, but hope
fot’ best. Congratulate Hugh, damned pretty woman, beg pardon, Ladies,
but ’struth. Wish I had married her myself. Never mind. Lucky to have
hooked him, many tried unsuccessively—wrong—unsuccess . . ., without
success, t’ats better.
“Well, don’t want long speeches. Here’s to Bride, and all the little
Reckaviles, past, present and to come,” and he sat down.
“Get up you ass, and propose the toast,” said Harding, one of the
guests attempting to pour port into Curtis’ glass, and spilling most
on the table.
“I never take port now,” said the unhappy Curtis “the doctor has
absolutely forbidden it.”
“Stupid ass, the doctor,” said Harding “Port best thing for gout in
the world.”
Wynter rose again with difficulty and gave his toast which was drunk
with musical or unmusical honours. A waiter entered to ask whether
anything was required, and Harding hit him with a ripe watermelon,
which exploded over his shirt front, and he retired.
“Speech,” said Wynter clapping his hands vigorously.
Winnie’s face was flushed though she had drunk sparingly. In a few
tasteful words she thanked Wynter, and hoped that she would make a
good wife for Hugh, and that he did not regret the step he had taken.
It was a good little speech, and Reckavile was pleased with her. She
was a damned good sort, he found himself repeating, and the subaltern
on his left whose very name he had forgotten agreed heartily with him.
Florrie had left the table and was sitting at the piano playing soft
tunes, while Harding was tickling her neck with a peacock’s feather he
had taken from an ornament on the mantelpiece.
Wynter rose to his feet again.
“Young couple want to start on Honeymoon. Got a proposiss . . . a
proposal. They want to go to Reckavile Castle. The trains no good, too
unromantic, I got my coach here, won competition yesterday, or day
before, I forget which. Bring it round here, and we’ll all go in
style. Only just beyond Brighton eh? No distance. What der say Hugh,
old bounder?”
It suited Reckavile’s mood. Anything to get into the air, and the
swift motion especially with the excitement of being driven by a
drunken man appealed to him. After all he might just as well see her
to the Castle, it was more seemly, then he could slip away from there.
Wynter issued his orders to a waiter who peeped through the door,
holding it like a shield in case of attack. The meal had now become an
orgy; even Winnie had let herself go, and Curtis was reciting _risqué_
stories which had lain dormant in his mind for a generation. The
subaltern had slipped to the floor, and Florrie was sitting on
Harding’s knee, while he proposed solemnly to her again and again.
Reckavile was singing _Tom Bowling_ to his own accompaniment, while
empty bottles strewed the floor, and the spilt wine ran on the table
like the blood of a sacrifice.
The sound of a horn outside roused the revellers, and Wynter gathered
his passengers together.
They must all come, he would take no refusals. Only Curtis was
adamant, and at last they gave up trying to persuade him. The rest
were packed away, and they started off, the horses trotting bravely
out of London.
They were all sound asleep before they reached Portham, and the gloomy
old castle in the woods, only Wynter had driven at a cracking pace,
and the air had sobered him.
“Sound your horn, now, a joyful blast,” he said to the groom, and the
lad responded with vigour.
All was bustle and excitement when they arrived, the servants crowded
to the door, the butler leading, and helped the stiff party down. They
had expected only Lady Reckavile, as Hugh had told them, but the great
kitchen was soon busy, for in those days when telephones and motors
were unknown every country house was well stocked, and soon chickens
and hams were simmering, and the table groaned with good fare.
“Brandy, and plenty of it,” said Reckavile swallowing a lump in his
dried throat.
Winnie went straight to her room; she wanted to look her best at
dinner. The mad party had no luggage, except Wynter who had brought
his on the coach, and there was much merriment as Wynter’s two friends
raided Reckavile’s ample wardrobe.
The night was far spent when they rose to seek repose.
Reckavile through a mist saw a vision of loveliness, and Italy was
forgotten.
“There’s a lot to be said for Mahomet, and his sporting religion,” he
said musingly. “It’s a dull life with only one woman.”
Chapter VI
The Blow Falls
Three days they kept it up. Wynter discovered new wonders in the
cellar each day, and while at breakfast everyone was discussing
trains, towards evening departure had been forgotten. Reckavile was
first down, in a dressing gown, and stood before the great fireplace
in the hall, now empty and black.
The morning was far gone, but none of his guests showed any sign of
appearing.
The butler approached him with _The Times_ newspaper, and a large
bumper of brandy. He idly opened the paper, and glanced at the news,
then a pang shot through him as he read of an earthquake shock which
had been felt in northern Italy, and several houses had been
demolished near Venice. A great wave of disgust went over him, and his
thoughts went back to the little villa, and the poor girl waiting for
him, perhaps overtaken by this hideous menace.
The moment he thought of this fair child in danger, he sickened of his
surroundings. God, what a hog he was. He looked in the glass and saw
the blotched face and heavy eyes, and with a blow he smashed the heavy
mirror, careless of a bleeding fist. The butler came in alarmed at the
sound, though he was inured to most things in that house.
“Have you hurt yourself, my lord?” he asked.
“It’s nothing, get one of the servants to clear up that mess.”
“They say it’s unlucky, my lord, breaking a mirror,” said the butler,
gazing ruefully at the ruin.
“Unlucky, be damned, you fool, have you ever known a Reckavile
anything else but unlucky. Get me another brandy.”
There was only one thing to do. He would write no farewell letter,
that was so common, so vulgar; he would melt away. Never mind luggage,
he had the money he had got ready to take with him after the wedding.
“Where is Lady Reckavile?” he asked.
“Her maid has taken breakfast to her, my Lord.”
“Very good, you may go, here take this glass with you,” and he handed
his empty glass to the butler.
At the corner of the drive he paused; the wood closed thick beyond,
and he looked back at the sombre pile of the old house, for some
instinct told him that he would never see it again. Then the woods
swallowed him up, and he set his face to the distant railway at
Portham Junction.
Carlotta was waiting for him in the little haven of rest, so calm
after the turgid days that had passed, and he felt at peace again.