It was so charming to sit and listen to the small trifles of interest

which had come to Carlotta’s quiet life, the earthquake which had not

touched them, but had been much talked of, and the hot weather which

was causing a drought.

When they were sitting together after dinner, she shyly took up a

piece of work, and plied her needle while he smoked and watched her.

A great contentment settled on his soul.

He would get on with his pictures, and the old past would fade. There

would be no ghosts this time, and after a time the new Lady Reckavile

would presume him dead, perhaps marry again, it was all one to him.

The soft night air played about them, and only the sound of some night

insect came from the garden.

All at once his attention was rivetted by the sight of what Carlotta

was sewing. Half consciously he looked at it, wondering at first, and

then his mind became focussed, and he could not take his eyes from the

little garment. Slowly realisation came, and a wave of mixed emotion

swept over him. Horror, exaltation, pity and regret were equally

blended.

In a hushed voice he said “Little Daphne, what are you working at?”

Her face sunk down over her work, and a crimson like a sunset dyed her

neck.

“Can’t you guess?” she whispered. “I could not tell you.”

A tumult of many waters went over him. What did this mean? He knew of

course, what she was telling him, there was no doubt of that, but what

in God’s name was to be the outcome now.

The line he had sworn to end, with its Curse and madness. And the

child. What of that? By all the laws of God and man this was the heir,

and why should he be kept from his title? What right had he to say

that this should be plain Desmond, when he should be Reckavile. He was

dumb, and rose and fled into the night without a word. Here he paced

the rose garden wrestling with his thoughts. Cursed fool! He had never

thought, never realised.

And that farce in London, if he had only known before. Oh God! talk

about honour, where was the honour in giving his name to a woman who

had sought trouble with her eyes open, when he had betrayed an

innocent child unborn, and sold his birthright for a freakish

principle. Well, he need not decide now, sufficient for the day; that

was the old motto. Anything might happen. And then a sudden

realisation of what Carlotta must be feeling struck him like a blow,

and he turned to the loggia.

She was weeping quietly, as she had always done, but passionately and

with abandonment.

She had misunderstood, he was an artist, and she knew he admired her

beauty. She had thought he was angry that her loveliness would be

marred, and she would be unsightly, hideous to him.

She wished he had not come back. Then he came in and took her into his

arms.

“Don’t cry, little Daphne,” he said very tenderly, “I have guessed

your secret, poor child, and you had not told me.”

“Are you angry with me?” she murmured. “I thought you would be

pleased. Fancy . . . but I must whisper it.”

She was only a child, delicate and sensitive as a flower.

“I understand, Darling, but it came as a shock at first. Poor little

Daphne! How you must have been worrying by yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter, only I thought you would be pleased,” and the

light shone in her starry eyes. “I would have told you before you went

away, only I did not like to.”

He burst into a wild discordant laugh, which frightened her.

“Oh, the Curse. This is real humour, only a joke of the worst taste.”

Then he saw her white puzzled face, and set himself to comfort her.

She had little secrets to tell him. There was a cot hidden away which

must be brought out, a delicate fairy thing of blue silk, and lace,

and a casket fitted with tiny brushes and ivory boxes.

It made him feel clumsy and awkward—out of place. He knelt by her and

took her hands.

“Do you remember, little Daphne, when we met in the woods, and I said

I would paint you as a Madonna, and how shocked you were?”

She nodded gravely; it had been their first meeting, and the memory of

that had always been with her.

“Perhaps I shall paint you as our Blessed Lady with the Bambino.”

She blushed deeply, and her eyes spoke her thoughts.

“It would be too much honour, but . . .” and the tears which came so

easily now, started to her eyes.

He was very gentle with her in the days that followed, and the old

unrest was quieted. They would walk in the rose garden, amid the

flowers, and all that was best in the man shone out like a star in a

cloud wrack, calm and strong. She leaned more on him as the time went

on, and found him a rock of support. There was no painting now, only

sweet companionship and expectancy.

An English doctor came post haste in answer to Hugh’s message, and

while he was within Hugh stamped up and down the garden, cursing,

angry with the futile wrath of a man who would gladly offer up his

blood, his life, to save from pain one over whom the Dark Shadow was

resting.

How unfair that he who could stand anything with a cold disdain,

should be impotent, while this tender girl was suffering. It touched

his pride as well; he had been used to sympathy and respect for his

endurance. He would have preferred that she should watch how

indifferent he was to pain and admire him. It was most unfair.

But the ordeal was over at last, and the doctor, Halley, came from the

house, his face beaming.

“It is all over, Mr. Desmond,” he said, “and you need have no anxiety.

She was brave, splendid—and the child is a fine boy—a credit to his

mother; you will be proud of them both.”

Damp perspiration stood on Hugh’s forehead, and he felt a fool. He was

not made for domesticity, and a feeling of repulsion mixed with the

relief.

“Come in and have a drink, Doctor,” he said “these things are very

worrying.”

Dr. Halley understood men, and he followed Hugh into the lounge where

they toasted the new arrival.

No peace was now in Hugh’s tortured soul, the Curse had him in its

grip. He was fiercely jealous of the child for monopolising all

Carlotta’s time and attention, exacting in his demands and resentful

if not dissatisfied. And he must now share her with this intruder, no

longer was she wholly his, responsive to his very word. Another

claimed her, and the old restless mood returned; he was drunk three

parts of the day, and sulked during the rest.

Carlotta sorrowed in secret, but the little one kept her busy; later

he would take an interest; it was unreasonable to expect a man to care

for a senseless piece of humanity, which demanded only food and sleep.

At times he would rouse himself, and the great picture was begun, in

the fair garden, the Holy Mother with her Child, but he wanted to

paint the child as a fiend, the bodily representative of the Curse,

which had stolen his little Daphne.

And so the months passed, and the spring had come. A strange

friendship had sprung up between the Doctor, Halley, and Hugh. Like

everyone with whom he came in contact, Hugh exercised a fascination

over the Doctor. His charming manners, and beautiful face, even the

sadness which pervaded him, attracted while they repelled.

He was a frequent visitor at the villa, first for professional

reasons, then to see Hugh, and at last for another reason which he

dared not confess even to himself.

He was dining with the Desmonds with a few friends, when the blow

fell. As Hugh came down for dinner, he picked up a letter in the hall,

and put it into his pocket.

He knew the writing only too well, it was from Curtis.

It was a pleasant little party, but a strange foreboding made Hugh

distrait. When the ladies had gone, and the men were smoking, he took

the letter from his pocket, and asking permission of his guests broke

the seal. Inside was another letter, and his heart gave a bound as he

saw the scrawly writing of Winnie. He had received letters full of

appeal from her—asking him to come back. She had thought him at some

foreign war, and could only write through Curtis, who was Sphinx-like

as to his place of abode. Finally he had told Curtis not to forward

any more. Why had he broken this instruction?

He balanced this one in front of the fire; better burn it and let the

dead past bury its dead, but something stayed his hand, and he broke

the seal.

He sat so long staring into the fire, that his guests gave sidelong

glances at him. His face was ashen, and there was a devil peeping out

of his eyes. At last the silence became intolerable, and the Doctor

asked, “Nothing wrong, Desmond, I hope.”

Hugh gave a horrible laugh which sent a shudder down the backs of his

listeners.

“Wrong! No, splendid news. I am sorry to be so rude. A great friend or

enemy of mine, I am not certain which, is about to become a happy

father, good luck to him. Let’s come and join the ladies.”

His gaiety that evening was contagious, and Carlotta hoped that he was

getting over his moods, and coming back to his old self.

When the others had gone he kissed her tenderly good-night.

“I shall not be coming yet, Daphne,” he said, using the old name. “I

want to have a think.”

“All right, Darling,” she replied, lifting her sweet eyes to him. “But

you look tired and worn, poor Hugh!”

“Never mind me,” he said almost impatiently “Daphne, where do you keep

your marriage certificate?”

The question startled her. She treasured this sacred document with her

most intimate possessions though she had never looked at it. She had

never refused him a request in her life, but something made her

hesitate to tell him.

“Do you want to see it, Darling?” she pleaded.

“Yes, please,” he said in the tone she knew meant obedience, and she

fetched it for him.

“You will take care of it, Darling, won’t you?”

It was placing her honour in his hands.

She went slowly out of the room, feeling as though he had taken her

child from her.

All night Hugh paced the garden. Winnie was going to have a child, and

little Roy in his cot upstairs was to be dispossessed of his

birthright. The crisis had come at last, which he had refused to meet.

Only one course was open to him, and that he would take to the bitter

end. The Curse had handed him his poison cup, and he must drink as

became a Reckavile.

He would go to England, yes at once, without farewells which he hated,

or an explanation which he could not give with those clear eyes on

him.

He would produce the marriage certificate, that would be necessary,

and proclaim his infamy. He must put Carlotta in her place, and Roy as

his heir, and then, of course, follow the path so many of his

ancestors had done, with dignity and unfaltering courage. Only in his

case it must be swift, he would never suffer arrest.

Chapter VII

A Nameless Wife

A terrible gale was blowing up the Channel, and wise mariners made for

port before it was too late, while wives shuddered at the howling

whose menace they knew too well.

Off the South Coast a small French vessel was beating its way against

the blast, and coast-guards looked with astonishment at its

manoeuvers, finally shrugging their shoulders at the madness of the

foreigner. Had they seen what was taking place on the deck they would

have opened their eyes still wider.

The French skipper was holding to the rail, shouting orders, while a

madman, without hat or coat, and with a set white face, was pointing a

pistol at his head.

“I tell you, sir,” said the shaking seaman, “we dare not run in close

to the shore, we shall be driven in onto the rocks. It is sheer

madness.”

“Very well,” said Reckavile calmly “lower a boat and I will go

ashore.”

The other made a gesture of despair. “It is impossible, no boat would

live for five minutes. Why not let me run to shelter, or ride out the

storm?”

“I tell you I will not wait, though all Hell were in the storm. You

can choose, either you lower a boat for me, or I shoot you.” His

calmness overawed the other.

“It is death, sir, for you, and perhaps for us too.”

“The first is my affair, and the other is in the hands of God or the

Devil.”

“Oh, Mon Dieu!” said the frightened man, crossing himself. “Very well,

since you will have it so, and I will even go as near to the land as I

dare, though I am risking the lives of the crew.”

With a sense of relief he gave the order, hoping that he might save

his life and his vessel, by casting this blasphemer.

And so Hugh, seventh Lord Reckavile went to his death, driven by the

Curse, and his body bruised and broken but still recognisable, was

washed ashore by the old _Black Horse_ at Portham, and brought by the

Southgates on a shutter to the castle, while the storm shouted a

requiem, and the fiends seemed to be laughing at their last effort at

humour.

Winnie was summoned, for the news must be broken, but it was dangerous

in her condition, as her time had almost come.

The butler in faltering accents, told her the sad tidings.

She listened stony-eyed, and without tears. The news stunned her. Much

also as she thought she loved him, his base desertion had cut her to

the quick, and his refusal to answer any letters hurt her pride. She

came and viewed the poor relic, now decently laid out, and saw the

quiet beauty of the face, at rest at last, and peaceful. Then the

tears came, and she sobbed bitterly till the nurse gently led her from

the room, reminding her that another life might depend on her courage

and restraint.

More to take her mind off the horror than for any other reason the

nurse placed into her hands the sea-soaked contents of his pocket, and

Winnie idly examined them, her mind far removed from the articles, and

seeing only his flushed handsome face, as she had last seen him alive.

A parcel, damp with sea water, and sticky to the touch seized her

attention, and she opened the sheets of paper. The first words were

sufficient to rivet her mind on the writing.

Be it known to all that I Hugh Desmond, seventh Baron Reckavile,

being of sound mind, wish, as far as lies in my power to make

restitution for a great wrong which has been committed.

As she read on, fear clutched her. The document told of his marriage,

and the birth of his heir, and of his bigamy with Winnie. Enclosed was

the marriage certificate at the little village of Steeping among the

Sussex Downs.

The letters were blurred before her eyes. Surely this must be

hallucination. She staggered as she read, and the quiet nurse came at

once to her aid, guiding her to the bed, where she lay quivering.

The nurse gave one look at her, and went out to summon the Doctor,

after seeing that she could be left safely.

Then all Winnie’s faculties came back, and she was the fierce Mother

fighting for her offspring in some primeval forest.

She half rose, determined to destroy the document before it could be

seen by other eyes. That must be done at all costs, but great waves of

pain came over her. She tried to rise, but could not. Then as a cold

numbness gripped her, she grasped the packet in a despairing effort to

throw it into the brightly burning fire.

Delirium was coming on, and in the corner of the room a formless shape

was gathering, from the sea-mist which pervaded the house. To her

startled imagination a dreadful shape emerged, and the dead form of

Hugh stood before her, the face stern and grim, and the dead eyes

gazing at her in a fixed stare. Though no sound came from the closed

blue lids, she heard him say “Destroy that paper, and the Curse will

light on you. I will give you no peace, nor your unborn son. In sorrow

and shame you shall bring forth a nameless thing to bear my name and

title.”

With a wild shriek, she sank back fainting on the bed, as the nurse

hurried into the room.

That night, the eighth Lord Reckavile was born, with the mocking voice

of the storm fiends wailing round the old castle, and the very

foundations shaking with the fury of the tempest, while in the Bay,

gallant men were bringing half drowned Frenchmen safe ashore from the

wreck of the vessel, and below a still form was lying with a smile of

devilish satisfaction on the dead lips.

When Winnie, like a pallid ghost crept downstairs for the first time,

the nurse shook her head.

“She must have loved him very much to take on so,” she said to the

housekeeper.

But Winnie had one purpose in view. At all costs the damning papers

must be hidden, destroy them she could not after the horrible vision,

even though her reason told her it was a nightmare born of her

condition. Hugh had told her of the secret drawer of the Reckaviles,

and she placed the documents there.

“The villain,” she muttered “that accounts for all his absences

abroad, leading a double life, and then trying to do my son out of his

rights at the end.” For black hatred had come to her of the man who

still haunted her in her dreams, and more of the innocent girl and her

son, far away in Italy, who would hang like a dark cloud over her

son’s head for all his life. Truly the Curse was heavy on the family.

And in Murano poor Carlotta awaited with yearning anxiety for the man

who would never come back to her, and the weeks went on without news.

Bitter tears fell over that little cot, and she would talk to the tiny

mite lying there as though he could understand, in baby language. But

the weeks went on, and her only friend was Doctor Halley, who came

with unfailing regularity, always sympathetic and hopeful. She grew to

look for his visits, and if business kept him, she became fretful.

Time was taking its toll with her, and sad lines came to her beautiful

face, which the doctor noticed with secret anguish.

At last he came with a solemn look on his usually cheerful face.

“Mrs. Desmond,” he said “I am afraid I have some terrible news for

you. You must try and be brave.”

“He is dead,” she gasped with quick intuition.

“It is worse than that, I grieve to say.”

“Worse?”

He slowly unfolded an English paper, where an account was given of the

wreck, and the drowning of Lord Reckavile.

It was of old date, but a print was given of the dead man, and the

likeness was unmistakable, apart from the name below, “Hugh Desmond,

Lord Reckavile.”

At first she did not understand.

“It looks like Hugh,” she said in a hollow voice. “It must be a

relative.”

The Doctor shook his head. “I am afraid there is no doubt,” he said

gently “I never told you, but on the night when your husband went

away, he dropped an envelope on the floor. I picked it up from a sense

of tidiness, intending to throw it in the fire, when the name arrested

my hand. It was Lord Reckavile, and was part of the letter he had

opened in our presence, and which had evidently disturbed him. There

is no doubt that it was his real name. He was Lord Reckavile.”

A vague memory floated back to her mind. The parson at their wedding

had called him by that name. She remembered the very words.

“‘Reckavile, you ruffian, this is the last straw!’ he had said.”

Even then she did not realise the full meaning of the terrible news

the doctor had brought.

Hugh was dead, and that stunned her for the time, but Halley was

speaking.

“I am so sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but I felt you must be

told. Poor little Roy. It will be dreadful for him.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied wondering. How would it matter when he

was too young to understand.

“Mrs. Desmond, you are a brave woman, I know that. Don’t you see what

this means. Here is an account of the affair. Lady Reckavile gave

birth to a son and heir on the same night.”

“Lady Reckavile!” she whispered. “You mean he was married. He had a

wife.”

“I am afraid so, he married you as Hugh Desmond, having a wife

already,” his voice was hard and bitter.

She was up in arms at once. Every true woman can so easily forgive a

cruel wrong done her if it is for Love.

“He loved me only, I am sure of that, and if he had another wife, at

any rate he left her for me.”

The Doctor was wisely silent. The realisation of the wrong done to the

child upstairs would come later.

“I have been so long away from England,” he said “that I have lost

touch with the people there. I seem to have heard of the Reckaviles.”

It all came back to her when she lay on her sleepless bed that night.

His hesitation and the delay in getting married, and then the secrecy,

and the hurried flight to Italy. Yes, it was all clear now.

“Hugh, darling,” she said to herself, condoning the wrong, in her

great love as is the way with a woman. “What you must have suffered.”

She never doubted his love for her, but she knew vaguely that people

in his station sometimes had to make loveless marriages for social

reasons.

All was black and hopeless, but she must live on for her child’s sake.

Relief came from the parched fever when she bent over the cot where

the child lay, and a passionate flood of tears woke the sleeping boy,

and the need for comfort was come. She rocked him in her arms, and

sobbed out her broken little heart. The good Doctor was her one

solace. With unselfish kindness he saw her through this time of

horror, and fought inch by inch to help her forget. Each month an

allowance arrived from the lawyer in London without explanation, for

Hugh had arranged this with Curtis, though the lawyer had no idea who

the lady was, and imagined it was one of Reckavile’s past fancies, who

had been pensioned off.

It was to continue during her lifetime, for at the time there had been

no thought of a further contingency.

Halley had retired from practice, but lingered on in Venice. When he

thought suitable interval had elapsed, he came suppliant to Carlotta,

his motives love and chivalry equally blended.

“I know you will never allow anyone to take Hugh’s place,” he said

humbly, “but you need some one to protect you and help you to fight

on. I can only offer you my love, and I will devote my life to you.

But I fear I am hurting you.”

She had half risen with a look of horror on her face, but sank back

again.

“You don’t understand, Doctor, and you are very kind, especially as

you alone know how I really am, a nameless wife, but you do not

realise. I am Italian, and I love but once. Whatever you think of

Hugh, I can never forget him and the very thought of marrying again is

like committing a foul crime.”

Halley was one of those rare beings who can love and sacrifice.

Whatever he felt, no sign appeared.

“Then you must allow me to be your protector only,” he said, with a

smile which hardly hid his pain.

She was quick to see it. “You are a true friend, and I am afraid I

have hurt you horribly. Believe me I do feel deeply for you, and am so

grateful for all you have done. Anything I can do to return your

friendship, I will do.” She stopped there, and he understood.

Chapter VIII

Roy at Oxford

Doctor Halley grew old in his service for Carlotta, ungrudging and

without hope of reward. His hair grew white, and the road to Murano

became heaviness to him, but he never complained. As soon as the boy

was old enough he quietly took over his education, and watched with

growing anxiety the change that was taking place in Carlotta.

She never referred to the past, but seemed to live only for the child,

and would gaze expectantly down the garden path, as though she still

held a lingering hope. Her beauty paled, and she was more and more

withdrawing herself from the world.

Halley grieved in secret, but his devotion was deeper than admiration,

and his loyal service continued through these years.

Carlotta had written to the lawyers, asking them what would happen to

the child in the event of her death, with regard to the allowance.

Curtis was dead, and she received a formal answer that the sum paid

was a personal grant and would cease at her death.

So she lived as simply as possible, that Roy should not go penniless

when her time came, and the Doctor was convinced that this fear more

than anything else kept her alive.

Roy was fifteen, a fine clean looking boy, with his mother’s eyes and

his father’s classical beauty, untouched with his sardonic smile.

Halley had carefully taught him all he knew, which was wide knowledge.

Carlotta had insisted on making Italian his mother tongue, and never

spoke English herself—if spoken to in that language, would answer in

Italian. She would also write in Italian, and only once broke her

self-imposed edict, when she handed a miniature of herself and the boy

to Halley, under which she had written “Mother and Roy.” Halley looked

at it in surprise, but she simply said, “In case you ever meet him

when I am gone.” The curious doubt about her husband’s death

distressed him, but seemed to give her a strange comfort.

But her time had come; all Halley’s devotion and medical skill availed

nothing against her broken heart, though there was no specific disease

that he could find. She was merely fading like a flower after the

summer is done. She called him to her, while the boy was playing in

the garden.

“My old and faithful friend, the best friend I ever knew, the end has

come, and you know it. Don’t worry, it is all for the best. My

loneliness is such a torment, that only your great affection, and

Roy’s, could have made me stay so long. I am going to ask of you one

more service, as we always do of those who have served only too well,

you will look after Roy, won’t you?”

The old Doctor’s head was bowed, and he did not dare to show his face,

he merely nodded, and kneeling by her side, took her thin hand.

“I want you to see that he grows up an English gentleman, as befits

his birth,” she raised her head proudly, as if in challenge.

“I will devote what remains of my life to him,” said the old man

simply.

She pressed his hand. “Thank you, I knew I could rely on you, and you

must tell him after I have gone—you know—about his father. I could not

bear to do it. I should hate to see a look of anger or loathing on his

young face. You will understand?”

“I will do it, you may trust to me,” he said in a shaking voice.

“I am very tired, leave me now, but bring Roy in presently, I must

tell him I am going.”

Very reverently the Doctor took her hand, and kissed it.

“You may kiss me now,” she said dreamily, “it is all that I can give

you.”

Halley rose from his knees, and the blinding tears fell freely as he

bent over that sweet face, which he had loved so dearly without hope

of reward. He gently kissed her forehead, as one might a little

sleeping child, and hurried from the room, for he knew the time was

short. He found the boy in the garden among the roses for which he had

all his mother’s passionate affection.

“Roy, my boy, you must be very brave as you know an English gentleman

should be. Your mother is very ill, and you must go to her at once, I

am afraid she will not be very long with us now.”

The boy turned pale. “Do you mean she is going to die, Uncle?” he said

in an awestruck voice, face to face with the grim terror for the first

time in his life.

“Yes, I am afraid so, but it is in God’s hands.”

“But, you are a Doctor, can’t you do something?” he protested with

something of his Father’s fiery impatience.

“It is because I am a Doctor that I know,” was the quiet reply, “come

we will go to her.”

But when they entered the room where she was lying, another visitant

had been there first, and on her sweet face was an expression of such

peace as neither had seen before. It was as though the long separation

were over and a joyful reunion had come.

“If ever a woman’s love can save a soul from Hell, she has saved him,”

said the Doctor in a choking voice, kneeling reverently by the couch,

oblivious of the boy who stared at the face, so quiet and lovely in

death.

Then realisation came to him, with quick intuition. The Doctor’s

attitude and his bowed head showed the truth more than spoken word,

and in a passion of grief, he flung himself beside her.

“Mother! Mother! Don’t leave me, say something—only speak! Don’t go

without a word!”

The sound brought their old servant into the room, and she and the

Doctor gently led the weeping boy away.

It was only after the last sad ceremony had been carried out, and

Michael and all the Archangels had been invoked to bear this pure soul

to the feet of God, in the beautiful liturgy of the Catholic service,

that the two broken hearted mourners came back to the villa, now

hateful to both. In time it would acquire a memory like a shrine, but

the loss was too near, too sudden, and it was haunted with the dear

ghost, which brought a torture of longing. Halley saw this, and

realised that to a young boy change was essential. For himself, he

would have lingered on, dreaming of her, and hoping that in some

twilight evening, in the hush before dark, a dream figure would come

down the rose garden, and touch his hand, bidding him come to join

her, and the man she had loved so well, in a fairer Garden, where

there is no marrying nor giving in marriage, but where they might be

as the angels in Heaven.

It would never do for the boy to become morbid, and so the broken man

set himself to face the future with a brave resolve.

“Roy, we must talk of the future. Your dear mother left you in my

hands, and I will do what I can to make you a happy, and a good man. I

am going to take you to England, and we can look out a good school,

where you would like to go, and meet other boys of your age, and play

games and win prizes.”

With a boy, sorrow can be deep, but not overwhelming, and the thought

of doing what he had always longed for, as the Doctor knew, sent a

thrill of pleasure through him.

“Oh, Uncle, how good of you! I have always longed to see England, and

should love to go to one of the great public schools, I have read

about. And my father was English, wasn’t he?”

The Doctor gave a start, for the boy had never before asked about his

father.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“Mother told me,” and the tears filled his eyes, “you know when she

signed that miniature. She said she wrote in English because he was an

English gentleman, and she wanted me to grow up like him.”

A grim smile played round the Doctor’s mouth.

“Yes, Roy, he was English, and I will tell you something. You are old

enough to know now, and your mother asked me to tell you.”

The boy stood eagerly waiting, and as the Doctor looked at him, he

realised something of what the father must have looked when he too was

young, and he sighed.

“Your father was Lord Reckavile,” he said slowly.

“Lord Reckavile?” exclaimed the boy, “then I am . . .” and he stopped,

for something in the Doctor’s sad old eyes frightened him. “But my

mother’s name was Desmond, as mine is?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, that was Lord Reckavile’s family name. Oh, you must not think

evil of your sainted mother. She married him, thinking he was plain

Mr. Desmond.”

“And he was Lord Reckavile all the time?” asked the boy.

“Yes Roy,” said the old man taking the boy’s hand in his. “But he was

married in England before he met your mother. There was a Lady

Reckavile. Your poor mother did not know, until he was drowned.”

A terrible look came into the boy’s eyes, the Reckavile look.

He was not too young to understand.

“You mean to tell me that he married my mother when he had another

wife alive,” he said slowly. Halley had no wish to shield the man, but

the memory of Carlotta’s sweet face made him say:

“He loved your mother only, you must not judge your father too

harshly. People in his position are sometimes forced to marry, against

their wills, but I am sure it was your dear mother he loved.”

The boy stiffened, he had suddenly grown up.

“He was a villain, and I hate him—hate him! I am glad he died. If he

had lived I would have killed him.”

Here was a Reckavile indeed. His eyes blazed, and Halley understood

why Carlotta had not told him; she knew her son.

For a moment he stood with fists clenched, then he collapsed and a

bitter flood of tears came.

“Go away,” he said fiercely as Halley tried to comfort him. “I want to

be left alone.”

In the evening when the shadows were stretching over the garden, and a

chill mist was coming up from the sea, the boy came in with a set

face, hard and proud.

“Uncle Halley,” he said firmly, “I want to go to England, let’s go at

once, as soon as possible, I want you to let me take your name. If you

are looking after me, let me be Roy Halley. Do you mind?”

The Doctor understood the proud young heart of the boy.

“My dear boy,” he said “nothing would please me better. You were left

to me, and I have only you to look after in my old age. You shall bear

my name and be my adopted son.”

The boy threw his head up.

“Then I shall call you ‘Father,’ and I will try and forget the hated

name of Desmond, which never was my mother’s. You are the only father

I have ever known,” and he came and kissed the old man with the sweet

grace of his mother.

They went to England, when everything had been settled up.

The villa Halley could not bear to let or sell; he arranged for the

old servant to live there with a small pension for her needs. Halley

paid everything himself, and retained Carlotta’s savings for the boy

against his need.

Time works miracles with the young, and Roy in the glories and the

struggles of life at a public school, soon retained only a hallowed

memory of his mother, and refused to let his mind dwell on the other

horror.

At Oxford his voice and acting first became noticeable. He was much in

request for his playing and singing, and was looked upon as a

promising amateur actor. His easy grace of manner, and the

recklessness of his spending, due not to extravagance, but to the

family tradition which spoke loud in him, made him a general

favourite, and he was no mean athlete, which in the glorious days of

the varsity, counts for more than brains or money.

In his third year he was occupying a position which perhaps never

comes again to a man. In the little kingdom of his college he was a

small god. In after life men hold great positions, but then

disillusionment has come and the freshness of youth has gone.

In his college team at most games, and playing for his varsity at

rugger, as his father had before, if only it had been known, and with

a force of character welcomed and admired everywhere, no wonder if he

lost himself in the celsitude of his power. But the high gods will not

suffer such happiness, and in the middle of the dream came an

awakening. A telegram to tell him that Doctor Halley had passed away

in his sleep brought him up to reality.

In bitter sorrow he went to London where the old man had taken up his

residence. From the first he had determined not to commit the mistake

of living at Oxford or near it. He wanted the boy to enjoy life there

unfettered by visits of a relation, and he chose London, so that the

boy should be able to come to him in the ‘vacs,’ and have plenty of

amusement. He effaced himself for the son, as he had for the mother.

He knew his heart was very weak, but kept the knowledge from Roy, lest

he should distress him.

And so his peaceful end came, his duty done, and his great chivalrous

soul went to join her, whose image was never absent from his mind.

Roy’s journey was a terrible ordeal of self-blame. He saw how selfish

he had been, how little he had repaid the great debt. He recalled with

the acute self-analysis of a sensitive mind all the times when he had

studied his own fancies, and left the old man alone, when he should

have been with him, looking after him. And now it was too late. More

than all remorse filled him when he found that the old man had been

meeting all his extravagant expenses, by selling out his own money,

and that the sum his mother had saved, not large, but which had grown

with the years, was still intact.

He went back to his college a changed man. The old gaiety had gone,

and a bitter self-scorn had come which brought out something of the

old Reckavile spirit. Women he shunned with horror, as the image of

the one perfect woman he had known made the others seem hollow, and

talkative beyond measure.

He plunged into wild ‘rags,’ which brought him before the Warden, and

drink to which he had never turned, threatened to make shameful his

career.

And then the gods relented, and the cloud of War settled on the land.

To Roy it was like a call to his own kingdom. Others born of

generations of peaceful citizens took arms with sober patriotism, as a

duty which must not be shirked, but to him generations of fighters

called, with exultant shouting. Death! What did that matter! The only

two he had ever loved were on the Other Side, and he wished nothing

better than to pass over to them.

For glorious years he lived at grips with death, first as a private in

the muddy trenches, and later with a commission, known as a reckless

patrol leader, and a born fighter. He might have risen high in that

Hell’s academy where such qualities mean promotion, but in ’16 he was

smashed by a bomb and his wrecked body only mended in time for the

final advance.

When Peace came, he heard around him the officers joyously discussing

a return to civil life, and of all that they were going to do. Some

were going to wives or sweethearts, one talked of his job at the bank

which he hoped was still open to him. To Roy, it was an end of a

mighty adventure. There was nothing to look forward to, but a bare

struggle to live. He had no friends, no welcoming smile to greet him.

He knew that for the Nation it was a wonderful day of rejoicing, but

to him nothing remained.

Another year in the wildest parts of Russia kept his spirit cheerful,

and then he returned to demobilisation.

He had not the heart to go back to Oxford, but sought for some form of

employment, where excitement and feverish activity could give

forgetfulness.

His knowledge of languages, a tuneful voice, and his natural charm

secured for him successive jobs in travelling companies in Europe,

where in gilt and motley he sung in choruses in grand and comic opera,

till fate drove him back to England, and to a small part in a

travelling company of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operas. It was all

hopeless, and he felt that he had only to wait till a merciful death

ended the life which had become distasteful to him.

Chapter IX

A Ghost from the Past

Coming from the theatre after a matinee, along the Strand, Roy was

making his way to an obscure restaurant where food was comparatively

cheap, when he nearly collided with two men hastening round the

corner. The wind was bitter, and rain was falling, so that all the men

had coats closely buttoned and collars turned up.

Roy muttered an apology, and would have passed on, but one of the two

seeing his face in the light, suddenly drew back, and exclaimed “By

God, Reckavile, by all that’s unholy. I did not know that you were in

England again. How are you, old thing?” and he held out his hand. A

wild fantasy whirled before Roy’s mind, and for a moment he was

without sense or speech, then he said coldly.

“I am afraid you have made a mistake, sir; my name is not Reckavile.”

The other scrutinised him closely.

“No, by Jove, you’re not. I am sorry, but look, Raymond, what a

likeness!”

Roy’s anger was rising, he was not a waxwork to be inspected, and he

turned to go his way, but the first speaker caught his coat.

“No, sir, you must not go like that, I have been rude enough to

address you by mistake, but I will make amends if I may. Will you come

to my Club, if you will do us the honour, and let me apologise in

suitable manner for having taken you for one of the worst blackguards,

but the most charming of men.”

Roy could not well refuse a request so politely put, and curiosity

goaded him on, so he went with his chance companions, Sir Raymond

Halliday, and Captain John Wynter, son of the Late Brig. General

Wynter V.C. who had perished at Loos.

In the smoking room of the Club, Roy unthawed. The atmosphere was more

to his liking than the dressing room of a travelling company, and he

felt at home with these men.

They were soon discussing old days at the war, and exchanging yarns of

people and places where they had met for a brief moment, and then gone

down the long trail. To Roy it all came back; the nights he had come

back from a little frolic at Etaire, where real oysters could be had,

and _Veuve Cliquot_ 1904, a change from trench fare, and then a ride

back to the trenches with the ominous line of Verey lights marking the

enemy lines, and the sudden whirl of a “heavy” coming over, mingled

with the flickering rat-tat of the machine guns.

How real it all seemed and how desirable in the warm firelight of the

smoking room.

Presently Raymond broke silence.

“You are not a relation of the Reckaviles, Mr. Halley, are you? Excuse

the rudeness of the question but you are extraordinarily like him.”

“None whatever,” said Roy firmly.

“I am glad to hear it, eh Wynter?” said Raymond.

“Well, it’s not a pleasant family, so Mr. Halley is well out of it.

You know my father was mixed up with that affair, the Reckavile

Divorce they called it, though it was really the Wheatland Divorce.”

“Oh, I was too young to remember,” said Raymond carelessly, but Roy

was all attention.

“What was that?” he asked, steadying his voice.

“Old Reckavile, the father of this Johnny, got mixed up with a

draper’s wife, and the worthy man didn’t like it and got a divorce.

The joke was that Reckavile offered to fight for the girl, and

properly put the wind up the draper. Well, he did what’s called the

right thing, and married her, my father was at the wedding, and a

pretty thick time it was from all accounts but he never settled down

with the lady, he buzzed off somewhere and got killed or something, I

forget how.”

Roy was now on wires, but he showed nothing, his training on the stage

served him in good stead.

“When was that?” he asked, lighting a cigar with studied care.

“I can never remember dates,” said the other “about thirty years ago I

should say at a guess, but you’ll find it all in the old papers, if it

interests you. We keep them upstairs, but no one ever looks at them.

Here, I am sorry we are going dry, touch that bell will you?”

The rest of the evening passed like a dream till Roy rose to get back

to the theatre for the evening performance, but though he sang and

played his part, his mind was disturbed with thoughts which would

intrude on him, and the old memories he had stifled rose to mock him.

He knew he would have no peace till he had read that long dead story.

His friends had asked him to come again, and he took them at their

word at the risk of being a bore.

In the musty reading room, seldom visited by the members of this

joyous Club, he found the old copies, with the help of a spectacled

librarian, who seemed detached from the world without and only en

rapport with his yellowing tomes.

He showed Roy the files in which the sordid story was told, but only

one line stood out in letters of burning fire, the date at the head of

the paper. That was damning and convincing. Nothing could alter that,

and while his eyes were reading the account of the affair, his mind

saw only one deadly fact, that the date was after the marriage of

Reckavile with his mother. This overwhelmed him so utterly that he

could hardly thank the old man, and hurry from the place. His mind was

in a whirl. There must be some mistake, the marriage, must have been

illegal or something; he could not grasp a deliberate cold blooded

bigamy; he would dismiss it from his mind. Why had this spectre from

the past come to torment him? It would be quite simple. To settle the

matter he would go to Somerset House, and pay the fee for inspection,

and lay the ghost.

As he expected after a long search he failed to find any reference to

the marriage. He little knew the reason, or the sudden death of the

parson, before he had been able to send the record for registration.

But it was sufficient, and he plunged back into his work determined to

dismiss the whole thing from his mind.

But the maggot was gnawing at his brain, and the old restlessness came

on him. He would go abroad, but something drew him to the home of his

ancestors; he must see Portham, and Reckavile Castle, before he

finally turned his back on England.

Wynter and Raymond were now fast friends, caught with his charm which

never failed to captivate.

“After all you have told me about Reckavile, I am going to have a look

at the place,” he said one night at dinner.

Wynter’s usually jolly face became grave. “I shouldn’t if I were you,”

he said “you know half the people there will take you for Reckavile,

and there may be unpleasant things said.”

“What do you mean?” asked the other sharply.

“Well, you know old man, when a commoner bears a striking resemblance

to a peer of the Realm, especially to one with such a reputation,

unpleasant things are said, which I know you would resent. Do you get

me?”

“Quite,” said Roy, swallowing his anger with difficulty, and he said

no more.

When the run of the series of revivals was over, and he was free, Roy

refused to re-engage, to the disappointment of the manager, and the

company.

“I was hoping, Mr. Halley, to give you the leading tenor in our Number

I Touring Company,” he said.

“Thank you, I am most grateful, but I am going abroad,” Halley

replied.

And so he came at last to Portham, and fate drove him to the _Black

Horse_, kept by Southgate, grizzled and seaworn, who alone knew the

truth, though not the whole truth.

Chapter X

At the “Black Horse”

Halley knocked at the door of the _Black Horse_ and Mrs. Southgate

opened to him. He raised his hat politely, saying “Have you a room

here I could have for a few days?”

She looked at him dubiously. “We don’t take in people as a rule, sir,

you see it is hard to get things out here.”

Then seeing how tired he looked, she added, “I’ll go and ask my

husband.”

“Thank you, I have walked from Portham Junction with this bag.”

He entered and sat down in the kitchen, and gazed round with interest

at the old room.

From the inside quarters he heard the sound of a conversation, and

presently the landlord emerged with a scowl on his face.

“I am sorry, sir,” he began, and stopped dead. His jaw dropped, and he

looked in amazement at Halley. “I beg your pardon, my . . . Oh Lord!

Who are you?”

“My name is Halley, and I asked your good wife if you could put me up

for a few days, I shall be very little trouble.”

The landlord stood with a puzzled look on his face.

“I’m darned if I understand it,” he muttered “are you sure you are not

playing a joke on me, my lord, I could have sworn . . .”

“For whom did you take me, then?”

“Why, Lord Reckavile, you’re ’is living image.”

Halley smiled. “I am sure you can accommodate me, even though I am not

Lord Reckavile.”

“Why yes, sir, if you don’t mind roughing it a bit; we are plain

folk.”

So the bargain was struck, but Halley noticed that every time the

landlord came in he fixed his eyes on him in the same bewildered

fashion.

When he had set the table for a simple lunch in the old timbered room

Halley asked casually:

“Who is this Lord Reckavile for whom you took me? I should like to see

him.”

“You must be a stranger in these parts; why, ’is Lordship ’as a place

near ’ere, Reckavile Castle.”

“And is he here now?” Halley asked eagerly.

“No, ’e is ’ardly ever at ’ome, but we expect ’im as ’e comes about

this time as a rule.”

“I must have a look at this castle then, it ought to be an interesting

place.”

Southgate cast a shrewd glance at his visitor.

“I dunno if you ’ad better,” he said sullenly “they be ’ard on

poachers there; no, I shouldn’t go if I were you.”

Halley stretched himself before the fire while Southgate cleared away.

He thought it peculiar that he should do this himself, instead of

getting a servant to perform the office, but when he had finished he

came and stood beside Halley’s chair, fidgetting awkwardly.

“Sit down, landlord, and join me with something if you can spare the

time,” said Halley taking a sudden resolve.

“Thank you kindly, sir, I don’t mind if I do. Things be powerful quiet

nowadays, except in the evenings there be nothing doing.”

When he had fetched a bottle and glasses, Halley turned to him, and

asked abruptly.

“Will you answer me a straight question?”

“If I can, sir.”

“I believe you acted as valet to the late Lord Reckavile many years

ago?”

The landlord’s face set like a mask.

“I may ’ave done,” he said evasively.

“I want to ask you plain and straight, were you present at his

marriage to his _first_ wife, an Italian lady with whom he had

eloped.”

Southgate leapt to his feet with a snarl.

“What do you want to know?”

“Sit down, please, I will tell you. I am his son, born in Italy, and

she was my mother—now you know.”

Southgate covered his head with his hands, and something like a sob

escaped him.

“My God! If I ’ad only known,” he cried.

He remained so long silent that Halley could stand it no more.

“Well?” he said.

“To think that Miss Carlotta ’ad a son. I tell ’ee sir, afore God,

that if I ’ad known I would ’ave spoken. When ’is Lordship was

drownded trying to land at this very spot, and the present lord was

born the same night, I didn’t know what to do, I thought as ’ow poor

Miss Carlotta must be dead. It seemed no good saying anything and

getting into trouble, and not being believed, so I thought I best let

matters bide, and if she were alive, she would come along; but time

went and nothing ’appened, so I just kept quiet. When I saw you come

in that ’ere door, I thought you was ’is Lordship, and then I suppose

I must ’ave guessed. You are like ’im, but also like your mother, poor

sweet young lady!”

“I understand,” said Halley gently “I cannot blame you. It was a

difficult position. But tell me, where was my mother married?”

“I wish I could say, sir, indeed I do. That was one reason why I kept

quiet. You see we ’urried off from ’ere as was always ’is way, and

travelled to Dover. I didn’t know anything about the wedding till we

stops at a village. It was such a rush, and we all ’ad as much as we

could carry. I may ’ave ’eard the name, but I’ve clean forgot it.”

Halley groaned.

“And this was before he married—the late Lady Reckavile?”

Halley stuck over the title.

“Oh, yes sir, for I remember them all coming down after the wedding,

and of course, I thought poor Miss Carlotta was dead. But why didn’t

you come before, sir?”

There was a note of suspicion in his tone, which Halley noticed, and

he told him as much of his story as he thought expedient.

“Well this be a pretty mess,” said Southgate “what are you going to

do?”

“I must see Lord Reckavile, but I cannot stay here after what you have

told me about the likeness. Can you find somewhere for me to go until

Lord Reckavile comes back?”

Southgate smoked in silence for some minutes, at last he said:

“I was allers fond of the old master wild as ’e was, and your mother

was a sweet young thing. Lady Reckavile I never could abide. . . . I

got a cottage on the shore, we sometimes uses for . . . well least

said the better, and we sometimes lets it in the summer. You can go

there if you don’t mind things rough, tomorrow. Mrs. Southgate can

look after you.”

Halley took the other’s hand gratefully.

“This is most good of you, and I hope one day I may be able to repay

you.”

The landlord was embarrassed. “I don’t see why you should be a done

out of your rights, but you’ll ’ave a tough time with Lord Reckavile;

’ese a nasty customer to get foul of.”

“Only let me know when he comes back, and I’ll see him.”

The next day Halley moved to the lonely little cottage on the shore.

Its isolation and the numerous entrances gave a hint as to its use for

revenue dodging purposes in the old days, but he was glad of any place

of refuge for his tell-tale face, and with the issues at stake. For

days he waited consumed with feverish impatience. Now that he had come

so far he was determined to see the thing through, regardless of

consequences.

At last when his nerves were nearly gone, Southgate came with the

momentous news that Lord Reckavile had come home.

They sat long over the fire in converse. Halley now had Southgate as a

willing slave, who would follow him to the death, and a plan was

arranged between them.

“We must try and see whether we can get an interview with him

privately,” said Halley.

“We must not delay matters, for ’e is off like a flash,” said the

other “it’s almost as though ’e was afeared to stay long.”

“Tonight, then,” said Halley.

Chapter XI

Halley Continues the Narrative

There was silence in the room after Halley had told his story, in

fewer words than are given here. Not a sound had broken the stillness

and all eyes had been fixed on him, as part at least of the truth was

revealed.

Halley looked round at his audience. Ena’s eyes were wet, and she had

furtively used her handkerchief from time to time, but there shone on

her face the light of enthusiasm and trust. Fletcher was obviously

incredulous, and Brown stolid as ever.

The silence was broken by Sefton.

“So you are really Lord Reckavile?” he asked.

“In actual fact I am, but I cannot establish my title. I am a nameless

man, unless by some miracle the marriage certificate is found—if it

still exists, or we can find the village church where the wedding took

place.”

“That should not be impossible,” said Sinclair in a firm voice, and

Ena looked at him gratefully.

“Finish the story, Lord Reckavile,” he continued, and the very use of

the title suggested something hidden in that inscrutable mind.

“There is little more to tell,” said Halley. “Southgate and I tried to

get to the castle after dark, and prowled around, but we were chased

by a constable,” and he laughingly threw a glance at Brown.

“Oh, that was it, was it?” Brown spluttered without regard to grammar.

“So you were the two I were after. I thought Southgate was one of

them.”

“Yes, so after that I lost patience, and determined to call at the

castle whatever the risk. I went boldly to the front door. Lord

Reckavile never seemed to leave the place, or I would have tried to

waylay him on the road. Giles opened the door for me.”

“You never mentioned a word of this, Giles,” said Fletcher angrily.

“Lord Reckavile’s callers were none of my business,” said the old man

slowly. Fletcher was about to say something but Sinclair stopped him

with a gesture.

“Giles showed me in,” Halley continued, “and I shall never forget

Reckavile’s face when he saw me. He went deathly white, and his lip

curled back and back like a wolf about to snarl, but no sound came

from his lips. We stood and stared at each other in absolute silence.

“The likeness was so striking that it was almost as though I was

looking into a glass. The strong Reckavile strain has risen salient

and complete in spite of our mothers, though I was darker and had a

touch of Italian if one had looked closely.

“He seemed to recover himself, and turned to Giles.

“‘You can leave us,’ he said, and the old man went out of the room.

“Then he turned to me, and his face was hardly human. ‘Hast thou found

me, oh mine enemy!’ he hissed. He never seemed to have the least doubt

as to who I was. Poor fellow! The thought of my coming had haunted him

like a nightmare, and driven him to furious wanderings. He was like a

man under sentence of death, who was leading feverish years, not

knowing at any time that the grim spectre would appear. So much he

told me. His mother had confided the whole story to him on her death

bed, and adjured him to keep the document which would mean his undoing

should I ever appear. His life must have been hell on earth.

“He listened to my story without a word, but I could see that his mind

was working all the time to devise a plan, and I knew I was in

imminent peril. At the end he rose and paced the room. ‘You must give

me time to think,’ he said, ‘I shall want the fullest proofs of your

identity before I can say anything. Come and see me tomorrow night, at

eight o’clock. Don’t come to the front door, I will have the French

windows open for you.’ He let me out by the window, and I went to my

cottage, half inclined to throw up the whole thing and go away. I was

sorry for him, and it was only the thought of all that my mother had

suffered that kept me to my purpose.

“I told Southgate nothing, as I had involved him quite enough. The

next night I kept the appointment, I will confess in some trepidation,

he had been so calm, so self-possessed, that I felt he had something

behind it all. I found the window open and went in. The room was in

semi-darkness.

“Reckavile did not offer to shake hands, but started at once in a

voice of intolerable insolence. ‘Mr. Halley,’ he said ‘I have been

considering your story, and congratulate you on your powers of

invention. In any ordinary case I should simply send for the police

and have you arrested on a charge of blackmail, but there are so many

reasons for wishing to avoid a public scandal or digging up the past

that I offer you a handsome sum, let us say 10,000 pounds, if you will

take yourself off, and never come to England again.’

“For the moment I was going to leap at him, and take him by the

throat, but some curious instinct held me back. In a flash I saw what

his game was. He wished for some reason to provoke me to attack him.

Perhaps then he could have killed me, and pleaded self-defence. He may

have had witnesses for all I knew. Anyway I kept my temper. ‘Give me

the marriage certificate of my mother’ I said, and I pulled out the

miniature I had always carried with me. ‘That is her picture with me

as a child’ I said. ‘It is her honour I am concerned with. Otherwise I

would leave you alone with your title.’

“‘Wait a moment’ he said, and walked across the room to the cabinet

containing the dictaphone there.”

Halley paused and pointed to the object, on which all eyes were fixed.

“‘You will take my offer?’ he asked. I noticed a curious clicking

sound, but at the time thought nothing of it, it was only afterwards

it came back to my mind, and the significance dawned on me. ‘You are

trying to insult me,’ I said, and I am afraid I lost control of

myself.

“‘Sign a document to say that your mother never married my father, and

the money is yours,’ he said and smiled at me like a devil.

“‘Curse you’ I said advancing to him ‘I don’t want your dirty money; I

only want justice and my rights.’

“‘Over my dead body’ he cried, and even at that moment it seemed that

the words were theatrical, as though spoken for some purpose, but I

was too far gone for thinking and I sprang for him. I can see now that

he had been waiting for me, and a crashing blow descended on my head,

bringing me to the ground. I rose, pouring with blood, and flew at

him, and we grappled together, but loss of blood, and the shock were

too much for me, and I suppose I must have fainted.

“When I recovered, I found Reckavile bending over me, surprisingly

gentle, and full of apologies.

“‘I am sorry, my dear fellow’ he said ‘but you know you attacked me

first, I hope you are better.’

“I murmured something, I suppose I was lightheaded, but he helped me

to the sofa, and then to my intense surprise he said ‘You are knocked

up tonight, but if you can get away without assistance it will save a

scandal, and come tomorrow night at seven. Here is the marriage

certificate, and you shall have it then.’ He walked to that desk, and

pulled it out and showed it. If I had not been so weak I should have

snatched it from him, but he held it away from me, with a mocking

smile. ‘I swear that you shall be restored to your rights tomorrow’ he

said, ‘but meanwhile not a word about tonight.’

“I gave my word, and at last was able to totter out of the room, and

by slow stages to get home.

“The next day I spent in bed, but in the afternoon I walked to

Bungalow Town as my head was splitting, and I had to think the whole

thing out. I was sure there was some trap but could not fathom the

plot. You know the rest. The wound broke open, and I nearly fainted.

Mr. Sefton here found me in a broken condition, and bound me up at the

Club. I staggered down to the _Black Horse_. By doing so I was too

late to keep my appointment and I saved my neck from the halter,” he

added gravely.

“You mean that had you gone to the castle, you would have been accused

of the murder,” said Sefton.

“I believe he had planned the whole thing with diabolical cunning.

When I read the account of the murder I recognised at once that the

conversation heard by Giles and Brown was the one which took place the

night before, and guessed a dictaphone, which had caused the ticking

sound I had heard. He had arranged for me to come, and either was

going to commit suicide, which is the Reckavile way, with damning

evidence against me, or to bolt, in which case I should certainly have

been arrested, and exposed to ignominy and degradation, though without

the body they could not prove murder. There would be my footmarks and

probably my presence, and the conversation, though how he would have

disposed of the record without an accomplice I cannot say.”

“I begin to see light,” said Fletcher “then I suppose you and

Southgate came to try and find the certificate?”

“And the record, yes. I came first by myself, and when hiding in the

house came across some old costumes, and wigs, and being as you know,

an actor, I had no difficulty in disguising myself as old Reckavile.

As you all saw the family likeness was striking, and I thought that if

anyone saw me they would take me for a ghost.”

“So that was it?” said Fletcher.

“It was not hard to guess,” said Sinclair with a twinkle in his eye.

“Then my good friend Southgate came with me, and we were nearly caught

by Brown,” and Halley laughed.

“You caught me properly, sir,” said the rueful constable.

“You see, I was afraid that Reckavile had destroyed the document, but

as he had kept it all those years for some queer superstition, and as

I had seen him put it into the desk, I thought it was worth while

trying to find it. It was my only chance, Southgate most loyally

helped me. Is there any more to explain?”

Fletcher moved restlessly. “All this is most interesting, but I don’t

see that we are any nearer to a solution. In fact you seem to have

incriminated yourself. After all, we cannot get over the fact that the

dead man was found with a knife in his back, and the windows fast shut

instead of wide open as they should have been from your account.”

Sinclair fixed his gaze on Fletcher. “I think you had better wait,” he

said “we have not done yet.”

Chapter XII

The Secret Out

“I don’t see that we are any further towards the solution of the

murder,” said Fletcher. “All that we have heard sheds no light on the

actual crime at all.”

Sinclair remained for a moment in thought, then he said slowly, and

with great deliberation, his eyes fixed on vacancy.

“Will the murderer confess?”

The sunlight outside seemed to accentuate the grim horror within, it

was here that the crime had been committed, and the shadow of the dead

man was almost visible to their eyes of imagination. Sinclair waited,

and in that pause a chill feeling of fear made manifest seemed to

pervade the room. In utter silence he waited, then in sharp, incisive

words he said “Very well, then we must take extreme measures. Mr.

Cook, will you please explain exactly what happened when you came here

to see Lord Reckavile on the day of the murder?”

The wretched man seemed to crumple into a heap.

“Me, sir,” he stammered, his face like chalk. “Oh, God, what do you

mean?”

He sprang to his feet, and gripped the back of his chair for support.

The police officers looked at him with that gaze of proprietorship

which they keep for a prospective candidate for the gallows. Brown was

unconsciously wondering what length of drop would be required for him,

and Andrews was wondering whether he had a pair of handcuffs to fit.

“Well,” said Sinclair, “don’t stand there saying nothing. You came and

saw Lord Reckavile on the afternoon of the murder, that we know—what

happened?”

“It is true that I came to him, and gave him his ground rents, as I

have always done, but I swear to God that I simply took my receipt and

went, I did not even come into this room. I saw him in the hall. That

is why I never mentioned it before, I was afraid of being accused of

the murder. I was only here a few minutes, Giles knows that don’t

you?” and he looked wildly at the old butler.

Giles spoke slowly, evidently under deep emotion.

“May I say a word, sir,” he said to Sinclair.

“Certainly.”

“You asked just now who killed Lord Reckavile—I did.”

If a bombshell had exploded in the room there could not have been a

greater sensation.

“At last,” said Sinclair, and there was a note of triumph in his

voice. “Thank you, Giles. That is what we wanted. Mr. Cook, I offer

you a profound apology for the bad moment we gave you, but it was the

only way to get a confession from him. That was why the whole meeting

was arranged. It was Mr. Halley’s idea, and you know he has been on

the stage.”

Then turning sternly to Giles, he said. “I have to warn you that

anything you say may be used as evidence against you, but I know most

of the story, and I do think a frank confession is your best chance.”

“I have no desire to keep anything back, nor do I regret what I have

done. An hour ago I wanted to live for one thing, to complete what I

had begun, but after what I have heard of all the suffering of Mr.

Halley and his mother, that desire has gone.”

“But we are all in the dark . . .” began Fletcher.

“You shall know,” said Sinclair. “First, Giles is not his name; he

once bore another, is that not so, Mr. Wheatland?”

Giles started. “That is so, though how you know it I cannot guess. I

am an old man, and I know my days are numbered, so I do not care what

happens to me. They can hang me if they like, though I am sorry for

Mrs. Giles for she has been a good wife to me.

“Well, here is my story. Mr. Sinclair has told you my real name. After

the shame and disgrace of the divorce, and the loss of my wife, whom I

loved dearly,” his voice broke for a moment, “I lived for one thing

only, to be revenged on the man who had robbed me. I was too much of a

coward to fight him, but when he married Winnie and then deserted her,

I swore to kill him. My business went to pieces, and I seemed to lose

heart in it. I sold it up, and brooded over my wrongs. Then I

determined to destroy the last of this accursed breed, and waited for

him to come to England, and the next thing I heard was that he had

been drowned. That would have ended it for me, but Winnie had a son,

and I determined that the whole hated race should come to an end, for

the blood was rotten. I waited and watched for years, and at last I

heard that Winnie was dying, and hurried down to see her.

“She hardly knew me at first, but when she recognised me she was

overjoyed, and clung to me to the last, imploring my pardon for the

wrong she had done me. I will not dwell on that, it is too sacred, but

she confided to me the dread secret of the other Reckavile, who was

somewhere in the world for all she knew, and might turn up at any time

to dispossess her son. I could hardly hide my delight when I heard of

the tortures he was enduring, hunted through the world by the thought

of that other, but I soothed her last hours, and then set myself to

thought. What was the good of killing this Reckavile and leaving the

other alive. I wished to destroy them both.”

The madness of the old man was plainly in his eyes, and Ena drew away,

sick with horror.

“I carefully trained myself as a butler, and obtained the post here

without much difficulty. It was a sinecure, as Reckavile was nearly

always abroad.

“All those years I waited. I could have killed him at any time, but

then the thought of the other brother coming forward and perhaps

gloating over me at my trial stayed my hand. I knew somehow my chance

would come, and at last it did. Southgate and I were old friends, and

I heard of the stranger who had come to the _Black Horse_. Mrs.

Southgate told me about him, and from the description I had no doubt

as to his identity. I knew he was hidden away somewhere, and Southgate

had asked me to let him know when Lord Reckavile came back. How little

he realised what he was asking! I found the thought of my hour of

triumph coming at last, and everything seemed to play into my hands,

as though Fate or the Reckavile Curse was taking a part. I brought Mr.

Halley in to Lord Reckavile, and the sight of his face was like wine

to me. Already I was having my revenge, and it was sweet. I heard some

of their conversation, though not all.

“That night Winnie came to see me, and she smiled at me as though to

say how pleased she was.

“The next day Lord Reckavile sent for me and told me to tell Stevens

to get Brown the constable to come up about the poachers. He was to be

here just before seven o’clock. How I laughed to myself, I saw his

trap. He had arranged for Mr. Halley to be outside his window at

seven.

“Mr. Cook came in the afternoon and Lord Reckavile saw him in the

hall. I knew why—the library he intended to keep as it was for his own

vile purpose. He kept it locked all day, but when Mr. Cook had gone I

followed him on tiptoe, and when I found he had forgotten to turn the

key I knew he was delivered into my hands, and that the time had come.

I carried my knife ready, I had kept it always sharp for such an

occasion.

“I opened the door very slowly and carefully, and peeped in, and

nearly spoilt everything by crying out, for the first words I heard

were those of Mr. Halley and himself on the previous day. Of course, I

guessed he was using his dictaphone. He never would have a secretary

or typist in the house, and used to send his records away to London or

somewhere to be written out. I don’t think he ever wrote a line at all

with his pen except to sign cheques.

“I saw his horrible plan at once. He could turn this record on and

slip out of the window. Then Mr. Halley would be found in the room

with all the marks of a struggle. How I chuckled! Yes, Mr. Halley

would fall into the trap all right, but not such as had been devised.

“He was bending over the dictaphone and laughing a fiendish laugh,

when I stole up to him. He had taken his coat off, and was in his

shirt sleeves, when I drove the knife home, wearing a glove to prevent

any finger prints showing and shouting out that Winnie was revenged at

last, I could see her looking at me and nodding her head to show how

grateful she was.

“He gave one horrible gasping cry, and I caught him as he fell, and

threw the body on the sofa. I put his coat on, as I thought it would

look more natural. I had just finished when I heard a knock and knew

it was Brown.

“I waited sufficient time, as I thought for Mr. Halley to be outside,

then went to the door and turned on the Dictaphone, and came back for

Brown—but in my excitement I made one fatal mistake, I forgot to open

the French window. I could have kicked myself, but it was too late.

“While Brown was examining the body I whipped off the record and hid

it. That was all. I waited each day, hoping Mr. Halley would be

arrested, and then I hoped to get a chance of killing him. If I had

known that it was he who was sitting in that chair he would have been

a dead man. But I am glad now. After hearing his story I felt he too

had suffered, and I should have been content with my revenge. It was

only when you accused Mr. Cook, and I thought an innocent man might

suffer for my crime that I determined to tell the whole truth. I am an

old man and shall not live long now in any case.”

He ceased and Sinclair took the statement from Fletcher, who had

written it down.

“Sign this statement,” he said “if you are satisfied with it.”

The old man read it through carefully, and signed it with a firm hand.

“Now Giles—or Mr. Wheatland—if you wish to make an act of

reparation—it lies in your power. Do you know where the marriage

certificate is hidden?”

“Why of course. My wife told me when she was dying. I never touched it

as I felt it was a magnet which would bring the other Reckavile home

some day.”

He rose and went to the old desk. Brown carefully walking beside him.

Stooping down he touched a secret spring, and a drawer, carefully

hidden in the carving at the back, sprang open. Giles drew out a faded

package and a record, and placed them on the table.

Sinclair opened the packet and handed the contents to Halley who

turned white with relief.

“At last,” he said taking out the faded document, which meant so much

to him. Without a word he handed it to Ena. It was much faded, and had

been soaked with sea water, but was still readable.

Sinclair rose and put the record on the Dictaphone which he wound up

and started. Of all the gruesome things that this room had witnessed

this was the strangest. The now familiar words of the quarrel were

repeated between the dead and the living.

Brown was shaking as though he had seen a ghost, and the others were

strangely moved.

“Oh, shut it off, for Heaven’s sake,” said Sefton, and at the moment

with the final shriek it ceased with a click.

All eyes had been rivetted on the instrument, when Sinclair rose with

a cry of alarm.

“Stop him,” he shouted, pointing a finger at Giles.

Brown and Andrews seized the old man, who made no resistance, but

smiled at them.

“No, you fools, he’s taken poison,” and Sinclair rushed round the

table, and forced open the grim jaws, but it was too late, and with a

heavy groan the old man collapsed. Sefton sprang to Sinclair’s side

and ripped open Giles’ waistcoat. A moment’s examination was

sufficient.

“He’s dead,” he said solemnly, “it must have been a terribly rapid

poison.”

Ena had burst into tears, the strain had been too great, and Halley

rose and went to her side.

“Fool that I was,” said Sinclair. “I might have guessed. This was what

was contained in that little leather case we found. Reckavile must

have carried it about with him for such a crisis as he knew might

occur. You know suicide is in the family,” he added in a low voice so

that Halley should not hear. “I have seen something like that in

India. It was probably some deadly alkaloid. Giles must have got hold

of it from Reckavile, and kept it for such a contingency. Still,” he

said musingly “perhaps it is for the best. The old man had become a

monomaniac brooding over his revenge, and it would have been dreadful

to have sent him to the gallows.”

Brown and Andrews carried the body, already stiffening, into the

bedroom, and covered it with a sheet.

The rest rose to their feet.

“You will make a full report on this, Andrews,” said Sinclair when the

officer returned, “and I will report in London. There is no particular

object in making more of a sensation than we are obliged, but the

whole thing will have to come out when Lord Reckavile here makes his

claim to the title.”

“I will go back to London, sir,” said Fletcher, and his face was

white. “I seem to have made a pretty mess of things all round.”

Sinclair laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t take this too much

to heart, my boy, we all have to learn, and you are young yet. Only I

think you owe an apology to Lord Reckavile.”

Fletcher looked with gratitude at his Chief.

“I owe an apology all round, and I tender it now,” he said.

He shook hands with each, and when he came to Ena, he smiled sadly, “I

wish you both the greatest happiness.”

Chapter XIII

The Last

The sun was sparkling on the sea, and all nature was rejoicing as

though pleased that the black shadow had been lifted at last.

Southgate and his wife were setting luncheon in the old timbered room

at the _Black Horse_, with great care. There were flowers on the

table, and a row of bottles on the sideboard.

“That will do I think,” he said, standing back to admire his work. A

sound of voices outside announced the coming of the guests, and the

Southgates melted away to smarten up.

Ena and her brother came in with Lord Reckavile and she looked a

pretty sight in the sunlit room, a picture of happiness, now that the

clouds had gone. In Reckavile also there was a subtle change. He

appeared younger and the sad look had given place to a merry twinkle

of the eye. He walked more briskly, and with a self assurance unknown

before.

Sefton was thoroughly contented. There was a very good prospect of

being able to go back to the Hospital to qualify, and his experience

had taught him that his father’s discovery was no idle dream. They

took their seats and waited for Sinclair who was due to complete the

party.

Reckavile rang the bell, and Southgate appeared.

“Have you no servants?” asked Reckavile in mock anger.

“Yes, sir—I mean, my lord,” stammered the landlord.

“‘Sir’ will do Southgate, for the present—why do you not do as I asked

you?”

“What was that, sir?”

“Lay two places more for yourself and Mrs. Southgate.”

“Oh sir! We couldn’t.”

“Nonsense, either you lunch with us, or we don’t have any meal at

all.”

“Very good, sir,” said the gratified man “I will tell the missus.”

A car drove up to the door, and Sinclair came in.

“I hope I’m not late,” he said shaking hands.

“Not a bit, you’re just in time,” said Reckavile.

Soon they were gathered round the table, as merry a party as one could

wish to see.

“How are things going, Lord Reckavile?” asked Sinclair, when Southgate

had uncorked the bottles.

“It will take some time to get these matters settled, as the whole

question will have to come before the House of Lords, but my lawyers

think there will be no real difficulty, and have been very good in

covering my temporary needs. Now tell us all about the case, as you

promised to do, you know we all want to know how you managed to solve

the problem.”

“There is no magic about it,” said Sinclair modestly. “You see from

the very first I saw clearly that, as we do not live in the age of

witches and magic, there was only one man who could have had access to

Reckavile, and that was old Giles, however much the problem was

surrounded with difficulties. When I got Fletcher’s report, I saw the

whole thing. Don’t misunderstand me. It is a matter of experience, not

of cleverness. Fletcher had all the clues in front of him. The mention

of a Dictaphone told me all I wanted to know. I had given him a broad

hint when I told him the history of the Reckaviles, and I will admit

that I thought he had committed suicide, a diabolical suicide to get

his half brother hanged. I am not at all certain even now that that

was not his real intention. He would have hidden the record, and

swallowed the poison—you saw how quickly it worked—and things would

have looked very bad for you, Lord Reckavile.”

“I wonder,” said the latter. “I saw something in his eyes at the last

interview which made me suspicious of such a plot.”

“Well,” Sinclair continued “my mind being set on Giles, I pursued the

usual practice, for which I take no credit, in hunting up his

antecedents, and traced him as Wheatland. Then the whole thing was

clear as daylight, but there was not a shadow of real evidence.”

“You remember,” said Reckavile, taking up the tale, “Southgate came to

your bungalow, Ena, with important news that Sunday morning. The

police had been down there making enquiries about me, and things were

getting warm, so I thought the wisest course was to go to London and

see Sinclair, and tell him the whole story. That was why he came down,

but of course I knew nothing of his suspicions.”

“I see,” said Sefton “that was why you disguised yourself the second

time.”

“It was my suggestion,” said Sinclair “if my theory was correct I saw

that he was in very great danger from Giles, and the only way was to

keep up the disguise till we had forced a confession from him, or got

hold of such evidence that we could obtain an arrest. The record,

which I was certain had not been destroyed, as Giles had no chance of

doing so, and the certificate, were the things we were after, and I

was so convinced that they were in the desk that we were prepared to

break it to pieces if necessary, but Fletcher interfered, and

afterwards Giles saved us the trouble. That I think explains the whole

thing. I can only say how thankful we ought to be to have come out

without another tragedy. But come, let’s talk of something more

pleasant.”

Southgate rose at a signal from Sinclair, and filled their glasses

with a very extra special champagne.

Sinclair rose. “To the health of the future Lord and Lady Reckavile,”

he said.

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm. Sinclair set his glass down with

deliberation, and said musingly “Good stuff that. I wonder how much it

paid towards the revenue,” and he grinned broadly at Southgate who

looked sheepish.

“Come along,” he said with a wink to Sefton “let’s examine Southgate’s

cellars,” and with a laugh they went out, leaving Reckavile and Ena

alone.

“We will go to Italy, dear,” he said taking her hand.

“Yes, I want to see your mother’s grave, and the little cottage where

you were born. How happy she would be if she knew everything had come

right,” and her eyes were wet.

“Perhaps she does. If you will take me as I am, we will get married,

and get away from this place with its evil memories.”

“Yes, Mr. lord,” she said, making him a curtsey “but don’t forget it

was here you met me, is that one of the evil memories?”

“That is the happiest memory I have ever had,” he made answer, catching

her to him. “I came here in winter, and now spring has come, and soon

it will be summer. When another winter comes it will find us together.

The Curse has died out in one fiendish act of evil, and revenge, but

by God’s grace we will establish a new line with nobler thoughts.”

He kissed her then, and she hid her blushes in his passionate embrace.

Transcriber’s Note

This transcription follows the text of the edition published by E. P.

Dutton & Company in 1927. The following alterations have been made to

correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:

* “glorius” to “glorious” (Book I, Chapter I);

* “vilage” to “village” (Book I, Chapter X).