COUNT FLAVIO'S DIARY.
It was getting exceedingly late now, but the two sisters Descarti,
together with Vera, were still in the drawing-room. Nobody cared to
disturb them. It was felt that they would have much to say to one
another. And no doubt, all they had to tell would be disclosed when
the proper time came. Valdo had not recovered consciousness again. He
lay there overhead, with a vigilant-eyed nurse watching him. Venables
had not come down with Mrs. Delahay and Walter. He had excused himself
on the plea of business, and on the understanding that he would visit
Cannon Green the following day. In the dining-room for the last hour
or two Walter had been seated, deeply engrossed in the slim,
parchment-covered volume which had been sent him by Countess Flavio at
the urgent request of her dying servant.
Time was going on, and still Walter did not look up from the book. It
was long past two before he finished. Then with a firm step and a
determined air he went up to the little library where Lord Ravenspur
was busy writing letters. The latter looked up, and demanded to know
what his nephew wanted.
"I want you to look at this," Walter said quietly. "It is a diary
written by your late friend Count Flavio, whose handwriting you will,
of course, recognise. The diary came into the hands of Silva after his
master's death. Now Silva told me some time ago--in fact, during that
memorable interview in your studio--that he had in his possession
documentary evidence which would prove that his mistress was an
injured woman, and his master a scoundrel of the deepest dye. When I
asked him why he did not produce this book at the trial, he shrugged
his shoulders, and said that it would have been useless. Public
opinion against the Countess ran so high that nobody would have
believed that it was anything but a forgery. But that will be for you
to judge. Before we go any further, I want your assurance that this is
your dead friend's own handwriting."
Lord Ravenspur turned over the leaves of the manuscript, more or less
languidly. One leaf after another he fluttered over; then he handed
the book back to Walter again.
"I am not going to contest the point," he said. "Beyond question, this
is my unfortunate friend's handwriting; though the letters are quite
plain, the writing could not be easily forged. Indeed, to forge such
an amount as that would be the work of half a lifetime. But what do
you want me to do?"
Walter signified that he would like his uncle to read the whole of the
volume, but Lord Ravenspur shook his head.
"I am afraid I cannot," he said. "I can speak Italian fairly enough,
as you know, but that is merely colloquial, and I had never time
really to master the language. But, seeing that you spent three years
of your life there, don't you think that you had better read it out to
me. I suppose it is interesting?"
"I never read anything that fascinated me more," Walter said. "Mind
you, this is the secret diary of Count Flavio. He had no idea that
anybody would ever read it. I have gone through the volume from start
to finish, and I am forced to the conclusion that your friend was the
poisonous scoundrel that Silva declares him to be. I tell you, if this
book was published, it would cause a great sensation from one end of
Europe to the other. It is the work of a brilliant man with a fine
style and an imaginative mind--the history of an attempt to deprive a
woman of her will, and of her reason. For the three years during which
the Count and Countess Flavio lived together the woman's life was one
long, incessant torture. Mind you, there was no actual violence, but
the tortures were exquisite and cruel all the same. And here we have
them in the Count's own words. It is absolutely necessary that you
should listen to some extracts from this amazing work."
"Go on," Ravenspur said quietly; "I am all attention."
Walter bent back the book, and began to read:
"February 17th, 1887. What man is there who has ever succeeded in
penetrating the unfathomable depths of a woman's mind? What fools we
men are to assume a knowledge of the sex until we are married, and
have the object lesson before us day by day! There is Carlotta, for
example. Carlotta's prevailing trouble is that she is jealous of me.
She seems to think that because she cut herself off from her family
for my sake, I am to be at her beck and call henceforth and for ever.
This peculiar form of jealousy interests and amuses me. It is a
pleasure to study it from a scientific basis. This morning I told her
I was going to Florence for a day or two, and she wept because I would
not allow her to accompany me. I could see that she does not trust me,
wherefore I caused a friend of mine who can imitate a woman's writing
excellently, to write me a passionate love-letter, which fell quite
naturally into Carlotta's hands.
"The scene which followed was exquisitely amusing. I have never seen a
woman weep to such an extent before. Positively my charming Carlotta
was enchanting. I was quite sorry at length when she assumed a mantle
of dignity, and left me. Still, this is only the first of many such
scenes if I engineered them properly. I see that Carlotta is in
possession of all the emotions, so that, by studying her alone, I
shall be in a position to add some really extraordinary chapters to my
great book on women and their ways.
"March 19th, 1887. Carlotta has afforded me a month of absolute
enjoyment. Why do people pay money to sit in stuffy theatres and watch
comedies and tragedies when they can see and hear the real,
palpitating thing for nothing? Outwardly, Carlotta and myself are at
daggers drawn. She thinks I am unrepentant and angry, but, as to
myself, I have never been more cheerful and happy in my life. And when
Carlotta threatens to leave me, I ask her why she is going, knowing
perfectly well that she has not the slightest intention of leaving me.
Women are very much like cats in these matters--they will make many
sacrifices for the sake of the domestic hearth. I was talking to Dr.
Sacci, the great surgeon, the other day, and he was telling me of the
fierce joy that comes through some new discovery which has been the
outcome of vivisection. But, then, Sacci is only working in the
interests of humanity, whereas my vivisection allows me to see the
exquisite suffering of the patient. I can study the nerves, and the
palpitating wound, at the very moment when the knife enters.
"December 21st, 1887. The last chapter in my book is by far the most
brilliant and searching which I have yet added to that fascinating
volume. Whatever Carlotta suffers in the present, she shall go down to
posterity as the martyr of her sex. I will place her on a pinnacle as
high as my own. Indeed, I was almost sorry when I had to tell her the
story of the love-letter, and how I had been playing on her feelings
all these months. At the same time, I looked forward to the
explanation, because I knew that it would open up to me a fresh phase
of womanly nature. And I confess that it did with a vengeance.
Carlotta turned pale. She stood there looking as if she were filled
with the greatest physical agony, her eyes filled with tears which did
not fall. I don't know how many days it is since she spoke to me last,
but certainly it must be upwards of a fortnight. This is not exactly
what I expected. It is only when a woman talks that one can judge of
how the experiment is progressing. Tomorrow, all being well, I am
going to adopt a new scheme which I hope will have the desired effect.
"December 22nd, 1887. Our little Vera has disappeared. Evidently she
has been kidnapped with a view to a reward. The whole neighbourhood is
up in arms, and my wife is distracted. It has often been a favourite
theory of mine that every man takes a second place in a woman's
affections as soon as her first child is born. I look back now with a
vivid recollection of the early days when I first met Carlotta. I look
back to her passionate love scenes, and her declarations that I should
be first with her, then and always. Even though I was very much
enamoured, I had my doubts when I was alone, and in a position to
debate the matter clearly. The time has come to put the question to a
test, and thus it became necessary for Vera to disappear. I might say
at once that my theory has been vindicated to the letter. I now know
that Carlotta cares far more for Vera than she does for me. The
reflection is not soothing to one's vanity, but there it is. There is
a wildness and intensity in her grief, which she never would have
experienced had I been brought home to her in the last stage of
dissolution. I must keep this up. I must work this phase as long as it
lasts, which will not be an indefinite time, because I must not drive
my patient too far. She begins to show signs of collapse already. I
think at the end of a week I must have Vera brought back again. By the
expiration of that time, I fancy I can add another chapter to my
remarkable book."
Walter stopped for a moment, his voice was full of loathing and
disgust. An honest indignation almost choked him. He saw now that his
anger and contempt were reflected on the face of Ravenspur.
"Do you want me to read any further," he said, "or is that sufficient?
Shall I tell you, for instance, what happened after this inhuman
wretch brought his child home again? Shall I tell you of other
tortures and tyrannies, and how this scoundrel rejoices in the fact
that his neighbours like him and pity him because he is married to a
bad-tempered woman, who makes his life a burden? That is the note that
runs all through this extraordinary diary. The man uses it as a weapon
to play upon the feelings of his wife. If you are not yet satisfied I
will pick out----"
"No, no," Ravenspur cried, as he rose to his feet. "I have heard
enough and more than enough. Flavio must have been a madman; and yet I
regarded him as one of the best and noblest of men. I never dreamt he
had an enemy. I never knew anybody say a word against him. And to
think that a man of the world like myself should be deceived in this
way! Everything is now growing wonderfully clear before my eyes,
Walter. I can even understand why the Countess left her daughter
behind her. Fancy suffering all that trouble and humiliation to find,
later on, that the child you had done so much for was likely to turn
out as her father had done! In the last ten minutes you have proved
that I was wrong, and the Countess was right; and yet it seemed to me
that I was justified in my actions. I don't know what I am going to
do. I don't know what steps I can take to convince that unhappy woman
that I acted for the best. At any rate, I must make a beginning before
I go to bed tonight."
Ravenspur took up the volume and went down the stairs. In the
drawing-room, the Countess, Mrs. Delahay, and Vera were still seated,
talking earnestly together. Ravenspur crossed the room to the
Countess's side and held out the book.
"Do you know what this contains?" he asked. "I suppose you have read
it from cover to cover?"
"Once," said the Countess, with a shudder, "but never again."
"I can quite understand your feelings," Ravenspur said. "I have only
heard extracts, but they have been quite sufficient for me. And now
let me do my best to try and convince you that I acted in what I
conceived to be the true interests of your child. I know now how wrong
I was. I know that you have been made the victim of a scoundrel and a
madman; and if you can forgive me for what I have done, I will be your
grateful servant in the future."
"One moment," the Countess said. "There is another, and yet more
painful thing to confess. I understand from your nephew that the
police think that they have a most important clue to the murder of
Louis Delahay. The police are all wrong. It is incredible to me that
they have not discovered the truth before; that they have not
blundered on it. Surely you can guess who it is who is responsible for
the death of my poor sister's husband?"
"I am afraid," Ravenspur murmured, "that I cannot----"
"Not even after it was known that you were at work in the studio that
night?"
"No, unless, perhaps--good heavens, you don't mean to say Silva?"
"Nobody else. The man tracked you to Fitzjohn Square. There was not
one of your movements that he did not know. But come this way. I dare
say the nurse will not mind us talking to the patient for a few
moments alone. You shall hear Silva confirm what I have said to you."
Ravenspur stumbled to his feet. He was dazed and numbed with surprise;
and yet the more he came to think of it, the more plausible it seemed.
No, the nurse had no objection, it would not harm the patient. He was
very near to his end now. Weak as he was, his eyes gleamed as he
caught sight of Lord Ravenspur, the old wolfish look was on his face.
"We have been mistaken, my dear Silva," the Countess said. "Lord
Ravenspur has been one of my best friends if I had only known it. He
was deceived by my husband, as hundreds of others were. His lordship
was led to believe that the Count was a martyr to a dreadful wife, a
woman incapable of looking after a child. The kidnapping of my
daughter was part of his vengeance upon me, so that he could reach me
from the other side of the grave. Everything has been explained, the
diary has been read by Lord Ravenspur; and he has forgiven you, he has
come to your bedside to say so before you--you----"
"Die," Silva said, with an effort. "Curse his forgiveness. If I could
stand up now----"
He could say no more, the malignant hate, the fire of madness, still
gleamed in his dark eyes. He would hold the same tradition to the end.
There was no chance of anything like a reconciliation here.
"I expected nothing else," the Countess said sadly. "Only a Corsican
could understand his feelings. It is his blood, his religion. But if
you can't forgive, my poor Silva, you can confess. It may be the means
of saving an innocent life. It was you who were responsible for the
death of Mr. Delahay?"
Silva nodded quite coolly. There was an upward heave of his shoulders
that was very expressive. It was like one who confesses to a mistake.
"I understand," the Countess resumed. "It was a misunderstanding. You
had traced Lord Ravenspur to the studio. You were going to kill him
there. Only Mr. Delahay and myself interrupted you. You were probably
hiding somewhere outside, waiting for your opportunity, when we
arrived. You did not see us, you were not aware of anything till the
lights were out. I may make errors in details, but in the main I am
quite correct. No, don't try and talk--a nod is sufficient. When Mr.
Delahay returned to the studio, after Lord Ravenspur was driven away,
and after I had gone, you were in the studio. You mistook Mr. Delahay
for Lord Ravenspur, and killed him with a glass Corsican dagger. You
did not know till you saw the papers the next day that you had made a
mistake?"
Silva nodded again. He did not appear to feel the least remorse, but
his hungry eyes testified how he regretted that he had so signally
failed. The old wild spirit was still there, even the approach of
death could not quench it. Ravenspur turned away, filled with disgust
and sadness.
"Really, there is nothing more to be said," he murmured. "I should
like to put the heads of the confession down and get the unhappy man
to sign it."
Silva affixed a straggling signature to the confession. Then he turned
over on his side and refused to listen any more. Evidently he was
going to die as he had lived--hard, unfeeling, carrying his bitter
hatred to the grave.
"According to his lights," Ravenspur murmured, "let us hope that he
will not be judged too harshly where he is going so soon."