If I make too frequent use of the first person singular in these
pages, I crave forgiveness of the reader.
I have written down this strange story for two reasons: first, because
I venture to believe it to be one of the most remarkable sequences of
curious events that have ever occurred in a man's life; and secondly,
by so doing, I am able to prove conclusively before the world the
innocence of one sadly misjudged, and also to set at rest certain
scandalous tales which have arisen in consequence.
At risk of betraying certain confidences; at risk of placing myself in
the unenviable position of chronicler of my own misfortunes; at risk
even of defying those who have threatened my life should I dare speak
the truth, I have resolved to recount the whole amazing affair, just
as it occurred to me, and further, to reveal completely what has
hitherto been regarded as a mystery by readers of the daily
newspapers.
You already know my name--Owen Biddulph. As introduction, I suppose I
ought to add that, after coming down from Oxford, I pretended to read
for the Bar, just to please the dear old governor--Sir Alfred
Biddulph, Knight. At the age of twenty-five, owing to his unfortunate
death in the hunting-field, I found myself possessor of Carrington
Court, our fine Elizabethan place in North Devon, and town-house, 64a
Wilton Street, Belgrave Square, together with a comfortable income of
about nine thousand a year, mostly derived from sound industrial
enterprises.
My father, before his retirement, had been a Liverpool ship-owner,
and, like many others of his class, had received his knighthood on the
occasion of Queen Victoria's Jubilee. My mother had been dead long
since. I had but few relatives, and those mostly poor ones; therefore,
on succeeding to the property, I went down to Carrington just to
interview Browning, the butler, and the other servants, all of them
old and faithful retainers; and then, having given up all thought of a
legal career, I went abroad, in order to attain my long-desired
ambition to travel, and to "see the world."
Continental life attracted me, just as it attracts most young men.
Paris, with its glare and glitter, its superficial gaiety, its bright
boulevards, and its feminine beauty, is the candle to the moth of
youth. I revelled in Paris just as many a thousand other young men had
done before me. I knew French, Italian and German, and I was vain
enough to believe that I might have within me the making of a
cosmopolitan. So many young men believe that--and, alas! so many fail
on account of either indolence, or of narrow-mindedness. To be a
thorough-going cosmopolitan one must be imbued with the true spirit
of adventure, and must be a citizen of all cities, a countryman of all
countries. This I tried to be, and perhaps--in a manner--succeeded. At
any rate, I spent nearly three whole years travelling hither and
thither across the face of Europe, from Trondhjem to Constantinople,
and from Bordeaux to Petersburg.
Truly, if one has money, one can lead a very pleasant life, year in,
year out, at the various European health and pleasure resorts, without
even setting foot in our dear old England. I was young--and
enthusiastic. I spent the glorious golden autumn in Florence and in
Perugia, the Tuscan vintage in old Siena; December in Sicily; January
in Corsica; February and March at Nice, taking part in the Carnival
and Battles of Flowers; April in Venice; May at the Villa d'Este on
the Lake of Como; June and July at Aix; August, the month of the Lion,
among the chestnut-woods high up at Vallombrosa, and September at San
Sebastian in Spain, that pretty town of sea-bathing and of gambling.
Next year I spent the winter in Russia, the guest of a prince who
lived near Moscow; the early spring at the Hermitage at Monte Carlo;
May at the Meurice in Paris; the summer in various parts of
Switzerland, and most of the autumn in the high Tatra, the foot-hills
of the Carpathians.
And so, with my faithful Italian valet, Lorenzo, a dark-haired, smart
man of thirty, who had been six years in my service, and who had, on
so many occasions, proved himself entirely trustworthy, I passed away
the seasons as they came and went, always living in the best hotels,
and making a good many passing acquaintances. Life was, indeed, a
perfect phantasmagoria.
Now there is a certain section of English society who, being for some
reason or another beyond the pale at home, make their happy
hunting-ground in the foreign hotel. Men and women, consumptive sons
and scraggy daughters, they generally live in the cheapest rooms _en
pension_, and are ever ready to scrape up acquaintance with anybody of
good appearance and of either sex, as long as they are possessed of
money. Every one who has lived much on the Continent knows them--and,
be it said, gives them a wide berth.
I was not long before I experienced many queer acquaintanceships in
hotels, some amusing, some the reverse. At Verona a man, an Englishman
named Davis, who had been at my college in Oxford, borrowed fifty
pounds of me, but disappeared from the hotel next morning before I
came down; while, among other similar incidents, a dear,
quiet-mannered old widow--a Russian, who spoke English--induced me at
Ostend to assist her to pay her hotel bill of one thousand six hundred
francs, giving me a cheque upon her bank in Petersburg, a cheque
which, in due course, was returned to me marked "no account."
Still, I enjoyed myself. The carelessness of life suited me, for I
managed to obtain sunshine the whole year round, and to have a good
deal of fun for my money.
I had a fine sixty horse-power motor-car, and usually travelled from
place to place on it, my friend Jack Marlowe, who had been at Oxford
with me, and whose father's estates marched with mine on the edge of
Dartmoor, frequently coming out to spend a week or two with me on the
roads. He was studying for the diplomatic service, but made many
excuses for holidays, which he invariably spent at my side. And we had
a merry time together, I can assure you.
For nearly three years I had led this life of erratic wandering,
returning to London only for a week or so in June, to see my lawyers
and put in an appearance for a few days at Carrington to interview old
Browning. And I must confess I found the old place deadly dull and
lonely.
Boodles, to which I belonged, just as my father had belonged, I found
full of pompous bores and old fogeys; and though at White's there was
a little more life and movement now they had built a new roof, yet I
preferred the merry recklessness of Monte Carlo, or the gaiety of the
white-and-gold casinos at Nice or Cannes.
Thus nearly three years went by, careless years of luxury and
idleness, years of living _à la carte_ at restaurants of the first
order, from the Reserve at Beaulieu to the Hermitage at Moscow, from
Armenonville in the Bois to Salvini's in Milan--years of the education
of an epicure.
The first incident of this strange history, however, occurred while I
was spending the early spring at Gardone. Possibly you, as an English
reader, have never heard of the place. If, however, you were
Austrian, you would know it as one of the most popular resorts on the
beautiful mountain-fringed Lake of Garda, that deep blue lake, half in
Italian territory and half in Austrian, with the quaint little town of
Desenzano at the Italian end, and Riva, with its square old
church-tower and big white hotels, at the extreme north.
Of all the spring resorts on the Italian lakes, Gardone appeals to the
visitor as one of the quietest and most picturesque. The Grand Hotel,
with its long terrace at the lake-side, is, during February and March,
filled with a gay crowd who spend most of their time in climbing the
steep mountain-sides towards the jealously guarded frontier, or taking
motor-boat excursions up and down the picturesque lake.
From the balcony of my room spread a panorama as beautiful as any in
Europe; more charming, indeed, than at Lugano or Bellagio, or other of
the many lake-side resorts, for here along the sheltered banks grew
all the luxuriant vegetation of the Riviera--the camellias, magnolias,
aloes and palms.
I had been there ten days or so when, one evening at dinner in the
long restaurant which overlooked the lake, there came to the small
table opposite mine a tall, fair-haired girl with great blue eyes,
dressed elegantly but quietly in black chiffon, with a band of pale
pink velvet twisted in her hair.
She glanced at me quickly as she drew aside her skirt and took her
seat opposite her companion, a rather stout, dark, bald-headed man,
red-faced and well-dressed, whose air was distinctly paternal as he
bent and handed the menu across to her.
The man turned and glanced sharply around. By his well-cut
dinner-coat, the way his dress-shirt fitted, and his refinement of
manner, I at once put him down as a gentleman, and her father.
I instantly decided, on account of their smartness of dress, that they
were not English. Indeed, the man addressed her in French, to which
she responded. Her coiffure was in the latest mode of Paris, her gown
showed unmistakably the hand of the French dressmaker, while her
elegance was essentially that of the Parisienne. There is always a
something--something indescribable--about the Frenchwoman which is
marked and distinctive, and which the English-bred woman can never
actually imitate.
Not that I like Frenchwomen. Far from it. They are too vain and
shallow, too fond of gaiety and flattery to suit my taste. No; among
all the many women I have met I have never found any to compare with
those of my own people.
I don't know why I watched the new-comers so intently. Perhaps it was
on account of the deliberate and careful manner in which the man
selected his dinner, his instructions to the _maître d'hotel_ as to
the manner the entrée was to be made, and the infinite pains he took
over the exact vintage he required. He spoke in French, fluent and
exact, and his manner was entirely that of the epicure.
Or was it because of that girl?--the girl with eyes of that deep,
fathomless blue, the wonderful blue of the lake as it lay in the
sunlight--the lake that was nearly a mile in depth. In her face I
detected a strange, almost wistful look, an expression which showed
that her thoughts were far away from the laughter and chatter of that
gay restaurant. She looked at me without seeing me; she spoke to her
father without knowing what she replied. There was, in those wonderful
eyes, a strange, far-off look, and it was that which, more than
anything else, attracted my attention and caused me to notice the
pair.
Her fair, sweet countenance was perfect in its contour, her cheeks
innocent of the Parisienne's usual aids to beauty, her lips red and
well moulded, while two tiny dimples gave a piquancy to a face which
was far more beautiful than any I had met in all my wanderings.
Again she raised her eyes from the table and gazed across the flowers
at me fixedly, with just a sudden inquisitiveness shown by her
slightly knit brows. Then, suddenly starting, as though realizing she
was looking at a stranger, she dropped her eyes again, and replied to
some question her father had addressed to her.
Her dead black gown was cut just discreetly _décolleté_, which well
became a girl not yet twenty, while at her throat, suspended by a very
thin gold chain, was a single stone, a splendid ruby of enormous size,
and of evident value. The only other ornament she wore was a curious
antique bracelet in the form of a jewelled snake, the tail of which
was in its mouth--the ancient emblem of Eternity.
Why she possessed such an attraction for me I cannot tell, except that
she seemed totally unlike any other woman I had ever met before--a
face that was as perfect as any I had seen on the canvases of the
great painters, or in the marbles of the Louvre or the Vatican.
Again she raised her eyes to mine. Again I realized that the
expression was entirely unusual. Then she dropped them again, and in a
slow, inert way ate the crayfish soup which the waiter had placed
before her.
Others in the big, long room had noticed her beauty, for I saw people
whispering among themselves, while her father, leaning back in his
chair on placing down his spoon, was entirely conscious of the
sensation his daughter had evoked.
Throughout the meal I watched the pair carefully, trying to overhear
their conversation. It was, however, always in low, confidential
tones, and, strain my ears how I might, I could gather nothing. They
spoke in French, which I detected from the girl's monosyllables, but
beyond that I could understand nothing.
From the obsequious manner of the _maître d'hotel_ I knew that her
father was a person of importance. Yet the man who knows what to order
in a restaurant, and orders it with instructions, is certain to
receive marked attention. The epicure always commands the respect of
those who serve him. And surely this stranger was an epicure, for
after his dessert I heard him order with his coffee a _petit verre_ of
gold-water of Dantzig, a rare liqueur only known and appreciated by
the very select few who really know what is what--a bottle of which,
if you search Europe from end to end, you will not find in perhaps
twenty restaurants, and those only of the very first order.
The eyes of the fair-haired girl haunted me. Instinctively I knew that
she was no ordinary person. Her apathy and listlessness, her strangely
vacant look, combined with the wonderful beauty of her countenance,
held me fascinated.
Who was she? What mystery surrounded her? I felt, by some strange
intuition, that there was a mystery, and that that curious wistfulness
in her glance betrayed itself because, though accompanied by her
father, she was nevertheless in sore need of a friend.
When her father had drained his coffee they rose and passed into the
great lounge, with its many little tables set beneath the palms, where
a fine orchestra was playing Maillart's tuneful "Les Dragons de
Villars."
As they seated themselves many among that well-dressed, gay crowd of
winter idlers turned to look at them. I, however, seldom went into the
nightly concert; therefore I strolled along the wide corridor to the
hall-porter, and inquired the names of the fresh arrivals.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the big, dark-bearded German; "you mean, of
course, numbers one hundred and seventeen and one hundred and
forty-six--English, father and daughter, arrived by the five o'clock
boat from Riva with a great deal of baggage--here are the names," and
he showed me the slips signed by them on arrival. "They are the only
new-comers to-day."
There I saw, written on one in a man's bold hand, "Richard Pennington,
rentier, Salisbury, England," and on the other, "Sylvia Pennington."
"I thought they were French," I remarked.
"So did I, monsieur; they speak French so well. I was surprised when
they registered themselves as English."