My taxi pulled up before my own white-enamelled door in Wilton Street,
off Belgrave Square, and, alighting, I entered with my latch-key.
I had been home about ten days--back again once more in dear, dirty
old London, spending most of my time idling in White's or Boodle's;
for in May one meets everybody in St. James's Street, and men
foregather in the club smoking-room from the four ends of the earth.
The house in Wilton Street was a small bijou place which my father had
occupied as a _pied-à-terre_ in town, he being a widower. He had been
a man of artistic tastes, and the house, though small, was furnished
lightly and brightly in the modern style. At Carrington he always
declared there was enough of the heaviness of the antique. Here, in
the dulness of London, he preferred light decorations and modern art
in furnishing.
Through the rather narrow carpeted hall I passed into the study which
lay behind the dining-room, a small, cosy apartment--the acme of
comfort. I, as a bachelor, hated the big terra-cotta-and-white
drawing-room upstairs. When there, I made the study my own den.
I had an important letter to write, but scarcely had I seated myself
at the table when old Browning, grave, grey-faced and solemn, entered,
saying--
"A clergyman called to see you about three o'clock, sir. He asked if
you were at home. When I replied that you were at the club, he became
rather inquisitive concerning your affairs, and asked me quite a lot
of questions as to where you had been lately, and who you were. I was
rather annoyed, sir, and I'm afraid I may have spoken rudely. But as
he would leave no card, I felt justified in refusing to answer his
inquiries."
"Quite right, Browning," I replied. "But what kind of a man was he?
Describe him."
"Well, sir, he was rather tall, of middle age, thin-faced and drawn,
as though he had seen a lot of trouble. He spoke with a pronounced
drawl, and his clerical coat was somewhat shabby. I noticed, too, sir,
that he wore a black leather watch-guard."
That last sentence at once revealed my visitor's identity. It was the
Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth! But why had he returned so suddenly from
Riva? And why was he making secret inquiry concerning myself?
"I think I know the gentleman, Browning," I replied, while the
faithful old fellow stood, a quaint, stout figure in a rather
tight-fitting coat and grey trousers, his white-whiskered face full of
mystery. I fancy Browning viewed me with considerable suspicion. In
his eyes, "young Mr. Owen" had always been far too erratic. On many
occasions in my boyhood days he had expressed to my father his strong
disapproval of what he termed "Master Owen's carryings-on."
"If he should call again, tell him that I have a very great desire to
renew our acquaintance. I met him abroad," I said.
"Very well, sir," replied my man. "But I don't suppose he will call
again, sir. I was rude to him."
"Your rudeness was perfectly justifiable, Browning. Please refuse to
answer any questions concerning me."
"I know my duty, sir," was the old man's stiff reply, "and I hope I
shall always perform it."
And he retired, closing the door silently behind him.
With my elbows upon the table, I sat thinking deeply.
Had I not acted like a fool? Those strange words, and that curious
promise of Sylvia Pennington sounded ever in my ears. She had
succeeded in inducing me to return home by promising to meet me
clandestinely in England. Why clandestinely?
Before me every moment that I now lived arose that pale, beautiful
face--that exquisite countenance with the wonderful eyes--that face
which had held me in fascination, that woman who, indeed, held me now
for life or death.
In those ten days which had passed, the first days of my
home-coming after my long absence, I knew, by the blankness of our
separation--though I would not admit it to myself--that she was my
affinity. I was hers. She, the elegant little wanderer, possessed me,
body and soul. I felt for her a strong affection, and affection is the
half-and-half of love.
Why had her friend, that thin-faced country clergyman, called?
Evidently he was endeavouring to satisfy himself as to my _bona
fides_. And yet, for what reason? What had I to do with him? She had
told me that she owed very much to that man. Why, however, should he
interest himself in me?
I took down a big black volume from the shelf--_Crockford's
Clerical Directory_--and from it learned that Edmund Charles
Talbot Shuttleworth, M.A., was rector of the parish of
Middleton-cum-Bowbridge, near Andover, in the Bishopric of Winchester.
He had held his living for the past eight years, and its value was
£550 per annum. He had had a distinguished career at Cambridge, and
had been curate in half-a-dozen places in various parts of the
country.
I felt half inclined to run down to Middleton and call upon him. I
could make some excuse or other, for I felt that he might, perhaps,
give me some further information regarding the mysterious Pennington
and his daughter.
Yet, on further reflection, I hesitated, for I saw that by acting thus
I might incur Sylvia's displeasure.
During the three following days I remained much puzzled. I deeply
regretted that Browning had treated the country parson abruptly, and
wondered whether I could not make excuse to call by pretending to
express regret for the rudeness of my servant.
I was all eagerness to know something concerning this man Pennington,
and was prepared even to sink my own pride in order to learn it.
Jack Marlowe was away in Copenhagen, and would not return for a week.
In London I had many friends, but there were few who interested me,
for I was ever thinking of Sylvia--of her only and always.
At last, one morning I made up my mind, and, leaving Waterloo,
travelled down to Andover Junction, where I hired a trap, and, after
driving through the little old-fashioned town out upon the dusty
London Road for a couple of miles or so, I came to the long straggling
village of Middleton, at the further end of which stood the ancient
little church, and near it the comfortable old-world rectory.
Entering the gateway, I found myself in pretty, well-wooded and
well-kept grounds; the house itself, long, low, and covered with
trailing roses, was a typical English country rectory. Beyond that lay
a paddock, while in the distance the beautiful Harewood Forest showed
away upon the skyline.
Yes, Mr. Shuttleworth was at home, the neat maid told me, and I was
ushered into a long old-fashioned study, the French windows of which
opened out upon a well-rolled tennis-lawn.
The place smelt of tobacco-smoke. Upon the table lay a couple of
well-seasoned briars, and on the wall an escutcheon bearing its
owner's college arms. Crossed above the window was a pair of
rowing-sculls, and these, with a pair of fencing-foils in close
proximity, told mutely of long-past athletics. It was a quiet,
book-lined den, an ideal retreat for a studious man.
As my eyes travelled around the room, they suddenly fell upon a
photograph in a dark leather frame, the picture of a young girl of
seventeen or so, with her hair dressed low and secured by a big black
bow. I started at sight of it. It was the picture of Sylvia
Pennington!
I crossed to look at it more closely, but as I did so the door opened,
and I found myself face to face with the rector of Middleton.
He halted as he recognized me--halted for just a second in hesitation;
then, putting out his hand, he welcomed me, saying in his habitual
drawl--
"Mr. Biddulph, I believe?" and invited me to be seated.
"Ah!" I exclaimed, with a smile, "I see you recognize me, though we
were only passers-by on the Lake of Garda! I must apologize for this
intrusion, but, as a matter of fact, my servant Browning described a
gentleman who called upon me a few days ago, and I at once recognized
him to have been you. He was rather rude to you, I fear, and----"
"My dear fellow!" he interrupted, with a hearty, good-natured laugh.
"He only did his duty as your servant. He objected to my infernal
impertinence--and very rightly, too."
"It was surely no impertinence to call upon me!" I exclaimed.
"Well, it's all a question of one's definition of impertinence," he
said. "I made certain inquiries--rather searching inquiries regarding
you--that was all."
"Why?" I asked.
He moved uneasily in his padded writing-chair, then reached over and
placed a box of cigarettes before me. After we had both lit up, he
answered in a rather low, changed voice--
"Well, I wanted to satisfy myself as to who you were, Mr. Biddulph,"
he laughed. "Merely to gratify a natural curiosity."
"That's just it," I said. "Why should your curiosity have been aroused
concerning me? I do not think I have ever made a secret to any one
regarding my name or my position, or anything else."
"But you might have done, remember," replied the thin-faced rector,
looking at me calmly yet mysteriously with those straight grey eyes of
his.
"I don't follow you, Mr. Shuttleworth," I said, much puzzled.
"Probably not," was his response; "I had no intention to obtrude
myself upon you. I merely called at Wilton Street in order to learn
what I could, and I came away quite satisfied, even though your
butler spoke so sharply."
"But with what motive did you make your inquiries?" I demanded.
"Well, as a matter of fact, my motive was in your own interests, Mr.
Biddulph," he replied, as he thoughtfully contemplated the end of his
cigarette. "This may sound strange to you, but the truth, could I but
reveal it to you, would be found much stranger--a truth utterly
incredible."
"The truth of what?"
"The truth concerning a certain young lady in whom, I understand, you
have evinced an unusual interest," was his reply.
I could see that he was slightly embarrassed. I recollected how he had
silently watched us on that memorable night by the moonlit lake, and a
feeling of resentment arose within me.
"Yes," I said anxiously next moment, "I am here to learn the truth
concerning Miss Pennington. Tell me about her. She has explained to me
that you are her friend--and I see, yonder, you have her photograph."
"It is true," he said very slowly, in a low, earnest voice, "quite
true, Son--er, Sylvia--is my friend," and he coughed quickly to
conceal the slip in the name.
"Then tell me something about her, and her father. Who is he?" I
urged. "At her request I left Gardone suddenly, and came home to
England."
"At her request!" he echoed in surprise. "Why did she send you away
from her side?"