THOU ART THE MAN.
The next day was Sunday. George Gerard was up as soon as it was light,
and off for a ramble on the moor before the nine o’clock breakfast.
This glimpse of the country was sweet to him, even in the bleak January
weather, and he wanted to make the most of his brief opportunity. When
he came back to the Vicarage after his walk, he found Edward Clare
smoking a cigar in the shrubbery.
‘What a fellow you are to be rambling about in such wintry weather!’
cried Edward, by way of salutation. ‘I want a few minutes’ talk
before we go in to breakfast. We may not get a chance of being alone
afterwards. Celia is so fussy on Sunday mornings. I should like you to
go to church with us, if you don’t object?’
‘I had made up my mind to go. I hope you don’t suppose I have an
antipathy to churches?’
‘One never knows how that may be. I don’t imagine there’s much
church-going among young professional men in London.’
‘I used to escort my mother to church every Sunday morning when I was
a little boy, and those were my happiest days. If I didn’t like the
Sunday morning service for its own sake, I should like it because it
puts me in mind of her.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Edward, ‘I dare say when a fellow loses his mother early
in life he feels sentimental about her ever afterwards. But when a
mother gets to the elderly and twaddly age, one may be fond of her, but
one can’t feel poetical about her. I’ll tell you why I want you to go
to church with us, Gerard. John Treverton is sure to be there. It will
be a capital opportunity for you to take stock of him. Our pew is just
opposite the Manor House pew. You’ll have him in full view all through
the service.’
‘Very good,’ assented Gerard. ‘If this Mr. Treverton and Jack Chicot
are the same, I shall know him wherever I see him.’
Celia was in excellent spirits all breakfast-time, and poured out
tea and coffee with a vivacity and a grace worthy of French comedy.
The presence of a strange young man had a wonderfully brightening
influence. Celia felt grateful to her brother for having afforded this
unaccustomed variety in the monotonous course of rural life. She took
more pains than usual in putting on her bonnet for church, though that
was an operation which she always performed carefully; and she happened
somehow to be walking by Mr. Gerard’s side for the few hundred yards
between the Vicarage and the lych-gate.
The Vicarage party were amongst the first arrivals. There were only
the charity children in the gallery, and a few gaffers and goodies in
the free seats. The gentry dropped in slowly. Here was Mr. Sampson,
the lawyer, looking his sandiest, accompanied by Miss Sampson, in a
distinctly new bonnet. Here was Lady Barker, short and fat and puffy,
in an ancient velvet mantle, bordered with brown fur, like a common
councillor’s cloak on Lord Mayor’s Day, and with a bonnet that reached
the climax of dowdiness--but when one is Lady Barker, and has lived in
the same house for five-and-thirty years, it matters very little what
one wears.
Here came the Pugsleys, the retired ironmonger and his wife, from
Beechampton, Mrs. Pugsley positively gorgeous in velvet and sable, and
with a bird of many colours in her bonnet. Next arrived Mrs. Daracott,
the rich widow, whose husband was the largest tenant farmer in the
district, and who looked as if all Hazlehurst belonged to her; and
here, after a sprinkling of nobodies, came John Treverton and his wife.
The Vicar gave out a New Year’s hymn two minutes after this last
arrival, and the congregation rose.
‘The man is marvellously changed,’ George Gerard said to himself as he
stood face to face with John Treverton, ‘but he is the man I knew in
Cibber Street, and no other.’
Yes, it was Jack Chicot. Happiness had given new life and colour to
the face, prosperity had softened the harshness of its outline. The
hollow cheeks had filled, the haggard eyes had recovered the glory and
gladness of youth. But the man was there--the same man in whose face
Gerard had looked a year and a half ago, reading the secret of his
loveless marriage.
Did he look like an undetected murderer? Did he look like a man
tormented by remorse, weighed down with the burden of a guilty secret?
Assuredly not. He had the straight outlook of one whose conscience is
clear, whose heart is free from guile. If he were verily guilty, he
must be the prince of hypocrites.
His wife was at his side, and George Gerard looked at her with painful
interest. What a lovely, trustful face, radiant with innocence and
contentment! And was this guileless creature to be made wretched by the
knowledge of her husband’s deceit? Was her heart to be broken in order
that John Treverton should be punished?
Edward Clare had said that it was for her sake he wanted to know the
truth about her husband, it was that she might be rescued from a
degrading alliance, protected from a man who was at heart a villain.
George Gerard watched the husband and wife at intervals during the
service. He could see nothing but placid content, a mind at ease, in
the face of John Treverton. The idea of this freedom from care on the
part of him who had been La Chicot’s husband embittered Gerard.
‘Had that woman been my wife I should have been sorry for her cruel
fate; I should have mourned for her honestly, in spite of her
degradation. But had she been my wife, she would never have sunk so
low. I would have made it the business of my life to have saved her.’
Thus argued the man who had passionately loved the beautiful, soulless
woman, and who had never comprehended the emptiness of her mind and
heart.
Once in the progress of the service John Treverton looked across the
aisle, and saw the stern gray eyes watching him. In that one glance
Gerard saw that he was recognised.
‘What will he do if we meet presently?’ Gerard asked himself. ‘He’ll
cut me dead, no doubt.’
They did meet, for in leaving the church porch Laura stopped to talk to
Mrs. Clare and Celia. Edward and his friend were close behind.
‘Is it the man?’ Edward asked, in a whisper.
‘Yes,’ answered Gerard.
They went along the churchyard path together, and at the gates there
was a pause. Laura wanted the Vicarage party to go to luncheon at the
Manor House, but Mrs. Clare declined. Of course the children could do
what they liked, she said; as if her children had ever done anything
else since they had emerged from the helplessness of infancy. Even in
their cradles they had had wills of their own.
Celia looked at her brother, and saw by a warning twitch of his
eyebrows that she was to say no.
‘I think we had better go home to luncheon,’ she said meekly. ‘Papa
likes us to be at home on Sundays.’
Then she gave her brother’s sleeve a little tug.
‘You haven’t introduced Mr. Gerard,’ she whispered.
‘Ah, to be sure. Mr. Gerard, Mrs. Treverton, Mr. Treverton.’
‘Mr. Gerard and I have met before, under circumstances that made me
deeply indebted to him,’ said John Treverton, holding out his hand.
Gerard lifted his hat, but appeared not to see the offered hand. This
unexpected frankness took him by surprise. He had been prepared for
anything rather than for John Treverton’s acknowledgment of their past
acquaintance.
It was a bold stroke if the man were guilty; but Gerard’s experience
had taught him that guilt is generally bold.
‘I should be glad of ten minutes’ talk with you, Mr. Gerard,’ said
Treverton. ‘Will you walk my way?’
‘We’ll all walk as far as the Manor House,’ said Celia. ‘We need not be
home till two, need we, mother?’
‘No, dear, but be sure you are punctual,’ answered the good-natured
mother. ‘I shall say good-bye, Laura, my dear.’
While Laura lingered a little to take leave of Mrs. Clare, Treverton
and Gerard walked on in front of Celia and her brother, along the
frost-bound road, under the leafless elms.
‘The world is much smaller than I took it to be,’ John Treverton
began, after a pause, ‘or you and I would hardly meet in such an
out-of-the-way corner of it as this.’
Gerard said nothing.
‘Were you not surprised to see me in so altered a position?’ the other
asked, after an uncomfortable pause.
‘Yes, I was certainly surprised.’
‘I am going to appeal to your kind feeling--nay, to your honour. My
wife knows nothing of my past life, save that it was wild and foolish.
You know too well what degradation there was for me in my first
marriage. I am not going to speak ill of the dead----’
‘Pray do not,’ interposed Gerard, very pale.
‘But I must speak plainly. When you knew me I was a most miserable man.
I have stood upon one of the bridges many a night, and thought that
the best thing I could do with myself was to drop quietly over. Well,
Providence cut the knot for me--in a terrible manner--but still the
knot was cut. I have profited by my release. Fate has been very kind to
me. My wife is the dearest and noblest of women. To pluck the veil from
my past history would be to give her infinite pain. I ask you, then, as
a gentleman, as a man of honour, to keep my secret and to spare her and
me.’
‘And you,’ said Gerard bitterly. ‘Yes, it is doubtless of yourself you
think when you ask me to be silent. To spare you? Did you pity or spare
the wretched creature who loved you fondly even in her degradation?
As for your secret, as you call it, it is no secret. Mr. Clare, the
Vicar’s son, knows as well as I do that John Chicot and John Treverton
are one and the same.’
‘He knows it? Edward Clare?’
‘Yes.’
‘Since when?’
‘Positively, since this morning in church. He had his suspicions
before. This morning I was able to confirm them.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ said John Treverton, after they had walked a few
paces in silence. ‘I am sorry for it. I had hoped that part of my life
was dead and buried--that no phantom from that hateful past would ever
arise to haunt my innocent young wife. It is very hard upon me; it is
harder upon her.’
‘There are some ghosts not easily laid,’ returned Gerard. ‘I should
think the ghost of a murdered wife was one of them.’
‘Edward Clare is no friend to me,’ pursued Treverton, hardly hearing
Gerard’s remark. ‘He will make the most malicious use of this knowledge
that he can. He will tell my wife.’
‘Might he not do something worse than that?’
‘What?’
‘What if he were to tell the police where Chicot, the wife-murderer, is
to be found?’
‘My God!’ cried Treverton, turning upon the speaker with a look of
horror. ‘You do not think me that?’
‘Unhappily, I do.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘First, on the strength of your cowardly conduct that night. Why should
you shirk the responsibility of your position if you were not guilty?
Your flight was damning evidence against you. Surely you must have
known that when you fled?’
‘I ought to have known it, perhaps; but I thought of nothing except how
best and quickest to escape from the entanglement which had been the
bane and blight of my manhood. My wife was dead. Those glassy eyes,
with their awful look of horror--that marble hand--told me that life
had been gone for hours. What good could I do by remaining? Attend
an inquest at which the story of my life would be ripped up for the
delight of every gossip-monger in the kingdom; until I, John Treverton,
_alias_ Chicot, stood face to face with the world, so tainted and
infected that no innocent woman could own me as her husband? What good
to me, to that poor dead woman, or to society at large, could have come
of my cross-examination at the inquest?’
‘This much good, at least: your innocence--if you are innocent--might
have been made manifest. As it is, the inferences are all in favour of
your guilt.’
‘How could I have proved my innocence? I could have offered no stronger
proof at the inquest than I offer you now--my own word, the word of
a man who at his worst never stooped to dishonour. I tell you face
to face, as man to man, that I never lifted my hand against my wife:
never, even when words were bitter between us, and of late we had many
bitter words. I tried, honestly, to save her from her own weakness.
The day had been when I was fond of her, in a reckless way, never
looking forward to the future, or thinking what kind of a couple she
and I would be when age had sobered us, and life had grown real and
serious. No, Mr. Gerard, I am not a cruel man; and though the fetters
hung heavily upon me I should never have striven to set myself free.
When I saw those people--Desrolles and the two women--standing round me
that night, it flashed upon me all at once that in their eyes I might
look like a murderer. And then I foresaw suspicion, difficulties of all
kinds, and above all that which I most dreaded, a hideous notoriety. If
I stayed all this was inevitable. I might escape everything if I could
get away. At that moment I considered only my own interest. I saw as it
were a gate standing open leading into a new world. Was I very much to
blame if I took advantage of my chance, and left my old life behind me?’
‘No man can leave his past life behind him,’ answered Gerard. ‘If you
are innocent I am sorry for you; as I should be sorry for any innocent
man who had acted so as to seem guilty. I am still more sorry for your
wife.’
‘Yes, you have need to be sorry for her,’ said Treverton, with a quiet
anguish that touched even the man who thought him guilty. ‘God help
her, poor girl! We have been very happy together: but if Edward Clare
holds our happiness in his hand our peaceful days are at an end.’
They were at the Manor House gate by this time, and here they stopped
and waited in silence for the others to join them. Celia and Laura had
been talking together merrily, while Edward walked beside them, silent
and thoughtful.
John Treverton shook hands with Celia, but he only gave Edward a curt
nod of adieu.
‘Good morning, Mr. Gerard,’ he said, with cold courtesy. ‘Come, Laura,
if Celia has made up her mind to go home to luncheon we mustn’t detain
her.’
‘Duty prevails over inclination,’ said Celia laughingly. ‘If I were to
come to the Manor House I should forget my Sunday school work. From
three to four o’clock I have to give my mind to Scripture history. How
dreadfully absorbed you look, Mr. Gerard!’ she exclaimed, struck by the
surgeon’s thoughtful aspect. ‘Have you any serious case in London that
is preying upon your mind?’
‘I have plenty of serious cases, Miss Clare, but I was not thinking
of them just then,’ he answered, smiling at her piquant little face,
turned to him interrogatively. ‘My patients are mostly sufferers from
an incurable malady.’
‘Good gracious, poor things! Is it an epidemic?’
‘No, a chronic disorder--poverty.’
‘Oh, poor souls, then I’m sure I pity them. I’ve been subject to
occasional attacks towards the end of the quarter ever since I’ve been
an independent being with a fixed allowance.’
They were walking homewards by this time, Edward in the rear.
‘Now, do you seriously think, Miss Clare, that a young lady, living in
her father’s house, with every want provided for, can know the meaning
of the word poverty?’
‘Certainly I do, Mr. Gerard. But I must tell you that you start upon
false premises. Young ladies living in their fathers’ houses have
not always every want provided for. I have known what it is to be
desperately in want of six-button gloves, and not to be able to get
them.’
‘You have never known what it is to want bread.’
‘I’m not particularly fond of bread,’ said Celia, ‘but I have often had
to complain of the disgusting staleness of the loaf they give us at
luncheon.’
‘Ah, Miss Clare, when I was a student at Marischal College, Aberdeen, I
have seen many a young fellow walking the street in his scarlet gown,
gaunt and hungry-eyed, to whom a hunch of your stale loaf would have
been a luxury. When a Scotch parson sends his son to the University he
is not always able to give him the price of a daily dinner. Well for
the lad if he can be sure of a bowl of porridge for his breakfast and
supper.’
‘Poor dear creatures!’ cried Celia. ‘I’m afraid Edward spends as much
money on gloves and cigars as would keep an economical young man at a
Scotch University--but then he is a poet.’
‘Is a poet necessarily a spendthrift?’
‘Upon my word I don’t know, but poets seem generally given that way,
don’t they? One can hardly expect them to be very careful about pounds,
shillings, and pence. Their heads are in the clouds, and they have no
eyes for the small transactions of daily life.’
After this they walked on for a little while in silence, George Gerard
thoughtfully contemplative of the fair young face, with its mignon
prettiness and frivolous expression.
‘It would be a misfortune, as well as a folly, for a man of my stamp to
admire such a girl as that,’ he told himself; ‘but I may allow myself
to be amused by her.’
A minute afterwards Edward Clare came up to him, and took him by the
arm.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what passed between you and Treverton?’
‘A good deal, yet it amounts to very little. I am sorry for him.’
‘Then you do not believe that he killed his wife?’
‘I don’t know. It is a profound mystery. I should advise you to let
things take their own course. What good will it do for you to make
that poor wife of his miserable? If he is guilty, punishment will come
sooner or later. If he is innocent, it would be a hard thing for you to
persecute him.’
‘What, do you suppose I am such a milksop as to let him go on his way
unquestioned? I, who have loved Laura, and lost her? Suppose him even
innocent of the murder--which is more than I am ready to believe,--he
is guilty of a cruel fraud upon his present wife, of an impudent fraud
upon the trustees to Jasper Treverton’s estate, of whom my father
is one. He has no more right to yonder Manor House than I have. His
marriage with Laura Malcolm is no marriage. Am I to hold my peace,
knowing all this?’
‘To reveal what you know will be to break Mrs. Treverton’s heart, and
to reduce her to beggary. Hardly the act of a friend.’
‘I may give her pain, but I shall not reduce her to beggary. She has a
small income of her own.’
‘And the Manor House estate will be devoted to the creation of an
hospital.’
‘Those are the conditions of Jasper Treverton’s will.’
‘As a professional man I am bound to rejoice; but as a mere human being
I can’t help feeling sorry, for Mrs. Treverton. She seems devoted to
her husband.’
‘Yes,’ answered Edward, ‘he has contrived to hoodwink her; but perhaps
when she knows that John Treverton is Jack Chicot, the ballet-dancer’s
husband, she will be disenchanted.’
Gerard made no reply. He began to understand that personal malignity
was the mainspring of Edward’s anxiety to let in the light upon John
Treverton’s secret. He was almost sorry that he had lent his aid to the
discovery; yet he had ardently desired that justice should be done upon
La Chicot’s murderer. It was only since his recent conversation with
John Treverton that his opinion as to the husband’s guilt had begun to
waver.
He was haunted all the rest of the day by uncomfortable thoughts about
the master of Hazlehurst Manor and his fair young wife; thoughts so
uncomfortable as to prevent his enjoyment of Celia’s lively company,
which had all the charm of novelty to a man whose youth had not been
brightened by girlish society, and whose way of life had been dull, and
hard, and laborious. He was to go back to London next morning by the
first train, and although the Vicar pressed him to remain, and even
Celia put in a kindly word, he stuck to his intention.
‘My practice is not of a kind that will bear being trifled with,’ he
said when he had thanked Mr. Clare for his proffered hospitality. ‘The
few remunerative patients I have would be quick to take offence if they
fancied I neglected them.’
‘But you give yourself a holiday sometimes, I suppose?’ said Mrs.
Clare, whose large maternal heart had a kindly feeling for all young
men, simply because her son belonged to that section of society. ‘You
go to stay with your relations now and then, don’t you?’
‘No, my dear Mrs. Clare, I do not; and for the best of all reasons--I
have no relations. I am the last twig of a withered tree.’
‘How sad!’ replied the Vicar’s wife.
Celia echoed the sigh, and looked compassionately at the surgeon, and
compassion in Celia’s blue eyes was a sentiment no man could afford to
despise.
‘If you will let me come again some day, when I have made a little
progress in my profession, you will be giving me something pleasant to
look forward to,’ said Gerard.
‘My dear fellow, we shall always be glad to see you,’ the Vicar
answered heartily. ‘It strikes me you are the kind of friend my son
wants.’