BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
“Mersey Street, sir? Oh, yes; first to the right, second to the left,
and then third to the right.”
Frank Onslow nodded his thanks and hurried away, trying hard to retain
the sequence of rights and lefts in his confused brain; while the
policeman whom he had questioned stood looking after him and beating
his gloves.
“What does he want down Mersey Street? No accounting for these swells.”
Onslow had not noticed the man’s manner, but he could not help
hesitating for a moment as he reached the street named; and he
hesitated again as he paused at the open door of No. 10--open, as he
thought, like a trap.
But the intense desire to test the value of the promised information
bore down everything else; and, forgetting the aspect of the
coarse-looking women and ruffianly men loafing about at public-house
doors and the corners of the streets, he knocked sharply.
“I will not go in,” he said to himself. “Ronny--Fenella--my life may
be of value to them, if it is little to me.”
A hard faced, showily dressed woman of about forty came to the door,
looked him sharply up and down, and before he could speak exclaimed:
“Oh, you’re the gent, are you?”
“What do you mean? Yes, I am the gentleman who was to come here by
appointment.”
“Then you’re too late,” said the woman sourly. “She’s gone.”
“She--has--gone?” faltered Onslow. “The appointment was at four
o’clock. It is not ten minutes past.”
“I can’t help that. She came back in a hurry in a cab, fetched her bag,
and she’s gone.”
“But the--the lady--is coming back?”
“Not likely. If you came you was to be shown into the room she took.
Want to wait?”
“No,” said Onslow shortly, as a strange suspicion flashed through his
brain, and he turned and hurried away.
Had Lucille been saved, and was this some fresh scheme on her part,
some fresh web spinning to entangle him and keep him and Fenella apart?
He shivered slightly as he walked sharply away, feeling that he must by
an accident have escaped from some new peril; and as he walked rapidly
on through the crowded streets he saw nothing but the face of his fair
young wife gazing at him reproachfully, but with a yearning look of
forgiveness in her eyes.
“Yes, there must be forgiveness now,” he muttered feverishly; “I do not
deserve it, but for Ronny’s sake. And she is waiting for me--waiting
till I go to her and on my knees beg her to come, and she will come,
for the sake of our darling boy.”
He was hurrying on with the busy tide of life eddying by his side, but
his eyes had once more assumed their fixed, hypnotic look as he gazed
straight before him, seeing the chamber in which his child lay dying,
as it seemed, his little head tossing from side to side, while his
monotonous, ceaseless cry was for his mother.
He had room but for one thought now, and that was to fetch Fenella to
her boy’s bedside; and as the mental vision faded, and his countenance
resumed its wonted aspect, the influence remained.
He hesitated for a few moments, thinking that he would first return to
the hotel, but feeling that if the boy were worse he would not have the
strength of mind to leave him, he forced himself in the other direction
and made straight for the great station.
“It was madness to expect her to come here,” he kept on muttering. “It
was my duty to fetch her to our child.”
His actions were almost mechanical, but throughout he felt as if some
force other than his own natural impulse was urging him on in all that
followed, though there seemed nothing unusual in the aspect of the
careworn man who spoke to the inspector on the great platform, learned
that the next London express started in half an hour, and then paced
the flags slowly till he could take a ticket and his place in a corner
of one of the coupés.
The rest was dreamlike, and there were times when he became
unconscious. It could hardly be called sleep. And at those moments,
mingled with the rush and roar of the swift train, he could hear
Ronny’s plaintive cry for her who would bring him back to life and
health, while in the faint distance, as if beckoning him onward, there
was Fenella’s sweet, half-reproachful face, waiting, always waiting
until he should come.
Ever the same, whether sunk in repose or awake and staring out at the
blurred landscape, there was Fenella, with her great eyes, silently
calling him to her feet.
Yes, all dreamlike--visionary--of a great station, of a short journey
through the great city, then of the rail once more, and then of the
steamer calmly gliding down Southampton Water. The lights here and
there, then the darkness and the cool, soft, light breeze fanning his
burning temples, as he leaned over the bulwarks forward with fixed
eyes, waiting for the morning and the first glimpse of the sunny
island which he loved.
Always confused and dreamlike, but there were memories of the dancing
waters, of dimly seen white rocks, and of a great blaze of light
flashing out at intervals with electric glare, and seeming to sweep
the sea. Then a long, long period of darkness in a rough, tossing sea,
whose cool spray ever dashed in his face, and at last a pale pearly
gray, changing to a warm glow; then broad sunshine, and at last the
rocky islets and his destination looking a very paradise set in the
deep blue sea.
The sight of the island gave him hope, and his brain cleared for the
time. He saw Fenella placing her hands in his, eager to follow him to
their child, and for one moment he closed his eyes and clung fast to
the vessel’s side, for there was a sensation of joy that turned him
giddy. It seemed greater than he could bear.
The port at last and the tedious landing, for it was low water, but he
sprang down into the first boat that came alongside, and feeling calmer
now, he landed, but, as he stepped ashore, staggered and nearly fell.
A curious feeling of irritation came over him as he saw a man smile,
and he turned upon him resentfully.
“Don’t be cross, sir,” said the man. “You’re not the first who has felt
dizzy after being seasick. You’ll be all right after breakfast.”
“Breakfast!” The man’s words rang in his ears and he remembered that it
was many hours since anything had passed his lips. But he thought no
more of his growing weakness, and had himself driven to the rose-hung
cottage where Fenella was waiting for him with outstretched hands.
How long the time seemed, and how misty and dim everything looked. The
sun shone brilliantly, but there was a something pressing, as it were,
upon his brain, a strange pain too at his heart, and that feeling of
faintness which seemed to overcome him from time to time.
At last! The cottage where he had left her--his darling--yes, the only
woman he had ever loved; and he sat up eager to spring out--to tell her
that his mission had been faithfully performed. But he had to avail
himself of the driver’s arm and totter up to the door, his eyes wildly
searching the window for Fenella’s face.
Then once more, as in a dream, someone meeting him and a voice
speaking: “The lady? No, sir, she left here in the bad weather, two
days ago, by the boat.”
Onslow heard no more, for a black cloud closed him in, and when he
recovered consciousness he was looking in the pleasant face of the
elderly little doctor who had attended his wife.
“That’s better, my dear sir,” he said. “You are suffering from
exhaustion. That’s right--no, no, you must drink this. You are not used
to the sea, I suppose. It does prostrate some people, and leave them
weak.”
“Mrs.--Lady Onslow--my wife?” gasped the wretched man.
“She has left the island, my dear sir, and really you must---- Good
Heavens! what are you going to do?”
“Return at once,” said Onslow, trying to rise.
“Impossible. You are not fit to travel.”
“Must travel.”
“But there is no boat till to-morrow morning between nine and ten, and
even if there were, believe me, my dear sir, it would be madness. It
is my duty to tell you that you seem to me to be developing symptoms
that----”
The doctor said no more, for Frank Onslow had sunk on the couch
insensible once more, and the next day’s boat had gone when, weak so
that he had to support himself with a stick, he made his way slowly
along the cliffs after dispatching a telegram to Jacynth at the hotel
at Liverpool telling him of his state, of his failure, and imploring
him to send news.
He knew that it would be hours before an answer could come, and to try
and calm himself he was slowly walking along the path, gazing out to
sea at the swiftly coming tide, and thinking of the long period that
had to be got over before he could take boat the next morning, and
escape from what now seemed to him a prison.
Sick at heart and angry at his weakness, he sat down upon one of the
blocks of stone that rose from among the heather just as footsteps
approached from the direction in which he had come, and a strange,
foreign-looking man, thin, ghastly, and whose ragged garments were
hardly hidden under a rough pea-jacket, looked at him sharply as he
passed, and raised his cap, showing his closely cut hair.
Onslow acknowledged his salute, saw in him a beggar, and his hand
involuntarily went to his pocket; but the man made a quick gesture, and
passed on.
“One as wretched, perhaps, as I,” thought Onslow; and then, as if moved
by some strange impulse, he rose and followed the man, who somehow had
a strange fascination for him.
The path turned there, and the man disappeared beyond a projecting
rock, but reappeared, sheltering behind the rock, as if to avoid being
seen.
It was curious, but Onslow passed on, and left the man bending
downward, as if to fill a pipe. But the man and his gestures passed out
of Onslow’s thoughts instantly, for, as he went on past the rock in
turn, he stopped short, paralyzed at the sight of a well-dressed lady
approaching him rapidly, leaning down and talking to a little elfish,
sharp-faced peasant child, whom she was leading by one hand, while she
carried a small traveling bag in the other.
“Lucille!” gasped Onslow, as a great dread of some fresh complication
assailed him.
She started, drew herself up erect, and then, with a look of wonder in
her eyes which gave place to a look of delight:
“Ah! _mon chéri_,” she cried. “Then you have followed me?” Then to the
wondering child, “Go back to the cottage, _petite_. I do not want you
yet. I will fetch you soon. The little one of an old friend, Frank,”
she continued.
The handsome, smiling face suddenly turned livid, the jaw dropped, and
with her eyes dilated, Lucille de Vigny stood gazing past Onslow as if
at some spectral object at his back. Then, clutching the bag to her
breast as if to protect herself, she uttered a wild, animal-like cry of
dread, turned and dashed down among the rocks where a precipitous track
led to the sea.
Almost at the same moment a hoarse voice cried to Onslow in French:
“Take care! The poor child! Do not let her see!”
But as the man literally plunged down the track, the child uttered a
piercing shriek, covered her little face with her hands, and dropped
down upon her knees.
Onslow was paralyzed for the moment, and then, as he heard another
cry from below, he forgot his weakness, a thrill of vigor ran through
him, and he staggered to the commencement of the track. The woman was
hateful to him now; he had looked upon her as a serpent in his path,
but still she had loved him in her way. She was a woman, and he could
not stand supine and not raise a hand to defend her from the attack of
the savage-looking wretch whose aspect had filled her with such horror.
He looked to right and left; there was not a soul in sight, while at
his feet the sea came rushing and swirling in amid the wild, jagged
rocks, a wave every now and then rising up and falling with a roar,
scattering the spray high in air.
In his weak state it was madness to attempt the descent, one at which
he would have hesitated even when well and strong, while now, as he
lowered himself down, clinging to rock after rock and grasping at a
handful of the tangled growth among their interstices, he felt that the
thrill of strength was passing rapidly away.
But still he went on, with the thought in his mind that even had
Fenella been present, and known of her enemy’s peril, she would have
urged him to try and save her from this man.
But now he felt that it could not be robbery; it must be something
more; and again, as from below there arose a hoarse, despairing cry
for help, he asked himself, was this another of Lucille’s victims,
and--good Heavens! the thought chilled him with horror. The man refused
his alms--he was no common beggar--did it mean some terrible revenge?
The idea thrilled him with another wave of strength, and he went on
lowering himself down, feeling that those who had gone before must have
fallen. For there was no track now; he was on a precipitous slope,
where a false step would have sent him headlong down to where the waves
were racing in among the broken crags of granite crusted with limpet
and barnacle, and amber, clinging fucus, and among which every now and
then were the long strands of ruddy or olive sea-wrack tossed here and
there, like the shaggy hair of strange sea monsters, coming in with the
tide.
Onslow had lowered himself down till his strength totally failed, and
he sank upon a ledge, giddy with weakness and excitement, as he looked
about him in vain for those he sought.
At that moment a huge wave broke with a heavy, booming roar, and in
the following noise and rush of the waters, he lay down on his chest,
reaching out over the edge of the shelf to peer below, for the chilling
thought came upon him now that both must have reached the bottom and
have been swept away.
A thrill ran through him again for there, not thirty feet below him,
in a complete _cul-de-sac_ among the rocks stood Lucille, her face
toward him, her wrist thrust through the handle of the bag, and her
fingers with her delicate gloves all torn, cramped as it were into the
rough rock on either side, as, with her head thrown back and her body
bowed, she seemed to be at one and the same time clinging desperately
to the rock and forcing herself as far back as she could from the
bareheaded man who stood a couple of paces away, his arms crossed upon
a breast-high stone between them, and his chin upon them as he gazed
with a grim satisfaction at the terror-convulsed face before him.
Onslow grasped the position, and he saw, too, something glitter--it
was the point of a knife which appeared between the rock and the man’s
elbow.
“And I can do no more,” groaned Onslow to himself.
At that moment he made an effort to try and climb down, and a terrible
spasm at his breast made him sink down again, panting.
But his movement had caught Lucille’s eye, and she glanced up wildly
and uttered a shriek.
“Frank! Frank!” she cried; “help, help, he is mad.”
The man looked up and uttered a loud laugh, as he said calmly, in good
English:
“No, monsieur, I am not mad. I am this woman’s fate.”
“No, no,” shrieked Lucille, about whose feet the waves were now
surging, but she dared not stir lest the man should spring upon her
with that knife. “Frank, for God’s sake, help! He will kill me.”
“Yes,” said the man, “as you killed me, body and soul, and buried me in
a dungeon that was like a tomb.”
“No, no!” shrieked Lucille. “Help, Frank! You loved me once.”
“Ha! ha!” cried the man, unfolding his arms, and glaring at Frank.
“Another lover! Poor wretch, I pity you. She has wrecked you as she
wrecked me.”
“No, no,” cried the wretched woman hoarsely. “Help! help!”
“There is no help, woman,” thundered the man. “The end has come.
Monsieur, I claim the right of punishment. I am her husband. Bah! you
can do nothing. It is her fate!”
“And so,” he continued, as he turned his terrible eyes on the shrinking
woman, “you saw me away there yonder, and fled here. Fool! I knew you
would come here to steal away my little Lucille--curse you! Why did I
let her bear your name? You would have stolen her away, not that you
loved her--you never loved, you cannot--and it was to plant another
sting, another poisoned arrow in the breast of the poor trusting wretch
who loved you, idolized you, and committed crime for your sake. But you
could not escape me longer. I followed you from yonder town, I followed
you step by step till I have you here before me dying--do you hear,
wretch--dying before my eyes.”
“No, no, for pity’s sake!” she shrieked, her thin voice hardly rising
above the roar of the coming tide. “Frank, call for help, he will
murder me!”
“Yes--call, monsieur, call loud. There is none to hear. No one can
help her now. This is the time for which I prayed in the cold, silent
dungeon at Clairvaux--for which I prayed as I toiled, and it has
come--come at last. Lucille, dearest wife--ah, how beautiful you
are--will you embrace me once again? Thus, with the knife between us,
the hilt to my breast, the point to thine? Shall we clasp each other in
our arms once more, or shall I wait and see the waves slowly rise, and
rise, and rise till they sweep above your head?”
She uttered no sound now for the moment, but kept her eyes fixed upon
him, while Onslow strove vainly to call for help--to go to the woman’s
aid, but every nerve seemed chained, and he could only gaze down as the
man glided round the rock which parted him from his wife, holding the
knife-hilt against his breast.
Then, heard above the roar of the waves, Lucille’s voice rang out
inarticulately as she still clung there, her back to the rock, her arms
outstretched. It was the cry of the rat driven to the corner from which
there is no escape, and in his agony Onslow lay there, watching the
_dénouement_ of the tragedy, perfectly helpless to save.