THE MYSTERY OF THE CLASPED HANDS
* * * * *
GUY BOOTHBY’S NOVELS.
Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
The Mystery of the Clasped Hands.
My Indian Queen.
A Maker of Nations.
Dr. Nikola’s Experiment.
Pharos, the Egyptian.
The Lust of Hate.
The Beautiful White Devil.
Dr. Nikola.
A Bid for Fortune.
The Marriage of Esther.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF THE CLASPED HANDS
A Novel
by
GUY BOOTHBY
Author of Dr. Nikola’s Experiment
Pharos, The Egyptian
My Indian Queen, etc.
[Illustration]
New York
D. Appleton and Company
1901
Copyright, 1901,
By D. Appleton and Company.
CHAPTER I
“I never knew such a fellow as you are for ferreting out these low,
foreign eating-houses,” said Godfrey Henderson to his friend, Victor
Fensden, as they turned from Oxford Street into one of the narrow
thoroughfares in the neighbourhood of Soho. “Why you should take such
trouble, and at the same time do your digestion such irreparable injury,
I can not imagine. There are any number of places where you can get a
chop or steak, free of garlic, in a decent quarter of the Town, to say
nothing of being waited upon by a man who _does_ look as if he had been
brave enough to face the dangers of washing once or twice within five
years.”
His companion only laughed.
“Go on, my friend, go on,” he said, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“You pretend to be a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, but you will remain
insular to the day of your death. To you, a man who does not happen to
be an Englishman must of necessity be dirty, and be possessed of a
willingness to sever your jugular within the first few minutes of your
acquaintance. With regard to the accusation you bring against me, I am
willing to declare, in self-defence, that I like burrowing about among
the small restaurants in this quarter, for the simple reason that I meet
men who are useful to me in my work, besides affording me food for
reflection.”
The taller man grunted scornfully.
“Conspirators to a man,” he answered. “Nihilists, Anarchists, members of
the Mafia, the Camorristi, and the Carbonari. Some day you will enter
into an argument with one of them and a knife thrust between your ribs
will be the result.”
“It may be so,” returned Victor Fensden, with a shrug of his narrow
shoulders. “Better that, however, than a life of stolid British
priggishness. How you manage to paint as you do when you have so little
of the romantic in your temperament, is a thing I can not for the life
of me understand. That a man who rows, plays football and cricket, and
who will walk ten miles to see a wrestling match or a prize fight,
should be gifted with such a sense of colour and touch, is as great a
mystery to me as the habits of the ichthyosaurus.”
And indeed, what Fensden said was certainly true. Godfrey Henderson, one
of the most promising of our younger painters, was as unlike the popular
notion of an artist as could well be found. He had rowed stroke in his
’Varsity boat, had won for himself a fair amount of fame as a good
all-round athlete, and at the same time had painted at least three of
the most beautiful pictures--pictures with a subtle touch of poetry in
them--that the public had seen for many years. His height was fully six
feet one and a half, his shoulders were broad and muscular; he boasted a
pleasant and open countenance, such a one in fact as makes one feel
instinctively that its owner is to be trusted. Taken altogether, a
casual observer would have declared him to be a young country Squire,
and few would have guessed that the greater portion of his life was
spent standing before an easel, palette and brush in hand.
Victor Fensden, his companion, was of an altogether different stamp. He
was at least three inches shorter, was slimly built, and at first
glance would appear to possess a highly nervous and delicate
constitution. In his dress he also differed from his friend. His taste
betrayed a partiality for velvet coats; his ties were usually startling,
so far as colour went; he wore his hair longer than is customary, and
further adorned his face with a neat little Vandyke beard and mustache.
Like Henderson he was also a votary of the brush. His pictures, however,
were of the impressionist order--pretty enough in their way, but lacking
in form, and a trifle vague as to colouring. On occasions he wrote
poetry. There were some who said he was not sincere, that his pictures
were milk-and-water affairs, suggestive of the works of greater men, and
only intended to advertise himself. If that were so, the success they
achieved was comparative. Sad to relate, there were people in London who
had not heard the name of Victor Fensden; while the walls of the
Academy, which he affected so much to despise, had not so far been
honoured by his patronage. “The whole thing,” he would say, adopting the
language of our American cousins, “is controlled by a Business Ring; the
Hanging Committee and the dealers stand in with each other. If you
prefer to do bad work deliberately, or at any rate are content to be
commonplace, then you’re safe for admission. But if you prefer to do
something which may, or may not, please the multitude, but which will
last longer than Burlington House, or the National Gallery itself, then
you must be content to remain outside.” After this tirade, regardless of
the implied sneer at his work, Godfrey would laugh and turn the matter
off by proposing dinner, luncheon, or some other distraction. He knew
the value of his own work, and was content to estimate it accordingly.
Having reached the end of the street down which they had been walking,
when the conversation already described occurred, they found themselves
before the entrance to a small eating-house. One glance was sufficient
to show that it was of the foreign order, so derided by Henderson a few
moments ago before. They entered and looked about them. The room was
long and narrow, and contained some ten or a dozen small tables, three
or four of which were already occupied. Pictures of the German school,
apparently painted by the yard, and interspersed with gaudy portraits of
King Humbert with his mustache, Victor Emmanuel with his wealth of
orders, the latter cheek by jowl with Mr. Garibaldi in his felt hat,
decorated the walls. The proprietor, a small, tubby individual, with the
blackest of black hair and eyes, and an olive skin that glistened like
the marble tops of the tables, came forward to welcome them. At his
request they seated themselves and gave their orders.
“What enjoyment you can find in this sort of thing I can not imagine,”
repeated Henderson, almost irritably, as he looked about him. “If you
take a pleasure in macaroni and tomato, and find poetry in garlic and
_sauer-kraut_, the divine instinct must be even more highly developed in
you than your warmest admirers believe. We might have gone to the club
and have had a decent meal there.”
“And have had to listen to a lot of supercilious young idiots chattering
about what they are pleased to call ‘their work,’” the other replied.
“No, no, we are better off here. Set your imagination to work, my dear
fellow, and try to believe yourself in Florence, with the moonlight
streaming down on the Ponte Vecchio; or in Naples, and that you can hear
the waves breaking up on the rock under the Castello del Ovo. You might
even be listening to _Funiculi-Finicula_ for the first time.”
“Confound you! I never know whether you are serious or not,” replied
Godfrey. “Is it a joke you’re bringing me here to-night, or have you
some definite object in view?”
He looked across the table at his companion as if he were anxious to
assure himself upon this point before he said anything further.
“What if I _had_ an object?” the other answered. “What if I wanted to do
you a good turn, and by asking you to come here to-night were able to
help you in your work?”
“In that case,” Henderson replied, “I should say that it was very kind
of you, but that you have chosen a curious way of showing it. How a low
Italian restaurant in Soho can help me in the work I have on hand I can
not for the life of me understand. Is it possible for you to be more
explicit?”
“If the critics are to be believed you ask too much of me,” Fensden
returned, with one of his quiet laughs. “Are they not always declaring
that my principal fault lies in my being too vague? Seriously, however,
I will confess that I had an object in bringing you here. Have I not
heard you grumbling morning, noon, and night, that the model for your
new picture is about as difficult to find as, well, shall we say, an
honest dealer? Now, I believe that the humble mouse was once able to
assist the lion--forgive the implied compliment--in other words, I think
I have achieved the impossible. It will take too long to tell you how I
managed it, but the fact remains that I have discovered the girl you
want, and what is more, she will be here to-night. If, when you have
seen her, you come to the conclusion that she will not answer your
purpose, then I shall be quite willing to confess that my knowledge of a
beautiful woman is only equal to your appreciation of an Italian dinner
in a cheap Soho restaurant. I have spoken!”
“And so you have really brought me here to eat this villainous
concoction,” Henderson answered, contemptuously regarding the mess
before him, “in order to show me a face that you think may be useful to
me in my work? My dear fellow, you know as well as I do that we think
differently upon such matters. What you have repeatedly declared to be
the loveliest face you have ever seen, I would not sketch upon a canvas;
while another, that haunts me by day and night, does not raise a shadow
of enthusiasm in you. I am afraid you have had your trouble in vain. But
what abominable stuff this is to be sure! Order some wine, for pity’s
sake.”
A flask of chianti was brought them, and later some goat’s milk cheese.
Upon the latter, bad as it was, Henderson elected to dine. He had barely
finished what was placed before him when an exclamation from his
companion caused him to turn his head in the direction of the door. Two
women were entering the restaurant at the moment, and were approaching
the table at which the young men sat. The elder was a stout and matronly
party, dark of eye, swarthy of skin, and gorgeous in her colouring, so
much so, indeed, that not the slightest doubt could have existed as to
her nationality. She was a daughter of Italy from the top of her head to
the soles of her ample feet. Her companion, however, was modelled on
altogether different lines. She was tall, graceful, and so beautiful, in
a statuesque way, that Henderson felt his heart thrill with pleasure at
the sight of her. Here was the very woman he had been so anxious to
discover. If he had hunted the Continent of Europe through, he could not
have found any one better suited to the requirements of the work he had
in hand. Since it was plain that it was she for whom Fensden was
waiting, it looked as if their tastes, for once, were likely to be the
same.
“What a perfect face!” exclaimed Godfrey, more to himself than to his
companion. “At any hazard, I must induce her to sit to me.”
Fensden looked at his friend’s face, made a note of the admiration he
saw there, and smiled to himself.
“What did I tell you?” he inquired with a note of triumph in his voice.
“You pooh-poohed the notion that I should ever be able to find you a
model. What do you say now?”
“She is perfect,” Henderson replied. “Just look at the eyes, the
beautiful contour of the face, the shapely neck and the hands! Great
Scott! what is a woman of her class doing with such hands? Where did you
meet her?”
“In another of my contemptible restaurants,” Fensden answered. “Directly
I saw her, I said to myself: ‘This is the model for Godfrey!’ I made
inquiries about her, and, finding that she was willing to sit, made an
appointment to meet her here this evening.”
By this time Godfrey’s antagonism had entirely left him. His only desire
now was to secure this woman, and, with her assistance, to complete his
masterpiece. As soon as the doors of Burlington House were thrown open,
that face should look down upon the picture-lovers of England, or he’d
never touch a brush again.
The two women, by this time, had seated themselves at another table; and
it was almost with a sense of disappointment that Godfrey observed his
ideal commence her meal. To watch her filling her pretty mouth to
overflowing with steaming macaroni was not a pleasing sight. It was too
human and too suggestive of a healthy appetite to harmonize with the
poetic framework in which his imagination had already placed her.
When the ladies had finished their meal, the two young men left their
own table and crossed the room to that at which they were seated.
Fensden said something in Italian, which elicited a beaming smile from
the elder lady, and a gesture of approval from her companion. It was not
the first time in his life that Godfrey Henderson had had occasion to
wish he had taken advantage of the opportunities he had had of acquiring
a knowledge of that melodious language.
“The signora declares that there is no occasion for us to speak Italian,
since she is an accomplished English scholar,” said Fensden, with a
sarcastic touch that was not lost upon Henderson.
“The signorina also speaks our villainous tongue as well as if she had
been born and bred within the sound of Bow Bells.”
At this supposed compliment, the elder lady smiled effusively, while her
daughter looked gravely from one man to the other as if she were not
quite sure of the value to be placed upon what Fensden had said. Having
received permission, the two men seated themselves at the table, and
Henderson ordered another flask of wine. Under its influence their
acquaintance ripened rapidly. It was not, however, until they had been
talking some little time, that the all-important subject was broached.
“And it is Teresina’s portrait that your friend would paint, signor?”
said the elder lady, turning to Fensden. “And why not? ’Tis a beautiful
face, though I, her mother, say it. If the signor will make the--what
you call it--’rangements, it shall be as he wishes.”
Less than a minute was sufficient to place the matter on a satisfactory
basis, and it was thereupon settled that the Signorina Cardi should
attend at the studio at a certain hour every week-day until the picture
was finished. Matters having been arranged in this eminently friendly
fashion, the meeting broke up, and with many bows and compliments on
Fensden’s and the signora’s parts, they bade each other adieu. A few
minutes later, the two young men found themselves once more in the
street.
“My dear fellow, I don’t know how to thank you,” said Henderson. “I’ve
been worrying myself more than I can say at not being able to find the
face I wanted. I owe you ten thousand apologies.”
But Fensden would not hear of such a thing as an apology. His only
desire was that the picture should be successful, he said.
“I had no idea that he was so fond of me,” Henderson remarked to himself
that night when he was alone in his bedroom. “Fancy his hunting through
London for a model for me. He is the last man I should have thought
would have taken the trouble.”
Next morning Teresina entered upon her duties, and Godfrey set to work
with more than his usual enthusiasm. The picture was to be his _magnum
opus_, the greatest effort he had yet given to the world. The beautiful
Italian proved to be a good sitter, and her delight as the picture grew
upon the canvas was not to be concealed. Meanwhile Fensden smoked
innumerable cigarettes, composed _fin-de-siècle_ poems in her honour,
and made a number of impressionist studies of her head that his friends
declared would eventually astonish artistic London. At last the picture
was finished and sent in. Then followed that interval of anxious
waiting, so well known to those who have striven for such honours as the
Academy has to bestow. When it was announced that it had passed the
first and second rejections great was the rejoicing in the studio.
“It is your face that has done it, Teresina,” cried Godfrey. “I knew
they wouldn’t be able to resist that.”
“Nay, nay,” said the signora, who was present, “such compliments will
turn the child’s head. Her face would not be there but for the signor’s
cleverness. Well do I remember that when Luigi Maffoni painted the
portrait of Monsignore----”
No one heeded her, so she continued the narrative in an undertone to the
cat on her lap. The day, however, was not destined to end as happily as
it had begun. That evening, when they were alone together in the studio,
Fensden took Godfrey to task.
“Dear boy,” he said, as he helped himself to a cigarette from a box on
the table beside him, “I have come to the conclusion that you must go
warily. There are rocks ahead, and, from what I see, you are running
straight for them.”
“What on earth is the matter now?” Godfrey asked, stretching himself out
in an easy chair as he spoke. “I know the poise of that head is not
quite what it might be, but haven’t I promised you that I’ll alter it
to-morrow? Teresina is the very best model in the world, and as patient
as she’s beautiful.”
“That’s exactly what I am complaining of,” Victor answered, quietly. “If
she were not, I should not bother my head about her. I feel, in a
measure, responsible, don’t you see? If it hadn’t been for me, she would
not be here.”
The happiness vanished from Godfrey’s face as a breath first blurs and
then leaves the surface of a razor.
“I am afraid I don’t quite grasp the situation,” he said. “You surely
don’t suppose that I am falling in love with Teresina--with my model?”
“I am quite aware that you’re not,” the other answered. “There is my
trouble. If you _were_ in love with her, there might be some hope for
her. But as it is there is none.”
Henderson stared at him in complete surprise.
“Have you gone mad?” he asked.
“No one was ever saner,” Fensden replied. “Look here, Godfrey, can’t you
see the position for yourself? Here is this beautiful Italian girl, whom
you engaged through my agency. You take her from beggary, and put her in
a position of comparative luxury. She has sat to you day after day,
smiled at your compliments, and--well, to put it bluntly, has had every
opportunity and encouragement given her to fall head over ears in love
with you. Is it quite fair, do you think, to let it go on?”
Godfrey was completely taken aback.
“Great Scott! You don’t mean to say you think I’m such a beast as to
encourage her?” he cried. “You know as well as I do that I have behaved
toward her only as I have done to all the other models before her.
Surely you would wish me to be civil to the girl, and try to make her
work as pleasant as possible for her? If you think I’ve been a
blackguard, say so outright!”
“My dear Godfrey, nothing could be further from my thoughts,” answered
Fensden in his usual quiet voice, that one of his friends once compared
to the purring of a cat. “I should be a poor friend, however, if I were
to allow you to go on as you are going without an expostulation. Can not
you look at it in the same light as I do? Are you so blind that you can
not see that this girl is falling every day more deeply in love with
you? The love-light gleams in her eyes whenever she looks at you; she
sees an implied caress even in the gentle pats you give her drapery,
when you arrange it on the stage there; a tender solicitude for her
welfare when you tell her to hurry home before it rains. What is the end
of it all to be? I suppose you do not intend making her your wife?”
“My wife?” said Godfrey, blankly, as if the idea were too preposterous
to have ever occurred to him. “Surely you must be jesting to talk like
this?”
“I am not jesting with you, if you are not jesting with her,” the other
replied. “You must see for yourself that the girl worships the very
ground you walk upon. However, there is still time for matters to be put
right. She has so far only looked at the affair from her own standpoint;
what is more, I do not want her to lose her employment with you, since
it means so much to her. What I do want is, that you should take hold of
yourself in time and prevent her from being made unhappy while you have
the opportunity.”
“You may be quite sure that I will do so,” Henderson replied, more
stiffly than he had yet spoken. “I am more sorry than I can say that
this should have occurred. Teresina is a good girl, and I would no more
think of causing her pain than I would of striking my own sister. And
now I’m off to bed. Good-night.”
True to his promise, his behaviour next day, so far as Teresina was
concerned, was so different that she regarded him with surprise, quite
unable to understand the reason of the change. She thought she must have
offended him in some way, and endeavoured by all the means in her power
to win herself back into his good graces. But the more she tried to
conciliate him, the further he withdrew into his shell. Victor Fensden,
smoking his inevitable cigarette, waited to see what the result would
be. There was a certain amount of pathos in the situation, and a close
observer might have noticed that the strain was telling upon both of the
actors in it, the girl in particular. For the next fortnight or so, the
moral temperature of the studio was not as equable as of old. Godfrey,
who was of too honest a nature to make a good conspirator, chafed at the
part he was being called upon to play, while Teresina, who only knew
that she loved, and that her love was not returned, was divided between
her affections for the man and a feeling of wounded dignity for herself.
“I wish to goodness I could raise sufficient money to get out of London
for six months,” said Godfrey, one evening, as they sat together in the
studio. “I’d be off like a shot.”
Fensden knew why he said this.
“I am sorry I can’t help you,” he replied. “I am about as badly off as
yourself. But surely the great picture sold well?”
“Very well; for me, that is to say,” Godfrey replied. “But I had to part
with most of it next day.”
He did not add that he had sent most of it to his widowed sister, who
was very badly off and wanted help to send her boy to college.
A short silence followed; then Fensden said: “If you had money what
would you do?”
“Go abroad,” said Godfrey quickly. “The strain of this business is more
than I can stand. If I had a few hundreds to spare we’d go together and
not come back for six months. By that time everything would have settled
down to its old normal condition.”
How little did he guess that the very thing that seemed so impossible
was destined to come to pass!