After leaving Teresina, Godfrey made his way back to his hotel. As he
strode along he meditated as to what he should do to help her. That the
girl was in serious trouble, he had not the least doubt; but since she
would not allow him to assist her in any form, what could he do?
He had been through a good deal that day, and by the time he reached his
hotel he was quite worn out. The night porter who admitted him noticed
his haggard appearance.
“You don’t look very well, sir,” he said, sympathetically; “is there
anything I can do for you?”
“If you could manage to get me a brandy and soda, I should be very much
obliged,” Godfrey said, as he dropped into one of the seats in the hall.
“I will do so with pleasure, sir,” the man replied, and disappeared at
once in search of the refreshment, which he very soon brought back.
Godfrey drank it off, and then announced his intention of proceeding at
once to bed.
“Poor little Teresina!” he said to himself as he wound up his watch;
“poor little girl, it seems a shame that she should suffer so!”
Little did he guess that at that moment Teresina’s troubles were over,
that she would never know sorrow or poverty again.
Next morning he returned to Detwich by an early train. Though he had
only been absent from it a little more than twenty-four hours, it seemed
to him that he had been away for years.
“You look tired out, Godfrey,” said his mother, as they stood together
in the hall.
“I did not have a very good night last night,” he said, “and I had a
hard day’s running about yesterday. That is all. You needn’t worry about
me, mother; I’m as strong as a horse.”
He went on to tell his mother of his meeting with Fensden, and informed
her that the latter intended coming to stay with them next day.
“That will be very nice,” she said. “You will enjoy having him. I shall
put him up in the south wing in order that he may be near you. The
wall-papers are more subdued there. I know, of old, how he notices these
things.”
“I don’t think he will bother himself very much about wall-papers,” said
Godfrey, with a laugh. “He declares that he is so tired of travelling
that the quiet of an English country house will brace him up again.”
“I have no doubt it will,” said the old lady: “I remember when your
father took me to Paris for our honeymoon, the mere sound of the French
language gave me a headache. I never hear it now without thinking of
that time. And now tell me about Molly. Did she enjoy the play you took
her to see?”
“Immensely,” he replied. “She sent her love to you, and bade me tell you
that she would be very pleased to come over to meet Fensden on Saturday.
I only hope that she won’t be knocked up by all this shopping.”
His mother shook her head.
“I don’t think you need have any fear on that score,” she said. “When a
girl is about to be married to the man of her heart, the collection of
her _trousseau_ becomes a labour of love. She will make a beautiful
bride, worthy of my boy. I can’t say more than that.”
“You shouldn’t say so much,” said Godfrey. “If your boy were to believe
all the compliments you pay him, he would become insufferably conceited.
And now I must go round and see how things have been progressing in my
absence.”
The following morning witnessed Molly’s arrival at the Hall. It was the
first time she had stayed there since her engagement, and in consequence
she was received with rapturous delight by her lover. Though they had
only been parted for a day, they seemed to have a hundred things to tell
each other. There were, moreover, certain important matters to be
discussed connected with the internal arrangements of the house of which
she was so soon to be mistress. I believe, so infatuated was the young
man that, had she expressed a desire to have the whole fabric pulled
down, and rebuilt in another fashion, he would have set about the work
at once.
“You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like to have done?”
he asked, when they had made the tour of inspection, and were
approaching to the drawing-room once more.
“You have done too much already,” she replied, looking affectionately at
her lover. “I very much doubt if ever there was a girl so spoilt as I.
You will have to make up for it by ruling me with a rod of iron
afterward.”
“God forbid that I should ever do that,” he said seriously. “I hope I
shall always be an indulgent husband to you.”
“Not too indulgent,” she said. “For my own sake, you must not be. I
don’t want to be like a spoilt child.”
“You will never be that,” he said. “To me you will always be the
most----”
“Hush!” she said, holding up her finger in warning. “I think we must
make it a rule to avoid every sort of compliment. I have had more than
is good for me already.”
“I shall find it difficult to obey you, but I will try,” he returned.
“And now come with me to the studio; I have one thing left to show you.”
“What is that?”
“You must wait and see for yourself,” he replied, and led the way
through the conservatory to the room of which he had spoken. They found
the easel covered with a cloth. This he drew aside.
“It is my present to you,” he said, referring to the picture he had
revealed, “to be hung in your own room.”
“Oh, Godfrey, how good of you! What a splendid likeness!”
It was, in fact, a portrait of himself upon which he had been working
hard ever since his engagement had been announced. He had intended it as
a surprise, and in the pleasure he gave her, he felt that he had been
amply repaid for the labour it had cost him.
“I shall treasure it all my life long,” she said, and rewarded him in a
manner that would have turned many folks green with envy.
“And now,” she said, when she had gazed her full upon it, “I want you to
show me a photograph of your friend, Mr. Fensden, if you have one.
Remember I have no idea what he is like.”
“That can very easily be remedied,” he said. “I have a photo which was
taken in Rome, and a small portrait that I painted myself.”
So saying, he crossed the room to his writing-table, and, having opened
a drawer, took from it a packet of cabinet photographs. They were, for
the most part, likenesses of old friends, and when he had selected one
of Victor from the number, he placed it before her.
“So that is Mr. Fensden?” she said, seating herself in what he called
his business chair.
For some moments she studied it attentively. Then she replaced it on the
writing-table.
“Well, now that you have seen the portrait, what do you think of him?”
Godfrey asked, as he turned over some canvases on the other side of the
room.
“I scarcely know what to say,” she replied, slowly. “It is a refined
face, a clever one, if you like; but, if I may be allowed to say what I
think, there is something in it, I can not tell what, that I do not care
about. I fancy the eyes are set a little too close together.” Then she
added more quickly: “I hope I have not offended you, dear. I should not
have spoken so candidly.”
“Why shouldn’t you?” he inquired. “Perhaps, now you speak of it, the
eyes are a little too close together. But you must wait until you have
seen the man himself before you judge him. I assure you he can be a
charming companion.”
“I gathered as much from his photograph,” she answered, taking it up and
looking at it again, “At what time does he arrive to-day?”
“In time for afternoon tea,” said Godfrey. “I am going to drive in to
meet him.”
Molly made a little _moue_; with the selfishness of love, she did not
approve of Godfrey leaving her, if only for so short a time. And, if the
truth be confessed, I fear she was a little jealous of the man who was
to be responsible for his absence. It is not always that a sweetheart is
any too well disposed toward her lover’s bachelor friends. For some
reason, Fensden’s photograph had prejudiced her against him. She was
resolved to be just; but she felt convinced in her own mind that she
would never be able to say that she really liked or trusted the man. She
did not tell Godfrey this.
In accordance with the arrangements he had made, that afternoon, at
about three o’clock, Godfrey drove off to the station to meet his
friend. He was looking forward to seeing him, if only that he might show
him how great was the difference between the sketch the other had drawn
of his future wife that night in the desert, and the reality. I fancy if
England had been searched through that day, a happier young man than the
master of Detwich would have been difficult to find. Yet, though he
could not guess it, the climax of his life was only a few hours’
distant.
As he drove along, he thought of Molly and the happiness that was to be
his portion in the future. Then his thoughts turned to Teresina. While
he had prospered in the world, she had lost what little happiness she
had ever possessed. He determined to discuss her affairs with Fensden on
the first available opportunity, when doubtless the latter would be able
to suggest a way in which he might assist her. By the time he had
arrived at this reflection, he had reached the station, and the groom
was standing at the horse’s head. Having placed the reins under the
patent clip, he descended from the cart and went on to the platform. The
station-master saluted him respectfully, and informed him that the train
had already been signalled. Indeed, the words had scarcely left that
functionary’s lips before a whistle was heard in the cutting, and a
moment later it came into view. As the train swept past him Godfrey
caught a glimpse of the man he had come to meet, gathering together his
travelling things, in a first-class carriage.
“How are you, my dear old fellow?” he cried, as he turned the handle of
the door. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you! I am afraid you have
had a cold journey. Let me take some of your things.”
Victor graciously permitted the other to assist him with his luggage,
and then he himself descended from the carriage. They shook hands and
afterward strolled in the direction of the gate. Victor was attired in a
magnificent travelling ulster, and a neat deer-stalker’s hat. An
orange-coloured tie peeped from the opening under his beard, and his
hands were as daintily gloved as a lady’s. Altogether, as he walked down
the platform, he presented as artistic a figure as Detwich had seen for
a very long time.
“What have you been doing since I saw you?” Godfrey inquired as they
took their places in the dog-cart.
“Repairing the ravages of time and Continental travel,” Victor replied,
somewhat ambiguously. Then he added politely: “I hope Miss Devereux is
well?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Godfrey, “and most anxious to see you. She has
read your poems and has seen your portrait; all she requires now is to
be introduced to the original.”
“In that case I fear she will be disappointed,” said Victor, with what
was almost a sneer in his voice. “Since she is with you, I presume your
mother and sister are at the Hall. Do they look forward to the idea of
turning out?”
“They are a pair of foolish women who would do anything, or give up
anything in order to make me happy,” the other replied. “As a matter of
fact, I don’t know that they altogether mind. They both prefer London,
and when they return from their travels, I believe it is their intention
to take a flat and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of
Kensington.”
“While you are assimilating the bucolic virtues. Well, it’s a pretty
picture, and if I had fifteen thousand a year and a fine estate I might
be tempted to do the same. As I haven’t the money or the property I
remain what I am.”
“And that is?”
“A trifler,” Victor replied, with unusual bitterness. “One who might
have done and who did not--who dropped the substance in an attempt to
grasp the shadow.”
“Nonsense,” said Godfrey, who did not like to hear his friend abuse
himself in this fashion. “If you are going to talk like that I shall
have to prescribe a long dose of country air.”
Then, in an attempt to change the other’s thoughts, he talked of their
travels together, and of the curious characters they had met, which
lasted until they had passed through the lodge gates and were well on
their way across the park. Even in the sombreness of winter the place
looked very beautiful, and Victor expressed himself delighted with it.
“I had no idea it was so fine,” he said, as they swept round the drive
and came into view of the house. “I can very well understand your liking
for a country life when you possess an estate like this. Your uncle did
you a kind action when he made you his heir.”
“Nobody is more sensible of that fact than I am,” Godfrey replied. “I
only wish I could let the old fellow know how grateful I am. I often
think that during his lifetime he was disappointed in me because I took
to painting instead of becoming a country gentleman. I wonder what he
would say if he could see me now? I don’t know what you may think, but
to my mind there are times when one likes to imagine that the dead are
near us.”
Victor gave a violent start, followed by a shiver.
“Good Heavens! What an idea!” he cried. Then, dropping back into his old
cynical tone, he continued: “I am afraid that if your idea were possible
our human affairs would become somewhat complicated. For my own part I
am quite content that the matter should stand as it is.”
As he finished speaking they drew up before the steps and the two men
descended from the cart. The ladies were waiting in the hall to receive
them.
“How do you do, Mr. Fensden?” said Mrs. Henderson, coming forward to
meet him. “It is a long time since we have met, and you have been a
great traveller in the meantime.”
“Thanks to your son,” said Victor as he took her hand. “How do you do,
Miss Kitty? Events advance too quickly with all of us, but they seem to
have taken giant strides with you.”
“You mean that when last we met I was still on the other side of that
line which is only crossed by a girl when she performs the mysterious
operation called ‘putting her hair up,’” answered that sharp-tongued
young lady.
“Now, Victor,” said Godfrey, when Kitty had been annihilated, “let me
have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Devereux.”
The couple bowed to each other, and Victor offered her his
congratulations.
“And now you must come and have your tea,” said Mrs. Henderson,
hospitably. “You must need it, I am sure, after your long journey.”
“Or perhaps you would prefer something more substantial,” put in
Godfrey. “I noticed that you shivered as we came up the drive.”
“I really think I should,” said Victor. “After the warmth of the East
our English winters are not to be trifled with.”
Godfrey led the way to the dining-room and placed the spirit-stand
before his friend.
“I don’t think I have ever been so cold in my life before,” said Victor,
as he poured out an amount of brandy for himself that made Godfrey open
his eyes in astonishment, for he had always looked upon the other as an
exceedingly temperate man.
“Now, tell me, would you prefer to see your room first?” Godfrey
inquired, when the other had tossed off his refreshment, “or shall we
join the ladies?”
“Perhaps I had better make myself presentable first,” Victor answered,
glancing complacently at himself in the mirror above the chimney-piece.
Godfrey accordingly led the way to the room which had been set apart for
his friend’s use, and to which the latter’s luggage had been conveyed.
It was a pleasant apartment, looking out on what was called the Ladies’
Garden, and thence across the park to a high and wooded hill. Victor
went to the window and studied the prospect.
“You have a charming home,” he said, with what was almost a sigh; “you
are about to marry a beautiful girl; you have wealth, success, and
everything else that can make life worth living, Godfrey. You should be
a happy man.”
“I am happy,” Godfrey replied, “and, please God, I’ll do my best to make
others so. And that reminds me, Victor, I want to have a talk with you.
Do you know that on Thursday night I met Teresina in the Strand?”
Victor had turned from the window, and was brushing his hair at the
time. As he heard what Godfrey said, the brush fell from his hand upon
the floor. As he picked it up and continued his toilet, he said in
surprise:
“Teresina in London? Surely you must have been mistaken. I thought she
was still in Naples?”
“She is in London,” Godfrey repeated. “I could not have been mistaken,
for I spoke to her.”
“At what time did you see her?”
“Just about midnight,” his friend replied.
“Are you aware that the signora is dead and that Teresina is married?”
“How should I be likely to?” said Victor. “You know that I have not seen
her since I bade her good-bye in your studio before we went abroad. And
so the pretty model is married? Well, I suppose the proper thing to say
is that one hopes that she will be happy.”
“But she is not happy, far from it. Her husband as well as her mother is
dead.”
“I believe there are some wives who would consider that fact to be not
altogether a matter for sorrow. But what makes you think that Teresina
is unhappy?”
“Because she told me so, though she would not tell me anything further.
The poor girl seemed in terrible distress.”
“And you gave her money, I suppose?” said Victor. “That is usually the
way one soothes trouble of her kind. I hope she was grateful.”
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so cynical,” said Godfrey, almost
losing his temper. “I wanted to help her, but she would not let me.
Every time I offered my assistance she implored me to leave her. She
broke down altogether when we reached her house.”
“Then you took her home?” said the other. “Do you think that was wise?”
“Why should I not have done so?”
“Well, you see,” said Victor, putting his brushes back into their case,
“circumstances have somewhat changed with you. Miss Devereux might not
altogether approve.”
“Miss Devereux is too good and kind a girl to object to my doing what I
could to comfort an old friend in trouble.”
“But when that old friend in trouble happens to be an extremely
beautiful girl the situation becomes slightly changed. However, don’t
think that I am endeavouring to interfere. And now shall we go
downstairs?”
“But, confound it, Victor, you don’t mean to say that you take no more
interest in Teresina’s fate than this? I thought you liked her as much
as I did.”
“_Mon cher ami_,” said Victor, rearranging his tie before the glass,
“that is scarcely fair, either to yourself or to me. Have you forgotten
a little discussion we had together, and which eventually resulted in
our leaving England for a time? Had you not taken such an interest in
Teresina then, I doubt very much whether I should have seen Cairo or
Jerusalem, or a lot of other places. But still, my dear fellow, if there
is anything I can do to help your old model you may be sure I shall be
only too glad to do it.”
“I knew you would,” said Godfrey, placing his hand affectionately on the
other’s shoulder. “We must talk it over some time and see what can be
done. It will never do to let her go on as she is now.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, of the origin of the trouble?”
“Not the least. She would tell me nothing. She tried to make me believe
that she had plenty of work, and that she did not stand in need of any
assistance. I knew better, however.”
“And where is she living?”
“In Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road. It is a miserable
place, mainly occupied by foreigners. The house is on the right-hand
side.”
“Very well,” said Victor. “When I go back to town I will look her up. It
will be hard if we can’t arrange something.”
Then they descended the stairs together and entered the drawing-room.
“My dear Godfrey, are you aware that you will have one wife in a
hundred?” said Kitty, pointing to a table on which some twenty packages
of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions were arranged.
“How so?” said Godfrey. “What new virtue have you discovered in her?”
“I have found that she can subordinate curiosity to a sense of duty,”
said the young lady. “These presents arrived for you just after you left
for the station, and yet she would not open them herself or allow me to
do so until you returned. I have been consumed with a mad desire to
explore them, particularly that foreign-looking box at the end.”
“Well, your curiosity shall very soon be satisfied,” he said. “But we
must begin with the most important-looking packages.”
“Let us pray that there are no more Apostle spoons, serviette-rings, or
silver sweet-dishes,” said Molly. “We have already some two dozen of
each.”
Package after package was opened in its turn and the contents displayed.
As they were for the most part presents to the bridegroom individually,
they were mainly of a nature suited to his tastes: hunting flasks,
silver sandwich cases, cigar and cigarette holders, and articles of a
similar description. At last they came to the curious-looking box to
which Kitty had referred. It was oblong in shape, and bore the name of a
Vienna firm stamped on the end. It was tied with cord, and the label was
addressed in an uneducated handwriting to “Mr. Godfrey Henderson,
Detwich Hall, Detwich, Midlandshire.”
In his own mind he had no doubt that it emanated from Teresina, who, as
he was aware, had been informed as to his approaching marriage. Having
untied the cord, he prized the lid, which was nailed down, with a dagger
paper-knife, which he took from a table close at hand. An unpleasant
odour immediately permeated the room. A folded sheet of newspaper
covered the contents, whatever they were, and this Godfrey removed,
only to spring back with a cry of horror. In the box, _the fingers
tightly interlaced, were two tiny hands_, which had been severed from
the body, to which they had once belonged, at the wrist.