Let me gaze down the vista of the tristful past.
Ah! there are things that cannot be uttered; there are scenes that still
entrance me, and incidents so unexpected and terrible that they cause me
even now to hold my breath in horror.
The prologue of this extraordinary drama of London life was enacted
three years ago; its astounding denouement occurred quite recently.
During those three weary, anxious years the days have glided on as they
glide even with those who suffer most, but alas! I have the sense of
having trodden a veritable Via Dolorosa during a century, the tragedy of
my life, with its ever-present sorrow, pressing heavily upon me
perpetually. Yet my life's journey has not always been along the barren
shore of the sea of Despair. During brief moments, when, with the sweet
childlike angel of my solitude, heaven and earth have seemed to glide
slowly into space, I have found peace in the supreme joy of happiness.
My gaze has been lost in the azure immensity of a woman's eyes.
In this strange story, this astounding record of chastity of affection
and bitter hatred, of vile scheming, of secret sins and astounding
facts, I, Stuart Ridgeway, younger son of Sir Francis Ridgeway, Member
for Barmouth and banker of the City of London, am compelled to speak of
myself. It is indeed a relief to be able to reason out one's
misfortunes; confession is the lancet-stroke that empties the abscess.
The Devil has thrown his dice and the game is up. I can now lay bare
the secret of my sorrow.
Away south in the heart of the snow-capped Pyrenees, while idling away a
few sunny weeks at Bagneres-de-Luchon, that quaint little spa so popular
with the Cleopatras of the Boulevards, nestling in its secluded valley
beneath the three great peaks of Sacrous, de Sauvegarde, and de la Mine,
a woman first brought sweetness to the sadness of my melancholy days.
Mine was an aimless, idle life. I had left behind me at college a
reputation for recklessness. I was an arrant dunce at figures, and
finance had no attraction for me. I had lived the semi-Bohemian life of
a law student in London, and grown tired of it I had tried art and
ignominiously failed, and, being in receipt of a generous allowance from
an indulgent father, I found myself at the age of twenty-eight without
profession, a mere world-weary cosmopolitan, wandering from place to
place with the sole object of killing time.
Having taken up my quarters alone at the Hotel des Bains, that glaring
building with its dead-white facade in the Allee d'Etigny--the
magnificent view from which renders it one of the finest thoroughfares
in the world--I soon became seized by ennui.
The place, filled with the _haut ton_ of Paris, was gay enough, but
somehow I met no one at the table d'hote or elsewhere whom I cared to
accept as companion. Sick of the utter loneliness amid all the mad
gaiety, I was contemplating moving to Biarritz, where a maiden aunt
resided, when one evening, while seated in the picturesque Casino Garden
listening to the band, I saw in the crowd of chattering, laughing
promenaders a woman's face that entranced me. Only for a second in the
faint light shed by the Chinese lanterns, strung from tree to tree, was
I able to distinguish her features. In that brief moment, however, our
eyes met, yet next second she was gone, lost in one of the gayest crowds
in Europe.
The next night and the next I sat at the same little tin table taking my
coffee and eagerly scanning the crowd passing and re-passing along the
broad gravelled walk until once again I saw her. Then, held in
fascination by her marvellous beauty, attracted as a needle by a magnet,
I rose and followed her. Like myself she was alone, and a trivial
accident, of which I eagerly availed myself, gave me an opportunity of
introducing myself. Judge my joyful satisfaction when I found that she
was English, although her dress and hat bore the unmistakable stamp of
the Rue de la Paix, and her chic was that of the true Parisienne. As we
walked together in the shadows beyond the public promenade, she told me
that her home was in London; that on account of her father having been
compelled to return suddenly, she had been left alone, and she admitted
that, like myself, she had become dull and lonely.
Apparently she had no objection to my companionship, although she strove
to preserve a British rigidity of manner and respect for the
convenances. Yet after the reserve of the first half-hour had worn off
we sat down together under a tree near the band-stand, and I gave her a
card. She, however, refused to give me one.
"Call me Sybil," she said smiling.
"Sybil!" I repeated. "A name as charming as its owner. Is your name
Sybil--only Sybil?"
"My surname is of no consequence," she answered quickly, with a slight
haughtiness. "We are merely English folk thrown together in this place.
To-morrow, or the next day perhaps, we shall part, never to meet
again."
"I trust not," I said gallantly. "An acquaintanceship commenced under
these strange conditions is rather romantic, to say the least."
"Romantic," she repeated mechanically, in a strange tone. "Yes, that is
so. Every one of us, from pauper to peer, all have our little romances.
But romance, after all, is synonymous with unhappiness," and she drew a
long breath as if sad thoughts oppressed her.
A moment later, however, she was as gay and bright as before, and we
chatted on pleasantly until suddenly she consulted the tiny watch in her
bangle and announced that it was time she returned. At her side I
walked to her hotel, the Bonnemaison, and left her at the entrance.
We met frequently after that, and one morning she accompanied me on a
drive through the quaint old frontier village of St Aventin and on
through the wild Oo Valley as far as the Cascade.
As in the bright sunshine she lounged back in the carriage, her fair,
flawless complexion a trifle heightened by the pink of her parasol, I
gazed upon her as one entranced. The half lights of the Casino Garden
had not been deceptive. She was twenty-two at the most, and absolutely
lovely; the most bewitching woman I had ever seen. From beneath a
marvel of the milliner's art, tendrils of fair hair, soft as floss silk,
strayed upon her white brow; her eyes were of that clear childlike blue
that presupposes an absolute purity of soul, and in her pointed chin was
a single dimple that deepened when she smiled. Hers was an adorable
face, sweet, full of an exquisite beauty, and as she gazed upon me with
her great eyes she seemed to read my heart. Her lithe, slim figure was
admirably set off by her gown of soft material of palest green, which
had all the shimmer of silk, yet moulded and defined its wearer like a
Sultan's scarf. It had tiny shaded stripes which imparted a delicious
effect of myriad folds; the hem of the skirt, from under which a dainty
bronze shoe appeared, had a garniture in the chromatics, as it were, of
mingled rose and blue and green, and the slender waist, made long as
waists may be, was girdled narrow but distinctive.
As I sat beside her, her violet-pervaded chiffons touching me, the
perfume they exhaled intoxicated me with its fragrance. She was an
enchantress, a well-beloved, whose beautiful face I longed to smother
with kisses each time I pressed her tiny well-gloved hand.
Her frank conversation was marked by an ingenuousness that was charming.
It was apparent that she moved in an exclusive circle at home, and from
her allusions to notable people whom I knew in London, I was assured
that her acquaintance with them was not feigned. Days passed--happy,
idle, never-to-be-forgotten days. Nevertheless, try how I would, I
could not induce her to tell me her name, nor could I discover it at her
hotel, for the one she had given there was evidently assumed.
"Call me Sybil," she always replied when I alluded to the subject.
"Why are you so determined to preserve the secret of your identity?" I
asked, when, one evening after dinner, we were strolling beneath the
trees in the Allee.
A faint shadow of displeasure fell upon her brow, and turning to me
quickly she answered:
"Because--well, because it is necessary." Then she added with a strange
touch of sadness, "When we part here we shall not meet again."
"No, don't say that," I protested; "I hope that in London we may see
something of each other."
She sighed, and as we passed out into the bright moonbeams that flooded
the mountains and valleys, giving the snowy range the aspect of a
far-off fairyland, I noticed that her habitual brightness had given
place to an expression of mingled fear and sorrow. Some perpetual
thought elevated her forehead and enlarged her eyes, and a little later,
as we walked slowly forward into the now deserted promenade, I repeated
a hope that our friendship would always remain sincere and unbroken.
"Why do you speak these words to me?" she asked suddenly, in faltering
tones. "Why do you render my life more bitter than it is?"
"Because when your father returns and takes you away the light of my
life will be extinguished. Don't be cruel, Sybil; you must have seen--"
"I am not cruel," she answered calmly, halting suddenly and looking at
me with her great clear eyes. "During the past fortnight we have--well,
we have amused each other, and time has passed pleasantly. I know,
alas! the words I have arrested on your lips. You mistake this mild
summer flirtation of ours for real love. You were about to declare that
you love me--were you not?"
"True, Sybil. And I mean it. From the first moment our eyes met I have
adored you," I exclaimed with passionate tenderness. "The brightness of
your face has brought light into my life. You have showed me at all
times the face of an adorable woman; you have peopled my desert, you
have filled me with such supreme joy that I have been lost in profound
love."
"Hush! hush!" she cried, interrupting me. "Listen, let me tell you my
position."
"I care naught for your position; I want only you, Sybil," I continued
earnestly, raising her hand to my lips and smothering it with kisses.
"I have adored you in all the different forms of love. You, who have
sufficed for my being; you, whose wondrous beauty filled me with all the
chastity of affection. Between you and the horizon there seems a secret
harmony that makes me love the stones on the very footpaths. The river
yonder has your voice; the stars above us your look; everything around
me smiles with your smile. I never knew until now what it was to live,
but now I live because I love you. Each night when we part I long for
morning; I want to see you again, to kiss your hair, to tell you I love
you always--always."
Her bosom rose and fell quickly as I spoke, and when I had finished, her
little hand closed convulsively upon mine.
"No, no," she cried hoarsely. "Let us end this interview; it is painful
to both of us. I have brought this unhappiness upon you by my own
reckless folly. I ought never to have broken the convenances and
accepted as companion a man to whom I had not been formally introduced."
"Ah! don't be cruel, Sybil," I pleaded earnestly; "cannot you see how
madly I love you?"
"Yes; I think that perhaps you care more for me than I imagined," she
answered, endeavouring to preserve a calmness that was impossible. "But
leave me and forget me, Stuart. I am worthless because I have
fascinated you when I ought to have shunned you, knowing that our love
can only bring us poignant bitterness."
"Why? Tell me," I gasped; then, half fearing the truth, I asked. "Are
you already married?"
"No."
"Then what barrier is there to our happiness?"
"One that is insurmountable," she answered hoarsely, hot tears welling
in her eyes. "The truth I cannot explain, as for certain reasons I am
compelled to keep my secret."
"But surely you can tell me the reason why we may not love? You cannot
deny that you love me just a little," I said.
"I do not deny it," she answered in a low, earnest voice, raising her
beautiful face to mine. "It is true, Stuart, that you are the only man
I have looked upon with real affection, and I make no effort at
concealment; nevertheless, our dream must end here. I have striven to
stifle my passion, knowing full well the dire result that must accrue.
But it is useless. Our misfortune is that we love one another; so we
must part."
"And you refuse to tell me the reason why you intend to break off our
acquaintanceship," I observed reproachfully.
"Ah, no!" she answered quickly. "You cannot understand. I dare not
love you. A deadly peril threatens me. Ere six months have passed the
sword which hangs, as it were, suspended over me may fall with fatal
effect, but--but if it does, if I die, my last thought shall be of you,
Stuart, for I feel that you are mine alone."
I clasped her in my arms, and beneath the great tree where we were
standing our lips met for the first time in a hot, passionate caress.
Then, panting, she slowly disengaged herself from my arms, saying:
"Our dream is over. After to-night we may be friends, but never lovers.
To love me would bring upon you a disaster, terrible and complete;
therefore strive, for my sake, Stuart, to forget."
"I cannot," I answered. "Tell me of your peril."
"My peril--ah!" she exclaimed sadly. "Ever present, it haunts me like a
hideous nightmare, and only your companionship has lately caused me to
forget it for a few brief hours, although I have all the time been
conscious of an approaching doom. It may be postponed for months, or so
swiftly may it descend upon me that when to-morrow's sun shines into my
room its rays will fall upon my lifeless form; my soul and body will
have parted."
"Are you threatened by disease?"
"No. My peril is a strange one," she answered slowly. "If I might tell
you all my curious story I would, Stuart. At present, alas! I cannot
Come, let us go back to the hotel, and there bid me farewell."
"Farewell! When do you intend to leave me?" I cried dismayed, as we
turned and walked on together.
"Soon," she said, sighing, her hand trembling in mine--"it will be
imperative very soon."
"But may I not help you? Cannot I shield you from this mysterious
peril?"
"Alas! I know not. If your aid will assist me in the future I will
communicate with you. I have your London address upon your card."
There was a long and painful pause. But in those silent moments during
our walk I became conscious of the grand passion that consumed me.
"And you will think of me sometimes with thoughts of love, Sybil?" I
said disconsolately.
"Yes. But for the present forget me. Some day, however, I may be
compelled to put your affection to the test."
"I am prepared for any ordeal in order to prove that my passion is no
idle midsummer fancy," I answered. "Command me, and I will obey."
"Then good-night," she said, stretching forth her hand, for by this time
we were in front of the Bonnemaison. I held her hand in silence for
some moments, my thoughts too full for words.
"Shall I see you to-morrow?" I asked.
"Yes, if--if my doom does not overwhelm me," she answered with a choking
sob. "If it does, then adieu, my love, adieu forever!"
"No, not adieu, Sybil," I said, drawing her beneath the shadow of a tree
and once again imprinting a passionate kiss upon her lips. "Not adieu!
Let as at least meet tomorrow, even if it must be for the last time."
She burst into a flood of tears, and turning from me walked quickly to
the steps leading to the hotel, while I, mystified and full of sad
thoughts, strode onward along the silent moonlit Allee towards my hotel.
Little sleep came that night to my eyes, but when my coffee was brought
in the morning a perfumed note lay upon the tray. I tore it open
eagerly, and read the following words hastily scribbled in pencil and
blurred by tears:
"I am in deadly peril and have been compelled to leave unexpectedly. Do
not attempt to find me, but forget everything.--Sybil."
I dashed aside the curtains and, like a man in a dream, stood gazing
away at the white mountains, brilliant in the morning sunlight I had
lost her; the iron of despair had entered my heart.