At home I cast myself in my chair and threw myself into an ocean of
memories. I did not switch on the light, but mused on, gazing into the
darkness, now and then lit up by the ruddy flames as they shot forth
from the grate and cast great quivering shadows, like dancing spectres,
on the walls and ceiling. Ever and anon a momentary flash would hover
about the antique silver ewer or glint along the old oak sideboard,
which, like a vague dark mass, filled up an angle in the room, or play
about the set of old china or the pair of antique vases on the
mantelshelf. This prevailing gloom, penetrated by fitful gleams, was
soothing after the glare and glitter of what had irreverently been
termed the cotton-palace, and as the fickle light fell in spectral
relief about the gloom-hidden furniture, I mused on in coldest
pessimism.
As I sat thinking what I had lived through, scenes in many climes and
pictures of various cities rose before my mind, but one face alone stood
out boldly before me, the sweet countenance of the woman I had loved.
I recollected the strange events of that fateful night of grief and
terror, and reflected upon the recognition between the Countess and the
unknown man whom she had admitted was her enemy. How suddenly and
completely he had disappeared! Yet it was apparent that he held some
strange influence over Fyneshade's wife, for she feared to tell me his
name or disclose her secret. Even though he had brushed past me and his
cold, glittering eyes had gazed into my face, he had again eluded me.
The expression of triumph upon his dark countenance was still plainly
before me, a look full of of portent and evil.
I met Dora several times, once riding in the Park, once at the theatre
with Lady Stretton, and once in Park Lane with her lover. From her I
learnt that the Countess had been very unwell ever since that evening at
Thackwell's, and had not been out. Her doctor had recommended complete
rest for a week, and suggested that she should afterwards go to the
Riviera for a change.
Was this extreme nervousness from which she was suffering the result of
the unexpected encounter with the man she held in dread? I felt
inclined to call at Eaton Square, but doubted whether, if she were ill,
she would receive me.
One bright dry morning, about ten days later, I was strolling aimlessly
along Regent Street with Jack Bethune, who, knowing that Dora would be
out shopping, had come out to look for her. About half-way along the
thoroughfare some unknown influence prompted me to halt before a
photographer's window and inspect a series of new pictures of
celebrities, when suddenly my eye fell upon an object which, placed in
the most prominent position in the centre of the window, caused me to
utter a cry of surprise.
Enclosed in a heavy frame of oxidised silver was a beautifully-finished
cabinet portrait of Sybil!
The frame, a double one, also contained the portrait of a young
pleasant-faced man of about twenty-five, who wore his moustache
carefully curled, and about whose features was a rather foreign
expression. The picture of my dead love riveted my attention, and as I
stood gazing at it with my face glued to the glass, Jack chaffed me,
saying:
"What's the matter, old chap? Who's the beauty?" His flippant words
annoyed me.
"A friend," I snapped. "Wait for me. I'm going in to buy it."
"On the stage, I suppose?" he hazarded. "Awfully good-looking, whoever
she is."
"No, she's not on the stage," I answered brusquely, leaving him and
entering the shop.
At my request the frame was brought out of the window, and in response
to my inquiries regarding it the manager referred to his books, an
operation which occupied considerable time. Meanwhile Jack, who had
found Dora, had rushed in, announced his intention of calling on me in
the evening, and left.
At last the photographer's manager came to me, ledger in hand, saying:
"Both photographs were taken at the same time. I remember quite
distinctly that the young lady accompanied the gentleman, and it was at
her expense and special request that they were framed together and
exhibited in our window. The prints were taken hurriedly because the
gentleman was going abroad and wanted to take one with him."
"What name did they give?"
"Henniker."
"And the address?" I demanded breathlessly.
The photographer consulted his book closely, and replied: "The prints
appear to have been sent to Miss Henniker, 79 Gloucester Square, Hyde
Park."
Upon my shirt cuff I scribbled the address, and having paid for both the
portraits, was about to leave, congratulating myself that at last I had
probably obtained a clue to the house to which I had been conducted,
when it suddenly occurred to me to ask the date when the photographs
were taken.
"They were taken on January 12th last," he replied. "Last year, you
mean," I said.
"No, the present year. This ledger was only commenced in January."
"What?" I cried amazed. "Were these portraits actually taken only six
weeks ago? Impossible! The lady has been dead fully three months."
"The originals of the portraits gave us sittings here on the date I have
mentioned," he said, handing me the packet courteously, putting aside
the frame, and leaving me in order to attend to another customer.
The announcement was incredible. It staggered belief. Emerging from
the shop, I jumped into a cab and gave the man the address in Gloucester
Square. Then, as we drove along, I took out the photograph of my
well-beloved and examined it for a long time closely. Yes, there was no
mistake about her identity. The same sweet, well-remembered face, with
its clear, trusting eyes looked out upon me, the same half-sad
expression that had so puzzled me. I raised the cold, polished card to
my lips and reverently kissed it. Presently the cab drew up suddenly,
and I found myself before a wide portico extending across the pavement
to the curb, in front of a rather gloomy, solid-looking mansion.
Alighting, I crossed to the door, and as I did so counted the steps.
There were three, the same number that I remembered ascending on that
eventful night I had raised my hand to ring the visitors' bell when
suddenly a voice behind me uttered my name. It sounded familiar, and I
looked round hastily. As I turned, the Countess of Fyneshade, warmly
clad in smart sealskin coat and neat seal toque trimmed with sable,
confronted me. Standing upon the pavement beneath the wide gloomy
portico, she was smiling amusedly at the sudden start I had given on
hearing my name.
"I declare you've turned quite pale, Stuart," she cried with that gay,
irresponsible air and high-pitched voice habitual to her. "You gave
such a jump when I spoke that one would think you had been detected in
the act of committing a burglary, or some other crime equally dreadful."
"I really beg your pardon," I exclaimed quickly, descending the steps
and raising my hat. "I confess I didn't notice you." Then, for the
first time, I observed standing a few yards from her a slim,
well-dressed young man in long dark overcoat and silk hat.
"Gilbert," she said, turning to him, "you've not met Mr Ridgeway
before, I believe. Allow me to introduce you--Mr Gilbert Sternroyd,
Mr Stuart Ridgeway, one of my oldest friends."
We uttered mutual conventionalities, but an instant later, when my eyes
met his, the words froze upon my lips. The Countess's companion was the
original of the photograph that had been exhibited at my dead love's
request in the same frame as her own.
Of what words I uttered I have no remembrance. Bewildered by this
strange and unexpected encounter, on the very threshold of the
mysterious house that for months I had been striving in vain to
discover, I felt my senses whirl. Only by dint of summoning all my
self-possession I preserved a calm demeanour. That Mabel should have
admitted acquaintance with the strange and rather shady person who had
met me at Richmond was curious enough, but her friendship with Sybil's
whilom companion was a fact even more incomprehensible.
An hour ago I had discovered the picture of this man called Sternroyd,
yet here he stood before me in the flesh, accompanied by the one person
of my acquaintance who knew that nameless man who had inveigled me to
this house of shadows. Heedless of Mabel's amusing gossip, I surveyed
her companion's face calmly, satisfying myself that every feature agreed
with the counterfeit presentment I carried in my pocket. The portrait
was strikingly accurate, even his curiously-shaped scarf-pin in the form
of a pair of crossed daggers with diamond hilts being shown in the
picture. He was tall, fair, of fresh complexion, aged about
twenty-four, with grey eyes rather deeply set, and a scanty moustache a
little ragged. Lithe, active, and upright, his bearing was distinctly
athletic, although his speech was a trifle languid and affected. What,
I wondered, had been the nature of his relations with Sybil? The
horrifying thought flashed across my mind that he might have been her
lover, but next second I scorned such a suggestion, convinced that she
had been devoted to me alone.
Yet how could I reconcile the statement of the photographer that the
portrait had only been taken a few weeks with my own personal
investigation that she at that time was dead? Had I not, alas! kissed
her cold brow and chafed her thin dead hands, hoping to bring back to
them the glow of life? Had I not raised her gloved arm only to find it
stiffening in death? The remembrance of that fateful night chilled my
blood.
"Who are you calling upon, Stuart?" the Countess asked, her light words
bringing me at last back to consciousness of my surroundings.
"Upon--upon friends," I stammered.
"Friends! Well, they can't live here," she observed incredulously.
"They do," I answered. "This is number seventy-nine."
"True, but the place is empty." She laughed.
I glanced at the doorway, and my heart sank within me when I noticed
that the unwhitened stones were littered with drifting straws and scraps
of paper, the flotsam and jetsam of the street, that the glass of the
wide fanlight was thickly encrusted with dirt, and that the board fixed
over the door, announcing that the "imposing mansion" was to let, had,
judging from its begrimed, blistered, and weather-stained appearance,
been in that position several years.
To reassure myself, I glanced at my cuff and inquired of the cabman
whether the house was not Number 79 Gloucester Square.
"Quite right, sir," answered the plethoric driver. "This 'ere's Radnor
Place, but these 'ouses fronts into the square. This row 'ain't got no
entrances there, but the front doors are at the back here. I've known
these 'ouses ever since I was a nipper. This 'ere one's been to let
this last four years. A French gentleman lived 'ere before."
"I fancy you've mistaken the number," drawled the Countess's companion,
putting up his single eye-glass to survey the place more minutely. "So
confoundedly easy to make mistakes, don't yer know," and he laughed, as
if amused at his witticism.
I resented this apparent hilarity, and with difficulty restrained some
hot words that rose quickly to my lips. It had occurred to me that if I
preserved silence and gave no sign, I might perhaps discover the
identity of this foppish young man. The mansion, silent, dismal, and
deserted, was drab-painted and of unusually imposing proportions. The
drawing-room on the first floor was evidently of vast extent, running
the whole width of the house and commanding in front a wide view across
the square, while at the rear it opened upon a fine domed conservatory
constructed over the great portico.
"If you can't find your friends, Stuart, I'll give you a lift homeward.
My carriage is at the corner," Mabel said, evidently anxious to get
away. "I'm going down to the Reform, to fetch Fyneshade."
In this invitation I saw an opportunity of obtaining some further
knowledge of her mysterious companion, and, after settling with my
cabman, lost no time in embracing it. A few moments later the
Countess's smart victoria drew up, and entering, I took the place beside
her, while Sternroyd seated himself opposite.
As we drove around Southwick Crescent in the direction of Park Lane,
Mabel, in the course of conversation, let drop the fact that Gilbert, a
protege of her husband's, was spending a few days at Eaton Square prior
to returning to his studies at Oxford.
"Yes," he drawled. "A fellow appreciates town after poring over musty
volumes, as I unfortunately am compelled to do. Beastly bore!"
Then he told me he was at Balliol--my old college--and our conversation
afterwards turned mainly upon dons and duns.
"I always have such jolly times with Mab--Lady Fyneshade--each time I
come to town," he said. "Whenever I go back I feel absolutely
miserable."
"Yet memories of the past are sometimes painful," I observed, smiling.
At the same time I glanced at Mabel, knowing that the strange
circumstances in which we had parted at the cotton-king's reception must
still be fresh in her mind. Darting at me a swift look of inquiry, she
picked at the buttons of her pearl-grey glove, laughed lightly, and
exclaimed flippantly:
"We have no memories when we arrive at years of discretion. Idle memory
wastes time and other things. The moments as they drop must disappear
and be simply forgotten as a child forgets. Nowadays one lives only for
the future, and lets the past be buried."
"And if the past refuses to be interred?" I asked.
She started visibly, and a frown of annoyance rested for a brief moment
upon her handsome countenance. I fancied, too, that her companion
looked askance at me, but not waiting for either to reply, I said:
"I myself find it difficult to altogether forget. Some incidents in
each of our lives are indelibly engraven upon our minds, and there are
some tender memories that in our hours of melancholy we love to linger
over and brood upon. At such times we find solace in solitude and sup
on vain regrets."
"That's only when we have been in love," the Countess laughed, patting
the large pug beside her. "Gilbert has never been in love; have you,
Gilbert?"
"Never," he answered, grinning.
"With one exception," she observed with mock gravity. "Yourself, you
mean?" he drawled, twirling his flaxen moustache and smiling.
"Certainly not," she cried with feigned indignation. "How dare you
attempt to be complimentary at my expense? No, if I remember aright
there was one woman who in your eyes was a veritable angel, who--"
"Ah!" he said gravely, in a tone quite natural and unaffected. "Yes,
you are right. There was one woman." And he sighed as if painful
memories oppressed him.
One woman! Did he allude to Sybil? If so, it was apparent that Mabel
must be well aware of his acquaintance with the woman I had loved.
Silent I sat while the conversation quickly turned from grave to gay, as
it always did when the Countess chattered.
Suddenly, as we were passing into Piccadilly, it became impressed
vividly upon my mind that they were hiding some secret from me. Two
prominent facts aroused within me suspicion that their conversation was
being carried on in order to mislead me. The first was, that although I
had asked them what had brought them to Radnor Place neither of them had
given any satisfactory reply; the second was, that although Sternroyd
must have been associated in some mysterious way with that silent house
to which the photographs had been sent, he had made no allusion whatever
to it, nor did he make any observation when he noticed my dismay at
discovering it untenanted.
It was evident some secret understanding existed between them, and the
more I reflected upon it the more probable did it appear that they had
actually called at this house, and had only just left it when I arrived.
In order to ascertain my object in visiting it, and to learn the extent
of my knowledge regarding it, the Countess had greeted me with her usual
gaiety, and was now carrying me triumphantly back. I had, of course, no
proof; nevertheless, I had an intuition, strange and distinct, that in
close concert with my dead love's whilom friend, Sternroyd, she was
playing a deep mysterious game with considerable tact and consummate
ingenuity. But she was a most remarkable woman. Always brilliant and
fascinating, always sparkling with wit and bubbling with humour, she was
thoroughly unconventional in every respect. Society had long ago ceased
to express surprise at any of her eccentric or impetuous actions. She
held licence from Mother Grundy to act as, she pleased, for was she not
admitted on all hands to be "the smartest woman in London?" She had a
watchful confidence not only in a multitude of men, but in a multitude
of things.
She dropped me outside the New Lyric Club, close to Piccadilly Circus,
not, however, before she had expressed regret at Dora's unhappiness.
"What has occurred?" I asked concernedly.
"Oh! there has been a terrible upset at home about Jack Bethune," she
answered. "I've done my level best with Ma, but she absolutely forbids
Jack to pay his addresses to Dora."
"Because, as you have already told me, she wants her to marry a man she
can never love," I said gravely.
"Yes," she said hurriedly. "But here's your club. Captain Bethune is
certain to tell you all about it. Goodbye! I shall be at Lady
Hillingdon's to-morrow night, then we'll resume our chat."
"Good-bye!" I said, alighting and grasping her hand; then as the
commissionaire swung the club door open her companion raised his hat and
the carriage was driven rapidly away.