In accordance with Dora's instructions I hailed a cab, and although she
would give me no inkling of our destination, she ordered the man to
drive with all haste to Paddington. At the station she told me to book
to Didcot, the junction for Oxford, and about an hour later we alighted
there.
From a neighbouring inn we obtained a fly, and together drove out across
a level stretch of country some two miles, until we passed a crumbling
stone cross, and turning suddenly entered a peaceful old-world village,
which I understood by her order to the driver to be East Hagbourne. It
consisted of one long straggling street of cottages, many of them
covered with roses and honeysuckle, with here and there some good sized,
quaint-gabled house, or lichen-covered, moss-grown barn, but when nearly
at the further end of the little place the man pulled up suddenly before
a large, rambling house of time-mellowed red brick, half hidden by ivy
and creepers. It stood near the road with a strip of well-kept lawn in
front and an iron railing, quite an incongruity in those parts. When we
alighted our summons was responded to by a neat maid whom Dora addressed
as Ashcombe, and who at once led the way to a long, low room,
oak-beamed, panelled and very comfortably furnished.
"Who lives here?" I inquired in a half whisper when the domestic had
gone, but my question was answered by the sudden appearance of its
occupant, who next second stood silent upon the threshold, motionless,
statuesque.
Astonishment held me dumb. I sprang from the chair whereon I had been
seated agape, amazed, my eyes riveted upon the figure standing silent
before the dark portiere curtain.
Words froze on my lips; my tongue refused to articulate. Had insanity,
the affliction I most dreaded, at last seized me, or was it some strange
chimera, some extraordinary trick of my warped imagination? It was
neither. The figure that had passed into the room swiftly and
noiselessly while I had for an instant turned to question Dora was that
of a living person--a person whose presence roused within my heart a
tumult of wonder and of joy.
It was Sybil!
Yes, there was the delicately-poised head, the same flawlessly beautiful
face that had entranced me in the little Southern mountain town, the
same candid forehead, the same half-parted lips, the same dimpled cheeks
that I had so often kissed with a mad passion such as I had never
experienced before or since. She wore a grey silk gown; at her throat
was one simple rose of deepest crimson. Her little white hand bore a
wedding ring--the one I had placed upon it--the lace on her skirt and
bodice, the delicate pale tint of her face, bore testimony to the
elegant and opulent indolence of her existence.
Yet was she not dead? Had I not been present when her soul and body
parted? Had I not stood before the spot where she slept beneath a
willow planted years ago by pious hands that had raised a neighbouring
tomb? That willow had, I remembered, never grown vigorous and free in
the strength of its sap. I knew how sadly its yellow foliage drooped,
the ends of its branches hung down like heavy, weary tears. I
recollected how, when first I saw it, I had thought that its roots went
down and absorbed from my dead love's heart all the bitterness of a life
thrown away. And the roses near her grave bore large blossoms as white
as milk and of a deep red. The roots penetrated to the depths of the
coffin, the sweet-smelling blooms took their whiteness from a virgin
bosom and their crimson from a wounded heart.
I had held her cold hand and kissed her icy lips. Yet here she stood
before me in the flesh, grave-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and
pale, an inner beauty shining from her face.
At last my tongue's strings became loosened. I stammered her name. For
answer she uttered in a well-remembered voice, one word:
"Stuart!"
Next instant with a shriek of joy she was locked in my embrace, and my
eager lips pressed passionately her dimples, those nests for kisses. In
those joyful, dreamy moments we left remembrances unuttered, and nothing
mingled with the sound of our kisses but a whispered word from Dora.
When one finds living and well one's love who was long ago lowered to
the grave there is no need for the voice; a single look says more than a
long speech.
Through the open windows the garden looked quite gay. The lawn grew
thick and strong with its well-kept beds of crimson, white, scarlet and
blue. Fresh air came in abundance from the open country, with puffs of
all the pleasant perfumes of the flowers. The sweet scents seemed to
fill Sybil with lassitude. She leant upon my arm quite faint, as if the
smell had sent her off to sleep with love.
I glanced at her pale cheek and shell-like ear as her handsome head
pillowed itself upon my breast. So delicate they seemed that, were it
not for the rising and falling of her bosom, I should have believed she
was of wax. But presently, struggling with the emotion that she had
striven in vain to suppress, she raised her blue eyes to mine. They
were still clear and trustful, child-like in their purity. I fancied I
could read her reverie in their blue depths as she smiled upon me with
sad sweetness.
"At last!" she murmured dreamily, her little hand gripping my arm
convulsively. "At last you have come, Stuart!"
Her words caused a flood of memories to surge through my brain, and as
she stood before me still pre-occupied, still mysterious, I felt myself
doubting, even then, the reality of my joy. But, no! her presence was a
tangible, inexplicable fact. Even at that moment a breath of violets
filled my nostrils and again stirred my memory. Away in the Pyrenees
long ago her chiffons had exuded that odour. Was it not her favourite
perfume? The violets of spring, those modest blossoms snatched from the
woods to droop and die in the hands of London flower-sellers, had always
brought back to me memories of brief summer days when we had wandered up
those distant mountain paths side by side, hand in hand, like children.
I had thought of those distant things amidst the dust and clatter and
gaiety of the great city, and ofttimes bought a bunch of those flowers,
offspring of the dew and rising sun, and wore them in my coat so that I
might feast my full on the bitter recollections of those days bygone
when I had first seen the sun of a woman's wondrous beauty.
But in my sudden ecstasy at finding her actually in my embrace,
enraptured by her beauty and transported by her passionate kisses, I
trod enchanted ground, knowing not what words fell from my lips.
Our questions were naive and tender, our explanations brief and full of
regrets and surprises. Happy in each other's love, we uttered no word
of reproach.
Suddenly I was conscious that Dora had approached, and was speaking.
"I bring him to you, Sybil, because the secret may not be longer
preserved," she said slowly, with emphasis. "It has been sought to fix
guilt upon an innocent man who, fearing to betray you, has allowed the
newspapers to adjudge him a murderer. Speak, then; tell Stuart, who
has, I know, never ceased to love you and revere your memory, the secret
that has sealed your lips, the secret which when revealed will bring a
terrible Nemesis upon the guilty ones."
In a moment Sybil withdrew herself from my embrace; then with a sudden
impulse she took a few hurried steps forward, and grasping the hand of
the woman who had thus spoken, exclaimed:
"Dora, forgive me! I had imagined that you were my rival. I was told
that Stuart was your lover, and had positive proof that you had on more
than one occasion gone to his rooms alone. I believed that after he had
supposed me dead he loved you, but I find that the same lying,
scandalous tongue that wounded my reputation tried to wound yours.
Instead of my enemy, I know you are still my devoted friend. Forgive
me, Dora--forgive me!"
"Say no more, Sybil," the other answered sympathetically. "All that is
now of the past. Stuart and myself have, it is true, been friends--
true, platonic friends--and were it not for his exertions on my behalf
you would not to-day be in a position to ruthlessly cast off the
trammels that have fettered you, preventing you occupying your true
position as his wife. Without fear you may now lay bare the secret of
your life and divulge facts that will thwart the evil machinations of
your enemies. You have waited long and been faithful, both of you, but
your triumph will be swift, crushing, complete."
"Yes," said my well-beloved, "I have already heard of the suspicion that
has fallen upon Captain Bethune, and--"
"Bethune!" I cried, remembering her letter that I had found in his
rooms. "Tell me, do you know him?"
"I do, Stuart," she answered, turning her soft eyes to mine. "He has
been my friend, and from time to time has brought me here, in my lonely
retreat, news of the one man I loved--yourself."
"But Markwick is trying to escape," Dora exclaimed quickly.
"Then he has again deceived me!" Sybil cried. "He shall not elude us!
No! the day of denunciation has dawned, and I will lay bare the strange
facts so that punishment may fall upon the guilty ones," and she placed
her hand upon her breast where her heart throbbed wildly. "It is a
wretched story of duplicity and crime, Stuart," she added, standing
before me with eyes downcast. "When you have heard my confession,
perhaps--perhaps you will spurn and hate me for bringing upon you all
this terrible anxiety and unhappiness; but I swear before Heaven that
secrecy was imperative, that I have been under the control of one evil
and unscrupulous, who has held my destiny for life or death. Yes, yes,
it is the ghastly truth," she said, her voice dropping to a
scarcely-audible whisper. "I deceived you even though I loved you, yet
since that time I have lived tortured by a remorse that knows no night,
driven almost to desperation by a knowledge of your unhappiness and an
inability to tell you that I still lived."
"Why were you unable to communicate with me?" I asked in wonder.
"Because I dared not. Ah! Do not judge me prematurely!" she pleaded,
clutching my arm. "When you know the truth, you will see there are
extenuating circumstances. Tell me that you will hear me to the end
before you condemn me as an adventuress."
"Sybil," I said, as calmly as I could, my fingers closing over hers, "I
love you as I have always loved you. Explain everything, let me act for
you in settling accounts with those who have held you in bondage, and
then, when all is plain, when the secret of this strange life of yours
is explained, then will we resume that perfect but abruptly terminated
happiness of the old never-to-be-forgotten days at Luchon."
"Ah, Stuart! I knew you loved me!" she cried, dinging to me
passionately. "I knew that you would hear me, because you are loyal and
generous to a woman, as you always were. Yes; now, owing to a
combination of circumstances, I am at last free to speak, and will
conceal nothing. Our enemies parted us cruelly, deceiving us both, and
acting with a cunning that was amazing. Therefore you, the principal
sufferer, shall have the satisfaction of exposing their trickery and
bringing them to justice. Even upon you, at one time, they heaped
suspicion so that you might be made their scapegoat, while against
myself the police also held a warrant for an offence I committed without
the least criminal intent. Ah! my story is a strange one; stranger than
any have imagined."
"Yes," observed Dora, "the little I know of it astounds me. When the
true facts are made known and the murderer of Gilbert Sternroyd
arrested, what a scandal it will cause!"
"Then who is the culprit?" I inquired, in breathless anxiety to solve
the inscrutable mystery that had so long puzzled me.
"Be patient for a moment," Sybil answered, "and I will explain events in
their sequence. Then you will see plainly by whose hand Gilbert fell."
"You knew him, did you not?" I asked.
"Ah!" she said smiling. "You purchased my photograph--the one I had
caused to be placed in the shop-window in Regent Street, so that you
should notice it, and on buying it, as I knew you must, you would learn
that I still lived."
"Yes. But I could not believe the truth," I said hastily. "It was so
incredible that I came to the conclusion that the photographer had made
some mistake about the date." Then I added: "Why was Sternroyd placed
beside you?"
"There was a reason, which you will shortly see," she replied. "I knew
Gilbert, it is true. Do not, however, for a moment imagine he was ever
fond of me. He was engaged to someone else."
She had taken a few steps backward and sunk upon a low chair, while Dora
had crossed to the fireplace and ensconced herself in a corner, where
she sat in silence, watching us with undisguised satisfaction. I, too,
had seated myself in an arm-chair, so near that of Sybil that I could
hold and caress her tiny hand.
"Your ring," I exclaimed, noticing her wedding-ring, "is that the one I
placed upon your finger?"
She smiled and sadly shook her head, replying:
"No, you did not place it there."
"What!" I cried amazed. "Are you not my wife? Is not that your
wedding-ring?"
"No, Stuart," she answered very gravely. "This is my wedding-ring, it's
true, but you are not my husband."
"Then you have--you've married someone else!" I gasped, starting up.
But she gripped my wrist, forcing me firmly back into my chair, saying:
"Did you not, a moment ago, promise you would hear me without question?
Have patience, and you shall know everything--everything."
Then, sighing heavily, she pushed the tendrils of fair hair from her
white, open brow, while I sank back among the cushions impatient and
perplexed.
"Only to-day, a few hours ago, the chains of the thraldom under which I
have lived were drawn so tightly around me, galling me to the quick,"
she said, in a low, hurried voice, after sitting a few moments silent
and agitated. "Only this morning I saw how hopeless was the effort to
elude that thraldom in the smallest degree that my whole being ached in
torture, and I hated the world and wished to escape from it; yet the two
events for which I have longed through all these dreary, wearying days
have now occurred. I am free to speak, and you have come to me with
forgiveness on your lips."