Presently she resumed in a sad voice full of emotion, lifting her face
to mine, saying: "I did not dream, Stuart, of the trickery to which they
resorted in order to change my personality and secure me from falling
into the dragnet of the police, but my lips were already sealed when I
afterwards learnt how my stepfather exerted his influence, and obtained
a special licence from the Archbishop to allow your marriage to take
place in that weird old house in Gloucester Square, how you were
conducted there, and how you and the police were imposed upon by the
body of my unfortunate sister being passed off as that of myself. It
was not until weeks after that eventful night, when by bribery and
influence the pair had buried my identity, that I learned the truth.
Then, unable to come to you, fearing even to make my existence known, I
could only watch and wait."
"But why did they marry me in that manner?" I asked, amazed at her
remarkable story.
"There were reasons," she answered. "The police had tracked me, and it
was imperative for the success of their scheme that I should remain
free. Again, although Ethel was dying it was uncertain what time would
elapse ere the spark of life would flicker and die out. They therefore
resolved, in order that failure should be rendered impossible, upon
effecting a master-stroke by marrying Ethel in my name, because by
marriage with you I should change my nationality, and as a British
subject it would be impossible to arrest me for a political offence
committed in France. This they did, with the result you are already
aware, but further, my poor sister expired during the ceremony; thus the
police, in bursting in, were doubly baffled. Afterwards, they caused
her to be buried as your wife, and upon the grave actually placed a
wreath bearing your card, with an inscription purporting to have been
written by you. Upon the back of that card I also wrote a message,
urging you to prosecute inquiries, hoping that it would fall into your
hands."
"It did," I said. "I found it, and your words have ever since been
uppermost in my mind."
"It was part of the compact that, posing as the wife of my dead sister's
husband, I should remain here and not visit London. As this man's wife
I was compelled to revive some of my late mother's relatives, whom I had
never before seen. These were the rightful owners of her wealth now
that Ethel was no more, but to them I was forced to keep up the wretched
deception that I was Ethel, and they, never having seen her since a
child, returned to France with any suspicions they had entertained
entirely allayed. I remained here alone with my maid Ashcombe as sole
companion, and with the cold mask of honesty and indifference upon my
face, thinking always of you. If they would only have let me tell you
that I was innocent of that cruel deception, only let me show you that I
was not the base adventuress you must have imagined, I think--I think I
could have borne the rest. When I could not bear it any longer I prayed
to them to let me see you, I prayed for one little grain of pity.
Circumstances, however, seemed to conspire to thwart their plans, for a
person whom they feared threatened to denounce them. Therefore they
became desperate and would show me no mercy. At this time, too, I made
the astounding discovery that my stepfather had married again unknown to
me, two years before, a vain haughty girl young enough to be his
daughter. He had kept this fact from me because he knew I had been
acquainted with her in my girlhood days, and feared I might reveal his
villainy. When I heard of this I wrote to Captain Bethune, who had been
a mutual friend, and from him learned facts about yourself and her. I
heard of your anxiety, of your futile search after the truth, and of
your continual inquiry to fathom the mystery of my life. But our
enemies had taken every precaution to prevent your discovering anything,
and by threatening to give me up to the police they kept me still
enthralled and silent. They, however, saw that the one man who had, by
some unknown means, discovered their chicanery, might sooner or later
expose the fraud; therefore, they grew reckless, and on one occasion my
stepfather threatened my life if I gave you a single sign of my
existence. It was after that, that I discovered the crime."
"The crime!" I cried. "What crime?"
"I had but one friend, Captain Bethune," she said in the same low,
faltering tones, "and after this threat I went to his chambers late one
night to seek his counsel and aid. I wanted to give you a sign that I
still lived, but I was held powerless by fear of the terrible vengeance
they threatened. I--I found him at home with two other men in his
company--one was my stepfather, the other Gilbert Sternroyd. There was
no quarrel, no word of anger, but I was witness to the terrible crime.
Gilbert, happy and unsuspecting, was shot dead by a coward's hand--he--"
"You actually saw the shot fired?" I cried, starting up quickly. "Then
you also saw the murderer? Speak! name him! Let me know the truth."
"The man who shot Gilbert Sternroyd," she said in a hard, firm voice,
"the man who drew a revolver secretly from his pocket and fired full
upon him as he stepped from the room, was my stepfather! I gripped his
arm, but too late. Gilbert fell, and the coward fled."
"His name?" I demanded.
"He is known to you," she replied, slowly twisting her handkerchief
between her fingers, and with a manner of subdued, fierce vengefulness
she laughed a little hard laugh; but it was more significant of inward
agony than any words could have been. "He is known to you, to the
world, as the Earl of Fyneshade!"
"Fyneshade!" I gasped dumbfounded. "And he is your stepfather?"
"Yes," she answered. "Seek him, and give him into the hands of the
police, for he is the assassin."
"But the motive?" I cried. "What was it?"
"Twofold. Sternroyd had obtained knowledge of the fraud perpetrated by
substituting my personality for Ethel's, and came to me declaring his
intention of exposing it. Besides this he was an ardent admirer of
Mabel, my stepfather's young wife, and although she gave him no
encouragement he was infatuated, and had made a will leaving his immense
wealth to her. Fyneshade knew this, and saw that by getting rid of him
he would preserve his guilty secret, and at the same time enrich his
wife and consequently himself. He suggested this to my pseudo-husband,
Francis Markwick, who--"
"Markwick!" I gasped. "Was it that scoundrel who assisted in the fraud
and posed as your husband?"
"The same. I myself overheard the two men in consultation upon the
benefits to be derived from the young millionaire's death, and
afterwards warned him and also told Mabel. Therefore, from the first,
Lady Fyneshade and your friend Bethune knew the truth."
"But why did not Bethune inform the police instead of acting so
suspiciously?" I queried in doubt.
"Because he feared to compromise me. He swore he would not speak until
I gave him permission. This I could not give until assured of my own
immunity from arrest."
"How would this disclosure compromise you?"
"In the first place, I was present when the murder was committed.
Secondly, you will remember you entered Jack's chambers by stealth on
the following night and found the body removed."
"Yes," I said quickly. "He locked one of the rooms and would not allow
me to enter."
"Because I was in that room, Stuart," she explained. "I had again
called upon him to ask his advice, not knowing how to act. Suddenly you
entered, and to conceal me became imperative."
"But the body was also concealed there, was it not?"
"No, it had been removed to Gloucester Square early in the morning
following the murder, after which Jack, in accordance with his promise
to shield me, fled from England in order that suspicion might fall upon
himself. If he had at once caused the arrest of the murderer I should
have been compromised. But Markwick denounced Jack to Mabel, who, of
course, already guessed the truth, and very soon your friend was amazed
to find circumstantial evidence woven around him in a most serious and
amazing manner."
"But I had all along been aware of his innocence," Dora interrupted,
sick at heart for her friend's misery. "Sybil had told me."
"Yes," continued the woman I loved, turning to her. "Even when the
police were hunting for him I feared to speak, knowing that by so doing
I must implicate myself, and that the part I had innocently played in
the dynamite affair and in the subsequent fraud would inevitably be
disclosed. Once," she continued, again turning to me, "once I sent my
maid Ashcombe to you to ascertain secretly how you fared, but you were
out, and as it was imperative that she should leave that night for Paris
to prosecute some inquiries, she failed to see you and you therefore
remained in ignorance."
"My sister, too, has suffered terrible anguish," Dora said. "She knew
from the first that her husband was an assassin, yet to remove suspicion
from him and avoid the terrible scandal, she was compelled to act a part
that was to her revolting. That she had no thought for Gilbert and that
she was faithful to her husband I am confident, yet in order to obtain
confirmation of her suspicions of Fyneshade's schemes she was compelled
to court the friendship of Markwick, the man she most hated, while her
husband, to avert suspicion that he had murdered Sternroyd, affected to
be jealous of his confederate."
"But my marriage," I said, "it is astounding."
"The plans of this base pair were indeed deeply laid and ingeniously
formed," she went on. "The crafty manner in which you were entrapped
and wedded is but one illustration of their marvellous ingenuity and
utter unscrupulousness. In securing the handsome revenue from my
mother's estates they provided for every eventuality, but by a
conspiracy of circumstances Gilbert Sternroyd obtained knowledge of
their secret, of how they had compelled me to pose as Markwick's wife,
and how they had married you to my dead sister. He sympathised with
Mabel as wife of this titled adventurer, and, in order to rid her of
him, intended to give him up to the police. My stepfather saw that only
by death could he be silenced, and he therefore foully murdered him.
Yes, Stuart, your marriage was an amazing one, secured by a scoundrel
whose influence was far-reaching; but even that event was not one whit
more astounding than those that followed."
"True," I said, amazed and bewildered at her disclosures.
"Towards me, also, Fyneshade has acted desperately, with double
cunning." Dora exclaimed fiercely, turning to me. "You remember on
that night when, for the first time after your strange marriage, you
visited the ghostly deserted house in Gloucester Square, I was there
also. I knew that Fyneshade, supposed to be in Paris, was in hiding
there, so I entered determined to face him and obtain liberty for Sybil,
for Jack, nay for all, by compelling him to fly from the country and
renounce all claim to return. I was prepared to offer him secrecy in
exchange for this. But he detected us. He felled you from behind and
dragged you down to the cellar, while he also stunned me, causing
concussion of the brain; then locked me in that inner room. Probably I
should have gone hopelessly insane and eventually starved had you not
discovered me."
"His villainy is revolting," I exclaimed angrily. "His own action led
to my discovery of the body, but I confess these disclosures put a
complexion on the affair such as I had never dreamed;" and turning to
Sybil, who had slowly risen and passed to the window, I asked, "Tell me
the reason you are now constrained to make this confession."
The air from the garden fanned her pale cheeks soothingly. She was
leaning forward gazing fixedly across the lawn, but turned slowly at my
words, and I saw her face was as beautiful as when we had first met.
"Because I no longer fear," she answered calmly, and one would have
doubted that this was the same woman who had been so wildly agitated
only a few moments previously, she spoke so quietly. "Yesterday the
French Government adopted an amnesty to political offenders, therefore
the warrant cannot now be reissued against me. As to the ingenious
fraud to which I have been a party, I can prove that I was merely a tool
in the hands of these two malefactors who held me in their toils. From
this moment I renounce the name of Markwick, to which I have no right,
and again resume my maiden name, Sybil. I may be prosecuted--well, I am
ready to take my trial--I--I am ready to face all, if only I can think
that you believe me innocent, Stuart--if only I may dare to hope we may
even be man and wife."
Next second she was in my embrace, sobbing again with her head upon my
shoulder.
"Rest assured," I said tenderly, "that the innocent shall not suffer,
and upon the guilty shall fall punishment swift and certain. If it
becomes necessary for you to face a criminal trial, remember that I love
you just as fondly as I have ever done."
"Then you do not hate me for the despicable part I have been forced to
act?" she cried joyfully, raising her earnest, tear-stained face.
"No, Sybil. Like myself, you have suffered at the hands of these
merciless scoundrels, and before Heaven I swear they shall pay for it,"
I cried with fierce anger. Turning to Dora, I added, "This has indeed
proved that Jack, loyal and true-hearted, is in every way worthy the
affection of the pure honest woman who has befriended us both."
"I have but endeavoured to repay you for the small services you have
rendered to Jack and myself," she answered with a sweet smile. "I know
that at one time you suspected him, but that was only natural, for he
intended that you should. Already he is on his way home, and tonight
will be in London. He will be present to bear witness with Sybil as to
the tragic end of Gilbert Sternroyd." Then, with a lingering glance at
us, Dora rose and discreetly left on pretence of speaking to Ashcombe,
while Sybil and I, alone, clasped in each other's arms, repeated those
vows of undying love we had exchanged far away at that little southern
spa, overshadowed by its purple mountains with their eternal snows.
During several hours I remained joyful and content with my loved one,
and the sun had already disappeared when we all three entered the fly to
drive back to Didcot and catch the train for London. The earth, veiled
in a soft shadow, seemed half slumbering, pensive and melancholy. A
white opaque sky overhung the horizon, and lucent haze of colourless
pearl-grey filled the valley. A time of palpable sadness comes each
evening, when although not yet night the light is fading slowly, almost
regretfully; and each of us in this silent farewell feels strange
anxiety, a great need of hope and faith in his heart Song comes to one's
lips with the first rays of morning, tears to one's eyes with the last
ray of evening light Perhaps it is the dispiriting thought of labour
constantly resumed, unceasingly abandoned; the eager wish, mingled with
dread, for eternal rest. Perhaps, indeed, it is the resemblance of
everything human to that agony of light and sound.
Sybil was seated beside me as we sped along the straight open road. A
star shone above the dark line of distant trees amid the evanescence of
earth and sky. We both looked at this consoling light.
It pierced with a ray of hope the mournful veil of twilight.