HOW LADY DYKE DISAPPEARED
(_Being the Manuscript left by Sir Charles Dyke, Bart., and
addressed to Claude Bruce, Esq., Barrister-at-law_)
It is customary, I believe, for poor wretches who are sentenced to
undergo the last punishment of the law to be allowed a three weeks'
respite between the date of their sentence and that on which they are
executed. I am in the position of such a one. The difference between me
and the convicted felon lies merely in environment; in most respects I
am worse situated than he. My period of agony is longer drawn out, I am
condemned to die by my own hand, I am mocked by the surroundings of
luxury, taunted by the knowledge that though life and even a sort of
happiness are within my reach I must not avail myself of them.
There may come a time in the affairs of any man when he is compelled to
choose between a dishonored existence and voluntary death. These
unpleasant alternatives are now before me. You, who know me, would never
doubt which of them I should adopt, nor will you upbraid me because our
judgments coincide. There is nothing for it, Bruce, but quiet
death--death in the least obtrusive form, and so disposed that it may be
possible for you, chief among my friends and the only person I can trust
to fulfil my wishes, to arrange that my memory may be speedily
forgotten. My virtues, I fear, will not secure me immortality; my
faults, I hope, will not be spread broadcast to cram the maws of the
gaping crowd.
I do not shirk this final issue, nor do I crave pity. In setting forth
plainly the history of my wife's death and its results, I am actuated
solely by a desire to protect others from needless suspicion. Having
resolved to pay forfeit for my own errors, I claim to have expiated
them. This document is an explanation, not a confession.
I have not much time left wherein fittingly to shape my story so as to
be just to all, myself included. If I am not mistaken, the officers of
the law are in hot chase of me, but my statement shall not be made to an
earthly judge. The words of a man about to die may not be well chosen;
they should at least be true. I will tell of events as nearly as
possible in their sequence of time. If I leave gaps through haste or
forgetfulness you will, from your own knowledge of the facts, readily
fill them up once you are in possession of the salient features.
Mensmore and his sister were the friends of my early years. We played
together as children. Gwendoline Mensmore was two years younger than I,
and I well remember making love to her at the age of eleven. Her mother
died when she was quite a baby, and her father married again, so her
step-brother Albert is her junior by four years. I taught him how to
ride and swim and play cricket. My father's place in Surrey--we
did not acquire the Yorkshire property until the death of my
grandfather--adjoined the estate General Mensmore occupied after his
retirement from the army.
We children always called Gwendoline "Dick," to avoid the difficulty of
her long-sounding name, I suppose, and I honestly believe that our
respective parents entertained the idea that a marriage between us was
quite a natural thing. I went to school at Brighton, and Mensmore,
being a somewhat precocious lad, joined the same school before I left.
The headmaster, the Rev. Septimus Childe, was an old friend of my
father's, and when he wished to purchase a house at Putney--the terrible
house which has figured in my dreams for the past three months as a
Place of Skulls--my parents put pressure on my mother's trustees to make
the transaction an easy one. Of course, I knew it well. We regarded it
in those early days as a town house, and always lived there during the
season.
My father's succession to the title and estates changed all that. We
quitted Surrey for Yorkshire, and Wensley House, Portman Square, was a
step upwards from the barrack-like building which so admirably suited
Mr. Childe's requirements.
When I was at Sandhurst General Mensmore got into difficulties. He
quitted Surrey, and we gradually lost sight of him and his children.
Afterwards I knew that he struggled on for a few years, placed his son
in the army, and then came a complete collapse, ending in his death and
the boy's resignation of his commission. Of Gwendoline Mensmore's
whereabouts I knew nothing. Her memory never quitted me, but the new
interests in my life dulled it. I imagined that I could laugh at a
childish infatuation.
Then I married. I did so in obedience to my father's wishes, and Alice
was, I suppose, an ideal wife--far too ideal for a youngster of my lower
intellectual plane. I know now that I never had any real affection for
her. I was always somewhat awed by her loftier aspirations. My interests
lay in racing, hunting, sports generally, and having what I defined as
"a good time." She, though an excellent horsewoman, and in every sense
an admirable hostess, thought Newmarket vulgar, treated Ascot as a
social necessity, and turned up her eyebrows at me when I failed to see
any utility in schemes for the reclamation of the submerged tenth.
Thus, though we never quarrelled, we gradually drifted apart. She knew
she bored me if she asked me to inspect a model dwelling; I knew she
hated the people who were the companions of a coaching tour or a week at
Goodwood. Unfortunately, we were not blessed with offspring. Had it been
otherwise, we might have found a common object of interest in our
children.
Insensibly, we agreed to a separate existence. We lived together as
friends rather than as husband and wife. We parted without regret and
met without cordiality. Do not think we were unhappy. If our marriage
was not bliss, it was at least comfortable. I think my wife was proud of
my successes on the turf in a quiet kind of way, and I certainly was
proud of her and of the high reputation she enjoyed among all classes of
society. I even reverenced her for it, and I well knew that the
enthusiastic receptions given us by our Yorkshire tenantry were not due
to my efforts in their behalf, but to hers.
So we lived for nearly six years, and so we might have continued for
sixty had I not met Gwendoline Mensmore again, under vastly changed
circumstances. She was a chorus-girl in a variety theatre, earning a
poor living under wretched conditions. I discovered the fact by mere
chance.
I met her, and she told me her story--how she had married a man named
Hillmer, whom her father had trusted, and whom she believed to be able
to save them from ruin. Then the crash came. Her father died; her
husband also broke down financially, took to drink and ill-treated her;
her brother was swallowed up somewhere in the Far West. She had no
alternative but to live apart from her husband and try to support
herself by the first career that suggests itself to a young, talented,
and beautiful woman. But she was already weary of the stage and its
distasteful surroundings. Her nature was too delicate for the rude
friendships of the dressing-room. She shuddered at the thought of a mild
carousal in a bar when the labors of the night were ended.
In a word, were I differently constituted, were she cast in more common
mould, there was apparently ready to hand all the material for a vulgar
_liaison_.
My respect for my wife, however, no less than Mrs. Hillmer's fine
disposition, saved both of us from folly. Yet I could not leave her
exposed to the exigencies of a life in which she was rapidly becoming
disillusioned. Away in the depths of my heart I knew that this sweet
woman was my true mate, separated from me by adverse chance. There was
nothing unfair to Alice in the thought. Were she questioned at any time,
I suppose, she must have admitted that we were, in some respects, as
ill-matched a couple as we were well-matched in others. You will say
that I understood but little of feminine nature--nothing at all of my
wife's.
How best to help Mrs. Hillmer--that was the question. It was at this
stage I made the initial mistake to which I can, too late, trace a host
of succeeding misfortunes. I did not consult my wife. Trying now to
analyze my reasons for this lamentable error of judgment I imagined that
it arose from some absurd disinclination on my part to admit that I went
to the stage-door of a theatre to inquire about the identity of a young
woman whom I had recognized from the front of the house.
Don't you see, my dear Bruce, it is almost as bad to fear your wife as
to suspect her.
As, at that time, my own life was free from the slightest cloud of
sorrow, I took keen interest in the troubles of Mrs. Hillmer, and I
amused myself by playing, in her behalf, the part of a modern magician.
I felt intuitively that she would resent any direct attempt on my part
to place funds at her disposal, and I found a great deal of harmless fun
in helping her with her consent, but without her actual knowledge.
I am, as you know, a rich man. At this hour I cannot sum up my available
assets to within L100,000. Altogether I must be worth nearly a million
sterling--yet my money cannot purchase me another day's existence such
as I would tolerate. Strange, is it not?
Well, the close of the year before last was a period of unexampled
activity on the Stock Exchange, and, by way of a joke, I made some
purchases on Mrs. Hillmer's account, with the intention of pretending to
pay myself out of the profits, while handing her such balances as might
accrue. She is a shrewd woman, and quick at figures, so I might have
experienced some difficulty in deceiving her. But the mad record of the
past twelve months was in no wise belied by its inception. My purchases
were those of a man inspired by the Goddess of Fortune. Stocks which I
bought commenced suddenly to inflate. I astounded my brokers by the
manner in which I ferreted out neglected bonds, mines which struck the
mother lode next week, railway companies whose directors were even then
secretly conspiring to water the stock.
Mrs. Hillmer became infected with the craze like myself. Twice we
plunged heavily in American Rails and came out triumphantly. To end this
part of my story, after five months of excitement I had contrived not
only to swell my own deposits to a large extent, but I had secured on
Mrs. Hillmer's account a sufficient quantity of reliable stock to bring
her in an average income of L1,500 per annum.
My greatest difficulty was to persuade Mrs. Hillmer to break off the
habit of speculation once she had contracted it. I found that she
perused the late editions of the evening papers with the same eagerness
that a bookmaker looks for the starting prices of the day's races. By
the exercise of firmness and tact I was able to stop her from further
dealings.
At the close of this period I need hardly say that two things had
happened. Mrs. Hillmer and I were fast friends, with common objects and
interests in life; and, concurrently, the ties between Alice and myself
had loosened still more.
I also carelessly made another blunder. Under the pretence that secrecy
was requisite for Stock Exchange transactions, I persuaded Mrs. Hillmer
to allow me to pass under the name of Colonel Montgomery.
Mrs. Hillmer, of course, was now able to live in comparative luxury. I
came to regard her house as an abode of rest. I was more at home in her
drawing-room than in my own house. She often spoke to me of my wife, and
obviously wished to see her, but here I did a cowardly thing. I
represented my married existence as far less comfortable than it really
was, and gradually Mrs. Hillmer ceased all allusion to Alice. She
misunderstood our relations. I knew it, and did not explain. Not a very
worthy proceeding for a man whose sense of honor is so keen that he
prefers death to disgrace. But one can deceive no other so easily as
oneself.
Occasionally, when opportunities offered, we went out together. It was
foolish, you will say, and I agree with you. If folly were not pleasant
it would not be so fashionable. But, to this hour, the relations between
us are those only of close friendship. Never in my life have I addressed
her by other than her married name, never have I touched her arm save by
way of casual politeness.
I really think I flattered myself upon my superior virtues. I could see
all the excellence but none of the stupidity of my behavior.
About this time, Mrs. Hillmer's husband died. Thenceforth she became
slightly reserved in manner. When life was a defiance she fought
convention, but with safety came prudence. In fact, she told me that my
frequent visits to her house would certainly be ill-construed if they
became known. I was seeking for a pretext to introduce her to her own
set in society, when a double catastrophe occurred.
My wife discovered, as she imagined, that I was clandestinely occupied
with another woman, and Mrs. Hillmer's brother returned from America.
It will best serve my hurried narrative if I relate events exactly as
they happened, and not as they look in the light of subsequent
knowledge.
Mensmore was naturally astounded to find his sister so well provided
for, and gratefully accepted the help she gave him towards resuscitating
his own fortunes. But it did not occur to either of us that he would
take the ordinary view of the bond existing between us, and I shall
never forget his rage when he found out that I was not known to his
sister's servants by my right name. It was an awkward position for all
three. He was loth to allege that which we did not feel called upon to
deny. But between him and me there was a marked coolness, arising from
suspicion on his part and resentment on mine, coupled, I must add, with
an unquiet consciousness that his attitude was not wholly unreasonable.
Mrs. Hillmer and he discussed the matter several times. He urged that
this compromising friendship should be discontinued. She--a determined
woman when her mind was made up--fought the suggestion on the ground of
unfairness, though, like myself, she would have been glad of any
accident which would alter the position of affairs.
He interpreted her opposition to different motives. Finally, as his
financial position was a dangerous one, as we afterwards learned, and he
despaired of setting things straight in Raleigh Mansions--judging them
from his own point of view--he resolved to leave England again.
And now I come to the night of November 6.
It was, as you will remember, a foggy and unpleasant day. I had some
business in the city which detained me until darkness set in. I had not
seen Mrs. Hillmer for two days, so I resolved to drive to Sloane
Square--travelling by the Underground was intolerable in such
weather--and have tea with her.
I did not know then that she had gone with her maid to
Brighton--intending to return that evening. It was a sudden whim, she
told me subsequently, and she had not even informed the other servants
of her intention.
The pavements in the City were slimy with the dampness of the fog, and
as an empty four-wheeler passed through Cornhill I hailed it, a most
unusual choice on my part. The cabman, I noticed, was fairly elevated,
but as these fellows often drive better when drunk than sober, I simply
told him to be careful, and jumped in. I reached Sloane Square all
right, and detained the cab for my intended journey home in time for
dinner.
At the door of Mrs. Hillmer's flat I met the cook and housemaid, both
going out to do some shopping, probably, in the spare hour before it was
time to prepare dinner.
They knew me well, of course, and admitted me to the drawing-room,
telling me that Mrs. Hillmer was out, but would surely return very soon.
I had not been in the room a minute before the sharp double knock of a
telegraph messenger brought the coachman, whom the girls left in charge
of the house, to the door, and I startled the man by appearing in the
hall, as he did not know of my presence.
"What is it, Simmonds?" I said, as I correctly guessed the message to be
from Mrs. Hillmer.
"The missus is in Brighton, sir," he answered. "She wants the carriage
to meet her at Victoria at seven o'clock. It's six now, and I ought to
go around to the stables at once, but both these blessed girls have gone
out. I'm in a fair fix."
"No fix at all," I said. "I want to see Mrs. Hillmer, so I will wait
here until she arrives--or, at all events, till the servants come back."
The man scratched his head, but he could think of no better plan, so he,
too, went off, and I was left alone, for the first time in my life, in
Mrs. Hillmer's abode. It is the small events that govern our lives,
Claude, not those that stand out prominently. The shopping expedition of
a couple of servant girls, intent on securing a new cap or a few yards
of calico, brought about my wife's death, caused misery to many people,
and ends, I sincerely hope, in my own speedy leap into oblivion.
I picked up a novel, "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," hit upon the terrible
episode that culminates on Salisbury Plain, and was soon deeply
interested, when another knock--this time an imperative summons long
drawn out--caused me to hasten to the door.
I opened it, and in the dim light of the staircase landing, for a second
did not recognize the lady who stood outside. Heaven help me, I was soon
enlightened. My wife's voice was bitterly contemptuous as she said:
"You don't keep a footman, it appears, in your new establishment,
Charles."
Had I been suddenly struck blind, or paralyzed, I could not have been
more dumfounded than by Alice's unexpected appearance. A thorough
scoundrel might, perhaps, have thought of the best thing to say. I
blurted out the worst.
"What are you doing _here_?" I stammered when my tongue recovered its
use.
"No doubt you resent my appearance," she cried, in a high, shrill tone I
had never before heard from her, "but I shall not trouble you further. I
merely came to confirm with my own eyes what my ears refused to
entertain. Now, I am satisfied."
She half turned with the intention of reaching the street, but, rendered
desperate by the absurdity of my position, I gripped her arm and pulled
her forcibly into the entrance-hall, closing and bolting the door behind
us.
"You have seen too much not to see more," I cried. "I will not allow you
to ruin both our lives by a mere suspicion."
She was in a furious temper, but her sense of propriety--for she did not
know that the servants' quarters were empty--restrained her until we had
both entered the drawing-room.
Then she burst upon me with a torrent of words.