"WHAT FACE THAT HAUNTS ME?"
After that all hope was given up of discovering who had murdered
Douglas. From the first, from the moment Bertie saw the jewels taken
from the two vagabonds by the sergeant, he felt that neither of them
were the culprits. Yet, all asked each other whenever they met, "If
not these scoundrels, who then?"
"He had no enemy in France, in the world," said Bertie, as they sat
one night in the lodgings which Kate had hired for her father and
herself. "Why, why should any creature have taken his life? In his
regiment he was most popular--nay, beloved. Oh! oh! I cannot
understand it."
And now, since, as has been said, the summer was waning--for Douglas
had been dead three months when they talked thus--their little circle
was about to be broken up once more. One was gone for ever, they said
in whispered tones, he could never come back; could those who still
remained be once more united after they separated at Amiens?
Bertie, with his troop and one other of the Regiment of Picardy, was
to proceed to St. Denis; Kate and her father were to go to Paris;
Archibald was to remain behind at Amiens.
Over the latter a great change had come since his brother's death. He
had always been a quiet and reserved man--perhaps from the very nature
of his calling--one who never said more than was absolutely necessary
to any person on any subject; now he seemed to have retired entirely
within himself and to have but two things in this world to which his
life was devoted: his Faith, and his determination to find the
murderer of Douglas.
"And," he said to Bertie, "I shall do it. Have no fear of that. I
shall do it. I have now an idea--though an idea of so strange, so
extraordinary a nature, that I hardly dare to let myself believe that
it can ever take a tangible shape."
"And may I, may Kate, know nothing of that idea? Remember how we both
loved him."
"No," Sholto replied. "No. It may come to nothing--must, it almost
seems certain, come to nothing. Yet, if the secret can be unravelled,
I will find the way to do it. Then, when I am sure, if ever I am, you
shall know all. Nay, you will most assuredly know all."
"Will you tell us--tell me--no more than this?" asked Bertie.
"I will tell you nothing. It is possible I may be mistaken; more than
possible. If I am not, then you will know."
And with this the other had to be content, and to prepare to proceed
to his new quarters outside Paris.
The Jesuit's idea was, indeed, one about which he might well
say that he could not believe it should ever assume a tangible
shape. It was nothing else than that he believed he had seen those
jewels--especially that tiara--before.
He had examined them many times since they had been taken away from
D'Aunay and his companion and kept in the custody of the Mayor of
Amiens--had turned them over and over in his hands; scrutinised the
settings to see if he could observe any mark or inscription upon them.
But there was nothing--no coronet engraved inside the tiara with a
name, or initials, such as might well have been looked for in such
costly gewgaws--nothing! Yet the tiara forced itself upon his memory,
seemed to be a thing he had seen before--worn upon a woman's head at
some great ceremony. Especially he seemed to remember one diamond to
the extreme left of the diadem, a yellow, light brown stone that had
flashed out a different light from its fellows beneath the gleams of
many-lustred candelabras. But where? Where? Where?
"Almost," he whispered to himself, "I seem to see, as through a mist,
the head, the face that was beneath it. Dark hair, grizzled grey; pale
olive complexion; lines of care. Who was it? Who? If I could remember
that."
At night as he lay upon his truckle bed, or as he walked by the banks
of the Somme, or held the jewels in his hands--for more than once he
went to see them--he mused on all this. Nay, when the memory of his
beloved brother and his cruel death was more than usually strong upon
him, he would ponder upon the idea that was ever in his mind as he
stood at night, solitary and alone, in the Place de la Cathédrale
before the great west door, and on the very spot where his loved one
had fallen. But still memory failed him, or, as he came near believing
now, he was the sport of a delusion.
Practised by long training in every mental art, he took next to
recalling each scene of splendour--for in some such scene it was, he
felt sure, that he had seen that gleaming hoop worn, if he had ever
seen it at all--in which he had ever taken part from the time he had
been ordained a priest, from the time when, an ardent enthusiast of
the Stuart cause, he had mixed in the great court circles. Scenes at
Versailles, at Marly and Vincennes, St. Germain and Fontainebleau--for
he had been amidst them all--were recalled carefully, yet still the
phantom of the dark-haired woman with the threads of grey running
through that hair evaded him. He had known so many such, he told
himself, wearily; had seen so many women to whom jewels and adornments
were the natural accompaniments, that, perhaps, it was not strange he
should forget. Also, he reflected, how easy for him, who had seen
countless jewelled head-dresses worn, to imagine that he remembered
this particular one!
Yet he could swear he remembered that yellow, brown diamond!
Tortured thus by his struggles with the dim shadows of his memory, he
bade farewell to the others as they departed, and left him alone in
the city so bitterly dear to him.
"Farewell, Kate," he said, "farewell. God bless you! You are
separated, as I think, for ever from a man utterly unworthy of you;
yet you have still the consolation of being without dishonour--ay,
without speck or blemish. He will never trouble you again, I do
believe. Let him, therefore, go his evil way, and go you yours in
peace and happiness. I would that I could see a way to your obtaining
the one happiness that should belong to you; wish it for your sake and
Bertie's. But it cannot be. Not yet, at least. Therefore bear up.
Heaven in its mercy will, I know, protect and prosper you."
"Good-bye, good-bye, Archie," Kate replied, as she sobbed
unrestrainedly. "Oh, how unhappy we are! We looked forward to so much
in this meeting here, and see--see how it has ended! Shall we ever be
happy again?"
"In Heaven's mercy," he said, "in Heaven's mercy." Then he kissed her
on the brow, shook hands with her father, and went his way back to his
gloomy life, and now still more gloomy thoughts. Yet never in those
thoughts--no, not even though they had sometimes spoken of the man
himself--did it dawn upon him that here was the one who might be the
murderer of Douglas.
Bertie was already gone, the two troops of the Regiment of Picardy
having marched out a day or so before, the blare of their trumpets and
the clatter of the horses' hoofs having awakened the city early. And
he had seen Kate--dawn though it was--glancing from her window to look
at him, to wave him her farewell.
"Yet," he had said to her overnight, "it must not be for long, Kitty.
It seems to me that we grow nearer to one another as trouble falls--at
least, there can be no assassin's knife to come between us. Kate, I
shall come and see you as often as I can get leave to visit Paris;
even though you are in a King's--a future King's--house, as I still
hope--I may come. Is it not so?"
"Yes," she said, "you may come always. Oh, Bertie, we are parted for
ever--our lives, our hopes, all--yet if I could not sometimes see you,
know that you are well, happy--you will be happy, will you not, when
this great sorrow is eased by time?--I think I should die. Surely it
cannot be wrong, remembering what we once were to each other, what we
once were to have been, to wish to know and hear of you."
"What we once were to have been!" he repeated, in almost a whisper.
"To have been. O Kate! O Kate! Those plans, those projects for the
future!" His voice broke and failed him as he continued: "You have not
forgotten them! Kate, do you remember how once we pictured ourselves
growing old together, how we meditated on the time that should come
when, our lives done with, we should rest together in some calm and
peaceful grave?"
"No," she said, "no," and sprang to her feet excitedly. "No!
no! no! I will not remember--will recall nothing, for if I do
I shall go mad. Remember nothing--'tis best so. Go, Bertie
Elphinston, go to your duties, as I will go to mine. Let us forget
everything--except--except----" she faltered, changing in a moment
womanlike--"that it was I who ruined and cursed both our lives."
He soothed her as best he could, reproaching himself for having
revived such memories; reproaching himself, too, for the silence that
had led to her believing him false. And once he said, as he had said
in England when first they met again:
"Mine was the fault, let mine be the blame. Yet, unhappily, both have
had to suffer. Surely something must arise to end that suffering ere
long."
He did not know it, could not, indeed, know it; yet the end was far
off still. There were more vigils of sorrow to be kept by both, more
grief and pain to be endured.
Nor when she said between her tears, "If we were to be parted again
now, if I should never see your face more, my heart would break,"
could she know what lay in front of them--black, dark, and lowering.
Her future was in a way provided for. The Cardinal Tencin, in spite of
being somewhat out of favour now and retired to his archbishopric of
Lyons--for when a French prelate was in disgrace his punishment was
that he should attend to his diocese instead of being in Paris!--had
still entire influence over the exiled Stuarts. Therefore it was to
him that Archibald Sholto applied on behalf of Kate, and through him
that she was to be appointed to the small court now being formed round
Charles Edward in Paris.
That unhappy prince--though fortunate in some things, especially in
his escape from Scotland after the rebellion--had now landed at
Roscort, three leagues west of Morlaix, from the "Bellona," of St.
Malo, and was safe once more in Paris. His adventures since the defeat
of Culloden had been truly marvellous, and his escapes not less so;
twice he was in danger of being shot, five times in danger of being
drowned, nine times he was pursued by men of war and armed vessels of
King George, and six times he escaped being captured by what seemed to
be miracles. Also he had been almost famished for want of food and
drink, and had had to lie out on the bare heaths or wild mountains and
to shelter in caves.
Yet now he had entered Paris again, had been graciously welcomed by
the French King and Queen, and was in treaty for a fine house in the
Quartier St. Germain. It was to that house that Kate, with her father,
was to go, there to form two of his small court.
At first when she took up her residence in it she was happy. She was
among friends she had known in Paris, many of them also comrades of
Bertie who had fought in the last invasion and themselves escaped. The
Lords Ogilvie and Elcho were there with the ladies of their family;
there, too, were old Lochiel and young Lord Lewis Gordon; the young
Lochiel also, and Captain Stafford, who had lain long in Newgate in
irons, yet was now escaped and free.
Also she was happy because Bertie was able to come and see her, and on
one occasion, with all the others, including herself, accompanied the
prince when he went to pay his respects to Louis at Versailles.
"Faith, Kate," he whispered to her on that evening, when, Charles
Edward being at supper with the royal family, they strolled together
up and down the mirrored galleries of the palace, "'tis even better
than the old days, were it not that dear Douglas has left us," and he
sighed. "But," he went on, "you are provided for--that, at least, is
well, or as well as things are ever likely to be."
She said, "Yes, it is well, so far." Then she continued:
"Still, Bertie, I am unhappy."
"Unhappy?"
"Yes. Unhappy because I never know when that man--my husband--may
cross my path again. Oh, if I could be sure I should never see him
more!"
"At least he can never harm or annoy you. Have no fear of that.
Remember, he knows that Archibald and I are in Paris, and, of course,
believes that Douglas is here also. His dread of us will keep him
away. He will trouble you no more. And if he should come--which is of
all things most unlikely--why, I shall be near at hand to shield and
protect you."
"You will always be near me?" she asked. "Always now? Oh, promise,
Bertie; promise me that you will never disappear again."
"Of course, I promise. Why, where should I go to?" and he laughed as
he asked. "My life is now bound up with the regiment. Short of
campaigns nothing can take me far from you."
"Yet," she replied, "I fear--fear always. It is only when you are near
that I feel safe--feel that I have one who is a brother to stand
between me and harm."
"Yes," he said, "as a brother. It can never be anything else than that
now--yet, as a brother, I will not fail you."
So they went back to Paris as they had come, the royal visit being
over.
And then it seemed at last as if, with some few changes, things were
to be almost as they had once been, though it is true that, instead of
the old house in the Rue Trousse Vache, she and her father were lodged
in a mansion which was in fact a palace, that Douglas was gone out of
their life forever, and that she was a wife in name, though nothing
else.
Bertie came at least once a week to Paris from St. Denis, both to pay
his respects to his prince--as he regarded always Charles Edward--and
also to see her, and brought her flowers from the gardens round that
old town. But he brought no news from Archibald as to his having been
successful in discovering who the murderer of Douglas was. The priest
had, indeed, written to them once or twice from Amiens, but he either
refrained from mentioning the subject at all, or, if he did so, said
that he could discover nothing, and that any idea he might have had on
the matter was, he now feared, a futile one.
"I began to also fear," Bertie said, as he talked it over with Kate,
"that it was indeed a futile one--that never now will he be avenged.
Poor Douglas! Who could have desired his life--who have struck so foul
a blow?"
"It must have been," she answered, "as we at first thought, a murder
in the hope of robbery afterwards."
"Or," said Bertie, "as sometimes I think now, the offshoot of
another--an undiscovered murder. What if those vagabonds who called
themselves Gascon gentlemen had previously slain someone else who was
possessed of all that jewellery, and Douglas had come across them at
the time, and, in endeavouring to save that other, was slain himself?"
"No," she said, "no. That is impossible. No other victim's body was
found, and there was no place where they could have hidden it away,
or, having hidden it, could not also have disposed of his. Besides,
remember: The woman--the concierge--saw only one other slay him, and
that other was neither of the Gascons. Nor was his sword drawn. No, we
must seek elsewhere for the solution of that crime."
Thus they talked it over and over whenever they met. Surely it was
natural that they should do so, seeing how much he had been to them,
and how awful a blow his assassination was, but never did they arrive
at any thought or idea of who was the actual murderer.
And, as they so discussed it day by day, the autumn departed as the
summer had done, and the winter was almost upon them. Already the
leaves lay in heaps at the roots of the trees, the swallows were all
gone, the nights were long and dark, and Douglas slept unavenged in
his grave. And still the troubles, the griefs and sorrows of this
luckless man and woman were not yet at an end.
Another blow was still to fall upon them--it was close at hand now,
though they knew it not.