THE JEWELS
As soon as the funeral was over, Cyril left Geralton. On arriving in
London he recognised several reporters at the station. Fearing that they
might follow him, he ordered his taxi to drive to the Carlton. There he
got out and walking quickly through the hotel, he made his exit by a
rear door. Having assured himself that he was not being observed, he
hailed another taxi and drove to the nursing home.
"Well, Mr. Thompkins," exclaimed the doctor, with ponderous
facetiousness. "I am glad to be able to tell you that Mrs. Thompkins is
much better."
"And her memory?" faltered Cyril.
"It's improving. She does not yet remember people or incidents, but she
is beginning to recall certain places. For instance, I asked her
yesterday if she had been to Paris. It suggested nothing to her, but
this morning she told me with great pride that Paris was a city and that
it had a wide street with an arch at one end. So you see she is
progressing; only we must not hurry her."
Cyril murmured a vague assent.
"Of course," continued the doctor, "you must be very careful when you
see Lady Wilmersley to restrain your emotions, and on no account to
remind her of the immediate past. I hope and believe she will never
remember it. On the other hand, I wish you to talk about those of her
friends and relations for whom she has shown a predilection. Her memory
must be gently stimulated, but on no account excited. Quiet, quiet is
essential to her recovery."
"But doctor--I must--it's frightfully important that my wife (he found
himself calling her so quite glibly) should be told of a certain fact at
once. If I wait even a day, it will be too late," urged Cyril.
"And you have reason to suppose that this communication will agitate
Lady Wilmersley?"
"I--I fear so."
"Then I can certainly not permit it. You don't seem to realise the
delicate condition of her brain. Why, it might be fatal," insisted the
doctor.
Cyril felt as if Nemesis were indeed overtaking him.
"Come, we will go to her," said the doctor, moving towards the door.
"She is naturally a little nervous about seeing you, so we must not keep
her waiting."
But Cyril hung back. If he could not undeceive the poor girl, how could
he enter her presence. To pose as the husband of a woman so as to enable
her to escape arrest was excusable, but to impose himself on the
credulity of an afflicted girl was absolutely revolting. If he treated
her with even the most decorous show of affection, he would be taking a
dastardly advantage of the situation. Yet if he behaved with too much
reserve, she would conclude that her husband was a heartless brute. Her
husband! The one person she had to cling to in the isolation to which
she had awakened. It was horrible! Oh, why had he ever placed her in
such an impossible position? Arrest would have been preferable. He was
sure that she could easily have proved her innocence of whatever it was
of which she was accused, and in a few days at the latest would have
gone free without a stain on her character, while now, unless by some
miracle this episode remained concealed, she was irredeemably
compromised. He was a married man; she, for aught he knew to the
contrary, might also be bound, or at all events have a fiance or lover
waiting to claim her. How would he view the situation? How would he
receive the explanation? Cyril shuddered involuntarily. Every minute the
chances that her secret could be kept decreased. If she did not return
to her friends while it was still possible to explain or account for the
time of her absence, he feared she would never be able to return at all.
Yes, it would take a miracle to save her now!
"Well, Lord Wilmersley?"
Cyril started. The doctor's tone was peremptory and his piercing eyes
were fixed searchingly upon him. What excuse could he give for refusing
to meet his supposed wife? He could think of none.
"I must remind you, doctor," he faltered at last, "that my wife has
lately detested me. I--I really don't think I had better see her--I--I
am so afraid my presence will send her off her head again."
The doctor's upper lip grew rigid and his eyes contracted angrily.
"I have already assured you that she is perfectly sane. It is essential
to her recovery that she should see somebody connected with her past
life. I cannot understand your reluctance to meet Lady Wilmersley."
"I--I am only thinking of the patient," Cyril murmured feebly.
"The patient is my affair," snapped the doctor.
What could he do? For an instant he was again tempted to tell
Stuart-Smith the truth. He looked anxiously at the man. No, it was
impossible. There was no loophole for escape. And after all, he
reflected, if he had an opportunity of watching the girl, she might
quite unconsciously by some act, word, or even by some subtle essence of
her personality furnish him with a clue to her past. Every occupation
leaves indelible marks, although it sometimes takes keen eyes to discern
them. If the girl had been a seamstress, Cyril believed that he would be
able by observing her closely to assure himself of the fact.
"Very well," he said aloud. "If you are willing to assume the
responsibility, I will go to my wife at once. But I insist on your being
present at our meeting."
"Certainly, if you wish it, but it is not at all necessary, I assure
you," replied the doctor.
A moment later Cyril, blushing like a schoolgirl, found himself in a
large, white-washed room. Before him on a narrow, iron bedstead lay his
mysterious _protegee_. Cyril caught his breath. He had forgotten how
beautiful she was. Her red lips were slightly parted and the colour
ebbed and flowed in her transparent cheeks. Ignoring the doctor, her
eager glance sought Cyril and for a minute the two young people gazed at
each other in silence. How young, how innocent she looked! How could any
one doubt the candour of those star like eyes, thought Cyril.
"Well, Mrs. Crichton," exclaimed Stuart-Smith, "I have brought you the
husband you have been so undutiful as to forget. 'Love, honour, and
obey, and above all remember,' I suggest as an amendment to the marriage
vow."
"Nurse has been reading me the marriage service," said the girl, with a
quaint mixture of pride and diffidence. "I know all about it now; I
don't think I'll forget again."
"Of course not! And now that you have seen your husband, do you find
that you remember him at all?"
"Yes, a little. I know that I have seen you before," she answered,
addressing Cyril.
"I gather from your manner that you don't exactly dislike him, do you?"
asked the doctor with an attempt at levity. "Your husband is so modest
that he is afraid to remain in your presence till you have reassured him
on this point."
"I love him very much," was her astounding answer.
Cyril's heart gave a bound. Did she realise what she had said? She
certainly showed no trace of embarrassment, and although her eyes clung
persistently to his, their expression of childlike simplicity was
absolutely disarming.
"Very good, very good, quite as it should be," exclaimed the doctor,
evidently a little abashed by the frankness of the girl's reply. "That
being the case, I will leave you two together to talk over old times,
although they can't be very remote. I am sure, however, that when I see
you again, you will be as full of reminiscences as an octogenarian,"
chuckled the doctor as he left the room.
Cyril and the girl were alone.
An arm-chair had been placed near the bed, obviously for his reception,
and after a moment's hesitation he took it. The girl did not speak, but
continued to look at him unflinchingly. Cyril fancied she regarded him
with something of the unquestioning reverence a small child might have
for a beloved parent. His eyes sank before hers. Never had he felt so
unworthy, so positively guilty. He racked his brains for something to
say, but the doctor's restrictions seemed to bar every topic which
suggested itself to him. If he only knew who she was! He glanced at her
furtively. In the dim light of the shaded lamp he had not noticed that
what he had supposed was her hair, was in reality a piece of black lace
bound turbanwise about her head.
"What are you wearing that bandage for?" he inquired eagerly. "Was your
head hurt--my dear?" he added diffidently.
"No--I--I hope you won't be angry--nurse said you would--but I couldn't
help it. I really had to cut it off."
"Cut what off?"
"My hair." She hung her head as a naughty child might have done.
"You cut off your hair? But why?" His voice sounded suddenly harsh.
Strange that her first act had been to destroy one of the few things by
which she could be identified. Was she as innocent as she seemed? Had
she fooled them all, even the doctor? This amnesia, or whatever it was
called, was it real, was it assumed? He wondered.
"Oh, husband, I know it was wrong; but when I woke up and couldn't
remember anything, I was so frightened, and then nurse brought me a
looking-glass and the face I saw was so strange! Oh, it was so lonely
without even myself! And then nurse said it was my hair. She said it
sometimes happened when people have had a great shock or been very ill
and so--I made her cut it off. She didn't want to--it wasn't her
fault--I made her do it."
"But what had happened to your hair?"
"It had turned quite white, most of it." The girl shuddered. "Oh, it was
horrid! I am sure you would not have liked it."
Cyril, looking into her limpid eyes, felt his sudden suspicions unworthy
of him.
"You must grow a nice new crop of black curls, if you want to appease
me," he answered.
"Oh, do you like black hair?" Her disappointment was obvious.
"Yes, don't you? Your hair was black before your illness."
"I know it was--but I hate it! At all events, as long as I must wear a
wig, I should like to have a nice yellow one; nurse tells me I can get
them quite easily."
"Dear me! But I don't think a wig nice at all."
"Don't you?" Her mouth drooped at the corners. She seemed on the verge
of tears.
What an extraordinary child! he thought. But she mustn't cry--anything
rather than that.
"My dear, if you want a wig, you shall have one immediately. Tell your
nurse to send to the nearest hairdresser for an assortment from which
you can make your choice."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," she cried, clapping her hands. Her hands!
Cyril had forgotten them for the moment, and it was through them that he
had hoped to establish her identity. He looked at them searchingly. No
ring encircled the wedding finger, nor did it show the depression which
the constant wearing of one invariably leaves. The girl was evidently
unmarried. Those long, slender, well-kept hands certainly did not look
as if they could belong to a servant, but he reflected that a
seamstress' work was not of a nature to spoil them. Only the forefinger
of her left hand would probably bear traces of needle pricks. He leaned
eagerly forward.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"At your hands, my dear," he tried to speak lightly.
"What is the matter with them?" She held them out for his inspection.
Yes, it was as he had expected--her forefinger was rough. She was
Priscilla Prentice. Everything had fore-warned him of this conclusion,
yet in his heart of hearts he had not believed it possible till this
moment.
"Don't you like my hands?" she asked, as she regarded them with anxious
scrutiny, evidently trying to discover why they failed to find favour in
the sight of her lord.
"They are--" He checked himself; he had almost added--the prettiest
hands in the world; but he mustn't say such things to her, not under the
circumstances. "They are very pretty, only you have sewn so much that
you have quite spoiled one little finger."
"Sewn?" She seemed struck with the idea. "Sew? I should like to sew. I
know I can."
Further proof of her identity, if he needed it.
"Well, you must get nurse to find you something on which to exercise
your talents--only you must be careful not to prick yourself so much in
future."
"I will try, husband," she answered meekly, as she gazed solemnly at the
offending finger.
There was a pause.
"Do tell me something about my past life," said she. "I have been lying
here wondering and wondering."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. In the first place, are my parents living? Oh, I hope so!"
Here was a poser. Cyril had no idea whether her parents were alive or
not, but even if they were, it would be impossible to communicate with
them for the present, so he had better set her mind at rest by denying
their existence.
"No, my dear, you are an orphan, and you have neither brothers nor
sisters," he added hastily. It was just as well to put a final stop to
questions as to her family.
"Nobody of my own--nobody?"
"Nobody," he reiterated, but he felt like a brute.
"Have I any children?" was her next question.
Cyril started perceptibly.
"No, no, certainly not," he was so embarrassed that he spoke quite
sharply.
"Oh, are you glad?" She stared at him in amazement and to his disgust
Cyril felt himself turning crimson.
"Now I'm sorry," she continued with a soft sigh. "I wish I had a baby. I
remember about babies."
"I--I like them, too," he hastened to assure her. Really this was worse
than he had expected.
"How long have we been married?" she demanded.
"I have been married four years," he truthfully answered, hoping that
that statement would satisfy her.
"Fancy! We have been living together for four years! Isn't it awful that
I can only remember you the very weeist little bit! But I will love,
honour, and obey you--now that I know--I will indeed."
"I am sure you will always do what is right," said Cyril with a sudden
tightening of his throat. She looked so young, so innocent, so serious.
Oh, if only----
"Bah, don't waste too much love on me. I'm an unworthy beggar," he said
aloud.
"You are an unworthy husband? Oh!" She opened her eyes wide and stared
at him in consternation. "But it doesn't say anything in the prayer-book
about not loving unworthy husbands. I don't believe it makes any
difference to the vow before God. Besides you don't look unworthy--are
you sure you are?" she pleaded.
Cyril's eyes fell before her agonised gaze.
"I'll try to be worthy of you," he stammered.
"Worthy of me?" she cried with a gay, little laugh. "I'm too silly and
stupid now to be anything but a burden--I quite realise that--but the
doctor thinks I will get better and in the meantime I will try to please
you and do my duty."
Poor baby, thought Cyril, the marriage vows she imagined she had taken
seemed to weigh dreadfully on her conscience. Oh, if he could only
undeceive her!
A discreet knock sounded at the door.
The nurse made her appearance.
"The doctor thinks Mrs. Thompkins has talked enough for the present,"
she said.
Cyril rose with a curious mixture of relief and reluctance.
"Well, this must be good-bye for to-day," he said, taking her small hand
in his.
She lifted up her face--simply as a child might have done. Slowly he
leaned nearer to her, his heart was pounding furiously; the blood rushed
to his temples.
Suddenly he started back! He must not--he dare not----!
For a moment he crushed her fingers to his lips; then turning abruptly,
he strode towards the door.
"You'll come to-morrow, won't you?" she cried.
"Yes, to-morrow," he answered.
"Early?"
"As early as I can."
"Good-bye, husband. I will be so lonely without you," she called after
him, but he resolutely closed the door.
At the foot of the stairs a nurse was waiting for him.
"The doctor would like to speak to you for a moment," she said as she
led the way to the consulting-room.
"Well, how did you find Lady Wilmersley's memory; were you able to help
her in any way to recall the past," inquired the doctor.
Cyril was too preoccupied to notice that the other's manner was several
degrees colder than it had been on his arrival.
"I fear not." Cyril felt guiltily conscious that he was prevaricating.
"You astonish me. I confess I am disappointed. Yes, very much so. But it
will come back to her--I am sure it will."
"I say, doctor, how long do you think my wife will have to remain here?"
"No longer than she wishes to. She could be moved to-morrow, if
necessary, but I advise waiting till the day after."
"You are sure it won't hurt her?" insisted Cyril anxiously.
"Quite. In fact, the sooner Lady Wilmersley resumes her normal life the
better."
"How soon will I be able to talk freely to her?" Cyril asked.
"That depends largely on how she progresses, but not before a month at
the earliest. By the way, Lord Wilmersley, I want you to take charge of
Lady Wilmersley's bag. The contents were too valuable to be left about;
so after taking out her toilet articles, the nurse brought it to me."
"Ah! and--and what was in the bag?" asked Cyril fearfully.
"Lady Wilmersley's jewels, of course."
Jewels! This was terrible. If they were those belonging to his cousin,
their description had been published in every paper in the kingdom. It
was a miracle that Smith had not recognised them.
"Of course," Cyril managed to stammer.
The doctor went to a safe and taking out a cheap, black bag handed it to
Cyril.
"I should like you, please, to see if they are all there," he said.
"That isn't the least necessary," Cyril hastened to assure him.
"You would greatly oblige me by doing so."
"I'm quite sure they are all right; besides if any are missing, they
were probably stolen in Paris," said Cyril.
"But I insist." Stuart-Smith was nothing if not persistent. His keen
eyes had noted Cyril's agitation and his reluctance to open the bag made
the doctor all the more determined to force him to do so.
But Cyril was too quick for him. Seizing the bag, he made for the door.
"I'll come back to-morrow," he cried over his shoulder, as he hurried
unceremoniously out of the room and out of the house.
A disreputable-looking man stood at the door of his waiting taxi and
obsequiously opened it. Shouting his address to the driver, Cyril flung
himself into the car and waved the beggar impatiently away.
No sooner were they in motion than Cyril hastened to open the bag. A
brown paper parcel lay at the bottom of it. He undid the string with
trembling fingers. Yes, it was as he feared--a part, if not all, of the
Wilmersley jewels lay before him.
"Give me a penny, for the love of Gawd," begged a hoarse voice at his
elbow. The beggar was still clinging to the step and his villainous face
was within a foot of the jewels.
Cyril felt himself grow cold with apprehension. The fellow knew who he
was, and followed him. He was a detective!
"A gen'lman like you could well spare a poor man a penny," the fellow
whined, but there was a note of menace in his voice. Cyril tried to get
a good look at him, but the light was too dim for him to distinguish his
features clearly.
Hastily covering the jewels, Cyril thrust a coin into the grimy hand.
"Go!" he commanded, "go, or I'll call the police."
The man sank out of sight.
"My poor little girl, my poor little girl," murmured Cyril
disconsolately, as he glanced once more at the incriminating jewels.