BEFORE starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The
first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:—
“SIR,—
“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden,
that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you
have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged.
“Since I sent in my last report relative to Miss Kempe’s movements,
nothing of importance has occurred, until yesterday, when she received
a letter enclosing another, evidently foreign. The outside envelope was
too thick to enable my man (the postman if you will remember, sir) to
discover what stamp was on the letter, but the crackle of the thin,
foreign paper was unmistakable. As I write (at the window opposite her
house) there are evident signs of packing up and departure going on in
her room. I shall feel much obliged if you will transmit to me further
instructions on Mr. Warden’s behalf. The woman may possibly be leaving
England, and I am anxious to know whether the investigation is to be
continued, and the woman still watched, as I must necessarily appoint
very different men for foreign work.
“Awaiting your orders,
“I remain,
“Your lordship’s obedient servant,
“JERVIS HILL.”
To this, Lord Hardcastle sent a brief reply—
“SIR,—
“Mr. Warden and myself think you are attaching too much importance to
Miss Kempe and her movements, and that it really is not worth while to
pursue this matter further. We are hoping for better results from
another quarter.
“I remain,
“Your obedient servant,
“HARDCASTLE.”
The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his
wedding-day, and ran as follows:—
“DEAR HARDCASTLE,—
“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor,
weak-minded wretch like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I
don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it
would be impossible. I am only writing to enclose a small packet—a
blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and
why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it
behind the fire.
“Ever yours,
“FRANK VARLEY.”
“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his
strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet
who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose
life has been best worth living!”
And now the preparations for the journey to France were completed, and
one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said
a long good-bye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the
old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue.
“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any
place home again.”
What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s
hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his
own mind—
“What will our coming back here be like?”
Early in the evening they arrived in London. The preparations for their
journey had been very simple. No servants, very little luggage, and
their destination even kept secret. Mr. Warden had informed his
agents he would be travelling through Europe for some months for his
health, and had given various _postes restantes_ in France to which his
letters were to be sent. He would advise them, he said, of any change
in his plans should his inclination lead him in any other direction.
It was not without serious thought and anxiety that Lord Hardcastle had
undertaken this journey. There could be no doubt that Mr. Warden’s
strength had given way very much lately, and it was incurring a heavy
responsibility to induce a man at his age, and with his broken health,
to go so far on what might prove to be a fool’s errand after all.
“But,” reasoned Hardcastle, “he will certainly die if he remain in his
own desolate home, brooding over his sorrows. Action and movement
will do more for him than anything else, and if we can but lift the
cloud from the dead girl’s grave, we shall both feel our life has not
been spent for nought.”
The roar of London at first sounded strangely in their ears, accustomed
as they were to the saddest and quietest of households. Lord Hardcastle
took upon himself the various small duties which travelling involves,
and at once gave orders to be driven to Charing Cross Station. Leaving
Mr. Warden at the hotel, he directed a porter to place their luggage in
the booking-office to be in readiness for the morning tidal train,
while he exchanged some English money for present use. There appeared
to be a crowd of some sort round the booking-office, and the porter
placed the baggage a little on one side, waiting his turn.
At this moment Lord Hardcastle’s attention was attracted by a tall
figure clad in a long, grey travelling cloak, the hood of which was
drawn low over her face. She brushed past him, but he could not see her
features, for her head was bent low, as though wishing to hide her
face. Something peculiar in the swing of her walk arrested his
attention; it was not ungraceful, but seemed as it were to keep time to
some song or tune sounding in her ear, so even and regular were her
steps. She was evidently in a hurry to save some train, and was
crossing towards the third class ticket window, when Lord Hardcastle’s
luggage caught her eye. She stood still, looked round her on every
side, then bending down, read attentively the labels on each box.
At this moment the porter advanced to take charge of his baggage, and
the woman, evidently altering her plans, walked slowly out of the
station.
Lord Hardcastle returned to the hotel, and the woman in grey passed
completely out of his mind. Finding Mr. Warden very much tired with the
journey to London, he proposed that they should rest quietly the next
day, and pass over to Boulogne during the night. To this Mr. Warden
agreed readily.
“I must husband my strength,” he said, “for it is slipping away
rapidly. I feel now as if I were embarked upon my last mission, which
must be well executed, or not at all.”
Lord Hardcastle looked up at him anxiously. How sad, and old, and worn
the dear, kind face had grown lately! How white the hair, and sunken
the cheeks, and the eyes with a far-away, mournful look, which said as
plainly as words could speak, “it will soon be over now, and I shall be
at rest.”
“Don’t speak like that, Mr. Warden,” he said, “or you will take away my
last remnants of courage. Who can tell what may yet lie before us.”
“Who can tell, indeed,” echoed Mr. Warden, “who can tell.” He shivered
as he spoke, and looked so really ill that Lord Hardcastle began to
feel seriously uneasy about him, and begged him to see a doctor before
he left England.
“No,” said Mr. Warden, firmly, “the night soon will come when no man
can work. Let us not anticipate it by an hour. Not until we have
played the last card we hold will we give up the game.” Then he said
good-night, and went to his own room.
The next day rose dark and stormy, and Hardcastle trembled to think of
the effect a rough passage might have on Mr. Warden in his weak state
of health. He did not, however, offer any farther opposition to their
journey, knowing it would be useless, and besides this, an undefinable
feeling in his own mind kept urging him on to the native land of the
two Aimées.
“I cannot explain why,” he said to himself, as they landed at Boulogne
in the chill early dawn of the following day, “but I somehow feel as if
we had only now struck upon the right track, and that all we have
hitherto done has been so much lost time. I know there must be a
reason for this feeling; some finer sense in my being must have seized
upon some fact in this strange history which my coarser and more
logical faculties have failed to perceive.”
So occupied was he with his own thoughts, that he had not noticed that
he had become separated from his companion in the narrow landing-place,
and had drifted into a crowd of porters, with their various loads,
making for the custom-house.
Where was Mr. Warden? He looked right and left along the Quai, and
there, standing half hidden behind some bales, stood the same tall grey
figure he had noticed at Charing Cross Station. It was unmistakable
now; the woman, for some reason, was evidently watching and following
them; and, doubtful whether their separation was accidental or
intentional, was at a loss whom she should keep in sight. Following the
turn of her head, Lord Hardcastle could see Mr. Warden some little way
in advance, and, hastening towards him, the woman suddenly passed in
front, and disappeared down some narrow passage.
“Let her go,” thought Hardcastle; “somewhere, somehow, we may meet
again. I shall know her long stooping figure and swinging gait
anywhere.” Then, hastening forward, he soon overtook Mr. Warden, and
calling a carriage, desired to be driven to the Hotel de la Cloche,
situated somewhere in the heart of the town.
Lord Hardcastle had foreseen before starting that their journey must
necessarily be performed by easy stages; they had, therefore, booked
only as far as to Boulogne, intending to rest there a day or two to
decide upon their route to Le Puy.
The Hotel de la Cloche stands in one of the quietest parts of the town,
a little back from the broad, brick-built street, in a grassy,
moss-grown quadrangle. An arched corridor runs round this quadrangle,
and above this are built the various outbuildings of the hotel. A small
fountain, with an insufficient supply of water, plays in the courtyard,
and very miserable and dreary it looked under the dull November sky
from the windows of the room which Mr. Warden had selected for a
sitting-room.
More than ever sad and weary he seemed as he seated himself in front of
a large wood fire he had ordered to be made. A pretence of lunch or
dinner had been gone through, and the short November day was already
closing in, the heavy stonework above the windows adding not a little
to the gloom of the room. Lord Hardcastle had tried unsuccessfully
various topics of conversation, feeling the necessity of arousing Mr.
Warden from the sadness of his own thoughts.
“Tell me, Mr. Warden,” at length he said, almost despairing of success,
“something about Le Puy; it is an unknown land to me. I have never
visited that part of France.”
“Le Puy!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, suddenly arousing himself, “Ah, that is
a country worth living in! It is a land of variety and beauty, of
sunshine and solitude; less terrible than Switzerland, it is, at the
same time, more interesting, because more varied. It is a land of
extinct volcanoes; at every turn one is brought face to face with
nature under a new aspect. Here some mighty convulsion has upheaved
gigantic rocks; there in the valley lie fertile plains watered by
gushing mountain torrents; above all tower and frown the fantastic
Cevennes, cut and fashioned into all sorts of wonderful shapes, and
everywhere reigns a silence and solitude only to be found in the lonely
mountain regions. Ah! it is a land of glory and beauty! But, my young
friend, you will scarcely see it with my eyes; to me it is the saddest
and sweetest of all lands, for there I first loved and first suffered,
and there my two Aimées were born and grew to beauty.” Then he paused,
and presently added, in a mournful, passionate tone, “My poor little
Amy! I fancy I see her now, creeping along the narrow mountain path, or
looking over the verge of some deep ravine, both hands filled with wild
flowers and grasses. She would never own to feeling frightened or
nervous at the giddy height, but if she felt her little feet slipping,
she would call out impatiently, ‘Papa, papa! take my flowers, quickly
please, I must not be kept waiting an instant.’ It is almost too much
for me to recall those days, Lord Hardcastle,” he sighed, wearily, “I
think I will see if I can get a little sleep; perhaps in the morning I
shall feel brighter and stronger.”
Then he left the room, saying good-night, and that he did not wish to
be disturbed until the morning.
Lord Hardcastle looked after him sadly. “He will reach Le Puy,” he
thought; “his spirit will keep him up as far as that, but he will never
come back again. Have I done wisely in inducing him to leave his home?
But what home has he left? Only a mere skeleton or husk of one. This is
our last and only chance; we are bound, at any cost to try it.”
The wood fire crackled and burned, the window panes grew dark and
darker, and long, fantastic shadows began to flicker across the
oak-panelled wall, to the low, arched ceiling.
Hardcastle’s thoughts wandered far away to the lonely house at
Harleyford—vividly came back to him the stormy, windy night, the
piteous howling of the dog, and poor Amy lying cold and wet and
lifeless in his arms. Picture after picture of the past passed before
his eyes—the dear dead face as it looked in the grey of the early
morning, the strange, pained old look that had spread itself over the
features until they almost seemed strange and unknown to him.
The fire crackled, the weird shadows leapt from floor to ceiling, and
Hardcastle, drowsy with the overnight’s journey, began to see strange
shapes in the room, and fantastic visions began to mix with his waking
thoughts. He fancied he was standing amidst the rocky, silent scenery
Mr. Warden had just described to him. The mountain mists were rolling
away from peak and crag, the summer sun was mounting the horizon, and
there, on the verge of some terrible precipice, stood Amy—bright,
beautiful, girlish as ever, both hands filled with flowers, which she
playfully held out to him.
Tremblingly he advanced towards her, hoping to save her from what
appeared instant death without alarming her; but the mountain mist
swooped down upon them, enveloping Amy and himself in its damp folds.
Then it lifted again, but no Amy was to be seen, and there, advancing
slowly towards him, was the tall, stooping figure in grey, whom he had
seen that morning on the Quai. She, too, stretched out her hands to
him, but what she held he could not at first see. Nearer and nearer she
drew, the mountain mists still clinging to her long, trailing skirt,
and hiding her face as with a veil. In another instant her cold, thin
hands held his, and a deep, sad woman’s voice said, slowly and
distinctly, “Take it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go.” Then
he felt a ring placed upon his little finger, and there, flashing out
in the mist and darkness was Amy’s antique ruby ring.
What was it woke him at this moment? What was that noise sounding in
his ears still? Could it be a door or a window shutting? He started to
his feet and looked round the room. Nothing appeared to have been
disturbed, the books and papers on the table were just as he had left
them. Then he pushed aside the curtains, and looked out into the dreary
quadrangle. The fountain sent up a feeble spray towards the leaden sky.
The corridor looked damp and dismal as ever. Were his eyes deceiving
him? Was he thoroughly awake, or could it be that there, slipping in
and out between the pillars like a shadow almost in the dimness of the
light, was the grey, stooping figure of his dream?
He sprang to the door, and flinging it back, let in a flood of light
from the staircase and landing. Then he paused in amazement, for there,
on the little finger of his left hand, sparkled and glittered an
antique ruby ring with garter and buckle, and the motto, in old French
letters, “_Sans espoir je meurs!_”