Kitabı oku: «The Bond of Black», sayfa 13
“But she is a mystery, Muriel,” I said; “a mystery which I have been trying in vain to solve through all these months. Tell me all you know of her, dearest.”
“I know nothing,” she declared, in a nervous tone. “Absolutely nothing.”
“But are you aware that this man, Hibbert, the man with whom you associated, was her friend – her lover?”
“What!” she cried, her face in an instant undergoing a strange transformation. “He – her lover?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Did you not know they were friends?”
“I can’t believe it,” she answered, pale-faced and bewildered. Whatever was the revelation I had made to her it had evidently caused within her a strong revulsion of feeling. I had, indeed, strong suspicion that these words of mine had supplied some missing link in a chain of facts which had long perplexed and puzzled her.
“What causes you to allege this?” she asked quickly, looking sharply into my eyes.
“Because I have seen them together,” I answered. “I have overheard their conversation.”
“It can’t be true that they are close acquaintances,” she said in a low, mechanical voice, as though speaking to herself. “It’s impossible.”
“Why impossible?” I inquired.
“Because there are facts which have conclusively shown that there could have been no love between them.”
“Are those facts so remarkable, Muriel, that you are compelled to conceal them from me?” I asked seriously in earnest.
“At present they are,” she faltered. “What you have told me has increased the mystery tenfold. I had never expected that they were friends.”
“And if they were, what then?” I inquired in eagerness.
“Then the truth must be stranger than I had ever dreamed,” she answered in a voice which betrayed her blank bewilderment.
The striking of the clock warned her that it was time she was going, and caused me to recollect that a man would call in a few minutes to repay a loan I had given him. He was an officer – a very decent fellow whom I had known for years, and who for a few weeks had been in rather low water. But he was again in funds, and having met me at the club that afternoon he promised to run over at ten o’clock, smoke a cigar, and repay me.
I regretted this engagement, because it prevented me seeing Muriel home; but when I referred to it she declared that she would take a cab from the rank outside, as she had done so many times in the old days of our friendship, and she would get back quite comfortably.
She buttoned her gloves, and after kissing me fondly re-adjusted her veil. Then, when we had repeated our vows of undying affection and she had promised me to return and lunch with me next morning, as it was Sunday, she went out and down the stairs.
I was a trifle annoyed that, at the club earlier in the day, I had made the appointment with Bryant, but the sum I had lent was sixty pounds, and, knowing what a careless fellow he was, I felt that it was best to obtain repayment now, when he offered it; hence I was prevented from accompanying Muriel. But as it could not be avoided, and as she had expressed herself perfectly content to return alone, I cast myself again in my chair, mixed a whiskey and soda, lit a cigarette, and gave myself up to reflection.
Muriel loved me. I cared for nought else in all the world. She would be my wife, and after travelling on the Continent for a while we would live somewhere in the country quietly, where we could enjoy ourselves amid that rural peace which to the London-worn is so restful, so refreshing, and so soothing.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour I heard Simes go to the door, and Bryant’s voice exclaim hurriedly – “Is your master in?”
“Come in, my dear fellow! Come in!” I shouted, without rising from my chair.
Next instant he dashed into the room, his face white and scared, exclaiming —
“There’s something wrong down at the bottom of your stairs! Come with me and see, old chap. There’s a girl lying there – a pretty girl dressed in grey – and I believe she’s dead.”
“Dead!” I gasped, petrified, for the description he had given was that of Muriel.
“Yes,” he cried, excitedly. “I believe she’s been murdered!”
Chapter Twenty One
Silence
“Murdered!” I gasped, springing to my feet. “Impossible!”
“I’ve just discovered her lying on the stairs, and rushed up to you. I didn’t stop to make an examination.”
Without further word we dashed down the three flights of stone steps which led to the great entrance-hall of the mansions, but I noticed to my dismay that although the electric lamps on all the landings were alight those on the ground floor had been extinguished, and there, in the semi-darkness lay Muriel, huddled up in a heap on a small landing approached from the entrance-hall by half a dozen steps. The hall of Charing Cross Mansions is a kind of long arcade, having an entrance at one end in Charing Cross Road, and at the other in St. Martin’s Lane; while to it descend the flights of steps leading to the various wings of the colossal building. At the further end from the stairs by which my chambers could be reached was the porter’s box, but placed in such a position that it was impossible for him to see any person upon the stairs.
I sprang down to the side of my helpless love, and tried to lift her, but her weight was so great that I failed. Next instant, however, a cry of horror escaped me, for on my hand I felt something warm and sticky. It was blood. We shouted for the hall-porter, but he was not in his box, and there was no response. He was, as was his habit each evening, across the way gossiping with the fireman who lounged outside the stage-door of the Alhambra.
“Blood!” I cried, when the terrible truth became plain, and I saw that it had issued from a wound beneath her arm, and that her injury had not been caused by a fall.
“Yes,” exclaimed Bryant, “she’s evidently been stabbed. Do you know her?”
“Know her!” I cried. “She’s my intended wife!”
“Your betrothed!” he gasped. “My dear fellow, this is terrible. What a frightful shock for you!” And he dropped upon his knees, and tenderly raised her head. Both of us felt her heart, but could discern no movement. In the mean time, however, Simes, more practical than either of us, had sped away to call a doctor who had a dispensary for the poor at the top of St. Martin’s Lane.
Both of us agreed that her heart had ceased its beating, yet, a moment later, we rejoiced to see, as she lay with her head resting upon Bryant’s arm, a slight rising and falling of the breast.
Respiration had returned.
I bent, fondly kissing her chilly lips, and striving vainly to staunch the ugly wound, until suddenly it struck me that the best course to pursue would be to at once remove her to my room; therefore we carefully raised her, and with difficulty succeeded in carrying her upstairs, and laying her upon my bed.
My feeling in these moments I cannot analyse. For months, weary months, during which all desire for life had passed from me, I had sought her to gain her love, and now, just as I had done so, she was to be snatched from me by the foul, dastardly deed of some unknown assassin. The fact that while the electric lights were shedding their glow in every part of the building they were extinguished upon that small landing was in itself suspicious. Bryant referred to it, and I expressed a belief that the glass of the two little Swan lamps had been purposely broken by the assassin.
At last after a long time the doctor came, a grey-haired old gentleman who bent across the bed, first looking into her face and then pushing back her hair, placed his hand upon her brow, and then upon her breast.
Without replying to our eager questions, he calmly took out his pocket knife, and turning her upon her side, cut the cord of her corsets, and slit her bodice so that the tightness at the throat was relieved.
Then, calling for a lamp and some water, he made a long and very careful examination of the wound.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, apparently satisfied at last. “The attempt was a desperate one. The knife was aimed for her heart.”
“But will she die, doctor?” I cried. “Is the wound likely to be fatal?”
“I really can’t tell,” he answered gravely. “It is a very serious injury – very. No ordinary knife could inflict such a wound. From the appearance of it I should be inclined to think that a long surgeon’s knife was used.”
“But is there no hope?” I demanded. “Tell me the truth.”
“It is impossible at present to tell what complications may ensue,” he responded. “The best course is to inform the police of the affair, and let them make inquiries. No doubt there has been a most deliberate attempt at murder. Your servant tells me,” he added, “that the lady is a friend of yours.”
“Yes,” I said; “I intend making her my wife; therefore you may imagine my intense anxiety in these terrible circumstances.”
“Of course,” he replied, sympathetically. “But have you any suspicion of who perpetrated this villainous crime?”
I thought of that thin, crafty, bony-faced scoundrel Hibbert, and then responded in the affirmative.
“Well, you’d better inform the police of your suspicions, and let them act as they think proper. I’ve seen the spot where your friend discovered her, and certainly it is just the spot where an assassin might lie in wait, commit a crime, and then escape into the street unseen. My advice is that you should inform the police, and let them make inquiries. I only make one stipulation, and that is that no question must be asked of her at present – either by you, or by any one else. If you’ll allow me I’ll send down a qualified nurse, whom I can trust to carry out my instructions – for I presume you intend that she should remain here in your chambers until she is fit to be removed?”
“Certainly,” I answered eagerly. “I leave all to you, doctor; only bring her back to me.”
“I will do my utmost,” he assured me. “It is a grave case, a very grave one indeed,” he added, with his eyes fixed upon the inanimate form; “but I have every hope that we shall save her by care and attention. I’ll go back to the surgery, get some dressing for the wound, and send at once for the nurse. No time must be lost.”
“And you think I ought to inform the police?” I asked.
“As you think fit,” the doctor responded. “You say you have a suspicion of the identity of the would-be assassin. Surely you will not let him go unpunished?”
“No!” I cried in fierce resolution. “He shall not go unpunished.” But on reflection an instant later it occurred to me that Muriel herself could tell us who had attacked her, therefore it would be best to await in patience her return to health.
The doctor left to obtain his instruments and bandages, while Bryant, Simes, and myself watched almost in silence at her bedside. The kind-hearted old doctor before he went, however, asked us to leave the room for a few minutes, and when we returned we found he had taken off her outer clothing, improvised a temporary bandage, and placed her comfortably in bed, where she now lay quite still, and to all appearances asleep. From time to time in my anxiety I bent with my hand glass placed close to her mouth to reassure myself that she was still breathing. It became slightly clouded each time, and that gave me the utmost satisfaction and confidence.
After a quarter of an hour the old man returned, while a little later the nurse, in her neat grey uniform, was in the room, attending to her patient, quickly and silently, and assisting the doctor to cleanse and bandage the wound with a dexterity which had been acquired by long acquaintance with surgical cases.
With Bryant I retired into the sitting-room while these operations were in progress, and when I again entered my bedroom I found the lights lowered and the nurse calmly sitting by Muriel’s side. Then the doctor assured me that she would be quite right for three hours, and that during the night he would look in again; and with this parting re-assurance he left, accompanied out by Bryant.
Through that night I had but little repose, as may be imagined. The long hours I spent in trying to read or otherwise occupy myself, but such was the intensity of my anxiety that times without number I went and peeped in at the half-open door of my bedroom, wherein lay my beloved, motionless, still as one dead.
A whole week went by. Two or three times daily the doctor called, but by his orders I was not allowed in the room, and it was not until nearly a fortnight had gone by that I entered and stood by her bedside. Even then I was forbidden to mention the circumstances of that night when such a desperate attempt had been made upon her life. Therefore I stood by her with words of love only upon my lips.
Ours was a joyful meeting. For days my love had hovered between life and death. The doctor had gone into that room and come out again grave and silent several times each day, until at last he had told me that she had taken a turn for the better, and would recover. The delirium had left her, and she had recovered consciousness. Then there came to me a boundless joy when at last I was told that I might again see her.
Not until ten more long and anxious days had passed was I allowed to speak to her regarding the mystery which was driving me to desperation, and then one afternoon, as the sunset, yellow as it always is in London, struggled into the room, I found myself alone with her. She was sitting up in my armchair, enveloped in a pretty blue dressing-gown which the nurse had bought for her, and her hair tied coquettishly with a blue ribbon.
She could not rise, but as I entered her bright eyes sparkled with sudden unbounded delight, and speechless in emotion she beckoned me forward to a seat beside her.
“And you are much better, dearest?” I asked, when we had exchanged kisses full of a profound and passionate love.
“Yes,” she answered, in a voice which showed how weak she still was. “The doctor says I shall get on quite well now. In a week or so I hope to be about again. Do they know of my illness at the shop?”
“Don’t trouble about the shop, darling,” I answered. “You will never go back there again, to slave and wear out your life. Remain here content, and when you are well enough you can go down to Stamford and stay there in the country air until we can marry.”
“Then you still love me, Clifton?” she faltered.
“Love you!” I cried. “Of course I do, dearest. What causes you to doubt me?”
She hesitated. Her eyes met mine, and I saw they were wavering.
“Because – because I am unworthy,” she faltered.
“Why unworthy?” I asked, quickly.
“I have deceived you,” she replied. “You are so good to me, Clifton, yet I have concealed from you the truth.”
“The truth of what?”
“Of the strange events which have led up to this desperate attempt to take my life.”
“But who attacked you?” I demanded. “Tell me, and assuredly he shall not escape punishment.”
She paused. Her eyes met mine firmly.
“No,” she answered. “It is impossible to tell you. To attempt a retaliation would only prove fatal.”
“Fatal!” I echoed. “Why?”
“All that has been attempted is of the past,” she responded. “It is best that it should remain as it is. If you seek out that man, there will be brought upon us a vengeance more terrible than it is possible to contemplate. Do not ask me to divulge the identity of this man, for I cannot.”
“You will not, you mean,” I said in a hard voice.
“No,” she answered hoarsely. “No, I dare not.”
“Then you fear this man who has attempted to kill you – this man who sought to take you from me!” I cried fiercely. “Surely I, the man you are to marry, have a right to demand this assassin’s name.”
“You have a right, Clifton, the greatest of all rights, but I beg of you to remain patient,” she answered calmly. “There are reasons why I must still preserve a silence on this matter – reasons which some day you will know.”
“Does this man love you?”
She shrugged her shoulders and extended her thin, white hands vaguely.
“And he is jealous of me!” I cried. “He attempted to kill you because you came here to me.”
“Remain in patience, I beg of you,” she said imploringly. “Make no surmises, for you cannot guess the truth. It is an enigma to which I myself have no key.”
“The name of the man who has attempted to murder you is Hibbert,” I observed, annoyed at her persistent concealment of the truth. “He is the man who was your lover. You can’t deny it.”
She raised her beautiful eyes for a moment to mine, then said simply —
“Surely you trust me, Clifton?”
Her question drove home to me the fact that my suspicion was ill-founded, and that jealousy in this affair was untimely and unnecessary. I, however, could not rid myself of the thought that Hibbert, this lover she had discarded, had attempted to wreak a deadly revenge. All the circumstances pointed to it, for he would know the whereabouts of my chambers, if not from Muriel previously, then from Aline, that woman whom once in my hearing he had urged to the commission of a crime.
“I trust you implicitly, Muriel,” I answered. “But in this matter I am determined that the man whose hand struck you down shall answer for his crime to me.”
“No, no!” she cried in alarm. “Don’t act rashly, for your own sake, and for mine. Wait, and I will ere long give you an explanation which I know will astound you. To-day I cannot move in the matter because I am not allowed out. When I can go out I will find a means of giving you some explanation.” Then, lifting her dark, trustful eyes to mine she asked again, “Clifton, cannot you trust me? Will you not obey me in this?”
“Certainly,” I answered at last, with considerable reluctance I admit. “If you promise me to explain, then I will wait.”
“I promise,” she answered, and her thin, white hand again clasped mine, and our lips met to seal our compact.
Chapter Twenty Two
To Seek the Truth
The days of my love’s convalescence were happy indeed. Most of the time we spent together, planning the future and gossiping about the past. Those were halcyon hours when we reckoned time only by the meals served to us by Simes, and we both looked forward to a visit to the old Lincolnshire town that was so very lethargic, so redolent of the “good old days” of our grandfathers.
Once she received a letter left by a man, and marked “private.” In this I scented mystery; for she never referred to it, and when I inquired who was the sender she merely replied that a friend had written to her. This was strange, for none knew that she remained with me. We had thought it best not to tell any one until all could be explained, for a lady who lives in a bachelor’s chambers is looked upon with some suspicion if no very valid excuse can be given for such a flagrant breach of the convenances.
The letter without doubt caused her much thought and considerable anxiety. By her face I detected that she was dreading some dire result, the nature of which she dared not tell me; and it was on that very afternoon that Jack Yelverton called to inquire after me, for I had neither written nor seen him since that night when the chalice at St. Peter’s had disappeared into ashes.
He was stretched out in a chair smoking furiously, laughing more merrily than usual, and talking with that genuine bonhomie which was one of his most engaging characteristics, when suddenly Muriel entered.
They met face to face, and in an instant she drew back, pale as death.
“I – I didn’t know you had a visitor,” she exclaimed half-apologetically, her cheeks crimsoning in her confusion.
“Come in,” I exclaimed, rising. “Allow me to introduce you,” and I went through the conventional formality.
Upon Yelverton’s face I detected an expression of absolute wonder and bewilderment; but seeing that she treated him with calm indifference, he at once reseated himself, and the pair recovered their self-possession almost instantly.
Puzzled at this strange complication, I spoke mechanically, explaining that Muriel was engaged to marry me, and that she had been ill, although I did not tell him the cause.
Yet all Jack Yelverton’s levity had in that brief moment of unexpected meeting departed. He had become brooding and thoughtful.
I confess that I entertained doubts. So many things had recently occurred which she refused to explain, that day by day I was haunted by a horrible consuming suspicion that, after all, she did not love me – that for some purpose of her own she was merely making shallow pretence. I fear that the remainder of Yelverton’s visit was a dismal affair. Certainly our conversation was irresponsible and disjointed, for neither of us thought of what we said. Our reflections were far from the subject under discussion.
At last the Vicar of St. Peter’s made his adieux, and when he had gone I awaited in vain her explanation.
She said nothing, yet her efforts at concealment were so apparent that they nauseated me. I was annoyed that she should thus believe me to be one so blinded by love as to be unable to observe signs so palpable as those in her countenance. The more I thought it over, the more apparent it became that as Yelverton and Aline were lovers, Muriel, knowing Aline, would certainly be acquainted with him. If so, and all their dealings had been straightforward, why had not she at once welcomed him as a friend, and not as a stranger?
I saw that he was plainly annoyed at meeting her, and detected astonishment in his face when I announced my intention of marrying her.
I wondered why he looked at me so strangely. His expression was as though he pitied my ignorance. Thoughts such as these held me in doubt and suspicion.
With a self-control amazing in such circumstances, she reseated herself and took up some needlework, which she had that morning commenced – a cushion-cover intended for our home – and when at last I grew calm again and sat with her she commenced to chat as though our happiness had in no way been disturbed.
As the days went on and she rapidly grew stronger her attitude became more and more puzzling. That she loved me passionately with a fierce, all-consuming affection, I could not doubt. Not that she uttered many words of re-assurance. On the contrary, she heard most of my declarations in silence. Yet the heaving of her breast, and that bright, truthful look in her eyes, were signs of love which I could not fail to recognise.
During those nine weeks of Muriel’s illness I heard nothing of Aline, and was wondering if she knew of my beloved’s presence, or if she would again visit me. To her I had bound myself by an oath of secrecy, in return for a gift to me more precious than any on earth, yet the many strange occurrences which had happened since that first night at the theatre formed a puzzle so intricate that the more I tried to discover the solution the more bewildering it became.
Soon the dark-haired fragile girl who was to be my wife had so improved in health that the doctor allowed her to go for a drive, and in the days following we went out together each afternoon perfectly happy and content in each other’s love. Those who have loved truly know well the ecstasy of the first hours in public with one’s betrothed, therefore it is unnecessary for me to describe my feeling of perfect bliss and thankfulness that she was well at last, and that ere long we should become man and wife.
It had been arranged that Muriel should leave for Stamford in two or three days, when one morning, she having gone out with the nurse, and I remaining alone in my room, Jack Yelverton was admitted. In an instant I saw from his countenance that something unusual had occurred. His pale, unshaven face was haggard and worn, his clerical collar was soiled, his coat unbrushed, his hair unkempt, and as he seated himself and put out his hand I felt it quiver in my grasp.
“Why, what’s the matter, old chap?” I inquired in surprise. “What’s happened?”
“I’m upset, Clifton,” he answered hoarsely.
“What’s upset you? This isn’t like your usual self,” I said.
“No,” he responded, rising and pacing the room with his hand to his white brow, “it isn’t like me.” Then, turning quickly to me, he added with gravity which startled me, “Clifton, I think I’m mad!”
“Mad! Nonsense! my dear fellow!” I protested, placing my hand upon his shoulder. “Tell me what all this is about.”
“I’ve failed!” he cried in a voice of utter despair. “I’ve striven, and striven in my work, but all to no purpose. I’ve sown the wind, and the Devil has placed a bar between myself and the Master.”
“How?” I asked, failing to grasp his meaning.
“I have made a discovery,” he answered in a dry, harsh tone.
“A discovery!” I echoed.
“Yes, one so appalling, so terrible, so absolutely horrible, that I am crushed, hopeless, paralysed.”
“What is it?” I demanded quickly, excited by his strange wildness of manner.
“No,” he answered. “It is useless to explain. You could never believe that what I told you was the truth.”
“I know that you would not willingly tell a lie to your oldest friend, Jack,” I answered, with grave earnestness.
“But you could never fully realise the truth,” he declared. “A sorrow has fallen upon me greater and more terrible than ever man has encountered; for at the instant of my recovery I knew that I was shut out from the grace of God, that all my work had been a mere mockery of the Master.”
“Why do you speak like this?” I argued, knowing him to be a devout man, and having seen with my own eyes how self-denying he was, and how untiring he had worked among the poor.
“I speak the truth, Clifton,” he said, a strange look in his eyes. “I shall never enter my church again.”
“Never enter your church!” I cried. “Are you really mad?”
“The wiles of Satan have encompassed me,” he responded hoarsely, in the tone of a man utterly broken.
“How? Explain!” I said.
“A woman’s eyes fascinated me. I fell beneath her spell, only to find that her heart was the blackest in all the world.”
“Well?”
“My love for her is an absorbing one. She is my idol, and I have cast aside my God for her.”
“Why do you talk like this?” I asked reproachfully. “Has it not been proved to you already that you can marry and yet live a godly life?”
“Yes, yes! I know,” he responded with impatience. “But to love Aline Cloud is to abandon the Master.”
“Why?” I inquired, all eagerness to learn what he knew of her strange power of evil.
“I cannot explain, because there is a mystery which is impenetrable,” he answered. “I shall resign the living and go abroad. I can no longer remain here.”
“You will again fly from her, as you did when you went and hid yourself in Duddington?” I asked. “I can’t understand the reason of your actions. Why not give me a little more explanation?”
“But I can’t explain, because I have not yet fathomed the truth.”
“Then you only entertain certain suspicions, and will act upon them without obtaining clear grounds. That’s illogical, Jack – very illogical.”
He pondered for a few moments, tugging at his moustache.
“Well, I hadn’t looked at it in that light before, I must confess,” he answered at last. “You think I ought to be entirely satisfied before I act.”
“Yes, rashness should not be one of the characteristics of a man who ministers God’s Word,” I said.
“But the deadly trail of the Serpent is upon everything,” he declared. “I can hope for nothing more. I cannot be hypocritical, neither can I serve two masters. Is it not better for me to resign from the Church at once than to offend before God?”
“For whatever sin you have committed there is the Great Forgiveness,” I said calmly. “You are a believer, or you could not preach those enthralling sermons, which have already made you noted in ecclesiastical London. You are known as a brilliant, powerful preacher who can make the tears well in the eyes of strong men by your fervent appeal to them to turn from their wickedness and live. Think!” I said. “Recollect the men steeped in sin whom you have induced to come forth and bow before their God in penitence. Think of those men who have been saved by your ministrations, and then ask yourself whether there is no salvation for you?”
“Yes!” he sighed. “What you say is quite true, Clifton – quite true.”
“Then if you abandon the Church you abandon faith in the generous forgiveness which you have preached, and exhibit to those who have believed in you a doubt in the grace of God. Surely you, Jack, will not do this?”
He was silent, with bent head, as he stood before me reflecting.
“Your argument is a strong one, certainly,” he said at last. “But can I actually stand in my pulpit and preach the Gospel after the knowledge that has come to me?”
“Knowledge!” I repeated. “We found that knowledge to be a mere suspicion only a moment ago!”
“Yes,” he admitted; “suspicion if you like. Well, that amounts to the same thing.”
“Why don’t you tell me all about it?” I urged. “What are these suspicions regarding Aline?”
I recollected my bond of secrecy, and it drove me to madness. If I could tell him all I knew, I felt that together we might combine to probe the mystery. As it was, my silence was imperative.
“It’s my misfortune that I have not sufficient grounds for making any direct allegation. I love her still; I adore her; I worship her; but – ”
At that instant, without warning, the door opened, and Muriel, bright and happy, burst into the room, bearing an armful of flowers. Next second, on recognising my visitor, her countenance changed, and she bowed stiffly to him, without offering her hand. Quick to notice this, I at once demanded an explanation, for the mystery had now driven me to desperation.
“There is some secret in your previous acquaintance with Muriel,” I said, addressing Yelverton boldly. “Tell me what it is.”
“Our acquaintance!” he faltered, while she drew back open-mouthed in alarm. The pair exchanged glances, and I saw that between them was some understanding. “What makes you suggest that?” he asked, with a forced laugh.
“You were acquainted before I introduced you the other day!” I cried, fiercely. “You can’t deny that!”
“I have not denied it,” he responded calmly. “It is quite true that I knew Miss Moore before our formal introduction.”
“Then why did you not admit it?” I demanded, a feeling of jealousy rising within me.
