Kitabı oku: «The Wiles of the Wicked», sayfa 12
“Britten has said that you are suffering from a fit of temporary derangement, and that you will recover after perfect rest.”
“Then, by taking me around this house, showing me those books, and explaining all to me, you’ve merely been humouring me as you would a harmless lunatic!” I cried furiously. “You don’t believe what I say, that I’m perfectly in my right mind, therefore leave me. I have no further use for your presence, and prefer to be alone,” I added harshly.
“Very well,” he answered, rather piqued; “if you wish I’ll, of course, go.”
“Yes, go; and don’t return till I send for you. Understand that! I’m in no humour to be fooled, or told that I’m a lunatic.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and muttering some words I did not catch, turned and left the library.
Chapter Twenty Two
Broken Threads
He is a faint-hearted creature indeed who, while struggling along some dark lane of life, cannot, at least intermittently, extract some comfort to himself from the thought that the turn must come at last – the turn which, presumably, will bring him out upon the well-metalled high-road of happy contentment.
I do not know that I was exactly faint-hearted. The mystery of it all had so stunned me that I felt myself utterly incapable of believing anything. The whole thing seemed shadowy and unreal.
And yet the facts remained that I was alive, standing there in that comfortable room, in possession of all my faculties, both mental and physical, an entirely different person to my old self, with six years of my past lost and unaccountable.
Beyond the lawn the shadow of the great trees looked cool and inviting, therefore I went forth, wandering heedlessly across the spacious park, my mind full of thoughts of that fateful night when I had fallen among that strange company, and of Mabel, the woman I had loved so fondly and devotedly.
Sweet were the recollections that came back to me. How charming she had seemed to me as we had lingered hand-in-hand on our walks across the Park and Kensington Gardens, how soft and musical her voice! how full of tenderness her bright dark eyes! How idyllic was our love! She had surely read my undeclared passion. She had known the great secret in my heart.
Nevertheless, all had changed. In a woman’s life half a dozen years is a long time, for she may develop from girl to matron in that space. The worst aspect of the affair presented itself to me. I had, in all probability, left her without uttering a word of farewell, and she – on her part – had, no doubt, accepted some other suitor. What more natural, indeed, than she should have married?
That thought held me rigid.
Again, as I strolled on beneath the rustling elms which led straight away in a wide old avenue towards where a distant village church stood, a prominent figure in the landscape, there recurred to me vivid recollections of that last night of my old self – of the astounding discovery I had made in the drawing-room at The Boltons.
How was I to account for that?
I paused and glanced around upon the view. All was quiet and peaceful there in the mid-day sunlight. Behind me stood the great white façade of Denbury; before, a little to the right, lay a small village with its white cottages – the villages of Littleham, I afterwards discovered – and to the left white cliffs and the blue stretch of the English Channel gleaming through the greenery.
From the avenue I turned and wandered down a by-path to a stile, and there I rested, in full uninterrupted view of the open sea. Deep below was a cove – Littleham Cove, it proved to be – and there, under shelter of the cliffs, a couple of yachts were riding gaily at anchor, while far away upon the clear horizon a dark smoke-trail showed the track of a steamer outward bound.
The day was brilliant. It was July in Devonshire, that fairest of all counties – and July there is always a superb month. The air, warm and balmy, was laden with the scent of roses and honeysuckle, the only sounds that broke the quiet were the songs of the birds and the soft rustling of the trees.
I sat there trying to decide how to act.
For the first time it occurred to me that my position was one of a certain peril, for if I did not act with tact and caution, that woman who called herself my wife, aided by that idiot Britten, might declare that I was mad, and cause me to be placed beneath restraint. Therefore, to gain my freedom, it was evidently necessary that I should act with discretion and keep my own counsel.
I looked around upon the fair panorama of nature spread before me. The world was six years older than when I had known it. What national events had, I wondered, happened in that time? Place yourself in my position, and picture to yourself the feeling of bewilderment that overcame me when I reflected upon what might or might not have transpired.
There crept over me a longing to escape from that place, the habitation of that awful woman with the powdered cheeks, and to return to London. All my life and pleasure had been centred in the giant capital, and to it I intended now to go back and seek, if possible, the broken thread of my history, which might lead me to an elucidation of the marvellous mystery.
The world around me, the calm blue sea, the cloudless sky, the green grass-lands, the soft whispering of the foliage seemed so peaceful that I could scarce believe that so much evil, so much of human malice, could exist. The tranquillity of my surroundings induced within me a quieter frame of mind, and I set to planning carefully how I might escape and return to London.
To endeavour to do so openly would, I saw, be to draw upon me the spies of my hideous wife. Was I not believed by all to be insane? Then certainly I should not be allowed to go at large without some one at my side.
I wanted to be alone. The presence of a second person entertaining suspicions as to my sanity would seriously hamper me, and prevent me prosecuting the inquiries I intended to institute regarding my past. No. To escape successfully I should be compelled to fly to London, and once there alter my appearance and assume another name. Search would undoubtedly be made for me, but once in London I felt confident in being able to foil any efforts of my wife’s agents.
Therefore I sat upon the stile and calmly matured my plans.
The chiming of a clock, apparently in the turret upon my own stables at Denbury, fell upon my ears. It struck one. Then the sharp ringing of a bell – the luncheon-bell – followed.
Gedge had told me that the place was near Budleigh-Salterton. Was it near enough, I wondered, for me to walk there, and was there a station? There might, I reflected, be a map in the library. I would be compelled to trace it out and seek my route, for I was absolutely ignorant of that corner of Devonshire.
Yes, my best policy, I decided, was to return to the house, act as indifferently as possible, and meanwhile complete my plans for escape.
I retraced my steps to the house by the path I had traversed, and upon the lawn was met by the man Gill, who announced —
“The luncheon-bell has rung, sir. I hope you feel a little better, sir.”
“Oh, much better,” I answered airily, and with an effort at self-possession followed him into the imitation old-oak dining-room, which Gedge had shown me during our tour of the place.
The woman with the powdered cheeks was already seated at the head of the table, erect and stately, with an expression of hauteur which ill became her.
“I hope you feel better after your walk,” she said, as I seated myself.
“Oh, much better,” I responded in a tone of irony. “The pain has practically passed.”
“You should really rest,” she said, in that squeaky, artificial tone which so jarred upon my nerves. “Do take the doctor’s advice.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to make a further unwriteable remark regarding the doctor, but I managed to control myself and reply —
“Yes, I think after luncheon I shall lie down for a little time. I have, however, some pressing letters to write first.”
“Let Gedge attend to your correspondence for to-day,” she urged, with that mock juvenility which rendered her so hideously ridiculous.
“No,” I responded. “I have, unfortunately, to attend to several pressing matters personally. Afterwards I will rest.”
“Do, there’s a dear,” she said.
I bit my lip. She nauseated me when she used that affectionate term. The only woman I loved was Mabel Anson, but whether she were still alive, or whether married, I knew not. The very thought that I was bound in matrimony to this woman sitting in the high-backed chair of carved oak was disgusting. I loathed her.
How I continued to eat the dishes Gill handed me I know not, nor do I remember what conversation passed between my pseudo-wife and myself as we sat there. Many were the abrupt and painful silences which fell between us.
She struck me as an ascetic, strong-minded woman, who, before others, fawned upon me with an affected devotion which in one of her age was ludicrous; yet when we were alone she was rigid and overbearing, with the positive air of one who believed me far beneath her alike in social station and in intellect. When Gill was absent she spoke in a hard, patronising tone, which so angered me that with great difficulty I retained my temper.
Yet it was my policy, I knew, to conceal my thoughts, and to lead her to believe that the words I had uttered, and my failure to recognise her, were owing to the blow I accidentally received, and that I was now, just as I had been before, her husband.
What a hollow sham that meal was! Now that I think of it I cannot refrain from smiling at my extraordinary position, and how I showed her delicate attention in order to the more impress her of my solicitude for her welfare.
When at last she rose it was with a hope that I would go to my room and rest.
I seized that opportunity.
“I shall,” I answered. “But don’t let them call me for dinner. I will have something when I awake. Britten has ordered perfect quiet.”
“Very well,” she answered. Then, turning to Gill, she said, “You hear. Mr Heaton is not to be aroused at dinner.”
“Yes, madam,” answered the man, bowing as we both passed out.
At once I walked along to the library, shut the door, and locked it.
I had much to do to prepare for my flight.
Yes, as I had expected, there was an ordnance map of the Teignmouth district tacked to the wall; and searching, I quickly found Denbury marked upon it, standing on the Exmouth road over the High Land of Orcombe, halfway between that place and Budleigh-Salterton. The South-Western Railway ran; I saw, from Exmouth to London, by way of Exeter, and my first impulse was to walk into Exmouth, and take train thence. The fact that I was probably known at that station occurred to me, therefore I made up my mind to avoid the terminus and join the train at Lympston, a small station further towards Exeter.
Taking up my pen I made a rough sketch-plan of my route, which passed Littleham church, then by the left-hand road struck across country, crossing the high-road to Exmouth at right angles, continuing through the village of Withycombe Raleigh, and keeping straight on until it joined the main road to Exeter. At the commencement of the village of Lympston it was necessary, I saw, to turn sharp to the left, and at the end of the road I should find the station, close to the river Exe.
In order to avoid mistaking the road and entering the town of Exmouth, I made a full and careful plan, which when completed I placed in my pocket. The distance, I calculated roughly, was between five and six miles over a road rather difficult to find without a map.
Among the books on the table I found a Bradshaw, with the page of local trains turned down, and from it learned that a train with connexion from London stopped at Lympston at 7:55 p.m., while the train in connexion with the up-mail from Exeter stopped there at 8:20. The latter I decided upon taking.
The fact that I had expressed my desire to sleep would prevent Gill coming to call me at the dinner hour, and by the time I was missed I should be well on my way to London.
The question of money occurred to me. I had noticed some loose gold and a couple of five-pound notes in one of the drawers which Gedge had opened, and having a duplicate set of keys in my pocket, I transferred the whole – a little under fourteen pounds – to my pocket.
Then I took out my cheque-book. It was too large to be carried in my pocket, therefore I tore out a couple of dozen or so, folded them, and placed them in an envelope.
I recognised that I could draw money with them, yet the bank need not know my whereabouts. If these people, who would, I suppose, call themselves “my friends,” made active search to find the fugitive “madman,” they would certainly obtain no clue from my bankers.
In the same drawer as the cheque-book I found a black leather portfolio, securely locked.
The latter fact impressed me. Everything else was open to my secretary, who possessed keys, both to writing-table and safe. But this was locked, apparently because therein were contained certain private papers that I had wished to keep from his eyes.
No man, whoever he may be, reposes absolute confidence in his secretary. Every one has some personal matter, the existence of which he desires to preserve secret to himself alone.
I drew forth the locked portfolio, and placed it upon the blotting-pad before me. It was an expansive wallet, of a kind such as I remembered having seen carried by bankers’ clerks in the City from bank to bank, attached by chains to the belts around their waists.
Surely upon my ring I must possess a key to it. I looked, and found a small brass key.
It fitted, and a moment later I had unlocked the wallet and spread my own private papers before me.
What secrets of my lost life, I wondered, might not those carefully preserved letters and documents contain?
In eager, anxious wonder I turned them over.
Next instant a cry of dismay broke involuntarily from my lips, as within trembling fingers I held one of those papers – a letter addressed to me.
I could scarce believe my own eyes as I read it. Yet the truth was plain – hideously plain.
Chapter Twenty Three
I Make a Discovery
Reader, I must take you still further into my confidence. What you have already read is strange, but certain things which subsequently happened to me were even still stranger.
I held that astounding letter in my hand. My eyes were riveted upon it.
The words written there were puzzling indeed. A dozen times I read them through, agape with wonder.
The communication, upon the notepaper of the Bath Hotel at Bournemouth, was dated June 4, 1891 – five years before – and ran as follows: —
“Dear Mr Heaton, —
“I very much regret that you should have thus misunderstood me. I thought when we met at Windermere you were quite of my opinion. You, however, appear to have grown tired after the five months of our engagement, and your love for me has suddenly cooled; therefore our paths in life must in future lie apart. You have at least told me the truth honestly and straightforwardly. I, of course, believed that your declarations were true, and that you really loved me truly, but alas! it is evidently not so. I can only suffer in silence. Good-bye for ever. We shall never, never meet again. But I tell you, Wilford, that I bear you no malice, and that my prayers will ever be for your welfare and your happiness. Perhaps sometimes you will give a passing thought to the sorrowful, heart-broken woman who still loves you.
“Mabel Anson.”
What could this mean? It spoke of our engagement for five months! I had no knowledge whatever of ever having declared the secret of my love, much less becoming her affianced husband. Was it possible that in the first few months of my unconscious life I had met her and told her of my affection, of how I worshipped her with all the strength of my being?
As I sat there with the carefully preserved letter in my hand there arose before my eyes a vision of her calm, fair face, bending over the piano, her handsome profile illumined by the candles on either side, the single diamond suspended by its invisible chain, gleaming at her throat like a giant’s eye. The impression I had obtained of her on that night at The Boltons still remained indelibly with me. Yes, her beauty was superb, her sweetness unsurpassed by that of any other woman I had ever met.
Among the other private papers preserved within the wallet were four scraps of notepaper with typewriting upon them. All bore the same signature – that of the strange name “Avel.” All of them made appointments. One asked me to meet the writer in the writing-room of the Hotel Victoria in London, another made an appointment to meet me “on the Promenade at Eastbourne opposite the Wish Tower”; a third suggested my office at Winchester House as a meeting-place, and the fourth gave a rendezvous on the departure platform at King’s Cross Station.
I fell to wondering whether I had kept any of these engagements. The most recent of the letters was dated nearly two years ago.
But the afternoon was wearing on, therefore I placed the puzzling communications in my pocket and ascended to my room in order to rest, and thus carry out the feint of attending to old Britten’s directions.
The dressing-bell awakened me, but, confident in the knowledge that I should remain undisturbed, I removed the bandages from my head, bathed the wound, and applied some plaster in the place of the handkerchief. Then, with my hat on, my injury was concealed.
The sun was declining when I managed to slip out of the house unobserved, and set forth down the avenue to Littleham village. The quaint old place was delightful in the evening calm, but, heedless of everything, I hurried forward down the hill to Withycombe Raleigh, and thence straight across the open country to Lympston station, where I took a third-class ticket for Exeter. At a wayside station a passenger for London is always remarked, therefore I only booked as far as the junction with the main-line.
At Exeter I found that the up-mail was not due for ten minutes, therefore I telegraphed to London for a room at the Grand Hotel, and afterwards bought some newspapers with which to while away the journey.
Sight of newspapers dated six years later than those I had last seen aroused within me a lively curiosity. How incredible it all seemed as in that dimly lit railway-carriage I sat gathering from those printed pages the history of the lost six years of my life!
The only other occupant of the compartment besides myself was a woman. I had sought an empty carriage, but failing to find one, was compelled to accept her as travelling companion. She was youngish, perhaps thirty-five, and neatly dressed, but her face, as far as I could distinguish it through her spotted veil, was that of a woman melancholy and bowed down by trouble. In her dark hair were premature threads of silver, and her deep-sunken eyes, peering forth strangely at me, were the eyes of a woman rendered desperate.
I did not like the look of her. In travelling one is quick to entertain an instinctive dislike to one’s companion, and it was so in my case. I found myself regretting that I had not entered a smoking-carriage. But I soon became absorbed in my papers, and forgot her presence.
It was only her voice, a curiously high-pitched one, that made me start.
She inquired if I minded her closing the window because of the draught, and I at once closed it, responding rather frigidly, I believe.
But she was in no humour to allow the conversation to drop and commenced to chat with a familiarity that surprised me.
She noticed how puzzled I became, and at length remarked with a laugh —
“You apparently don’t recognise me, Mr Heaton.”
“No, madam,” I answered, taken aback. “You have certainly the advantage of me.”
This recognition was startling, for was I not flying to London to escape my friends? This woman, whoever she was, would without doubt recount her meeting with me.
“It is really very droll,” she laughed. “I felt sure from the first, when you entered the compartment, that you didn’t know me.”
“I certainly don’t know you,” I responded coldly —
She smiled. “Ah! I expect it’s my veil,” she said.
“But it’s really remarkable that you should not recognise Joliot, your wife’s maid.”
“You! My wife’s maid!” I gasped, recognising in an instant how cleverly I had been run to earth.
“Yes,” she replied. “Surely you recognise me?” and she raised her veil, displaying a rather unprepossessing face, dark and tragic, as though full of some hidden, sorrow.
I had never seen the woman before in my life, but instantly I resolved to display no surprise and act with caution.
“Ah, of course!” I said lamely. “The light here is so bad, you know, that I didn’t recognise you. And where are you going?”
“To London – to the dressmaker’s.”
“Mrs Heaton has sent you on some commission, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You joined this train at Exeter, then?”
“I came from Exmouth to Exeter, and changed,” she explained. “I saw you get in at Lympston.” My heart sank within me. It was evident that this woman had been sent by my self-styled wife to keep watch upon my movements. If I intended to escape I should be compelled to make terms with her.
Those sharp dark eyes, with a curious light in them – eyes that seemed strangely staring and vacant at times – were fixed upon me, while the smile about her thin lips was clearly one of triumph, as though she had caught me in the act of flying from my home.
I reflected, but next moment resolved to take her into my confidence. I disliked her, for her manner was somewhat eccentric, and, furthermore, I had only her own word that she was really maid to that angular woman who called herself my wife. Nevertheless, I could do naught else than make a bargain with her.
“Now,” I said at last, after some desultory conversation, “I want to make a suggestion to you. Do you think that if I gave you a ten-pound note you could forget having met me to-night? Do you think that you could forget having seen me at all?”
“Forget? I don’t understand.”
“Well, to put it plainly, I’m going to London, and I have no desire that anybody should know that I’m there,” I explained. “When I am found to be missing from Denbury, Mrs Heaton will do all in her power to discover me. You are the only person who knows that I’ve gone to London, and I want you to hold your tongue.”
She smiled again, showing an even row of white teeth.
“I was sent by my mistress to travel by this train and to see where you went,” she said bluntly.
“Exactly as I thought,” I answered. “Now, you will accept this as a little present, and return to Denbury to-morrow after a fruitless errand – utterly fruitless, you understand?”
She took the ten sovereigns I handed her, and transferred them to her purse, promising to say nothing of having met me.
I gathered from her subsequent conversation that she had been maid to Mrs Heaton ever since her marriage, and that she had acted as confidential servant. Many things she mentioned incidentally were of the greatest interest to me, yet they only served to show how utterly ignorant I was of all the past.
“But why did you disclose your identity?” I inquired, when the lights showed that we were entering the London suburbs.
“Because I felt certain that you didn’t recognise me,” she laughed; “and I had no wish to spy upon you, knowing as I do that your life is the reverse of happy.”
“Then you pity me, eh?”
“I scarcely think that is the word that one of my position ought to use,” she answered, with some hesitation. “Your life has, since your marriage, not been of the happiest, that’s certain.”
“And so you have no intention of telling any one where I’ve gone?” I asked eagerly.
“None in the least, sir. Rest assured that I shall say nothing – not a single word.”
“I thank you,” I said, and sat back pondering in silence until the train ran into Waterloo, where we parted, she again reassuring me of her intention to keep my secret.
I congratulated myself upon a very narrow escape, and, taking a cab, drove straight to Trafalgar Square. As I crossed Waterloo Bridge the long line of lights on the Embankment presented the same picture as they had ever done. Though six years had passed since I had last had knowledge of London, nothing had apparently changed. The red night-glare in the leaden sky was still the same; the same unceasing traffic; the same flashing of bright dresses and glittering jewels as hansoms passed and repassed in the Strand – just as I had known London by night during all my life.
The gold-braided porter at the Grand handed me out of the cab, and I ascended by the lift to the room allotted to me like a man in a dream. It hardly seemed possible that I could have been absent in mind from that whirling, fevered world of London for six whole years. I had given a false name in the reception bureau, fearing that those people who called themselves my friends – Heaven save the mark! – might make inquiries and cause my arrest as a wandering lunatic. I had no baggage, and I saw that the hotel-clerk looked upon me with some suspicion. Indeed, I threw down a couple of sovereigns, well knowing the rules that no person without luggage was taken unless he paid a deposit beforehand.
I laughed bitterly within myself. How strange it was!
Next morning I went forth and wandered down the Strand – the dear old Strand that I had once loved so well. No; it had in no wise changed, except, perhaps, that two or three monster buildings had sprung up, and that the theatres announced pieces quite unknown to me. A sudden desire seized me to see what kind of place was my own office. If, however, I went near there, I might, I reflected, be recognised by some one who knew me. Therefore I turned into a barber’s and had my beard cut off, then, further on, bought a new dust coat and another hat. In that disguise I took a hansom to Old Broad Street.
I was not long in finding the business headquarters of my own self. How curious it all was! My name was marked upon a huge brass plate in the entrance-hall of that colossal block of offices, and I ascended to the first floor to find my name inscribed upon the door of one of the largest of the suites. I stood in the corridor carelessly reading a paper, and while doing so witnessed many persons, several of them smart-looking City men, leave, as though much business was being conducted within.
Fortunately, no one recognised me, and descending, I regained the street.
When outside I glanced up, and there saw my name, in big gilt letters, upon the wire blinds of six big windows.
If I were actually as well known in the City as Gedge had alleged, then it was dangerous for me to remain in that vicinity. Therefore I entered another cab and drove to my old chambers in Essex Street.
Up the thin-worn creaking stairs of the dismal, smoke-begrimed old place I climbed, but on arrival at my door a plate confronting me showed that Percival and Smale, solicitors, were now the occupants. From inquiries I made of Mr Smale, it appeared that they had occupied the floor as offices for the past three years, and that the tenants previous to them had been a firm of accountants. He knew nothing of my tenancy, and could tell me no word of either old Mrs Parker or of Dick Doyle, who had, it appeared, also vacated his quarters long ago. That afternoon I wandered in the Park, over that same road where I had lingered with Mabel in those cherished days bygone. Every tree and every object brought back to me sweet memories of her. But I remembered her letters reposing in my pocket, and bit my lip. Truly, in the unconscious life when I had been my other self, my real tastes had been inverted. My love for her had cooled. I had actually, when engaged to her, cast her aside.
It was incredible. Surely my experience was unique in all the world.
Unable to decide how to act in those puzzling circumstances, I spent fully a couple of hours in the Park. The Row was hot, dusty, and almost deserted, but at last I turned into the shady walks in Kensington Gardens, and wandered until I came out into the High Street by that same gate where she had once discovered the dead man’s pencil-case in my possession.
As I stood there in the full light of that glaring afternoon, the whole scene came back vividly to me. She had known that man who had been so foully murdered in her mother’s home. I must, at all costs, find her, clear myself, and elucidate the truth.
Hence, with that object, I hailed another cab, and, giving the man directions to drive to The Boltons, sat back, eager and wondering.
As the conveyance drew up my heart gave a leap for joy, for I saw by the blinds that the house was still occupied.
I sprang out and rang the visitors’ bell.
