M. Felix: "Not to-night."
Dr. Peterssen: "I am not to be put off, friend of my soul. We will have our little say to-night."
M. Felix: "I have friends with me. I cannot receive you now."
Dr. Peterssen: "A lie. You have no friends with you." (His tone changing to one of undisguised brutality.) "If you keep me waiting here one minute longer I will ruin you. Do you forget our pleasant partnership in Switzerland nineteen years ago? Do you forget your brother Gerald?"
M. Felix: "Hush! Come in. Step softly."
That was all. The door was closed, and all was still.
Emilia stood upright, with a face as white as the falling snow. The words with their hidden meanings, the voices with their varying tones, the trick by which Dr. Peterssen had found it necessary to obtain admission to the presence of M. Felix, the veiled threats, the allusions to the partnership in Switzerland and to her dear Gerald-what did all these portend? What but a secret plot, unknown to her, unknown to all but its accomplices, a plot in which Gerald had been involved, and therefore she? Oh, for some beneficent gift to pierce those walls, to hear what those villains were saying! But it was idle and might be hurtful to indulge in vain, impracticable wishes. She summoned all her fortitude. Scarcely now could she hope to obtain speech to-night with the man whom she believed had ruined her life, and who could ruin it still further. But she would not desert her post; she would wait and hope. She heeded not the bitter, piercing cold; she seemed to be divinely armed against physical suffering. So she tramped slowly up and down the street through the deep snow, keeping her eyes fixed ever on the windows of the room in which the conspirators were conversing, walking backward with her face to them when she went from the house. Visions of the past rose before her; the white snow falling even in this narrow street brought back the snow mountains of Switzerland, where last she had seen the two enemies within hail of her. "Strengthen me, oh, God of the universe!" she murmured. "Endow me with power to fulfil my task, so that I may keep shame and sorrow from my beloved child."
CHAPTER XLI.
DR. PETERSSEN BRINGS M. FELIX TO BOOK
When Dr. Peterssen entered M. Felix's sitting-room he sank into a chair, and gazed around upon the luxurious furnishings with an air of scornful approval. A cigar-case was on the table, and without invitation the unwelcome visitor helped himself to a cigar, which he lighted and smoked in silence for two or three minutes. Meanwhile M. Felix looked on and said nothing.
"You are comfortably lodged here," said Dr. Peterssen, at length, "and your cigars are very fine; but you were ever a man of taste in the matter of your own enjoyments; the best were always good enough for you. By the by, the friends you were entertaining? Where are they?" M. Felix smiled sourly, and Dr. Peterssen laughed aloud. The next moment, however, he became grave. "Let us proceed to business."
"With all my heart," said M. Felix. "I shall be rid of you all the sooner."
"You will never be rid of me, dear comrade. I am curious to learn for what reason Mr. Leonard Paget has transformed himself into M. Felix."
"You are curious to learn nothing of the sort; you are acquainted with the reason. It was to escape from your rapacity, which in another year or two would have beggared me."
"A good reason, from a purely selfish point of view, but you lost sight of a most important element. You and I are one, sweet boy; our fortunes are one; if I swim, you swim; if I sink, you sink. I am not at all sure, as to the latter, whether I could not save myself and bring you to destruction at the same time. Why did you cut and run from the tender-hearted individual upon whom your safety depends? I asked you now and then for a trifle of money to help me through difficulties; you always objected, I always insisted. I put the matter before you plainly. If I did not discharge certain obligations-"
"Brought about by your mad gambling," interrupted M. Felix.
"Granted, dear boy, but men with minds are never free from weaknesses of one kind or other, and I freely admit I like a little flutter occasionally."
"You would have bled me," said M. Felix, with a dark frown, "till I had lost every shilling of my fortune."
"Of our fortune, comrade, of our fortune. It is in my power to strip you of it at any moment, therefore, in common equity, the money is as much mine as yours."
"We made a bargain, and I adhered to it-have adhered to it up to this day."
"Quite correct. Every quarter-day I find paid into my bank the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds. Woe to you if there had been a single omission. I might have advertised for you, in terms which would have drawn unpleasant notice upon you; I would have left no stone unturned to unearth you. I think it is five years ago since we last met. It was not an amicable meeting; angry words passed between us. You gave me the money I asked for and insisted upon having, but you declined to accept the view I presented for your consideration, that you were but the treasurer of a common fund. We parted, not the best of friends, and the next thing I heard of you was conveyed in a letter you wrote to me from Brindisi-it was actually posted from there-informing me that you had left England never to return, and that the six hundred a year would be paid regularly into my bankers in quarterly instalments, as usual. My dear friend, that letter naturally did not please me, and I did not propose to submit patiently to the desertion. I was working for you, for your ease, for your safety; I had an establishment to keep up. My little private asylum in the country, with its patients and keepers, entails upon me a great expense. I am getting tired of it; it chains me down; I have to be very watchful and careful; I have to wheedle and bribe, and, besides, I have to live. I knew that you lied when you wrote that you had left England never to return; I knew that it was the only country in the world you cared to live in, and I set to work to discover your hiding place. For five years I have been hunting for you; I have been in London a dozen times; I have searched everywhere. Oh, the money you have cost me, every shilling of which you shall refund. You shall; I have kept an account, and you shall pay me not only what I am out of pocket, but so much a day for my personal labor. But you are extraordinarily cunning, and it is only now I have succeeded in tracking you down. And being tracked, I mean to keep my hold upon you; I mean to have my due; I mean to share equally with you. It was by the merest chance that I obtained a clue, and I followed it up, until, behold, in the person of M. Felix, who passes as a foreigner, I discover my dearest friend, Mr. Leonard Paget, a partner with me in a conspiracy which, if it were made public, would insure, for you, certainly, for me probably, penal servitude for life. Now, what is it you propose to do?"
"What do you want?" demanded M. Felix.
"I have already stated-an equal share of the fortune for which we both conspired."
"What if I told you that it was pretty well squandered, and there was but little left?"
"I should not believe you."
"It is a fact."
"It is a lie."
"Do you think I should be living in such seclusion as this if it were not the truth?"
"I think what I please. What more can a man desire than what I see around me? You must be enjoying your days, Leonard."
"I repeat," said M. Felix, "that I have lost the greater part of the money. You can prove it for yourself if you like. I have speculated unluckily; I have lost large sums at Monaco. You can't get blood out of stone."
"If you are the stone I will have either blood or money. Understand me; I am quite resolved. You see, dear friend, you have unfortunately roused a feeling of animosity in me by your bad treatment. I was to have all the kicks, you all the ha'pence. Unfair, monstrously unfair. Whose was the immediate risk in the conspiracy? Mine. Over whose head has hung, at any chance moment, the peril of discovery? Over mine. Who has done all the work? I. And you, living your life of ease and pleasure, laughed in your sleeve all the time, and thought what an easy tool it was who was doing all the dirty work for you, while you posed as a gentleman of immaculate virtue. Leonard, do not mistake me you will have to do as I command; I am not your slave; you are mine. I hold you in the hollow of my hand. You have escaped me once, you shall not escape me again."
"You speak bravely," said M. Felix, with an attempt at bravado. "What would you do if I defy you?"
"What would I do if you defy me?" repeated Dr. Peterssen, musingly. "I would have my revenge, most certainly. I would bring destruction upon you, most certainly. I would make a felon of you, most certainly."
"You forget that you would be implicated in these unpleasant consequences."
"I forget nothing; but you are mistaken, friend of my soul. There are roads open to me which are closed to you. I could turn Queen's evidence. I could do better than that. I could hunt up your brother Gerald's wife, who deems herself a dishonored woman. I could say to her that I was a tool in your hands, that you bribed me and played upon my poverty. I could say that the tale you told her of a mock marriage was false, and that she was truly Gerald's wife. I could inform her that her husband was at this moment alive, and was to be found at-"
"Hush!" cried M. Felix.
"Why? I am not afraid. Having revealed the plot to her I should disappear. She would come to England, if she were not here already; she would lose not a moment in ascertaining whether I spoke the truth; and then, my very cunning and clever friend, where would you be, I should like to know? Not only would you be brought to the bar of justice, but you would have to make restitution. You would be beggared and irretrievably disgraced; your life of ease and pleasure would be at an end. As I am a living man, I would bring you to this pass; and I have little doubt, when I wrote to Gerald's wife from my chosen place of exile, that she would listen to the tale of pity I should relate, and would reward me for restoring her husband to her arms, and for restoring the good name which you filched from her by the basest of tricks."
"Enough of this," said M. Felix, "I capitulate. Nothing can be done to-night. Come to me to-morrow, and we will make terms. I can say no more."
"Perhaps not," said Dr. Peterssen. "You will be here to-morrow?"
"I will be here."
"At noon?"
"At noon."
"Then we will go into accounts."
"As you will."
"Attend to me, dear friend. By my blood, by my life, if you deceive me, if you attempt to evade me, if you try once again to escape, I will make the story public through Gerald's wife! Then you may say your prayers-which will be a novel thing for you to do." He raised his hand and swore a frightful oath that he would do as he threatened if he did not find M. Felix at home at the time he had named.
"You will find me at home," said M. Felix, sullenly.
"What noise is that?" asked Dr. Peterssen, as the sound of the shutting of the street-door came to his ears.
"It is the housekeeper going out for liquor. She does so every night."
"She must have a passion for liquor to go out on such a night. An obliging housekeeper, no doubt, dear friend."
"She does as she is directed."
"You have a commanding way with you which goes down with the weak. Are there other lodgers in this house?"
"I am the only one."
"As I have heard."
"You have been making inquiries of me?"
"I have. So, we two are alone. Not a soul on the premises but ourselves. One of us might murder the other, and have time to escape before discovery was made."
"It would not pay either of us to proceed to such an extremity."
"It would not. You are not an affectionate brother, Leonard. You have never inquired after Gerald."
"He is still alive, then?
"He is still alive."
"You might be deceiving me. He may have died years ago."
"That might have been, but it is not so. Would you care to convince yourself? Come down and see him. He might recognize you."
"No," said M. Felix, with a shudder. "I will take your word."
"Do you not wish to know how he is?"
"How is he?"
"In bodily health, better than you would suppose; but his mind" – Dr. Peterssen did not complete the sentence, but watched with some curiosity the effect of his words upon his companion.
"He is really mad?" exclaimed M. Felix, eagerly.
"By no means. It is merely that he is plunged into a chronic melancholy. He passes days in silence, speaking not a word. I give him books, and sometimes he reads, but I am not sure whether he understands what he reads."
"No one sees him?"
"No one but myself and those about me, who know him, as you are aware, as George Street, possessed with an insane idea that he is somebody else."
"Street's father-does he not come to see his son?"
"He does not. Long ago he took the advice I gave him, that it would be best and most merciful for him not to attempt to see his son. Had he not agreed with me, it might have been awkward. Once he came; and I fortunately happened to have in the house a patient absolutely mad, one given to loud raving. It was curious, was it not, that at the time of Mr. Street's visit this patient was in one of his strongest paroxysms? Mr. Street turned pale when he heard the shouts. 'Is that my poor son?' he asked. 'That is your poor son,' I answered. 'I will not answer for the consequences if his eyes fell upon you.' The father went away, with sighs, saying before he went, 'Nothing better can be done for him than you are doing?' 'Nothing better,' I answered. 'He is receiving every kindness here. In another establishment he would be worse off than he is with me.' He came no more, but I send him regular reports, and occasionally go to see him."
"He pays you regularly?"
"Yes; he is a prosperous man." Dr. Peterssen rose. "Good-night. I will be here at noon. I must make my way through this awful storm as well as I can."
"May you perish in it!" thought M. Felix.
"It occurs to me," continued Dr. Peterssen, "that I ought to have some guarantee with me. You have some money about you?"
"Not much."
"Give me what you have."
M. Felix took his pocketbook from his pocket, which Dr. Peterssen seized before he could open it.
"You shall have it back to-morrow, minus the cash."
He caught sight of the desk of sandal-wood which Emilia would have remembered so well. It was open, and by its side lay the dagger with its handle representing a twisted snake and its ruby eye. With a swift motion Dr. Peterssen closed the desk and lifted it from the table. "I will take this with me as a guarantee."
"I will not allow you," cried M. Felix.
"It is not for you to allow," said Dr. Peterssen, coolly. "With me it goes, and to-morrow shall be returned. It contains private papers perhaps; all the better." The key being in it, he turned it in the lock, and threw it to M. Felix. "You cannot object now, and it would make no difference if you did. My locking it proves that I do not intend to pry into your secrets unless you force me. Good-night."
He spoke with an air of fierce determination, and M. Felix felt himself powerless. Sitting almost helpless in his chair, he saw the man who held his fate in his hands pass out of the door, and heard his steps descending the stairs.
CHAPTER XLII.
EMILIA AND M. FELIX
Emilia, watching in the snow-clad street, saw Mrs. Middlemore issue from the house with a large jug in her hand. She dared not go up to the housekeeper while Dr. Peterssen was in the house, and with a sinking heart she recognized that the hope she had entertained of obtaining entrance by means of the story she had mentally rehearsed was lost. But she would not leave the spot until Dr. Peterssen appeared. She had no intention of accosting him, for that she felt would be disastrous, but she would follow him, if she could do so safely, to see where he lived or lodged. It might be a point gained, although she did not at that moment see how it could be used to her advantage. She had not long to wait. About ten minutes after Mrs. Middlemore left the house, the street-door was opened again, and Dr. Peterssen appeared. He carried beneath his right arm that which would have sent a thrill of passionate emotion to Emilia's heart, but she was too deeply observant of his personal movements to see the desk which he had taken away with him as a guarantee. He made no pause, but plunged immediately into the snow, and Emilia was about to follow him when she suddenly observed that he had not closed the door behind him. Her attention was instantly diverted from the man. Here was the opportunity for which she had disguised herself, for which she had been waiting. Without thinking of the consequences, she glided into the house and shut the door. Emilia would have scarcely known how to proceed now had it not been that M. Felix, hearing the street-door closed, rose to close his own, which Dr. Peterssen had left ajar. Before putting his intention into execution he opened it a little wider, and inclined his head to the stairs, as if in the act of listening. The stream of light which this action threw into the passage was a guide to Emilia, who, without hesitation, ran up the stairs and confronted him. Startled by her appearance he fell back a step or two, which afforded Emilia space to enter the apartment.
"Who are you? What do you want?" gasped M. Felix, dreading at first whether this was not part of a plot which Dr. Peterssen had devised for his injury. But his doubts were immediately dispelled.
"I am Emilia Paget," said Emilia, "and I want justice."
With a face of terror he retreated farther into the room, and Emilia followed him. His heart almost ceased to beat, and a singular numbness of sensation came over him.
"Through all these years," said Emilia, "I have left you in peace, if peace can ever be the portion of a man like yourself. I come now to force a confession from your lips. I want nothing from you in the shape of money. All that you have, and that once was your brother Gerald's, is yours, and shall remain yours. I do not desire it; if I have any right to it I renounce it; I am here to demand justice."
This speech gave M. Felix time to recover himself somewhat. Though still conscious of a strange deadness of feeling at his heart, he saw the situation, and asked in a faint voice-
"What kind of justice?"
Emilia put a wrong construction upon the low tone in which he spoke. Deeming it a sign of relenting on his part, the defiant air she had boldly assumed gave way to one of imploring.
"When we last met in Switzerland," she said, bending toward him, "you told me that your brother, my dear Gerald-who, in my innermost heart, I believe never did harm to woman-had imposed upon me by a mock ceremony of marriage. At that time I was so overwhelmed by despair and so persecuted by injustice, that I did not dispute your statement. I thought only of the present; I wished only to escape from the cruel eyes and tongues of those to whom I had been maligned; I wished only to fly to a spot where I was unknown, and where I might live out my days in peace. What I yearned for was accomplished. God was good to me; He raised up a friend who took me to her bosom, and who conducted me to a haven of rest. For eighteen years I have lived in a foreign land, contentedly, even happily, with my child, Gerald's child. But circumstances have occurred which render it vitally necessary for our happiness that the proof should be forthcoming that I am a married woman. To obtain this proof I have come to England to find you, and by a happy chance have so far succeeded. I beg, I entreat of you, to give me means to establish my marriage with your brother. That done, I will leave you in peace, as Heaven is my judge. I will bind myself to this in any way you wish. I will swear the most solemn oath, I will sign any document you may draw up. Give me the means of preventing a shameful exposure which will ruin my child's life and mine. Think of what I have silently suffered, and have pity for me. I will pray for you-I will bless you-"
But her voice was broken by emotion, and she could not proceed. M. Felix gazed at her sternly; as she grew weak, he grew strong.
"I cannot give you what is impossible," he said. "You and Gerald were never married."
"I will not use hard words," said Emilia, restraining herself. "It may be as you say; but give me at least the information that will enable me to establish the truth. You cannot deny me this-you cannot, you cannot!"
"What kind of information do you desire?" asked M. Felix.
"When I was ill and very near to death," she replied; "when reason had forsaken me and I was lying stricken down, Gerald and you came to me in the place where afterward a civil ceremony was performed which I had every right to believe made me an honorably married woman. Tell me the name of that place. It is little to ask, but I ask no more. If you have a spark of compassion in you, tell me this, and I will go away blessing you."
"You do not remember it?" said M. Felix, with triumph in his eyes.
"God help me, I have not the least remembrance of it, nor of the roads I took which led me to it."
M. Felix stepped to the window and threw it open. Then he cried in as loud a voice as he could command:
"Help!"
"Why do you cry for help?" asked Emilia, advancing toward him.
"Do not come nearer to me," he replied, "or I will strangle you. Why do I cry for help? To bring the police here-to give you into custody-to expose and brand you as you deserve to be exposed and branded. How you forced your way into this house I do not know: perhaps you have been in hiding until you were assured I was alone. You come here to rob and murder. I will swear to it." Again he called from the window,
"Help!"
Frozen with terror Emilia stood like a statue, white with the fear of a horrible exposure which would blast her and her child forever in this world.
"You talk of ruin," snarled M. Felix. "It is upon you now. Disguised as a man you steal upon me here for a vile purpose. You will go away blessing me, will you? What do I care for your blessing or your curse? I will make your name a byword of shame, as it has been made before!" For the third time he sent out into the night his cry for "Help!"
Emilia's strength returned to her; she was able to speak once more.
"I will go," she said. "You shall not have the opportunity of still further disgracing me. But I will not rest till the truth is made clear to me-not with your help, but with the help of" —
"Of whom?" asked M. Felix, with a sneer.
She had intended to say "with the help of God," but an inspiration fell upon her which impelled her to utter a name almost as hateful to her as that of Leonard.
"With the help of Dr. Peterssen. If you can ruin me, he has it in his power to ruin you."
"Ah!" cried M. Felix, and in a sudden frenzy he snatched the snake dagger from the table and hurled it at her. It struck her in her left arm, and she caught it in her right hand. As she held it thus, dazed with pain, for a moment, M. Felix was struck with partial blindness. He saw, through the mist which fell upon him, the dagger with blood dripping from it, and thought that it was Emilia's intention to use it against him. He had a revolver in his bedroom. Blindly he staggered thither, and fell, motionless, into a chair by the side of the bed. The pain of the wound and the horror of the situation deprived Emilia of her senses, and she sank to the ground. How long she remained in that condition she did not know, but when she opened her eyes all was silent. M. Felix was not present. Had he gone to carry out his threat and to bring the police to his aid? The dagger was still in her hand and the wound in her arm was still bleeding. Shudderingly she threw the weapon behind the sideboard, and intent now only on escaping from the shame with which she was threatened, she bound her handkerchief tightly round the wound, and fled down the stairs. Constables Wigg and Nightingale were outside the door as she threw it open, but she scarcely saw them, although she knew that they were the forms of men. Terror lent wings to her feet, and in a moment she was out of sight, flying for her life.