Chapter Twenty Four
Contains a Terrible Disclosure
Many long and dreary weeks had passed before I had sufficiently recovered to leave the house, and, accompanied by Reggie, take my first drive.
It was mid April, the weather was still cold, and gay London had not yet returned from wintering in Monte Carlo, Cairo or Rome. Each year the society swallows, those people who fly south with the first chill day of autumn, return to town later, and each London season appears to be more protracted than before.
We drove down Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner, and then, turning along Constitution Hill, drove along the Mall. Here a great desire seized me to rest for a brief while and enjoy the air in St. James’s Park; therefore we alighted, paid the cabman, and, leaning upon Reggie’s arm, I strolled slowly along the gravelled walks until we found a convenient seat. The glories of St. James’s Park, even on an April day, are a joy for ever to the true Londoners. I often wonder that so few people take advantage of them. The wondrous trees, the delicious sheet of water, all the beauties of English rural scenery, and then the sense that all around you are the great palaces and departments, and offices in which the government of our great Empire is carried on – in other words, that commingling of silence at the core of feverish and tumultuous life outside – all these make St. James’s Park one of the loveliest retreats in England.
These things Reggie and I repeated to each other, and then, under the soothing influence of the surroundings, there came musings and reminiscences and the long silences which come between friends and are the best symbols of their complete accord of feeling and opinion.
While we were thus seated I became conscious of the fact that we were in the spot above all others where one was certain to see pass, at that time of day most of the prominent political figures of the hour on their way to their various Departments, or to Parliament where the sitting was just commencing. A Cabinet Minister, two Liberal peers, a Conservative whip, and an Under-secretary passed in rapid succession away in the direction of Storey’s Gate.
Reggie, who took a great interest in politics, and had often occupied a seat in the Strangers’ Gallery, was pointing out to me the politicians who passed, but my thoughts were elsewhere – with my lost love. Now that Mrs Percival had revealed to me the truth of Mabel’s affection I saw how foolish I had been in making pretence of a coldness towards her that was the very opposite to the feeling which really existed in my heart. I had been a fool, and had now to suffer.
During the weeks I had been confined to my room I had obtained a quantity of books, and discovered certain facts concerning the late Cardinal who had divulged the secret – whatever it was – in return for his release. It appeared that Andrea Sannini was a native of Perugia, who became Archbishop of Bologna, and was afterwards given the Cardinal’s hat. A great favourite of Pius IX, he was employed by him upon many delicate missions to the various Powers. As a diplomatist he proved himself possessed of remarkable acumen, therefore the Pope appointed him treasurer-general, as well as director of the world-famous museums and galleries of the Vatican. He was, it appeared, one of the most powerful and distinguished figures in the College of Cardinals, and became extremely prominent for the part he played on the occasion of the entry of the Italian troops into the Eternal City in 1870, while on the death of Pius IX, eight years later, he was believed to be designated as his successor, although on election the choice fell upon his colleague, the late Cardinal Pecci, who became Leo XIII.
I was reflecting upon these facts which I had established after a good deal of heavy reading, when Reggie suddenly cried in a low voice, —
“Why, look! there’s Dawson’s daughter walking with a man!”
I glanced quickly in the direction indicated and saw, crossing the bridge that spanned the lake and approaching in our direction, a well-dressed female figure in a smart jacket of caracul and neat toque, accompanied by a tall thin man in black.
Dolly Dawson was walking at his side leisurely, chatting and laughing, while he ever and anon bent towards her making some remarks. As he raised his head to glance across the water I saw that above his overcoat showed a clerical collar with a tiny piece of Roman purple. The man was evidently a canon or other dignitary of the Catholic Church.
He was about fifty-five, grey-haired, clean-shaven and wore a silk hat of a somewhat ecclesiastical shape, a rather pleasant-looking man in spite of his thin sensitive lips and pale ascetic face.
In an instant it struck me that they had met clandestinely and were sauntering there in order to avoid possible recognition if they walked the streets. The old priest appeared to be treating her with studied politeness, and as I watched him I saw from his slight gesticulations as he spoke that he was no doubt a foreigner.
I pointed out the fact to Reggie, who said – “We must watch them, old chap. They mustn’t see us here. I only hope they’ll turn off the other way.”
For a moment we followed them with our eyes, fearing that, having crossed the bridge, they would turn in our direction, but fortunately they did not, but turned off to the right along the shore of the lake.
“If he really is Italian then he may have come specially from Italy to have an interview with her,” I remarked. For ever since I had met the monk, Antonio, there had seemed some curious connexion between the secret of the dead cardinal and the Church of Rome.
“We must try and find out,” declared Reggie. “You mustn’t remain here. It’s getting too cold for you,” he added, springing to his feet. “I’ll follow them while you return home.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll walk with you for a bit. I’m interested in the little game,” and, rising also, I linked my arm in his and went forward by the aid of my stick.
They were walking side by side in earnest conversation. I could tell by the priest’s quick gesticulations, the way in which he first waved his closed fingers and then raised his open hand and touched his left forearm, that he was speaking of some secret and the possessor of it who had disappeared. If one knows the Italian well, one can follow in a sense the topic of conversation by the gestures, each one having its particular signification.
Hurrying as well as I could we gradually gained upon them, for presently they slackened their pace, while the priest spoke earnestly, as though persuading the daughter of the ex-boatswain of the Annie Curtis to act in some way he was directing.
She seemed silent, thoughtful and undecided. Once she shrugged her shoulders, and half-turned from him as though in defiance, when in a moment the wily cleric became all smiles and apologies. They were talking in Italian without a doubt, so as passers-by might not understand their conversation. His clothes, too, I noticed were of a distinctly foreign cut and he wore low shoes, the bright steel buckles of which he had evidently taken off.
As they had come across the bridge she had been laughing merrily at some quaint remark of her companion’s, but now it appeared as though all her gaiety had died out and she had realised the true object of the stranger’s mission. The path they had taken led straight across to the Horse Guards’ Parade, and feeling a few moments later that my weakness would not allow me to walk farther, I was compelled to turn back towards the York Column steps, leaving Reggie to make what observations he could.
I returned home thoroughly exhausted and very cold. Even my big frieze overcoat, which I used for driving when down at Helpstone, did not keep out the biting wind. So I sat over the fire for fully a couple of hours until my friend at last returned.
“I’ve followed them everywhere,” he explained, throwing himself into an armchair opposite me. “He’s evidently threatening her, and she is afraid of him When they got to the Horse Guards they turned back along Birdcage Walk and then across the Green Park. Afterwards he drove her in a cab to one of Fuller’s shops in Regent Street. The old priest seems mortally afraid of being recognised. Before he left the Green Park he turned up the collar of his overcoat so as to hide that piece of purple at his collar.”
“Did you discover his name?”
“I followed him to the Savoy, where he is staying. He has given his name as Monsignore Galli, of Rimini.”
There our information ended. It, however, was sufficient to show that the ecclesiastic was in London with some distinct purpose, probably to induce the Ceco’s daughter to give him certain information which he earnestly desired, and which he intended to obtain by reason of certain knowledge which he possessed.
The days passed with gloom and rain, and Bloomsbury presented its most cheerless aspect. No trace could I discover of my lost love, and no further fact concerning the white-haired monsignore. The latter had, it appeared, left the Savoy on the following evening, returning, in all probability, to the Continent, but whether successful in his mission or no we were in complete ignorance.
Dolly Dawson, with whom Reggie had struck up a kind of pleasant friendship, more for the purpose of being able to observe and question her than anything else, called upon us on the day following to inquire after me and hear whether we had learnt anything regarding Mabel’s whereabouts. Her father, she told us, was absent from London for a few days, and she was about to leave for Brighton in order to visit an aunt.
Was it possible that Dawson, having learned of my solution of the cipher, had returned to Italy in order to secure the Cardinal’s secret from us? I longed hour by hour for strength to travel out to that spot beside the Serchio, but was held to those narrow rooms by my terrible weakness.
Four long and dreary weeks passed, until the middle of May, when I had gathered sufficient strength to walk out alone, and take short strolls in Oxford Street and its vicinity. Burton Blair’s will had been proved, and Leighton, who visited us several times, told us of the recklessness with which the man Dawson was dealing with the estate. That the adventurer was in secret communication with Mabel was proved by the fact that certain cheques signed by her had passed through his hands into the bank, yet strangely enough, he declared entire ignorance of her whereabouts.
Dawson had returned to Grosvenor Square, when one day at noon the footman, Carter, was ushered in to me by Glave.
I saw by his face that the man was excited, and scarcely had he been shown into my room before he exclaimed, saluting respectfully —
“I’ve found out Miss Mabel’s address, sir! Ever since she’s been gone I’ve kept my eyes on the letters sent to post, just as Mr Ford suggested that I should, but Mr Dawson never wrote to her until this morning, by accident I think, he sent a letter to the post addressed to her, among a number of others which he gave to the page-boy. She’s at the Mill House, Church Enstone, near Chipping Norton.”
In quick delight I sprang to my feet. I thanked him, ordered Glave to give him a drink and left London by the half-past one train for Oxfordshire.
Just before five o’clock I discovered the Mill House, a grey, old-fashioned place standing back behind a high box hedge from the village street at Church Enstone, on the highroad from Aylesbury to Stratford. Before the house was a tiny lawn, bright with tulip borders and sweet-smelling narcissi.
A broad-spoken waiting-maid opened the door and ushered me into a small, low, old-fashioned room, where I surprised my love crouched in a big armchair, reading.
“Why? Mr Greenwood!” she gasped, springing to her feet, pale and breathless, “you!”
“Yes,” I said, when the girl had closed the door and we were alone, “I have found you at last, Mabel – at last!” and, advancing, I took both her small hands tenderly in mine. Then, carried away by the ecstasy of the moment, I looked straight into her eyes, saying, “You have tried to escape me, but to-day I have found you again. I have come, Mabel, to confess openly to you, to tell you something – to tell you, dearest, that – well, that I love you!”
“Love me!” she cried, dismayed, starting back, and putting me from her with both her small, white hands. “No! no!” she wailed. “You must not – you cannot love me. It is impossible!”
“Why?” I demanded quickly. “I have loved you ever since that first night when we met. Surely you must long ago have detected the secret of my heart.”
“Yes,” she faltered, “I have. But alas! it is too late – too late!”
“Too late?” I exclaimed. “Why?”
She was silent. Her countenance had suddenly blanched to the lips, and I saw that she was trembling from head to foot.
I repeated my question seriously, my eyes fixed upon her.
“Because,” she answered slowly at last in a tremulous voice so low that I could scarce distinguish the fatal words she uttered, “because I am already married!”
“Married!” I gasped, standing rigid. “And your husband! His name!”
“Cannot you guess?” she asked. “The man you have already seen – Herbert Hales.” Her eyes were cast down from me as though in shame, while her pointed chin sank upon her panting breast.
Chapter Twenty Five
The Sacred Name
What could I say? What would you have said?
I was silent. I knew not what words to utter. This scoundrelly young groom, the ne’er-do-well son of the respectable old seafarer who spent the evening of his days at the crossways, was actually the husband of the millionaire’s daughter! It seemed utterly incredible, yet, on recollecting that midnight scene in Mayvill Park, I at once recognised how powerless she was in the hands of that low, arrogant cad, who, in a moment of mad frenzy, had made such a desperate attempt upon her.
I recognised, too, that the love between them, if any, had ever existed, had disappeared long ago, and that the man’s sole idea was to profit by the fact of his union with her, and blackmail her just as so many wealthy and upright women are being blackmailed in England at this very moment. It flashed through my mind that the reason she did not follow and punish the fellow for that dastardly attempt on her life was now made plain.
She was his wife!
The very thought convulsed me with jealousy, regret and hatred, for I loved her with all the passion, honest and true, of which a man is capable. Since Mrs Percival had revealed to me the truth, I had lived only for her, to meet her again and openly declare my love.
“Is this the truth?” I asked her at last in a voice the hardness of which I could not control. I took her cold, inert hand in my own and glanced at her bowed head.
“Alas for me it is,” was her faltering response. “He is my husband, therefore all love between us is debarred,” she added. “You have always been my friend, Mr Greenwood, but now that you have forced me to confess the truth our friendship is at an end.”
“And your husband, is he here with you?”
“He has been here,” was her answer, “but has gone.”
“You left London in secret to join him, I suppose?” I remarked bitterly.
“At his demand. He wished to see me.”
“And to obtain money from you by threats as he attempted on that night at Mayvill?”
The broken, white-faced girl nodded in the affirmative.
“I came to this place,” she explained, “as a paying-guest. A girl I knew at school, Bessie Wood, lives here with her mother. They believe I made a runaway match, and have been extremely kind to me these last two years.”
“Then you’ve been a wife for two whole years!” I exclaimed in blank surprise, utterly amazed at the manner in which I had been deceived.
“For nearly that time. We were married at Wymondham in Norfolk.”
“Tell me the whole story, Mabel,” I urged, after a long pause, endeavouring to preserve an outward calm, which certainly did not coincide with my innermost feelings.
Her breast heaved and fell beneath its lace and chiffons, her great wonderful eyes were filled with tears. For fully five minutes she was overcome by her emotion and quite unable to speak. At last, in a low, hoarse voice, she said —
“I don’t know what you must think of me, Mr Greenwood. I’m ashamed of myself, and of the manner in which I’ve deceived you. My only excuse is that it was imperative. I married because I was forced to by a chain of circumstances, as you will realise when you know the truth.” Then she was silent again.
“But you’ll tell me the truth, won’t you?” I urged. “I, as your best friend, as indeed the man who has loved you, have surely a right to know!”
She only shook her head in bitter sorrow, and looking at me through her tears, answered briefly —
“I have told you the truth. I am married. I can only ask your pardon for deceiving you and explain that I was compelled to do so.”
“You mean that you were compelled to marry him? Compelled by whom?”
“By him,” she faltered. “One morning two years ago I left London alone and met him at Wymondham, where I had previously been staying for a fortnight while my father was fishing. Herbert met me at the station, and we were married in secret, two men, picked at haphazard from the street, acting as witnesses. After the ceremony we parted. I took off my ring and returned home, no one being the wiser. We had a dinner-party that evening. Lord Newborough, Lady Rainham and yourself were there, and we went to the Haymarket afterwards. Don’t you recollect it? As we sat in the box you asked me why I was so dull and thoughtful, and I pleaded a headache. Ah! if you had but known!”
“I recollect the night perfectly,” I said, pitying her. “And it was your wedding evening? But how did he compel you to marry him? The motive is, of course, quite plain. He wished either to profit by the fact that you could not afford to allow the truth to be known that you were the wife of a groom, or else his intention was to gain possession of your money at your father’s death. Yours is certainly not the first marriage of the sort that has been contracted,” I added, with a feeling of blank dismay.
At the very moment when my hopes had been raised to their highest level by Mrs Percival’s statement the blow had fallen, and in an instant I saw that love was impossible. Mabel, the woman I loved so fondly and so well, was the wife of a loutish brute who was torturing her to madness by his threats, and would, as already had been proved, hesitate at nothing in order to gain his despicable ends.
My feelings were indescribable. No words of mine can give any adequate idea of how torn was my heart by conflicting emotions. Until that moment she had been beneath my protection, yet now that she was the wife of another I had no right to control her actions, no right to admire, no right to love.
Ah! if ever man felt crushed, despairing and hopeless, if ever man realised how aimless and empty his lonely life had been, I did at that moment.
I tried to induce her to tell me how the fellow had compelled her to marry him, but the words stuck in my throat and choked me. Tears must, I suppose, have stood in my eyes, for with a sudden sympathy, an outburst of that womanly feeling so strong within her, she placed her hand tenderly upon my shoulder and said in a low, calm voice —
“We cannot recall the past, therefore why reflect? Act as I asked you to act in my letter. Forgive me and forget. Leave me to my own sorrows. I know now that you have loved me, but it is – ”
She could not finish the sentence, for she burst into tears.
“I know what you mean,” I said blankly. “Too late – yes, too late. Both our lives have been wrecked by my own folly – because I hid from you what I as an honest man, should have told you long ago.”
“No, no, Gilbert,” she cried, calling me for the first time by my Christian name, “don’t say that. The fault is not yours, but mine – mine,” and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.
“Where is this husband of yours – this man who tried to kill you?” I demanded fiercely a few moments later.
“Somewhere in the North, I think.”
“He has been here. When?”
“He came a week ago and remained a couple of hours.”
“But he shall not blackmail you in this manner! If I cannot remain your lover. I’ll nevertheless still stand your champion, Mabel!” I cried in determination. “He shall reckon with me.”
“Ah no!” she gasped, turning to me in quick apprehension. “You must do nothing. Otherwise he may – ”
“What may he do?”
She was silent, gazing aimlessly out of the window across the broad meadow-lands, now misty and silent in the dusk.
“He may,” she said, in a low, broken voice, “he may tell the world the truth!”
“What truth?”
“The truth he knows – the knowledge by which he compelled me to become his wife,” and she held her hand to her breast, as though to stay the wild beating of her young heart.
I tried to induce her to reveal that secret to me, her most devoted friend, but she refused.
“No,” she said in a low, broken voice, “do not ask me, Gilbert – for I know now that I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name – because I cannot tell you of all men. It is for me to remain silent – and to suffer.”
Her face was very pale, and I saw by her look of determination that her mind was made up; even though she trusted me as she did, nevertheless no power would induce her to reveal the truth to me.
“But you know what reason your father had in appointing his friend Dawson to be controller of your fortune,” I said. “I felt confident that a word from you would result in his withdrawal from the office he now holds. You cannot affect ignorance of this mysterious motive of your father’s?”
“I have already told you. My poor father also acted under compulsion. Mr Leighton also knows that.”
“And you are aware of the reason?”
She nodded in the affirmative.
“Then you could checkmate the fellow’s plans?”
“Yes, I might,” she answered slowly, “if I only dared.”
“What do you fear?”
“I fear what my father feared,” was her answer.
“And what was that?”
“That he would carry out a certain threat he has many times made to my father, and later to myself. He threatened me on the day I left home – he dared me to breathe a single word.”
Yes, that one-eyed man held power complete and absolute over her, just as he had boasted to Mrs Percival. He also knew the truth concerning the Cardinal’s secret.
We sat together in that small, low, old-fashioned room, until dusk darkened into night, when she rose wearily and lit the lamp. Then I was startled by discovering by its light how her sweet face had changed. Her cheeks had grown wan and pale, her eyes were red and swollen, and her whole countenance betrayed a deep, burning anxiety a terror of what the unknown future held for her.
Surely hers was a strange, almost inconceivable position – a pretty young woman with a balance of over two millions at her bankers, and yet hounded by those who sought her ruin, degradation and death.
The fact that she was married had struck me a staggering blow. To her I could now be no more than a mere friend like any other man, all thoughts of love being bebarred, all hope of happiness abandoned. I had never sought her for her fortune, that I can honestly avow. I had loved her for her own sweet, pure self, because I knew that her heart beat true and loyal; that in strength of character, in disposition, in grace and in beauty she was peerless.
For a long time I held her hand, feeling, I think, some satisfaction in thus repeating the action of other times, now that I had to bid farewell to all my hopes and aspirations. She sat silent, troubled sighs escaping her as I spoke, telling her of that strange, midnight adventure in the streets of Kensington, and of how near I had been to death.
“Then, knowing that you have gained the secret written upon the cards, they have made an attempt to seal your lips,” she said at last, in a hard, mechanical voice, almost as though speaking to herself. “Ah! did I not warn you of that in my letter? Did I not tell you that the secret is so well and ingeniously guarded that you will never succeed in either learning it or profiting by it?”
“But I intend to persevere in the solution of the mystery of your father’s fortune,” I declared, still with her hand in mine, in sad and bitter farewell. “He left his secret to me, and I have determined to start out to Italy to-morrow to search the spot indicated, and to learn the truth.”
“Then you can just save yourself that trouble, mister,” exclaimed the voice of a common, uneducated man, startling me, and on turning suddenly, I saw that the door had opened noiselessly, and there upon the threshold, watching us with apparent satisfaction, was the man who stood between me and my well-beloved – that clean-shaven, skulking fellow who claimed her by the sacred name of wife!