Chapter Twenty Three.
Places Matters in a New Light
The words upon the second slip of paper were, —
“Ellice believes that Sybil still loves Wilfrid Hughes. This is incorrect. Tell him so. The girl is merely using Hughes for her own purposes. She loves Arthur Rumbold. I have just learnt the truth – something that will astonish you.”
Rumbold! Who was Arthur Rumbold? I had never heard mention of him. This was certainly a new feature of the affair. Sybil had a secret lover of whom I was in ignorance. She was no doubt still in communication with him, and through him had learnt of Eric’s whereabouts and other facts that had surprised me.
I read and re-read the letter, much puzzled. She was only using me for her own purposes – or in plain English she was fooling me!
I was angry with myself for not being more wary.
The train stopped at Preston, and then rushed north again as I sat alone in the corner of the carriage thinking deeply, and wondering who was this man Rumbold.
At Carlisle another surprise was in store for me, for I found a hurried note from Sybil saying that she had unfortunately been recognised by a friend and compelled to leave. She had gone on to Glasgow, and would await me there at the Central Station Hotel. Therefore, by the Scotch express at two o’clock that morning I travelled up to Glasgow, and on arrival found to my chagrin that she had stayed there one night, and again left. There was a note for me, saying that she had gone to Dumfries, but that it would be best for me not to follow.
“Return to Newcastle and await me,” she wrote. “My quick movements are imperative for my own safety. I cannot tell you in a letter what has happened, but will explain all when we meet.”
“By what train did the lady leave?” I inquired of the hall-porter who had handed me the letter.
“The six-twenty last night, sir,” was the man’s answer. “I got her ticket – a first-class one to Fort William.”
“Then she went north – not south,” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Of course.”
Sybil had misled me in her letter by saying that she had gone to Dumfries, when really she had travelled in the opposite direction. She had purposely misled me.
“The lady left hurriedly, it would appear.”
“Yes, sir. About five o’clock a gentleman called to see her, and she met him in the hall. She was very pale, I noticed, as though she was surprised at his visit, or rather upset. But they went out together. She returned an hour later, wrote this letter, which she told me to give to you if you called, and then left for Fort William.”
“And did the man call again?”
“Yes. She said he would, and she told me to tell him that she had gone to Edinburgh. I told him that, and he seemed very surprised, but went away. He was in evening dress, and it seemed as though they had intended dining together. She seemed,” added the man rather sneeringly, “to be more like a lady’s-maid than a lady.”
“But the gentleman, describe him to me.”
“Oh! he was a rather short, podgy man, fair, with a baldish head.”
Was it Parham? the description suited him.
“He gave no card?”
“No. He met the young lady here in the hall. My idea was that his presence was very unwelcome, as she seemed in great fear lest he should return before she could get away.”
“Has the man left Glasgow?”
“I think so. I saw him on the platform about nine, just before the Edinburgh express left. He’s probably gone on there. He seemed quite a gentleman.”
“They appeared to be friendly?”
“Perfectly. Only she evidently did not expect to meet him. She asked the name of a hotel at Fort William, and I told her to go to the Station.”
“Then she’s there!” I exclaimed quickly.
“Probably. She arrived there this morning.”
I tipped the man, and after idling in Glasgow some hours, left for Fort William, determined to disobey Sybil’s order to go back to Newcastle.
It was a long but picturesque journey. When I arrived I went at once to the hotel to inquire if Mrs Morton were there.
The manageress shook her head, saying, —
“There was a Mrs Morton, a young woman like a lady’s-maid, who arrived here yesterday morning, and left here last evening. A lady was awaiting her – her mistress, I think.”
“What was her name?”
“Mrs Rumbold,” was the answer, after referring to the visitors’ book.
“Rumbold!” The name of the secret lover.
“Was she old or young?”
“Elderly, with grey hair. A rather stiff, formal kind of person.”
“Where have they gone?”
“I heard Mrs Rumbold say that she wanted to go to Oban. So perhaps they’ve gone there.”
There was a boat down to Oban in three hours’ time, therefore I took it, passed down the beautiful Loch and by the island of Lismore, places too well known to the traveller in Scotland to need any description, and that same evening found myself in Oban, the Charing Cross of the Highlands. I had been there several times before, and always stayed at the Great Western. Therefore I took the hotel omnibus, and on alighting asked if a Mrs Rumbold was staying there.
The reply was a negative one, therefore I went round to several other hotels, finding at last that she and “her maid” had taken a room at the Alexandra that morning, but had suddenly changed their plans, and had left at two o’clock by train for the south, but whether for Glasgow or Edinburgh was not known.
I therefore lost track of them. Sybil had apparently successfully escaped from her male visitor at Glasgow, while at the same time Mrs Rumbold – probably the mother of the man she loved in secret – had awaited her up at Fort William.
For what reason? Why was she now masquerading as maid of the mother of her lover?
Again, if her visitor in Glasgow was really Parham, he must have very quickly obtained knowledge of her whereabouts, for only a few days before I had watched him arrange that ingenious plot against her in Dean’s Yard – a plot which would have no doubt been carried into execution if Sybil had been present.
I hesitated how to act.
If they had gone south, it was useless for me to remain in Oban. Her appointment with me was in Newcastle, and it seemed certain that she would sooner or later seek me there. But at that moment my curiosity was aroused regarding this Mrs Rumbold, as to who and what she was, and further, as to the identity of Arthur, about whom the dead man had known so much.
I left Oban and went back to Glasgow. My friend, the hall-porter at the Central Station, was talkative, but had not seen the lady again. It struck me that as the bald-headed man had met her in Glasgow, and as she had left a message for him that she had gone to Edinburgh, she would naturally avoid both places, or at any rate not halt there.
Had she gone on to Dumfries? She had left a message for me that she was there. Would she now go there in order to see if I were awaiting her instead of at Newcastle?
Dumfries, the town of Burns, was on my way down to Carlisle, therefore I resolved to make a halt there for an hour or two to inquire.
I remained the night in Glasgow, for I was fagged out by so much travelling, and next day, just before twelve, I alighted at Dumfries. I had never been there before, but outside the station I saw the Railway Hotel, and entering, asked whether Mrs Rumbold was staying there.
Yes, she was. Did I wish to see her? asked the lady clerk in the bureau.
I replied in the affirmative, and sent her my name, “Mr Morton,” written on a slip of paper.
The waiter returned with a curious look upon his face. I saw in an instant that something had occurred and was not surprised when he said, —
“Mrs Rumbold has a bad headache, sir, and would be glad if you’d call again about five or six. The chambermaid says she’s lying down.”
“Is there another person with her?” I inquired. “Her own maid, I mean.”
“No, sir. She’s alone.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Quite. I took her name when she arrived in the hotel. She has no maid.”
“And no lady friend?”
“No. She’s entirely alone.”
That surprised me. Had Sybil parted from her and gone straight on to Newcastle in order to find me? There was nothing to be done but to wait till half-past five, and call again on Mrs Rumbold. I therefore took a room at the hotel, and lunched in the coffee-room.
The woman’s excuse made me suspicious that she wished to avoid meeting me, and that when I returned at six I should find her gone.
So I passed the time in writing letters, and remained in patience until half-past five, when I sent up again to know if she would receive me. The answer came back that she was still too unwell, and I sent word to her that I could wait, as I wished to see her upon a very important matter.
My determination showed her that I did not intend that she should escape; therefore, just before the dinner gong rang the waiter came to me and said that the lady was in the small drawing-room upstairs and would see me.
I ascended the stairs wondering what would be the outcome of my interview. I wanted to ascertain who the woman was and the nature of the relations between her and Sybil.
When I entered the room a rather elderly lady with whitish hair severely brushed back and attired in deep black rose to meet me, bowing stiffly and saying —
“I have not the honour of your acquaintance, Mr Morton, and am rather curious to know what you want with me.”
“Well, madam,” I replied, “the fact is I want to ask you a question. The Honourable Sybil Burnet has been travelling with you dressed as a lady’s-maid, and I am here to learn where she has now gone.”
The woman started in surprise, and glared at me. She probably, from my disguise as a working-man, put me down as a detective.
“And my reply to you, sir, is that Miss Sybil’s destination is her own affair. We parted, and she has gone south. That is all I know.”
“But you also know the reason why she is masquerading as a maid; why at Fort William and at Oban you made people believe she was your maid. You had a motive, and I think you may as well admit it.”
“I do not see your right to question me about my private affairs!” she exclaimed angrily. “This is monstrous!”
“I have no desire to pry into your affairs, madam,” I answered, quite coolly. “The Honourable Sybil is a friend of mine, and I am anxious to know her whereabouts,” I said.
“But I cannot tell you what I don’t know myself. She went on to Carlisle – that’s all I know.”
“She parted from you suddenly. Why?” I asked. “Shall I tell you? Because she is in fear of being followed,” I exclaimed, and, smiling, added, “I think, madam, that I hold greater knowledge of the family than perhaps even you do yourself. I have known the Scarcliffs all my life. Old Lady Scarcliff is greatly upset regarding Sybil’s protracted absence. They are beginning to think that something has happened to her. I can now tell her that she has been with you, masquerading as your maid, and that you refuse all information concerning her. You know, I daresay, that the police are actively trying to find her on the application of her brother, Lord Scarcliff?”
My threat caused her some consternation. I could see that from the way she fumed and fidgeted.
“To tell Lady Scarcliff such a thing would only be to throw a blame upon myself of which I am entirely innocent,” she protested. “I assure you that if I knew where she had gone, I would tell you.”
“No, pardon me, madam. You would not. You believe that I’m a detective.”
“Your actions certainly betray you,” she exclaimed resentfully. “You’ve been watching us closely – for what reason?”
“Well,” I replied slowly. “The fact is, I am fully aware of the secret love existing between Sybil Burnet and Arthur Rumbold.”
“Sybil and Arthur?” she cried, turning pale and looking me straight in the face. “What do you mean? Arthur – my boy, Arthur!”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Who are you?” she exclaimed, starting up breathlessly from her chair. She was in fear of me, I saw. “Who are you that you should know this?” she gasped.
“William Morton,” was my cool reply. “I thought I sent my name up to you this morning!”
Chapter Twenty Four.
Complications and Confessions
Next morning, after a night journey, I called at the Douglas Hotel, in Newcastle, and was informed that Mrs Morton had arrived on the previous evening.
At last I had run her to earth.
She sent word that she would see me in half an hour, therefore I idled along Grainger Street West, killing time until she made her appearance. She approached me in the hall of the hotel smiling merrily and putting out her hand in welcome. Her black dress seemed slightly the worse for wear owing to her constant travelling, yet she was as neat and dainty as ever, a woman whose striking beauty caused every head to be turned as she passed.
We went out, turning to walk towards Blackett Street, and then amid the bustle of the traffic began to talk. She asked me when I had arrived, and how I had fared in London.
I told her nothing of the success of my advertisements, or the discovery of the plot so ingeniously formed against her, and allowed her to believe that I had only just arrived from London. I was waiting to see whether she would explain her journey to Scotland, and her companionship with Mrs Rumbold.
But she said nothing. We walked on together through Albion Place, and presently found ourselves in Leazes Park, that pretty promenade, gay in summer, but somewhat cheerless on that grey wintry morning.
“You were recognised in Carlisle,” I exclaimed after we had been chatting some time. “Tell me about it. I was surprised to get your note, and I confess I was also somewhat alarmed. Was the person who recognised you an enemy or a friend?”
“A friend,” was her prompt reply. “But his very friendliness would, I knew, be fatal to my interests, so I had to fly. He recognised me, even in this dress, stopped me in the street, raised his hat and spoke. But I discerned his intention, therefore I passed on with affected indignation and without answering. Had I opened my mouth my voice might have betrayed me. I went on to Glasgow.”
“And there? What happened?”
She glanced at me in quick suspicion. I saw she was embarrassed by my question.
“Happened?” she echoed, nervously. “What do you mean?”
We were in the Park, and quite alone, therefore I halted, and looking her straight in the face exclaimed, —
“Something happened there, Sybil. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Sybil,” she said in a tone of reproach. “Am I no longer Tibbie to you, as of old? You are changed, Wilfrid – changed towards me. There is something in your manner so very unusual. What is it?”
“I desire to know the truth,” I said in a hard voice. “You are trying to keep back things from me which I ought to know. I trust you, and yet you do not trust me in return. Indeed, it seems very much as though you are trying to deceive me.”
“I am not,” she protested. “You still misjudge me, Wilfrid, and merely because there are certain things which it would be against my own interests to explain at this moment. Every woman is permitted to have secrets; surely I may have mine. If you were in reality my husband, then it would be different. Hitherto, you have been generosity itself towards me. Why withdraw it now, at the critical moment when I most require your aid and protection.”
“Why?”
“Because in Glasgow I was recognised by one of my enemies,” she said. “Ah! you don’t know what a narrow escape I had. He traced me – and came from London to hunt me down and denounce me. Yet I managed to meet him with such careless ease that he was disarmed, and hesitated. And while he hesitated I escaped. He is still following me. He may be here, in Newcastle, for all I know. It we meet again, Wilfrid,” she added in a hoarse, determined voice, “if we meet again it will all be hopeless. My doom will be sealed. I shall kill myself.”
“No, no,” I urged. “Come, don’t contemplate such a step as that!”
“I fear to face him. I can never face him.”
“You mean John Parham.”
“Who told you?” she started quickly. “How did you know his name?”
“I guessed it. They told me at the hotel that you had had a visitor, and that you had soon afterwards escaped to the north.”
“Do you actually know Parham?”
“I met him once,” was my reply, but I did not mention the fellow’s connection with the house with the fatal stairs.
“Does he know that we are friends?”
“How can I tell? But why do you fear him?”
“Ah, it is a long story. I dare not face that man, Wilfrid. Surely that is sufficient.”
“No. It is not sufficient,” I replied. “You managed to escape and get up to Fort William.”
“Ah! The man at the hotel told you so, I suppose,” she said. “Yes, I did escape, and narrowly. I was betrayed.”
“By whom?”
“Unwittingly betrayed by a friend, I think,” she replied, as we walked on together towards the lake. On a winter’s morning there are few people in Leazes Park, therefore we had the place to ourselves, save for the keeper strolling idly some distance away.
“Sybil,” I exclaimed presently, halting again, and laying my hand upon her shoulder, “why are you not straightforward and outspoken with me?”
I recollected the postscript of the dead man’s letter which I had secured in Manchester – the allegation that she was playing me false.
Her eyes were cast down in confusion at my plain question, yet the next instant she assumed a boldness that was truly surprising.
“I don’t understand you,” she declared with a light nervous little laugh.
“Then I suppose I must speak more plainly,” I said. “It is a pity, Sybil, that you did not tell me the truth from your own lips.”
She went pale as her eyes met mine in quick anxiety.
“The truth – about what?”
“About your love for Arthur Rumbold,” I said very gravely, my gaze still fixed steadily upon hers.
In an instant her gloved hands clenched themselves, her lips twitched nervously, and she placed her hand upon her heart as though to stop its wild beating.
“My love?” she gasped blankly – “my love for Arthur Rumbold?”
“Yes, your love for him.”
“Ah! Surely you are cruel, Wilfrid, to speak of him – after – after all that has lately happened,” she burst forth in a choking voice. “You cannot know the true facts – you cannot dream the truth, or that man’s name would never pass your lips.”
“No,” I said gravely. “I do not know the truth. I am in utter ignorance. I only know that you met Mrs Rumbold at Fort William and travelled back with her to Dumfries.”
“That is quite true,” she answered. “I have no wish to conceal it.”
“But your love for her son – you have concealed that!”
“A woman who loves truly does not always proclaim it to the world,” was the reply.
“Then if you love him why are you in hiding? Why are you masquerading as my wife?” I demanded seriously. I was, I admit, piqued by her attitude, which I perhaps misjudged as defiant.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, but met my gaze unflinchingly.
“You promised me your assistance,” she sighed. “If you now regret your promise I willingly release you from it.”
“I have no wish to be released,” I answered. “I only desire to know the truth. By a fortunate circumstance, Sybil, I have discovered your secret love for Arthur Rumbold – and yet at Ryhall you said you had decided to marry Ellice Winsloe.”
“A woman does not always marry the man she really loves,” she argued. “It is a regrettable fact, but horribly true.”
“Then you love this man, Arthur Rumbold? Come, do not tell me an untruth. We are old enough friends to be frank with each other.”
“Yes, we are. I am frank with you, and tell you that you have blamed yourself for assisting me, now that you have discovered my folly.”
“Folly of what?”
“Of my love. Is it not folly to love a man whom one can never marry?”
“Then he is already married, perhaps?”
She was silent, and glancing at her I saw that tears stood in her magnificent eyes. She was thinking of him, without a doubt.
I recollected those words penned by the dead man; that allegation that she was fooling me. Yes. What he said was correct. The scales had now fallen from my eyes. I read the truth in her white countenance, that face so very beautiful, but, alas! so false.
Who was Nello, the man with whom she corresponded by means of that cipher – the man she trusted so implicitly? Was he identical with Arthur Rumbold? Had she killed the writer of that extraordinary letter because he knew the truth – because she was in terror of exposure and ruin?
My knowledge of Rumbold had entirely upset all her calculations. In those moments of her hesitancy and confusion she became a changed woman. Her admission had been accompanied by a firm defiance that utterly astounded me.
I noticed how agitated she had become. Her small hands were trembling; and she was now white to the lips. Yet she was still determined not to reveal her secret.
“Ah! you can never know, Wilfrid, what I have suffered – what I am suffering now,” she said in a deep intense voice, as we stood there together in the gardens. “You have thought me gay and careless, and you’ve often told me that I was like a butterfly. Yes, I admit it – I admit all my defects. When I was old enough to leave the schoolroom, society attracted me. I saw Cynthia, the centre of a smart set, courted, flattered, and admired, and like every other girl, I was envious. I vied with her successes, until I, too, became popular. And yet what did popularity and smartness mean? Ah! I can only think of the past with disgust.” Then, with a sigh, she added, “You, of course, cannot believe it, Wilfrid, but I am now a changed woman.”
“I do believe you, Tibbie,” was my blank reply, for want of something else to say.
“Yes,” she went on, “I see the folly of it all now, the emptiness, the soul-killing wear and tear, the disgraceful shams and mean subterfuges. The woman who has success in our set stands alone, friendless, with a dozen others constantly trying to hurl her from her pedestal, and ever ready with bitter tongues to propagate grave insinuations and scandal. It is woman to woman; and the feuds are always deadly. I’m tired of it all, and have left it, I hope, for ever.”
“Then it was some adventure in that gay circle, I take it, that is responsible for your present position?” I said slowly.
“Ah!” she sighed in a low, hoarse voice, “I – I never dreamed of the pitfalls set for me, and in my inexperience believed in the honesty of everyone. But surely I was not alone! Beneath a dress shirt beats the heart of many a blackguard, and in our London drawing-rooms are to be found persons whose careers, if exposed, would startle the world. There are men with world-famous names who ought to be in the criminal dock, but whose very social position is their safeguard; and women with titles who pose as charity patrons, but are mere adventuresses. Our little world, Wilfrid, is, indeed, a strange one, a circle of class and criminality utterly inconceivable by the public who only know of us through the newspapers. I had success because, I suppose, of what people are pleased to call my good looks, but – but, alas! I fell a victim – I fell into a trap ingeniously set for me, and when I struggled to set myself free I only fell deeper and deeper into the blackguardly intrigue. You see me now!” she cried after a brief pause, “a desperate woman who cares nought for life, only for her good name. I live to defend that before the world, for my poor mother’s sake. Daily I am goaded on to kill myself and end it all. I should have done so had not Providence sent you to me, Wilfrid, to aid and counsel me. Yet the blow has again fallen, and I now see no way to vindicate myself. The net has closed around me – and – and – I must die!”
And she burst into a sudden torrent of tears.
Were they tears of remorse, or of heart-broken bitterness?
“There is no other way!” she added in a faint, desperate voice, her trembling hand closing upon my wrist. “You must leave me to myself. Go back to London and remain silent. And when they discover me dead you will still remain in ignorance – but sometimes you will think of me – think of me, Wilfrid,” she sobbed, “as an unhappy woman who has fallen among unscrupulous enemies.”
“But this is madness!” I cried. “You surely will not admit yourself vanquished now?”
“No, not madness, only foresight. You, too, are in deadly peril, and must leave me. With me, hope is now dead – there is only the grave.”
She spoke those last words so calmly and determinedly that I was thoroughly alarmed. I refused to leave her. The fact that Parham had discovered her showed that all hope of escape was now cut off. This she admitted to me. Standing before me, her countenance white and haggard, I saw how terribly desperate she was. Her chin then sank upon her breast and she sobbed bitterly.
I placed my hand tenderly upon her shoulder, full of sympathy.
“The story of your unhappiness, Tibbie, is the story of your love. Is it not?” I asked, slowly.
Her chest rose and fell slowly as she raised her tearful eyes to mine, and in reply, said in a low, faltering voice, —
“Listen, and I will tell you. Before I die it is only right that you should know the truth – you who are my only friend.”
And she burst again into a flood of tears, stirred by the painful remembrance of the past.
I stood there holding her for the first time in my arms. And she buried her face upon my shoulder, trembling and sobbing as our two hearts beat in unison.