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Chapter Twenty One
Purely Fin de Siècle

“Why are you so glum this morning, Jack? Hang it, you look as if you were going to attend my funeral instead of my wedding.”

“Do I?” asked Egerton, yawning, and stretching himself out lazily in his chair. “I didn’t know my facial expression was not in keeping with the joyousness of the occasion.”

“Look here, old fellow,” continued Hugh, walking over to his companion, and looking him earnestly in the face. “Now, before we start, tell me why you are so strangely indifferent. It seems as if you still entertain some curious antipathy towards Valérie.” Egerton knit his brows, and, rising, assumed an air of utter unconcern.

“It’s a matter I would rather not discuss, old chap,” he said. “At your request I’ve consented to assist at your wedding, otherwise I should not have been here at all.”

“Your very words betray you. Why should you have been absent, pray?”

“For certain reasons,” the other replied briefly. Trethowen regarded his friend with surprise, not unmingled with annoyance.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ silence, “I see. You have not finished those mysterious warnings of yours. Why the deuce don’t you speak right out and tell me what you mean?”

“I have no intention to malign the woman who is to be your wife, Hugh,” the artist answered quietly. “I’ve given you certain hints already, and – ”

“Enough of that,” cried his companion, with some asperity. “Though you are an old friend, it gives you no right to interfere with my private affairs.”

“That’s true,” Jack admitted hastily. “Don’t for a moment think I desire to intrude unwarrantably. It’s merely friendly advice I’ve given you.”

“Friendly advice – bosh!” Trethowen said in disgust. “Whatever you know detrimental to Valérie, you’ll oblige me by keeping in future to yourself.”

The man addressed muttered something in an undertone, and, turning, gazed abstractedly out of the window.

They were in Hugh’s sitting-room in St. James’s on the morning fixed for the marriage. It was almost a month since Trethowen had left Spa, and the time had been pleasantly spent with Valérie at Brussels and Ostend. Now that they had returned to London, she had again taken up her abode in her little flat in Victoria Street, while the arrangements for the marriage were completed.

Jack Egerton, dressed more sprucely than usual, and wearing the orthodox lavender gloves and a flower in his coat, had called upon his friend half an hour before, and was waiting to accompany him to the church. His task he regarded with abhorrence. He would rather have done anything than assist at the ceremony, and see his friend bind himself to that dark-eyed Circe. Yet he, helpless and under the merciless thrall of the woman, was there by sheer compulsion. A fortnight ago he had received a letter from her. She did not ask or entreat, but commanded him to be present and act as Hugh’s best man.

“I know,” she wrote in French, “the task will be scarcely congenial, but your presence will inspire him with confidence. He has promised me he will ask you, and if you refuse, he will suspect that it is repugnant to you. Understand, he must know nothing of my affairs. When we last met at Laroche you threatened me, but I need hardly impress the necessity of silence upon you, having regard to the fact that the reward of your zealousness on your friend’s behalf would be a life sentence. Accept his offer and attend the wedding, otherwise I shall know you are playing against me. If you do, beware! for I shall win. I have all the honours in my hand.”

He was reflecting upon this last sentence as he stood staring aimlessly down into the street. She possessed the dark secret of his life, and held him in her power, so that he was compelled to do her bidding, to dance attendance upon her, and to witness her triumph at the expense of his dearest friend.

Grinding his teeth, he uttered an imprecation, as he realised how complete was her mastery, and perceived that his own ruin would be the only reward for saving Hugh.

The latter, who was watching him, misconstrued this outburst of impatience and went over and grasped his hand, saying:

“Forgive me, old fellow, for what I’ve just said. We ought not to quarrel, more especially to-day. I was rather hasty, but I love Valérie, and anything hinted against her excites my anger. Come, let’s forget it.” His companion succumbed to fate, having done all he could in the way of resistance. Laughing a trifle sadly, he replied —

“There’s nothing whatever to forgive. I shall go with you to the church, and I hope – well, I hope your marriage will bring you nothing but happiness. Nevertheless, whatever is the result, remember I am still your friend.”

Trethowen thanked him, although astonished at his friend’s tone, and inwardly tried to account for his apparent sadness.

Could it be, that he entertained affection for Valérie himself? Or was it that their conversation that morning had brought back to his memory thoughts of the lost woman who, although his friend, assistant, and critic, was not his mistress? He had spoken very little of her, with the exception of describing the strange circumstances in which she disappeared. Still, any mention of her seemed to cause him sorrowful reflections.

Walking to a side-table whereon stood a bottle of champagne and some glasses, Hugh uncorked the wine, at the same time touching the gong.

In answer to the summons old Jacob appeared. He wore a large wedding-favour, and his scanty hair was parted and brushed with unusual care.

Having filled three glasses, his master turned to him, saying —

“Take a glass with us, Jacob, to celebrate the event. Come, Jack, here you are. It’s no innovation to drink with a servant like my trusty old fossil here!”

The artist took the glass, and, as he did so, Hugh, holding up his own, gave the toast.

“Here’s to the last hour of bachelorhood.”

“Long life and prosperity to Hugh Trethowen!” Egerton exclaimed.

“And may they always lead happy lives!” added the old servant, in a weak broken voice.

“Hurrah! Let’s hope so,” remarked the bridegroom, and the trio tossed off their wine.

“And now we must be going,” he added, a few minutes later. “You know my instructions, Jacob. You’ll follow to Coombe at the end of the week. If any one calls, tell them – tell them I shan’t be back in town for six months at least.”

“Very well, Master Hugh,” the feeble old man replied, smiling at his master’s humour. “May God bless you both, sir!”

“Thank you, Jacob, thank you,” Hugh replied heartily, as his man withdrew. “He can’t make it out, I think,” he remarked to Jack, with a laugh. “It’ll be a fresh experience for him to have a mistress. But I feel sure she’ll be kind to him.”

Then they both finally examined themselves in a long mirror in the corner of the room, and, putting on their gloves, left the house.

An hour later the bell of the outer door of the chambers rang, and Jacob, still wearing his white satin rosette, answered.

On throwing open the door he was confronted by an unkempt wretchedly clad young woman, with tousled hair poking from under a battered crape bonnet, and a ragged shawl about her shoulders.

“Is Mr Trethowen in?” she inquired, in a voice that was refined, and certainly not in keeping with her habiliments.

“No, he’s not,” the old man replied sharply, for a woman of that class was not a desirable visitor.

“Where can I find him?” she asked anxiously. “I must see him, and at once.”

“I tell you he’s not here.”

“Then where is he?”

Jacob, always a discreet and discriminating servant, did not like the look of this ill-attired stranger. He was particularly distrustful of females.

“I want to see him – to tell him something for his own advantage. It’s imperative that I should see him immediately,” she continued.

“Well,” remarked Jacob, hesitating, and reflecting that it might possibly be to his master’s advantage. “The fact is, he’s gone to be married.”

“To be married!” she echoed, staggering as if she had been dealt a blow.

“Yes; he and the French lady were to be married at twelve o’clock at St. James’s. He’s gone there to meet her.”

“Where’s the church? Quick, I must go there,” she cried anxiously.

“In Piccadilly. Go to the top of the road here, turn to the right, and you’ll come to it.”

“Will he return here?”

“No; he goes to Cornwall to-night.”

Turning suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the stairs. “Well, well,” remarked the aged retainer aloud, as he closed the door and re-entered the sitting-room. “Now, I wonder what she wants? It’s very strange – very; but, somehow, I believe I’ve seen a face something like hers before somewhere, only I can’t recollect. Ah, well,” he added, sighing, “I’m not so young as I was, and my memory fails me. After all, I suppose it’s only fancy.”

Then he helped himself to a glass of his master’s old port in celebration of the happy occasion.

Meanwhile the slipshod female had turned from Piccadilly up the paved courtyard leading to St. James’s church. She hurried, with wearied eyes and pale, anxious face, almost breathless.

At the door she was met by the pew-opener – a stout elderly female in rusty black – who, seeing her haste asked what she wanted.

“Is Mr Trethowen to be married here to-day?” she inquired.

“Trethowen! Yes. I think that’s the gentleman’s name. What do you want to know for?” she asked, regarding her suspiciously.

“I must see him. Is he inside?”

“No, he ain’t. The party left a quarter of an hour ago.”

“Gone!” she cried in dismay.

“Yes, they’re married,” remarked the woman. “Did you come to congratulate them?” she asked with a sneer.

“Married!” the other echoed, her face ashen pale. “Then, I’m too late! He’s married her – and I cannot save him.”

“You seem in rather a bad way over him,” observed the woman, with an amused air.

“Where have they gone? Tell me quickly.”

“How should I know? As long as the parties give me my fee, I don’t ask no questions.”

“Gone?” she repeated.

Reeling, she almost fell, but with an effort she recovered herself and shuffled with uneven steps down to the gateway, and in a few minutes was lost in the crowd in Piccadilly.

The woman who acted so strangely, and upon whom suspicions were cast as, with bowed head, she dragged her weary limbs slowly toward Hyde Park Corner, was Dolly Vivian.

Weak and ill, she was dazed by the bustle and noise surrounding her. Months of confinement, consequent upon a dangerous wound, had had their effect upon her, leaving her but the shadow of her former self. As she walked through the busy thoroughfare, it seemed to her an age since the night she had been decoyed and entrapped. Her experiences had been horrible, and she shuddered as she thought of them.

When she had recovered consciousness after being left by her allurer, she found an old and repulsive-looking woman bending over her holding a cup to her lips. Her mouth was fevered and parched, and she drank. Then, for the first time, she discovered that she had an ugly and painful wound in her neck. She had been stabbed, but not fatally, and the wound had been bandaged while she was insensible. Ignorant of where she was or how she had been brought there, she lay for weeks hovering between life and death. The lonely house, she found, was occupied by two persons – the woman who attended upon her and a rough-looking man. They treated her harshly, almost brutally, refusing to answer any questions, and never failing to lock the door of her room when they left.

The solitary confinement, added to the pain she suffered, both mental and physical, nearly deprived her of reason. Days, weeks, months passed; she led an idle, aimless existence, kept a close prisoner, and debarred from exercise that was essential to life. The window had been nailed up, and even if it would open it was too high from the ground to admit of escape. Each day she sat before it, gazing down into the orchard which surrounded the house and the wide stretch of market garden beyond.

One day, however, just as she was about to relinquish hope of assistance being forthcoming, and was sitting, as usual, at the window, she saw both of her janitors leave the house together, attired as if they meant to be absent several hours.

Her chance to escape had arrived. Rushing to the door, she tried it. Her heart gave a bound of joy as the handle turned and it opened. The woman had, by a most fortuitous circumstance, forgotten to lock it.

Nevertheless, there was still another point that required careful consideration. Her clothes had been taken from her, and the only garment she wore was a dirty, ragged flannel dressing-gown. Descending the stairs, for the first time since her abduction, she explored the place in an endeavour to find some clothes. In a bedroom on the ground floor she found an old dress, with a shawl, bonnet, and pair of worn-out boots – all of which had evidently belonged to the woman who had kept her prisoner. Attiring herself in them in almost breathless excitement, lest she should be discovered ere she could effect her escape, she opened the door and stole out.

Passing through the orchard, she followed a path down to a by-road, at the end of which she gained a broad highway, and presently came to a small town. On inquiry she found this was Twickenham. A lad told her the way to London, and she plodded onward, notwithstanding that lack of exercise caused her to quickly become exhausted. Through Richmond and Kew she passed, then along the straight broad road leading through Chiswick, Hammersmith, Kensington, and Hyde Park, until, in an almost fainting condition, she found herself at the corner of Jermyn Street, and sought out the house wherein Hugh Trethowen lived.

During her imprisonment she had made a strange discovery, but, alas! she had come too late, and now she turned away from the church disappointed and heartbroken. The mainspring of her life had snapped; nevertheless, she was determined to wait and obtain a revenge which she knew would be terrible and complete.

Chapter Twenty Two
The Pretty Artist’s Model

“I’ve a good mind to burn them, and so put an end to all this confounded mystery; yet – ”

Hugh Trethowen hesitated.

Standing pensively before the fire in his own den at Coombe a fortnight after his marriage, he was examining the photograph and partially destroyed letters, the unaccountable presence of which among his brother’s possessions had caused him so much perturbation. As he held the photograph in his hand the pictured face of Valérie seemed to smile with tantalising seductiveness, and, with a fond husbands admiration, he told himself that in no way had her beauty deteriorated, but, on the contrary, she had grown handsomer.

Nevertheless, the fact that it had, together with the letters, been carefully concealed by his brother, was a problem which frequently caused him a good deal of uneasy speculation. The wording of the missives was strangely ominous, and there was no disguising the fact that they were in his wife’s handwriting.

“I’m half inclined to tear them up and burn them. If I did, they certainly would worry me no longer,” he argued, aloud. “I wish I could let her see them, and ask for an explanation. But I cannot; it would show mistrust.”

He lifted his eyes from the photograph and gazed perplexedly around the apartment. More than once he had been sorely tempted to destroy the carefully-preserved documents; still the mystery surrounding them was fascinating, and he vaguely hoped that some day he might elucidate it.

Suddenly he turned and crossed the room resolutely, saying —

“No, I’ll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurd apprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainly relate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery; nevertheless, it’s probable that, after all, they only refer to some very commonplace affair.”

Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at the photograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table; then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.

“Bah! I’m a fool to think about them,” he added, as he locked the flap and turned away. “Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts, interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? Even Jack’s semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when they are before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in their cupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there’s no reason why I should bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, and until then I can wait.”

He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. That afternoon Valérie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar’s wife, whom she had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seven o’clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismally in the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaiting dinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone, with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterly unbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile. His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.

While in this contemplative mood, a servant entered and handed him a letter on a salver. Taking it up, he glanced at the superscription. In was in a feminine hand which he did not recognise. Breaking open the envelope, he read and re-read the brief and almost incomprehensible message it contained. It ran as follows: —

Dear Mr Trethowen, – It is imperative that I should see you as soon as possible upon a matter of the utmost importance. To commit to paper the object of the interview I desire would not be policy, nevertheless it is of great moment to yourself. Can you make an appointment to meet me in London? Please keep this letter a strict secret from any one, even including Mrs Trethowen. – Yours very truly, Dorothy Vivian.

“I wonder what it can mean?” he reflected, with his eyes fixed upon the paper. “Evidently Dolly has turned up again, yet it’s strange Jack has said nothing of her reappearance in his letters. Where can she have been, and why does she send me such a curious request? What can she know that concerns me?”

He re-read the letter silently, twisting his moustache in perplexity.

“I suspect that, if the truth were known, she’s been on a holiday trip with some admirer. But I shouldn’t have thought it of her, she was so quiet and steady-going. A matter of great moment to myself,” he repeated. “It sounds mysterious, certainly.”

Still holding her letter in his hand, he flung back his head on the cushion of his chair, and thought.

“After all, many men would feel flattered by such a note,” he said aloud.

“Why, Hugh, dear, how long have you been sitting here all alone? What’s that in your hand? A letter! In a girl’s handwriting, too!”

The voice caused him to start from his chair and crush the letter hurriedly into his pocket. Valérie had opened the door noiselessly and crept up behind him mischievously, intending to startle him. She had been looking over his shoulder for several moments, vainly endeavouring to read the communication.

“You made me jump, darling,” he said, laughing confusedly. “I’ve been waiting for you an hour.”

“And been amusing yourself, it seems, by receiving a letter during my absence,” she added cynically.

“I admit the letter came half an hour ago, but it contains nothing of which I am ashamed.”

“Then I presume I may read it?” she suggested.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied, remembering Dolly’s injunctions as to secrecy. “Its contents are of a strictly private nature.”

“Unless it be compromising, I should scarcely have thought that any letter received by a husband who wishes to preserve a wife’s confidence could contain secrets that she should not learn,” Valérie remarked in a tone of annoyance.

“That is true, dearest,” he said earnestly, taking her hand. “It is through no fault of my own that I am unable to show it to you.”

“May I not know who the writer is?” she asked, standing erect, and looking handsome in the dinner-gown which she had assumed before coming in search of him.

Her husband shook his head gravely.

It was the first difference of opinion they had had since their marriage, and he could not view it but with regret. He hastened to assure her that she need have no fear that he was practising duplicity, that he loved her too well. For her part, she had long ago gauged the extent of his affection, and, truth to tell, had but little misgiving when she discovered the open letter in his hand. Nevertheless, she was curious to learn the identity of his lady correspondent, and, in consequence of being met with a decisive refusal, was somewhat piqued.

This, however, passed quickly. The unbecoming frown which clouded her brow soon gave way to an affectionate smile as she yielded herself to his embrace and returned his kiss.

A moment later a servant entered and announced that dinner was served. Then she linked her arm in his, and they strolled along to the dining-room, laughing lightly, and discussing the merits of the obese and highly respectable lady she had been visiting.

Valérie’s nature was fantastic to a degree. She invariably sacrificed her interests to her caprices.

Thus the unpleasant episode passed, and in half an hour was entirely forgotten. Trethowen was as madly in love with his wife as on the first day his eyes fell upon her, and, surrounded by comfort and luxury, led a blissful, contented existence. Heedless of the future, and living only for the present, he adored her passionately, believing that the perfect felicity they now enjoyed would go on uninterruptedly and be of permanent duration.

How strange it is that all of us, however philosophic, at one period or other in our lives entertain a foolish conviction that we have found perfect and lasting contentment! We never reflect. If we did, we should recognise that there is no such thing as perpetual happiness, that joy is at best but temporary pleasure, productive of bitter reaction, and that so-called domestic bliss is a fallacy, always anticipated, often feigned, yet, waning and fading with the honeymoon.

On that day Dolly Vivian returned to Jack Egerton.

In the morning she had walked unexpectedly into his studio where he was busy at work, and, laughing at his surprise and consternation, proceeded to divest herself of her hat and jacket in apparently an unconcerned manner, as though she had never been absent. To his questions as to the cause of her disappearance and long silence she was perfectly indifferent, merely remarking in a severe tone that she was mistress of her own actions, and that she did not require intrusion upon affairs which were of a purely private nature. A suggestion of his that she had been on an escapade with a male escort she strongly resented; indeed, she became so angry at the insinuation that, fearing lest she should again absent herself, the artist was compelled to abandon his cross-examination and welcome her return with all the sincerity of an old friend.

“Then you won’t tell me why you went away so suddenly and left no address?” he asked again, when they had been in conversation some time, and he had told her of his doings in her absence.

“No, Jack. Once for all, I refuse. My movements concern no one except myself.”

“I, too, am an interested party,” he argued, smiling gallantly.

“Well, yes. I suppose you haven’t yet finished ‘The Sultan’s Favourite’?”

“No; there it is,” he replied, pointing to a canvas placed with its face towards the wall. “I have not touched it since you left. It has been awaiting your return before I could finish it.”

“Am I to continue my sittings, then?” she asked coquettishly.

“Why, of course,” he replied, lolling against his easel and regarding her amusedly. “You know well enough what crude daubs my figures would be if I did not have your model. I owe the greater part of my success to you, and since your absence I’ve done absolutely nothing that has satisfied me.”

She was well aware that the words he spoke were the truth. Through several years of desperate struggle against adversity she had been his adviser and assistant, watching with gratification his steady progress. Each picture he completed was more natural and more perfect. He could work from no other model, she knew, therefore it did not surprise her when he announced his intention to resume without further delay what promised to be his masterpiece, “The Sultan’s Favourite.”

In half an hour she had exchanged her dress for the filmy garments and velvet zouave of an Oriental beauty, and was lying half recumbent upon the silken divan in a careless, graceful attitude. When she had assumed exactly the same pose as before, with one naked foot dangling near the ground and the stray embroidered slipper beside her, she told him to commence.

During the morning the artist worked on in the best of spirits. Delighted at the return of his companion and confidante, whom he had despaired of seeing again, he chatted and laughed in a manner quite unusual to him, for he always preserved a rather morose silence when he had any difficult work in hand. One thing, however, was unaccountable, and caused him considerable surprise. When he had been painting about an hour he made a discovery. He was engaged in heightening the tone of the neck, and, finding her head cast rather too much shadow, asked her to turn a little more upon her side. She did so rather reluctantly, he thought – and then he noticed upon her neck, half-hidden by the heavy necklace of Turkish coins she wore, a long ugly scar.

“Why, Dolly!” he exclaimed in consternation, leaving his easel and walking up to examine her more closely, “what’s the matter with your neck?”

“Nothing,” she replied, somewhat embarrassed.

“But you’ve had a fearful wound. How did it occur?”

“It was a mere trifle. I – I fell down.”

“Where?”

“In the street. I slipped and fell upon the kerb.”

“A fall couldn’t cause a cut like that,” he exclaimed incredulously.

“It did. But don’t bother about it,” she replied, a trifle petulantly. “It has healed now, and I have no pain.”

He looked at her steadily, and felt convinced that she was concealing the truth. Reassuming his former lightheartedness, however, he observed that the accident was most unfortunate, and, expressing a hope that she felt no evil effects from it, returned to his picture and continued to put in the lighter flesh tints.

About two o’clock he suddenly remembered that he had made an appointment to call upon a man at Holland Park with regard to a commission, and that it would be imperative for him to leave her for at least an hour. She raised no objection, therefore he changed his coat and took his departure, promising to return with all possible haste, as he wanted to finish the portion of the picture upon which he was engaged before the light failed.

When he had gone she rose languidly from her couch, and, shivering slightly, threw a wrap around her bare white shoulders, and seated herself by the fire. Soon Mrs O’Shea brought in her luncheon on a tray, and she ate with relish, chatting to the housekeeper meanwhile. After she had finished, and the old woman had retired, she rose and wandered round the studio in search of any fresh studies the artist might have made during her absence. She turned one which was hanging with its face to the wall, and discovered it was a likeness of the woman she hated – her rival, Valérie Dedieu. It was only a crayon drawing, but the features were lifelike, and the cruel, cold smile played upon the full red lips.

“I wonder,” she said, aloud – “I wonder what secret tie there is between Jack and that woman? There is something, I feel certain, and I’ll not rest until I solve the mystery. Yet – yet she is Hugh’s wife – Hugh loves her!” she added bitterly.

With a sigh she replaced the sketch in the position she had found it.

“Yes, my precious mademoiselle,” she continued menacingly, “you may well hide your face. Some day you will curse the chance which brought you and Hugh together. You little suspect the revenge that I am waiting for.”

Pausing in thought, she ran her fingers through her dishevelled hair.

“And yet,” she cried in dismay, as the sudden thought occurred to her, “by unmasking you, Hugh would suffer, for he adores you! The discovery of your villainy would break his heart. You are his wife – his wife – and for me – for me he cares nothing!”

A tear trickled down her cheek, but it was only for an instant; she brushed it away, and stood motionless for several minutes gazing disconsolately into the fire. Then she noticed that Jack’s secretaire bookcase, which stood close beside her, was open. Feminine curiosity at once asserted itself, and the thought crossed her mind that it was possible she might discover some clue to the secret between the Frenchwoman and the artist.

At once she proceeded to search, at the same time listening attentively for any sign of the approach of Mrs O’Shea. Prying among the papers in the desk she could discover nothing which had any interest for her among the bills, letters, theatre programmes and memoranda it contained. Turning her attention to the small drawers above, her search was equally fruitless. One drawer she opened, however, contained nothing but an old newspaper folded small and lying along the bottom. A red mark upon it attracted her, and she took it out and unfolded it, but with disappointment she found herself unable to read it, as it was in French. Half a column on the front page had been marked round boldly with a red pencil, and was evidently some important report which had been carefully preserved. The heading was set in great capitals, and the type was larger than that in the body of the paper.

She glanced down the lines of print, but they were unintelligible to her. The heading, which was the only sentence she could make out, was “Le Mystère du Boulevard Haussmann,” and the newspaper was the Paris Gaulois. Truth to tell, it was the paper which Egerton had abstracted from the bureau at Coombe when Dolly and he had visited Trethowen.