Chapter Thirty One. A Wanderer.

A wet winter’s night in London.

Heedless of the heavy rain and biting east wind that swept in violent gusts along the dismal, deserted Strand, Hugh Trethowen, with bent head, plodded doggedly on towards Westminster. His scanty clothes, or rather the patched and ragged remains of what once were garments, were saturated and clung to him, while the icy wind blew through him, chilling him to the bone. Although unprotected by either umbrella or overcoat, he neither hesitated nor sought shelter, but, apparently quite unconscious of the inclement weather, continued to walk as briskly as his tired limbs would allow. Trudging onward, without glancing either to right or left, he splashed with heavy, careless steps through the muddy street, absorbed in his own sad thoughts.

Weary, hungry, and penniless, he nevertheless experienced a feeling of satisfaction, not unmingled with surprise, at finding himself again treading the well-remembered London streets, after escaping death so narrowly.

The two years’ absence had aged him considerably. The hard lines on his still handsome features told of the privations and sufferings he had undergone, and he no longer carried himself erect, but with a stoop which was now habitual, the result of hard toil in the mine.

His rescue had been almost providential.

The shock at finding both his companions dead, combined with the agony of mind caused by the revelations made by Bérard, overwhelmed him. In despair he felt that his end was near, and as a natural consequence soon lapsed into unconsciousness. For hours, days, he may have remained in that condition, for aught he knew. When he recovered his senses he was astonished at finding himself lying in a berth in a clean, cool cabin. A man was bending over him—a big, bearded, kindly-looking seaman, who smoothed his pillow, and uttered some words in an unfamiliar language. By using French, however, both men were able to converse, and it was then he learnt that he had been picked up by the Norwegian steamer Naes, which was on a voyage from Sydney to San Francisco. The utmost kindness was shown to him by the captain, to whom he told the story of his imprisonment and escape, and after an uneventful voyage he landed at the American port. Utterly destitute, with only two dollars in his pocket, which had been given to him by a passenger for rendering some little services, he at once sought work, intending to earn enough to enable him to cross America and return to England.

Bérard’s allegations against Valérie and Egerton were mysterious and incomprehensible, and, with the sole object of getting to London and seeking a full explanation, he toiled diligently at various menial occupations, always moving from town to town in the direction of the Atlantic. Successively he pursued the vocations of cattle drover, watchman, farm labourer, and railway stoker, until at length, after many months of anxious work, he arrived at New York, and shipped on board a steamer bound for London, giving his services as fireman in return for the passage home.

Thus he had reached the Metropolis that evening without possessing a single penny, and was therefore compelled to tramp the whole distance from the docks through the steadily-falling rain.

Had he written to Egerton for money to pay his passage he knew he should have obtained it, but he was determined to make his reappearance in London unexpectedly. He intended to descend suddenly upon both his friend and Valérie, to ascertain how much truth was contained in the dying confession of the convict. If he sent for money, he told himself that he might be asking a favour of his wife’s lover, hence he decided to work his own way towards his goal, if slowly, nevertheless with effect.

Once only he raised his head. He was passing the entrance of Terry’s Theatre, where upon the step there stood two young men in evening dress, who were smoking during the entr’acte. Looking up he recognised them as bachelor acquaintances, but desirous of being unobserved in that plight, he quickly bent his head again, and continued his dreary walk. The keen wind blew through his scanty garments, causing him to shiver, yet the atmospheric change from the hot, stifling stokehold to the midwinter blast troubled him not. He merely drew his wet jacket closer around him, quickened his pace, and strode across Trafalgar Square, turning in the direction of Victoria Street.

Indeed, he had little upon which to congratulate himself. True, he had escaped a terrible death; yet even this was counterbalanced by the fact that all that was nearest and dearest to him had been swept away. His idol had been thrown from her pedestal; the woman he had trusted and loved, turning a deaf ear to warning and entreaty alike, had been denounced as a crafty, shameless adventuress. Nevertheless, even in the depths of his despair he refused to give entire credence to the words of his dead comrade, and, arguing against himself, resolved to face her before judging her.

Strange it is how we men cling to the belief that the woman we love is pure, notwithstanding the most obvious proofs of infamy are thrust under our very noses. The moment we regard a woman as our ideal, we at once close our eyes to her every fault; and the more beautiful and kind-mannered she is, the less prone are we to accept what is told us of her past. It is so in every case of passionate affection. Woman always holds the whip-hand, while her adorer is weak and helpless as a child, easily misled, deceived with impunity, and made the shuttlecock of feminine caprice.

After marriage, when the glamour fails and man’s natural caution asserts itself, then follows remorse—and frequently divorce.

Hugh had little difficulty in discovering Victoria Mansions, in which Valérie’s flat was situated. Shortly before their marriage he had renewed the lease of the suite in order that they might have a place of their own in town; therefore he felt certain that he should find her there. With anxious feelings he ascended the broad staircase, and rang the bell of the outer door.

There was neither response nor sound of movement within, and although he repeated his summons several times it was evident no one was at home.

As he stood before the door the porter ascended, and, noticing his attire, inquired gruffly what his business was.

“I want Mrs Trethowen,” he replied.

“She’s away.”

“Where is she?”

“How should I know?”

“When did she leave?”

“A week ago. She and the gentleman and the two maids went away together. I believe they’ve gone to their country place.”

“The gentleman! Who’s he?” asked Hugh in surprise.

“Why, madame’s husband, I suppose. But there—I don’t know anything about people’s business in this place. Got enough to do to look after my own,” he added, with a sardonic grin.

“What sort of man is this gentleman?” inquired Trethowen excitedly.

“Find out,” replied the man in uniform arrogantly. “I don’t want any of your cross-examination. She’s gone away, and that’s enough for you.”

Then he turned and ascended the stairs to the next floor, leaving Hugh disconcerted and perplexed.

The gentleman! Madame’s husband! Could it be that Valérie had already forgotten him? It was clearly useless to remain there, so he quickly resolved to go to Egerton, seek what information he could afford, and endeavour to obtain an explanation of the terrible allegations made by Bérard.

With this object he descended into the street, and with hastening steps pursued his way to Chelsea.

The artist was sitting alone before the studio fire, lazily smoking, and reading a novel, when Mrs O’Shea opened the door for Hugh to enter.

Unaware of the presence of a visitor, he did not glance up from his book for a few seconds, but when his eyes suddenly fell upon the gaunt, ragged figure before him, he was speechless with amazement.

“Good God!—Hugh!” he cried, springing to his feet, and making a movement as if to grasp his friend’s hand.

But his visitor calmly put his hand behind his back, and, in a deep, earnest tone, he replied coldly—

“Yes, Jack. Before we shake hands, however, I have some questions to put to you.”

“Questions!” exclaimed the artist. “Why, what’s the matter?” Then, noticing the state of his clothing, he added. “You were reported dead. Where have you been; what’s the reason of your long silence?”

“I’ve been in prison.”

“In prison!”

The other nodded an affirmative, and briefly described how he had been arrested and transported, and the manner in which he had effected his escape.

The artist listened in dumb amazement.

“But what was your crime?” he asked, when Hugh had concluded his narrative. “Surely there must have been some very serious mistake.”

“No, none. I have been the victim of a foul conspiracy, in which you, my old and best friend, have assisted,” he replied bitterly.

“Why, Hugh, what do you mean? Of what do you accuse me?”

“Valérie was your mistress!”

“Valérie!” he cried, starting up. “I—indeed, I—”

“It is useless to deny it,” interrupted Hugh coolly. “Your villainy has been exposed to me. Perhaps in your endeavour to prove your innocence you will disclaim acquaintance with Victor Bérard, with ‘La Petite Hirondelle’ or with a diamond-dealer named Nicholson, who—”

The colour left the artist’s countenance at the mention of the latter name.

“Stop!” he cried hoarsely, clutching his companion’s arm, and gazing earnestly into his eyes. “What is this you say? What do you allege?”

“That the police are still seeking for the perpetrator of the murder in the Boulevard Haussmann!”

Egerton raised his head quickly. The keen eyes of his friend were fixed upon him searchingly. Under that piercing gaze he tried to look as if the words had not disturbed him.

“How have you discovered that, pray?” he asked, with a calmness that was forced.

“Bérard has confessed.”

“God! Hugh! Then—then you know my secret!” he gasped hoarsely, looking at his companion with wild, staring eyes.

“I do—at least, a portion of it,” was the calm reply. “But you and I, Jack, are friends, and before believing anything base of you I seek an explanation from your own lips.”

The artist paced up and down his studio with quick, short steps, endeavouring to control his agitation. Suddenly he halted and raised his head; his face was flushed, and the small mouth was closed firmly.

“I will trust you, Hugh. My life will depend upon your silence,” he said in a low, distinct voice.

“I shall observe your confidence; if you doubt me, do not speak.”

“I do not doubt you—I only doubt myself.”

And he began to pace the room again, with head bent and hands clasped behind him.

Hugh waited.

“I know you will loathe me—that you will never again clasp my hand in friendship,” said Egerton, as he walked up and down, with an agitation in his manner which increased as he went on. “You may tell me so, too, if you like, for I hate myself. There were no extenuating circumstances in the crime which I committed—none—”

“Hush!” cried Trethowen. “Don’t speak so loud. We may be overheard.”

Heedless of the warning, the artist continued—

“Does it not seem absurd that a man’s whole life and ambition should be overthrown by a mere passion for a woman?” he said bitterly. “Yet this has been my case. You remember that soon after we first became acquainted I went to study in Paris—but there, perhaps Bérard has told you?”

“No; I wish to hear the true facts,” replied Hugh. “Tell me all.”

“Ah! the story is not an enticing one to relate,” the artist resumed, with a subdued, feverish agitation. “There were three of us—Holt, Glanville, and myself—and in the Quartier Latin we led a reckless existence, with feast and jubilee one day, and starvation the next. We were a free-and-easy trio in our atelier on the Quai Montabello, happy in to-day and heedless of to-morrow, caring nothing for those bonds of conventionality which degrade men into money-grubs. I had freedom, liberty, happiness, until one night at a bal masque at the Bullier I met a woman. Ah, I see you are smiling already. Well, smile on. I would laugh were it not that I feel the pain.”

There was an intense bitterness in his tone, which showed how very keenly he felt.

“Nay,” interrupted Hugh coolly, “you mistake the meaning of my smile.”

“No matter; you have every reason to smile, for it was contemptible weakness, and that weakness was mine. I had seen many women whom the world called beauties, and I could look upon them with indifference. At last—”

He paused; a lump rose in his throat, and his hands were clasped behind him convulsively.

“At last,” he went on, with a fierce passion—“at last I saw her—our eyes met. It was no fancy, no boyish imagination—it was reality. I stood before her, dumb, trembling, spellbound. I could not speak, I could not move, the power of life seemed to have gone from me.”

Again he paused—he was now standing before his friend—the bright eyes gleamed with the intensity of his passion, his lips were quivering, and his breast rose and fell with the emotion which the painful memory called forth.

“Laugh, sneer, if you will,” he continued wildly; “but even as I have seen lightning strike a man dead to earth, her eyes flashed upon me, and reft me of heart, of reason, of soul.”

He paused, and drew a deep sigh.

“I was mad—mad,” he went on, with suppressed emotion, “and could not help myself. She absorbed all thought, all mind, and I was false to my true mistress, Art. Brush and easel were forgotten that I might seek this woman, and with my eyes drink in her beauty that filled my veins with poison. Her features and form were the perfection of beauty. Ah! but there—you know too well. Valérie’s beauty is that of a divine statue, and only a statue. A very goddess of loveliness, but carven in cold stone. There is no heart, no life, no soul within. I saw this then clearly, as I see it now, yet still I loved her—I loved her!”

He flung himself into a chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the table, hid his face in his hands.

“Is that all?” inquired Trethowen, looking up from beneath his heavy brows.

“No, no—would to heaven that had been all. I scarcely know how, but we became friends. We were both poor, many of our tastes were in common, and at length I prevailed upon her to visit our shabby atelier, where I painted her portrait. It was my best work; I have done nothing to equal it since. She was pleased with it, and favoured me. In my madness I cared not how the favour was obtained. I was in a mad, drunken delirium of joy, and abandoned myself to destruction. Alas! it came. I was dashed from the threshold of paradise into the abyss of despair. I learned that this woman whom I worshipped as an idol was no better than the painted and powdered women who frequented the Bal Bullier and the Moulin Rouge—that she had a lover!”

He laughed a hard, bitter laugh, and then was silent.