Collected works of j s f.., p.176
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 176
“It’s a queer thing,” he muttered to himself as he made ready for lunch, “a very queer thing; but I don’t think I shall ever forget her. To drop clean out of the world like that! If one only knew what really had happened—” But at that he pulled himself together, and shook off all thought of the past, and going downstairs joined his host, “Heaven send that we may he able to eat our lunch in peace!” said Herbert, as they sat down. “And also to have a quiet smoke and a drink after it. But it is a fact that of late I have scarcely had a meal that hasn’t been interrupted. There’s a good deal of sickness in a little place outside the village — a hamlet where the water supply’s bad, and they’re for ever fetching me to some new case. However, let’s hope for a quiet hour or so.”
But in this devout wish Herbert was not to be gratified, for the two friends had only just finished lunch and repaired to the young doctor’s smoking-room when an urgent message came requiring his attendance upon a farm labourer who had fallen from a hay-loft. Herbert went off resignedly, bidding Graye make himself at home and amuse himself as well as he could until his return. And for an hour Graye smoked, and lounged about the garden, and looked at his friend’s books, and wondered if, after the life he had led for six years, a life of almost perpetual travel and change, he could settle down to the life which Herbert was living.
The sudden clash of bells aroused him from a deep reverie. He remembered, then, what it was that the village was celebrating, and he went to the door which looked out over the green, and saw that the great moment of the day must be close at hand: the young baronet and his mother were about to make their entry to the patriarchal mansion. He smiled, and turning indoors, picked up his hat.
“May as well be as curious as the rest,” he said, and set out across the green.
It was a very grand procession which came along the road from the station. First came a troop of the local Yeomanry, with its mounted band. Then a number of tenant farmers all on horseback. The local dignitaries, in carriages. Then children carrying great nosegays. All these advanced through lines of people who never ceased to shout welcomes as insistent as those of the bells clashing overhead. It struck Graye as very humorous that the object of all this was an infant in arms, and he looked for his coming with interest. And at last, drawn by estate labourers, came the carriage in which the youthful Sir Robert was throned in his nurse’s arms, placidly surveying his delightful lieges. But Adrian Graye never saw him — all he saw was the young mother, a radiant beauty, who was bowing and smiling on all sides of her. And it was only one glance that he gave her before he turned quickly away. In Lady Wargrave he had recognized Gemma Graffi.
CHAPTER II
FACE TO FACE
WHEN GRAYE CAME to the full possession of his senses again, the carriage which contained the young baronet and his mother was passing through the gates of the Manor, and the folk who had lined the road across the village green were crowding in after it. Two or three groups on the extreme outskirts of the crowd were staring at him curiously, knowing him to be a stranger; his height and his flame-coloured beard attracted attention to him. And one old man, meaning well, addressed him:
“If so be as you’d like to go into the park, sir, there bain’t no reason why you shouldn’t,” he said. “There be grand doin’s going forward — speechifyin’s and the like, and open house to all an’ sundry. Seein’ as you was a stranger, I thought maybe ’twould interest you.”
“Thank you,” said Graye, mechanically. “I’m afraid I haven’t time. I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves.”
He turned away, and walked back across the green to Herbert’s house, feeling as if he were in a strange dream, from which he would presently awake, only to wonder and to feel dazed that he had dreamt such things. And yet he knew all the time that this was no dream; it was as true that he had seen and recognised Gemma as that he saw the old oak by which he was walking, and the rustic bench around it. It was impossible that he could be mistaken. He had never forgotten her; there had never been a day on which he had not had some thought of her; he had been forced to believe her dead; and yet he had always cherished a hope that she might be alive. And — she was alive!”
He walked straight into Herbert’s smoking-room, to find Herbert returned and filling a large briar pipe. Herbert gave him one look, and started from his chair, flinging the pipe aside.
“Good God, Adrian!” he exclaimed. “Are you ill? You’re pale as death. What is it, man? Here, get a peg of whiskey. Is your heart wrong, by any chance?”
Graye dropped into a chair, staring at his host.
“My heart’s all right,” he said presently. “I — I had a bit of a shock — a facer — that’s all.”
“But how — where?” asked Herbert, handing him the whiskey and soda he had mixed for him. “What is it? It must have been a facer to make such a change in you. You’re going all right again now, but you looked like a ghost when you came in.”
Graye tried to smile, and made a failure of it.
“All right, old chap — don’t worry,” he said. “I just walked across the green to see Lady Wargrave and her infant baronet arrive — that’s all.”
“That’s not all, you mean. Come — what is all?”
Graye laughed mirthlessly. He gave Herbert a queer look.
“Well,” he said, “that is all. I saw Lady Wargrave.”
“Well — and what then?”
“Lady Wargrave is Gemma Graffi.”
Herbert, just lighting his pipe, let the match drop from his fingers. For a minute he stared at his guest. Graye calmly stared back at him. Then Herbert laughed, incredulously.
“Nonsense!” he said. “Utter nonsense!”
Graye turned to a box of cigarettes, and calmly picked one out. Herbert saw that his hand was quite steady by that time, and that the colour had come back to his face. He lighted the cigarette and began to smoke it quietly, as if nothing had disturbed him.
“No,” he said, “its not nonsense. I tell you that Lady Wargrave and Gemma Graffi are one and the same person.”
“Mayn’t it be a fancied resemblance, or, rather, mayn’t there be a very remarkable resemblance between Lady Wargrave and the girl you knew as Gemma Graffi?” suggested Herbert. “Just remember it’s six, no seven, years since that affair. How is it possible you can be sure?”
“I am sure, nevertheless,” answered Graye stubbornly. “I tell you the woman I have just now seen, and whom I take to be Lady Wargrave, is Gemma Graffi. I’m as certain of it as I am of my own existence, or yours.” Herbert’s face assumed an expression of bewilderment. “What an extraordinary thing if it is so!” he exclaimed. “Gad! that would beat all the romances I ever heard of.”
“I see nothing extraordinary about it,” said Graye, calmly. “It is evident she escaped to the Continent; that in due course she met this Sir Robert Wargrave, and that she married him. What’s there extraordinary about that?”
“Oh, well,” said Herbert, “if you want me to be plain, I say it’s extraordinary that the continental police never found her. I’m sure there was enough fuss made about it at the time!”
“There, again, you’re wrong,” said Graye. “Perhaps she wasn’t on the Continent. Where did you tell me Sir Robert Wargrave married his wife?”
“I didn’t say where, because I don’t know where,” replied Herbert. “All I know is that after he set off on his last travels he did marry some foreign lady; that he never came home again; and that she sees Ashendyke for the first time. I heard, incidentally, some little time ago, that the family trustees have had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to come, and that even now she has only consented to come for the summer.”
“Just so!” said Graye, with something very like one of his old growls. “She did not like England — I remember, of course.”
“So you’re still certain that Lady Wargrave is Gemma Graffi?” said Herbert.
“I’ve said so more times than I can remember,” answered Graye. “Of course she is!”
Herbert plunged his hands into his pockets and began to pace the room, jingling his stray silver and copper.
“Then I’ll tell you what, Adrian,” he said at last. “If that’s so, it’s a great pity she’s come back — a great pity!” Graye looked up at his friend wonderingly.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because of — well, of the verdict of that idiotic jury. I’m no lawyer, but I know enough of law to know that that verdict still stands against her. She’s liable to arrest.”
“Rot!” exclaimed Graye.
“It’s not rot. Go privately and ask the nearest, or any, solicitor you like. It’s the truth. It will be well for her if other folks’ eyes are not as sharp as yours, Adrian. Fortunately, people will not be likely to recognise in Lady Wargrave, the widow of one baronet, and the mother of another, a little Italian girl who lived in obscure surroundings. And there’s this much in her favour, from what I remember of the case, and from what you told me at the time, few people knew her.”
“That’s so,” said Graye, nodding his head. “That’s quite so.”
“Let’s see, now,” continued Herbert. “There was the landlord, Mr. Quarendon; there was the porter and his wife — what was their name? Acock, yes. But I think no one else but you — at any rate, that we knew of. Well, it’s not very likely that any of those people will be in the neighbourhood of Ashendyke Manor at any time — we ‘re a good deal out of the world here. Besides, Quarendon and the Acocks may be dead. But I see where danger may lie.”
“Where?” asked Graye, who appeared to be thinking deeply, as well as listening to his host. “Where, then?”
“Lady Wargrave will doubtless go to town occasionally,” answered Herbert. “She will be seen about. Now there must have been people other than those we know of who knew Marco Graffi and his granddaughter — must have been. They may recognise her as you have done — if you’re right. Moreover, we nowadays live in an age of cheap illustrated newspapers — it will be a wonder if Lady Wargrave’s home-coming is not described in several of these papers, in pictorial form, to-morrow or at the weekend, and—”
Graye uttered a sharp exclamation.
“Confound it!” he said. “I saw a fellow taking snapshots on the green!”
“There you are!” said Herbert. “Of course — nothing’s sacred or private in these times. Well, we shall see. But now let me ask you a very pertinent and important question. You’re going to stay with me awhile. Ours is a small world you’re dead certain to meet Lady Wargrave sooner or later. I don’t think she’ll recognize you, because you’re an altered man, and that beard makes a wonderful difference. But, Adrian, are you going to tell her that you recognise her?”
Graye made no immediate answer, and Herbert let him remain silent; it was evident that he was thinking deeply. It was some time before he spoke; then his voice had something of a defiant ring in it.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” repeated Herbert. “Ah, yes, why shouldn’t you? Well, what would it amount to? Simply to this, that in effect you would say to her, ‘My dear madam, you are now Lady Wargrave, of Ashendyke Manor, but I knew you not so many years ago, when you were the Signorina Gemma Graffi, living in Austerlitz Mansions.’ Do you see, Adrian?”
“Frankly, I don’t see,” replied Graye, half-surlily. “And I don’t understand why she shouldn’t be reminded. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in having been Gemma Graffi of Austerlitz Mansions. Why shouldn’t she be reminded of that fact — and of being there that night? Why?”
Herbert leaned forward and tapped his guest’s knee.
“Why?” he said. “I’ll tell you why. Because I don’t believe that Lady Wargrave, whom we will take to be Gemma Graffi, knows either that her grandfather was murdered, or that there is a coroner’s warrant out for her arrest as his murderess. That’s why, Adrian.”
Graye started. He passed his hand across his forehead two or three times, and shook his head as if the effort to think pained him. And Herbert went on talking.
“You see, Adrian, nobody knows where Gemma Graffi went when she made her wonderful escape. Nobody knows, either, where one present Lady Wargrave was married to the late Sir Robert — unless, indeed, it’s the trustees. But I can quite believe — in fact, I do believe — that Gemma Graffi never heard of her grandfather’s death. And I am sure that Lady Wargrave does not know of that coroner’s warrant, otherwise she would not have come to England. Are you going to let her into the truth of these things?”
“If I did it would only be with the desire to clear her of that damned suspicion!” muttered Graye. “You know that’s all I’m thinking about.”
“Better let sleeping dogs lie,” said Herbert. “Well, as I said, in a little world like ours, you’re sure to meet. Before you give sign or speak word, see if she remembers you. I understand that she doesn’t intend staying long in England — in my opinion it would have been a good thing if she’d kept out of it until the boy is grown up. For with every year the chances of her being recognised as Gemma Graffi grow less and less.”
Graye made no answer. He was wondering when, where, and how he and Lady Wargrave would meet. But the days went by, and neither he nor Herbert saw anything of her. Whether it was that she was busily engaged in superintending the setting to rights of a house which had been left to a small staff of servants for so many years, or that she found the park and grounds of the Manor extensive enough for her airings, it was certain that she did not come into the village or drive about the surrounding country. At the end of a fortnight no one had seen her since the day of her arrival.
And then, to Graye, the unexpected happened. He was smoking and reading late one evening, Herbert being out on a sick call to an outlying part of the parish, when the parlourmaid came in to tell him that a man-servant from the Manor had come down with an urgent message from Lady Wargrave — her little boy was ill, and would the doctor come at once.
Graye put down his pipe and his book and went into the hall. Outside, he saw the lamps of a motor-car. The man-servant looked concerned as he bowed to the big man who suddenly loomed before him.
“What is the matter with the child?” asked Graye.
The man lowered his voice.
“Well, sir,” he said, “they didn’t say so to my lady, but Mrs. Jenkenson, the housekeeper, and the head nurse, I heard them talk of the diphtheria. There’s a lot about, sir!”
Graye turned into the surgery, made a hasty selection of a few requisites, snatched up a hat, and got into the motor-car. This, he said to himself, was Fate. Ten minutes later, he found himself standing in a small boudoir, waiting impatiently for he was not sure what. And then the door was hastily opened, and with a swelling heart, he turned to meet Lady Wargrave.
CHAPTER III
THE DESPERATE COURSE
WITHIN THE IMMEDIATE moment which followed upon Lady Wargrave’s entrance, Adrian Graye became certain beyond doubt of two facts — first, that he was looking at a woman whom he had known as the girl, Gemma Graffi; second, that she had not the slightest recognition of him. Not that there had ever been any real doubt in his mind since the moment in which he had seen Lady Wargrave enter the village, but he had always remembered the possibility of being mistaken even when most sure, and when his first excitement had worn off, he had reflected that he might have been mistaken. But now he had no doubt — be knew. And maintaining a calm and stolid demeanour by a mighty effort which made all his nerves tingle, he looked steadily at the woman who had come into his life so mysteriously that night in London, had gone out of it again even more mysteriously, and now had come into it again in so unexpected a fashion. And as he looked he felt that the strong impression which the girl of sixteen had made upon him was being deepened by that given by the near presence of the woman of twenty-three. He had been in love with her, girl or woman, all the time, never forgetting her at any moment; he was in love with her more than ever now that he was in her presence.
He recognized, with a strange quickening of his senses, a sharp leaping of his pulses, that she had grown from a beautiful girl to a supremely beautiful woman. She was of the type that artists and sculptors would rave about, that men of the dullest sense would suddenly wonder and marvel at. And with his perception of that came a quick fear: it was impossible that such beauty as hers should not be talked of; that her face should not become familiar to everybody once she let herself be made known to London. He found himself wishing that he and she were far away in some of the many wild and lonely spots in the western world in which he had spent six years of adventurous life. There she would be safe; here it seemed impossible that she should remain unknown. Who, he thought, with a certain bitterness, could forget her that had once seen her?
But he saw that she had no recollection of him. There was not a trace of remembrance anywhere on her face — no sudden gleam of the eye, no lifting of the eyebrow, no movement of the lips, no involuntary start at seeing one not seen for many years, but remembered through them all. She did not know him. Nor was it that she was just then so absorbed with anxiety about her child that her mind was obsessed by that alone; he knew that she could not have recognised him under any circumstances. And then he reflected that travel and hard living had thickened out a muscular youth into a big, finely developed man, and that the once smooth chin was covered by a beard — of course, he thought, it was impossible she should recognise in him the medical student whom she had met seven years before for so short a time.
