Devil's Dice Part 38

"Yes. I--I feel better," she said. "But what of him--tell me. Has he yet cleared himself? At home they affect ignorance of everything-- everything."

I shook my head sadly, remembering Grindlay's words. "No, alas! He has not cleared himself, and to-day, or at least to-morrow, he will, I fear, be arrested."

"Then it is time to act--time to act," she repeated excitedly. "I promised I would reveal some strange facts--facts that will amaze you-- but I was prevented by illness. Now, while there is still time you will help me, will you not? You will come with me and see with your own eyes, hear with your own ears. Then only can you justly judge. I confess that long ago," she added in a low half-whisper bending towards me, "long ago I loved you, and wondered why you never uttered words of love to me. But now I know. I have ascertained the wretched duplicity of those about you, their evil machinations, and the purity of the one beautiful woman whom you loved. There has been a conspiracy of silence against you, rendered imperative by strange circ.u.mstances, but it shall continue no longer. You shall accompany me and know the truth. Come."

She rose suddenly. Obeying her I sought my hat, and together we descended the long flight of stone stairs into the busy thoroughfare below.

At last the promised revelation was to be made.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE SCENT OF VIOLETS.

In accordance with Dora's instructions I hailed a cab, and although she would give me no inkling of our destination, she ordered the man to drive with all haste to Paddington. At the station she told me to book to Didcot, the junction for Oxford, and about an hour later we alighted there.

From a neighbouring inn we obtained a fly, and together drove out across a level stretch of country some two miles, until we pa.s.sed a crumbling stone cross, and turning suddenly entered a peaceful old-world village, which I understood by her order to the driver to be East Hagbourne. It consisted of one long straggling street of cottages, many of them covered with roses and honeysuckle, with here and there some good sized, quaint-gabled house, or lichen-covered, moss-grown barn, but when nearly at the further end of the little place the man pulled up suddenly before a large, rambling house of time-mellowed red brick, half hidden by ivy and creepers. It stood near the road with a strip of well-kept lawn in front and an iron railing, quite an incongruity in those parts. When we alighted our summons was responded to by a neat maid whom Dora addressed as Ashcombe, and who at once led the way to a long, low room, oak-beamed, panelled and very comfortably furnished.

"Who lives here?" I inquired in a half whisper when the domestic had gone, but my question was answered by the sudden appearance of its occupant, who next second stood silent upon the threshold, motionless, statuesque.

Astonishment held me dumb. I sprang from the chair whereon I had been seated agape, amazed, my eyes riveted upon the figure standing silent before the dark portiere curtain.

Words froze on my lips; my tongue refused to articulate. Had insanity, the affliction I most dreaded, at last seized me, or was it some strange chimera, some extraordinary trick of my warped imagination? It was neither. The figure that had pa.s.sed into the room swiftly and noiselessly while I had for an instant turned to question Dora was that of a living person--a person whose presence roused within my heart a tumult of wonder and of joy.

It was Sybil!

Yes, there was the delicately-poised head, the same flawlessly beautiful face that had entranced me in the little Southern mountain town, the same candid forehead, the same half-parted lips, the same dimpled cheeks that I had so often kissed with a mad pa.s.sion such as I had never experienced before or since. She wore a grey silk gown; at her throat was one simple rose of deepest crimson. Her little white hand bore a wedding ring--the one I had placed upon it--the lace on her skirt and bodice, the delicate pale tint of her face, bore testimony to the elegant and opulent indolence of her existence.

Yet was she not dead? Had I not been present when her soul and body parted? Had I not stood before the spot where she slept beneath a willow planted years ago by pious hands that had raised a neighbouring tomb? That willow had, I remembered, never grown vigorous and free in the strength of its sap. I knew how sadly its yellow foliage drooped, the ends of its branches hung down like heavy, weary tears. I recollected how, when first I saw it, I had thought that its roots went down and absorbed from my dead love's heart all the bitterness of a life thrown away. And the roses near her grave bore large blossoms as white as milk and of a deep red. The roots penetrated to the depths of the coffin, the sweet-smelling blooms took their whiteness from a virgin bosom and their crimson from a wounded heart.

I had held her cold hand and kissed her icy lips. Yet here she stood before me in the flesh, grave-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale, an inner beauty shining from her face.

At last my tongue's strings became loosened. I stammered her name. For answer she uttered in a well-remembered voice, one word:

"Stuart!"

Next instant with a shriek of joy she was locked in my embrace, and my eager lips pressed pa.s.sionately her dimples, those nests for kisses. In those joyful, dreamy moments we left remembrances unuttered, and nothing mingled with the sound of our kisses but a whispered word from Dora.

When one finds living and well one's love who was long ago lowered to the grave there is no need for the voice; a single look says more than a long speech.

Through the open windows the garden looked quite gay. The lawn grew thick and strong with its well-kept beds of crimson, white, scarlet and blue. Fresh air came in abundance from the open country, with puffs of all the pleasant perfumes of the flowers. The sweet scents seemed to fill Sybil with la.s.situde. She leant upon my arm quite faint, as if the smell had sent her off to sleep with love.

I glanced at her pale cheek and sh.e.l.l-like ear as her handsome head pillowed itself upon my breast. So delicate they seemed that, were it not for the rising and falling of her bosom, I should have believed she was of wax. But presently, struggling with the emotion that she had striven in vain to suppress, she raised her blue eyes to mine. They were still clear and trustful, child-like in their purity. I fancied I could read her reverie in their blue depths as she smiled upon me with sad sweetness.

"At last!" she murmured dreamily, her little hand gripping my arm convulsively. "At last you have come, Stuart!"

Her words caused a flood of memories to surge through my brain, and as she stood before me still pre-occupied, still mysterious, I felt myself doubting, even then, the reality of my joy. But, no! her presence was a tangible, inexplicable fact. Even at that moment a breath of violets filled my nostrils and again stirred my memory. Away in the Pyrenees long ago her chiffons had exuded that odour. Was it not her favourite perfume? The violets of spring, those modest blossoms s.n.a.t.c.hed from the woods to droop and die in the hands of London flower-sellers, had always brought back to me memories of brief summer days when we had wandered up those distant mountain paths side by side, hand in hand, like children.

I had thought of those distant things amidst the dust and clatter and gaiety of the great city, and ofttimes bought a bunch of those flowers, offspring of the dew and rising sun, and wore them in my coat so that I might feast my full on the bitter recollections of those days bygone when I had first seen the sun of a woman's wondrous beauty.

But in my sudden ecstasy at finding her actually in my embrace, enraptured by her beauty and transported by her pa.s.sionate kisses, I trod enchanted ground, knowing not what words fell from my lips.

Our questions were naive and tender, our explanations brief and full of regrets and surprises. Happy in each other's love, we uttered no word of reproach.

Suddenly I was conscious that Dora had approached, and was speaking.

"I bring him to you, Sybil, because the secret may not be longer preserved," she said slowly, with emphasis. "It has been sought to fix guilt upon an innocent man who, fearing to betray you, has allowed the newspapers to adjudge him a murderer. Speak, then; tell Stuart, who has, I know, never ceased to love you and revere your memory, the secret that has sealed your lips, the secret which when revealed will bring a terrible Nemesis upon the guilty ones."

In a moment Sybil withdrew herself from my embrace; then with a sudden impulse she took a few hurried steps forward, and grasping the hand of the woman who had thus spoken, exclaimed:

"Dora, forgive me! I had imagined that you were my rival. I was told that Stuart was your lover, and had positive proof that you had on more than one occasion gone to his rooms alone. I believed that after he had supposed me dead he loved you, but I find that the same lying, scandalous tongue that wounded my reputation tried to wound yours.

Instead of my enemy, I know you are still my devoted friend. Forgive me, Dora--forgive me!"

"Say no more, Sybil," the other answered sympathetically. "All that is now of the past. Stuart and myself have, it is true, been friends-- true, platonic friends--and were it not for his exertions on my behalf you would not to-day be in a position to ruthlessly cast off the trammels that have fettered you, preventing you occupying your true position as his wife. Without fear you may now lay bare the secret of your life and divulge facts that will thwart the evil machinations of your enemies. You have waited long and been faithful, both of you, but your triumph will be swift, crushing, complete."

"Yes," said my well-beloved, "I have already heard of the suspicion that has fallen upon Captain Bethune, and--"

"Bethune!" I cried, remembering her letter that I had found in his rooms. "Tell me, do you know him?"

"I do, Stuart," she answered, turning her soft eyes to mine. "He has been my friend, and from time to time has brought me here, in my lonely retreat, news of the one man I loved--yourself."

"But Markwick is trying to escape," Dora exclaimed quickly.

"Then he has again deceived me!" Sybil cried. "He shall not elude us!

No! the day of denunciation has dawned, and I will lay bare the strange facts so that punishment may fall upon the guilty ones," and she placed her hand upon her breast where her heart throbbed wildly. "It is a wretched story of duplicity and crime, Stuart," she added, standing before me with eyes downcast. "When you have heard my confession, perhaps--perhaps you will spurn and hate me for bringing upon you all this terrible anxiety and unhappiness; but I swear before Heaven that secrecy was imperative, that I have been under the control of one evil and unscrupulous, who has held my destiny for life or death. Yes, yes, it is the ghastly truth," she said, her voice dropping to a scarcely-audible whisper. "I deceived you even though I loved you, yet since that time I have lived tortured by a remorse that knows no night, driven almost to desperation by a knowledge of your unhappiness and an inability to tell you that I still lived."

"Why were you unable to communicate with me?" I asked in wonder.

"Because I dared not. Ah! Do not judge me prematurely!" she pleaded, clutching my arm. "When you know the truth, you will see there are extenuating circ.u.mstances. Tell me that you will hear me to the end before you condemn me as an adventuress."

"Sybil," I said, as calmly as I could, my fingers closing over hers, "I love you as I have always loved you. Explain everything, let me act for you in settling accounts with those who have held you in bondage, and then, when all is plain, when the secret of this strange life of yours is explained, then will we resume that perfect but abruptly terminated happiness of the old never-to-be-forgotten days at Luchon."

"Ah, Stuart! I knew you loved me!" she cried, dinging to me pa.s.sionately. "I knew that you would hear me, because you are loyal and generous to a woman, as you always were. Yes; now, owing to a combination of circ.u.mstances, I am at last free to speak, and will conceal nothing. Our enemies parted us cruelly, deceiving us both, and acting with a cunning that was amazing. Therefore you, the princ.i.p.al sufferer, shall have the satisfaction of exposing their trickery and bringing them to justice. Even upon you, at one time, they heaped suspicion so that you might be made their scapegoat, while against myself the police also held a warrant for an offence I committed without the least criminal intent. Ah! my story is a strange one; stranger than any have imagined."

"Yes," observed Dora, "the little I know of it astounds me. When the true facts are made known and the murderer of Gilbert Sternroyd arrested, what a scandal it will cause!"

"Then who is the culprit?" I inquired, in breathless anxiety to solve the inscrutable mystery that had so long puzzled me.

"Be patient for a moment," Sybil answered, "and I will explain events in their sequence. Then you will see plainly by whose hand Gilbert fell."

"You knew him, did you not?" I asked.

"Ah!" she said smiling. "You purchased my photograph--the one I had caused to be placed in the shop-window in Regent Street, so that you should notice it, and on buying it, as I knew you must, you would learn that I still lived."

"Yes. But I could not believe the truth," I said hastily. "It was so incredible that I came to the conclusion that the photographer had made some mistake about the date." Then I added: "Why was Sternroyd placed beside you?"

"There was a reason, which you will shortly see," she replied. "I knew Gilbert, it is true. Do not, however, for a moment imagine he was ever fond of me. He was engaged to someone else."

She had taken a few steps backward and sunk upon a low chair, while Dora had crossed to the fireplace and ensconced herself in a corner, where she sat in silence, watching us with undisguised satisfaction. I, too, had seated myself in an arm-chair, so near that of Sybil that I could hold and caress her tiny hand.

"Your ring," I exclaimed, noticing her wedding-ring, "is that the one I placed upon your finger?"