BEFORE starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:—
“SIR,—
“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden, that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged.
“Since I sent in my last report relative to Miss Kempe’s movements, nothing of importance has occurred, until yesterday, when she received a letter enclosing another, evidently foreign. The outside envelope was too thick to enable my man (the postman if you will remember, sir) to discover what stamp was on the letter, but the crackle of the thin, foreign paper was unmistakable. As I write (at the window opposite her house) there are evident signs of packing up and departure going on in her room. I shall feel much obliged if you will transmit to me further instructions on Mr. Warden’s behalf. The woman may possibly be leaving England, and I am anxious to know whether the investigation is to be continued, and the woman still watched, as I must necessarily appoint very different men for foreign work.
“Awaiting your orders,
“I remain,
“Your lordship’s obedient servant,
“JERVIS HILL.”
To this, Lord Hardcastle sent a brief reply—
“SIR,—
“Mr. Warden and myself think you are attaching too much importance to Miss Kempe and her movements, and that it really is not worth while to pursue this matter further. We are hoping for better results from another quarter.
“I remain,
“Your obedient servant,
“HARDCASTLE.”
The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his wedding-day, and ran as follows:—
“DEAR HARDCASTLE,—
“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor, weak-minded wretch like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it would be impossible. I am only, writing to enclose a small packet—a blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it behind the fire.
“Ever yours,
“FRANK VARLEY.”
“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose life has been best worth living!”
And now the preparations for the journey to France were completed, and one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said a long good-bye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue.
“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any place home again.”
What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his own mind—
“What will our coming back here be like?”
Early in the evening they arrived in London. The preparations for their journey had been very simple. No servants, very little luggage, and their destination even kept secret. Mr. Warden had informed his agents he would be travelling through Europe for some months for his health, and had given various postes restantes in France to which his letters were to be sent. He would advise them, he said, of any change in his plans should his inclination lead him in any other direction.
It was not without serious thought and anxiety that Lord Hardcastle had undertaken this journey. There could be no doubt that Mr. Warden’s strength had given way very much lately, and it was incurring a heavy responsibility to induce a man at his age, and with his broken health, to go so far on what might prove to be a fool’s errand after all. “But,” reasoned Hardcastle, “he will certainly die if he remain in his own desolate home, brooding over his sorrows. Action and movement will do more for him than anything else, and if we can but lift the cloud from the dead girl’s grave, we shall both feel our life has not been spent for nought.”
The roar of London at first sounded strangely in their ears, accustomed as they were to the saddest and quietest of households. Lord Hardcastle took upon himself the various small duties which travelling involves, and at once gave orders to be driven to Charing Cross Station. Leaving Mr. Warden at the hotel, he directed a porter to place their luggage in the booking-office to be in readiness for the morning tidal train, while he exchanged some English money for present use. There appeared to be a crowd of some sort round the booking-office, and the porter placed the baggage a little on one side, waiting his turn.
At this moment Lord Hardcastle’s attention was attracted by a tall figure clad in a long, grey travelling cloak, the hood of which was drawn low over her face. She brushed past him, but he could not see her features, for her head was bent low, as though wishing to hide her face. Something peculiar in the swing of her walk arrested his attention; it was not ungraceful, but seemed as it were to keep time to some song or tune sounding in her ear, so even and regular were her steps. She was evidently in a hurry to save some train, and was crossing towards the third class ticket window, when Lord Hardcastle’s luggage caught her eye. She stood still, looked round her on every side, then bending down, read attentively the labels on each box. At this moment the porter advanced to take charge of his baggage, and the woman, evidently altering her plans, walked slowly out of the station.
Lord Hardcastle returned to the hotel, and the woman in grey passed completely out of his mind. Finding Mr. Warden very much tired with the journey to London, he proposed that they should rest quietly the next day, and pass over to Boulogne during the night. To this Mr. Warden agreed readily.
“I must husband my strength,” he said, “for it is slipping away rapidly. I feel now as if I were embarked upon my last mission, which must be well executed, or not at all.”
Lord Hardcastle looked up at him anxiously. How sad, and old, and worn the dear, kind face had grown lately! How white the hair, and sunken the cheeks, and the eyes with a far-away, mournful look, which said as plainly as words could speak, “it will soon be over now, and I shall be at rest.”
“Don’t speak like that, Mr. Warden,” he said, “or you will take away my last remnants of courage. Who can tell what may yet lie before us.”
“Who can tell, indeed,” echoed Mr. Warden, “who can tell.” He shivered as he spoke, and looked so really ill that Lord Hardcastle began to feel seriously uneasy about him, and begged him to see a doctor before he left England.
“No,” said Mr. Warden, firmly, “the night soon will come when no man can work. Let us not anticipate it by an hour. Not until we have played the last card we hold will we give up the game.” Then he said good-night, and went to his own room.
The next day rose dark and stormy, and Hardcastle trembled to think of the effect a rough passage might have on Mr. Warden in his weak state of health. He did not, however, offer any farther opposition to their journey, knowing it would be useless, and besides this, an undefinable feeling in his own mind kept urging him on to the native land of the two Aimées.
“I cannot explain why,” he said to himself, as they landed at Boulogne in the chill early dawn of the following day, “but I somehow feel as if we had only now struck upon the right track, and that all we have hitherto done has been so much lost time. I know there must be a reason for this feeling; some finer sense in my being must have seized upon some fact in this strange history which my coarser and more logical faculties have failed to perceive.”
So occupied was he with his own thoughts, that he had not noticed that he had become separated from his companion in the narrow landing-place, and had drifted into a crowd of porters, with their various loads, making for the custom-house.
Where was Mr. Warden? He looked right and left along the Quai, and there, standing half hidden behind some bales, stood the same tall grey figure he had noticed at Charing Cross Station. It was unmistakable now; the woman, for some reason, was evidently watching and following them; and, doubtful whether their separation was accidental or intentional, was at a loss whom she should keep in sight. Following the turn of her head, Lord Hardcastle could see Mr. Warden some little way in advance, and, hastening towards him, the woman suddenly passed in front, and disappeared down some narrow passage.
“Let her go,” thought Hardcastle; “somewhere, somehow, we may meet again. I shall know her long stooping figure and swinging gait anywhere.” Then, hastening forward, he soon overtook Mr. Warden, and calling a carriage, desired to be driven to the Hotel de la Cloche, situated somewhere in the heart of the town.
Lord Hardcastle had foreseen before starting that their journey must necessarily be performed by easy stages; they had, therefore, booked only as far as to Boulogne, intending to rest there a day or two to decide upon their route to Le Puy.
The Hotel de la Cloche stands in one of the quietest parts of the town, a little back from the broad, brick-built street, in a grassy, moss-grown quadrangle. An arched corridor runs round this quadrangle, and above this are built the various outbuildings of the hotel. A small fountain, with an insufficient supply of water, plays in the courtyard, and very miserable and dreary it looked under the dull November sky from the windows of the room which Mr. Warden had selected for a sitting-room.
More than ever sad and weary he seemed as he seated himself in front of a large wood fire he had ordered to be made. A pretence of lunch or dinner had been gone through, and the short November day was already closing in, the heavy stonework above the windows adding not a little to the gloom of the room. Lord Hardcastle had tried unsuccessfully various topics of conversation, feeling the necessity of arousing Mr. Warden from the sadness of his own thoughts.
“Tell me, Mr. Warden,” at length he said, almost despairing of success, “something about Le Puy; it is an unknown land to me. I have never visited that part of France.”
“Le Puy!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, suddenly arousing himself, “Ah, that is a country worth living in! It is a land of variety and beauty, of sunshine and solitude; less terrible than Switzerland, it is, at the same time, more interesting, because more varied. It is a land of extinct volcanoes; at every turn one is brought face to face with nature under a new aspect. Here some mighty convulsion has upheaved gigantic rocks; there in the valley lie fertile plains watered by gushing mountain torrents; above all tower and frown the fantastic Cevennes, cut and fashioned into all sorts of wonderful shapes, and everywhere reigns a silence and solitude only to be found in the lonely mountain regions. Ah! it is a land of glory and beauty! But, my young friend, you will scarcely see it with my eyes; to me it is the saddest and sweetest of all lands, for there I first loved and first suffered, and there my two Aimées were born and grew to beauty.” Then he paused, and presently added, in a mournful, passionate tone, “My poor little Amy! I fancy I see her now, creeping along the narrow mountain path, or looking over the verge of some deep ravine, both hands filled with wild flowers and grasses. She would never own to feeling frightened or nervous at the giddy height, but if she felt her little feet slipping, she would call out impatiently, ‘Papa, papa! take my flowers, quickly please, I must not be kept waiting an instant.’ It is almost too much for me to recall those days, Lord Hardcastle,” he sighed, wearily, “I think I will see if I can get a little sleep; perhaps in the morning I shall feel brighter and stronger.”
Then he left the room, saying good-night, and that he did not wish to be disturbed until the morning.
Lord Hardcastle looked after him sadly. “He will reach Le Puy,” he thought; “his spirit will keep him up as far as that, but he will never come back again. Have I done wisely in inducing him to leave his home? But what home has he left? Only a mere skeleton or husk of one. This is our last and only chance; we are bound, at any cost to try it.”
The wood fire crackled and burned, the window panes grew dark and darker, and long, fantastic shadows began to flicker across the oak-panelled wall, to the low, arched ceiling.
Hardcastle’s thoughts wandered far away to the lonely house at Harleyford—vividly came back to him the stormy, windy night, the piteous howling of the dog, and poor Amy lying cold and wet and lifeless in his arms. Picture after picture of the past passed before his eyes—the dear dead face as it looked in the grey of the early morning, the strange, pained old look that had spread itself over the features until they almost seemed strange and unknown to him.
The fire crackled, the weird shadows leapt from floor to ceiling, and Hardcastle, drowsy with the overnight’s journey, began to see strange shapes in the room, and fantastic visions began to mix with his waking thoughts. He fancied he was standing amidst the rocky, silent scenery Mr. Warden had just described to him. The mountain mists were rolling away from peak and crag, the summer sun was mounting the horizon, and there, on the verge of some terrible precipice, stood Amy—bright, beautiful, girlish as ever, both hands filled with flowers, which she playfully held out to him.
Tremblingly he advanced towards her, hoping to save her from what appeared instant death without alarming her; but the mountain mist swooped down upon them, enveloping Amy and himself in its damp folds. Then it lifted again, but no Amy was to be seen, and there, advancing slowly towards him, was the tall, stooping figure in grey, whom he had seen that morning on the Quai. She, too, stretched out her hands to him, but what she held he could not at first see. Nearer and nearer she drew, the mountain mists still clinging to her long, trailing skirt, and hiding her face as with a veil. In another instant her cold, thin hands held his, and a deep, sad woman’s voice said, slowly and distinctly, “Take it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go.” Then he felt a ring placed upon his little finger, and there, flashing out in the mist and darkness was Amy’s antique ruby ring.
What was it woke him at this moment? What was that noise sounding in his ears still? Could it be a door or a window shutting? He started to his feet and looked round the room. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, the books and papers on the table were just as he had left them. Then he pushed aside the curtains, and looked out into the dreary quadrangle. The fountain sent up a feeble spray towards the leaden sky. The corridor looked damp and dismal as ever. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was he thoroughly awake, or could it be that there, slipping in and out between the pillars like a shadow almost in the dimness of the light, was the grey, stooping figure of his dream?
He sprang to the door, and flinging it back, let in a flood of light from the staircase and landing. Then he paused in amazement, for there, on the little finger of his left hand, sparkled and glittered an antique ruby ring with garter and buckle, and the motto, in old French letters, “Sans espoir je meurs!”