The Temptress

Chapter Three
In Bohemia

“Look here, Hugh, what is the cause of this confounded gloominess?”

“Nothing that concerns anybody, except myself,” was the morose reply.

“Well, you needn’t snarl like that at an old friend. Come, out with it, and let’s have no secrets.”

“There’s not much to tell, old fellow, beyond the fact that I’m ruined.”

“What!” exclaimed John Egerton, open-mouthed in amazement. “Ruined?”

“Yes.”

“Are you really serious; or is this another of your confoundedly grim jokes?”

“It’s too true, alas!” the other replied, with a sigh. The artist, laying his palette and mahlstick aside, turned and faced his visitor, exclaiming —

“Sit down and relate the circumstances; we must see what can be done.”

“Nothing can prevent the catastrophe. I’ve considered the problem long enough, and can find no solution.”

“Well, don’t knock under without a struggle, my dear old chap. Men work for fame and fortune, but expect happiness as a gift. Confide in me, and perhaps we may arrange things.”

The other smiled sadly, but shook his head.

It was the afternoon following the events related in the previous chapter. The two speakers who were in such serious conversation stood in a shabby studio in Fitzroy Square gravely contemplating one another.

John Egerton, the owner of the place was a successful artist, whose works sold well, whose black and white illustrations were much sought after by magazine proprietors, and whose Academy pictures had brought him some amount of notoriety. His success was well deserved, for, after a rather wild student life on the Continent, he was now exceedingly industrious. Art was his hobby, and he had but little pleasure outside the walls of his studio. Though discarding a collar, and attired negligently in a paint-besmirched coat very much the worse for wear, a pair of trousers much bespattered, and feet thrust into slippers, yet his face spoke of genius and indomitable perseverance, with its deep grey eyes, firm, yet tender mouth, and general expression of power and independence.

His visitor, Hugh Trethowen, was of a different type – handsome, and perhaps a trifle more refined. A splendid specimen of manhood, with his fine height and strongly-built frame, well-cut Saxon features, and bright colouring, with laughing blue eyes, the earnest depths of which were rendered all the more apparent by the thoughtful, preoccupied look which his countenance wore.

A young girl, undeniably beautiful, with a good complexion, stood watching them. She was dressed in a bright but becoming costume of the harem, and had, until the arrival of Trethowen, been posing to the artist. Upon the easel was a full length canvas almost complete – a marvellous likeness, representing her laughing face, with its clear brown eyes, and her bare white arms swinging the scimitars over her head in the undulating motion of the Circassian dance.

Besides acting in the capacity of model, Dolly Vivian was the artist’s companion, critic and friend. Among the brethren of the brush she was well-known as a quiet, patient, unobtrusive girl, who, with commendable self-sacrifice, had supported her mother and invalid sister by her earnings. Egerton had become acquainted with her years ago, long before he became known to fame, at a time when his studio was an attic in a street off the Edgware Road, when he used frequently to eat but one meal a day, and had often shared that with her. She was his friend and benefactor then, as now. When times were hard and money scarce, she would give him sittings and accept no payment, or, if she did, she would spend the greater portion in the necessaries of life, which she would convey to his sky parlour on the following morning.

This platonic friendship, which sprang up in days of hardship and disappointment, had been preserved in affluence. From her model the rising artist had painted most of the pictures that had brought him renown, and he acknowledged the debt of gratitude by making her his confidante. It was not surprising, therefore, that at his studio she conducted herself as if thoroughly at home, nor that she should be well acquainted with such a constant visitor as Hugh Trethowen.

When, however, the two men commenced so momentous a question, she felt that her presence was not desired, so busied herself, with a good deal of unnecessary noise, with the teacups which stood on a small table beside the easel.

Suddenly she raised her handsome head, and, looking at Egerton, said:

“If you are talking of private matters, I will go and rest until you are ready to recommence.”

The artist glanced inquiringly at his friend.

“There is no necessity for leaving us, Dolly,” said Trethowen. “We are all three old friends, and my purpose in coming here this afternoon is to spend an hour with you for the last time.”

“The last time!” she echoed in dismay. “Why – are you going away?”

He did not answer for a moment. His eyes were fixed upon the girl’s face, and his lips trembled a little under the shadow of his fair moustache. Could he really muster up courage to tell them of his intention? He hesitated, then he replied, firmly enough:

“By an unfortunate combination of circumstances I am compelled to leave all my friends. I much regret it, but it cannot be avoided.”

The men had seated themselves, and the pretty model was pouring tea into three dainty little cups.

Egerton frowned impatiently.

“This sort of talk isn’t like you, Hugh, and it sounds bad. Surely you don’t contemplate leaving us altogether?”

“I must – I cannot remain.”

“Why?”

“I’ve already told you. I’m ruined.”

“Ruined – good God – you’re joking! But even if you are – confound it – why should you go? Other men have got on their legs again.”

“I never shall,” Trethowen replied sadly. “It’s impossible.”

“If you’ll tell us about it,” said the artist persuasively, “we can judge for ourselves.”

“Well, briefly told, the facts are these, old fellow. You are aware I’m only the younger son, and that on my father’s death my elder brother, Douglas, with whom I’ve not been on friendly terms for several years, succeeded to the estate.”

The other nodded acquiescence.

“My father undoubtedly meant well,” Hugh continued, “for he left me some property yielding nearly five hundred a year. Upon this I lived for five years, but – ”

“And what more could you expect?” interrupted his friend. “Surely that’s enough for a bachelor to live upon?”

“It would have been, I admit,” he replied despondently. “Unfortunately, I have been compelled to dispose of the property.”

“Why?”

“To temporarily satisfy my hungry creditors.”

“Are they numerous?”

“Numerous! Why, they’re so plentiful that, by Jove, I’ve never troubled to count ’em.”

“But how have you become so entangled?”

“The usual method is responsible, old chap – tempting fortune,” he replied bitterly. “The fact is, things have been going wrong for a long time past, and I’ve disposed of all I’m worth in an endeavour to settle up honourably. It’s no use, however – I’ve sunk deeper and deeper into the mire, until the only means by which to extricate myself is to go right away. Dunned on every side, with county court summonses descending in showers, the Hebrew Shylocks who hold me in their accursed clutches seem to be taking a delight in crushing me out of existence.”

The artist was mute with astonishment. He had always considered his friend very lucky in having ample means at his command, and had never imagined he was in such straits.

“Then, as I understand, you’ve had to go to the Jews, and they’ve foreclosed,” he said, after silently contemplating the canvas before him.

“Exactly,” Hugh replied. “Think. What can a fellow do when he’s about town like I’ve been? He must necessarily follow the example of others on the course and in the clubs, if he doesn’t wish to be ranked with outsiders. As an instance, I lost over the St. Leger a clear eight hundred.”

“Whew! If that’s the case, I’m at a loss to give advice,” exclaimed Egerton gravely.

“It would be of no assistance,” he said. “Like an ass, I’ve run through all I possess, with the exception of a bare couple of pounds a week. I must therefore drag out an existence in one of those dismal old continental towns that seem to be provided as harbours of refuge for unfortunate fellows like myself. I’m truly sorry to leave you both, but needs must when the devil drives.”

“Why not remain here? If you are hard hit, I can see no reason why you should bury yourself,” contended the artist thoughtfully.

“No, Mr Trethowen,” added Dolly, gazing into her teacup in a vain endeavour to hide the tears that stood in her eyes, “don’t leave us. Why, Mr Egerton would not have half the spirit for his work if you didn’t run in now and then and make him laugh.”

“I – I cannot remain,” he replied hesitatingly. “You see, I’m utterly incapable of making a fresh start in life, for I’ve no profession. Besides, there’s a much stronger reason for my departure. It’s absolutely imperative.”

His face was lined with pain and sorrow, as he drew a deep sigh, the index to a heavy heart.

“What’s the reason?” demanded his friend, glancing sharply at him.

“Because, if I don’t get away almost immediately I shall find myself arrested.”

“Arrested?”

He nodded, but for a few moments no words escaped his lips.

“Yes, Jack, old fellow, I’m in a terrible fix,” he replied in a gloomy tone unusual to him. “I’ll confide in you because I can trust you. Three months ago I was hard pressed for money, and seeing a dishonest way of obtaining it, I yielded to the temptation of the moment. I imitated a signature, and drew a thousand pounds.”

“Forgery!” the artist exclaimed, dumbfounded.

“Call it what you like. The bill is due the day after to-morrow, then the fraud will be detected.”

He uttered the words mechanically, his head bowed upon his breast.

Jack Egerton bit his lip. He could scarcely realise the grave importance of his companion’s words.

“Are there no means by which I can assist you, Hugh?” he asked presently in a sympathetic tone.

“None. There is room enough in the world for everybody to stretch himself. You understand my departure is inevitable. It is either arrest or exile, and I choose the latter.”

“I’m afraid it is; but, look here. Have a trifle on loan from me – say a hundred.”

“Not a penny, Jack. I couldn’t take it from you, indeed,” he replied, his voice trembling with an emotion he was unable to subdue. “With finances at the present low ebb I could never repay you. Perhaps, however, there may be a day when I shall require a good turn, and I feel confident of your firm friendship.”

“Rely on it,” the artist said, warmly grasping his hand. “You have my most sincere sympathy, Hugh; for bad luck like yours might fall upon any of us. In times gone by you’ve often assisted me and cheered me when I’ve been downcast and dispirited. It is, therefore, my duty to render you in return any service in my power.”

Hugh Trethowen rose, listless and sad. The lightheartedness and careless gaiety which were his chief characteristics had given place to settled gloom and despair. “Thanks for your kind words, old fellow,” he exclaimed gravely. “I really ought not to trouble you with my miseries, so I’ll wish you farewell.”

The handsome girl, who had been silent and thoughtful, listening to the conversation, was unable to control her feelings, and burst into tears.

“Don’t cry, Dolly,” said he in a sorry attempt to comfort her. “Jack and yourself are old friends whom I much regret leaving, but don’t take it to heart in this way.”

Raising her hand reverently to his lips he kissed it, with a murmured adieu.

She did not reply, but, burying her face in the rich silk robe she wore, wept bitterly.

For a moment he stood contemplating her, then, turning to the artist, he said:

“Good-bye, Jack.”

“Good-bye, Hugh,” replied Egerton, wringing his hand earnestly. “Remember, whatever happens, I am always your friend – always.”

A few brief words of thanks, and Hugh Trethowen snatched up his hat and stick, and, drawing aside the heavy plush portière before the door, stumbled blind out.

Chapter Four
The Nectar of Death

Slowly and solemnly the clock of St. James’s, Piccadilly, chimed nine.

In his comfortable chambers in Jermyn Street, Hugh Trethowen sat alone. The graceful indifference of the Sybarite had vanished, the cloud of apprehension had deepened, and with eyes fixed abstractedly upon the flickering fire, he was oblivious of his surroundings, plunged in painful reverie.

The silk-shaded lamp shed a soft light upon the objects around, revealing that the owner of the apartment had debarred himself no luxury, and that, although a typical bachelor’s abode, yet the dainty nick-nacks, the cupboard of old china, the choice paintings, and the saddle-bag furniture – all exhibited a taste and refinement that would have done credit to any drawing-room. Upon a table at his elbow was a spirit stand, beside which stood a glass of brandy and soda; but it was flat, having been poured out half an hour before.

Suddenly he tugged vigorously at his moustache, as if in deep contemplation, and, rising, crossed the room and touched a gong.

His summons was answered by an aged male servant, the venerable appearance of whose white hair was enhanced by his suit of spotless black and narrow strip of shirt front.

“Anybody called, Jacob?”

“No, sir; nobody’s called, sir,” replied the old man in a squeaky voice.

“You may close the door, Jacob, and sit down. I want to have a word with you.”

The aged retainer shut the door, and stood near the table, opposite his master, fully prepared to receive a reprimand for having performed his work unsatisfactorily. “Sit down, Jacob; we must have a serious talk.” Surprised at these unusual words, the old man seated himself upon the edge of a chair, waiting for his master to commence.

“Look here, Jacob,” said Trethowen; “you and I will have to part.”

“Eh? what? Master Hugh? Have I done anything wrong, sir? If I have, look over it, for I’m an old man, and – ”

“Hush, you’ve done nothing wrong, Jacob; you’ve been a good servant to me – very good. The fact is, I’m ruined.”

“Ruined, Master Hugh? How, sir?”

“Well, do you ever take an interest in racing?”

“No, sir; I never do, sir.”

“Ah, I thought not. Fossils such as you do not know a racehorse from a park-hack. The truth is, I’ve chucked away nearly every farthing I possess upon the turf and the card-table; therefore I am compelled to go somewhere out of the reach of those confounded duns. You understand? When I’m gone they’ll sell up this place.”

“Will the furniture be sold, sir? Oh, don’t say so, Master Hugh!” exclaimed the old servant, casting a long glance around the room.

“Yes; and, by Jove, they’d sell you, too, Jacob, only I suppose such a bag of bones wouldn’t fetch much.”

“You – you can’t mean you are going to leave me, sir?” he implored. “For nigh on sixty years, man and boy, I’ve been in the service of your family, and it does seem hard that I should remain here and see the things sold – the pictures and the china that came from the Hall.”

“Yes, I know, Jacob: but it’s no use worrying,” said Hugh, somewhat impatiently. “It cannot be avoided, so the things from the old place will have to travel and see the world, as I am compelled to.”

“And you really mean to go, Master Hugh?”

“Yes; I tell you I must.”

“And cannot I – cannot I come with you?” faltered the old man.

“No, Jacob – that’s impossible. I – I shall have no need of a servant. I must discharge you, but here’s fifty pounds to keep you from the workhouse for the present. I’d give you more, Jacob, but, indeed the fact is, I’m deuced hard up.”

And he took some notes from a drawer in his escritoire, and handed them to his faithful old servant.

“Thank you very kindly, sir – thank you. But – hadn’t you better keep the money, sir? You might want it.”

“No,” replied Hugh, with a sad smile. “I insist upon you taking it; and, look here, what’s more, the basket of plate is yours. It is all good stuff, and belonged to the dear old governor; so sell it to-morrow when I’m gone, and put the money into your pocket. Take anything else you like as well, because if you don’t others will. And, by the way, should you ever want to write to me, a letter to the ‘Travellers’ will be forwarded. I – I’m busy now, so good-night, Jacob.” Grasping the venerable servant’s bony hand, he shook it warmly.

“Good-night, Master Hugh,” murmured the latter in a low, broken voice. “Good-night; may God watch over you, sir.”

“Ay, Jacob, and may this smash bring me good luck in the future. Good-night.”

The old man tottered out, closing the door noiselessly after him.

“Poor old Jacob,” said Hugh aloud, as he stood before the fireplace with his hands thrust deep in his pockets in an attitude of despair. “It must be truly hard for him to leave me. He was my father’s valet when he was a young man; he has known me ever since I could toddle, and now I’m compelled to throw him out of doors, as if he were a common drudge who didn’t please me. He’s been more than a servant – he was the friend and adviser of my youth. Yet now we must part, owing to my own mad folly. Some people carry wealth in their pockets, others in their hearts.”

With a sigh and a muttered imprecation, he paced the room with deliberate, thoughtful steps.

Suddenly he noticed the evening newspaper that had been placed upon the table by his servant. Anxious to know the result of a race, he took it up mechanically, when his eyes fell upon the head-line in large capitals, “Mysterious murder in the Strand.”

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed in surprise. “Why, I had really forgotten that strange incident last night. It must be the man I saw taken from the omnibus. By Jove, that was a curious affair; I wonder what the paper says about it?”

Reseating himself, he commenced to read the column of elaborately worked-up sensation with which the journal regaled its readers.

It certainly was an extraordinary case, inasmuch as the crime must have been committed with a swiftness and dexterity that was little short of marvellous. As far as the representative of the journal had been able to ascertain, the body was still unidentified, and, after advancing an extravagant theory of his own, the enterprising scribe terminated with the stereotyped phrase, invariably used on such occasions, declaring that the police, “though very reticent upon the matter, were prosecuting diligent inquiries.”

“Remarkable!” ejaculated Trethowen, when he had finished reading this account. “I wonder who the victim is, and what object anybody could have had in murdering him? So daring, too – in a public conveyance in the very heart of London. There was some motive, I suppose; but evidently the person who committed the crime was no novice, and went to work with swiftness and caution for the purpose of baffling the police. I’ve been thinking so much of my own affairs to-day that the remembrance of last night’s tragedy had entirely gone out of my head. Yet, after all, why should I puzzle my brains over a case that will require all the wit and cunning of skilled detectives before the guilty person is revealed?”

He cast the paper aside, and passed his hand wearily across his aching brow.

“No,” he continued, after a brief silence. “I’ve got too much to think of with my own affairs. Here am I, ruined irretrievably, with no hope beyond that of dragging out a miserable existence in a poverty-stricken sort of way, while my friends laugh over my misfortunes, and make themselves fat upon what they’ve won from me by foul means as well as fair. Bah! I’ve been a downright consummate fool, and deserve all this punishment; by Heaven I do!”

And he sprang to his feet, and again paced the room.

“What is my punishment?” he asked of himself, after some soliloquy. “Social ostracism, perpetual poverty, interminable despair. Yet, after all, what have I done to deserve it? I’ve not been more wild than other fellows during the sowing of my wild oats, as old fogies term it. No; the simple reason for it all is merely because I’m a younger son. My brother has enough to keep him in luxury, whereas I had but a pittance at most, and upon it was expected to keep up appearances and spend it like other fellows. I’ve done so, and now am doomed to pay the penalty of poverty. Even death would be preferable to the life before me.”

He halted, suddenly impressed by the idea. His face was pale and haggard, and in his eyes was a strangely intense look.

“Death! Why not?” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. “I have no longer any interest in life, therefore death would be the easiest means to end my difficulties. It would be all over in a moment.”

Shuddering, he sank slowly into the chair, and resting his arms upon the table, buried his face in his hands.

“Yes,” he muttered in bitter despair. “I’ve staked everything, and lost, through my cursed ill-luck. If I exiled myself it would be running away from my creditors, as if I feared them. No, by God! I – I won’t do that; I’ll choose the other alternative.”

With a firm, resolute expression upon his grave features he rose, strode quickly across the room, and, unlocking a Japanese cabinet, took therefrom a tiny phial of colourless liquid.

Holding it up to the light, he gazed upon it with a curious smile of gratification at having the poison in his possession. Strange that a man should laugh when about to take his own life; yet such is frequently the case. What is the motive that prompts him to smile when the grave is before him? What, perhaps, but the fascination of suicide. There are some men who at first feel like jumping from a high elevation into the void below. The feeling grows if at all indulged. There is a strange and, indeed, wonderful fascination in high precipices. The very fact that life can be taken is fascinating often to fatality. The majority of cases of suicide by pistol or by poison would not have occurred if the weapon or potion had been absent. Their very presence keeps the temptation to use them before the would-be suicide with more or less power.

In this case it was the same as many others. Hugh Trethowen’s lucidity of mind, granting that there was mental aberration, could not have been fully absent. The fascination of rest, of a possible life beyond, of dramatic sensationalism – all combined – may have been the chief motive-power.

Nevertheless, he stood looking at it calmly. He was bent upon his purpose.

Lifting the glass of brandy and soda, he poured the contents of the phial into it, afterwards tossing the bottle into the grate. His hand trembled a little, but by setting his feet firmly he overcame this sudden nervousness, and looked around him for the last time calmly and seriously.

“Well, here’s health to my creditors, and long life to the men who, posing as my friends, have ruined me!” he said bitterly, with a harsh laugh.

Heaving one long sigh, he raised the glass to his lips. He was preparing to drink it at one gulp.

At that moment there came Jacob’s well-known tap at the door, and he entered, bearing a letter upon a salver.

Trethowen started, and quickly replaced the glass upon the table. He was confused, and felt ashamed of being caught in the act of self-destruction, although the old man could not have been aware of what the glass contained.

Without a word he took the letter, and Jacob retired.

Tearing it open impatiently, he eagerly read its contents. It was a purely formal communication from Messrs Graham and Ratcliff, an eminently respectable legal firm, who, some years before, had transacted his late father’s business, and who now expressed a desire that he should call at their offices in Devereux Court, Temple, at noon on the following day, as they wished to have an interview with him on a most important and pressing matter.

He re-read the letter several times; then, without a word escaping his lips, flung the contents of the glass upon the fire.

The letter puzzled him sorely. He resolved to call at the address given and ascertain the nature of the mysterious business.

It had saved him.