The Temptress

Chapter Five
Under St. Clement Danes

The office was small, dingy, and undusted, with a threadbare carpet that had once been green, long rows of pigeon-holes filled with faded legal papers, and windows so dirt-begrimed that they only admitted a yellow light, which added to the characteristic gloom.

Before a large writing-table sat Mr Bernard Graham, solicitor and commissioner for oaths, interestedly reading some documents which had apparently been taken from a black tin box that was standing open near him. He was a clean-shaven, wizened man of sixty, with scanty white hair, a forehead denoting considerable self-esteem, a pair of small, cold grey eyes, and an aquiline nose, surmounted by pince-nez with tortoiseshell frames. Attired in broadcloth of an antiquated cut, he looked exactly what his clients believed him to be – a respectable family solicitor, the surviving partner of the once popular firm of Graham and Ratcliff.

“Hum! the dates correspond,” he was murmuring aloud, as he jotted down some memoranda, after glancing through an affidavit yellow with age. “There can be no doubt that my surmise is correct; yet the whole affair is the most extraordinary within my experience. I wonder whether there are any minor points that will require clearing up?”

Selecting another document, somewhat larger than the former, he opened it, and readjusting his glasses, read it through slowly and carefully, breaking off several times to make notes of dates and names therein set forth.

“No,” he exclaimed at last, as he laid the paper aside; “we must first establish the identity, then everything will be straightforward. It all seems remarkably dear.”

Leaning back in his writing chair, his features relaxed into a self-satisfied smile.

“Some one must benefit,” he observed aloud, his face again assuming a thoughtful look. “There is such a thing as murder through revenge. Now, I wonder how I should fare if – ”

The door suddenly opened, and a clerk appeared bearing a card.

“Show him in,” commanded the solicitor, after glancing at it.

A moment later Hugh Trethowen entered.

Dressed fashionably, with a flower in his coat, he looked spruce and gay. The settled look of despair had given place to a pleasant smile, and as he advanced with elastic tread and greeted the old gentleman in his usual easy, familiar manner, it would have been hard to believe that twelve hours ago he had been on the point of taking his life.

“Well, Graham,” he began, as he put down his hat, and took the chair opposite the solicitor; “now, what is it you want with me? I’ve been breathing an atmosphere of debts and duns lately, so, if any of my creditors have been so misguided as to put their claim into your hands, I may as well give you the tip at once that I’m not worth sixpence.”

“Creditors are out of the question, Mr Hugh,” the old solicitor replied, smiling, and leaning back in his chair.

“I wish they were,” said Hugh fervently. “Give me a recipe to get rid of them, and I’ll try the experiment at all hazards.”

“You have no need, my dear sir, – no need whatever.”

“No need!” repeated the younger man in astonishment, for the words seemed like an insinuation that he knew the secret means by which he intended to evade his difficulties. “Why, what do you mean?” he asked seriously. “I tell you, it is pay or smash with me.”

“I regret to hear that, but you will adopt the former course,” Graham replied mysteriously.

Hugh laughed sarcastically.

“That’s very likely, when I have no money. But, look here, what do you want with me?”

“To impart some news.”

“News!” exclaimed Trethowen, suddenly interested. “Good or bad?”

“Both.”

“What is it? Tell me quickly,” he demanded, with an impatient gesture.

“Simply this. I wish to congratulate you upon your inheritance.”

“What inheritance?”

“Well, the information it is my pleasure to communicate will undoubtedly cause you mingled pain and satisfaction. Briefly, your brother, Douglas Trethowen, is dead, and – ”

“What!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet in amazement. “You’re humbugging me!”

“I repeat, your brother is dead,” resumed the old solicitor calmly, looking intently into the face of the man before him. “In consequence of that event you inherit the whole of the estate.”

“Good heavens, is this true, Graham?” he asked breathlessly.

“It is. Therefore I don’t think you need trouble yourself over creditors any longer. You can now pay, and wipe them out.”

The old man laughed at the effect his words had produced, for Hugh Trethowen was standing in mute astonishment.

“But how do you know Douglas is dead?” he asked.

“There is little doubt of it,” answered Mr Graham coolly. “Read this,” and he handed him a newspaper cutting.

Hugh scanned it eagerly, with an expression of abject amazement. The statement was to the effect that it had just transpired that the man found murdered in an omnibus at Charing Cross had been identified as Mr Douglas Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall. Upon the body some cards and letters had been found, which, for some unaccountable reason, had at first been kept secret by the police.

“I can scarcely believe it,” Hugh ejaculated at length. “Besides, after all, it is not absolutely certain that it is he.”

“Not at all,” admitted Graham, with a puzzled look. “Of course, you, as his brother, must identify him.”

“Yes,” said the other, very thoughtfully; for it had suddenly occurred to him that he had not recognised the features when he saw the body taken from the omnibus.

“No time must be lost,” observed the solicitor. “The identity must be established at once. The inquest will, I believe, be held to-morrow.”

Hugh hesitated, and for some moments remained silent.

“You see, I’ve not met my brother for six years, therefore I might be unable to recognise him. He has been abroad during the greater part of that period, and his appearance may have altered considerably.”

“Nonsense, my dear sir, – nonsense. You would surely know your own brother, even if a dozen years had elapsed,” he answered decisively.

“And suppose he really is Douglas?”

“The will is explicit enough,” the elder man said, pointing to an open document before him. “This is a copy of it, and no codicil has been added. In the same manner as your late respected father, Mr Douglas left the whole of his affairs in my hands. Fortunately for you, he never married, and the property is yours.”

He felt bewildered. Such agreeable news was sufficient to animate with immoderate joy a ruined man who, a few hours previously, had contemplated suicide.

“Now, speaking candidly, Graham, have you any doubt that it is Douglas?”

“None.”

“Why?”

“Well – for the simple reason that I believe he is dead.”

“That’s an evasive answer. Tell me the reason.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot divulge secrets entrusted to me, Mr Hugh. You may, however, at once rest assured that I am absolutely ignorant both of the motive of the terrible crime and the existence of any one likely to commit it. If I possessed any such knowledge, of course, I should communicate with the police without delay,” the old gentleman said calmly.

“Then you refuse to state your reasons?” exclaimed Trethowen, a trifle annoyed.

“I do, most decidedly. All I can tell you is that I knew your brother had returned from abroad; and, as a matter of fact, he wrote making an appointment to meet me yesterday, but did not keep it.”

“From that you conclude he is dead?”

“Combined with various other circumstances.”

“Well, Graham, it’s hardly satisfactory, you’ll admit,” observed Hugh. And then he added: “Of course, if you refuse to tell me anything else, I can do nothing.”

“Excuse me, Mr Hugh,” answered the solicitor blandly. “You can go to the mortuary at once and identify the body.”

“If I fail, what then?”

“I don’t think you will fail,” replied Graham, with a meaning smile.

“You’ll come and assist me?”

“I shall be very pleased to accompany you, but must claim your indulgence for a few moments while I put away these papers;” and he commenced gathering up the scattered documents and replacing them in the box.

When he had finished he locked it carefully, and then, struggling into his overcoat, and putting on his hat, he followed Hugh Trethowen out.

An hour later they returned and reseated themselves. “The whole affair is so enshrouded in mystery that I doubt very much whether the murderer will ever be discovered,” Graham remarked, taking up some letters that had been placed upon his table during his absence.

“I agree with you. It’s a most remarkable crime.”

“But, after all, what’s the use of puzzling one’s brain?” the solicitor asked. “You inherit the estate, with an income that should keep you in luxury for the remainder of your days, therefore why trouble about it?”

“That is so; but supposing Douglas is still alive – I only say supposing – now what would be the result?” Graham shrugged his shoulders, and his visage elongated.

“It’s no use apprehending such a dénouement. You are absolutely certain that the body is his, are you not?” he asked.

“I’m positive of it. The curious deformity of the ear I remember quite distinctly.”

“Then you will swear before the coroner to-morrow that he is your brother?” he observed, regarding the young man keenly.

“I shall.”

“In that case no more need be said. We shall immediately proceed to prove the will, and you will be master of Coombe.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed Hugh, with a light laugh, as he rose to depart. “I’m in luck’s way to-day. A few hours ago I little thought myself so near being a wealthy man.”

“No; it must be a very pleasant surprise,” the old gentleman said, rising and grasping his new client’s hand. “I heartily congratulate you on your good fortune, Mr Hugh. I shall call upon you at noon to-morrow, and we will attend the inquest together. Your interests will be safe in my hands, so for the present good-bye.”

“Good-day, Graham. I’ll expect you to-morrow,” Hugh replied, and, lighting a cigar, he went out.

Chapter Six
Valérie Dedieu

“Look! there she goes! Isn’t she lovely? By Jove, she’s the most charming woman I’ve ever met!”

“The less of her sort there are about, the better for society at large, old fellow.”

“What? You know her?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“Oh, of course. Some frivolous tale; but I’ll not hear a word of it. Some people are never satisfied unless they are polluting a fair name, or washing their neighbour’s dirty linen.”

“That’s meant to be personal, I suppose?”

“As you please.”

“And where did you make her acquaintance, pray?”

“Quite casually; a week ago.”

“And you’ve taken her for three drives, and walked on the promenade with her?”

“If I have, what crime have I committed beyond arousing your jealousy?”

“I’m not jealous in the least, I assure you, old chap,” replied Jack Egerton, smiling. “But the fact is, Hugh, I’ve always considered you a man, and never believed that you could develop into a brainless, lovesick swain. Yet it appears you have. We’ve known each other long enough to speak plainly, and if you take my advice you’ll steer clear of her.”

“Why do you give me this mysterious warning, old chap?”

“She’s bewitching, I admit: but a pretty face is not all that is desirable in a woman. If you’re on the lookout for a suitable partner – and it seems you are – I advise you not to make her your wife, or you’ll repent it. Besides, a rich man like yourself can choose from among the younger and possibly better-looking bargains offered by anxious but impecunious mothers.”

“Oh yes; I know all about that,” replied Hugh impatiently. “I shall never take any advice upon matrimony, so you are only wasting breath. The man who frowns at coquetry is often willing enough to wink at the coquette. I’m master of my own actions, and were we not old friends, Jack, I should consider this abominable impertinence on your part.”

“But, my dear fellow, it is in your own interests that – ”

“Bother my interests! Have another cigar and shut up!”

“Very well, as you please.”

The two men, who were thus discussing the merits of a female form which had just passed, were seated at an open window at the Queen’s Hotel, at Eastbourne. It was an August morning, warm, with scarcely a breath of wind. The cerulean sky reflected upon the clear sea, glassy and calm in the sunlight, while the white sails of the yachts and the distant outlines of larger vessels relieved the monotonous expanse of blue, and added effect and harmony to the scene.

A fashionable crowd of loungers were passing and reusing the window, keeping under the shadow of the uses: for the fair ones who frequent seaside resorts, presumably for health, never desire their faces tanned. Now that the legal formalities had been accomplished, and Hugh Trethowen found himself with a comfortable competence, he, no longer world-weary, had recommenced a life of enjoyment. It was a pleasant reflection to know that his creditors had been paid in full, that he had repaid the thousand pounds he had obtained dishonourably, that he was no longer likely to be troubled by duns, and that his trusted servant Jacob had been reinstalled master of his chambers. He had spent a few weeks at Coombe, and formally taken possession of the home of his youth; then he returned and went to Eastbourne, having induced Egerton to put aside work and spend a short holiday with him.

After this discussion regarding the lady, he sat back in his chair, with a cigar in his mouth, looking unutterably bored. Truth to tell, he was a little out of temper; the weather was oppressive, and he hated discussions, as he always argued that life was too short, and breath too precious, to waste on trying to convince any one against his will.

As he sat there he gazed out upon the expanse of blue, and lapsed into silent contemplation.

The object of his admiration, who had just passed their window, was dressed with elegance and taste in a dainty pearl-grey creation of Worth’s, a hat of the latest French mode, the whole being surmounted by a cool-looking lace sunshade, the tint of which served to enhance her extraordinary beauty.

She was one of those women frequently met with in Society, whose past is enveloped in a mist of uncertainty, yet they cannot be termed adventuresses, for their adventures, as far as known, are nothing extraordinary, and les conveyances have always been respected and rigorously preserved. Men liked her because her foreign accent and gesture added a vivacious piquancy to her manner, and women tolerated her because she was affable, fashionable, and chic. Scandalous tongues had certainly done their utmost to injure her reputation, but had failed. She numbered many smart people among her friends, but not even her enemies could accuse her of vulgarity or indiscretion. All that was known was that she possessed ample means, moved in a good set, and was a conspicuous figure wherever the haut monde poured forth her children – at Trouville, Royat, Brighton, on the plage at Arcachon, or the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, according to the season and fashion.

“Let’s go for a stroll, old fellow,” suggested Hugh, rising, and tossing his cigar out of the window.

“I’ve some letters to write.”

“Oh, let them wait. Come along.”

Egerton’s features were clouded by a frown of displeasure. He yawned wearily, but rose and accompanied his friend.

They strolled along the parade, and back, and then out to the end of the pier. Trethowen’s eager eyes soon descried the object of his admiration, seated alone under the shadow of the pavilion, apparently engrossed in a novel. She looked up in surprise at their approach, and after mutual greetings they seated themselves beside her.

Valérie Dedieu, whose features were flushed – for she had been startled by their sudden appearance – was certainly remarkably pretty. She was gentle and winning, with a well-formed head, and a tall, graceful figure that any woman might have envied. Her large, expressive dark eyes, protected by their fringe of long lashes, had that look, at once stubborn and gentle, provocative and modest, wanton and ardent, of the Frenchwoman. The expression of her face was ever changing; now her eyes, cast down demurely, seemed to indicate a coy modesty; now her pouting lip betrayed a slight annoyance, only to be succeeded by a charming smile which disclosed an even row of pearly teeth.

As Hugh gazed upon her he remembered his friend’s mysterious warning, and asked himself what evil could lurk under so innocent a countenance.

“I had no idea you were acquainted with M’sieur Egerton,” she exclaimed, suddenly turning to him.

“Oh yes; we are old friends,” Hugh replied, smiling.

“Ah! what an age it is since we met,” she said, addressing the artist, her words just tinged with an accent that added charm to her musical voice.

“It is, mademoiselle,” he answered, somewhat sullenly; “I scarcely expected to come across you here.”

She darted a sharp, inquiring glance at him, and frowned, almost imperceptibly. Next second she recovered her self-possession, and with a light laugh said: “Well, there seems some truth in the assertion that the world is very small after all.”

“There does, and encounters are sometimes unpleasant for both parties,” he remarked abruptly. “But you’ll excuse me, won’t you? I see a man over there that I know, and want to speak to him.”

Valérie gracefully inclined her head, and Egerton, rising, lounged over to the man he had recognised.

The moment he was out of hearing, she turned to Trethowen, and said:

“Then you and Jack Egerton are friends?”

“Yes; I find him a very agreeable and good hearted fellow.”

“That may be.” She hesitated thoughtfully; then she added: “You do not know him as well as I do.”

“And what is your objection to him?” asked he in surprise.

“Hugh, yesterday you told me you loved me,” she said, looking seriously into his face.

“Yes, dearest, I did. I meant it.”

“Then; as I explained to you, I have many enemies as well as friends. Jack Egerton is one of the former, and will do all in his power to part us when he finds out our affection is mutual. Now you understand my antipathy.”

“Clearly,” he replied, puzzled. “But I know Jack too well; he would not be guilty of an underhand action.”

“Do not trust him, but promise me one thing.”

“Of course, I’ll promise you anything to make you happy. What is it?”

“That you will take no heed of any allegations he may make against me.”

She was intensely in earnest, and gazed at him with eyes that were entirely human in their quick sympathy, their gentleness – in their appeal to the world for a favouring word.

“Rest assured, nothing he may say will ever turn me from you, Valérie.”

She heaved a sigh of relief when he gave his answer.

“Somehow or other I am always being scandalised,” she exclaimed bitterly. “I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, yet my select circle of enemies seem to conspire to cause the world to deride me. Because I am unmarried, and do not believe in burying myself, they endeavour to besmirch my fair name.”

She spoke with a touch of emotion, which she ineffectually tried to hide.

Then, as Hugh addressed her in a tone in which respect melted into love, she quivered at the simple words in which he poured forth his whole soul:

“I love you. Why need you fear?”

He uttered these words with a slight pressure of the hand, and a look which sank deep into her heart.

Then they exchanged a few tremulous words – those treasured speeches which, monotonous as they seem, are as music in the ears of lovers. The artist and his friend were by this time out of sight, and they were left to themselves to enjoy those brief half-hours of happiness which seldom return, which combine the sadness of parting with the radiant hopes of a brighter day, and which we all of us grasp with sweet, trembling joy, as we stand on the threshold of a new life.

And Valérie – forgetting everything, absorbed in a dream which was now a tangible reality – sat silent, with moist and downcast eyes. Hugh continued to smile, and murmured again and again in her ear:

“I love you.”

The pier was almost deserted, and, heedless of the rest of the world, they sat enraptured by love, lulled by the soft splashing of the sea, and bathed in the glorious golden sunshine.