Sylvestre’s Secret

Evening Star, Issue 20117, 6 March 1929, Page 2

Sylvestre’s Secret

[Alt Kight9 Eese.ived.]

By Alice M. Diehl

CHAPTER XIX. A THUNDERBOLT. She glanced almost deliriously around at the bare, big hall—it was more a hall than a room—and at the statuesque figures, thinly veiled with holland sheets,'at the coffin, on trestles, occupying a place of honour. Sylvestre, his arm supporting her, felt her shudder. “There is nothing to startle you, dearest,” he fondly said with a short laugh. “ J3ut I might have given you a hint as to the kind of work which has been, and still is, my hobby. Look.” He dropped his arm from tier waist, switched on more electric light, and, going towards the wall on the right, lifted a doth crowning a stone pedestal, and she saw what at first sight looked the living and breathing bust of Marguerite. “Marguerite!” she cried, “How wonderful 1” Almost timidly 'Eve advanced close to the wonderful work of art, and felt vaguely comforted when she had convinced both sight and touch that it was but a waxen image, endowed by genius with the semblance of life. She drew a deep breath as she turned to Sylvestre, who w r as watching hex* with an amused smile. “How clever you are!” she sighed, gazing admiringly at him. “You thought me a nincompoop—an idiot—like so many of my class?” he asked. “ Well. it is not very much to he a modeller in wax! But it was my living for many a long year when my father’s beggarly allowance —you know' wo quarrelled hopelessly very earlv in the day—would not provide my daily bread!” “ Are all these Eve motioned with her head—“portraits in wax?” She glanced around at the veiled forms. “ And yours?” “ No one has touched them but myself!” he almost proudly replied. Then, linking her arm in his, he led her round, unveiling as he went, and she saw marvellously lifelike figures of Breton fishermen and fishwives, and one old w'omau who ivas so wonderfully alive that she gave a little cry as the gleaming glass eyes met hers, she fancied. malevolently. “That is the truest compliment ray work has ever had!” he cried, contemplating the old face with evident satisfaction. “That old woman is a domestic servant of many years’ standing. She was my faithful slave. I believe that even now she would die for me.” “ Why is she not here?” asked she. “Here?” He laughed. “She only knows me by my nom de guerre. I would not use my own name for my work. Had I. indeed, I now know, my father would never have done me the justice be did do me. My studio was far away. Often, when they thought me yachting, T was hard at work or travelling to the firms which bought my creatures. But you have not seen my chef-d’ceuvre. It lies in the coffin.” “Oh! I don’t want to see it!” Eve recoiled. A pained expression crossed her beautiful features. “ I have seen enough to prove to me you are a very great artist. Why are you not a sculptor in beautiful marble instead of perishable wax?” He laughed. “Work in marble is for the capitalist. .1 was a labourer for daily bread, but come, Eve, I want to know' if you recognise the figure in the coffin. Come, look, just to gratify me.” When be modulated his voice to such tenderness Eve felt she could refuse him nothing. So, reluctantly, she accompanied him to the side of the coffin. Ho removed the lid—how grotesque this mockery of death seemed to hei — and she peered down, retreating with a cry after a few moments’ horrified contemplation of —whom? It seemed to her that Sylvestre himself lay there, in the w'hite majesty of death. “Oh! why did yon not tell me?” sho cried, with an agitated sob. The sight of the .solemn, handsome face with the dosed lids and the inscrutable smile of the dead had utterly unnerved her. “ You are cruel!” “I am cruel to be kind, to both myself and you, Eve.” he said, taking her hand and leading her out of what to her was a veritable “ chamber of horrors ” into his office, where he placed her in a chair. Wondering what those words meant to convey, she watched him, somewhat stupefied by her emotions in that studio of waxen images, as he locked the door, then coming to her, knelt on the floor at her side. “Eve, I am going to confess to you; will yon hear my confession?” he asked, laying his virile hand with the long fingers on hers, which were clasped in her lap. “Yes! silence gives consent; but first, tell me, do you remember the tirpe when you were in Venice —and I was there'?” “ How could I forget? I thought you a kind of earthly god. I was very sensitive about my hair—ashamed of its redness —but when you tw'itted me with ray ‘red mane’ I. only felt flattered. 1 used to get hold of Lempriere’s Dictionary, and wonder which of the gods you were most like—but none seemed good enough. Oh! if only we w'ere there now!” His clasp ou her hands tightened. “Eve, this is far better —for now' — if yon only will, I can have you, keep you all to myself, revel in you, hold you, watch you—and then-—I w'anted you, I longed for you; but while I was a man in the fulness of hot youth, you w'ere an innocent child—if I had kissed you as I wanted to, it would have been desecration, an outrage! But now’, you are a woman, and I believe you know that I cannot be a complete man without you, my only love of long years. Eve, I swear to you you are the only woman I have ever loved—take me as your lover, your husband. I. will teach you what love is.” He had gone boldly on, encouraged by the happiness—that it was happiness no one could have her flushed face with the downcast lids. But when she raised those white lids, and gazed with timid love in her eyes, like dewy violets through her tears, he knew, he had conquered—had perhaps been conqueror long ago, and he rose, and taking her in his arms, kissed her reverently, rapturously. “My wife—for ever!” he murmured, as he gathered her in his arms. Perhaps no couple who had admitted their mutual love after years of vague longings, sometimes even of hopelessness and loss of heart, had ever more thoroughly ’ enjoyed the first hour of union of hearts and souls than Julian, Lord Sylvestre, and Eve Hamblen. But Sylvestre, before they felt it incumbent upon them to part, insisted on one thing. “I‘cannot wait for yon,” he hotly said. “We must be married at once. You do not want fuss and foolery, 1 know; promise me you will let me have my will in this, and in return I promise to obey your lightest wishes for over after.” “i only wish what you wish,” said Eve, holding him back ami gazing with the ecstasy of triumphant love into, his

Author of ‘The Montamor Case,’ ‘The Marriage of Penore,’ etc,

unfathomable eyes—those eyes which she had often felt were sphinx-like in their inscrutability. Was she uncler 891110 spell—fascinated—half-irrespon-sible, that she agreed unconditionally to every proposition as he made it—even agreed to keep his plans for their marriage secret from her own mother? “We will leave letters for her confessing our iniquities,” was his light way of dismissing their devoirs in the case of Mrs Hamblyn. And his plans were sufficiently startling to have disturbed the filial conscience of any girl less overpowered by the glamour of a powerful personality than Eve. No sign, no hint of any betrothal was to leak out. On the morrow Sylvestre was to proceed to town to procure a special license for their union anywhere at any time. He would meet Eve in town a few days later, all arrangements made, and before they proceeded to the spot where the first weeks of the honeymoon would be spent the letters of explanation and apology to Mrs Hamblyn would be posted. It was a stormy day in England. Masses of heavy clouds surged across the sky impelled by cross-currents of air. Loudon was dark, a city of dreams, now and then a vivid flash of lightning the prelude to a roll and ominous,, clatter of thunder. In an obscure city church the incumbent, in his surplice, was waiting within the sanctuary rails for a wedding party in whom he felt interested, apart from tho fact that for his discretion and complaisance ho had received a heavy donation “ for the parish charities.” The. Reverend Spencer Mallock was an aged clergyman who was living out the dregs of life in tho quiet city parish

where tiie duties were slight—his parish embracing little more than wide streets of huge houses devoted to offices, and some retail shops, it had been a mild excitement when Lord Sylvestre called upon him with a special license and frankly informed him of the whole circumstances of his projected marriage with Miss Hamhlyn, and his reasons for the utmost privacy and simplicity in its celebration. The couple for whom he was waiting were already a few moments late. He was standing, peering at his -watch by the aid of a gas lamp ho had just ordered the verger to light, when the portly “pew-opener” bustled up to him. She wore a rusty widow’s bonnet. and a big Holland apron, and her ruddy face deepened in colour when she heard the silken swish of refined garments, as a grey-veiled figure walked gracefully up the aisle, followed by a tall man whose features were indistinct in the semi-darkness. “1 think them’s the parties, sir, as you’re expectin’,” she said, with a vague flourish of the check-patterned duster she held, the vicar having warned hei of an clement of absolute privacy in the coming ceremony. Mr Mallock peered into the obscurity, and satisfying himself that Mrs Buck was correct in her surmise', for he recognised Slyvestre, said, in a low' voice: Stand near the lady, Mrs Buck,” and stood, solemn and venerable looking, .awaiting the couple. ) As Eve took the place he indicated, raised her veil—a grey chiffon which had entirely concealed her features—and began to draw off her gloves, the old clergyman wondered what Lord Sylvestre's freak might signify. For, mixing with the titled and wealthy classes, he knew' those born in the purple when he came across them. And he thought that even if this lovely girl had drawbacks as a parti, such ns inferior parentage or lack of means or distinction, her queenly beauty ami grace rendered her Sylvestre’s equal, if not his superior. Somehow the aged vicar, as lie began that significant charge to the bride and bridegroom; “ I require and charge ye both, as ye will answer at tuc dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,” was discomfited by a flash of lightning, illumining, first his book, then those two standing before him to be made husband and wife; and, although of a calm, equable temperament, ho was startled by what he thought an illusion of the senses. The man’s fine features vanished—what he saw in the vivid light was a grinning death’s head. He mentally chid himself for being unduly fanciful, and after a brief pause, continued the service. But it began to grow dark—so dark that he could not see the large type of the big Prayer Book ho . was holding. He was just turning to ask for light when, with an awful crash, a hideous roar, part of the tower fell The whole church was filled in a moment with thick dust—a suffocating odour of sulphur made him choke as he tottered out of the sanctuary. At first he could not see the bride and bridegroom for clouds of dust—then no saw the beautiful girl lying In a heap on the carpeting where she had been standing, hefi bridegroom endeavouring to raise her. “Merciful heaven! she * is killed!” ne stammered, speaking thickly after the shock. “ Nothing of the sort,” said Sylvestre, coolly. “A little frightened, that is all! Eve, my darling, everything is ajl right—only some masonry has fallen.” Here there was another alarming flash of lightning, followed a second or rtvo later by an angry growl and rattle. Eve gave a piteous wail. “ Oh, save me,” she moaned. “Sir, please. I cannot be married to-day.” Ibis was to the pale old clergyman, “ Come, come, you must not be weak—foolish—you, who have been brave ever since you w'ere born!” cried Sylvestre, who, to the vicar’s astonishment, lor the wild storm raging overhead was exceptional, and enough to try the strongest nerves, spoke coolly, “ had not turned a hair.” And he lifted his beloved to her feet, supporting her, although to his dismav she shrank from him just a little. “I see the whole place is a mass of dust,” he went on, turning to the aged cleric, could you not finish the service in the vestry? ” But Eve seemed l suddenly to revive—it was with distaste at the proposition. “No, no,” she cried. “I will not! Not to-day! Do you ask why? This dreadful thing is a warning, I know it is! ” * ‘“You can come another dav. certainly,” returned the vicar, kindly. He himself, after that illusion of the death’s head, felt disinclined to go any further. This seemingly clandestine marriage might he all wrong—.it might even he sacrilege. “ I must really protest against anv delay—if olily because of the superstition that a marriage postponed seldom takes place,” said Sylvestre, encouragingly, in a bantering tone. But Eve was thoroughly unnerved. Nothing Sylvestre could say shook her determination to wait for another day. When the vicar took them into the vestry, jvhich had not been so much

affected by the fall of debris and consequent dust, and Sylvestre, in a low vorce, urged_ her to fulfil her promise to become his wife now, that very day, if only because, they could not remain together, anywhere, 'otherwise, she declared her determination to return home, and nothing he could add would shako it. A feeling of almost terror had filled her ardent young soul when a thunderbolt fell at the beginning of the service which would make them man and wife. She must have time to recover from it. CHAPTER XX. WHAT nil HAYWARD KNEW. While Sylvestre and his beloved were wooing in England, Madge was enduring misery unspeakable in the French chateau, whore her mother was literally dying of grief for the loss 'of her husband—now confirmed by a letter from Lord Sylvestre, who professed to have heard from the captain who had picked up and resuscitated a drowning man answering to the description of Arthur Belcombe that there had been a mistake. When tho man recovered consciousness he had declared himself to bo a seaman, one of the crew of a British merchantman, who had fallen overboard. The journey had been somewhat of a nightmare. The maid had been terribly ill on board—sbe had had to nurse her. They two had travelled in a ladies’ compartment, while the men were in a smoking carriage. Only in the landau Julian had chartered to convey them to the chateau were the four together. Despite the brilliant sunshine, the glorious blue sky, the slender poplars swaying in the breeze, the joyous atmosphere of a contented country, Madge, as they drove uphill, felt as if death had laid its chill hand on her heart.

The turreted chateau, with its shuttered windows, its flowery garden, seemed to her excited imagination her mother’s tomb. Alighting, and walking along the pebbly path towards the side door, the sight of her aunt in deep mourning gave her a shock. “Oh, why the black?. She is not dead?” she cried to the plump little woman, whose friendly eyes were swollen and red. It was then, as the sympathetic Madame Dupin led her into the salon, she first learnt that in regard to her father all hope that he still lived wps at an end. “ But I do not understand why you should have heard it from Lord Sylvestre,” she began; then, in her perplexity, forgetting the estrangement between herself and Hayward, who, with Julian, had followed, she said; “Can you explain. Dr Hayward? Do you understand?” “Perfectly,” he returned coolly. “ But I do not agree with anyone on the subject. I have my own opinion, as Mr Aniiesley knows.” Then, adding that he must See his patient, ho left them. , Madge, puzzled, glanced at Julian. Ho was gazing at her with a depth of melancholy in his fine eyes she had not yet. seen there. “Can you toll me?” she cried He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “ I would not worry about your father now, if 1 were you, at all; hut do what you can for your afflicted mother, who must have had a hard life of it with such an extraordinary husband,” he began. “ If ever you want your cariosity completely satisfied ask Dr Hayward to tell you—everything. I know he will do so.” Then ho muttered something about the luggage, and went from the room. Madge stood, stupefied, gazing after him—hardly able to believe that this was the passionate young lover who but a few hours previously had been enticing her to a secret marriage. He had urged that step upon her to free her once and for always from any real or fancied duties to Dr Hayward, ami now, after but a day’s journeying, he was recommending her to have recourse to him for enlightenment as to private family affairs. She felt wounded, desperately, as well as considerably startled. “Mon enfant, you are tired. Will you rest before seeing your mother?” asked the plump Madame Dupin, caressingly. Madge started slightly. Her aunt had recalled her to the actual present, with its duties and obligations and anxieties; and, passing her hand across her eyes, she nodded assent to Her own suggestion that she should rcpaj.r to the sick chamber at once. Slowly, wondering what the complications in her life really signified, she went upstairs—up those white wood stairs scrubbed _ until their spotless purity was in itself a decoration—to the corridor, where old oak chests were filled with the piles upon piles of fine household linen, strewn with the lavender from the quaint old garden below, whose sent seemed to lurk in the narrow corridor, now darkened by the closed persiennes. Here she paused and listened. She heard her mother’s voice, then Hayward’s, then old Claire’s, and, without waiting to knock, she opened the door and went in. Her mother, white, wan, hut smiling, lay in the big tent bed with the green moreen hangings, on the huge frilled pillow which was but little whiter than * l ' ■jHfcennated but still beautiful face. As she saw her daughter she held out her thin arms. * “Madge! My darting!” she feebly cried. With a rush of mingled compassion and tenderness, Madge seated herself 011 Hie edge of the bed and encircled i? * ori . n in her arms, while 0 • ~, UI T-- Ir l Tlie background, snivelled, her thin jaws working with emotion, and Hayward leaning back in his chair by the bedside, frowned as lie crossed his arms tightly across his breast. "When Madge _ disengaged herself gently from the invalid’s embrace, she caught Hayward’s eyes fixed upon her —was his expression cold, cruel exultation, or what? “ Madge,” said Mrs Belcorabe, “you have heard—bad nows reached us—they said your father was deadhut—dear Dr Hayward swears to me he is alive! Now, now, I can fight to live my husband join- father, Madge, my boys’ father—l could not live if he were dead! ” Madge turned sharply to Hayward. “ You must be very certain that my father 1 , is alive to swear that to my mother,” she somewhat defiantly said. “ I can well swear to a fact t know —absolutely—without a shade of doubt,” he quietly replied. “Will you explain to me?” She looked, and felt, haughty. “ Not now,” he said, rising. “ Tomorrow, perhaps, 1 may answer as many questions as you elect to put to me. To-day, now that your mother has rallied—all my efforts must be concentrated in ■ maintaining that rally—and it is your bounden duty to help me. This is no time for philandering or parleying—this is our duty.J’ Ho inclined his head slightly towards the pale woman, who seemed to be dozing. “ Yes,” she assented, meeting his eyes with something akin to defiance. For to be reminded of her duty to her own loved mother was both a humiliation and a latent accusation, conveying suspicion, so she felt, as well as adverse comment on her feelings and doings. She established herself in the sick room, and nursed her mother diligently night and day, until Hayward, evidently softened in her regard, for this coolness and almost bitterness had

waned.on each successive visit to the sick room, told, her that her mother was out of danger—he believed she would recover. “ But she can never he quite well until wo produce your father,” he said. “ She is wrapped up in him. Hence the difficulty in tho way of a radical cure. For no one can bring him here, Lbelieve, but you; and only if you were to act in a manner altogether foreign to your nature. It would involve a lie. And, however fickle you may be, Madge—however easily hoodwinked by those you personally like—l cannot think you would brook a lie!” “ I cannot understand you,” she hopelessly said. They stood in the garden, in the gloaming; he had followed her when she allowed herself a brief respite for a breach of air._“ Oh! How can L understand anything or anybody when there is nothing hut mystery everywhere? My father, my mother, Lord Sylvestre, you, and Julian—you are one and all mysterious—incomprehensible.” Her voice faltered. The sentence ended in a sob. , He stood, gradually paling to hvidity, 1 his whole being in a turmoil of doubt—doubt whether this would ,he the right moment to enlighten her as to that frightful—to her it would be frightful—fact .which nothing in this world could change or render less extraordinary than it was. Swiftly he counted tho cost, both wavs. Leave her in ignorance and leave her at Sylvestre’s mercy—and in Lord SvlvesLre’s mercy he had little faith. 'While all went as Sylvestre intended it to go, he might bo harmless as a sucking dove. “ But do I not know to what lengths ho will go to rid himself of a stumbling block in bis path? ” he asked himself. “ As well trust her to the milk of human kindness in a venomous serpent! ” No. After these reflections passed swiftly through his mind, he turned and faced her, his resolution taken. “ Madge,” he desperately said, and in the dim light of a cloudy evening his eyes looked almost terrible in his white face, “tell me, truly, has it never occurred to. you to find an explanation of the close tie that exists between —Lord Sylvestre and Arthur Belcombe? ” kSho frowned, and gave a dejected sigh. “ it would not be your fault if I had not,” sbe said. “ But, as it happened, the subject has been so dinned into my ears that I have given it more thought than 1 consider it calls for. ‘Why this eternal worry about a very unusual and admirable friendship between two men—one of whom has been wronged by the father of the other? It seems to me almost sacred in its beauty. Think—what a father Lord Sylvestre has been to me! ” How beautiful she looked, as a wan ray of moonlight strayed between tho passing clouds and illuminated her lovely, beloved face! Poor innocent victim of a tissue of lies—she could not fathom an abyss of deception such as he knew of. He groaned—and he saw her flinch. “ Why do you groan? ” she asked, suspiciously. If, he thought, that involuntarily groan of his had disturbed her evident security, he blessed it—for he feared the effect of the shock the revelation he had to make might produce, “ Madge,” he brokenly said, “ there is a great deal of talk about a fool’s paradise. It does npt mean, I take it, that folly has a paradise of its own. No, it means ignorance of what would, or might, shatter one’s ideals, perhaps almost break one’s heart for a time—and in that sense you seem to hare been living in a fool’s paradise. Madge a few words in her ear. But if he had thundered it out instead of whispering it, it could not have had a more disastrous effect. For an instant Madge swerved, and gave him a wild look, as if he had attacked her—then she uttered a 'low, stifled cry, reeled, and fell prone on the turf at his feet. (To bo continued.)