THE DUKE OF ARCANUM

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue IV, 23 July 1898, Page 109

THE DUKE OF ARCANUM

&Y

CARLETON LONG

CHAPTER VIII. IMOGEN. If Edgcumb’s imprisonment had been a hardship to himself, what must it have been to Imogen, a frail woman, burdened with the cares of a. family of small children, without means of support, without friends, and almost without hope? The terrors of a conflict with a selfish world which lives each for himself is something appalling to a weak and defenceless woman. In the great human struggle for existence and the mad rush for wealth the weak are thrust rudely aside and are mercilessly swallowed up in the great vortex of misery. Imogen realised what those struggles meant, for years before she had had the sharp experience of such a strife, being left in a state of utter distraction at the time of Stanley’s arrest; her feeling upon recovering from the shock were such as one might experience who has become lost in the depths of a great forest, who gazes upon the lone wood and feels that all hope has fled. Stanley had been out of work so long that the pinch of poverty had closely followed his incarceration. When, after a few days had passed, and it became certain that he would be kept in prison for an indefinite period, possiljjy extending into many months, she became thoroughly awakened to the fact that they must depend wholly upon her own feeble efforts for the necessaries of life. Then she naturally thought of her former occupation of music teacher, but there were many difficulties in the way of pursuing it. It was undesirable to absent herself from home on account of the children, ,who constantly needed >a mother’s care and attention. Her domestic duties, also, for several years, had been such that she had altogether neglected her music, and, consequently she was not as au fait as formerly, but something must be done at once, and, being unfamiliar with other pursuits, save needlework, she was obliged to try music. Leaving I’aget to care for Geryl and the baby, she started to see what she could accomplish. From house to house she went soliciting pupils, but invariably meeting with a curt reply, or seeing the door slammed unceremoniously in her face. However, in spite of these discouraging matters, she renewed her efforts from day to day and at length succeeded in securing a small class of pupils, reside from this income of a few dollars a week, which she derived from her music, the neighbours brought in some serving, so that between the piano and her needle her nimble Anglers found little rest. Thus they were enabled to keep the wolf from the door and to get along quite comfortably during the winter. Imogen had found a steadfast friend in Kye up to the day of his disappearance. He had assisted her in many ways, and his generotis acts were ever conspicuous and his presence übiquitous when distress entered the little cottage. Her pale face and sad eyes were as true a guide to his noble impulses as are the stars and compass to the mariner. In vain did she protest against his benevolent acts, but it was useless, for they prevailed with or without her approval. His visits to the prison were more.

frequent than hers, and through him she received word almost daily from her husband. These messages were the most precious of his generous acts, for they were full of confidence and inspired her with hope. There lived at this time, in a narrow street in the neighbourhood of Imogen's house, an Irish woman who had been her laundress for many years. Mrs. Tiernan—for such was her'name —was quite advanced in years. She lived by herself in a small house containing but two rooms, and obtained a meagre subsistence at the tub. She was a kind-hearted woman, and the good-will and friendship which she evinced for Imogen was most acceptable, indeed, for while she was absent with her pupils Mrs Tiernan would kindly care for the children. Paget’s tender age rendered her an unsafe guardian for the smaller ones, and Imogen felt grateful when Mrs Tiernan volunteered her protection. Thereafter, when, called away, she took them to her house and left them to her charge. Mrs Tiernan did most of her laundry work at home, and she found the days of these visits bright spots in the ordinarily monotonous course of her existence. She loved children, and having known Imogen’s from infancy they were especially dear to her. They loved to watch her while at work, and to dabble in the suds. Frequently, when she stood at the tub, they would peep over the edge, prick the bubbles with their fingers and gaze at the rainbow colours which formed and vanished so mysteriously.

Imogen invariably fixed upon Saturday as a day to visit her husband. Come what would, no matter what might be the condition of the weather, her visits never failed. She looked forward to them all the week and talked to the children of them, treasuring in her memory many things which she wished to tell him. When the weather was pleasant one or more of the children accompanied her. It has been told in a. previous chapter how grateful these visits were to Stanley, and what a. relief they were from the monotony of his prison life. They were to Imogen, likewise, a. wonderful relief from toil and anxiety. Her life was a busy one from morn till night. There 'wen* no interstices through which monotony could creep in, and to the fatigue and weariness of mind and body those weekly reunions were as refreshing as gentle showers to a parched and withered vegetation. The saddest of lives have their sunny hours, when forgetfulness, like a soothing balm, heals the heart’s wounds and lifts the soul up to brighter glimpses. Such were these brief interviews between husband and wife. They were hours when ugly shadows melted away, dissolving in the sunlight of joy—joy at being again in each other’s presence. Mingling their hopes, each sought to cheer the other. All the small |>assing incidents were touched upon, but nothing said to disturb. Imogen did not admit the true state of affairs at homie, or complain of her long, weary hours ot toil. Neither did Stanley tell of his fierce struggle with his own thoughts —thoughts which were ever with him

—how it seemed at times, as if in the desperation which they entailed, he could wrench the iron doors from their fastenings or breach the solid walls of masonry by throwing himself like a catapult against them. He was too charitable to speak of the possibilities which might arise in his case and when the future seemed to darken before him. he carefully avoided by word or look any act or utterance which would add to the strain under which she lived, worked and hoped. Matters ran along without much change until Kye’s disappearance. This caused much disquietude. For many days Imogen looked anxiously for him to come with some message from her husband, but he did not appear. On the occasion of her next visit to the prison, she inquired ol Stanley if he had been there, but he had not seen him. The following Saturday she went again, but still there was no news from this missing friend. Finding Stanley gloomy and apprehensive because of his absence, she suggested that Kye might be ill, but he shook his head and did not seem inclined to coincide with the suggestion. Then he told her of the conversation which had passed between them at the time of Kye’s last visit, and she was not only filled with consternation, but feared more than ever that something had befallen him. Without speaking of her intentions she then decided to learn the cause of his disappearance, if possible, and leaving the prison somewhat earlier than usual she sought the telegraph office, and stationed herself at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper stories, and as the employes came down from their day’s work she made inquiries concerning him. No one had seen him about the office for several days; he had failed one morning to report for duty, and, not having since been seen, he. had gradually faded from their thoughts. None knew where he- lived, nor seemed to care particularly what had become of him. However, they did not fail to remark the look of disappointment in her face, and wondered as they hastened away why she evinced such an interest in the grimacing idiot who was always going - through the gesticulations of a harlequin. As she was about to turn away a man came down the stairs. He was the last to descend, and Imogen, who was watching the retreating- forms with a look of disappointment, did not perceive him. Hearing Kye’s name mentioned he paused a moment on the stairs. It was Coulter, and, readily divining that the lady before him was Edgcumb's wife, he addressed her: ‘I beg your pardon, Madam, but I thought I heard you inquiring for James Kye.’

Imogen turned at the sound of the voice, and seeing a gentleman whom she supposed to be an employe and, furthermore, from the manner of his address, one who could give her the. desired information, replied, ‘Yes, sir; if you can tell me anything concerning his whereabouts, I shall be greatly obliged.’

‘He has not been seen at the office for some time. I shouldn’t be surprised if he had fallen into a scrape and left the city.’ ‘I think it is very unlikely, sir. I should sooner think him ill,’ Imogen replied, rather curtly. Coulter shrugged his shoulders at this rebuke. He saw that the lady had her own convictions concerning Kye, with which it would not be well for him to interfere.

‘Possibly he is; but perhaps you don’t know him as well as I do, or you might think differently,’ said Coulter. ‘Perhaps not. All that 1 know of him is good, and 1 don’t wish to think otherwise,’ Imogen retorted. ‘Your faith is strong. It may bo that he is a relative. If so, I should have been more careful with my remarks.’

‘A relative! No; you are greatly mistaken.’

As Imogen turned to depart. Coulter stepped beside her and, as they moved away, he explained, ‘I merely indulged in the suggestion because of the great solicitude which you appear to manifest on his account.'

‘Oh, well, he is a dear, good friend, and you know they are very scarce.’ ‘They are plentiful enough if one is willing to take them without credentials. He must be a particular friend.’

‘Mr Kye is a friend of the family, and especially of my husband. In all of our misfortunes ‘(and w e have had many), he has greatly lessened the

burdens which have fallen upon us. We miss him so much. I fear that he is ill, and, if so, 1 would gladly do all I ean for him. Do you know where he lives?’

These words were sufficient to convince Coulter that he had not miscalculated as to the lady’s identity. ‘She is fascinating,’ he thought; ‘her husband is out of the way, her friend Kye, too. She will need another now. and I am just the man for the place.' 1 hey had emerged upon one of the busy thoroughfares, thronged with pedestrians. Confidently pressing close to her, Coulter took her arm gently, at the same time apologising for the act: ‘Excuse me, madame, but the crowd is so persistent, one needs a little assistance in elbowing their wav along. But your question: I really have not the' slightest idea where he lives. He is a very eccentric person, you know, and is very retieent concerning himself.’

‘Yes; he is a little peculiar. 1 sometimes think that he has also seen trouble, and that that is why he is so sympathetic and kind to others.’

‘lt may be so, but friendship is more often the result of a charm of personality.’

‘More often, ’tis true, and that is why the friendship of such a man as Mr Kye is all the more to be appreciated; because it is an exception to the rule. It is one of pure, disinterested motives, where benevolence and the love of doing good seem to overshadow selfish ends.’

Upon hearing such sentiments expressed Coulter became silent for a moment. He saw that it might be a more difficult matter than he had imagined to gain the lady’s confidence, and he began to cogitate upon some plan for continuing the acquaintance, in the hope of better success in the future. Seeing the futility of burdening her longer with his presence, he paused at the corner to take leave of her: ‘Madame, I am sorry that I cannot give the information which you desire, but there is one thing I can do—that is make inquiries for your friend. I will ascertain Kye’s lodging place, and learn all that' is possible concerning him, and call at your house, with your permission, ' and give you whatever news I may have obtained. Will you favour me with your address?’

‘But it will be putting you to a great deal of trouble,' Imogen protested.

‘I do not mind the trouble. Permit me to prove myself as valuable a friend as James Kye.’

Imogen smiled, gave him her address. and thanked him; and they separated with thoughts as wholly different as their directions.

While inquiring after Kye, Imogen had, indeed, encountered the one person who knew all and could have thoroughly enlightened her. But it is not to be presumed that he had any intention of doing’ so. He would make a dupe and victim of her. as he did of "ho crossed his path. It was not difficult to deceive a woman, and a plausible story was nothing for him to invent.

A thorough voluptuary. Coulter studied how he could work upon Imogen s feelings and subject her to his sinister purposes. Her sweet face haunted him incessantly, and Chloe was entirely forgotten. ‘lie had once entertained the same admiration for her, but satiety had long- since cooled his ardour. He was certain that Imogen did not know him. and he concluded that it were better to maintain some disguise. It was probable that Kye s surveillance had been instigated by Edge urn b, and if any suspicions lurked in the latter's mind, lie had undoubtedly communicated them to his wife. He would first try persuasion under disguise, ami if'that did not succeed he would unmask himself and apply threats to accomplish his purpose.

Coulter and Imogen had been observed upon the street, and followed by one who felt an unusual interest m their actions—Chloe. Her interest was governed by jealousy, for she loved Coulter, and it piqued her beyond endurance to see him bestow attentions upon another of her own sex. Watching their movements critically, she became convinced that they were newly acquainted, and, upon separating, she followed Imogen to her home, noting the number of the house and ascertaining her name from the neighbours. That, same evening, '•losely veiled, she again repaired to tl?e locality, and, having identified the cottage, she sought admission by a gent le rap nt the door. Imogen was sitting

alone with her needlework, but, hastily gathering it up and making a hurried arrangement of the tidies and chairs, she went to admit her visitor.

"Mrs Edgcumb?’ dime an inquiring voice as she opened the door.

‘Yes; that is my name,’ Imogen ItUMSwered, scanning the unfamiliar form before her.

*1 called to see you on a matter which concerns you deeply. May I come in?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Imogen, stepping aside to make way for her, wondering, as she did so, whether those words were portentous of good or evil.

Chloe swept past her into the room, and, unbidden, glided into a chair. ‘My good lady,’ she said, ‘I am neither a so’-ceress nor a witch; I am not the seventh daughter of the seventh son, etc., but I have the gift of prevision and power to tell certain things which are revealed to me. I have been sent to you by one who has your welfare at heart, but whose name I am not permitted to mention.’ ‘Oh, my fortune?’ asked Imogen, laughingly. ‘No; not exactly. I don’t pretend to be able to read your entire future; but rather to tell that which I may see clearly defined, good or evil, that you may profit by the good and avokl the evil.’

‘Hut I am not superstitious, or given to belief in such things,’ Imogen replied. ‘You may try to make yourself think so, Madame, but I doubt if there is an intelligent being in the world who has not some secret belief in these mysterious supernatural matters.’

Imogen was silent and thoughtful. ‘Do you believe in predestination?’ asked Chloe.

‘Oh, I hardly know what I believe in; there are so many things written and talked of nowadays for people to believe that it mixes one all up when one attempts to think of them. You may tell me what you can; I will listen.’

Chloe then brought forth a pack of cards, and, making skilful movements with them, she muttered rapidly the while something in a low tone which Imogen supposed to be an incantation. Then came a pause, after which she asked her age and the date of her birth, running the cards slowly through her hands, now and then selecting some particular one as if it were more portentous than the rest. ‘You appear to be in trouble—deep trouble. This card turns up so persistently that I am afraid that your trouble will continue for some time. It seems to be in relation to some one very near to you, possibly your husband. Here is another which seems to have unusual significance. It relates to a dark complexioned man with a black moustache. You must beware of him, for his intentions are dishonourable. He is meditating some design upon you. You have not known him long, and it will be better for you to know him no longer. I can see something which looks like wires, which would indicate that he has something to do with the telegraph. He seems to have some authority, too, for the position of all the cards seem to be obedient to this one. You have been somewhere with him, or else walked with him. You separated at a corner. Beware of him; he has evil intentions.’

‘Can you tell me his name?’ asked Imogen, startled at Chloe’s announcement.

‘No. 1 cannot tell you right away, said Chloe, ‘but there is a way oi ascertaining it. Then, by an ingenious method which she had devised, she begun: ‘You see there are fifty-two cards in the pack, and there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet—■ twenty-six into fifty-two, twice. Thus we have a numerical affinity between them. I will shuffle the cards and cut them, see; there’s the trey of spades for a commencement, then we must take to represent it the third letter of the alphabet, which is “C.” Now, another odd circumstance is that all vowels are represented by odd numbers—thus, A is the first Setter, E the fifth, etc. Now 1 will shuffle the cards and cut them again. There we have the five spot of hearts; we had the trey of spades to begin with. We must multiply one by the other—five times three are fifteen.’ Then, counting on her fingers, she added: ‘The fifteenth letter is “O,” a vowel; so we have “Co.” Do you see?’ Imogen answered in the affirmative, and Chloe again shuffled the cards, turning up the seven spot of diamonds. 'Seven times three are twenty-one—

we multiply by the trey each time, and it’s an odd number. The twentyfirst letter represents “U,” a vowel also; so we have “Cou.” Det us try again.’ Another trial brought up the four spot of clubs. ‘Four times three are twelve; the twelfth letter is—what? One, two, three, four, five —“L.” Now we have “Coul.” ’ Imogen began to tremble.

Chloe proceeded. ‘Ah, now comes the ten spot of clubs: ten times three are thirty. There is no letter to represent it, hence we must try again—what, the ten spot of hearts? Well, we must take the sum of the two deals, which is twenty. What is it? “T,” a consonant; “Coult” ’ —

‘Stop! I know the rest,’ exclaimed Imogen, excitedly. Can it be possible that it is Coulter, the enemy of my husband? Good woman, if it is true you have saved me from humiliation, for I loathe that man as I do a viper.’ Chloe, of course, had manipulated the cards to bring about this result, but she did it in such a skilful way and worked so cleverly upon Imogen throughout the whole that the latter felt that there was something about it, indeed, supernatural. Having gained her end, she arose to take her departure.

‘Wait a moment, my friend; can you tell me anything about my husband? What will be his fate?’ asked Imogen. ‘I will see,’ replied Chloe, returning to her chair, and running the cards through her fingers. ‘lt looks bad, Madame; the cards all run black—death, death! I am afraid he will come to a miserable end.’

Imogen drew a deep sigh and covered her eyes with her handkerchief, while Chloe, taking advantage of the favourable moment, quietly left the house. She had not removed her veil during her presence there. Imogen had merely heard a sweet voice, but she had not beheld the face of her strange visitor. Left, alone with her thoughts, Imogen pondered over th|e remarkable occurrence of the evening. There was something so mysterious about the lady’s coming and going, something so pleasing and disinterested in her manner, and something so wonderful in her necromancy that she really began to think that she was, indeed, a seeress, and that there was something deeper, more startling and truthful in such practices than she had ever before been willing to admit. But those dreadful words concerning her husband; how could she believe them? In her dilemma, between belief and unbelief, she felt inclined to accept the good and reject the bad. She tried to reassure herself with the recollection that the. woman had not said positively that Stanley would be overtaken by a miserable fate; but that she feared that such would be the case, arguing from the predominating colour of the cards as she ran them through her fingers. Her heart was in a flutter, and a feeling of nervousness pervaded her. A sense of loneliness and dread crept upon her, while the mysterious form of the veiled lady and her divinations left such weird impressions that she could scarcely induce herself to retire for the night. Chloe’s words of admonition in regard to Coulter also made a great impression upon Imogen. She felt chagrined to think that she had encountered him, and had even given him permission to eall at her house. She remembered his insinuating remarks while conversing with him, and she felt thankful to be thus happily forewarned.

It was not many days after this incident ere he made his appearance at the cottage. She was expecting that he would soon present himself and was, of course, determined to test the tiuth of the woman’s prediction concerning him. ‘Good evening, Madame,’ said Coulter, as Imogen opened the door. ‘Good evening, sir,’ answered Imogen, returning the salutation in a fiiendly way. and inviting him to enter. ‘I really don’t know what name to call you by, as you have given me none thus far.’ ‘Names are of little consequence. You might call me Brown, .Jones, or Smith; it would be all the same. My name, however, is Lincoln—no relation to the martyred president, or to bobolink (n)‘ — said Coulter, dryly, expecting to provoke n smile, but "utterly failing in his attempt. ‘You are employed in the telegraph office.l believe, Mr Lincoln?' ‘Yes. ma'am, you are correct. I throttle the electric current and make

it give up the secrets of husbands, wives, and daughters—in fact, everybody.’. ‘You know Mr Coulter, then, the Director-in Chief?’

‘Oh, certainly, I know him very well.’

‘I think you have a strong resemblance to him,’ Imogen suggested. ‘lndeed,’ replied Coulter, giving Imogen a searching glance; ‘are you acquainted with him?’ ‘But slightly, I have met him once, and, if I am not mistaken, you are the individual.’

‘lndeed!’ exclaimed Coulter, feigning much surprise, but nevertheless greatly disconcerted by the abruptness of her attack.

‘I am quite positive in making the assertion, sir; nor do I observe any inclination on your part to deny it.’ ‘Why did you ask my name then, if you are so positive that I am Coulter?’ ‘Merely to see if you would attempt to deceive me. I know who you are very well; you can practice no deception upon me.’ Seeing his efforts to conceal his identity thus completely frustrated, Coulter recognised that he could not do better now than to make an acknowledgment. ‘Well, to be honest,’ said he, ‘I will admit that you are right. I hope my friendship will be as acceptable under one name as another. Stanley and I have always been the best of friends, and I hope we shall be the same.’

‘Mr Coulter, you are no friend of mine and never can be. There is the door. Leave!’ ‘But.—Madame—l'—

With outstretched arm Imogen pointed to the door, commandingly, and, emphasising the word by bringing- down her foot impatiently against the floor, she interrupted him by repeating: ‘Leave!’ Again Coulter endeavoured to interject some broken sentences, but, more perious in manner and threatening in tone than before, Imogen cut him short, exclaiming: ‘Leave, I say, or 1 shall call an officer.’

Covered with confusion by this sudden and unexpected action, Coulter left the house in all possible haste and disappeared in the darkness, utterly defeated in his despicable undertaking. As he passed out, Imogen slammed the door after him and locked it; then she sat down to try and compose herself, for she was trembling with agitation from head to foot. (To be Continued.)