"I should have thought we were quite unlike in that respect," he said.
"You are thinking of that dent on his nose," said she, "that troubled him so much, poor boy. But he exaggerated the disfigurement. It was only an accidental mark. It really didn't make any difference, at least to me. I was sorry that he let it worry him so much—principally on my account, I am afraid. And now, as I look at you, I see how little difference it did make. But you are like him in every way. You move like him, you write like him—your handwriting is his handwriting, and your voice! When you speak, I could shut my eyes and believe it was Andrew speaking."
His heart leapt. She had recognized him, after all! True, she thought she had only recognized his ghost. She was deluded by the false circumstances. But he could explain them away. His opportunity had come. And as she continued, he tried to think how he should approach the revelation. "You mustn't misunderstand me, Ronald. It is not that I am not your friend as I always was. Try to put yourself in my place. Remember what Andrew was to me—my dear husband, my faithful and loving friend, the very centre and focus of my life—and think what it must be to me to be in the presence of a counterfeit of him—now that he has gone for ever—mimicking his looks, his movements, the very tones of his dear voice. Don't you understand how it wrings my heart?"
He listened, entranced and yet bewildered, still fumbling for the words which would enable him to open his revelation without setting up an immediate barrier of suspicion. "It is hard enough to bear," she went on, "to know that I shall never see him again, without having it driven home by a presence which mocks at my grief—a presence which seems to be his and yet is not his. Forgive me if I am unreasonable, but I am a broken woman. I have been robbed of all that I cared for and I cannot endure it patiently. My soul is in revolt. I ask myself: Can there be a God of Justice if such horrible wickedness is permitted?"
Her sudden change of mood disconcerted him. "You mean," he stammered feebly, "that dreadful, most deplorable accident?"
"Accident!" she repeated; and her voice, ringing out like a pistol-shot, made him start as if he had been struck. "No! I mean that crime. You don't suppose it was an accident, do you?"
"That was what I understood," he murmured uncomfortably. "I thought a block of chalk fell on him."
"A block of chalk was found resting on his poor battered head, and they assumed that it fell on him by chance. But did it? I don't believe it for a moment. A man—a good, kind fisherman—was able to lift it off by himself. Then another man could have lifted it on—to cover up the marks of murder. That is what happened. I am convinced of it."
"Why are you?" he asked.
"Why!" she repeated. "Because everything about the horrible affair shouts of murder. You know he was not alone. The footprints prove that—two sets going to the place and only one coming away. Somebody was with him. Who was it? Who was that secret wretch who sneaked away and hid himself like Cain? Nobody knows. But he shall be found. I will never rest, or let the police rest, until he is found. And when we find him, he shall pay his debt. He shall pay it to the uttermost farthing!"
Andrew looked at her in astonishment and dismay. This was a new Molly who confronted him with blazing eyes and hard-set mouth as she poured out her fierce denunciations. Never before had he seen her even ruffled; and he found it hard to realize that this stern-faced, resolute woman was his soft, gentle, girlish wife. But, as he gazed at her, all his new-born confidence and optimism melted away like snow before the sunshine. For he saw clearly that his opportunity—if there had ever been one—was gone. How, after what he had heard—could he tell her that he had been there? That those retreating footprints were his footprints? He dared not. As to the rest of his fantastic story, if she listened to it at all—which she probably would not—she would dismiss it with angry contempt, and denounce him to the police.
There was nothing more to say or do. His mission had failed; and, since he had received more than a hint that his presence was not acceptable, there was no reason for prolonging his visit. Silently and gloomily he followed his unconscious wife up the garden to the house and, without re-entering the dining-room, prepared to take his leave. "If I mustn't come and see you, Molly," he said, as he took up his hat and stick, "I hope you will let me write to you sometimes. I hate the idea of dropping out of your life."
"Oh, I didn't mean that, Ronald," she replied. "Don't think I want to cut you. Perhaps, later, when I have got more used to—to my new condition, I shall be able to see and talk with you without having this awful ghostly feeling. At any rate, there is no reason why you should not send me a letter now and again. I should like to hear how you are getting on."
With this she opened the outer door and, apparently with some not unnatural feeling of compunction, shook his hand quite cordially, though her eyes remained averted from his face. He held her hand for a second or two, gazing, with a bursting heart, into the pale, sweet face that he was forbidden henceforth to look upon. Then, with a huskily murmured "Good-bye!" he turned away and plunged down the flagged path, pausing, by habit, at the gate to look back and wave his hand in the old familiar way.
It was a grievous journey to the station. All the well-remembered objects that had greeted his arrival, now seemed, as he passed them and left them behind, to give him a sad and solemn farewell; and, when he turned out of the homely little lane into the road, it was with something of the feeling of our earliest ancestors when they passed out through the gates of Paradise.
VIII. THE DESERTED WIFE
It was in a mood of the deepest depression, combined with a sort of angry bewilderment, that Andrew reviewed his affairs as the train bore him back to London. To a permanent separation from Molly his mind refused assent as a thing to be seriously considered. He could not, and did not, for a moment entertain the idea of giving her up. Yet what could he do? For the time being, the barrier that she had placed between them seemed insurmountable. One plan only seemed possible; and for a few moments he was actually disposed to adopt it—the plan of going boldly to the police, proclaiming his identity, and taking the chances of his trial for the murder of Mr. Hudson.
But a very brief reflection convinced him of the futility of any such proceeding. For he was still obsessed with the infallibility of an eye-witness. There, at his trial, would be Miss Booth, who would swear that she actually saw him commit the murder. What answer could he give to that but a bare denial? And what weight would that denial have? It would have none. He would be found guilty and most certainly hanged.
No. There was no escape that way. He would have to put up with his false identity, even for Molly's sake. For she was, at least, better off as the widow of a man who had possibly been murdered than as the widow of one who had certainly been hanged. So he must wait and hope that some other way of escape from his intolerable dilemma might present itself.
But it was a maddening situation. Apart from the hideous illusion which cut him off from his wife, were other incidental and subordinate perplexities. There was, for instance, the life insurance. If he allowed the money to be paid, he would be not merely a party but the principal in a most blatant fraud. Yet he could not prevent the payment without disclosing his identity. Again, there was the probate of the will. It must be a criminal offence to connive at the probate of the will of a living man.
It was all very bewildering. Little did Professor Booley foresee the intricate train of consequences that the stroke of his syringe had set in motion! Nor was it possible for Andrew, himself, to foresee what further links in this extraordinary chain of causation might presently come into view; and as he realized this; he was disposed to speculate very uncomfortably on the possible surprises that might yet be awaiting him in the incalculable future.
But at least one good result followed from his disappointing visit. The sight of his studio and his pictures had set his thoughts moving along the old, familiar channels. The artist in him had awakened. Once more, he was aware of the impulse to paint. And the impulse was not only artis
tic. He would have to earn his living somehow, and he knew that he could earn it by his brush. The painting would come, not only as a relief but as the necessary means of livelihood. Before he had reached the end of his journey, he had decided to set to work without delay.
Thus deeply preoccupied with his present difficulties and his plans for the future, he walked unguardedly into the first ambush that Fate had prepared for him. From Cannon Street he took his way through the fast-emptying streets to the terminus of the North London Railway, where he bought a first-class ticket for Hampstead Heath. Still wrapped in profound thought, he ascended the stairs to the platform and, worming his way through the throng of passengers, sought an empty compartment in the waiting train.
The guard was slamming the doors in preparation for departure as he reached the forward part of the train. Selecting one of several vacant compartments, he entered it and shut himself in. As he sat down, by a natural train of association, his thoughts reverted to the curious incident that had occurred on the last occasion when he had travelled on this line. He was even tempted to rise and look out of the window to see if that strange woman was by any chance on the platform.
But there was no need. At the very moment when the shrill screech of the guard's whistle rang out and the train began to move, a woman darted at the door, wrenched it open, bounced into the carriage and slammed the door after her. Then she sat down in the seat opposite his and fixed her eyes on him with an unwinking, truculent stare.
He had recognized her in the first, instantaneous glance, and immediately averted his gaze to look out of the window. Not that he expected that manoeuvre to be of any avail. And it was not. There she sat, facing him with a stare as immovable as that of a waxwork figure. He avoided looking at her; but he was fully conscious of that basilisk stare, and it seemed to stir the very marrow of his bones. As the train gathered speed, he waited in fearful expectation for the next development.
It came after some three minutes of appalling silence. "Well. Haven't you anything to say to me?"
The voice was not unmusical, but it had a peculiar suppressed, menacing quality, as if the speaker were restraining herself with difficulty from shouting. Andrew turned his head and met the gaze of the pale, truculent, wide-open eyes. "I think, madam," he replied, fully conscious of the futility of his answer, "that you must be mistaking me for some other person. I have no recollection of having had the honour of meeting you before."
The effect was very much what he had expected. She gave a shrill yelp of extremely mirthless laughter and then exclaimed: "Well, I'm damned! I really am, Tony! I knew you had the cheek of the devil, but this is a record performance, even for you. So you have no recollection of having had the honour of meeting your lawful wife before! Haven't you, indeed? Don't happen to remember meeting her at the prison gate at Wormwood Scrubbs on Easter Sunday three years ago, when she wasn't too thin-skinned to ask for Mr. Septimus Neville, the swindler, then due for discharge? Eh? You recognized her quickly enough then, didn't you, when she took you home and gave you your first square meal? But now your memory has given out. You are looking pretty prosperous. Perhaps you have got another wife, with a bit of money. Hey? Have you?"
As she ran off this string of questions, Andrew looked at her with very mixed feelings. For himself, he was frankly terrified; but he would have given a great deal to be able to speak some comforting words to her. For, in spite of her harsh tones and fierce manner, there was a faint undertone of tenderness in her voice and a suggestion of wistfulness in the way she looked in his eyes. He was profoundly sorry for her, and it was with real regret that he repeated—unavoidably—his futile disclaimer. "I assure you, most solemnly, Mrs. Neville—if that is your name——"
"Oh, drop it, Tony!" she interrupted impatiently. "Don't be a fool! What's the use of this play-acting? There's nobody here but ourselves. Now, listen to me. If I had any sense, I should be only too glad to be quit of you. But I'm not. Women are fools, and I'm one of the biggest of them. You've been a regular bad egg. You had all my money and spent it—and you know how that money was got; you've given me the slip over and over again and left me to get my own living as best I could; you've gone off philandering with other women, and you may have one or two other wives for all I know. I ought to hate you but, as I said, I am a fool. I am ready now to forget it all if you will only come back to me."
As she paused, Andrew gazed at her helplessly, utterly at a loss what to say. He was deeply moved and would have offered consolation, but that, he realized, would only have enraged her. But his silence and the sympathy and pity that his looks expressed led only to further misunderstanding. The fierceness died out of her face and her eyes filled. "Come back to me, Tony," she urged in soft, coaxing tones, "and we will let bygones be bygones. I won't reproach you with what is past. You used to be fond of me, and I've never ceased to be fond of you. Come back and let us be as we were in the old days. I've got quite a decent job in the City, and I've made a nice little home out Brondesbury way. Come back to me, Tony, and I'll promise to make you as happy as you used to be. What do you say, Tony dear?"
The pitiful appeal in her swimming eyes and in the soft, wheedling tones of her voice wrung his heart. But he had to say something; and what could he say? It was a dreadful situation. At length, he stammered: "My dear lady, pray try to believe me when I assure you that there is some strange mistake, due no doubt, to an extraordinary resemblance. On my honour, you are a complete stranger to me."
The result was inevitable and clearly foreseen. In a moment all the softness faded out of her eyes; the blood rushed to her face and she drew herself up, formidable and menacing. "Now, listen," she commanded in a stem voice. "I give you one more chance, and it is the last. Drop this foolery instantly and do as I said. The door is still open. But go on with this mumming for another instant and the door will slam. And, by God, it is not the only door that will slam. You know what I mean; and you know me well enough to be aware that when I start to fight, the gloves are off. Now, what do you say?"
"I can only say what I said before," he replied miserably. "If you would only try to believe——"
"That will do!" she interrupted furiously. "I've given you fair warning; and now it's a fight to a finish."
She flung herself back on her seat and for the short remainder of the journey sat silent, crimson-faced and scowling, perfectly still, but with a stillness suggestive of violence repressed to bursting-point. Andrew felt as if he were travelling with a Mills bomb.
As the train approached his destination, he watched her with furtive anxiety. His expectation was that when he got out, she would follow him to ascertain where he lived. But, to his surprise and relief, she did not. When the train stopped at Hampstead Heath station and he rose to alight, she made no move; and when he opened the door and wished her a civil "good evening," she gave him one quick glance of concentrated anger and hatred and then averted her face.
Nevertheless, he walked very slowly along the platform, lingering at the farther end to see the train start; and it was not until it was well on the move that he turned towards the exit. And, even then, he waited at the foot of the stairs to see her carriage pass, and caught a fleeting glimpse of her face at the window, now glaring out at him like the face of some avenging Fury.
He drew a deep breath when the guard's van passed out and left the station empty. At least she was fairly out of his neighbourhood—for the present—and he was at liberty to consider precautions to avoid any future meetings. But so deep was the impression that she had made on him that, on leaving the station, instead of making his way directly to the town, he took the foot-path that leads past the ponds and made a wide detour of the Heath, approaching the town—or "village"—eventually from the Vale of Health. And as he strode across the open expanse of the Heath, with an occasional nervous glance behind him, and sneaked back towards his lodgings, he turned over in his mind the possible significance, as to the past and the future, of this ominous encounter; so ominous as, for th
e moment, to oust from his thoughts all his other difficulties and embarrassments.
Who was this woman?—this Mrs. Septimus Neville, if that was her name? He could have little doubt. She was Ronald's wife; and, therefore, in the existing circumstances, his wife. It was a very awkward situation. As he reflected on the grim farce, he could not but be struck by the malignant perversity of Fate. From what insignificant causes do the most portentous consequences ensue! When Professor Booley had consulted him as to the type of nose that was to be created, he had hardly taken the question seriously. He had expected no more than a more or less shapeless lump; and all that he had desired in that moment of panic was to be made as unlike Andrew Barton, the missing murderer, as might be. And so he had asked for a curved nose—and had straightway been transformed into the likeness of his cousin Ronald. It had turned out to be a fatal decision. If he had only asked for a straight nose, all would have been well. He would have ceased to be the murderer and yet he would have been no one else; merely a person with a good deal of resemblance to the late Andrew Barton. Then he would probably have had no difficulty with Molly; and with her help he could have lived, under an assumed name, in peace and security.
However, the deed was done and could not be undone. In slipping out of his own personality, he had slipped into that of another person; and thereby had taken over the reversion of that other person's crop of wild oats. And it seemed that those wild oats were now ripe for the harvest. This woman certainly meant mischief; very naturally, as Andrew felt. And she was no contemptible antagonist. She was a fine woman, picturesque and rather handsome in a way, and obviously strong, energetic and resolute. Obviously too, a woman of strong passions.
What was she planning to do? In his ignorance of her past—and his own, in his new character—he found her threats somewhat obscure. She had hinted darkly at some unlawful acts on his part, and had referred to the slamming of doors. What doors? The most probable answer was not a pleasant one.
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