by Hugh Conway
‘It is important business.’
‘Then I fear it must wait a few days. Ceneri is not in Geneva. But I have reason to think he may be here in about a week’s time. I shall see him, and tell him you are here.’
‘Let me know where to find him and I will call upon him. I must speak with him.’
‘I imagine that will be as the doctor chooses. I can only make known your wishes to him.’
He bowed and left me. I felt that even now it was doubtful whether I should succeed in obtaining the interview with the mysterious doctor. It depended entirely whether he chose to grant it. He might come to Geneva and go away again without my being any the wiser, unless his friend or himself sent me some communication.
I idled away a week, and then began to fear that Ceneri had made up his mind to keep out of my way. But it was not so. A letter came one morning. It contained a few words only. ‘You wish to see me. A carriage will call for you at eleven o’clock. M.C.’
At eleven o’clock an ordinary hired conveyance drove up to the hotel. The driver inquired for Mr Vaughan. I stepped in without a word, and was driven to a small house outside the town. Upon being shown into a room I found the doctor seated at a table covered with newspapers and letters. He rose, and shaking my hand begged me to be seated.
‘You have come to Geneva to see me, I hear, Mr Vaughan?’
‘Yes. I wished to ask you some questions respecting my wife.’
‘I will answer all I can—but there are many to which I shall doubtless refuse to reply. You remember my stipulation?’
‘Yes, but why did you not make me aware of my wife’s peculiar mental state?’
‘You had seen her yourself several times. Her state was the same as when she first proved so attractive to you. I am sorry you should think yourself deceived.’
‘Why not have told me everything? Then I could have blamed no one.’
‘I had so many reasons, Mr Vaughan. Pauline was a great responsibility on my shoulders. A great expense, for I am a poor man. And, after all, is the matter so very bad? She is beautiful, good, and amiable. She will make you a loving wife.’
‘You wished to get rid of her, in fact.’
‘Scarcely that altogether. There are circumstances—I cannot explain them—which made me glad to marry her to an Englishman of good position.’
‘Without thinking what that man’s feelings might be on finding the woman he loved little better than a child.’
I felt indignant, and showed my feelings very plainly. Ceneri took little notice of my warmth. He remained perfectly calm.
‘There is another point to be considered. Pauline’s case is, in my opinion, far from being hopeless. Indeed, I have always looked upon marriage as greatly adding to the chance of her recovery. If her mind to a certain extent is wanting, I believe that, little by little, it may be built up again. Or it may return as suddenly as it left her.’
My heart leapt at his words of hope. Cruelly as I felt I had been treated, tool that I had been made for this man’s selfish ends, I was willing to accept the situation cheerfully if I had any hope held out to me.
‘Will you give me all the particulars of my poor wife’s state? I conclude she has not been always like this?’
‘Certainly not. Her case is most peculiar. Some years ago she received a great shock—sustained a sudden loss. The effect was to entirely blot out the past from her mind. She rose from her bed after some weeks’ illness with her memory a complete blank. Places were forgotten—friends were strangers to her. Her mind might, as you say, have been the mind of a child. But a child’s mind grows, and, if treated properly, so will hers.’
‘What was the cause of her illness—what shock?’
‘That is one of the questions I cannot answer.’
‘But I have a right to know.’
‘You have a right to ask, and I have a right to refuse to speak.’
‘Tell me of her family—her relatives.’
‘She has none, I believe, save myself.’
I asked other questions, but could get no answers worth recording. I should return to England not much wiser than I left it. But there was one question to which I insisted on having a clear reply.
‘What has that friend of yours—that English-speaking Italian, to do with Pauline?’
Ceneri shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
‘Macari? I am glad to be able to answer something fully, Mr Vaughan. For a year or two before Pauline was taken ill, Macari supposed himself to be in love with her. He is now furious with me for allowing her to get married. He declares he was only awaiting her recovery to try his own luck.’
‘Why should he not have served your purpose as well as I seem to have?’
Ceneri looked at me sharply. ‘Do you regret, Mr Vaughan?’
‘No—not if there is a chance, even a slight chance. But I tell you, Dr Ceneri, you have deceived me shamefully.’
I rose to take my leave. Then Ceneri spoke with more feeling than he had as yet displayed.
‘Mr Vaughan, do not judge me too harshly. I have wronged you, I admit. There are things you know nothing of. I must tell you more than I intended. The temptation to place Pauline in a position of wealth and comfort was irresistible. I am her debtor for a vast amount. At one time her fortune was about fifty thousand pounds. The whole of that I spent—’
‘And dare to boast of it!’ I said, bitterly.
He waved his hand with dignity.
‘Yes. I dare to speak of it. I spent it all for freedom—for Italy. It was in my keeping as trustee. I, who would have robbed my own father, my own son, should I hesitate to take her money for such an end? Every farthing went to the great cause, and was well spent.’
‘It was the act of a criminal to rob an orphan.’
‘Call it what you like. Money had to be found. Why should I not sacrifice my honour for my country as freely as I would have sacrificed my life?’
‘It is no use discussing it—the matter is ended.’
‘Yes, but I tell you to show you why I wished to gain Pauline a home. Moreover, Mr Vaughan’—here his voice dropped to a whisper—‘I was anxious to provide that home at once. I am bound on a journey—a journey of which I cannot see the end, much less the returning. I doubt whether I should have decided to see you had it not been for this. But the chances are we shall never meet again.’
‘You mean you are engaged in some plot or conspiracy?’
‘I mean what I have said—no more, no less. I will now bid you adieu.’
Angry as I was with the man, I could not refuse the hand he stretched out to me.
‘Farewell,’ he said, ‘it may be that in some year or two I shall write to you and ask you if my predictions as to Pauline’s recovery have been fulfilled; but do not trouble to seek me or to inquire for me if I am silent.’
So we parted. The carriage was waiting to take me back to the hotel. On my way thither I passed the man whom Ceneri had called Macari. He signalled to the driver to stop, and then entering the carriage sat beside me.
‘You have seen the doctor, Mr Vaughan?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I have just come from him.’
‘And have learned all you wish to know, I hope?’
‘A great many of my questions have been answered.’
‘But not all. Ceneri would not answer all.’
He laughed, and his laugh was cynical and mocking. I kept silence.
‘Had you questioned me,’ he continued, ‘I might have told you more than Ceneri.’
‘I came here to ask Dr Ceneri for all the information he could give me respecting my wife’s mental state, of which I believe you are aware. If you can say anything that may be of use to me, I will beg you to speak.’
‘You asked him what caused it?’
‘I did. He told me a shock.’
‘You asked him what shock. That he did not tell you?’
‘He had his reasons for declining, I suppose.’
‘Yes. Excellent reasons�
��family reasons.’
‘If you can enlighten me, kindly do so.’
‘Not here, Mr Vaughan. The doctor and I are friends. You might fly back and assault him, and I should get blamed. You are going back to England, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I start at once.’
‘Give me your address, and perhaps I will write; or, better still, if I feel inclined to be communicative, I will call upon you when I am next in London, and pay my respects to Mrs Vaughan at the same time.’
So eager was I to get at the bottom of the affair that I gave him my card. He then stopped the carriage and stepped out. He raised his hat, and there was a malicious triumph in his eyes as they met mine.
‘Goodbye, Mr Vaughan. Perhaps after all you are to be congratulated upon being married to a woman whose past it is impossible to rake up.’
With this parting shaft—a shaft which struck deep and rankled—he left me. It was well he did so, before I caught him by the throat and strove to force him to explain his last words.
Longing to see my poor wife again, I went back to England with all speed.
CHAPTER VII
CLAIMING RELATIONSHIP
YES, she was glad to see me back! In her uncertain, clouded way she welcomed me. My great fear, that in the short time she would have entirely forgotten me, was groundless She knew me and welcomed me. My poor Pauline! If I could but find the way to bring those truant senses back once more!
For months and months nothing of importance occurred. If my love’s mind was, as Ceneri predicted, to be gradually restored, the process was a tedious one. At times I thought her better—at times worse. The fact is there was little or no change in her condition. Hour after hour she sits in her apathy and listlessness; speaking only when spoken to; but willing to come with me anywhere; do anything I suggest, whenever, alas! I express my wish in words she can comprehend. Poor Pauline!
The greatest doctors in England have seen her. Each says the same thing. She may recover; but each tells me the recovery would be made more possible if the exact circumstances which brought about the calamity were known. These I doubt if we shall ever learn.
For Ceneri has made no sign, nor has Macari sent his promised information. The latter after his last malicious words I dread more than I wish for. Teresa, who might have thrown some light on the subject, has disappeared. I blame myself for not having asked the doctor where she was to be found; but doubtless he would have declined to tell me. So the days go on. All I can do is, with Priscilla’s assistance, to ensure that my poor girl is made as happy as can be, and hope that time and care may at length restore her.
We are still at Walpole Street. My intention had been to buy a house and furnish it. But why? Pauline could not look after it—would not be interested in it—it would not be home. So we stay on at my old lodgings and I live almost the life of a hermit.
I care to see no friends. I am, indeed, blamed for forsaking all my old acquaintances. Some who have seen Pauline attribute my lack of hospitality to jealousy; some to other causes; but, as yet, I believe no one knows the truth.
There are times when I feel I cannot bear my grief—times when I wish that Kenyon had never led me inside that church at Turin: but there are other times when I feel that, in spite of all, my love for my wife, hopeless as it is, has made me a better and even a happier man. I can sit for hours looking at her lovely face, even as I could looking at a picture or a statue. I try to imagine that face lit up with bright intelligence, as once it must have been. I long to know what can have drawn that dark curtain over her mind, and I pray that one day it may fall aside and I may see her eyes responsive to my own. If I felt sure this would ever be I would wait without a murmur, if needs be, till our hair has grown grey.
I have this poor consolation—whatever the effect of our marriage may have been upon my life, it has, at least, not made my wife’s lot a sadder one. Her days I am sure must be brighter than those when she was under the supervision of that terrible old Italian woman. Priscilla loves her and pets her like a child, whilst I—well, I do everything I can which I fancy may give her such pleasure as she is capable of feeling. Sometimes, not always, she seems to appreciate my efforts, and once or twice she has taken my hand and raised it to her lips as if in gratitude. She is beginning to love me as a child may love its father, as some weak helpless creature may love its protector. This is a poor recompense, but I am thankful even for this.
So, in our quiet household, the days pass by and the months glide away until the winter is over and the laburnums and lilacs in the little plots in front of houses in the suburbs are in bud.
It is fortunate that I am fond of books. Without that taste life would indeed be colourless. I have not the heart to leave Pauline alone and seek society on my own account. I spend my hours every day reading and studying, whilst my wife sits in the same room, silent, unless I address a remark to her.
It is a matter of great grief to me that I am almost entirely debarred from hearing the sound of music. I soon discovered that its effect upon Pauline was prejudicial. The notes which soothed me, in some way seemed to irritate her and make her uneasy. So, unless she is out somewhere with old Priscilla and I am left alone, the piano is unopened; the music books lie unused. Only those who love music as I love it can understand how great a deprivation this is to me.
One morning as I sat alone I was told that a gentleman wished to see me. He gave the servant no name, but instructed her to say that he was from Geneva. I knew it must be Macari. My first impulse was to send back word that I would not see him. Again and again, since our last meeting, his words had come back to me—those words which hinted at something in Pauline’s past which her uncle had an object in concealing. But each time I thought of them I discovered they were only the malicious insinuation of a disappointed man, who having failed to win the woman he loved, wished to make his favoured rival suspicious and unhappy. I feared nothing he could say against my wife, but disliking the man, I hesitated before giving instructions for his admittance.
Yet Macari was the only link between Pauline and her past; Ceneri I felt sure I should never see again; this man was the only one remaining from whom it was possible to learn anything respecting my wife. The one person whose appearance could, by any chance, stimulate that torpid memory, and, perhaps, influence the state of her mind by suggesting, no matter how dimly, scenes and events in which he must have played a part. So thinking, I decided that the man should be admitted, and, moreover that he should be brought face to face with Pauline. If he wished to do so he might speak to her of old days, even old passion—anything that might aid her to pick up and retrace those dropped threads of memory.
He entered my room and greeted me with what I knew to be assumed cordiality. I felt, in spite of the hearty grasp he gave my hand, that he meant his visit to bode no good to me. What did I care why he came? I wanted him for a purpose. With the end in view, what mattered the tool, if I could keep it from turning in my hand and wounding me?—and this was to be seen.
I met him with a greeting almost as cordial as his own; I begged him to be seated, then rang for wine and cigars.
‘You see I have kept my promise, Mr Vaughan,’ he said, with a smile.
‘Yes. I trusted you would do so. Have you been long in England?’
‘Only a couple of days.’
‘How long do you stay?’
‘Until I am called abroad again. Things have gone wrong with us there. I must wait until the atmosphere has quietened down.’
I looked at him inquiringly.
‘I fancied you knew my trade,’ he said. ‘I supposed you are a conspirator—I don’t use the word offensively; it is the only one I can think of.’
‘Yes. Conspirator—regenerator—apostle of freedom, whatever you like.’
‘But your country has been free for some years.’
‘Other countries are not free. I work for them. Our poor friend Ceneri did the same, but his last day’s work is done.’
‘Is he de
ad?’ I asked, startled
‘Dead to all of us. I cannot give you particulars; but a few weeks after you left Geneva he was arrested in St Petersburg. He lay in prison for months awaiting his trial. It has come off, I hear.’
‘Well, what has happened to him?’
‘What always happens—our poor friend is at this moment on his way to Siberia, condemned to twenty years’ hard labour in the mines.’
Although I bore no particular love toward Ceneri, I shuddered as I heard his fate.
‘And you escaped?’ I said.
‘Naturally, or I should not be here smoking your very good cigars and sipping your capital claret.’
I was disgusted at the indifference with which he spoke of his friend’s misfortune. If it seemed horrible to me to think of the man working in the Siberian mines, what should it have seemed to his fellow conspirator?
‘Now, Mr Vaughan,’ said the latter, ‘with your permission I will enter on business matters with you. I am afraid I shall surprise you.’
‘Let me hear what you have to say.’
‘First of all I must ask you what Ceneri told you about myself?’
‘He told me your name.’
‘Nothing of my family? He did not tell you my true name any more than he told you his own? He did not tell you it was March, and that Pauline and I are brother and sister?’
I was astonished at this announcement. In the face of the doctor’s assertions that this man had been in love with Pauline, I did not for a moment believe it: but thinking it better to hear his tale out, I simply replied, ‘He did not.’
‘Very well—then I will tell you my history as briefly as I can. I am known by many names abroad, but my right name is Anthony March. My father and Pauline’s married Dr Ceneri’s sister. He died young and left the whole of his large property to his wife absolutely. She died some time afterwards, and in turn left everything in my uncle’s hands as sole trustee for my sister and myself. You know what became of the money, Mr Vaughan?’