by Hugh Conway
Seeing that I paused for her to speak she found her voice, but even that seemed to have lost some of its freshness and tone.
‘When do you go?’ was all she said. Not a word about my return!
‘By the midday coach. I have still some hours left. As it is the last time, shall we walk to the Clearing together?’
‘Do you wish it?’
‘If you have no objection. Besides, I want to speak to you about yourself—about business matters,’ I added, to show that she need not fear the interview.
‘I will come,’ she said, quitting the room hurriedly.
I waited. Presently Priscilla appeared. She was looking daggers at me—undeserved, at least from her. Her voice was harsh and raspy, bringing back to my mind a familiar sound of early childhood, when I had committed some petty crime which excited her ire.
‘Miss Pauline begs you will walk on and not wait for her. She will join you at the Clearing presently.’
I took my hat and prepared to do as commanded. Priscilla had said nothing which showed she knew of my approaching departure, but as I was passing out of the house she said, in a tone of withering scorn, ‘Master Gilbert, you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were.’
Such an observation, even from an old servant, could not be passed by. I turned to remonstrate. Priscilla simply slammed the door almost against my nose.
I walked away—the thing in the face of my other troubles was not worth a thought. Of course I could not expect Priscilla to enter into my feelings and appreciate the delicacy of my position. Besides, I must see her and have a long talk with her before I left.
The Clearing, as we called it, was a place on the hillside, not far away. We had stumbled upon it, almost by accident, during our walks. A seldom-trodden path through the wood led to a spot from which the trees and undergrowth had been cleared. From it there was a delightful view of the opposite hills and the stream winding through the valley. It was a favourite resort of mine. Here I had sat for hours talking to Pauline and here in my dreams I had poured forth the words of love I longed to speak—and here I was to say goodbye forever!
My frame of mind was a sad one when I reached the Clearing. I threw myself down on the sloping ground and turned my eyes up the path by which she must come. A fallen trunk at my back formed a rest for my head—the trees around were rustling in the soft breeze—the monotonous rush of the stream below was soothing and lulling—a few white clouds sailed slowly across the sky. It was a drowsy, dreamy, beautiful morning. I had scarcely slept for the last two or three nights. Pauline lingered. Is it any wonder that my eyes closed and for a while all sorrow and disappointment were chased away by the sleep I so sorely needed?
Was it sleep? Yes, because one must sleep in order to dream. Ah! if that dream were reality, life would be worth having. I dreamed that my wife was beside me, that she took my hand and pressed her lips to it passionately, that her cheek was almost touching mine, that I could feel her soft, sweet breath. So real did it seem that I turned on my hard rustic pillow towards the dream, and then of course it vanished.
I opened my eyes. In front of me stood Pauline. Those grand dark eyes of hers no longer veiled by the lashes, but open and looking into mine. I saw them but for a second, but that was long enough for the look I had surprised to send the blood throbbing through my veins—to make me spring to my feet—to embolden me to take her suddenly and swiftly in my arms—to cover her sweet face with kisses, ejaculating the only words that one can find at such a time, ‘I love you! I love you! I love you!’
For no man yet has seen in a woman’s eyes the look I saw in Pauline’s unless that woman loves him above all the world.
No words can describe the rapture of that moment—the revulsion of my feelings. She was mine, my own forever. I knew it; I could feel it every time my lips touched hers. The bright blush which spread from her cheek to her neck proclaimed it—her suffering without resistance my passionate caresses confirmed it—but let me hear it from those sweet lips!
‘Pauline! Pauline!’ I cried; ‘do you love me?’
A trembling which I knew was of joy passed over her.
‘Do I love you! love you!’ she said, and hid her blushing face on my shoulder. The words, the action, was enough, but presently she raised her head and pressed her lips to mine.
‘I love you—yes, I love you, my husband!’
‘When did you know? When did you remember?’
For a moment she answered not. She broke from my embrace; then, opening the bosom of her dress, drew forth a blue ribbon which hung round her neck. Upon it were threaded the two rings. They seemed to sparkle with joy in the bright sun.
She detached them and held them towards me. ‘Gilbert, my love, my husband, if you will that I shall be your wife, if you think me worthy of it, take them and place them where they should be.’
And then once more, with many a kiss, many a vow, I placed the rings upon her finger and knew that my troubles were at an end.
‘But when did you know—when did the memory come back?’
‘Dearest,’ she whispered, and her voice sounded like music, ‘I knew it when I saw you standing on the river bank. It came to me all at once. Till then all was dark. I saw your face and knew everything.’
‘Why did you not tell me?’
She hung her head. ‘I wanted to find out if you loved me. Why should you do so? If you did not we could part, and I would set you free if possible. But not now, Gilbert; you will never get rid of me now.’
Her thoughts had been the same as mine. No wonder I had misunderstood her. The idea of her waiting to see if I loved her seemed so preposterous!
‘You would have saved me days of grief if I had known you cared for me. Why did you take off the rings, Pauline?’
‘Day after day passed and you said nothing. Then I took them off. They have been next to my heart ever since, waiting for you to give back when you chose.’
I kissed the hand on which they shone. ‘Then all is clear to you now, my own wife?’
‘Not quite all, but enough. The truth, the love, the devotion—all this, my husband, I can remember—all this I will repay, if my love can do it.’
Our wooing may close with these words—let all the rest be sacred. The trees around alone know what passed between us, as their kindly shade fell on us where we sat and interchanged our words of love whilst hour after hour of our second and real wedding day slipped by. At last we rose, but lingered yet awhile, as though loath to leave the spot where happiness had come to us. We looked round once more and bid farewell to hill and valley and stream: we gazed long in each other’s eyes, our lips met again in a passionate kiss; then we went forth together to the world and the new sweet life awaiting us.
We walked as in a dream, from which we were only recalled by the sight of houses and people.
‘Pauline!’ I whispered, ‘can you leave this place tonight? We will go to London.’
‘And afterwards?’ she asked, wistfully.
‘Can you ask me? To Italy, of course.’
She thanked me with a look and pressure of her hand. We were now at her home. She left me, passing Priscilla, whose honest eyes were glowering at me. Priscilla had called me a fool; I must be revenged.
‘Priscilla,’ I said gravely, ‘I am going by this evening’s coach. I will write when I get to London.’
I had my revenge in full. The good old soul almost fell weeping at my feet.
‘Oh, Master Gilbert, don’tee, don’tee go, sir! That poor young lady, Miss Pauline, what will she do? She loves the very ground you tread upon.’
I had bargained for reproaches, not sentiment of this kind. I laid my hand upon her shoulder.
‘But, Priscilla, Miss Pauline—Mrs Vaughan, my wife, goes with me.’
Priscilla’s tears came more copiously than before, but they were tears of joy.
Ten days later and Pauline stood by her brother’s grave. By her own wish she visited it alone. I waited at the gate of the cemetery unt
il she rejoined me. Her face was very pale, her eyes showed traces of many tears, but she smiled as she met my anxious glance.
‘Gilbert, my husband,’ she said, ‘I have wept, but now I smile. The past is the past. Let its darkness be dispersed by the brightness of the present and the promise of the future. Let the love I bore my brother be carried into the greater love I give my husband. Let us turn our backs on the dark shadows and begin our lives.’
Have I more to tell? One thing only.
Years afterwards I was in Paris. The great war had been fought out to the bitter end. Traces of the conflict between the two races had almost vanished, but those of the second and internecine contest were visible everywhere. The Gaul himself had destroyed what the Teuton spared. The Tuileries, with sightless, empty eyes, gazed sadly toward the Place de la Concord, where stood the statues of the fair lost provinces. The Vendôme column lay prostrate. The fair city was charred and blackened by the incendiary torches of her own sons; but the flames had been some time extinguished and ample revenge had been taken. A gay young officer, a friend of mine, took me to see a military prison. We were chatting and smoking in the open air when a small body of soldiers appeared. They were escorting three men, who walked with fettered hands and bowed heads.
‘Who are they?’ I asked.
‘Blackguard Communists.’
‘Where are they taking them?’
The Frenchmen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Where they ought all to be taken—to be shot, the brutes!’
Brutes or not, three men who have but a minute to live must be objects of interest, if not sympathy. I looked closely at them as they passed us. One of them raised his head and stared me in the face. It was Macari!
I started as his eyes met mine, but I am not ashamed to say the movement was caused by no feeling of compassion. Ceneri, in spite of myself, I pitied, and would have aided had it been possible, but this ruffian, liar and traitor should have gone to his doom, even if I could have saved him by lifting a finger. He had passed long ago out of my life, but my blood still boiled when I thought of him and his crimes. I knew not how he had lived since I last saw him—knew not whom or how many he had betrayed; but if Justice had been slow in claiming him, her sword had at last reached him and his end was close at hand.
He knew me—perhaps he thought I had come there to gloat over his punishment. A look of bitter hate crossed his face. He stopped and cursed me. The guard forced him on. He turned his head and cursed me until one of the soldiers smote him on the mouth. The action may have been cruel, but there was little mercy shown to Communists in those days. The guard and their prisoners turned round an angle of the building.
‘Shall we see the end?’ said my friend, flipping the ash off his cigar.
‘No, thank you.’
But we heard it. In ten minutes the rattle of rifles sounded, and I knew that the last and the guiltiest of Anthony March’s murderers had found his deserts.
I remembered my promise to Ceneri. With great trouble I managed to get a message sent which I believed would reach him. Six months afterwards a letter stamped with innumerable hieroglyphical postmarks was delivered to me. It told me that the prisoner to whom I had written had died two years after his arrival at the mines. So the lesser criminal had not the satisfaction of knowing the fate of the man who had betrayed him.
My tale is told. My life and Pauline’s began when we turned from the cemetery and resolved to forget the past. Since then our joys and griefs have been the same as those of thousands. As I write this in my happy country house, blessed with wife and children, I wonder if I could ever have been that blind man who heard those fearful sounds and who saw afterwards that terrible sight. Could it have been I who rushed from one end of Europe to the other to set at rest a doubt which I blush at even harbouring? Could it have been Pauline, whose eyes now shine with love and intelligence, who lay for months, even years, with the sweet bells of her intellect jangled and out of tune?
Yes, it must be so; for she has read every line I have written, and as we peruse and revise this last page her arm steals round me, and she says, insisting that I shall record her utterance:
‘Too much, too much of me, my husband, not enough of what you did and have always done for me!’
With this, the only difference of opinion that exists between us, my tale may end.
THE END
THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB
‘THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB is a clearing house for the best detective and mystery stories chosen for you by a select committee of experts. Only the most ingenious crime stories will be published under the THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB imprint. A special distinguishing stamp appears on the wrapper and title page of every THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB book—the Man with the Gun. Always look for the Man with the Gun when buying a Crime book.’—Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., 1929
Now the Man with the Gun is back in this series of COLLINS CRIME CLUB reprints, and with him the chance to experience the classic books that influenced the Golden Age of crime fiction.
LIST OF TITLES
THE PERFECT CRIME • ISRAEL ZANGWILL
THE MAYFAIR MYSTERY • FRANK RICHARDSON
THE MYSTERY OF THE SKELETON KEY
BERNARD CAPES
THE GRELL MYSTERY • FRANK FROEST
DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE • R. L. STEVENSON
FURTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION
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