The Mystery of M. Felix

"Do not ask me, Gerald."

"Forgive me; it is a painful remembrance. She is dead?"

Leonard did not reply, and Gerald repeated,

"She is dead? I am sorry, very sorry."

"You need not be. She lives."

"How did it happen? You were true to her, I am sure."

"For heaven's sake, Gerald, do not force me to answer you. Let us talk of something else."

"I open my heart to you," said Gerald, with sad insistence, "and you close yours to me."

"You cut me to the quick. Yes, I was true to her, but she was not true to me. There is the tragedy or the comedy-which you like, Gerald-related in less than a dozen words. It is a story which all men live to tell-all men, I mean, with the exception of yourself."

"I am a selfish brute, to compel you to expose your wounds. Poor Len! If she had been like my Emilia you would not have had to tell the tale. We can do nothing more to-night."

"Nothing that I can see."

"I am so full of my own grief that I forget to sympathize with yours, but I am truly sorry for you. At this moment Emilia is thinking of me; there is a spiritual whisper in the air which assures me of this. Would it be really best to go back to the hotel?"

"It would be wisest, both for your sake and for Emilia's. Early in the morning we can commence again. Gerald, to stop out any longer would be folly. You would not dare to knock at the door of any house at this hour and inquire for Emilia; it would be the ruin of her. You have her honor to guard, as well as your own happiness to look after."

"I am blind, and utterly, utterly selfish. Heaven has sent you to guide and counsel me. Yes, we will go."

They returned to the hotel, and Gerald gave directions that he should be called early in the morning. He and Leonard wished each other good-night, and retired to their separate rooms. As Leonard undressed he chuckled at the successful progress he had made. Everything had worked in his favor, and would so work to the end. He had no doubt of that, with his hand on the wheel. So he closed his eyes, and went to sleep contented and happy.

Gerald stood by the window and thought of Emilia. To-morrow they would be together; to-morrow all would be well. He threw the window open and looked out. Could his sight have reached the distance he would have seen a pitiful figure staggering on through country roads, stopping ever and anon to recover her breath, then starting feverishly on again, with panting bosom and streaming eyes, mournfully grateful for the darkness that encompassed her, and dreading the coming day. Slander's foul work was being accomplished. Dark as it was, Emilia saw the malignant eyes; silent as it was, she heard the hard voices. On and on she stumbled, praying for rest. Gerald was false; she did not care to live.

CHAPTER XXIX.

ON THE TRACK

As early, as practicable in the morning Gerald was astir, continuing his inquiries for the missing girl. Leonard, of course, accompanied him, with the pretence of being very busy and as anxious as Gerald for the success of the search, but inwardly fuming at his step-brother's activity. His spirits rose as hour after hour passed fruitlessly by; his hopeful anticipations were being realized; Emilia was gone, never to return again.

At three o'clock in the afternoon Gerald came to a standstill. The tortures he was suffering were reflected in his face.

"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Leonard, in his gentlest tone. "I can truly sympathize with you, Gerald."

"I know, Len, I know," said Gerald. "Let me think quietly; don't speak to me. Something must be done; something shall be done. It weighs like a sin upon my soul that I have driven my dear girl to misery. What must she think of me?"

All at once an inspiration fell upon him; his face lighted up; he spoke with hope and animation.

"Fool that I am," he cried, "to trust myself. I am going to my lawyers; if you care to come with me, Len-"

"Of course I care to come with you," interrupted Leonard. "But why to your lawyers? They cannot assist you."

"They can," said Gerald, in a decided tone; and they proceeded to the office arm-in-arm.

In a private interview with the head of the firm, at which Leonard was present, Gerald explained what he wanted. The firm was to set all their machinery to work at once to discover where Emilia had flown to; everything was to be done very quietly, and no expense was to be spared. When the young girl was found she was not to be informed that a search had been made for her, but she was to be carefully and secretly watched, and Gerald was to be immediately communicated with. That done, and Gerald conducted to the house in which Emilia had sought refuge, the business entrusted to the lawyers was concluded. Gerald left with the head of the firm a check for a large amount, in proof that he was thoroughly in earnest; and it was arranged that he or Leonard, or both of them, should return to their hotel and wait for news.

"If it is in the middle of the night," said Gerald, "let me know. Not a moment must be lost."

Then the step-brothers left the office and walked to their hotel. Leonard inwardly gave Gerald credit for being much more practical than he had imagined, but still hoped that his good luck would follow him, and that the business would fail. To Gerald the misery of entrusting the task to other hands lay in the necessity of his remaining inactive himself; but although he would not leave the hotel for fear that a messenger from the lawyers might arrive in his absence, he could not endure to remain idle. He sent a note to the kind maiden ladies who had sheltered Emilia, and received one in reply, to the effect that they had heard nothing of the lost girl; and at least once in every hour he despatched a communication to the lawyers, to which the invariable answer was that the inquiry was proceeding, but no clue had yet been discovered. Gerald did not undress that night; he slept fitfully in an arm-chair. Leonard prepared for any sacrifice in the furtherance of his own interests, took off his coat and waistcoat, and made himself as comfortable as he could with wraps and rugs on a sofa in the same room in which Gerald passed the night. Gerald urged him to go to bed, but he would not.

"It is not right," said the unhappy young man, "that you should share my fatigue and troubles. Go and have a good night's rest."

"I distinctly decline," replied Leonard, in an affectionate tone. "Your troubles are my troubles, and I feel them almost as deeply as yourself. My name is Thorough."

"There is no other man like you, I believe," said Gerald. "I will try and repay you one day."

"You shall repay me one day," thought Leonard, "and whatever I get will be richly earned."

Aloud, he said, "The only repayment I ask, my dear boy, is to see you happy with your Emilia. There, let us say no more about it. If you want me in the night you have only to call me, you will find me ready for anything."

Gerald woke a dozen times before daylight, and moved gently about so that he should not disturb his noble friend. He stole down to the night porter.

"No one has come for me?"

"No one, sir."

"If anyone calls send him to me instantly."

"Yes, sir."

It was a fortunate night for the porter, the tips he received from the distracted young man making a very handsome total. Gerald was grateful when morning broke. It would not be long before Emilia was in his arms. He made an effort to repair the disorder in his clothes and appearance, and long before the door of the lawyers' office was open one of his messengers was waiting for tidings. Still the same answer, always the same answer; no traces of Emilia had been found. He paced the room with the restlessness of a wild animal.

Once he stopped, and leaning heavily on Leonard's shoulder, whispered, "If she should be dead! Good God, if she should be dead!"

"So much the better for everybody," thought Leonard, as he passed his arm round Gerald's waist and endeavored to soothe him.

At noon the lawyer paid Gerald a visit.

"You have brought me news?" cried Gerald.

"None of a satisfactory nature," replied the lawyer. "We have ascertained for certain that the young lady is not in the town."

"But when she left the house in which she was sheltered," said Leonard, for Gerald was too overpowered to speak, "someone must have seen her."

"If so," said the lawyer, "we have not discovered the person, who has a good reason for coming forward, as we have offered handsome rewards for definite information of any kind concerning her. However, we have now taken other steps, and it is for the purpose of making Mr. Paget acquainted with them that I have paid this visit."

He paused, and Gerald motioned to him to continue.

"Being convinced that Miss Braham has left the town, we have despatched agents in every direction to track her down. These agents understand that they are to pursue their mission in the most delicate manner, and they are instructed to keep in regular telegraphic communication with us. My errand here is to communicate these proceedings to you, and to advise patience and" – with a significant look at Gerald-"peace of mind."

"I shall not know peace," said Gerald, "till she is found."

"All that is humanly possible is being done; we can do no more."

It was poor comfort, and it did not diminish the young man's distress. The lawyer remained for a few minutes longer, and then took his departure. The day waned, and the night, without any tidings, and on the following morning despair seemed to have reached its height in Gerald's mind.

"Upon my soul," thought Leonard, "I think he is going mad. Well, that would not be a bad ending to this insane hunt. I should be his guardian, and should know how to take care of him-and his money. His? No, mine, by the laws of nature."

During this day copies of telegrams received by the lawyers were sent to Gerald, but not one of them satisfactory.

"She is lost to me forever," groaned Gerald.

"Amen!" thought Leonard.

Early the next morning, however, a telegram was handed in with these words, "On the track." The lawyer hastened to Gerald.

"It is from one of our best men," he said. "Something will be known in the course of the day."

But it was not till another night had passed that Gerald learned where Emilia was.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE FLIGHT AND THE RESCUE

The terrors of the night on which Emilia fled to escape from her traducers produced an indelible effect upon her mind. Often in afterlife, when the brief gleam of sunshine she was destined to enjoy had died away, did she reflect with shudders upon the experiences of those few pregnant hours. From the moment of her departure until sunrise flooded the land with light, but brought only a deeper anguish to her soul, there was an interval of darkness lasting barely seven hours, but it seemed to her that it might have been seven times seven, so heavily charged were the minutes with black woe. Feeble as she was, and fragile as was her frame, she travelled a surprising distance during these interminable hours. When, compelled by exhaustion to rest, she had so far recovered as to be able to proceed, she ran with fleet foot to make up for lost time, until, breathless and panting, she came to a standstill, and caught at the nearest object for support, generally a fence or the branch of a tree. Sometimes she caught at shadows and fell, and lay supine awhile, to rise again in ever-growing despair and continue her flight; but moral forces are powerless against the forces of physical nature, and shortly after sunrise her strength gave way, and now when she fell she was unable from exhaustion to rise. She might have been able to continue her flight for still a brief space, had she not been climbing a hill, the exertion of which completely overpowered her. The spot upon which she fell commanded a view of a river. It stretched to the north and south of her, and in its waters were mirrored the gorgeous splendors of the rising sun. She did not see it at first, for it came into view only at the point she had reached; lower down the hill it was not visible to sight.

Presently, opening her eyes, she saw the jewelled shadows playing on the surface, and they so distressed her-yearning as she was for peace and rest-that her eyelids drooped, and she turned her head to avoid a picture which in happier circumstances she would have gazed upon with delight. But she knew the river was there.

For full half an hour she lay with her eyes closed, struggling with a horrible temptation. Then she turned to the water, struggled into a sitting posture, and gazed with wild eyes upon it. Not voluntarily and of her own free will; some evil spiritual power within her compelled her to do so.

It was quieter now. The gorgeous colors had died out of the skies and the river was in repose. "Come," it whispered, "come to my embrace, and end your woes." But the strong religious instinct within her enabled her to struggle with the frightful suggestion. "No, no!" she murmured, feebly putting her hands together. "Help me, dear Lord, to avoid the crime!" Her appeal did not banish the silent voices which urged her to seek oblivion, and, in oblivion, peace. How the struggle would have ended it is difficult to say, had not her fate been taken out of her own hands.

There came to her ears the crack of a whip and the sound of a human voice urging horses up the hill. She bowed her head upon her lap to hide her face from the stranger who was approaching her.

He was an old man in charge of a wagon and a team of horses. The cattle were willing enough, and fresh for their day's work, and it was only from habit that their driver was shouting words of encouragement to them. They reached the summit of the hill, and the wagoner, merciful to his beasts, eased them a bit. It was then his eyes fell upon the form of Emilia. He approached her and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She shivered and shrank from his touch. At this human contact, the first she had experienced since her flight from the house of the maiden sisters, there seemed to come upon her a more complete consciousness of the shame and degradation into which she had been thrust. That it was unmerited mattered not. It clung to her, and was proclaimed in her face. How, then, could she raise her head to meet the gaze of any human being?

"In trouble, my lass?" asked the wagoner, kindly. With but an imperfect observation of her, he knew that she was young.

Emilia made no reply, but let her shoulder droop, so that his hand might not touch her.

"Can I help you?"

No sound, and now no further movement, from the hapless girl. He lingered a moment or two longer, and then slowly left her. Giving the word, his team began to descend the hill. But at the bottom of the descent, with a level road before him, he pulled up his cattle again, and turned with sad eyes to the spot where he had left Emilia, who was hidden from his sight.

This man had a history-as what man has not? – and it is probable that Emilia was saved from suicide by the remembrance of the most dolorous experience in his life. He was nearer seventy than sixty years of age, but he was strong and lusty still, and his heart had not been soured or embittered by trouble. The story of his special grief is a common one enough, and can be narrated in a few words. He was a married man, and his old wife was waiting at home for him, five and thirty miles away. Children had they none, but thirty years ago they had a daughter, who left them secretly upon the persuasion of a scoundrel. The villain took her to London, and after she had enjoyed a brief spell of false happiness she found herself deserted and friendless. In her despair she crept back to the home of which she had been the joy, but she had not the courage to enter it and beg for forgiveness. Her body was discovered in a river hard by, and in her pocket a letter to her parents, relating her story, and praying them to think kindly of her. That is all.

It was the memory of this daughter that caused the wagoner to turn toward Emilia. Perhaps the poor girl was in a strait similar to that of his own lost child. Had she met a kind heart, had a helping hand been stretched out to her, she might have been saved to them, might have been living at this very day to comfort and cheer her aged parents. He would make another effort to ascertain the trouble of the lonely girl who had shrunk from his touch. Up the hill he climbed, having no fear for his horses, who would only start again at the sound of his voice.

Emilia had risen to her feet, and her trembling hands were extended to the river, as though to push it from her, while her form swayed toward it. He saw her face now, and his heart beat with pity for her. It may have been fancy, but he fancied he saw in her a resemblance to his lost child. So engrossed was Emilia in the terrible struggle that was raging in her soul that she was not aware she was observed until the wagoner seized her arm, and said,

"My dear, let me help you in your trouble."

It was like the voice of an angel who had come to her rescue. She threw her arms about him, and cried, in a voice of exhaustion:

"Save me, save me!"

"It's what I've come for, my dear," said the wagoner, holding her up. "Where is your home?"

"Home!" she echoed, hysterically, "I have none! I am alone in the world-alone, alone!"

"No father or mother?"

"None."

"No friends?"

"None-not one."

"What can I do for you?"

"Take me from the river. Hark! Do you not hear what it is whispering to me? I am exhausted; my strength is gone, and I can no longer resist. If you leave me here I shall die!"

"But you do not know where I am going."

"It does not matter. Anywhere, anywhere, so that I can have rest. Hide me-hide me! Oh, my heart, my heart!"

Upon this she burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and the good wagoner saw that she was not in a fit state to answer further questions. Endeavoring to calm her, he assisted her down the hill to where his team was standing, but before they reached it she swooned. It was not an easy task to lift her into the shelter of his wagon, but he managed it, and made up a bed of straw upon which he laid her. Then he started his horses again, and was careful to avoid ruts, in order not to jolt his fair guest too roughly. He had the whole day before him, and it would do if he reached his home before night. Now and again he mounted the wagon to look at Emilia, and was concerned that he could obtain no coherent words from her. The poor girl's trials had produced their effect upon her weak frame, and she was fast relapsing into delirium. All that he could distinguish in her feverish mutterings were the words, "I am innocent, I am innocent! I have done no wrong. God will speak for me!" Even these pathetic utterances came from her at intervals, and he had to piece them together. Her youth and beauty deeply impressed the kind-hearted man, and he did not regret the course he had taken. In the middle of the day he arrived at a village, and gave his horses two hours' rest. He utilized these two hours by hunting up a doctor, who, feeling Emilia's pulse and putting his hand on her hot forehead, said, "She is in a high state of fever. The only thing you can do is to get her home as quickly as possible." He believed her to be the wagoner's daughter, and he gave the old man a draught which Emilia was to be persuaded to take, should she have an interval of consciousness before they reached their journey's end. The wagoner's anxiety now was to get home as soon as possible, and the roads being good he put his horses to a trot. At six o'clock in the evening the journey was over, and the team stood at the door of his cottage. His old wife ran out to greet him, and he rapidly explained to her what he had done, and why he had done it.

"Was it right, mother?" he asked.

The tears rushed to her eyes. It was thirty years since he had addressed her by that endearing term, and she thought, as he had thought, of the daughter they had lost in the time gone by. There are memories that never die.

"Quite right, John," murmured the old woman, and together they carried Emilia into their cottage and laid her upon a bed. There the wagoner left his wife to attend to the young girl; he had his horses to look after, and when this was done he returned to the cottage, to find Emilia undressed and in bed, with the old woman standing by her side.

"We must have a doctor, John," she said, and away he went for one.

The report was not favorable; Emilia was prostrate, and now that the strain was over a dangerous reaction had set in. The doctor gave it as his opinion that she would not be well for weeks, and so it proved. But long before she was convalescent Gerald, accompanied by Leonard, made his appearance, and thus the unfortunate girl had near her one enemy and three friends. Which side would triumph in the end?

CHAPTER XXXI.

LIGHT SHINES THROUGH THE DARK CLOUDS

Leonard cursed his ill luck, cursed Gerald for his infatuation, cursed Emilia for stepping in to spoil his plans, cursed the wagoner and his wife for their kindness toward her-in short, cursed everything and everybody except himself, whom he regarded as the person who was being wronged in the affair. But he wore a constant smile upon his lips, his words were honey, and the consideration he expressed for Emilia was perfect in its way. Sometimes when he spoke of her it was in a choked voice, and he was certainly successful in deceiving everyone around him. His one hope now was that Emilia would die, and could he have done so without risk to himself, he would cheerfully have given her a cup of poison to bring about that consummation.

Gerald's great grief was that Emilia did not recognize him. Indeed, she knew no one. Even when she was able to move about her mind was a blank. She allowed him to take her hand in his, and to retain it, but to the tender pressure of his fingers she made no response. They took woodland rambles together, hand in hand, and she gathered wild flowers which she arranged afterward in the cottage. She listened to all he said, nodding her head gently from time to time in a manner which made his heart beat with hope that she understood what he was speaking of. Of course the subject-matter, when originated by Gerald, was personal. He dilated upon his love for her, and explained again and again how it was that he had not come to her the day after the fire; and when he finished she gazed at him with a pitiful smile on her lips and a vacant look in her eyes, which proved too well that his words had fallen upon ears insensible to their meaning. Upon abstract matters she was more intelligent. She loved the animals about the cottage, and the dumb creatures loved her and obeyed her least motion; she loved the flowers that were gathered, but Gerald observed with pain that she tended with care only those she gathered herself. When he gave her any she accepted them gently, but presently they dropped from her hand, and she made no effort to pick them up. "I have wrecked her reason," he groaned. "Monster that I am, I have ruined my dear girl's life!" As for Leonard, he derived some satisfaction from what was transpiring. "She is drifting into a confirmed idiot," he thought. "It is not so good as getting rid of her altogether, but I am grateful for small mercies."

It had been arranged between Gerald and Leonard that a certain secrecy should be observed in their proceedings. Leonard did not exactly know how this would be to his advantage, but he had a dim idea that it might be so turned, and that at all events it would be better than making a full disclosure of all that had transpired. When Leonard mooted the plan Gerald asked what would be the good of it, and Leonard answered:

"My poor boy! What a simpleton you are, and how little you know the world. It is the publicity of the thing that has driven Emilia to the injudicious course she has pursued, for I do not disguise from you that it would have been far better for her had she remained to face matters boldly."

"It was impossible she should do so," said Gerald. "My dear girl's nature is far too sensitive and delicate to cope with such snakes in the grass as Mrs. Seaton."

"Granted; but although there would have been suffering, I still maintain it would have been the better course. I repeat that it is the publicity of the unfortunate affair that has directed her movements. Would she have run away, had she not been found in your house?"