The Mystery of M. Felix

"Is he going away, then?" asked Emilia, startled at the news.

"For a short time only, I hope, and I shall go with him. His failing sight has caused us great anxiety, and the doctors here can do nothing for him. We intend to go to Paris, to consult an eminent specialist, and I trust he will come home quite cured. So that it is as well he has spoken to Constance. Indeed I suspect his projected departure caused him to open his heart to her earlier than he intended. Some persons are opposed to early marriages; I am not; and to judge from your looks you must be of my opinion. You married young?"

"Yes," replied Emilia, faintly. Her fears revived; her undefined apprehension of evil was beginning to take shape.

"Your name Braham, might belong to any nationality. Was your husband French?"

"He was English." Her throat was dry; she could scarcely articulate her words. M. Bordier looked at her in concern. "You are not well."

"A sudden faintness, that is all," said Emilia, in a firmer tone. She must not give way; her daughter's happiness was at stake. "It has passed off now."

"English? And you are English also?"

"Yes."

"I remember when the good Madame Lambert brought you here, that there was some curiosity felt as to your nationality, but Madame Lambert silenced it by saying that you would prefer not to refer to the past. That was woman's talk, and it soon ceased. Your daughter bears Madame Lambert's name, Constance."

"Madame Lambert wished it."

"Were you and she related-excuse my interminable questions, but now that we are about to become closely connected we should know more of each other's antecedents."

"We were not related."

"Ah, well. While I am away I may run over to England. I should not be sorry for the opportunity of calling upon your friends there."

"I have no friends there."

"Some relatives surely."

"None."

"Well, your late husband's relatives."

"M. Bordier," said Emilia, summoning all her courage to her aid, "there are in the world persons whose past is so fraught with unhappy memories that it is painful to revive them. Such has been my past, and the simple references you have made have opened wounds I hoped were healed. Pray question me no more."

"I will not," said M. Bordier, kindly, but also with a certain gravity which impressed itself strongly upon Emilia, "we will say nothing more about it at present, and I ask your pardon for causing you pain. But still, when the formal preliminaries to the marriage between Constance and Julian are prepared-which cannot be done until Julian and I return to Geneva-some necessary information of your past will have, of course, to be given to make the contract legal and binding. Until then we will let the matter drop. And now allow me to assure you that I give my consent to the engagement with satisfaction and pleasure. Julian's mother and I have often discussed the future of our children, and shall be quite satisfied if they marry into families of respectable character. That is all we ask, and all we consider we have a right to demand. As to worldly prospects, we will make that our affair, being, I am thankful to say, able to provide for our children and the mates they may choose."

He held out his hand to Emilia, and with old-fashioned courtesy kissed her, saying, "You and your daughter will make our house your home while Julian and I are absent."

"How long do you expect to be away?" asked Emilia.

"It depends upon what the specialists say of Julian's sight. But under any circumstances we shall be absent for at least three months, I expect. Of course the young people will correspond. The first part of their courtship will have to be done by correspondence."

Soon after M. Bordier's departure Constance returned, and was made happy by the account of the interview. Emilia said nothing of M. Bordier's references to the past, a theme which had only been dropped to be taken up again when M. Bordier and Julian came back to Geneva. The evil day was postponed, but Emilia would not darken the joy of the lovers by speaking of it, or by hinting at her fast-growing fears of what the final issue would be. M. Bordier had made it clear to her that it was absolutely necessary that those who formed matrimonial connections with his children must be persons of respectable character. What was she? What was her darling Constance? Unknown to all in Geneva, where they were both respected and loved, they bore the maiden name of the mother. Let this fact be revealed, let the story of her life be made public, and they would be irretrievably disgraced, their position lost, their happiness blasted. Julian remained in Geneva two days after Emilia's interview with M. Bordier, and now that there was no restraint upon the relations between the young lovers, Emilia recognized how irrevocably Constance's happiness was linked with Julian. Was it to be left to her, the fond, the suffering mother, to wreck the future of the child she adored? Was it fated that she should be compelled to say to Constance, "You cannot wed the man you love. He is a gentleman, with an unstained record. You are a child of shame, and are not fit to associate with respectable people. Take your rightful place in the world-in the gutters-and look at me and know that I have put you there." Yes, this, in effect, was the judgment she would have to pronounce. The agony she endured during those two happy days of courtship is indescribable; but she schooled herself to some semblance of outward composure, and successfully parried the solicitous inquiries of those by whom she was surrounded. As to what was to be done, she would not, she could not think of it till Julian and his father were gone. They were to be away at least three months; within that time much might be accomplished-she did not know what or how-but she would pray to God to guide her. So she suffered in silence, and kissed Julian good-by, and sat quiet in her room while the lovers were exchanging their last words of affection. Were they to be indeed the last? Were they never to meet again, to fondly renew their vows of unchangeful love? It was for her, the tender mother, to answer these questions. She was the Sibyl who held in her hands the skeins of fate. It was for her to shed light or darkness upon the future of her darling child.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

IN ENGLAND ONCE MORE

The whole of that night Emilia spent in prayer and thought. She sought for guidance, and her prayers were answered. With one exception the events of the past came clearly before her. The death of her father, her life in Mrs. Seaton's house, her first meeting with Gerald, what occurred on the night she was turned by the cruel woman into the streets, the kindness of the maiden sisters, her flight after overhearing the vile calumnies which Mrs. Seaton uttered against her, her meeting with the good old wagoner-and then a blank. She could not remember where the wagoner's cottage was situated, and she knew it would be impossible to find it without some practical clue. The marriage at the registrar's office she now distinctly recalled, and although she had never held the marriage certificate in her hand, she was certain the ceremony had been performed. Then came the memory of the happy honeymoon, and with that memory certain words which Gerald had spoken to her with reference to the desk of Indian workmanship which he had said was her property, but which his brother Leonard retained with other articles which rightfully belonged to her. The words were these: "There is a secret drawer in this desk, Emilia, and in the desk something which concerns you nearly." It flashed upon her with the power of a divine revelation that what he referred to was the marriage certificate, which, if she could obtain it, would insure her daughter's happiness and save them both from disgrace. She placed credence no longer in the infamous statement made by Leonard, that she had gone through a false ceremony; she had believed it at the time because of her wish to escape from her persecutors and defamers, because Gerald was lost to her, because she thought only of the present. The image of Gerald, with his truthful eyes, rose before her; she heard his voice, the voice of truth and honor, say mournfully, "And could you believe that I could be so unutterably base and infamous as to deceive you so shamefully, that I could plot and lie for your ruin, whom I loved so faithfully?" No, she would no longer believe it. Gerald had behaved honorably toward her, and she had allowed herself to be tricked by the specious tale of a villain whose object was to obtain possession of the fortune which would have fallen to her. He was welcome to that, but she would at least make an effort to rescue her darling child from despair. She would go to England and endeavor to find Leonard. That done she would boldly confront him, and tell him to his face that he had lied to her, and that she would expose him if he did not furnish her with the opportunity of establishing her marriage with Gerald. She would not confide in Constance, for the present, and for as long as it was in her power to do so, she would preserve her secret. Time enough when she was compelled to reveal it.

She acted as she was inwardly directed. The following day she told Constance that business of a private nature necessitated her going to England. Constance was to go with her, and they would be away from Geneva probably some six or seven weeks.

"We shall be back before Julian returns," said Constance, and then was seized with consternation. "But his letters, mamma, his letters!"

"We can leave directions," said Emilia, "that they shall be forwarded to the London Post-Office. It will only be a delay of a day or two, and you can make your letters to Julian longer, as a recompense."

Emilia named London, a city she had never visited, because she had often heard Leonard say that it was the only place in England worth living in. With money at command that would be the most likely place in which to find him.

Julian's family were surprised at this sudden departure, but Emilia easily explained it by saying that it was upon private business of importance. By her directions Constance wrote to Julian at once, informing him of their movements, and bidding him address his future letters to her to the General Post-Office in London. Then Emilia made arrangements for a lady to take her place with her pupils during her absence, and all her preparations being completed, she and Constance started for England.

What would have embarrassed her had Constance been of a less sweet and confiding disposition was the necessity of her conducting her inquiries alone, without the knowledge of her daughter. She explained this to Constance as well as she was able.

"You will not mind being left a good deal alone, dear?" she said, when they were established in lodgings in London.

"No, mamma, if you wish it," said Constance.

"It is necessary, darling. I have some business of a very private nature to look after; if you were with me it would hamper me. I cannot tell you now what it is, but it is for your good and mine."

"And Julian's," said Constance.

"Of course, and Julian's. You will not mind, will you?" "No, mamma, not at all. I can get books, and I can write to Julian."

"You think only of him, dear."

"And of you, mamma," said Constance, reproachfully.

"Yes, my dear, yes. I think I must be growing jealous."

"There is no reason, mamma dear. I love you both with all my heart. And Julian loves us both with all his. And you love us both with all yours. So it is really equal all round."

"Constance," said Emilia, "if it were ever to happen that you had to choose between Julian and me-"

"Mamma," cried Constance, "you frighten me!"

"Forgive me, darling, forgive me," said Emilia, hastening to repair her error by caresses, "but all sorts of notions come into a foolish mother's head when she is about to lose her child."

"Now, mamma," said Constance, forcing her mother into a chair and kneeling before her, "I am going to be very severe with you. How, can you talk of my choosing between Julian and you? Why, mamma, it is impossible, it would break my heart! And how can you talk of losing your child? You will never lose her, darling mamma. Instead of losing me you will have another to look after as well as me; you will have Julian, who loves you nearly, not quite-I will not have that-as much as I do."

"Never, Constance."

"And you will never think it again?"

"Never, dear," said Emilia; and she was careful from that hour to keep a more jealous guard over her tongue.

At this period of Emilia's life there entered into her soul a surprising strength. She became strong, morally and physically. All her energies, all her intellectual faculties, were braced up almost abnormally in the momentous mission upon which she was engaged. Feeling the importance of a starting-point, she determined to visit her native town, and to visit it alone. She learnt from the time-tables that a train started at 5 P.M. and arrived at 10. On the following day a train from London started at 4 P.M. and was due some six hours after, so that she need be absent from Constance for one night only. It was her first separation from her child, but she nerved herself to it, and instilled the same spirit into Constance, who consented without a murmur. Constance was to have her meals at home, to keep her doors locked and not stir out, and to wait up the second night for her mother's return.

"I shall be quite safe, mamma," said Constance, "and I shall not be dull. Nearly all the time you are away I shall be writing to Julian."

That night Emilia was once more in her native town. Eighteen years had passed since she left it, and it was with sadness she recognized familiar landmarks with which her childhood had been associated. She had taken the precaution of effecting a change in her appearance. She darkened her eyebrows and arranged her hair in a fashion so strange as to be startled when she looked into the glass. Moreover, she wore a thick veil. "No one will know me," she thought. But when she issued from the hotel the next morning she was a little afraid, for among the first persons she met was Mrs. Seaton. The cruel woman was but little altered; her features were more pinched, her eyes more stern than of yore, but Emilia knew her instantly. Mrs. Seaton, however, did not recognize Emilia, although she looked at her sharply, as was her wont with strangers. There was in the town a gossip who kept a small shop, and thither Emilia went, and, entering the shop, was greeted by the same woman who used to serve her in former years. Making some purchases and bargaining for others, Emilia drew the woman into conversation, and learned all she wished to know. Oh, yes, the woman remembered the brothers Paget very well, very well indeed. They were not brothers, no, they were stepbrothers. There was a fire in their house, and it was burned down, how many years ago? Eighteen or twenty, she could not quite say to a year or two; and a young lady, Miss Braham-Emilia Braham, that was her right name-rushed out of the house in the middle of the night while the fire was raging. There was a lot of talk about it. Miss Braham's father died suddenly-was killed by the falling of a scaffold-and Emilia was left alone, without a shilling in the world. Then she got a situation with Mrs. Seaton-Oh, everybody knew Mrs. Seaton; she had a sharp tongue, and had more enemies than friends-and she left her mistress' house at a moment's notice. Late at night, too. Mrs. Seaton said she had planned a secret meeting with Mr. Gerald Paget-he was the handsomest and the youngest of the step-brothers-and that was the reason of her going away so suddenly. It did look suspicious, didn't it? And it looked more than suspicious when she rushed out of Mr. Gerald's house in the middle of the night to save herself from being burned alive. That is often how people are found out in a way they little expect. But there were some people afterward who took Miss Braham's part, and said she wasn't guilty, though appearances were so much against her. That was because two ladies-old maids they were, and sisters-stood up for her, and went about saying all sorts of kind things about Miss Braham. What is that you say? God bless them for it! Yes, they deserve all that; they were kind-hearted ladies. They're in the churchyard now, and know more than we do. Well, these old maids took Miss Braham home on the night of the fire, when she was in a high fever, and no wonder, with what was on her mind; and Mrs. Seaton went there and told them they were being imposed upon by a shameless young woman. It was a hard thing to do, and she might have held her tongue, but that is not Mrs. Seaton's way. Once she takes a grudge against a body she don't let them alone, not she. While she was, with the old maids talking against Miss Braham, the young lady herself heard it, it seems, and she ran away, no one knew where to. Mr. Gerald, who must have been very much in love with her, was in a dreadful way about her, and the lawyers were busy trying to find her; and his step-brother, Mr. Leonard, who had come home from Australia that very morning, helped him, too. Then the two brothers went away together, and nothing was heard of them, or of Miss Braham, for months and months, till it got about that poor Mr. Gerald had been killed by falling over a precipice in foreign parts. Then Mr. Leonard came home, and took possession of the property, which all fell to him. What did he do with it? He sold it all off, and went to London to live, and that's where he is now, for all she knew. It was a lot of money he came into; some say as much as five or six thousand pounds a year, but he was just the sort of gentleman to make ducks and drakes with it. That was the whole story of the two brothers and Miss Emilia Braham. You would like to know something more! What is it? When Mr. Leonard Paget came home didn't he say anything about Miss Braham? No, not a word, so far as she knew, and she would have been sure to hear of it if he had. No, she was positive he never said one single word about her. She did not suppose he knew what became of her, and most likely, after a time, he forgot her altogether.

Then the garrulous shopwoman, having exhausted her budget, reckoned up the purchases which Emilia had made, and having received payment, bade her customer good day.

Emilia's next visit was to a flower shop, where she bought some loose flowers; then to the churchyard, where she was directed to the grave of the maiden sisters. She knelt and prayed there, and left the flowers on their grave.

She had learned that Leonard was in London, and as there was no occasion for her to remain any longer in the town she took an earlier train than that she had marked, and arrived home four hours before Constance expected her. Reflecting upon her situation during that night, she felt how powerless she was. Leonard, she had every reason to believe, was in London, but to look for him in that vast city in the hope of finding him was scarcely within reason. And, indeed, had she not been befriended by some strange chance she might have remained in London for years without meeting the man for whom she was seeking. But it happened so, and an important stage was reached in her inquiry.

The weather was bitterly cold, and snow was falling heavily, but this did not keep her at home. In a kind of fever she traversed the streets of the city, selecting those which a man of fashion and fond of pleasure would be most likely to frequent. On the fourth day of her search she was walking in Regent Street, when she suddenly stopped with her hand at her heart. It was as much as she could do to prevent herself from screaming aloud, for walking leisurely before her, with a light step and jaunty air, was Leonard Paget himself. By a powerful effort she controlled her agitation, and set herself the task of following him. She had caught a glimpse of his face, and she could not be mistaken. He looked older and thinner, but his expression was that of a man who was enjoying the pleasures of the world and making the most of them. Having thus providentially tracked him down, Emilia determined not to lose sight of him. Her desire was to ascertain where he lived, and in the doing so to keep herself from his sight. To accost him in the open street would be madness. No, she must speak to him in a place where he could not easily escape from her, where he could not thrust her off. "If he takes a cab," she thought, "I will take another and follow him. If he walks all day and night, I will walk after him. He shall not, he shall not, evade me now." No detective could have been more determined and wary than she, but her present task did not occupy her very long. The cold day was no temptation to the man before her, and it happened fortunately for Emilia, that his face was homeward turned. He walked to the bottom of Regent Street, and plunged into the narrow tangle of thoroughfares on the left. The numbers of people favored her pursuit, and she was not noticed. True, the man did not know he was being followed, and only looked back when a pretty girl passed him. Presently he was in Soho, and in one or two of the streets through which she passed Emilia feared detection, there being fewer persons in them; but still he had no suspicion, and walked carelessly, gayly on. At length he stopped before a house in Gerard Street, took a latch-key from his pocket, opened the door, entered, and closed it behind him.

Emilia drew a long breath. It was there he lived; but she would make sure.

A boy with a basket of bread slung across his shoulders had stopped at the next house to deliver a loaf. Leonard Paget had passed the boy, who looked at him while he was opening the street door. Then the boy, having received some money, lounged on to the house which Leonard had entered, and knocked and rang. The housekeeper, Mrs. Middlemore, answered the summons, and took in a loaf. When the street door was closed again Emilia crossed over to the lad, and asked him if he would like a shilling, to which the boy facetiously replied that he would like two, but would put up with one if he could not get more.

"I will give you two," said Emilia, "if you answer a few questions."

"Off we start," said the boy.

"I want to know who that gentleman is who went into the house you have just left?"

"That gent as let himself in with his latch-key. Oh, that's Mr. Felix."

"It's not true," said Emilia.

"Oh, you're going to cry off, are you? I call that mean, I do. I tell you it's Mr. Felix."

Emilia considered a moment. What more likely than that Leonard Paget was living there under an assumed name?

"Are you sure? Here is the first shilling."

"Cock sure. Why, he's lived there years and years, and there's nobody in the house but him. There's a housekeeper, Mrs. Middlemore; she took in a loaf from me."

"Does this Mr. Felix live there regularly?"

"I see him regularly, so he lives there regularly. Anything more I can do for you?"

"No, thank you; here is your other shilling."

"Thank you." And the boy walked off, whistling.

CHAPTER XL.

DR. PETERSSEN REAPPEARS ON THE SCENE

For the unexpected good fortune of this discovery Emilia was very grateful, and her mind was now occupied in considering how to make the best use of it. She did not linger in Gerard Street lest she should be seen by Gerald's brother, but before she left it she ascertained that he was known not as Mr., but as Monsieur Felix. For what reason had he concealed his right name? For what reason had he assumed that of a foreigner? It was perhaps because she had but one subject to think of, but one supreme end to attain, that she mentally decided that she herself was not unconnected with his motive for concealing his identity. If that were the case it would be difficult indeed to obtain an interview with him. If she presented herself in person, or sent up her name, he would refuse to receive her; if she forced herself upon him he would not listen to her, and the next time she went to him she would find that he had flown. Thus her mission would be a failure and the unhappiness of her daughter insured. It behooved her to be very careful in her movements; the least slip would be fatal.

The whole of that day and the whole of the next she bent her mind to the consideration of the peculiar position in which she was placed. She did not remain at home; she spent many hours in the vicinity of Soho, making inquiries of M. Felix's habits and character, in such a manner as to draw no suspicion upon herself. Small tradesmen of whom she made purchases were the medium of these inquiries, and they were able to give her much information because of the gossiping disposition of Mrs. Middlemore, the housekeeper. It was at this time that she developed a talent for intrigue. To insure that she should not be recognized by M. Felix in a chance meeting in the streets, she took a room that was to let midway between Soho and the apartments occupied by herself, stating that she was an actress; and at one shop in the Strand, and at another in a street running out of that thoroughfare, she purchased a box of "make-up" and a wig of a different color from her own hair. It was a short wig, and when her own locks were concealed beneath it, and she had used certain pigments on her face, no one who knew her as Emilia Braham could possibly recognize her. These changes were made in the room she had taken unknown to Constance, and she gave no person in the house an opportunity of observing her. Independent, however, of these changes she was no further advanced at the end of the second day than when she met M. Felix in Regent Street, and she could think of no means of obtaining the interview she desired.