CHAPTER ONE
BESIDE STILL WATERS
If I make too frequent use of the first person singular in thesepages, I crave forgiveness of the reader.
I have written down this strange story for two reasons: first, becauseI venture to believe it to be one of the most remarkable sequences ofcurious events that have ever occurred in a man's life; and secondly,by so doing, I am able to prove conclusively before the world theinnocence of one sadly misjudged, and also to set at rest certainscandalous tales which have arisen in consequence.
At risk of betraying certain confidences; at risk of placing myself inthe unenviable position of chronicler of my own misfortunes; at riskeven of defying those who have threatened my life should I dare speakthe truth, I have resolved to recount the whole amazing affair, justas it occurred to me, and further, to reveal completely what hashitherto been regarded as a mystery by readers of the dailynewspapers.
You already know my name--Owen Biddulph. As introduction, I suppose Iought to add that, after coming down from Oxford, I pretended to readfor the Bar, just to please the dear old governor--Sir AlfredBiddulph, Knight. At the age of twenty-five, owing to his unfortunatedeath in the hunting-field, I found myself possessor of CarringtonCourt, our fine Elizabethan place in North Devon, and town-house, 64aWilton Street, Belgrave Square, together with a comfortable income ofabout nine thousand a year, mostly derived from sound industrialenterprises.
My father, before his retirement, had been a Liverpool ship-owner,and, like many others of his class, had received his knighthood on theoccasion of Queen Victoria's Jubilee. My mother had been dead longsince. I had but few relatives, and those mostly poor ones; therefore,on succeeding to the property, I went down to Carrington just tointerview Browning, the butler, and the other servants, all of themold and faithful retainers; and then, having given up all thought of alegal career, I went abroad, in order to attain my long-desiredambition to travel, and to "see the world."
Continental life attracted me, just as it attracts most young men.Paris, with its glare and glitter, its superficial gaiety, its brightboulevards, and its feminine beauty, is the candle to the moth ofyouth. I revelled in Paris just as many a thousand other young men haddone before me. I knew French, Italian and German, and I was vainenough to believe that I might have within me the making of acosmopolitan. So many young men believe that--and, alas! so many failon account of either indolence, or of narrow-mindedness. To be athorough-going cosmopolitan one must be imbued with the true spiritof adventure, and must be a citizen of all cities, a countryman of allcountries. This I tried to be, and perhaps--in a manner--succeeded. Atany rate, I spent nearly three whole years travelling hither andthither across the face of Europe, from Trondhjem to Constantinople,and from Bordeaux to Petersburg.
Truly, if one has money, one can lead a very pleasant life, year in,year out, at the various European health and pleasure resorts, withouteven setting foot in our dear old England. I was young--andenthusiastic. I spent the glorious golden autumn in Florence and inPerugia, the Tuscan vintage in old Siena; December in Sicily; Januaryin Corsica; February and March at Nice, taking part in the Carnivaland Battles of Flowers; April in Venice; May at the Villa d'Este onthe Lake of Como; June and July at Aix; August, the month of the Lion,among the chestnut-woods high up at Vallombrosa, and September at SanSebastian in Spain, that pretty town of sea-bathing and of gambling.Next year I spent the winter in Russia, the guest of a prince wholived near Moscow; the early spring at the Hermitage at Monte Carlo;May at the Meurice in Paris; the summer in various parts ofSwitzerland, and most of the autumn in the high Tatra, the foot-hillsof the Carpathians.
And so, with my faithful Italian valet, Lorenzo, a dark-haired, smartman of thirty, who had been six years in my service, and who had, onso many occasions, proved himself entirely trustworthy, I passed awaythe seasons as they came and went, always living in the best hotels,and making a good many passing acquaintances. Life was, indeed, aperfect phantasmagoria.
Now there is a certain section of English society who, being for somereason or another beyond the pale at home, make their happyhunting-ground in the foreign hotel. Men and women, consumptive sonsand scraggy daughters, they generally live in the cheapest rooms _enpension_, and are ever ready to scrape up acquaintance with anybody ofgood appearance and of either sex, as long as they are possessed ofmoney. Every one who has lived much on the Continent knows them--and,be it said, gives them a wide berth.
I was not long before I experienced many queer acquaintanceships inhotels, some amusing, some the reverse. At Verona a man, an Englishmannamed Davis, who had been at my college in Oxford, borrowed fiftypounds of me, but disappeared from the hotel next morning before Icame down; while, among other similar incidents, a dear,quiet-mannered old widow--a Russian, who spoke English--induced me atOstend to assist her to pay her hotel bill of one thousand six hundredfrancs, giving me a cheque upon her bank in Petersburg, a chequewhich, in due course, was returned to me marked "no account."
Still, I enjoyed myself. The carelessness of life suited me, for Imanaged to obtain sunshine the whole year round, and to have a gooddeal of fun for my money.
I had a fine sixty horse-power motor-car, and usually travelled fromplace to place on it, my friend Jack Marlowe, who had been at Oxfordwith me, and whose father's estates marched with mine on the edge ofDartmoor, frequently coming out to spend a week or two with me on theroads. He was studying for the diplomatic service, but made manyexcuses for holidays, which he invariably spent at my side. And we hada merry time together, I can assure you.
For nearly three years I had led this life of erratic wandering,returning to London only for a week or so in June, to see my lawyersand put in an appearance for a few days at Carrington to interview oldBrowning. And I must confess I found the old place deadly dull andlonely.
Boodles, to which I belonged, just as my father had belonged, I foundfull of pompous bores and old fogeys; and though at White's there wasa little more life and movement now they had built a new roof, yet Ipreferred the merry recklessness of Monte Carlo, or the gaiety of thewhite-and-gold casinos at Nice or Cannes.
Thus nearly three years went by, careless years of luxury andidleness, years of living _a la carte_ at restaurants of the firstorder, from the Reserve at Beaulieu to the Hermitage at Moscow, fromArmenonville in the Bois to Salvini's in Milan--years of the educationof an epicure.
The first incident of this strange history, however, occurred while Iwas spending the early spring at Gardone. Possibly you, as an Englishreader, have never heard of the place. If, however, you wereAustrian, you would know it as one of the most popular resorts on thebeautiful mountain-fringed Lake of Garda, that deep blue lake, half inItalian territory and half in Austrian, with the quaint little town ofDesenzano at the Italian end, and Riva, with its square oldchurch-tower and big white hotels, at the extreme north.
Of all the spring resorts on the Italian lakes, Gardone appeals to thevisitor as one of the quietest and most picturesque. The Grand Hotel,with its long terrace at the lake-side, is, during February and March,filled with a gay crowd who spend most of their time in climbing thesteep mountain-sides towards the jealously guarded frontier, or takingmotor-boat excursions up and down the picturesque lake.
From the balcony of my room spread a panorama as beautiful as any inEurope; more charming, indeed, than at Lugano or Bellagio, or other ofthe many lake-side resorts, for here along the sheltered banks grewall the luxuriant vegetation of the Riviera--the camellias, magnolias,aloes and palms.
I had been there ten days or so when, one evening at dinner in thelong restaurant which overlooked the lake, there came to the smalltable opposite mine a tall, fair-haired girl with great blue eyes,dressed elegantly but quietly in black chiffon, with a band of palepink velvet twisted in her hair.
She glanced at me quickly as she drew aside her skirt and took herseat opposite her companion, a rather stout, dark, bald-headed man,red-faced and well-dressed, whose air was distinctly paternal as hebent
and handed the menu across to her.
The man turned and glanced sharply around. By his well-cutdinner-coat, the way his dress-shirt fitted, and his refinement ofmanner, I at once put him down as a gentleman, and her father.
I instantly decided, on account of their smartness of dress, that theywere not English. Indeed, the man addressed her in French, to whichshe responded. Her coiffure was in the latest mode of Paris, her gownshowed unmistakably the hand of the French dressmaker, while herelegance was essentially that of the Parisienne. There is always asomething--something indescribable--about the Frenchwoman which ismarked and distinctive, and which the English-bred woman can neveractually imitate.
Not that I like Frenchwomen. Far from it. They are too vain andshallow, too fond of gaiety and flattery to suit my taste. No; amongall the many women I have met I have never found any to compare withthose of my own people.
I don't know why I watched the new-comers so intently. Perhaps it wason account of the deliberate and careful manner in which the manselected his dinner, his instructions to the _maitre d'hotel_ as tothe manner the entree was to be made, and the infinite pains he tookover the exact vintage he required. He spoke in French, fluent andexact, and his manner was entirely that of the epicure.
Or was it because of that girl?--the girl with eyes of that deep,fathomless blue, the wonderful blue of the lake as it lay in thesunlight--the lake that was nearly a mile in depth. In her face Idetected a strange, almost wistful look, an expression which showedthat her thoughts were far away from the laughter and chatter of thatgay restaurant. She looked at me without seeing me; she spoke to herfather without knowing what she replied. There was, in those wonderfuleyes, a strange, far-off look, and it was that which, more thananything else, attracted my attention and caused me to notice thepair.
Her fair, sweet countenance was perfect in its contour, her cheeksinnocent of the Parisienne's usual aids to beauty, her lips red andwell moulded, while two tiny dimples gave a piquancy to a face whichwas far more beautiful than any I had met in all my wanderings.
Again she raised her eyes from the table and gazed across the flowersat me fixedly, with just a sudden inquisitiveness shown by herslightly knit brows. Then, suddenly starting, as though realizing shewas looking at a stranger, she dropped her eyes again, and replied tosome question her father had addressed to her.
Her dead black gown was cut just discreetly _decollete_, which wellbecame a girl not yet twenty, while at her throat, suspended by a verythin gold chain, was a single stone, a splendid ruby of enormous size,and of evident value. The only other ornament she wore was a curiousantique bracelet in the form of a jewelled snake, the tail of whichwas in its mouth--the ancient emblem of Eternity.
Why she possessed such an attraction for me I cannot tell, except thatshe seemed totally unlike any other woman I had ever met before--aface that was as perfect as any I had seen on the canvases of thegreat painters, or in the marbles of the Louvre or the Vatican.
Again she raised her eyes to mine. Again I realized that theexpression was entirely unusual. Then she dropped them again, and in aslow, inert way ate the crayfish soup which the waiter had placedbefore her.
Others in the big, long room had noticed her beauty, for I saw peoplewhispering among themselves, while her father, leaning back in hischair on placing down his spoon, was entirely conscious of thesensation his daughter had evoked.
Throughout the meal I watched the pair carefully, trying to overheartheir conversation. It was, however, always in low, confidentialtones, and, strain my ears how I might, I could gather nothing. Theyspoke in French, which I detected from the girl's monosyllables, butbeyond that I could understand nothing.
From the obsequious manner of the _maitre d'hotel_ I knew that herfather was a person of importance. Yet the man who knows what to orderin a restaurant, and orders it with instructions, is certain toreceive marked attention. The epicure always commands the respect ofthose who serve him. And surely this stranger was an epicure, forafter his dessert I heard him order with his coffee a _petit verre_ ofgold-water of Dantzig, a rare liqueur only known and appreciated bythe very select few who really know what is what--a bottle of which,if you search Europe from end to end, you will not find in perhapstwenty restaurants, and those only of the very first order.
The eyes of the fair-haired girl haunted me. Instinctively I knew thatshe was no ordinary person. Her apathy and listlessness, her strangelyvacant look, combined with the wonderful beauty of her countenance,held me fascinated.
Who was she? What mystery surrounded her? I felt, by some strangeintuition, that there was a mystery, and that that curious wistfulnessin her glance betrayed itself because, though accompanied by herfather, she was nevertheless in sore need of a friend.
When her father had drained his coffee they rose and passed into thegreat lounge, with its many little tables set beneath the palms, wherea fine orchestra was playing Maillart's tuneful "Les Dragons deVillars."
As they seated themselves many among that well-dressed, gay crowd ofwinter idlers turned to look at them. I, however, seldom went into thenightly concert; therefore I strolled along the wide corridor to thehall-porter, and inquired the names of the fresh arrivals.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the big, dark-bearded German; "you mean, ofcourse, numbers one hundred and seventeen and one hundred andforty-six--English, father and daughter, arrived by the five o'clockboat from Riva with a great deal of baggage--here are the names," andhe showed me the slips signed by them on arrival. "They are the onlynew-comers to-day."
There I saw, written on one in a man's bold hand, "Richard Pennington,rentier, Salisbury, England," and on the other, "Sylvia Pennington."
"I thought they were French," I remarked.
"So did I, monsieur; they speak French so well. I was surprised whenthey registered themselves as English."
Hushed Up! A Mystery of London Page 3
