by Mike Ashley
A sigh, a groan then a long and heavy silence into which there finally broke the pealing of the various clocks striking the hour. When all were still again and Violet had drawn aside the portière it was to see the old man on his knees, and between her and the thin streak of light entering from the hall the figure of the doctor hastening to Helena’s bedside.
When with inducements needless to name they finally persuaded the young girl to leave her unholy habitation it was in the arms which had upheld her once before and to a life which promised to compensate her for her twenty years of loneliness and unsatisfied longing.
But a black shadow yet remained which she must cross before reaching the sunshine!
It lay at her stepmother’s door.
In the plans made for Helena’s release Mrs Postlethwaite’s consent had not been obtained, nor was she supposed to be acquainted with the doctor’s intentions towards the child whose death she was hourly awaiting.
It was, therefore, with an astonishment bordering on awe that on their way downstairs they saw the door of her room open and herself standing alone and upright on the threshold – she who had not been seen to take a step in years. In the wonder of this miracle of suddenly restored power the little procession stopped – the doctor with his hand upon the rail, the lover with his burden clasped yet more protectingly to his breast. That a little speech awaited them could be seen from the force and fury of the gaze which the indomitable woman bent upon the lax and half-unconscious figure she beheld thus sheltered and conveyed. Having but one arrow left in her exhausted quiver she launched it straight at the innocent breast which had never harboured against her a defiant thought.
‘Ingrate!’ was the word she hurled in a voice from which all its seductive music had gone for ever. ‘Where are you going? Are they carrying you alive to your grave?’
A moan from Helena’s pale lips, then silence. She had fainted at that barbed attack. But there was one there who dared to answer for her, and he spoke relentlessly. It was the man who loved her.
‘No, madam, we are carrying her to safety. You must know what I mean by that. Let her go quietly, and you may die in peace. Otherwise –’
She interrupted him with a loud call, startling into life the echoes of that haunted hall, ‘Humphrey! Come to me, Humphrey!’
But no Humphrey appeared.
Another call, louder and more peremptory than before, ‘Humphrey! I say, Humphrey!’
But the answer was the same – silence and only silence. As the horror of this grew, the doctor spoke, ‘Mr Humphrey Dunbar’s ears are closed to all earthly summons. He died last night at the very hour he said he would – four minutes after two.’
‘Four minutes after two!’ It came from her lips in a whisper but with a revelation of her broken heart and life. ‘Four minutes after two!’ And, defiant to the last, her head rose, and for an instant, for a mere breath of time, they saw her as she had looked in her prime, regal in form, attitude and expression. Then the will which had sustained her through so much faltered and succumbed, and with a final reiteration of the words ‘Four minutes after two!’ she broke into a rattling laugh and fell back into the arms of her old nurse.
And, below, one clock struck the hour and then another. But not the big one at the foot of the stairs. That still stood silent with its hands pointing to the hour and minute of Frank Postlethwaite’s hastened death.
Elizabeth Corbett
THE POLISH REFUGEE
Elizabeth Burgoyne Corbett (1846–1930), who usually wrote as Mrs George Corbett, was a prolific author for her day, predominantly of serials and stories for magazines and newspapers. Only a few of these made it into book form, so she soon faded into obscurity after her death in 1930. She produced a wide variety of work but is best remembered today (when she is remembered at all) for her detective stories and the novel New Amazonia: A Foretaste of the Future (1889), a strongly feminist, pro-suffragette story set five centuries hence in a Utopian Ireland. Her detective works include Secrets of a Private Enquiry Office (1891), from which the following story is selected, continuing with Behind the Veil (1891), subtitled Revelations by a Lady Detective, and When the Sea Gives Up Its Dead (1894), which also features a female sleuth.
The Polish Refugee
OF MEDIUM HEIGHT, slight build, clear, healthy complexion, beautiful dark eyes and black hair that curled in bewitching waves over the fine brow. The possessor of regular, intellectual features, small, delicately shaped hands and feet and a moustache so perfect in its size, its shape, its neatness and its glossy blackness that it was the admiration of the one sex and the envy of the other.
Such was Feodor Plotnitzky, a young gentleman who taught German, French and the violin to quite a host of pupils and who, to do him justice, was thoroughly able to do all he undertook. He claimed to be the scion of a noble house, compelled to seek safety in England, the El Dorado of political refugees from despotic persecution from time immemorial. His manners were perfect and quite justified a belief in the superiority of origin and bringing up of Count Feodor Plotnitzky, who, however, would modestly and sadly disclaim all desire of being addressed by the title which was his by right, saying that as England had proved such a haven of refuge to him and his, he felt honoured by being addressed by the simple English prefix ‘Mr’.
This was all very well, but it seemed impossible for anyone to make up his mind to vulgarize him by a mode of address to which a street sweeper could lay claim. He was so bewilderingly handsome, accomplished and polished that some folk were actually inclined to temporize with his title in the opposite direction, and address him as ‘Prince’.
‘Oh! he is just heavenly!’ sighed Miss Philippa Sudds, and, hardened observer of humanity as I was by this time, I could almost have found it in my heart to echo Miss Philippa’s enthusiastic remark. I will at least say this much. I have never, before or since, seen so perfect a specimen of humanity, and, after once seeing him, I could no longer be surprised at the fact that the majority of his young lady pupils fell madly in love with him.
Perhaps the reader would like to know how I happened to be acquainted with this Polish marvel. I can soon explain how it came about. Jones informed me one day that a well-known baronet, whom we will call Sir Selby Grant, had been to the office during my absence and had invoked the aid of our firm in bringing certain family affairs to a satisfactory issue.
‘This,’ said our chief, ‘is the gist of what the baronet said to me. “I have an only daughter, whom I love very dearly and to whom I am never inclined to deny anything in reason. She is now eighteen years old and has seen very little of society, having only just left school. She is considered a very handsome girl, and great expectations of her future have been held by our relatives and friends. As I have no other children, and the estates are not entailed, she will have a large fortune some day. I have looked forward with eagerness to the time when she would have completed her education and would be able to take the place of mistress of my establishment, for my life has had little domestic happiness to brighten it since I lost my dear wife six years ago.
‘“Unfortunately, my anticipations have not all been realized. Miss Grant is quite as affectionate and quite as eager to promote my comfort as I hoped she would be, but I find her sad and preoccupied, and more than once I have surprised her in tears. I have had considerable difficulty in inducing her to give me her entire confidence but have at last discovered that she has not returned to me heart-whole. This, in itself, is matter for considerable regret in any case at her age. But what struck me as almost incredible is the fact that she does not believe her affection reciprocated, though the subject of it is nothing better than a teacher of languages.
‘“I could almost have brought myself to be angry with my unhappy Mabel were I not so grieved at the genuine trouble the poor child is in and so full of admiration of the way in which she bravely strives to conquer her unfortunate passion. Again, failing this outlet for the vexation inseparable from so disappointing an affair, I m
ight have emptied the vials of wrath upon this foreign professor, who has apparently been taking a base advantage of his opportunities to worm himself into the hearts of his pupils.
‘“But here again I am foiled. Miss Grant protests that the fault, if fault there be, is entirely her own. She says that the professor, who by the way, is called Count Feodor Plotnitzky, has never, by word or deed, given either herself or any other young lady the slightest encouragement to believe that he entertains more than friendly – or, at the most, brotherly – affection for them. And yet they are one and all in love with him! I cannot understand it. Even Miss Minervina Prout, the lady principal of the school my daughter attended, speaks of this young man as if his equal had never been seen upon earth, though I will do her the justice to remark that she feels quite an innocent, motherly affection for him.
‘“‘He is,’ she said, ‘the most capable teacher I have ever had in the school. The progress his pupils make under his tuition is perfectly miraculous when compared with the results of lessons by former tutors. His terms are rather high, but his abilities more than justify their exaction. His pupils, so far from evincing distaste of the coming lessons, as has generally been the case, look forward to their tasks with eagerness, and I have only to threaten to debar them from attending the violin or language lessons to make my young ladies do anything I require of them. So, you see, our Polish teacher has influence outside the actual sphere of his own duties.’
‘“Influence! I should think so! Poor, innocent Miss Minervina never seemed to suspect that this wonderfully beneficent influence was owing to the fact that the pupils were each and all in love with the versatile Polish count, who was so unassuming that he actually preferred to be addressed as ‘Mr’. I could discover nothing to the detriment of my gentleman, and I preferred not to horrify Miss Minervina by betraying my daughter’s secret.
‘“Nevertheless, I want to make an end of the affair either one way or the other, and I have come to you to help me. I am convinced that if the object of her affections is proved utterly unworthy my daughter will soon be cured of her infatuation, which owes its origin quite as much to the conviction that the man is as good and sensible as it is given anyone to be as it does to the fact that his exterior is of almost unrivalled beauty. I remember, as a youth, being desperately enamoured of a certain lady whom I accredited with all the virtues under the sun. My love evaporated with remarkable promptitude when I learned that my goddess was endowed with several objectionable vices in lieu of virtues. I believe my daughter to be of the same temperament as myself and that she would scorn to waste her affections on an unworthy object.
‘“If, on the other hand, this count proves to be a true, manly fellow with no other drawback than his poverty I will gladly see him married to my girl. She will have money enough for both, and I do not wish to wreck her happiness in a foolish chase for more wealth. You must give me all the information you can gather about Count Plotnitzky. In order to afford the man nothing but fair play, your remuneration shall be the same whether he is proved to be an impostor and a cheat, or whether he turns out to be all that is desirable. What I wish to impress upon you is the necessity for making a most careful investigation of the man’s private life and antecedents in order that no irreparable blunder may be made. My daughter’s happiness is everything to me, or I would not submit anyone to the indignity of espionage.”’
Jones, having thoroughly grasped the duties expected of us and having come to terms with this rare English gentleman, took me into his confidence, and together we arranged our immediate plan of campaign. We decided that the best proceeding would be for me to go to lodge for a time at the same boarding-house which the professor patronized. Sir Selby, on the pretence of a desire to present Professor Plotnitzky with some token of his appreciation of the progress his daughter had made in languages and on the violin, had obtained his address from Miss Minervina. As the professor was out when he called he had not obtained the interview he sought and had since decided to postpone it awhile until a communication from us should determine his future course of action.
Fortunately for our project, Mrs Hales had a vacant room at my disposal. I represented myself as a literary gentleman who was studying up a special subject and wished to live in a quiet way apart from his too numerous circle of acquaintances until all arrangements for his new book were completed.
The next morning I made the acquaintance of my fellow boarders at breakfast. Upon the whole they were rather a nice lot, some dozen in all, but I felt little special interest in any of them except my young professor and his mother. Yes, although I had not heard of this lady before, it was none the less a fact that Mrs Hales numbered among her boarders a lady known as Mrs Plotnitzky.
‘You know, sir, Mrs Plotnitzky, or “Madame” as we all call her, is really a countess. But she is, like her son, very modest and insists upon dropping the title. She says that now she has lost all her fortune and cannot afford to keep an establishment of her own, it is absurd to use a title. But anyone can see, the moment they look at her, that she is a thorough aristocrat. And so beautiful as she is, too! No wonder her son, who dotes on her, is so handsome, and so clever, and so …’
Here followed, if possible, a more enthusiastic panegyric of Professor Plotnitzky’s amiabilities and virtues than I had even heard of before, and I was, at the end of this conversation, which took place after Madame had gone to her own room and after the other boarders had departed in pursuance of their various avocations, forced to the conclusion that Mrs Hales must also be included among the professor’s worshippers.
And by the time I had been in the house twenty-four hours I was no longer surprised at the unbounded fascination which the irresistible Feodor exercised over all with whom he came in contact, for I could not withstand his influence myself. Not that I was particularly desirous of doing so, for I had sought his acquaintance armed with a vague distrust of my man, which in anyone else would have militated against the formation of a speedy liking. But ordinary prejudices were of no power here, and I positively delighted in such share as I could procure of this man’s society.
There was only one thing, if possible, while I stayed with Mrs Hales that I preferred to a chat with Feodor, and that was the privilege of a little conversation with Madame, his mother. How perfectly beautiful and charming she was! What a world of resignation dwelt in the expressive eyes! And what inimitable dignity lurked in every detail of her appearance, from her silver-white hair down to the small daintily shod foot which protruded from beneath the handsome dresses in which her devoted son loved to clothe her. What … but there, I am turning just as enthusiastically rhapsodical as everyone else whoever comes across these people, and to this day I do not know which I was the most in love with – the mother or the son.
It was touching to see the perfect affection and concord in which the two lived, and but for one thing I should have gone away to assure my baronet that there was not the slightest rift within the lute in this case and that he need not hesitate to give the young professor any encouragement that would be likely to induce him to marry Miss Mabel Grant.
I was slightly puzzled to note that Madame’s eyes, however cheerful they might look in his immediate presence, always followed the departing figure of her son with a wistful sadness and anxiety hard to account for under the circumstances. For it must be remembered that, though not more than five or six and twenty, his prospects were of the brightest and he was evidently gifted with perfect health. He had now the chance of more pupils than he could accept. He had, when possessed of more leisure than at present, given considerable attention to musical composition, and one of his cantatas was going to be produced very shortly by Mr August Manns at a Crystal Palace Saturday concert.
Certainly, he was banished from his native land, besides being shorn of his title and estates by despotic usurpers, but he had so many compensative blessings that I could not conceive of any ordinary reason for anxiety on Madame’s part. When I explained the situation to Jo
nes he was strongly of opinion that all was not so fair and above board with the professor as it might be and that something detrimental to the good opinion everybody held of him would yet turn up.
Of course, I began an enthusiastic disclaimer, and, equally of course, Jones cut me off with an impatient, ‘For Heaven’s sake, man, keep it short! I shall hate these people soon if I hear much more about their virtues and perfections. Anyhow, I shall have a fine laugh at you when the inevitable exposure takes place.’
It was no use arguing the matter with Jones, and as my private opinion did not weigh much in the affair I felt it quite as much a matter of love as of duty to ferret out all I could about the antecedents of the Plotnitzkys and prove that there was nothing of the impostor about them.
But my cautious enquiries produced no useful information. Mrs Hales confessed that she knew naught of her lodgers beyond what they had told her, which was nothing more nor less than that the two were dependent upon the son’s exertions for a livelihood, that they were of aristocratic birth and that they had been deprived of their possessions by invaders.
When I tackled Madame, very carefully, I met with no more satisfactory solution of the mystery. I had read up the history of Poland very diligently and dwelt, when in conversation with the gentle old lady, at great length upon the enormities perpetrated by Russia, Austria and Prussia upon her native land and was especially eulogistic on the patriotism of such men as Kosciusko. But if I expected to rouse Madame’s dormant national enthusiasm I was mistaken, for she completely lost that air of high-bred calmness and distinction which so well became her, being decidedly nervous and anxious to change the subject.
I eventually asked her, in as unconcerned a manner as possible, what part of Poland she came from, but she simply replied that she never cared to speak of her native place as to do so only served to awaken painful memories. Then, rising, she left the room, upon the plea that she did not feel well.
