Solicitor to the Fairlies_
I write these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter Hartright,
to describe the events which took place after his departure from
Limmeridge House.

My letter to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitors regarding Anne Catherick's
anonymous communication was answered by the baronet in person on his
arrival at Limmeridge House. He was the first to offer an explanation.
Anne Catherick was the daughter of one of his old family servants, and
in consideration of her mother's past services he had sent her to a
private asylum instead of allowing her to go to one of the public
establishments where her mental condition would otherwise have compelled
her to remain. Her animus against Sir Percival was due to the fact that
she had discovered that he was the cause of her incarceration. The
anonymous letter was evidence of this insane antipathy.

My next concern with this history deals with the drawing up of Miss
Fairlie's marriage settlement. Besides being heiress to the Limmeridge
property, Miss Fairlie had personal estate to the value of L20,000,
derived under the will of her father, Philip Fairlie. To this she became
entitled on completing her twenty-first year. She had a life interest,
moreover, in L10,000, which on her death passed to her father's sister
Eleanor, the wife of Count Fosco, an Italian nobleman. In all human
probability the Countess Fosco would never enjoy this money, for she was
well advanced in age, while Laura was not yet twenty-one.

Regarding the L20,000, the proper and fair course was that the whole
amount should be settled so as to give the income to the lady for her
life, afterwards to Sir Percival for his life, and the principal to the
children of the marriage. In default of issue, the principal was to be
disposed of as the lady might by her will direct, thus enabling her to
make provision for her half-sister, Marian Halcombe. This was the fair
and proper settlement, but Sir Percival's solicitors insisted that the
principal should go to Sir Percival Glyde in the event of his surviving
Lady Glyde and there being no issue. I protested in vain, and this
iniquitous settlement, which placed every farthing of the L20,000 in Sir
Percival's pocket, and prevented Miss Fairlie providing for Miss
Halcombe, was duly signed.


_III.--The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe in a Series of Extracts
from Her Diary_


_Limmeridge House, November 9_. I have secured for poor Walter Hartright
a position as draughtsman on an expedition which is to start immediately
for central South America. Change of scene may really be the salvation
of him at this crisis in his life. To-day poor Laura asked Sir Percival
to release her from the engagement.

"If you still persist in maintaining our engagement," she said, looking
irresistibly beautiful, "I may be your true and faithful wife, Sir
Percival--your loving wife, if I know my own heart, never!"

"I gratefully accept your grace and truth," he said. "The least that
_you_ can offer is more to me than the utmost that I can hope for from
any other woman in the world."

_December_ 19. I received Sir Percival's consent to live with him as
companion to his wife in their new home in Hampshire. I was interested
to discover that Count Fosco, the husband of Laura's Aunt Eleanor, is a
great friend of Sir Percival's.

_December 22_, 11 _o'clock._ It is all over. They are married.

_Black-water Park, Hampshire, June_ 11. Six long months have elapsed
since Laura and I last saw each other. I have just arrived at her new
home. My latest news of Walter Hartright is derived from an American
paper. It describes how the expedition was last seen entering a wild
primeval forest.

_June_ 15. Laura has returned, and I have found her changed. The
old-time freshness and softness have gone. She is, if anything, more
beautiful. She refused to go into details on the subject of her married
life, and the fact that we have this forbidden topic seems to make a
difference to our old relations. Sir Percival made no pretence to be
glad to see me. They brought two guests with them, Count Fosco and his
wife, Laura's aunt. He is immensely fat, with a face like that of the
great Napoleon, and eyes which have an extraordinary power. In spite of
his size, he treads as softly as a cat. His manners are perfect. He
never says a hard word to his wife; but, none the less, he rules her
with a rod of iron. She is absolutely his slave, obedient to the
slightest expression of his eyes. He manages Sir Percival as he manages
his wife; and, indeed, all of us. He inquired to-day whether there were
any Italian gentlemen in the neighbourhood.

_June 16_. Merriman, Sir Percival's solicitor, came down to-day, and I
accidentally overheard a conversation which seems to indicate a
determination on Sir Percival's part to raise money on Laura's security,
to pay off some of his heavy debts.

_June 17_. Sir Percival tried to make Laura sign the document which had
been brought down by Merriman. On my advice, she refused to do so
without reading it. A terrible scene resulted, which was only stopped by
the intervention of Count Fosco. Sir Percival swore that Laura shall
sign it to-morrow. To-night, Laura and I fancied we saw a white figure
in the wood.

_June 18_. Laura has met Anne Catherick. It was she we saw in the wood
last night. She came upon Laura in the boat-house, and declared she had
something to tell her. "What is it you have to tell me?" asked Laura.
"The secret that your cruel husband is afraid of," she answered. "I once
threatened him with the secret and frightened him. You shall threaten
him with the secret and frighten him, too." When Laura pressed her, she
declared somebody was watching them and, pushing Laura back into the
boat-house, disappeared.

_June 19_. The worst has come. Sir Percival has discovered a message
from Anne Catherick to Laura, promising to reveal the secret, and
stating that yesterday she was followed by a "tall, fat man," clearly
the count. Sir Percival was furious, and locked Laura up in her bedroom.
Again the count has had to intervene on her behalf.

_Later_.--By climbing out on the roof of the verandah, I have overheard
a conversation between the count and Sir Percival. They spoke with
complete frankness--with fiendish frankness--to one another. Fosco
pointed out that his friend was desperately in need of money, and that,
as Laura had refused to sign the document, he could not secure it by
ordinary means. If Laura died, Sir Percival would inherit L20,000, and
Fosco himself obtain through his wife L10,000. Sir Percival confessed
that Anne Catherick had a secret which endangered his position. This
secret, he surmised, she had told to Laura; and Laura, being in love
with Walter Hartright--he had discovered this--would use it. The count
inquired what Anne Catherick was like.

"Fancy my wife after a bad illness with a touch of something wrong in
her head, and there is Anne Catherick for you," answered Sir Percival.
"What are you laughing about?"

"Make your mind easy, Percival," he said. "I have my projects here in my
big head. Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just."

I crept back to my room soaked through with the rain. Oh, my God, am I
going to be ill? I have heard the clock strike every hour. It is so
cold, so cold; and the strokes of the clock--the strokes I can't
count--keep striking in my head....

[At this point the diary ceases to be legible.]


_IV.--The Story Completed by Walter Hartright on His Return, from
Several Manuscripts_


The events that happened after Marian Halcombe fell ill while I was
still absent in South America I will relate briefly.

Count Fosco discovered Anne Catherick, and immediately took steps to put
into execution the plot he had hinted at. Wearing the clothes of Lady
Glyde, the unfortunate girl was taken to a house in St. John's Wood
where the real Lady Glyde was expected to stay when passing through town
on her way to Cumberland. Lady Glyde, on pretence that her half-sister
had been removed to town, was induced to visit London, where she was met
by Count Fosco, and at once placed in a private asylum in the name of
Anne Catherick. Her statement that she was Lady Glyde was held to be
proof of the unsoundness of her mind. Unfortunately for the count's
plans, the real Anne Catherick died the day before the incarceration of
Lady Glyde, but, as there was no one to prove the dates of these events,
both Fosco and Sir Percival regarded themselves as secure. With great
pomp the body of Anne Catherick was taken to Limmeridge and buried in
the name of Lady Glyde.

As soon as Marian Halcombe recovered, the supposed death of her
half-sister was broken to her. Recollecting the conversation she had
overheard just before she was taken ill, she had grave suspicions as to
the cause of Laura's death, and immediately instituted inquiries. In the
pursuit of these inquiries she visited Anne Catherick in the asylum, and
her joy in discovering Laura there instead of the supposed Anne
Catherick was almost overwhelming. By bribing one of the nurses, she
secured Laura's freedom, and travelled with her to Limmeridge to
establish her identity. To her disgust and amazement Frederick Fairlie
refused to accept her statement, or to believe that Laura was other than
Anne Catherick. Count Fosco had visited and prepared him.

At this juncture I returned from South America, and, hearing of the
death of the girl I loved, at once set off to Limmeridge on a sad
pilgrimage to her grave. While I was reading the tragic narrative on the
tombstone, two women approached. Even as the words, "Sacred to the
memory of Laura, Lady Glyde," swam before my eyes, one of them lifted
her veil. It was Laura.

In a poor quarter of London I took up my abode with Laura and Miss
Halcombe, and while my poor Laura slowly recovered her health and
spirits I devoted myself to the support of the little household, and to
unravelling the mystery which surrounded the events I have here
recorded. From Mrs. Clements, who had befriended poor Anne Catherick, I
learnt that Mrs. Catherick had had secret meetings years before with Sir
Percival Glyde in the vestry of the church at Welmingham.

To establish the exact relations between Mrs. Catherick and Sir
Percival, I visited Welmingham, pursued by the baronet's agents. My
interview with Mrs. Catherick satisfied me that Sir Percival was not the
father of Anne, and that their secret meeting in the vestry had
reference to some object other than romance. The contemptuous way in
which Mrs. Catherick spoke of Sir Percival's mother set me thinking. I
visited the vestry where the meetings had taken place, and examining the
register, discovered at the bottom of one of the pages, compressed into
a very small space, the entry of Sir Felix Glyde's marriage with the
mother of Sir Percival. Hearing from the sexton that an old lawyer in
the neighbouring town had a copy of this register, I visited him, and
found that his copy did not contain the entry of this marriage.

Here was the secret at last! Sir Percival was the illegitimate son of
his father, and had forged this entry of his father's marriage in order
to secure the title and estates. Mrs. Catherick was the only person who
knew of the plot. In a fit of ill-temper she had told her daughter Anne
that she possessed a secret that could ruin the baronet. Anne herself
never knew the secret, but foolishly repeated her mother's words to Sir
Percival, and the price of her temerity was incarceration in a private
asylum.

I returned post-haste to Welmingham to secure a copy of the forged
entry. It was night. As I approached the church, a man stopped me,
mistaking me for Sir Percival Glyde. A light in the vestry showed to me
that Sir Percival had anticipated my discovery and had secretly visited
the church for the purpose of destroying the evidences of his crime. But
a terrible fate awaited him. Even as I approached the church, a huge
tongue of flame shot up into the night sky. As I rushed forward I could
hear the baronet vainly seeking to escape from the vestry. The lock was
hampered, and he could not get out. I tried to force an entry, but by
the time the flames were under control the end had come. We found the
charred remains of the man who had walked through life as Sir Percival
Clyde lying by the door.

The mystery was now unravelled, and I was free to marry my darling. The
only other point that seemed to need clearing up was the parentage of
the unfortunate Anne Catherick. That was elucidated by Mrs. Catherick
herself. The father of Anne was Philip Fairlie, the father of Laura--a
fact that accounted for the extraordinary likeness between the two
girls. But though our tribulations seemed to be at an end, we had yet to
establish the identity of Laura, and to deal with Count Fosco.

To Miss Halcombe the count had written a letter expressive of his
admiration, and begging her, for her own sake, to let matters be. I knew
the count was a dangerous enemy, who would not hesitate to employ murder
if necessary to gain his ends, but I was determined to re-establish the
identity of Laura. Miss Halcombe's journal afforded me a clue. I found
there a statement that on the occasion of his first visit to Black-water
Park the count had been very concerned to know whether there were any
Italians in the neighbourhood. Without hoping that anything would result
from the manoeuvre, I followed the count one night, in the company of my
friend, Professor Pesca, to the theatre. The professor did not recognise
Fosco, but when the count, staring round the theatre, focussed his
glasses on Pesca, I saw a look of unmistakable terror come over his
countenance. He at once rose from his seat and left the place. We
followed.

The professor was very grave, and it was quite a different man to the
light-hearted little Italian that I knew who related to me a strange
chapter in his life. As a young man, Pesca had belonged to, a secret
society for the removal of tyrants. He was still a member of the
society, and could be called upon to act at any time. The count had also
been a member of the society, and had betrayed its secret. Hence his
terror of seeing Pesca.

I immediately made use of the weapon that had been placed in my hand. I
went boldly to Fosco's house, and offered to effect his escape from
England in return for a full confession of his share in the abduction of
Lady Glyde. He threatened to kill me, but realising that I had him at my
mercy, consented to my terms.

This confession completely established the identity of Laura and she was
publicly acknowledged by Mr. Frederick Fairlie. Laura and I had been
married some time before and we were now able to set off on our
honeymoon. We visited Paris. While there, I chanced to be attracted by a
large crowd that surged round the doors of the Morgue. Forcing my way
through, I saw, lying within, the body of Count Fosco. There was a wound
exactly over his heart, and on his arm were two deep cuts in the shape
of the letter "T"--the symbol of his treason to the secret brotherhood.

When we returned to England, we lived comfortably on the income I was
able to earn by my profession. A son was born to us, and when Frederick
Fairlie died, it was Marion Halcombe, who had been the good angel of our
lives, who announced the important change that had taken place in our
prospects.

"Let me make two eminent personages known to one another," she
exclaimed, with all her easy gaiety of old times, holding out my son to
me: "Mr. Walter Hartright--the heir of Limmeridge House."

*       *       *       *       *




HUGH CONWAY


Called Back

Hugh Conway, the English novelist, whose real name was
Frederick John Fargus, was born December 26, 1847, the son of
a Bristol auctioneer. His early ambition was to lead a
seafaring life, and with this object he entered the school
frigate Conway--from which he took his pseudonym--then
stationed on the Mersey. His father was against the project,
with the result that Conway abandoned the idea and entered his
parent's office, where he found ample leisure to employ
himself in writing occasional newspaper articles and tales.
His first published work was a volume of poems, which appeared
in 1879, and achieved a moderate success. But Hugh Conway is
chiefly known to the reading public for his famous story
"Called Black." The work was submitted to a number of
publishers before it was finally accepted and published, in
1884. Attracting little notice at first, it eventually made a
hit, and within five years 350,000 copies were sold. Several
other works appeared from Conway's pen in rapid succession,
but none of them attained the popularity of "Called Back."
Hugh Conway died at Monte Carlo on May 15, 1885.


_I.--A Blind Witness_


I was young, rich, and possessed of unusual vigour and strength. Life,
you would think, should have been very pleasant to me. I was beyond the
reach of care; I was as free as the wind to follow my own devices. But
in spite of all these advantages, I was as helpless and miserable as the
poorest toiler in the country.

For I was blind, stone blind!

The dread disease that robbed me of my sight had crept on me slowly
through the years, and now I lay in my bedroom in Walpole Street, with
my old nurse, Priscilla Drew, sleeping on an extemporised bed outside my
door to tend and care for me.

It was a stifling night in August. I could not sleep. Despair filled my
heart. I was blind, blind, blind! I should be blind for ever! So
entirely had I lost heart that I began to think I would not have
performed at all the operation which the doctors said might give me back
the use of my eyes.

Presently a sudden, fierce longing to be out of doors came over me. It
was night, very few people would be about. Old Priscilla slept soundly.
I rose from my bed, and, dressing myself with difficulty, crept,
cautious as a thief, to the street door. The street, a quiet one, was
deserted. For a time I walked backwards and forwards up the street. The
exercise filled me with a peculiar elation. By carefully counting my
footsteps, I gauged accurately the position of my house. At last, I
decided to return, and opening the door, I entered and climbed the
stairs. The atmosphere of the place struck me as strange and unfamiliar.
I felt for a bracket which should have been upon the wall, that I had
often been warned to avoid knocking with my head. It was not there. I
had entered the wrong house.

As I turned to grope my way back, I heard the murmur of voices. I made
my way in the direction of these sounds to seek for assistance.
Suddenly, there fell upon my ears the notes of a piano and a woman's
voice singing.

Music with me was an absorbing passion. I listened enthralled, placing
my ear close to the door from behind which the sound proceeded. It was a
song that few amateurs would dare to attempt, and I waited eagerly to
hear how the beautiful voice would render the finale. But I never heard
that last movement.

Instead of the soft, sweet, liquid notes of passionate love, there was a
spasmodic, fearful gasp succeeded by a long, deep groan. The music
stopped abruptly, and the piercing cry of a woman rang out. I threw open
the door and rushed headlong into the room. I heard an oath, an
exclamation of surprise, and the muffled cry of the woman. I turned in
the direction of that faint cry. My foot caught in something, and I fell
prostrate on the body of a man. Before I could rise a strong hand
gripped my throat and I heard the sharp click of a pistol lock.

"Spare me!" I cried. "I am blind, blind, blind!"

I lay perfectly still, crying out these words again and again.

A strong light was turned on my eyes. There was no sound in the room
save the muffled cry of the woman. The hands at my throat were released,
and I was ordered to stand up. Some elementary tests of my blindness
were tried, and I was told to give an account of my presence in the
house. My story seemed to satisfy the man who questioned me. I was
bidden to sit in a chair. I could hear the sound of men carrying a heavy
burden out of the room. Then the woman's moans ceased. A voice at my
side bade me drink something out of a glass, enforcing the demand with a
pistol at my temple. A heavy drowsiness came over me, and I sank into
unconsciousness.

When I came to myself I was in my own bed in my own room, having been
found, apparently in a state of helpless intoxication, lying in a street
some distance from where I lived.


_II.--Not for Love or Marriage_


Two years elapsed. The operation had given me back the use of my eyes. I
was in the city of Turin with a friend. The sight of a beautiful face
lured my companion and myself into the cathedral of San Giovanni. It was
the face of a young girl of about twenty-two; a face of entrancing
beauty. Seated with my friend, I watched her until she rose and left
with her companion, an old Italian woman. For a moment I caught a look
of her dark, glorious eyes as she mechanically crossed herself with holy
water. There was a dreamy, far-away look in them, a look that seemed to
pass over one and see what was behind the object gazed at.

We followed her out of the cathedral and saw the old woman speak to a
middle-aged, round-shouldered, bespectacled man of gentlemanly
appearance.

"Do English gentlemen stare at their own countrywomen in public places
like this?" said a voice at our elbows.

I turned to see a tall man of about thirty standing just behind us. His
face, with its heavy moustache, sneering mouth, and darkened, sullen
eyes, was not a pleasant one, and his impudent question annoyed me. My
friend, with a few sharp retorts, delivered to him a crushing snub, and
the man turned away, scowling. We saw him cross the road to the
middle-aged man who had been speaking to the old Italian woman and her
charge. And then we, too, went our way.

The girl's face haunted me, but we never saw her again in the city of
Turin.

Some weeks later, when I was wandering through London, I suddenly came
upon her in the company of her old nurse. I tracked her to her lodgings
and there engaged rooms myself. An accident to the nurse, whose name I
discovered was Theresa, gave me an opportunity of introducing myself.
The girl spoke to me, but her voice and her manner was strangely
apathetic. She seemed never to know me unless I spoke to her, and then,
unless I asked questions, our conversation died a natural death. To make
love to her seemed impossible, and yet I loved her passionately.

At last, by aid of bribes, I managed to secure the qualified assistance
of Theresa. She promised to place my proposals before the girl's
guardian. Of Pauline herself--such was the girl's name--Theresa would
say nothing. When I asked her if she thought the girl cared for me, she
replied mysteriously and enigmatically.

"Who knows? I do not know--but I tell you the _signorina_ is not for
love or marriage."

Theresa fulfilled her part of the bargain, and I received a visit from
the middle-aged man I had seen in Turin. His name was Manuel Ceneri. His
sister had married Pauline's father, an Englishman, March by name. He
consented readily to my marriage with Pauline on one condition. I was to
ask no questions, seek to know nothing of her birth and family, nothing
of her early days.

Pauline was called into the room. I took her hand. I asked her to be my
wife.

"Yes, if you wish it," she replied softly, without even changing colour.

She did not repulse me, but she did not respond to my affection. She
remained as calm and undemonstrative as ever.

At Dr. Ceneri's strange urgency, Pauline and I were married two days
later.


_III.--Calling Back the Past_


"Not for love or marriage!"

I learned all too soon the meaning of Theresa's words. Pauline, my wife,
my love, had no past. Slowly at first, then with swift steps, the truth
came home to me. The face of the woman I had married was fair as the
morn; her figure as perfect as that of a Grecian statue; her voice low
and sweet; but the one thing which animates every charm--the mind--was
missing. Memory, except for the events of the moment before, she had
none. Of all emotion she was incapable. She was sweet and docile, but
her whole existence was a negative one. Such was Pauline, my wife.

When I was convinced of the truth, I placed her in charge of Priscilla
and hastened to Geneva to seek an explanation from Ceneri. I should
never have found the doctor had not chance thrown me in the way of the
very Italian we had met outside the cathedral of San Giovanni. Knowing
that he knew Ceneri, I spoke to him. At first he refused to have
anything to do with me, but when I mentioned Pauline's name, he asked me
what concern I had with her.

"She is my wife," I replied.

"Your wife!" he shouted. "You lie!"

I rose furiously, and bade him choose his words more carefully. After a
few moments he apologised, asking me whether Ceneri knew of our
marriage. "Traditore," I heard him whisper fiercely to himself when I
replied in the affirmative.

After some further remarks, he consented to take me to Dr. Ceneri,
telling me that his name was Macari. My interview with the doctor was
somewhat unsatisfactory. Pauline had had a shock, but the nature of that
shock he refused to disclose. Macari, before her illness, had imagined
himself in love with her, and was furious at my marriage. One thing,
however, the doctor told me, just as I left, which partially explained
his consent to our union. He had been her guardian, and the fortune of
L50,000 to which she was entitled he had spent in the cause of Italian
freedom. Though he had betrayed his trust, he considered the cause
justified the act; but he had been glad, none the less, to make her some
compensation by marrying her to a wealthy Englishman.

When I left Dr. Ceneri, I met Macari lurking outside. He declared that
in a few weeks he would come to England and explain much that Ceneri had
left unsaid.

Several months later he kept his promise. Ceneri, he told me, had been
arrested in St. Petersburg for participation in some anarchist plot, and
was on his way to Siberia. Of his own personal history he discoursed at
length. His name, it appeared, was really March, and he was Pauline's
brother. In common with his sister, he had been robbed by Ceneri of his
fortune.

He asked to see his sister, but when they met, Pauline showed no
recollection of him. He called often, and she watched him, I noticed,
with an eager, troubled look. One night, after dinner, as he described
how, in a battle, he had killed a white-coated Austrian, he seized a
knife from the table, and illustrated the downward blow with which he
had saved his own life. I heard a deep sigh behind me, and turning, I
saw Pauline in a dead faint. I carried her to her room. When she came to
herself again, or rather when she rose in her bed and turned her face to
mine, I saw in her eyes, what, by the mercy of God, I shall never again
see there.

With eyes fixed and immovable, and dilated to their utmost extent, she
rose and passed out of the room. I followed her. Swiftly she passed out
of the house into the street, and without the slightest hesitation,
turning at right angles, moved swiftly up a long, straight road. After
turning once more she stopped at a three-storeyed house. Going up to the
door, she laid her hand upon it. I tried to lead her gently away, but
she resisted. What was I to do? The house was an empty one. I paused.
Once before my latch-key had opened a strange door. Would it open this
one? I tried it. It fitted exactly.

Without waiting for me, Pauline ran in ahead. I shut the door. All was
darkness. I could hear Pauline moving about on the first floor. I
followed her, and, striking a match, found myself in a room with
folding-doors. It was furnished, but the dust lay deep everywhere.
Pauline stood in the middle of the room, holding her head in her hands,
striving, it seemed, to remember something. I entered the back room with
the candle I had found. There was a piano there. Something induced me to
sit down at it and to play the first few notes of the song I had heard
that terrible night.

A nervous trembling seemed to seize Pauline. She crossed the floor
towards me, and I made room for her at the piano. With a master hand she
played brilliantly the prelude of the song of which I had struck a few
vagrant notes. I waited breathlessly, expecting her to sing. Suddenly
she started wildly to her feet and, uttering a wild cry of horror, sank
into my arms. I laid her on a sofa close by. As I held her there, a
strange thing happened.

The room beyond the folding-doors was lit with a brilliant light.
Grouped round a table were four men. One of them was Ceneri, the other
Macari. The third man was a stranger to me. These three men were looking
at a fourth man--a young man who appeared to be falling out of his
chair, clutching convulsively the hilt of a dagger, the blade of which
had been buried in his heart, clearly by Macari, who stood over him.

I cannot explain this vision. I only saw it when I held Pauline's hand.
When I let her hand drop the scene vanished. You may call it cataleptic,
clairvoyant, anything you will; it was as I relate.


_IV.--Seeking the Truth in Siberia_


Macari called on me the day after this strange scene to ask me about the
memorial to Victor Emanuel.

"Before I consent to help you," I said, "I must know why you murdered a
man three years ago in a house in Horace Street."

He sprang to his feet and grasping my arm, looked intently into my eyes.
I saw that he recognised me in spite of the great change that blindness
makes in a face.

"Why should I deny the affair to an eye-witness? To others I would deny
it fast enough. Now, my fine fellow, my gay bridegroom, my dear
brother-in-law, I will tell you why I killed that man. He had insulted
my family. That man was Pauline's lover!"

He saw what was in my face as I rose and walked towards him.

"Not here," he said hastily, "what good can it do here--a vulgar scuffle
between two gentlemen?"

"Go," I cried, "murderer and coward. Every word you have spoken to me
has been a lie, and because you hate me you have to-day told me the
greatest lie of all."

He left me with a look of malicious triumph in his face. I knew he lied,
but how could I prove that he lied? Only Ceneri could tell me the truth.
He was in Siberia, and, mad as the scheme seemed, thither I determined
to go to get the whole truth from his lips.

I exerted all the influence I possessed. I spent money freely, and with
a special passport signed by the Czar himself, which placed all the
resources of the Russian police at my disposal, I passed across Russia
into Siberia. At last, after travelling thousands of miles, I came up
with the gang of wretched prisoners in which the doctor was. Showing my
papers to the officer in command, I was taken at once to the awful
prison-house. I had him brought to me in a private room, and placed
before him food and drink.

"I want to ask you some questions," I said, "questions which you alone
can answer."

"Ask them. You have given me an hour's release from misery. I am
grateful."

"The first question I have to ask is--who and what is that man Macari?"

Ceneri sprang to his feet. "A traitor! a traitor!" he cried.

It was Macari who had betrayed him. Macari was no more Anthony March,
the brother of Pauline, than I was, and Pauline had never had a lover in
the sense in which Macari had used the word.

Pauline was an innocent as an angel. The lie I had come so far to
destroy had dissolved. There was one other question I had to ask. Who
was the man Macari had killed, and what had he to do with Pauline?
Ceneri's face turned ashen as I asked him the question. It was some
moments before he understood that I was the man who had stumbled into
the room. Then he told me all.

The murdered man was Anthony March, the brother of Pauline. As he had
already confessed, Ceneri had spent all the trust-money of which he was
guardian for Pauline and her brother, in the cause of Italian freedom.
When the young man grew up, the time drew near when Ceneri must explain
all and take the consequences. The evil day was delayed by providing him
with money. That money ran out. Ceneri and the two other men, fearful of
the consequences to all of them, decided upon a plan to silence Anthony.
He was to be lured to the house in Horace Street, and to leave it as a
lunatic in charge of a doctor and keepers. But Macari ruined the plot.
He was in love with Pauline, and Anthony had spoken contemptuously of
such a match for his sister. A few insolent words at the house in Horace
Street, and the passionate Italian's knife had found its way into the
young man's heart. It was Ceneri who had saved my life when I stumbled
upon the scene. The third sharer in the tragedy, who had drowned
Pauline's shrieks in a sofa cushion, had since died raving mad in a
cell. That was the story.

I hastened back to England, leaving money behind me to provide a few
comforts for the unfortunate prisoner. I went direct to the little
village where Pauline was staying with Priscilla. I could see that she
remembered me but as a person in a dream. I had to woo her now. Of our
marriage she seemed to have forgotten everything. Though all the old
apathy had disappeared, and her mind had once more awakened in her
beautiful body, she did not remember that. I despaired at last of
winning her, and I determined to bid her good-bye forever. As I sat in
the woods with her for the last time, gloom in my heart, I fell into a
doze. I was awakened by kisses on my cheeks. I sprang to my feet. In
front of me stood Pauline, and looking into her eyes, I saw that she
loved me.

She had realised on my first return that I was her husband, but had
determined to find out if I loved her. As I said nothing, so she too had
remained silent.

"Gilbert," she said, "I have wept, but now I smile. The past is passed.
Let the love I bore my brother be buried in 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. We went to Paris for our real
honeymoon. The great war was over, and the Commune had just ended. In
the company of a friend I saw some Communists led out to be shot, and
among their faces I recognised Macari.

*       *       *       *       *




FENIMORE COOPER


The Last of the Mohicans