Wyllard's Weird

"Assuredly not," replied Wyllard. "To be interesting a murder must be mysterious. Here there was no mystery."

"Pardon me. I think you must have forgotten the details of the story. There was a mystery, and a profound one; but that mystery was the character of the man Georges, who was known to have been Marie Prévol's devoted lover, and who was by some supposed to have been her husband."

"Ah, yes, I remember," answered Wyllard. "These things come back to one's mind as one discusses them. Georges was the name of the supposed murderer. He got off so cleverly as to baffle the keenest police in Europe."

"Did you know any thing of him?"

"Nothing. He was a nobody, I believe. A man of ample means, but of no social standing."

"His life was a social mystery; and it is in that mysterious existence that I find an interest surpassing anything I have hitherto met with in the history of crime."

"Really!" exclaimed Julian Wyllard, with something of a sneer in his tone. "I perceive you have begun the business of amateur detective on a large scale. I understood from Dora that you were coming to Paris solely with a view to finding out anything there was to be discovered about that poor little girl who tumbled off the viaduct, and whom, I think, you call Louise Lemarque."

"Léonie Lemarque. That was the girl's name. Léonie Lemarque's death is only the last link in a chain of events beginning with the murder of Marie Prévol."

Julian Wyllard started impatiently from his chair.

"My dear Heathcote, I thought you the most sensible man I ever met, but really this sounds like rank lunacy. What in Heaven's name can the murder at Saint-Germain ten years ago have to do with the death of that girl the other day?"

"Only this much. Léonie Lemarque was Marie Prévol's niece: and I have the strongest reason for believing that she went to London to meet the murderer of her aunt."

CHAPTER VI.

STRUCK DOWN

As Edward Heathcote uttered those words, the conviction of their truth flashed into his mind. In thoughtful days and wakeful nights this question as to the identity of the person who was to meet Léonie Lemarque at the railway-station had been a perplexity to him, the subject of many a new theory: and now it came upon him all at once that this assertion, which he had made on the spur of the moment, in the heat of argument, was the true solution of the mystery.

It was to Georges himself – her daughter's generous adoring lover, her daughter's suspected murderer – that Madame Lemarque had sent her granddaughter, as to one who, of all other men, would be most inclined to act generously to the orphan girl, were it only in remorse for his crime.

He tried to realise the thoughts of the lonely old woman, dying in penury, leaving her orphan grandchild to face the world without a friend. She would go over the list of those whom she had known in the past – those who were rich enough to be generous. Alas! how few there are who remain the friends of poverty! One man she had known of, although she had never seen him – rich, generous to lavishness. She had at one time believed him to be the murderer of her daughter. But it might be that she had afterwards modified her opinion, that she had received some communication from this Georges, that he had assured her of his innocence, that he had sent her money, had helped her to struggle on against adverse times, had helped her for a while, and then grown weary. And she, knowing the place of his exile, had, in her desperation, determined upon committing her grandchild to this man's care; rather than to the pitiless world of strange faces and careless hearts, the outside world, to which one helpless girl the more is but as one drop in the ocean of sorrowing humanity. She had sent Léonie Lemarque to meet this man, and the girl had recognised the murderer of her aunt.

And yet this could hardly be, since the cabman's evidence showed that Léonie had been on the best possible terms with the person in whose company she drove to Paddington Station.

After that speech of his, Edward Heathcote had no longer the power to withhold any details of his investigation from Julian Wyllard and his wife. He told them in fewest words all that he had discovered since he crossed the Channel.

Dora was intensely interested in the story. The passionate love and passionate jealousy were very human feelings that appealed to her womanly tenderness. She could not withhold her pity from the murderer.

"Strange that, in all your Parisian experience, you never met this Monsieur Georges," she said to her husband.

"Hardly, since I seldom went out in the evening; while this man was evidently a thorough Bohemian, who only began to live after midnight," answered Wyllard.

He was sitting in a thoughtful attitude, his elbow on the table, his chin leaning on his hand, and that photograph of Marie Prévol lying before him. He was looking intently at it, perusing every lineament.

Presently he raised his eyes, slowly, thoughtfully, from the photograph to the face of his wife.

"Yes," said Heathcote, "I know what you are thinking. There is a likeness. It struck me this evening when I came into this room. There is a curious likeness between the face of the living and the dead."

That morning, on studying the countenance in the photograph, Heathcote had been perplexed – worried, even – by a sense of familiarity in that face of the dead. It smiled at him as a face he had known of old – a face out of the past. Yet it was only in the evening, when he came into the salon at the Windsor, and Mrs. Wyllard turned towards him in the lamplight, that he knew what the likeness meant. It was not an obvious or striking likeness. The resemblance was rather in expression than in feature, but one face recalled the other.

"Yes, there is a likeness," said Wyllard coldly, passing the photograph back to its owner, who rose to take leave, just as the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven.

"I shall look in to-morrow, and see if you are inclined for an afternoon at Saint-Germain," he said, as he shook hands with Dora.

"You are very kind," she said, "but your invitation is no longer tempting. You have spoiled my interest in that sweet old place. I shall always think of it as the scene of Marie Prévol's death."

"But surely that is an additional charm," said Wyllard mockingly. "If you are gifted with Mr. Heathcote's detective temper – the genius of the heaven-born police-officer – Saint-Germain will be all the more interesting to you on account of a double murder – and perhaps a suicide into the bargain; for it is not unlikely that the murderer's bones are mouldering in some gravel-pit."

"You forget Drubarde's story of the travelling-cap," said Heathcote.

"That was a shrewd hypothesis on your ex-police-officer's part, but it is by no means conclusive evidence," answered Wyllard.

Heathcote called at the Windsor upon the following afternoon, to inquire if Mr. and Mrs. Wyllard had left for Switzerland. He was shocked to hear that Mr. Wyllard had been taken seriously ill in the night, and that there had been two medical men with him that morning. Madame was terribly distressed, the waiter told him, but she bore up admirably.

Heathcote sent in his name, and was at once admitted to the salon, where Dora came to him after the briefest delay.

She was very pale, and there were signs of terror, and of grief in her countenance.

"I am glad you have come," she faltered. "I should have sent for you, only – " she hesitated, and stopped, with tears in her eyes, feeling that in another moment she might have said too much. He was her oldest friend, the man to whom her thoughts turned naturally in the hour of trouble, the man whom, of all others, she most trusted; but he was her old lover also, and she felt that never again could she dare to appeal to his friendship as she had done for Bothwell's sake.

"Is there anything very serious?" he asked.

"Yes, it is very serious. Paralysis. Only a slight attack, the doctors say. But there are signs of a physical decay which may end fatally – an overworked nervous system, the English physician says. And yet his life has been so easy, so placid, for the last seven years."

"No doubt; but his life in this city was a life of excitement and anxiety, the fever of the race for wealth. He is suffering now, most likely, for the high pressure of that period. Is his mind affected by the shock?"

"Not in the least. His mind was never clearer than it has been to-day."

"When did the illness begin?"

"Early this morning, five hours after you left us. We sat up till nearly one o'clock, talking of our trip to Switzerland and Italy. Julian was in wonderful spirits. I have never known him more cheerful. He planned a tour that would last all through the winter, as I told him. It was one o'clock when I went to bed, and I left him sitting in his dressing-room, reading. The door was half open, and I could see him, as he sat by the table, in the bright light of the lamp. I had slept for hours, as it seemed to me, when I was awakened by hearing my name called in a strange voice. I sprang out of bed; frightened by that unknown voice, and then I heard the name again, and knew all at once that it was Julian's voice, only altered beyond recognition. I rushed to him. He had sunk back into his armchair. I asked him what was the matter, and he told me that he could not move. There was numbness in all his limbs. His arms were as heavy as lead. I seized his hand and found it deadly cold. I rang the bell with all my might, and at last one of the women-servants came to my help. She roused the porter, and sent him to fetch a doctor. It was not quite four o'clock when she came to me, but it was past five o'clock before the doctor arrived. He told me at once that my husband had had a paralytic shock, and he helped me to get him to bed, while the porter went in search of a nurse. I wanted to have nursed Julian myself, without the help of any stranger, whose presence might worry him: but the doctor said that would be impossible. I must have a skilled nurse in attendance. There would be plenty for me to do in helping her, he said. So I submitted, and the nurse was with us in less than an hour – a nursing-sister of the order of St. Vincent de Paul, a very nice person."

"Is your doctor a clever man?"

"The Frenchman who came in the morning seems clever; and, at my request, he brought Dr. Danvers, an English physician. I am told he is the best English doctor in Paris. They are both of the same opinion as to the nature of the attack; but Dr. Danvers is inclined to look upon it more seriously than the French doctor. He declared that Julian's brain must have been frightfully overworked within the last few years; and when I told him that my husband's life had, to my knowledge, been one of rest and tranquil monotony, I could see by his face that he did not believe me."

"Mr. Wyllard is better, I hope, since the morning."

"Yes, he is much better. There is still a feeling of heaviness and dull pain; but he is so patient, he will hardly confess he is in pain, though I can see from his face that he suffers."

The tears rushed to her eyes, and she walked hastily to the window, where she stood for a few minutes holding her handkerchief before her face, with her back to Heathcote, who waited silently, knowing the uselessness of all consolatory speeches at such a time.

She conquered herself, and came back to her seat presently.

"Struck down in the prime of his manhood, in all the force of his intellect," she said. "It is a deathblow."

"Your English doctor may exaggerate the danger."

"God grant that it is so. I have telegraphed to Sir William Spencer, entreating him to come to Paris by to-night's mail. The question of cost is nothing; but I fear he may not be able to leave his practice so long – or he may be away from London."

"When did you telegraph?"

"An hour ago. I am expecting the answer at any moment. I hope he will come."

"What is it this Dr. Danvers apprehends?"

"He fears an affection of the spinal marrow, a slow and lingering malady, full of pain. O, it is too dreadful!" cried the agonised wife, clasping her hands in a paroxysm of despair. "What has he done to be so afflicted? how has he deserved such suffering, he who worked so hard, and denied himself all pleasures in his youth – he who has been so good and generous to others? Why should he be tortured?"

"Dear Mrs. Wyllard, pray do not give way to grief. The doctor may be mistaken. He ought not to have told you so much."

"It was right of him to tell me. I begged him to keep nothing from me – not to treat me as a child. If there is a martyrdom to be borne, I will bear my part of it. Yes, I will suffer with him, pang for pang, for to see him in pain will be as sharp an agony for me as the actual torture can be for him. He is resting now, dozing from the effect of the morphia which they have injected under the skin."

"I trust if Sir William Spencer come that he will be able to give you a more hopeful opinion."

"Yes, I am putting my trust in that. But I am full of fear. Dr. Danvers has such a shrewd clever air. He does not look the kind of man to be mistaken."

"But in these nervous disorders there is always room for error. You must hope for the best."

"I will try to hope, for Julian's sake. Goodbye. I must go back to my place at his bedside. I don't want him to see a strange face when he awakes."

"Good-bye. Remember, if there is any service I can render you, the slightest or the greatest, you have only to command me. I shall call this evening to hear how your patient progresses, and if Spencer is coming. But I shall not ask to see you."

He left the hotel full of trouble at the agony of one he loved. He thought of Dora in her helplessness, her loneliness, watching the slow decay of that vigorous frame, the gradual extinction of that powerful mind. What martyrdom could be more terrible for a tender-hearted woman?

He called at the Windsor in the evening. The patient was much the same. Sir William Spencer was expected at eight o'clock next morning.

Edward Heathcote was watching in front of the hotel when the physician drove up in a fly from the station. Dr. Danvers had gone into the hotel a few minutes before. Heathcote waited to see Sir William Spencer leave the hotel in the same fly, accompanied to the carriage door by Dr. Danvers. They were talking as they came out of the porte-cochère, and their faces were very grave. Heathcote felt that the great English doctor had not left hope behind him in those rooms on the first floor, with their sunny windows facing the palace-garden. He had not the heart to intrude upon Dora immediately after the consultation, though he was very anxious to hear Sir William's verdict. He watched the fly drive away, while Dr. Danvers walked briskly in the opposite direction: and then he strolled along the Rue de Rivoli towards the Palais Royal, hardly knowing where he went, so deeply were his thoughts occupied by the grief of the woman he loved.

What if Julian Wyllard were to die, that successful rival of his, the man who had stolen his plighted wife from him? The thought would come, though Heathcote tried to shut his mind against it, though he hated himself for harbouring so selfish an idea. The question would shape itself in his mind, would be answered somehow or other.

If Julian Wyllard were to die, and Dora were again free to wed whom she chose? Would the old love be rekindled in her heart? Would the old lover seem nearer and dearer to her than any other man on earth? Would she reward him for long years of patient devotion, for a faithfulness that had never wavered? Alas, no, he could hope for no such reward, he who had married within a year or two of losing her, who had, in the world's eye, consoled himself speedily for that loss. Could he go to her and say, "I never loved my wife; I married her out of pity; my love was given to you, and you alone!"

That was his secret. To Dora Wyllard he must have seemed as fickle as the common herd of men, who change their loves as easily as they change their tailors. He could put forward no claim for past constancy. No, were she once again free, it would be by the devotion of the future that he must win her.

And then he recalled what the physician had said about Julian Wyllard's malady. It would be a slow and lingering disease – a decay of years, perhaps. He saw the dark possibility of such a martyrdom. Dora's life would be worn and wasted in the attendance upon that decaying frame, that sorely tried mind and temper. She would sacrifice health, spirits, life itself, perhaps, in her devotion to her afflicted husband. And when the end at last came – the dismal end of all her care and tenderness – would she be a woman to be wooed and won? Would not life for her be over, all possibility of happiness for ever gone? Only a little respite, a little rest remaining before the grave should close on her broken heart.

No, there was no ground for selfish rejoicing, for wicked hope, in Julian Wyllard's malady.

Heathcote ordered a simple breakfast in one of the quietest cafés in the Palais Royal, and lingered over the meal and the newspapers till he was able to present himself with a better grace at the Windsor. He had some difficulty in reading the news of the day with attention, or even comprehension, so full were his thoughts. He recalled Julian Wyllard's manner and bearing during the last few months, and wondered at the vigour, the freshness of mind, the power which had been so obvious in every look, and tone, and gesture. That such a man could suddenly be struck down without a day's warning, without any imaginable cause, had seemed almost incomprehensible. Had the nature of the attack been different, the thing would have appeared less inexplicable. An apoplectic fit striking down the strong man in his might, as if from the blow of a Nasmyth hammer, would have seemed far more in character with the nature of the patient, his vigorous manhood, his appearance of physical power.

Heathcote called at the Windsor between twelve and one o'clock, and had only a few minutes to wait in the salon before he was joined by Mrs. Wyllard.

She was very pale, but she was more composed than on the previous day. Her countenance had a rigid look, Heathcote thought; as if she had schooled herself to composure by a severe mental effort. The hand she gave him was deadly cold.

"I trust you have good news for me," he said. "Is Spencer more hopeful than your Paris physician?"

"No, there is no hope. I had a long talk with both the doctors after their consultation. It was very difficult to wring the truth from them both – to get them to be quite candid. They seemed to pity me so much. They were full of kindness. As if kindness or pity would help me in my trouble for him! Nothing can help me – no one – except God. And perhaps He will not. It seems that in this life there are a certain number of victims, chosen haphazard, who must suffer mysterious, purposeless agonies. And Julian is to be one of those sufferers. It is bitter, inexplicable, cruel. My soul revolts against these fruitless punishments."

"Tell me what Sir William said."

"The worst. Julian's symptoms indicate a disease of the spinal cord: progressive muscular atrophy, Sir William called it, a disease generally caused by excessive muscular activity, but in this case due to the strain upon the mind. He will waste away inch by inch, hour by hour, and he will suffer terribly. Yes, that is the worst. This gradual decay will be a long martyrdom. He will be dependent on opiates for relief. I am to take comfort in the thought that his pain can be soothed by repeated injections of morphia; that a sleeping draught will give him a little rest at night. He is to exist under the influence of narcotics; he who a few months ago seemed the incarnation of health and vigour."

"A few months ago, you say. Then you have remarked a change in him of late?" inquired Heathcote.

"Yes, there has been a change, subtle, mysterious. I could not describe the symptoms to Sir William Spencer. But there was a curious alteration in his ways and manner. He was much more irritable. He had strange intervals of silence."

"Can you recall the beginning of this alteration?"

"Hardly. It was a change that seems to have had no beginning. It was so gradual – imperceptible almost. It was during that very oppressive weather early in August that I noticed he was looking ill and haggard. I thought that he was angry and worried about Bothwell, and that he was vexed at the stupidity of his bailiff, who had mismanaged one of the farms, and involved him in a law-suit with a tenant. I fancied these things were worrying him, and that the excessive heat was making him ill. I begged him to take medical advice; but he was angry at the suggestion, and declared that he never felt better in his life."

"What does Sir William advise?"

"That we should go back to Penmorval at once, or at least as soon as the proper arrangements can be made for the journey. I have telegraphed to Julian's valet to come here immediately, and Sir William will send a trained nurse from London by the evening mail. We shall have plenty of help. Fortunately it is Julian's own wish to go back to Cornwall."

"Is there any improvement in his state today?"

"I dare not say there is improvement. He is very calm, quite resigned. The physicians told him the nature of his malady; but they did not tell him that it is hopeless. They left his own intelligence to discover that; and I fear he knows the truth only too well already. Would you like to see him, if he is inclined to receive you?"

"Yes, I should much like to see him."

Dora went into the adjoining room, and closed the door behind her. She reopened it almost immediately, and beckoned to Heathcote, who went in with careful footstep and bated breath, almost as he might have entered the chamber of death.

Julian Wyllard was reclining on a sofa, his head and shoulders propped up by pillows, his legs covered with a fur rug. There was something in the very position of the body, so straight, so rigid a line from the waist downwards, which told of that death in life that had fallen upon the strong man; the man whom Edward Heathcote had last seen erect, in all the vigour of manhood, tall, broad-shouldered, powerful.

"Well, Heathcote, you have come to see the wreck of proud humanity," he said, with a half-sad, half-cynical smile. "You did not know when you were with us the other night that my race was so nearly run, that I was to break down in the middle of the course. I have had my warnings, but I made light of them, and the blow came unexpectedly at last. But it has left the brain clear. That is some comfort. Sit down; I want to talk to you – and Dora – seriously."

He was very pale – white even to the lips, and his wife was watching him anxiously, surprised at the signs of profound agitation in him who had been so calm after the physicians had left him.

"I am very sorry for you, Wyllard; sorry with all my heart," said Heathcote earnestly, as he took the chair nearest the sofa, while Dora seated herself on the other side, close to her husband.

"You are more than good. I am assured that everybody will – pity me," this with a smile of bitterest meaning. "But I want to talk to you about two people in whom you and Dora are both interested – your very lovable sister, and my wife's scapegrace cousin. They are devoted to each other; it seems, and except for this little cloud upon Bothwell's character, I take it you had no objection to the match."

"That was my chief objection."

"Forgive me for saying that it was a most foolish one. Because a few country bumpkins take it into their heads to suspect a gentleman – "

"Pardon me, Mr. Wyllard, if I confess that I was among those bumpkins. Mr. Grahame's refusal to answer Mr. Distin's questions, and his obvious agitation, led me to believe that he was concerned in that girl's death. I am thankful to be able to say that my discoveries on this side of the Channel all point in a different direction, while on the other hand my sister assures me that her lover has satisfactorily explained the reason of his peculiar conduct at the inquest."

"You have no further objection to Bothwell as a husband for your sister?"

"No, my esteem for the race from which he sprang is a strong reason why I should sanction the match; although worldly wisdom is decidedly against a girl's marriage with a man who was a soldier, and who is – nothing."