During her imprisonment she had made a strange discovery, but, alas! she had come too late, and now she turned away from the church disappointed and heartbroken. The mainspring of her life had snapped; nevertheless, she was determined to wait and obtain a revenge which she knew would be terrible and complete.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE PRETTY ARTIST'S MODEL.

"I've a good mind to burn them, and so put an end to all this confounded mystery; yet--"

Hugh Trethowen hesitated.

Standing pensively before the fire in his own den at Coombe a fortnight after his marriage, he was examining the photograph and partially destroyed letters, the unaccountable presence of which among his brother's possessions had caused him so much perturbation. As he held the photograph in his hand the pictured face of Valerie seemed to smile with tantalising seductiveness, and, with a fond husbands admiration, he told himself that in no way had her beauty deteriorated, but, on the contrary, she had grown handsomer.

Nevertheless, the fact that it had, together with the letters, been carefully concealed by his brother, was a problem which frequently caused him a good deal of uneasy speculation. The wording of the missives was strangely ominous, and there was no disguising the fact that they were in his wife's handwriting.

"I'm half inclined to tear them up and burn them. If I did, they certainly would worry me no longer," he argued, aloud. "I wish I could let her see them, and ask for an explanation. But I cannot; it would show mistrust."

He lifted his eyes from the photograph and gazed perplexedly around the apartment. More than once he had been sorely tempted to destroy the carefully-preserved doc.u.ments; still the mystery surrounding them was fascinating, and he vaguely hoped that some day he might elucidate it.

Suddenly he turned and crossed the room resolutely, saying--

"No, I'll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurd apprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainly relate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery; nevertheless, it's probable that, after all, they only refer to some very commonplace affair."

Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at the photograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table; then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.

"Bah! I'm a fool to think about them," he added, as he locked the flap and turned away. "Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts, interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? Even Jack's semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when they are before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in their cupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there's no reason why I should bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, and until then I can wait."

He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. That afternoon Valerie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar's wife, whom she had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seven o'clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismally in the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaiting dinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone, with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterly unbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile.

His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.

While in this contemplative mood, a servant entered and handed him a letter on a salver. Taking it up, he glanced at the superscription. In was in a feminine hand which he did not recognise. Breaking open the envelope, he read and re-read the brief and almost incomprehensible message it contained. It ran as follows:--

_Dear Mr. Trethowen,--It is imperative that I should see you as soon as possible upon a matter of the utmost importance. To commit to paper the object of the interview I desire would not be policy, nevertheless it is of great moment to yourself. Can you make an appointment to meet me in London? Please keep this letter a strict secret from any one, even including Mrs. Trethowen.--Yours very truly, Dorothy Vivian_.

"I wonder what it can mean?" he reflected, with his eyes fixed upon the paper. "Evidently Dolly has turned up again, yet it's strange Jack has said nothing of her reappearance in his letters. Where can she have been, and why does she send me such a curious request? What can she know that concerns me?"

He re-read the letter silently, twisting his moustache in perplexity.

"I suspect that, if the truth were known, she's been on a holiday trip with some admirer. But I shouldn't have thought it of her, she was so quiet and steady-going. A matter of great moment to myself," he repeated. "It sounds mysterious, certainly."

Still holding her letter in his hand, he flung back his head on the cushion of his chair, and thought.

"After all, many men would feel flattered by such a note," he said aloud.

"Why, Hugh, dear, how long have you been sitting here all alone? What's that in your hand? A letter! In a girl's handwriting, too!"

The voice caused him to start from his chair and crush the letter hurriedly into his pocket. Valerie had opened the door noiselessly and crept up behind him mischievously, intending to startle him. She had been looking over his shoulder for several moments, vainly endeavouring to read the communication.

"You made me jump, darling," he said, laughing confusedly. "I've been waiting for you an hour."

"And been amusing yourself, it seems, by receiving a letter during my absence," she added cynically.

"I admit the letter came half an hour ago, but it contains nothing of which I am ashamed."

"Then I presume I may read it?" she suggested.

"Unfortunately, no," he replied, remembering Dolly's injunctions as to secrecy. "Its contents are of a strictly private nature."

"Unless it be compromising, I should scarcely have thought that any letter received by a husband who wishes to preserve a wife's confidence could contain secrets that she should not learn," Valerie remarked in a tone of annoyance.

"That is true, dearest," he said earnestly, taking her hand. "It is through no fault of my own that I am unable to show it to you."

"May I not know who the writer is?" she asked, standing erect, and looking handsome in the dinner-gown which she had a.s.sumed before coming in search of him.

Her husband shook his head gravely.

It was the first difference of opinion they had had since their marriage, and he could not view it but with regret. He hastened to a.s.sure her that she need have no fear that he was practising duplicity, that he loved her too well. For her part, she had long ago gauged the extent of his affection, and, truth to tell, had but little misgiving when she discovered the open letter in his hand. Nevertheless, she was curious to learn the ident.i.ty of his lady correspondent, and, in consequence of being met with a decisive refusal, was somewhat piqued.

This, however, pa.s.sed quickly. The unbecoming frown which clouded her brow soon gave way to an affectionate smile as she yielded herself to his embrace and returned his kiss.

A moment later a servant entered and announced that dinner was served.

Then she linked her arm in his, and they strolled along to the dining-room, laughing lightly, and discussing the merits of the obese and highly respectable lady she had been visiting.

Valerie's nature was fantastic to a degree. She invariably sacrificed her interests to her caprices.

Thus the unpleasant episode pa.s.sed, and in half an hour was entirely forgotten. Trethowen was as madly in love with his wife as on the first day his eyes fell upon her, and, surrounded by comfort and luxury, led a blissful, contented existence. Heedless of the future, and living only for the present, he adored her pa.s.sionately, believing that the perfect felicity they now enjoyed would go on uninterruptedly and be of permanent duration.

How strange it is that all of us, however philosophic, at one period or other in our lives entertain a foolish conviction that we have found perfect and lasting contentment! We never reflect. If we did, we should recognise that there is no such thing as perpetual happiness, that joy is at best but temporary pleasure, productive of bitter reaction, and that so-called domestic bliss is a fallacy, always antic.i.p.ated, often feigned, yet, waning and fading with the honeymoon.

On that day Dolly Vivian returned to Jack Egerton.

In the morning she had walked unexpectedly into his studio where he was busy at work, and, laughing at his surprise and consternation, proceeded to divest herself of her hat and jacket in apparently an unconcerned manner, as though she had never been absent. To his questions as to the cause of her disappearance and long silence she was perfectly indifferent, merely remarking in a severe tone that she was mistress of her own actions, and that she did not require intrusion upon affairs which were of a purely private nature. A suggestion of his that she had been on an escapade with a male escort she strongly resented; indeed, she became so angry at the insinuation that, fearing lest she should again absent herself, the artist was compelled to abandon his cross-examination and welcome her return with all the sincerity of an old friend.

"Then you won't tell me why you went away so suddenly and left no address?" he asked again, when they had been in conversation some time, and he had told her of his doings in her absence.

"No, Jack. Once for all, I refuse. My movements concern no one except myself."

"I, too, am an interested party," he argued, smiling gallantly.

"Well, yes. I suppose you haven't yet finished `The Sultan's Favourite'?"

"No; there it is," he replied, pointing to a canvas placed with its face towards the wall. "I have not touched it since you left. It has been awaiting your return before I could finish it."

"Am I to continue my sittings, then?" she asked coquettishly.

"Why, of course," he replied, lolling against his easel and regarding her amusedly. "You know well enough what crude daubs my figures would be if I did not have your model. I owe the greater part of my success to you, and since your absence I've done absolutely nothing that has satisfied me."

She was well aware that the words he spoke were the truth. Through several years of desperate struggle against adversity she had been his adviser and a.s.sistant, watching with gratification his steady progress.

Each picture he completed was more natural and more perfect. He could work from no other model, she knew, therefore it did not surprise her when he announced his intention to resume without further delay what promised to be his masterpiece, "The Sultan's Favourite."