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The Malefactor

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Malefactor



This etext was prepared by Theresa Armao of Albany, New York





THE MALEFACTOR

by E. Phillips Oppenheim




CONTENTS

BOOK I Chapter

I. A Society Scandal
II. Outside the Pale
III. A Student of Character
IV. A Delicate Mission
V. The Gospel of Hate
VI. "Hast Thou Found Me, O Mine Enemy?"
VII. Lord of the Manor
VIII. The Heart of a Child
IX. The Sword of Damocles
X. A Forlorn Hope
XI. Professor Sinclair's Dancing Academy
XII. Mephistopheles on a Steamer
XIII. A Cockney Conspirator
XIV. The Moth and the Candle
XV. "Devil Take the Hindmost"
XVI. The Hidden Hand

BOOK II

I. "Mr. Wingrave, From America"
II. The Shadow of a Fear
III. Juliet Asks Questions
IV. Lady Ruth's Last Card
V. Guardian and Ward
VI. Ghosts of Dead Things.
VII. Spreading the Net
VIII. In the Toils
IX. The Indiscretion of the Marchioness
X. "I am Misanthropos, and Hate Mankind"
XI. Juliet Gains Experience
XII. Nemesis at Work
XIII. Richardson Tries Again
XIV. "It Was an Accident"
XV. Aynesworth Plans a Love Story
XVI. A Deed of Gift
XVII. For Pity's Sake
XVIII.A Dream of Paradise
XIX. The Awakening
XX. Revenge is--Bitter
XXI. The Way of Peace
XXII. "Love Shall Make all Things New"


Book I

A SOCIETY SCANDAL

Tall and burly, with features and skin hardened by exposure to the sun and
winds of many climates, he looked like a man ready to face all hardships,
equal to any emergency. Already one seemed to see the clothes and habits of
civilization falling away from him, the former to be replaced by the stern,
unlovely outfit of the war correspondent who plays the game. They crowded
round him in the club smoking room, for these were his last few minutes. They
had dined him, toasted him, and the club loving cup had been drained to his
success and his safe return. For Lovell was a popular member of this very
Bohemian gathering, and he was going to the Far East, at a few hours' notice,
to represent one of the greatest of English dailies.

A pale, slight young man, who stood at this right hand, was speaking. His name
was Walter Aynesworth, and he was a writer of short stories-- a novelist in
embryo.

"What I envy you most, Lovell," he declared, "is your escape from the deadly
routine of our day by day life. Here in London it seems to me that we live the
life of automatons. We lunch, we dine, we amuse or we bore ourselves, and we
sleep--and all the rest of the world does the same. Passion we have outgrown,
emotion we have destroyed by analysis. The storms which shake humanity break
over other countries. What is there left to us of life? Civilization ministers
too easily to our needs, existence has become a habit. No wonder that we are a
tired race."

"Life is the same, the world over," another man remarked. "With every forward
step in civilization, life must become more mechanical. London is no worse
than Paris, or Paris than Tokyo."

Aynesworth shook his head. "I don't agree with you," he replied. "It is the
same, more or less, with all European countries, but the Saxon temperament,
with its mixture of philosophy and philistinism, more than any other,
gravitates towards the life mechanical. Existence here has become fossilized.
We wear a mask upon our faces; we carry a gauge for our emotions. Lovell is
going where the one great force of primitive life remains. He is going to see
war. He is going to breathe an atmosphere hot with naked passion; he is going
to rub shoulders with men who walk hand in hand with death. That's the sort of
tonic we all want, to remind us that we are human beings with blood in our
veins, and not sawdust-stuffed dolls."

Then Lovell broke silence. He took his pipe from his mouth, and he addressed
Aynesworth.

"Walter," he said, "you are talking rot. There is nothing very complex or
stimulating about the passion of war, when men kill one another unseen; where
you feel the sting in your heart which comes from God knows where, and you
crumple up, with never a chance to have a go at the chap who has potted you
from the trenches, or behind a rock, a thousand yards off. Mine is going to
be, except from a spectacular point of view, a very barren sort of year,
compared with what yours might be if the fire once touched your eyes. I go
where life is cruder and fiercer, perhaps, but you remain in the very city of
tragedies."

Aynesworth laughed, as he lit a fresh cigarette.

"City of tragedies!" he exclaimed. "It sounds all right, but it's bunkum all
the same. Show me where they lie, Lovell, old chap. Tell me where to stir the
waters."

Several of those who were watching him noticed a sudden change in Lovell's
face. The good humor and bonhomie called up by this last evening amongst his
old friends had disappeared. His face had fallen into graver lines, his eyes
seemed fixed with a curious introspective steadiness on a huge calendar which
hung from the wall. When at last he turned towards Aynesworth, his tone was
almost solemn.

"Some of them don't lie so very far from the surface, Walter," he said. "There
is one"--he took out his watch--"there is one which, if you like, I will tell
you about. I have just ten minutes."

"Good!"

"Go ahead, Lovell, old chap!"

"Have a drink first!"

He held out his hand. They were all silent. He stood up amongst them, by far
the tallest man there, with his back to the chimney piece, and his eyes still
lingering about that calendar.

"Thirteen years ago," he said, "two young men--call them by their Christian
names, Wingrave and Lumley--shared a somewhat extensive hunting box in
Leicestershire. They were both of good family, well off, and fairly popular,
Lumley the more so perhaps. He represented the ordinary type of young
Englishman, with a stronger dash than usual of selfishness. Wingrave stood for
other things. He was reticent and impenetrable. People called him mysterious."

Lovell paused for a moment to refill his pipe. The sudden light upon his face,
as he struck a match, seemed to bring into vivid prominence something there,
indescribable in words, yet which affected his hearers equally with the low
gravity of his speech. The man himself was feeling the tragedy of the story he
told.

"They seemed," he continued, "always to get on well together, until they fell
in love with the same woman. Her name we will say was Ruth. She was the wife
of the Master of Hounds with whom they hunted. If I had the story-writing
gifts of Aynesworth here, I would try to describe her. As I haven't, I will
simply give you a crude idea of what she seemed like to me.

"She was neither dark nor fair, short nor tall; amongst a crowd of other
women, she seemed undistinguishable by any special gifts; yet when you had
realized her there was no other woman in the room. She had the eyes of an
angel, only they were generally veiled; she had the figure of a miniature
Venus, soft and with delicate curves, which seemed somehow to be always subtly
asserting themselves, although she affected in her dress an almost puritanical
simplicity. Her presence in a room was always felt at once. There are some
women, beautiful or plain, whose sex one scarcely recognizes. She was not one
of these! She seemed to carry with her the concentrated essence of femininity.
Her quiet movements, the almost noiseless rustling of her clothes, the quaint,
undistinguishable perfumes which she used, her soft, even voice, were all
things which seemed individual to her. She was like a study in undernotes, and
yet"--Lovell paused a moment--"and yet no Spanish dancing woman, whose dark
eyes and voluptuous figure have won her the crown of the demi-monde, ever
possessed that innate and mystic gift of kindling passion like that woman. I
told you I couldn't describe her! I can't! I can only speak of effects. If my
story interests you, you must build up your own idea of her."

"Becky Sharpe!" Aynesworth murmured.

Lovell nodded.

"Perhaps," he admitted, "only Ruth was a lady. To go on with my story. A
hunting coterie, as you fellows know, means lots of liberty, and a general
free-and-easiness amongst the sexes, which naturally leads to flirtations more
or less serious. Ruth's little affairs were either too cleverly arranged, or
too harmless for gossip. Amongst the other women of the hunt, she seemed
outwardly almost demure. But one day--there was a row!"

Lovell paused, and took a drink from a glass by his side.

"I hope you fellows won't think that I'm spinning this out," he said. "It is,
after all, in itself only a commonplace story, but I've carried it locked up
in my memory for years, and now that I've let it loose, it unwinds itself
slowly. This is how the row came about. Lumley one afternoon missed Wingrave
and Ruth from the hunting field. Someone most unfortunately happened to tell
him that they had left the run together, and had been seen riding together
towards White Lodge, which was the name of the house where these two young men
lived. Lumley followed them. He rode into the stable yard, and found there
Ruth's mare and Wingrave's covert hack, from which he had not changed when
they had left the field. Both animals had evidently been ridden hard, and
there was something ominous in the smile with which the head groom told him
that Lady Ruth and Wingrave were in the house.

"The two men had separate dens. Wingrave's was much the better furnished, as
he was a young man of considerable taste, and he had also fitted it with
sporting trophies collected from many countries. This room was at the back of
the house, and Lumley deliberately crossed the lawn and looked in at the
window."

Lovell paused for a moment or two to relight his pipe.

"Remember," he continued, "that I have to put this story together, partly from
facts which came to my knowledge afterwards, and partly from reasonable
deductions. I may say at once that I do not know what Lumley saw when he
played the spy. The housekeeper had just taken tea in, and it is possible that
Wingrave may have been holding his guest's hand, or that something in their
faces or attitude convinced him that his jealousy was well founded. Anyhow, it
is certain that Lumley was half beside himself with rage when he strode away
from that window. Then in the avenue he must have heard the soft patter of
hounds coming along the lane, or perhaps seen the pink coats of the huntsmen
through the hedge. This much is certain. He hurried down the drive, and
returned with Ruth's husband."

Lovell took another drink. No one spoke. No one even made a remark. The little
circle of listeners had caught something of his own gravity. The story was an
ordinary one enough, but something in Lovell's manner of telling it seemed
somehow to bring into their consciousness the apprehension of the tangled web
of passions which burned underneath its sordid details.

"Ruth's husband--Sir William I will call him--stood side by side with Lumley
before the window. What they saw I cannot tell you. They entered the room. The
true story of what happened there I doubt if anyone will ever know. The
evidence of servants spoke of raised voices and the sound of a heavy fall.
Whey they were summoned, Sir William lay on the floor unconscious. Lady Ruth
had fainted; Lumley and Wingrave were both bending over the former. On the
floor were fragments of paper, which were afterwards put together, and found
to be the remains of a check for a large amount, payable to Lady Ruth, and
signed by Wingrave.

"The sequel is very soon told. Sir William died in a few days, and Wingrave,
on the evidence of Lumley and Ruth, was committed for manslaughter, and sent
to prison for fifteen years!"

Lovell paused. A murmur went round the little group of listeners. The story,
after all, except for Lovell's manner of telling it, was an ordinary one.
Everyone felt that there was something else behind.

So they asked no questions whilst Lovell drank his whisky and soda, and
refilled his pipe. Again his eyes seemed to wander to the calendar.

"According to Lady Ruth's evidence," he said thoughtfully, "her husband
entered the room at the exact moment when she was rejecting Wingrave's
advances, and indignantly refusing a check which he was endeavoring to
persuade her to accept. A struggle followed between the two men, with fatal
results for Sir William. That," he added slowly, "is the story which the whole
world read, and which most of it believes. Here, however, are a few
corrections of my own, and a suggestion or two for you, Aynesworth, and those
of you who like to consider yourselves truth seekers. First, then, Lady Ruth
was a self-invited guest at White Lodge. She had asked Wingrave to return with
her, and as they sat together in his room, she confessed that she was worried,
and asked for his advice. She was in some money trouble, ingeniously
explained, no doubt. Wingrave, with the utmost delicacy, offered his
assistance, which was of course accepted. It was exactly what she was there
for. She was in the act of taking the check, when she saw her husband and
Lumley. Her reputation was at stake. Her subsequent course of action and
evidence becomes obvious. The check unexplained was ruin. She explained it!

"Of the struggle, and of the exact means by which Sir William received his
injuries, I know nothing. There is the evidence! It may or may not be true.
The most serious part of the case, so far as Lady Ruth was concerned, lay in
the facts as to her husband's removal from the White Lodge. In an unconscious
state he was driven almost twelve miles at a walking pace. No stimulants were
administered, and though they passed two doctors' houses no stop was made. A
doctor was not sent for until half an hour after they reached home, and even
then they seemed to have chosen the one who lived furthest away. The
conclusion is obvious enough to anyone who knows the facts of the case. Sir
William was not meant to live!

"Wingrave's trial was a famous one. He had no friends and few sympathizers,
and he insisted upon defending himself. His cross examination of the man who
had been his friend created something like a sensation. Amongst other things,
he elicited the fact that Lumley, after first seeing the two together, had
gone and fetched Sir William. It was a terrible half hour for Lumley, and when
he left the box, amongst the averted faces of his friends, the sweat was
pouring down his face. I can seem him now, as though it were yesterday. Then
Lady Ruth followed. She was quietly dressed; the effect she produced was
excellent. She told her story. She hinted at the insult. She spoke of the
check. She had imagined no harm in accepting Wingrave's invitation to tea. Men
and women of the hunt, who were on friendly terms, treated one another as
comrades. She spoke of the blow. She had seen it delivered, and so on. And all
the time, I sat within a few feet of Wingrave, and I knew that in the black
box before him were burning love letters from this woman, to the man whose
code of honor would ever have protected her husband from disgrace; and I knew
that I was listening to the thing which you, Aynesworth, and many of your
fellow story writers, have so wisely and so ignorantly dilated upon--the
vengeance of a woman denied. Only I heard the words themselves, cold, earnest
words, fall one by one from her lips like a sentence of doom--and there was
life in the thing, life and death! When she had finished, the whole court was
in a state of tension. Everyone was leaning forward. It would be the most
piquant, the most wonderful cross examination every heard--the woman lying to
save her honor and to achieve her vengeance; the man on trial for his life.
Wingrave stood up. Lady Ruth raised her veil, and looked at him from the
witness box. There was the most intense silence I ever realized. Who could
tell the things which flashed from one to the other across the dark well of
the court; who could measure the fierce, silent scorn which seemed to blaze
from his eyes, as he held her there--his slave until he chose to give the
signal for release? At last he looked away towards the judge, and the woman
fell forward in the box gasping, a crumpled up, nerveless heap of humanity.

"'My lord,' he said, 'I have no questions to ask this witness!'

"Everyone staggered. Wingrave's few friends were horrified. After that there
was, of course, no hope for him. He got fifteen years' penal servitude."

Like an echo from that pent-up murmur of feeling which had rippled through the
crowded court many years ago, his little group of auditors almost gasped as
Lovell left his place and strolled down the room. Aynesworth laid his hand
upon his shoulder.

"All the time," he said, "you were looking at that calendar! Why?"

Lovell once more faced them. He was standing with his back to a round table,
strewn with papers and magazines.

"It was the date," he said, "and the fact that I must leave England within a
few hours, which forced this story from me. Tomorrow Wingrave will be free!
Listen, Aynesworth," he continued, turning towards him, "and the rest of you
who fancy that it is I who am leaving a humdrum city for the world of
tragedies! I leave you the legacy of a greater one than all Asia will yield to
me! Lady Ruth is married to Lumley, and they hold today in London a very
distinguished social position. Tomorrow Wingrave takes a hand in the game. He
was once my friend; I was in court when he was tried; I was intimately
acquainted with the lawyer's clerk who had the arrangement of his papers. I
know what no one else breathing knows. He is a man who never forgives; a man
who was brutally deceived, and who for years has had no other occupation than
to brood upon his wrongs. He is very wealthy indeed, still young, he has
marvelous tenacity of purpose, and he has brains. Tomorrow he will be free!"

Aynesworth drew a little breath.

"I wonder," he murmured, "if anything will happen."

Lovell shrugged his shoulders.

"Where I go," he said, "the cruder passions may rage, and life and death be
reckoned things of little account. But you who remain--who can tell?--you may
look into the face of mightier things."



OUTSIDE THE PALE

Three men were together in a large and handsomely furnished sitting room of
the Clarence Hotel, in Piccadilly. One, pale, quiet, and unobtrusive, dressed
in sober black, the typical lawyer's clerk, was busy gathering up a collection
of papers and documents from the table, over which they had been strewn. His
employer, who had more the appearance of a country gentleman than the junior
partner in the well-known firm of Rocke and Son, solicitors, had risen to his
feet, and was drawing on his gloves. At the head of the table was the client.

"I trust, Sir Wingrave, that you are satisfied with this account of our
stewardship," the solicitor said, as his clerk left the room. "We have felt it
a great responsibility at times, but everything seems to have turned out very
well. The investments, of course, are all above suspicion."

"Perfectly satisfied, I thank you," was the quiet reply. "You seem to have
studied my interests in a very satisfactory manner."

Mr. Rocke had other things to say, but his client's manner seemed designed to
create a barrier of formality between them. He hesitated, unwilling to leave,
yet finding it exceedingly difficult to say the things which were in his mind.
He temporized by referring back to matters already discussed, solely for the
purpose of prolonging the interview.

"You have quite made up your mind, then, to put the Tredowen property on the
market," he remarked. "You will excuse my reminding you of the fact that you
have large accumulated funds in hand, and nearly a hundred thousand pounds
worth of easily realizable securities. Tredowen has been in your mother's
family for a good many years, and I should doubt whether it will be easily
disposed of."

The man at the head of the table raised his head. He looked steadily at the
lawyer, who began to wish that he had left the room with his clerk. Decidedly,
Sir Wingrave Seton was not an easy man to get on with.

"My mind is quite made up, thank you, on this and all other matters concerning
which I have given you instructions," was the calm reply. "I have had plenty
of time for consideration," he added drily.

The lawyer had his opening at last, and he plunged.

"Sir Wingrave," he said, "we were at college together, and our connection is
an old one. You must forgive me if I say how glad I am to see you here, and to
know that your bad time is over. I can assure you that you have had my deepest
sympathy. Nothing ever upset me so much as that unfortunate affair. I
sincerely trust that you will do your best now to make up for lost time. You
are still young, and you are rich. Let us leave business alone now, for the
moment. What can I do for you as a friend, if you will allow me to call you
so?"

Wingrave turned slightly in his chair. In his altered position, a ray of
sunshine fell for the first time upon his gaunt but striking face. Lined and
hardened, as though by exposure and want of personal care, there was also a
lack of sensibility, an almost animal callousness, on the coldly lit eyes and
unflinching mouth, which readily suggested some terrible and recent
experience--something potent enough to have dried up the human nature out of
the man and left him soulless. His clothes had the impress of the ready-made,
although he wore them with a distinction which was obviously inherent; and
notwithstanding the fact that he seemed to have been writing, he wore gloves.

"I am much obliged to you, Rocke," he said. "Let me repeat your question. What
is there that you can do for me?"

Mr. Rocke was apparently a little nonplussed. The absolute imperturbability of
the man who had once been his friend was disconcerting.

"Well," he said, "the governor sent me instead of coming himself, because he
thought that I might be more useful to you. London changes so quickly--you
would hardly know your way about now. I should like you to come and dine with
me tonight, and I'll take you round anywhere you care to go; and then if you
don't want to go back to your old tradespeople, I could take you to my tailor
and bookmaker."

"Is that all?" Wingrave asked calmly.

Rocke was again taken aback.

"Certainly not," he answered. "There must be many ways in which I could be
useful to you, but I can't think of them all at once. I am here to serve you
professionally or as a friend, to the best of my ability. Can you suggest
anything yourself? What do you want?"

"That is the question," Wingrave said, "which I have been asking myself.
Unfortunately, up to now, I have not been able to answer it. Regarding myself,
however, from the point of view of a third party, I should say that the thing
I was most in need of was the society of my fellow creatures."

"Exactly," Rocke declared. "That is what I thought you would say! It won't
take us long to arrange something of the sort for you."

"Can you put me up," Wingrave asked, "at your club, and introduce me to your
friends there?"

Rocke flinched before the steady gaze of those cold enquiring eyes, in which
he fancied, too, that a gleam of malice shone. The color mounted to his
cheeks. It was a most embarrassing situation.

"I can introduce you to some decent fellows, of course, and to some very
charming ladies," he said hesitatingly, "but as to the club--I--well, don't
you think yourself that it would scarcely be wise to--"

"Exactly," Wingrave interrupted. "And these ladies that you spoke of--"

"Oh! There's no difficulty about that," Rocke declared with an air of relief.
"I can make up a little dinner party for tonight, if you like. There's an
awfully smart American woman over here, with the Fanciful Fan Company--I'm
sure you'd like her, and she'd come like a shot. Then I'd get Daisy
Vane--she's all right. They don't know anything, and wouldn't care if they
did. Besides, you could call yourself what you liked."

"Thank you," Wingrave said. "I am afraid I did not make myself quite clear. I
was not thinking of play fellows. I was thinking of the men and women of my
own order. Shall I put the matter quite clearly? Can I take my place in
society under my own name, renew my old friendships and build up new ones? Can
I do this even at the risk of a few difficulties at first? I am not a
sensitive man. I am prepared for the usual number of disagreeable incidents.
But can I win my way through?"

With his back against the wall, Rocke displayed more courage. Besides, what
was the use of mincing matters with a man who had all the appearance of a
human automaton, who never flinched or changed color, and whose passions
seemed dried up and withered things?

"I am afraid not, Sir Wingrave," he said. "I should not recommend you to try,
at any rate for the present."

"Give me your reasons," was the cool response.

"I will do so with pleasure," Rocke answered. "About the time of the trial and
immediately afterwards, there was a certain amount of sympathy for you. People
felt that you must have received a good deal of provocation, and there were
several unexplained incidents which told in your favor. Today, I should think
that the feeling amongst those who remember the affair at all is rather the
other way. You heard, I believe, that Lady Ruth married Lumley Barrington?"

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