led a strangely adventurous life, though few were aware of it. Her early education in the Montmartre quarter of Paris had effectually eradicated any principles she might have originally possessed, and up to this time she had enjoyed the freedom of being absolute mistress of her actions. Yet, strangely enough, now she had met Hugh, her admiration of his character had quickly developed into that intense affection which is frequently characteristic of women of her temperament, and she discovered that his love was indispensable to her existence. There was but one barrier to her happiness. Egerton knew more of the unpleasant incidents of her life than was desirable, and for the protection of her own interests she was compelled to silence him.
From the expression on his face she felt she had gained her point, and rose with a feeling of absolute triumph.
“Now,” she demanded impatiently, “what is your decision?”
“Your secret shall be kept on one condition only,” he said, rising slowly, and standing beside her.
“What is that, pray?”
“That no harm shall befall Hugh,” he replied earnestly. “You understand my meaning, Valérie?”
“It isn’t very likely that I should allow anything of that sort to occur. You seem to forget I love him.”
The artist was convinced that her affection for his friend was unfeigned. She was but a woman after all, he argued, and probably her life had changed since they last met. Her answer decided him.
“Well, which will you do?” she again asked, with an anxious look.
“I will tell Hugh nothing of the past,” he said briefly.
“Ah! I thought you would come to your senses at last,” she exclaimed, with a short, hysterical laugh. “Then it is a compact between us. You take an oath of silence.”
“I swear I will divulge nothing,” he stammered.
Then Valérie breathed again, and it was impossible for her to hide the satisfaction with which she regarded his words.
“Divulge nothing,” she repeated, quite cheerfully. “Undoubtedly it will be the best course, especially as we both have hideous secrets which, if exposed, would bring inevitable ruin upon us both. Was it not Marmontel who said ‘La fortune, soit bonne ou mauvaise, soit passagère ou constante, ne peut rien sur l’âme du sage?’”
They chatted for a few moments, then moved away together in the direction of the Floral Hall – not, however, before she exclaimed —
“If you break your oath you will bitterly repent.”
Chapter Eight
Under Seal
Surrounded by a thickly-wooded park, where the deer abound in ferny coombes and hollows, stood the home of the Trethowens.
The house, to which a long elm avenue formed the principal approach, was an imposing pile, and dated for the most part from the reign of Queen Anne. Standing out prominently, its grey walls were almost wholly ivy covered, and from its grey slate roofs rose stacks of tall chimneys backed by thick masses of foliage. Striking as was its exterior, within the arrangements were antiquated and behind the times; for comfort had not been sacrificed to modern improvement, and vandalism had never been a distinctive quality of any of its masters.
In the great old entrance-hall, with its wide hearth and firedogs, were paintings by Fuseli and carvings by Gibbon, in which the motto of the Trethowens, Sit sine labe fines, was conspicuous, while the rooms, furnished with that elegant taste in vogue when the house was built, contained many unique specimens of Guercino, Chari, and Kneller.
Indeed, Coombe Hall was one of the finest mansions in North Cornwall.
During Douglas Trethowen’s absence the place had been left with only a gardener and his wife as caretakers. The park had been neglected, grass had grown in the gravelled carriage-drive, and the fine old gardens had been allowed to become choked with weeds. Though the whole place had a potency to set men thinking, perhaps the most quaint, old-world spot was the flower garden, with its spreading cedars and shady elms, its lichen-covered walls overrun with tea-roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle, with black yew hedges forming pleasant shades to the pretty zigzag walks. Here, long ago, dainty high-born dames in patches, powdered wigs, and satin sacques fed the peacocks and gathered the roses, or, clad as Watteau shepherdesses, danced minuets with pink-coated shepherds with crooks in their hands. Here, the scene of many a brilliant fête champêtre, syllabubs were sipped, and gorgeous beaux uttered pretty phrases, and, perchance, words that were the reverse of delicate, and were punished by being lightly tapped by fans.
Amid these unprofaned, old-world surroundings, Hugh Trethowen found himself, having been called thither by urgent business, for a portion of the house was in process of renovation, and the architect required his instructions.
Familiar as was the home of his childhood, yet he had not been there a week before his habitual blasé restlessness returned. Only a few days ago he had bade farewell to the woman he loved, but already he was longing to be again at her side, and had decided to return to her on the morrow.
He had been inspecting the progress of the work of putting the garden in order, and the various other improvements, but time hung heavily upon his hands, and it was merely for the purpose of whiling away an hour or two that he resolved to ascertain the nature of the private papers left by his dead brother.
Thus it was that he was sitting in the fine old library, cigar in mouth, lazily scanning some letters and documents scattered before him. He found little of interest, however; but as his chair was comfortable, and as the golden sunset streaming in through the diamond panes illumined the room with a warm light, he experienced a languid satisfaction in making himself acquainted with his brother’s secrets.
One by one he took the letters and digested their contents. Many were Cupid’s missives, couched in extravagant language, and still emitting an odour of stale perfume. Some were tied together in bundles from various fair correspondents, others were flung indiscriminately among a heterogeneous accumulation of bills, receipts, and other papers similarly uninteresting.
At last, when he had finished the whole of those before him, he sat back, and for a long time smoked in meditative silence.
“By Jove,” he exclaimed at last, aloud, “Douglas must have had a variety of lady friends of whose existence nobody knew. And they all loved him, poor little dears. No doubt his money attracted them more than his precious self, yet he was too wide awake to allow himself to become enmeshed in the matrimonial net.” And he laughed amusedly. “Their pretty sentiments, kisses indicated by crosses, and mouldy scents, were all to no purpose,” he continued, taking up one of the letters, and contemplating the address. “What a disappointment it must have been when he went abroad, and left the whole of the artless damsels to pine – or rather to seek some other fellow likely to prove a prize. And their presents! Good heavens! he might have set up a bazaar with the jewellery, slippers, smoking caps, cigarette cases, match-boxes, and other such trash mentioned in their dainty notes. I suppose I shall find the whole collection bundled into a cupboard somewhere, for they must have been forgotten as soon as received. What strange beings women are, to be sure!”
Having finished his cigar, he stretched himself lazily, yawned, and exclaimed:
“Now I wonder whether there’s anything else worth looking at? Such letters are quite as amusing as the comic papers.”
He glanced at them carelessly, with an uninterested listlessness, for he felt half
