Produced by Theresa Armao
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 thesun and winds of many climates, he looked like a man ready to face allhardships, equal to any emergency. Already one seemed to see the clothesand habits of civilization falling away from him, the former to bereplaced by the stern, unlovely outfit of the war correspondent whoplays the game. They crowded round him in the club smoking room, forthese were his last few minutes. They had dined him, toasted him, andthe 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 hewas going to the Far East, at a few hours' notice, to represent one ofthe 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--anovelist in embryo.
"What I envy you most, Lovell," he declared, "is your escape from thedeadly routine of our day by day life. Here in London it seems to methat we live the life of automatons. We lunch, we dine, we amuse or webore ourselves, and we sleep--and all the rest of the world does thesame. Passion we have outgrown, emotion we have destroyed by analysis.The storms which shake humanity break over other countries. What isthere left to us of life? Civilization ministers too easily to ourneeds, existence has become a habit. No wonder that we are a tiredrace."
"Life is the same, the world over," another man remarked. "With everyforward step in civilization, life must become more mechanical. Londonis no worse than Paris, or Paris than Tokyo."
Aynesworth shook his head. "I don't agree with you," he replied. "Itis the same, more or less, with all European countries, but the Saxontemperament, with its mixture of philosophy and philistinism, more thanany other, gravitates towards the life mechanical. Existence here hasbecome fossilized. We wear a mask upon our faces; we carry a gauge forour emotions. Lovell is going where the one great force of primitivelife remains. He is going to see war. He is going to breathe anatmosphere hot with naked passion; he is going to rub shoulders with menwho 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 notsawdust-stuffed dolls."
Then Lovell broke silence. He took his pipe from his mouth, and headdressed Aynesworth.
"Walter," he said, "you are talking rot. There is nothing very complexor stimulating about the passion of war, when men kill one anotherunseen; where you feel the sting in your heart which comes from Godknows where, and you crumple up, with never a chance to have a go at thechap who has potted you from the trenches, or behind a rock, a thousandyards 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 thefire 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 bunkumall the same. Show me where they lie, Lovell, old chap. Tell me where tostir the waters."
Several of those who were watching him noticed a sudden change inLovell's face. The good humor and bonhomie called up by this lastevening amongst his old friends had disappeared. His face had falleninto graver lines, his eyes seemed fixed with a curious introspectivesteadiness on a huge calendar which hung from the wall. When at last heturned 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, byfar the tallest man there, with his back to the chimney piece, and hiseyes still lingering about that calendar.
"Thirteen years ago," he said, "two young men--call them by theirChristian names, Wingrave and Lumley--shared a somewhat extensivehunting box in Leicestershire. They were both of good family, welloff, and fairly popular, Lumley the more so perhaps. He represented theordinary type of young Englishman, with a stronger dash than usualof selfishness. Wingrave stood for other things. He was reticent andimpenetrable. People called him mysterious."
Lovell paused for a moment to refill his pipe. The sudden light uponhis face, as he struck a match, seemed to bring into vivid prominencesomething there, indescribable in words, yet which affected his hearersequally with the low gravity of his speech. The man himself was feelingthe tragedy of the story he told.
"They seemed," he continued, "always to get on well together, until theyfell in love with the same woman. Her name we will say was Ruth. Shewas the wife of the Master of Hounds with whom they hunted. If I had thestory-writing gifts of Aynesworth here, I would try to describe her. AsI haven't, I will simply give you a crude idea of what she seemed liketo me.
"She was neither dark nor fair, short nor tall; amongst a crowd of otherwomen, she seemed undistinguishable by any special gifts; yet when youhad realized her there was no other woman in the room. She had the eyesof an angel, only they were generally veiled; she had the figure of aminiature Venus, soft and with delicate curves, which seemed somehowto be always subtly asserting themselves, although she affected inher dress an almost puritanical simplicity. Her presence in a room wasalways felt at once. There are some women, beautiful or plain, whose sexone scarcely recognizes. She was not one of these! She seemed to carrywith her the concentrated essence of femininity. Her quietmovements, the almost noiseless rustling of her clothes, the quaint,undistinguishable perfumes which she used, her soft, even voice, wereall things which seemed individual to her. She was like a study inundernotes, and yet"--Lovell paused a moment--"and yet no Spanishdancing woman, whose dark eyes and voluptuous figure have won her thecrown of the demi-monde, ever possessed that innate and mystic gift ofkindling passion like that woman. I told you I couldn't describe her! Ican't! I can only speak of effects. If my story interests you, you mustbuild 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 ageneral free-and-easiness amongst the sexes, wh
ich naturally leads toflirtations more or less serious. Ruth's little affairs were either toocleverly arranged, or too harmless for gossip. Amongst the other womenof the hunt, she seemed outwardly almost demure. But one day--there wasa 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 carriedit 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 oneafternoon missed Wingrave and Ruth from the hunting field. Someone mostunfortunately happened to tell him that they had left the run together,and had been seen riding together towards White Lodge, which was thename 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'scovert hack, from which he had not changed when they had left the field.Both animals had evidently been ridden hard, and there was somethingominous in the smile with which the head groom told him that Lady Ruthand Wingrave were in the house.
"The two men had separate dens. Wingrave's was much the betterfurnished, as he was a young man of considerable taste, and he had alsofitted it with sporting trophies collected from many countries. Thisroom was at the back of the house, and Lumley deliberately crossed thelawn 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 fromreasonable deductions. I may say at once that I do not know what Lumleysaw when he played the spy. The housekeeper had just taken tea in, andit is possible that Wingrave may have been holding his guest's hand,or that something in their faces or attitude convinced him that hisjealousy was well founded. Anyhow, it is certain that Lumley was halfbeside himself with rage when he strode away from that window. Then inthe avenue he must have heard the soft patter of hounds coming along thelane, or perhaps seen the pink coats of the huntsmen through the hedge.This much is certain. He hurried down the drive, and returned withRuth's husband."
Lovell took another drink. No one spoke. No one even made a remark. Thelittle circle of listeners had caught something of his own gravity. Thestory was an ordinary one enough, but something in Lovell's mannerof telling it seemed somehow to bring into their consciousness theapprehension of the tangled web of passions which burned underneath itssordid details.
"Ruth's husband--Sir William I will call him--stood side by side withLumley before the window. What they saw I cannot tell you. They enteredthe room. The true story of what happened there I doubt if anyone willever know. The evidence of servants spoke of raised voices and the soundof a heavy fall. When they were summoned, Sir William lay on the floorunconscious. Lady Ruth had fainted; Lumley and Wingrave were bothbending over the former. On the floor were fragments of paper, whichwere afterwards put together, and found to be the remains of a check fora large amount, payable to Lady Ruth, and signed by Wingrave.
"The sequel is very soon told. Sir William died in a few days, andWingrave, on the evidence of Lumley and Ruth, was committed formanslaughter, and sent to prison for fifteen years!"
Lovell paused. A murmur went round the little group of listeners. Thestory, after all, except for Lovell's manner of telling it, was anordinary one. Everyone felt that there was something else behind.
So they asked no questions whilst Lovell drank his whisky and soda, andrefilled his pipe. Again his eyes seemed to wander to the calendar.
"According to Lady Ruth's evidence," he said thoughtfully, "her husbandentered the room at the exact moment when she was rejecting Wingrave'sadvances, and indignantly refusing a check which he was endeavoring topersuade her to accept. A struggle followed between the two men, withfatal results for Sir William. That," he added slowly, "is the storywhich the whole world read, and which most of it believes. Here,however, are a few corrections of my own, and a suggestion or two foryou, Aynesworth, and those of you who like to consider yourselves truthseekers. 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 inhis room, she confessed that she was worried, and asked for hisadvice. She was in some money trouble, ingeniously explained, no doubt.Wingrave, with the utmost delicacy, offered his assistance, which was ofcourse accepted. It was exactly what she was there for. She was inthe act of taking the check, when she saw her husband and Lumley. Herreputation was at stake. Her subsequent course of action and evidencebecomes obvious. The check unexplained was ruin. She explained it!
"Of the struggle, and of the exact means by which Sir William receivedhis injuries, I know nothing. There is the evidence! It may or may notbe true. The most serious part of the case, so far as Lady Ruth wasconcerned, lay in the facts as to her husband's removal from the WhiteLodge. In an unconscious state he was driven almost twelve miles at awalking pace. No stimulants were administered, and though they passedtwo doctors' houses no stop was made. A doctor was not sent for untilhalf an hour after they reached home, and even then they seemed to havechosen the one who lived furthest away. The conclusion is obvious enoughto anyone who knows the facts of the case. Sir William was not meant tolive!
"Wingrave's trial was a famous one. He had no friends and fewsympathizers, and he insisted upon defending himself. His crossexamination of the man who had been his friend created something like asensation. Amongst other things, he elicited the fact that Lumley, afterfirst seeing the two together, had gone and fetched Sir William. It wasa terrible half hour for Lumley, and when he left the box, amongst theaverted faces of his friends, the sweat was pouring down his face. I canseem him now, as though it were yesterday. Then Lady Ruth followed. Shewas quietly dressed; the effect she produced was excellent. She toldher story. She hinted at the insult. She spoke of the check. She hadimagined no harm in accepting Wingrave's invitation to tea. Men andwomen of the hunt, who were on friendly terms, treated one another ascomrades. 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 thatin the black box before him were burning love letters from this woman,to the man whose code of honor would ever have protected her husbandfrom 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 soignorantly dilated upon--the vengeance of a woman denied. Only I heardthe words themselves, cold, earnest words, fall one by one from herlips like a sentence of doom--and there was life in the thing, life anddeath! When she had finished, the whole court was in a state of tension.Everyone was leaning forward. It would be the most piquant, the mostwonderful cross examination every heard--the woman lying to save herhonor and to achieve her vengeance; the man on trial for his life.Wingrave stood up. Lady Ruth raised her veil, and looked at him fromthe witness box. There was the most intense silence I ever realized.Who could tell the things which flashed from one to the other across thedark well of the court; who could measure the fierce, silent scorn whichseemed to blaze from his eyes, as he held her there--his slave until hechose to give the signal for release? At last he looked away towardsthe 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 thatthere was, of course, no hope for him. He got fifteen years' penalservitude."
Like an echo from that pent-up murmur of feeling which had rippledthrough the crowded court many years ago, his little group of auditorsalmost 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 roundtable, strewn with papers and magazines.
"It was the date," he said, "and the fact that I must leave Englandwith
in a few hours, which forced this story from me. Tomorrow Wingravewill be free! Listen, Aynesworth," he continued, turning towards him,"and the rest of you who fancy that it is I who am leaving a humdrumcity for the world of tragedies! I leave you the legacy of a greater onethan all Asia will yield to me! Lady Ruth is married to Lumley, andthey hold today in London a very distinguished social position. TomorrowWingrave takes a hand in the game. He was once my friend; I was in courtwhen he was tried; I was intimately acquainted with the lawyer's clerkwho had the arrangement of his papers. I know what no one else breathingknows. 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 uponhis wrongs. He is very wealthy indeed, still young, he has marveloustenacity 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 anddeath be reckoned things of little account. But you who remain--who cantell?--you may look into the face of mightier things."