Chapter XVIII

‘You wished to see me?’

‘Yes; if you will be so good as to sit down and listen to me.’

Enid stood looking at her mysterious visitor in some perplexity. There was something almost weird about the strange woman’s beauty; but in obedience, she seated herself to listen.

‘I have a strange story to tell,’ Isodore commenced. ‘For a long while now I have been watching over your welfare. Do not think me personal or rude in any questions I may ask. Believe me, I do not for one moment wish to pain you; indeed, on the other hand, I wish to do you a great service.’

Enid inclined her head gently. ‘Perhaps it will be as well to have as perfect confidence between us as possible. You already know my name. Will you be so good as to tell me to whom I owe this visit?’

‘My name is Isodore.’

Enid looked at her visitor in interest and admiration. This, then, was the beautiful mystery about whom Maxwell had often spoken, the princess to whom the fatal Brotherhood owed allegiance. Then she grew frigid. Had it not been for her and such as her, Frederick would have been with her now.

‘You misjudge me,’ Isodore continued sadly, for she had read the other’s thoughts as easily as an open book. ‘Believe me, had I known, Mr Maxwell would never have been sent to Rome. But if I am to continue, I must have your confidence. What if I tell you your lover is in England now?’

‘In England, and never came to see me!’ Enid exclaimed with a little gasp. ‘Impossible! He would surely have written.’

‘Nevertheless, it is perfectly true, though he only arrived yesterday. He would have come to you, or written, had I not forbidden him.’

‘Forbidden him,’ Enid echoed haughtily. ‘And why?’

‘Because things were not ready,’ Isodore replied calmly. ‘I did not take a journey to Rome at the hazard of my life, to rescue him from a great danger, to have my plans upset at the last moment. If it had not been for me, Mr Maxwell would not be alive now.’ Isodore could not restrain herself sufficiently to conceal this touch of womanly feeling.

Enid’s face softened strangely. ‘I have heard of you. Forgive me, if I seem cold, but I have been severely tried lately,’ she said. ‘You do not know what a load you have taken off my mind; and yet, perhaps’—— She stopped abruptly; her thoughts turned in the direction of Le Gautier, and wondering how she could face her lover now.

‘And yet,’ Isodore replied—‘and yet you would see a way out of the difficulty into which the miserable schemes of Le Gautier have placed you? Do I speak plainly, or shall I be more explicit?’

The random shot went home; Enid’s face flushed crimson to the fair curls lying on her forehead. ‘You speak plainly enough,’ she faltered. ‘You need say no more. I am dazed and bewildered by your wonderful knowledge.’

‘It will be clear enough presently. The clouds are dark now; but I see rays of light here and there. Do you study spiritualism?’

‘No,’ Enid answered, puzzled by the abruptness and inconsequence of the question. ‘I cannot say that I have. But why?’

‘If your father is in the house, I shall be glad to see him. Will you be good enough to ascertain if he can be seen?’

‘If I tell him he is wanted on supernatural affairs, he will come.’ Enid smiled as she rang the bell. ‘It is his craze.’

After a little pause, the baronet entered the room, and, like his daughter, stood inthralled by the visitor’s perfect beauty. He bowed low; in spite of his age, he was a lover of the beautiful still. He looked up admiringly in the perfect eyes, and waited for her to speak.

‘Sir Geoffrey, you are a swindled, deluded man!’

‘Bless me!’ the startled baronet exclaimed at this unceremonious opening. ‘Swindled, deluded, I? Who by? Impossible!’

‘By the conjurer, Le Gautier.’

Sir Geoffrey stared in open-mouthed amazement; even the breeding of the Charterises did not rise to this occasion. Enid’s heart gave one leap, and then began to beat violently. She was conscious of some coming revelations of the deepest interest to her, and waited with impatience for Isodore to speak.

‘Some time ago, you went to a house near Paddington. You will please correct me if I am in error, Sir Geoffrey. During your presence there you saw several startling manifestations: you were commanded to do certain things, one of which affected deeply your daughter’s happiness, and which, by some happy accident, were equally acceptable to Le Gautier. Am I right?’

‘Perfectly,’ the baronet gasped. ‘And I need not say they will be carried out to the letter. I believe’——

‘They were a common, vulgar, barefaced swindle!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Sir Geoffrey interposed politely, ready to do battle in defence of his pet scheme. ‘I cannot agree with you. Le Gautier’——

‘Is a low adventurer. I am not talking idly; I can prove every word I say. This very morning, I was at Paddington, and saw the manifestation room, or whatever you may choose to call it. At the back of the room is a large mirror; over the window is another. Preparations for the manufacture of visions to suit any taste were manifest. And one thing in conclusion: the girl who personated your better self and your dead brother, who never was married, is at present under your roof. She is Linda Despard, the girl who met with the accident in Piccadilly.’

Sir Geoffrey began to feel uncomfortable, and moreover experienced a twinge of common-sense. There was something so horribly realistic about the beautiful stranger’s story, that it shook his faith to its foundation. ‘But really, such an extraordinary tale,’ he stammered, ‘and everything appeared so real. I cannot doubt, the likeness to my brother was so perfect. Am I mad that I should believe this?’

‘If you will excuse me for a moment and permit me to see this Linda Despard, I will introduce you to your brother in a few moments.—Miss Charteris, have I your permission?’

‘You have my permission to do anything which will clear up the wretched mystery,’ Enid cried passionately. ‘Even now, I am totally at a loss to know what you are speaking of. Go! Do anything you may desire, so that we can have a little quietness hereafter.’

Without another word, Isodore vanished, leaving Sir Geoffrey pacing the drawing-room in great perturbation and casting uneasy glances in Enid’s direction. He was not convinced yet, but his doubts were troublesome. ‘It is all nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw with my own eyes’——

‘Your brother, Sir Geoffrey.’

The baronet looked up, and there, standing in the doorway, saw Isodore, holding by the hand a figure dressed in a slouch-hat and enveloped in a cloak. For a moment, he staggered back in amazement: it was the lost Ughtred to the life!

‘This is the long-lost brother,’ Isodore continued.—‘Linda, throw your hat away, and tell Sir Geoffrey the tale you told Lucrece.—Listen, Sir Geoffrey, and you will hear something entertaining, and Miss Charteris something that will restore the bloom to her cheeks.’

Linda Despard pushed her hat aside, and stood, half-boldly, half-timidly, before the startled baronet. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at Enid.

‘But what can this possibly have to do with Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey demanded.

Isodore waved him aside haughtily. ‘Much, if you will have patience,’ she said.—‘Linda, you had best commence. We are trifling.’

There was an air of command in these words there was no disputing. Enid sank into a chair pale but collected, the baronet standing behind her, looking anything but comfortable. Lucrece took up her place beside her mistress. Isodore stood through the interview.

‘Well, I will do anything to help that angel of mercy who has been so good and kind to me!’ the actress commenced, with a grateful glance at Enid. ‘I tried to do her a great injury; but, thank heaven, I am not too late to save her yet. I am much to blame; but this is a hard world, and there are times when a few shillings are a godsend to me. It is not a long story. Lucrece here, and Isodore, knew my husband, and how he used to treat me, beating, half-starving me, and taking all my earnings to spend at the cafés. Well, I put up with that life as long as I could; and then, after one awful night, I left him. I came to England, and brought my boy with me. After some hardships, I contrived to get a situation in a London theatre under a new name. It was only a small part, for my imperfect English was against me. One night, some months ago, as I was coming out of the theatre, I met Le Gautier. I had known him in better days, and though I was not ignorant of his character, it was pleasant to hear the old familiar tongue again. It appeared he had been in the theatre, and recognised me, and waited to say a few words as I came out. Time went on, and he was really kind to me. Through his influence I obtained a rise of salary, and I was grateful. What he really wanted with me you shall hear presently.’ The narrator paused a moment here, and looked round in the eager faces. Every sound could be heard distinctly—the ticking of the clocks, and Sir Geoffrey’s heavy breathing. ‘One night he came to my lodgings,’ the speaker resumed, ‘and then he asked me if I had forgotten the old spiritualism tricks. I must tell you that once on a time I travelled the continent with a company that played ghostly pieces, such, for instance, as translations of Dickens’ Christmas Carol, a simple thing, a mere optical illusion, what you call Pepper’s Ghost. I told him I thought I could remember, and then he made a proposal to me. I never hesitated; the pay was too good for that. I was to meet Le Gautier at a house near Paddington one night, and go through the old tricks for a gentleman deeply interested in spiritualism. I learnt my lesson well. I was first to personate the better self of the spectator, and afterwards the spirit of his brother.’

‘Ah!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘Go on!’

‘I interest you now. I thought I should. I knew at the time, to my shame let me confess it, from the things I had to say, that the spectator was to be got into Le Gautier’s power. Well, the night came; the simple apparatus was fixed; everything promised well. I was a bit nervous, for I was out of practice, and I wanted to see what sort of a man the victim was. While they were at dinner, I looked into the room, and there I saw the gentleman whom I now know to be Sir Geoffrey Charteris. When I saw your credulous face,’ the narrator continued, addressing the baronet, ‘I was no longer afraid. Presently, when it became dark and they sat over their wine, I listened till a word agreed upon was uttered by Le Gautier, and I commenced. First, there was some music, sounding strangely enough in the room, but not to me, for I played it. That was simple to an unbeliever with ordinary nerves; then came flashes of light, also easy enough; and when I deemed I had created a sufficient sense of fear, I entered the room. It was quite dark by that time, and I was dressed from head to foot in close garments. I touched Sir Geoffrey on the face and whispered in his ear; and once when he showed signs of unbelief, I clutched him by the throat and nearly strangled him.—Sir Geoffrey, if I make a mistake in a single particular, correct me.’

‘You are perfectly correct,’ the baronet answered, flushing scarlet. ‘Pray, continue. You do not know what the suspense is to me.’

‘Had you been quick and strong of nerve, you would have found it out then, for, as it was, you grasped my arm, covered in wet eel-skins, a creepy thing to touch in the dark, even if you know what it is. That was the first part of the performance, and then the real business commenced in earnest. Le Gautier led you to a room at the back of the house, a room draped in black cloth, and seated you in a certain spot, daring you to move at your peril. I wonder I did not laugh at this; I did once or twice, I know, so that I had to finish with an hysterical scream, which had the advantage of relieving me and heightening the effect. Well, the jugglery commenced—the meanest trickery, hardly sufficient to deceive a child. It was easy enough to work it under cover of the incense and smoke; for behind your chair, Sir Geoffrey, the curtains were pulled back and a mirror exposed. I stood upon a pedestal in the window, behind another mirror. The illusion is perfect, and all I had to do was to ask and answer questions. I got through the first part of the performance well enough; but when I had to personate Sir Geoffrey’s brother, the case was different. Had you, sir, been calm and collected, you must have discovered. I personated the spirit of your brother, desiring penance for some fancied wrong done to my children; and to heighten the effect, two ragged little boys were introduced to personate the dead man’s starving and abandoned family. Frightened almost to death by the fear of being haunted, Sir Geoffrey, you promised me anything. You promised to join some League, the meaning of which I do not know, to carry out your dead brother’s work; and last, but not least, that my good angel and preserver there should become Le Gautier’s wife. The illusion was perfect, and a little of Le Gautier’s matchless ventriloquism completed it.—And now,’ the speaker continued, running forward and falling at Enid’s feet, ‘let me implore your forgiveness! My benefactress, how grateful I am that I have been able to serve you!’

‘I have nothing to forgive,’ Enid replied. ‘You have taken far too great a load off my mind for me to reproach you now.’

‘But the whole thing is inexplicable to me,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to impersonate my late brother so accurately?’

Linda Despard smiled and pointed to a photograph album. ‘Easy enough with plenty of these about. What simpler than to abstract a likeness from one of these books and give it me! With my theatrical training and knowledge of make-up, the task was nothing.’

‘I am all the more astonished,’ Isodore remarked, ‘that the audacity of the command relating to Miss Enid did not open your eyes.’

‘But you understand Le Gautier professed to know nothing of what had taken place,’ Sir Geoffrey explained. ‘I even had to broach the subject to him. He never by any chance alluded to it.’

‘Such cunning as his always proves too deep for simple honesty. I need not ask if you believe what you have heard, Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Indeed, I do.—Enid, my child, come and kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish old father. Take me away into the country, where people cannot find me. I am not fit to mix with men of sense; and, O Enid, as soon as it is convenient, tell Varley to go into the library and pick out all the works he can find on spiritualism and burn them.’

‘You are sure you have forgiven me?’ Linda Despard asked Enid timidly.

‘From the bottom of my heart. You have done me a service to-day which I cannot forget, or indeed ever repay.—And to you, Isodore, if I may call you so, I am grateful. You will pardon me if I seemed harsh or hard when you came here, but I have distrusted every one of late.’

‘You have no cause to thank me,’ Isodore replied simply. ‘I am afraid I must confess that it is not entirely upon your behalf I have done this thing.’

‘I care not for that. I shall always remember you with gratitude.’

Isodore turned quickly from the window. ‘Le Gautier is coming up the steps,’ she exclaimed. ‘He must not see me here now, or everything will be ruined. I must see you again before I leave the house. Where can I hide? I would not have him discover me now for ten thousand pounds!’