The Mysterious Mr. Miller

“And what was the end?” I asked with deep sympathy, yet, alas! knowing too well the story of the tragedy.

“The end – ah?” she sighed. “How can I tell you? On the very night when we had secretly fixed the date of our marriage – a night when my father invited several friends to dine – he returned to Paris, and – ” but she broke off short and burst into a wild passion of tears.

For some time I waited, my hand placed tenderly upon her shoulder, striving to comfort her, and urging her to bear up against her heavy burden of trouble. Then at last when she grew calm again, she said in a hard tone: —

“On his return to Paris he found that during his absence thieves had obtained access to his room at the hotel, and securities for a very large amount, for the safe custody of which he was personally responsible, had been stolen. He saw that his own honour was at stake, that he alone was to blame for not leaving them in the bank, and in a fit of despondency – a mad paroxysm of temporary insanity – he took out his revolver and ended his life. I only knew of it four days after, when I chanced to read of it in the Indépendance Belge, for early on the morning following the dinner, my father had received a telegram and been compelled to go to Brussels, and I accompanied him. Before I knew the awful truth, poor Manuel was already dead and buried! Since that day,” she added bitterly, “all hope of happiness has been crushed within me. I know now that the love of an honest man is not for me.”

I made no response. I was too absorbed in my own thoughts. Every word of hers bore out Sammy’s story, yet I saw that she herself was innocent of the foul plot which had, as a sequel, the suicide of the poor girl’s lover.

Miller knew the truth; he was, indeed, in all probability the instigator of the ingenious theft that had had such a tragic sequel.

In silence I held the small gate open for her, and together we passed on along the path beside the winding stream. Both our hearts were too full for words after that unusual exchange of confidences.

Of a sudden before us, advancing in our direction, there appeared the figure of some one in the shadow beneath the trees.

Lucie detected it at the same instant as myself, and halting drew back in quick alarm.

“We must not be seen here together,” she gasped. “People would talk, and it would quickly get to my father’s ears.”

“And what harm if it did?” I asked, but ere she could reply a strange thing happened – an incident more startling and more amazing than any I could have ever imagined in my wildest dreams.

I held my breath, and stood rooted to the spot.

Chapter Thirteen

Beneath the Love-Light

What followed was amazing, mystifying.

With a loud cry that startled me the grey figure had come swiftly towards us, and I then saw that it was a woman.

My companion and she flew into each other’s arms and exchanged wild joyful greetings, while I, catching sight of her face, stood there open-mouthed, breathless in sheer astonishment.

At that moment I doubted whether I were actually sane and in possession of all my senses. I doubted even my own eyes. And had you been there, in my place, I think you also would have been dumbfounded.

“Fancy you – of all persons in this whole world!” Lucie cried, then turning to me after kissing the newcomer with wild enthusiasm, she laughed, adding: —

“This gentleman is not altogether a stranger, I believe?”

The woman turned her flushed countenance to mine, and in the dim twilight our eyes met.

She started back with a loud cry, then, next instant, dashed forward to me, grasping both my hands.

“Ella!” I ejaculated. It was all I could say.

“Godfrey! – you?”

And she looked from me to Lucie inquiringly, for having met us walking at that hour by that lonely brook she doubtless believed us to be lovers.

“I am Godfrey Leaf,” I said, grasping both her hands. “Yes, I cannot realise that you are really Ella – my own Ella – from the grave?” And I still stood there stupefied.

“From the grave? What do you mean?” she asked, surprised.

“They told me that you were dead,” I cried quickly. “They said that you had caught typhoid, and that it ended fatally.”

“It is true that I had a bad attack of fever, and the doctors gave me up, yet somehow – I suppose by the perverseness of Fate, because I had no further desire to live – I recovered. But you were abroad constantly, and therefore heard nothing of me.”

“I was in Russia when I received news of your death, Ella,” I said in a low voice, for there, in the presence of my love, I had become a changed man. “I have mourned for you until to-day.”

“I had no idea of this!” she exclaimed. “I have been living in Ireland with my father. I have scarcely ever been in London since – since that night when we parted,” she faltered, lowering her eyes, as though fearing to meet my reproachful gaze.

“And how came you here?” Lucie asked, as amazed as I was at her appearance.

“We came over from Bournemouth to Swanage this afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me to come and see if you were in England. I wanted to see the dear old Manor again – the house where you and I have spent so many very happy hours long ago. Minton did not recognise me at first, but when he did he told me that you had gone out to the village two hours ago. I then made inquiries as to the direction you had taken, and fortunately found you here.”

“Then your father is now at Swanage?”

“Yes. We are staying the night there. To-night a motor-car belonging to a friend of my father’s is coming from Winchester to take us for a trip through Devonshire and Cornwall.”

“Well, Ella, you certainly gave us both a turn, appearing so suddenly,” declared Lucie. “Only half an hour ago we were speaking of you, and, like every one else, believed that you were dead.”

“I wonder who started such a report?” she said. “Why did they say that I had died?”

“To trace the source of a false report is always difficult,” I said. “Somebody surmises something and tells some one else, and the second person, in recounting it, declares the surmise to be the truth. It is almost always so.”

“There certainly could be no motive in saying that Ella was dead, as far as I can see,” Lucie declared. “But,” she added, “why let us worry about the past? You have come back to us – back really from the grave.”

“Yes,” I said, still holding her hand. “I believed, Ella, that you were dead long ago. The memory of that last night when we walked through the wet streets of Bayswater has ever remained a bitter one.”

“No, no,” she cried. “Do not recall it. I, too, have suffered agonies of regret. Why is it that we meet again – like this?” and I noted that her splendid eyes were turned upon her friend in askance.

Yes. She suspected that Lucie and I were lovers, and such a conclusion was, after all, but natural.

“You are surprised, no doubt, to meet us together,” laughed Lucie. “But if you knew the truth regarding our acquaintance you would be even more surprised.”

“Then Godfrey is not – ”

“He is certainly not my lover,” she exclaimed. “I may as well make that quite clear to you at once, dear. We came here because he had something to explain to me, and we naturally had no desire that the villagers should gossip.”

My Ella turned again to me, and I saw that all anxiety had faded from her beautiful countenance. She was sweet and smiling – her old delightful self again.

What had happened in those years I knew not. My love might be married, for aught I knew. She wore gloves, therefore I could not tell if her hand bore a wedding ring. She made no mention of Blumenthal, and I could not well inquire of him. So we were both of us somewhat restrained, neither knowing of the exact position of the other.

I only knew that all the great passion I had entertained for her swelled within my heart, filling it to overflowing. The touch of her had thrilled me and I longed to kiss those sweet red lips once again – to repeat to her my love and to assure her that I was still unchanged.

But with Lucie present I could say nothing. I could ask no question, nor could I make any declaration. Yet in those few moments I had been lifted from the depths of despair and despondency to the pinnacle of happiness.

Ella, my well-beloved, still lived! And while she lived she was still mine in heart, even though, perish the thought, she might be wife of another.