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A few nights later I was annoyed at finding him there again, this time evidently awaiting my coming. As soon as I entered he advanced upon me, and asked why I had refused to drink with him on the previous occasion, demanding if I had any objection to his company? It would have been the easiest thing in the world for me to have knocked him down, but I did not want to make a row, so I resolved if possible not to lose my temper with him. As soon as he found I was prepared to listen to what he had to say, he entered upon a long rambling statement as to what he would have done had I insulted him again, winding up by inserting his hand inside my collar, and at the same time tugging violently at the chain which held the locket round my neck. I was so surprised by his impudence that for a second or two I let him pull, then, divining his intention, I immediately knocked him down.
His fall raised a hubbub, but as soon as I could I explained matters to the landlord, who, knowing me for a regular customer, was the more disposed to overlook such a trifling indiscretion as knocking a stranger down in his bar. When I left the house I hastened home, reflecting with considerable gratitude (seeing the aspect affairs were beginning to assume) that another ten days would give me the right to open the locket and decide its secret.
That the man was an emissary of the Albino's, employed to find out if by any chance I had the locket, I did not for a moment doubt. The whole thing was as clear as daylight. Macklin had discovered Veneda's whereabouts, and our escape together. Of course he could not know anything of the other's death, but meeting me in London he must have thought it worth his while to make sure that I was not the possessor of what he was so anxious to obtain. Now the man would be able to inform him definitely that I had got it, and things would be pretty certain to come to a crisis. I resolved to be more careful than ever.
On the Saturday following the events just described, I was not very well, a feeling of intense depression had seized me, and in order to try and raise my spirits I went to the Empire Music Hall. While mixed up in the crowd leaving it I felt my arm clutched. Imagine my amazement on turning at finding myself confronted by no less a person than Juanita! She was dressed entirely in black, and though thinner than when we had parted, still looked surpassingly beautiful. Without a word she slipped her arm through mine and drew me from the building. When we reached the street, she said —
"My Jack, how I have longed for this day! Oh, the joy of seeing you again!"
I was about to venture some remonstrance, but she would not hear me until we had left the square, and were pacing down a side street.
"What joy this is for me!" she said, as we walked along. "Never did I think on that dreadful morning in Batavia that we two would meet again."
"It isn't your fault that we have," I said bitterly, remembering her treachery. "It wasn't your fault that your evidence didn't bring me to the gallows."
"Oh, Jack, you would not be so cruel as to blame me for that?" she cried. "I could not help myself. If I had not given the evidence I did, I should not have left Batavia alive."
"What do you mean?" I asked, astonished.
"Macklin," she hissed, and her eyes glowed with a sudden fury as her lips dwelt upon his name. "I was his slave, body and soul. I dared not do anything but his will. Oh, Jack, forgive me, forgive me, for I have been so unhappy."
But though she pleaded in this fashion, I was not to be hoodwinked. I had tasted her treachery before, how was I to know that she was not fooling me now? I told her as much, whereupon she withdrew her arm from mine, and made as if she would leave me. Her voice, when she spoke, had a certain pride in it, which I could not understand.
"Say no more; it was foolish of me to have stopped you. I thought, when I saw your face, there might be some little pity for my loneliness. I was mistaken. Good-bye Jack, good-bye."
She held out her little hand to me as though she would leave me there and then, and looking into her eyes – we were just beneath a gas-lamp – I saw that she was crying.
Now, never in my life have I been able to stand the sight of a woman's tears. Crocodile tears though they often are, they have an effect on me which is more than peculiar. I began at once to reproach myself for having been so blunt with her, and was more and more inclined to place credence in her assertion that she was only led to act as she had done by the influence of the Albino.
"Forgive me, Juanita," I said. "I spoke roughly to you, but it was only natural under the circumstances. I believe what you say, and regret that I should have given you additional pain. Where are you staying now?"
She gave me her address and I asked if she would allow me to take her home. She consented, and as it was too far to walk, I called a hansom. Placing her in it, I seated myself beside her, and we rattled off. As we went her spirits began to revive. She recalled our voyage in the schooner, our love-making in Thursday Island, and many other little circumstances connected with our mutual past.
At length, after passing down a long overgrown thoroughfare, the cab pulled up before a house. She got out and opened the front door while I paid the cabman. Then we went up-stairs together to her sitting-room. Once there, her light-hearted manner left her altogether.
"Jack," she began sadly, "I know it is all over between us, but can you find it in your heart to say you forgive me?"
"Quite, Juanita. Badly as you have treated me, I forgive you everything."
"And you believe, Jack, that whatever I may have done, I loved you once?"
"Yes, I honestly believe that you did love me. But, Juanita, will you let me ask you one question?"
"A hundred if you like, Jack; for this will be our last meeting. After to-night we shall never see each other again."
"What do you mean?"
"That I am going away, – never mind where, – away from England. Now, what is it you wish to ask me?"
"First, why did you want that money?"
"Oh, Jack, that is a long story, and a sad one. But I will tell you. Once I was poor, – oh, so poor! And to keep myself from starving I sold my honour. A little son was born to me – born in sin and shame. I loved him more than all the world, but knowing what I was, I dared not imperil his immortal soul by letting him remain with me. So I gave him into the keeping of the Good Sisters. But when I did so, I bound myself by a great oath. In bringing him into the world I had done him a wrong which I could never repay. Poverty had compelled me to it, so I swore that I would never rest until I had collected a certain sum of money, by any means, good or bad, to be his property when he should become a man; so that he should never experience the miserable want which wrought his mother's ruin. This I set myself solemnly to accomplish. For a long time I could hear of nothing. Then I joined a certain Society and learnt the game Veneda and the Albino were playing. By chance I discovered Veneda's secret, and I threw my lot in with him, determining to steal the locket which contained the paper, and by that means obtain the money. How I fought for it, how he deceived me, and how the Albino tracked us down, you know. There is one thing, perhaps, of which you are not aware."
"What is that?"
"That your presence in London with the locket is known to him. That he is aware of your escape with Veneda, your journey to the island, your voyage to Singapore in Sir Richard Tremorden's yacht, and your arrival in England by the Turkish Pacha."
"Good heavens!" I cried, astounded. "How on earth did he learn all that?"
"How does he get to know of anything? He is the most wonderful man under the sun, I think, and certainly the wickedest. His agents in Batavia found out your escape from a cab-driver and a boatman. Lady Tremorden described your rescue in a letter she contributes to a ladies' newspaper. And he was in the docks when the Turkish Pacha arrived from Singapore."
I was so overcome with astonishment that I could not reply. She continued —
"Jack, you don't know what escapes you've had. One night you crossed the river to a house on the Surrey side, didn't you?"
I nodded. I remembered the occasion perfectly. I went over to spend the evening with an acquaintance, but not feeling well, left early.
"Well, that night, by his orders, three men waited two hours for you on Westminster Bridge. Somehow they must have missed you. Had they caught you, you would most certainly have lost the locket, and probably your life. One night you went to supper on board the Prince of Tartary, lying off Blackwall?"
I nodded again.
"Those three men followed you. You slept on board, or they would have had that locket and thrown your body into the stream."
"But, Juanita, this is simply murder."
"Jack, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but it is nevertheless true. I have quarrelled hopelessly with Macklin, and I'm hiding from his anger now."
"Why did you quarrel with him, Juanita?"
"Because he wanted me to help him in another scheme to murder you. I refused, and he attempted my life. He is hunting for me everywhere, thinking I shall communicate with you."
"But, Juanita, if you still want that money for your child, and you didn't spare me before, why do you do so now?"
Big tears rose in her eyes, and her voice trembled as she replied —
"Jack, my child is dead. And think, he died on the day that I betrayed you in Batavia. It was the judgment of heaven on my sin. Had he lived, I should have betrayed you again. But now that I know he is dead, I will not side with that man against you. But you must be careful. If you have the precious paper, why don't you go to the place, and get the money at once?"
"Because I can't. I have sworn not to open the locket until I have been a month in England. The time expires in three days, then I shall do so. But, Juanita, you must leave London at once, you are not safe here. Go into the country, and in a week I will send you money enough to enable you to get out of England. You must let me help you in return for what you've done for me."
"Ah! you don't know," she answered sadly. "Now my little one is gone, my life seems over; I am tired of the battle. I would rather die … Jack, if possible I should like to give my life to save yours, to show what the worth of my love really is. Perhaps you would sometimes think kindly of me then."
"I shall never think otherwise. Believe me, there is only kindness in my heart towards you."
"Yes! Only kindness. Your love is dead. Jack, some day you will marry a good woman. Don't let her believe me to have been altogether bad."
"Don't you know me better than that, Juanita?"
"But now that the Albino – "
"Well?"
We both sprang to our feet, and turned in the direction of the voice. The Albino stood before us smiling sweetly!
"And what of the Albino, my dear Juanita? You see, he appears to answer for himself. But there, don't let's talk of him. This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Quite like old times, I declare. John Ramsay, how d'you do?"
"You little devil!" I cried. "How did you get in here?"
"By the front door, my dear boy, – how else? The door has not been built yet that could keep John Macklin out. But you don't seem pleased to see me."
"I should be delighted if I thought I should never set eyes on you again. I've come to the bottom of a good many of your tricks, and I've a good mind to wring your neck, you murderous little reptile."
"That's nonsense, arrant nonsense. But let's get to business. Look here, John Ramsay, you're very smart, but I'm smarter. I want that locket Veneda gave you. I must have it sooner or later, so you may as well hand it over now. Give it to me, and I'll give you a cheque for a thousand pounds. Could anything be fairer?"
"I wouldn't give it you for two hundred times that amount."
"You're a fool, a madman! You're bringing about your own ruin. You've got it on you now – give it to me, or I swear you don't leave this house alive. You can't escape; I've got men in the street, and I'm armed, so hand it over."
My temper, never too good at the best of times, here deserted me altogether. Picking up the poker, I made a dash at him. Quick as lightning he whipped a revolver from his pocket and covered me. Seeing him about to pull the trigger, I came to a halt. Before I knew what had happened, Juanita had thrown herself between us. He fired. Juanita gave a little cry and fell at my feet. Mad with rage, I sprang over her body towards him. He fired again. I felt a stab as if a red-hot knitting-needle had been run through me, and became unconscious.
When my senses came back to me, I was in the Charing Cross Hospital, more dead than alive. The bullet which had brought me down had been extracted, and the police were anxiously waiting to examine me as to the reason of it all. One thing was very certain; the Albino had achieved his purpose, for the precious locket, the cause of all the trouble, was gone.
CHAPTER VI
CONCLUSION
Three days after my meeting with Juanita in Leicester Square, I was lying propped up in bed in the hospital, feeling very weak and miserable, when one of the nurses came to tell me that two visitors were coming up to see me.
"Who are they," I asked, – "men or women?"
"Ladies," the nurse replied, as if she were speaking of a third sex. "Drove up in their own carriage."
"Ladies!" I said. "Who can they be?"
Any further wonderment was put a stop to by the entrance of the ladies themselves, escorted by the house surgeon. Can you guess who they were? One was a lady I had never seen before, a chaperon, I suppose. The other was – but there, I must leave you to imagine who alone would have sufficient pity to forget the past, and to come and comfort the sick and sorrowful? It was Maud! The Maud I had treated so shamefully, to whom I had done so great a wrong. I could hardly believe my eyes! With that exquisite grace that always characterized her movements, she floated up the long bare ward to where I lay, bringing with her sunshine and happiness unspeakable.
"Jack, Jack," she began, taking my great brown paw between her dainty hands, "welcome home, ten thousand welcomes home!"
Though the words she uttered were nothing more than ordinary, there was something in the way she said them that invested them with a charm no other woman could have given them.
"How did you know I was here?" I asked, when the first embarrassment was over, and she had taken a chair by my side.
"Papa saw it in the paper," she said, "and we immediately made inquiries."
"And you were forgiving enough to come and see me. Oh, Maud, how little I deserve it!"
"Hush, you mustn't talk like that. Of course I could not let you lie here without coming to you. Some people might be shocked at the idea of a young lady visiting a gentleman in a hospital. But I do what I think right myself. Now, the doctor tells me you are better, and will soon be able to come out. Directly you are ready, you must come to us."
"Come to you, Maud? Your father would never allow that."
"Papa wishes it as much as I do, so be quick and get well. I have such a lot to tell you, and messages to give you, Jack, from your poor dear mother. I was with her till the last."
"I guessed you would be. Poor mother!"
We were both silent for a minute, then I said —
"Maud, can you tell me one thing? How is the woman who was found in the room with me?"
"Dead, Jack. She died while the police were examining her this morning."
The shock was almost too much for me. It was some time before I could realize it.
"Dead? Oh, poor Juanita! Then her wish was gratified after all. She gave her life for mine. Maud, there is the end of a tragedy. Poor Juanita!"
"Don't think of it for the present, Jack. Wait till you are stronger. I must go soon, or the doctor will say I'm keeping you from getting well."
"Nonsense, your presence will do me more good than all his drugs put together. Forgive me one question."
"A hundred. What is this one?"
"Maud," I asked, almost afraid, "you are not married?"
She shook her head a little sadly, I thought. Oh, if I could only find the pluck to put another! I would try, at any rate.
"Maud, have you only come here in pity, or do you – do you – "
She must have divined what I meant, perhaps she read it in my eyes, for a great blush spread over her face, as she bent towards me and whispered —
"How cruel of you, Jack, to make me say it! I am here because I love you, – because I love you!"
My emotion was so great that I could not speak. My eyes overflowed with tears; I could feel them coursing down my cheeks. The doctor and nurse had taken the chaperon to the other end of the ward, and as I had a screen round my bed, we were quite alone. At last I found my voice.
"Maud," I faltered, "I am not worthy of you, my dear, I am not worthy. You do not know what my life has been."
What she said in reply has no business here but I know that it acted on me like a magic potion. When she went away, I only let her go on the strict understanding that she should come again as soon as she could spare the time. After the door had closed on her it was as though all the sunshine had gone out of the ward; but she had left behind in my heart a greater happiness than I had ever known before, one that can never leave me again as long as I live to feel it.
A little later the doctor came to examine me. He was struck by the improvement in my condition.
"Why, man, what on earth have you been doing to yourself?" he asked. "You're a hundred per cent. better than you were when I saw you last."
"Happiness, doctor," I answered. "I have had some news which has done me more good than anything your science could prescribe for me."
"It looks like it," he said, and went on to the next bed laughing.
But though my heart was full of joy because I knew that Maud still loved me, it was not unmixed with a feeling of sorrow. In the first place, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was not worthy of my darling's love; and in the second, how was I, a pauper, to ask her to be my wife? My fortune, if it had ever been a fortune, had been stolen from me, and even if I returned to my old profession, the sea, I should stand but a poor chance of ever making enough to justify me in asking Sir Benjamin for her hand. Consideration of these things was, however, postponed for the present by the arrival of the police and a magistrate, to take my deposition for use at the inquest on poor Juanita's body. She, brave soul, had sacrificed herself for me, and it should go hard if any exertion on my part should be wanting to bring her murderer to justice. In the evening I had the satisfaction of hearing that a verdict of wilful murder had been returned against John Macklin, and that a warrant was already out for his arrest.
By special favour, Maud was permitted to see me every other day, until I was in a condition to be moved. When that happy moment arrived, she herself came to escort me. The carriage was at the great hospital door, and in it we set out for Holland Park.
When we reached the house, who should open the door but Sir Benjamin himself! His welcome could not have been more cordial had I been his own son returning after an absence of many years. On his arm I entered the house, tenderly watched by Maud. We passed into the drawing-room, and I was soon seated in a comfortable chair before the fire.
"Sit yourself down, my dear boy," Sir Benjamin said, "and you'll just take a glass of wine and a biscuit before you do another thing. I prescribe it myself, and surely I ought to know. Hum, ha! Maud, my dear, God bless you."
I never remember having seen Sir Benjamin so much affected before. Tears stood in his eyes, and his hand trembled so violently that it was as much as he could do to pour out the wine for me. Dear old man, I had always misjudged his affection for myself, though why he should have felt any was a thing which, personally, I could never understand.
It was not till after lunch that I got an opportunity of a private conversation with him. Then, as I had made up my mind I would, I told him my whole story, from the time of my leaving England on my last voyage, up to the present moment. As my yarn progressed, I was alarmed at the change in his face. From its usual rosy hue its colour passed to an extraordinary pallor, and when I reached the account of my scene with Juanita, and my attempted assassination, with the robbery of the locket, I thought he would have fainted. He gasped —
"You say that Marmaduke, my nephew, gave you that locket containing the piece of paper?"
"Yes, and bound me by a promise that I would not open it till I had been a month in London."
"Then, John, God forgive me, I have done you an awful injury. I have, unconsciously it is true, robbed you of £200,000!"
"What!" I cried, in my turn astonished by his words. "What had you to do with that affair?"
"I was the custodian of it; my nephew sent it home to me from Chili to keep for him, with the proviso that if ever he should send a messenger for it, bearing a certain piece of paper, I should give him whatever amount, even up to the entire sum, he should ask of me."
"And that messenger?"
"Came the same day that we heard of your accident, and brought the scrap of paper; he said my nephew was in great danger, and wanted his money immediately; he took away my cheque for £200,000 and accumulated interest, and, as I have found out by inquiry, cashed it the same morning. By this time he has probably left the country!"
"What was he like, this messenger?"
"Well, he was the most extraordinary little man I ever set eyes on. He was a deformed Albino."
"The Albino! Then you've seen the murderer – the man who killed Juanita, and attempted to do the same for me."
"Good heavens! What's to be done now?"
"Nothing that I can see. The police are searching high and low for him. We can't recover the money, for we haven't the vestige of a right to it. You must remember it was to be the property of whosoever brought you the paper. The Albino brought it, and he has got it. We must grin and bear our loss. You are not a bit to blame, Sir Benjamin."
I saw that he felt he had injured me, and to try and drive the subject from his mind, I spoke to him of my views regarding Maud. In a second he was another man.
"Jack, my boy, God bless you for that idea! My carelessness, though certainly I did not know any better, has deprived you of great wealth; now I can make up for it. You love Maud. Maud has never wavered in her affection for you. I'm not going to ask what your life has been since you left us, because I trust to your honour not to ask me for my girl if there's anything against it. On the point of money we'll split the difference, and on your wedding-day I'll make you a present of a cheque for £100,000. Will that suit you?"
"No, Sir Benjamin, I cannot let you do it. If when I'm strong enough you'll help me to some appointment which will enable me to support Maud in a proper manner, I should be just as grateful. But I can't take your money in compensation for what was not your fault."
"It shan't be in compensation then, it shall be as a free gift. See, here is Maud; if you want to talk about it, let it be to her. I must go into town, and find out if the police have discovered anything regarding that Albino."
With this excuse the old gentleman hobbled out of the room, and I was left alone with Maud. When I told her of her father's generosity she became very silent, and her dear eyes filled with tears, but you may be sure they were not tears of sorrow.
"There's one thing I want to tell you, Jack," she said. "I asked papa to undertake on your behalf the funeral of that poor woman. He did so, and now she has a quiet resting-place in Wendthrop churchyard, under the great yew-tree near the lych-gate. I knew you would like to think she had been given a proper burial. Some day we will go together, and see the grave of the woman who sacrificed her life in such a noble way. We must never forget her nobility, Jack."
"No, dear, pray God we never may! Poor Juanita, her troubled life is over! Surely all her sins have been atoned for by her last act of self-sacrifice!"
And so it came to pass, a month or two later, when summer was on the land, that we twain, as man and wife, went down together to the little village, in the churchyard of which Juanita takes her last long sleep. It was evening, the after-glow of sunset was still upon the sky, and bats were flitting hither and thither among the tombs. In the dip below the churchyard the dear old river ran its silent course towards the sea; a faint chattering sounded from the rooks in the elms above us, and across the meadows came the gentle tinkling of cattle-bells. We passed through God's acre to the old yew-tree, beneath whose ample shade a grave was just beginning to show signs of the care that had been bestowed upon it.
Hand in hand we stood beside it, thinking of the woman whose body lay beneath us. In my thoughts I was far away from England. Thursday Island rose before my eyes; the bay dotted with shipping, clouds upon the hill-tops, the noise of the surf upon the beach, the rustling of palm-trees, and Juanita's laughter ringing from the Orient Hotel.
Before we came away we made a resolve that once every year, as long as we two should live, we would repeat the visit. The grave will be our constant care. For in that way alone can we show our gratitude to the woman whose resting-place it is.
But to return to a more cheerful topic. My long story is fast drawing to a close, and, as I don't doubt, you will say it is about time. But there are two more circumstances of importance to be recorded before I can with satisfaction call a halt.
The first is the matter of my marriage. But when I tell you that it only happened a couple of months ago, you will see that I am hardly in a position yet to describe it with the care such an important event demands. Suffice it then that it took place at the parish church without any ostentation or fuss. I'm not going to tell you how Maud looked in her wedding-dress, because I was far too nervous to find that out for myself. A tiny cousin acted as her bridesmaid, and an old sea friend was good enough to officiate as my best man.
After the ceremony, which took place in the afternoon, we drove back to the house, where Maud held a little reception; and here occurred the second event to which I desire to draw your attention.
Among the guests who came to offer their congratulations were two people whom I had seen before under very different circumstances. That they had not recognized my connection with that affair was evident. So waiting my opportunity, I took Maud on my arm, and bidding her listen, approached the lady, saying politely —
"I think we have met before!"
She stared in blank surprise, grew very confused, and at last replied —
"I'm afraid you must be mistaken, Mr. Ramsay; I don't think I have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before!"
"And yet I think I carried you in my arms once, and for a considerable distance!"
"You, Mr. Ramsay? Surely you must be mistaken! Pray tell me when."
"In Australia. You were staying at the Federation Hotel the night it caught fire. A fireman carried you down a ladder in his arms!"
"Good gracious! You were not that fireman?"
"I was, though please say nothing about it. If you do, I shall be sorry I recalled the circumstance to your memory."
"But you saved my life. Oh, where is my husband? I must tell him. Maud, do you hear what Mr. Ramsay says?"
"Yes, I have heard about it before, and I am very proud of him," said Maud; and that little sentence was more than sufficient praise for me.
Next moment Major Welbourne – for he was Major now – was overwhelming me with protestations of gratitude, and I was bitterly regretting having said anything about the matter. But for all that it was a strange coincidence, wasn't it?
As soon as the reception was over, we bade Sir Benjamin good-bye, and started for Southsea, en route to the Isle of Wight, where, as the guests of Mr. Sanctuary, Maud's cousin, we proposed to spend our honeymoon.
It is under his hospitable roof that this account of my strange adventures has been written, and now comes to a conclusion.
I am loth to say "farewell," but what more can I tell you? Only the other day I discovered that Bradshaw the banker, whose embezzlement was the primary cause of all the trouble, had the misfortune to be extradited soon after the loss of his money, and now occupies a cell in one of her Majesty's criminal lunatic asylums. Of the ill-fated pair who left Valparaiso in the schooner Island Queen, Veneda lies buried on an island off the Sumatra coast, Juanita in an English churchyard. So far nothing has been heard of the Albino. Despite his extraordinary personality, which, one would be tempted to believe, would render it the more difficult for him to escape, he has succeeded in completely baffling the police. Whether I shall ever hear of him again is a matter outside my power to tell, but that he will some day overreach himself, and suffer the penalty of his crimes, I am as certain as that I am one of the happiest of men to-day. And nothing can be more certain than that!
And with the assurance of that fact I bring my story to a close. My only hope is that I may be permitted to be the husband to Maud that she deserves; and my only regret is that I cannot prove myself better worthy of her love. Surely a life devoted to achieving both these ends cannot be altogether spent in vain!
