The voiceless ashes speak no word,
From the ruined walls no sound is heard,
But a cry of terror is in his ears,
And, lo, the ghost of his sin appears.
Restless and ill at ease, Maurice proved but a poor companion for those fun loving tourists. They had invited him, a chance acquaintance, on the strength of his gentlemanly exterior and genial bearing, but the change in his manner after they were fairly off, not only disappointed them, but in great measure dampened the ardor of what would otherwise have been a joyfully, hilarious party.
Therefore, it was with a feeling of positive relief that the unsuspecting youths saw him embark a little later, via Halifax, for his native shore.
They had visited the quaint little ports of[Pg 113] Carbonear and Harbor Grace; crossed the turbulent waters of the Gulf, and after a brief stop at Prince Edward's Island continued their quest for pleasure through that most picturesque of all sections, the Brasd'or Lakes and Historic Arcadia, where the original home of Evangeline was pointed out to them by the ever patriotic natives.
Yet the oppression of an opposing influence was upon them and although Maurice's was but the sin of taciturnity and indifference, still it clouded their perfect enjoyment and threw a feeling of restraint over all their merriment.
For how can one be gay and joyful when one's companions are seemingly prostrate beneath the weight of unspoken anxieties?
It was a risky thing to do, to walk almost into the trap as Maurice was doing, but his was a nature that courted dangers and risks, a brief season of caution was always followed by some deed of extraordinary daring. Still, in this instance, Maurice had laid his plans with more than ordinary precaution.
It was now nearly eight months since the abduction, and Maurice knew well that even crime[Pg 114] received but a brief share of attention in so vice laden a city as London. Nevertheless, he landed at Queenstown, and spent some time wandering about Ireland before he dared to brave the scrutiny of the lynx-eyed Scotland Yard detectives.
His first step on leaving Queenstown, was to secure a suitable disguise, and as his skin was tanned by exposure, and he now wore a heavy beard in place of the well shaven chin, he felt that he had little to fear. He reached London early in the evening, and proceeded at once to secure modest quarters in a quiet street.
From thence he sauntered out and was soon rattling over the stones in a hired hansom on his way to the well remembered house in Surrey. Whether he expected to find Stella and Julia still there, would be hard to guess, for his was a nature uninfluenced by surprises, but when he found, instead of the dark, unassuming house, nothing but a hideous pile of burnt and blackened timbers, a look of consternation did show itself upon his usually unruffled features.
What had been the fate of the beautiful girl whom he had left in perfect health and strength[Pg 115] within these walls? Had she escaped, or were her ashes now mingling with the gruesome mass upon which the moon was casting such a melancholy light? He hardly knew what had prompted him to take this dismal drive, for he had not even dreamed of again entering Julia Webber's door. He knew, too well, that crimes committed beneath her roof were never allowed further circulation, and within Julia Webber's veins ran the blood of that hot-headed nation, where the Vendetta is perpetuated with true, religious zeal.
No, he had not dreamed of entering those forbidden precincts, and now, contempt for his own morbid curiosity filled his mind, and with a hasty order to the driver, he sank back once more upon the cushions of the comfortable conveyance.
Back to London he drove, looking out idly over the water as he crossed the bridge, but little dreaming that but for accidental aid, a human being would now be sleeping in the cold embrace of the sluggish river, and that crime, like many others, would be charged to his account in the day of divine reckoning. It is probable that if he had known and fully realized that fact, its realization[Pg 116] would have made his expression none the less confident, or his indifference to his ultimate fate no whit less thorough.
Men like Maurice Sinclair, who chance the gravest issues of life, are more than glad to "trust to luck" their final venture into the great unknown, and the "fear and trembling" with which we are told "each to work out his own salvation," are conditions totally unknown to natures like theirs.
If he argued the matter at all, it was merely to say that the power that created the "inclinations of a man's heart evil from his youth" was also the power upon which all responsibility consequent upon those evil inclinations, should rest. Probably, he added, moreover, that a power capable of implanting evil in the heart of man could as readily have sown the seeds of good, and if evil was the seed, evil must have been the harvest sought. Thus, leaving out the human labor decreed for the gaining of salvations, he, like many others, shifted all responsibility and the possibilities of a mistaken theory never occurred to him.
He had not seen Elizabeth since the night when[Pg 117] she and her child—her child and his—had fallen so unceremoniously into his arms on a windy street corner.
He remembered, without a blush, how he had cursed her when she begged for shelter, but finally, fearing she would follow and annoy him, he had taken her away down into Whitechapel, with whose vilest passages he was marvelously well acquainted, and there secured for her a miserable room, which she, being weary and sick at heart and having no alternative, was only too thankful to accept.
Another reason for this choice of location for Elizabeth's future home was due to the fact that a certain Mongolian, whose friendship he valued, was living in that particular vicinity.
This person he had known during his stay in China, but whether it was love or fear that bound them in such close alliance, would have been hard to determine from their conversation. At any rate the doings of each seemed well known to the other and each was equally pleased that it should so continue.
The mention of Whitechapel brought no terror to Elizabeth's heart, for, in the bitterness of her[Pg 118] misery, uncongenial surroundings were of little consequence.
Strangely enough, the erring woman fears friends rather than strangers in the hour of her degradation. Whether it is that friendship rarely stands the test of sorrow and shame or any blow to its so-called pride, or whether the desperate courage which self abasement wakens in a woman's heart is a better safeguard for her broken spirit than the pity of her associates, I know not, but in nearly every instance an unfortunate woman will choose poverty and complete estrangement from the friends of her happier days rather than bear the scorn or their self righteous censure.
To the man who had so irretrievably wronged her, she clung with the pitiful persistency so frequently seen in those of her sex and now, as a passing thought of her fate entered Maurice's wandering mind, he suddenly became desirous of seeing her again.
Just then the hansom, which had been rolling along briskly over the smoother streets, came to a stop and "Cabby" leaning over, said briefly, "'Ere's the 'ouse you was haskin' for, Sir."
Maurice bent forward and once more found himself gazing upon Mrs. Sinclair's home in Portland Place. The windows were dark and not a sign of life was visible. "Strange," he muttered; "She would certainly have returned here if she had escaped." But during the full ten minutes that he remained before the house no sound within reached his ears, or no ray of light from its many windows told him of a living presence.
Convinced now that Stella's body rested beneath that hideous mass of blackened timbers and voiceless ashes, he sank back nervelessly upon the cushions and in a trembling, husky whisper, ordered the thoroughly puzzled driver to hurry on.
His last determination was to visit Elizabeth and to Whitechapel he was carried, with all the speed the overworked horses were capable of affording.