Jacobi's Wife. A novel

Front matter

VOL. Ill A NOVEL BY ADELINE SERGEANT AUTHOR OF "no saint," "an open foe," "beyond recall," etc., etc. IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. III. LONDON HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET 1887 All Rights Reserved, PRINTED BY TILLOTSON AND SON, MAWDSLEY STREET JJOLTON CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME. CHAPTER. PAGE. I. — jacobi's position I II. — merle's new friend 15 III. — BURNETT LYNN IN LONDON 36 IV.— HER PROMISE 52 V. — SISTERS-IN-LAW 64 VI.— A CUP OF TEA 79 VII. — SUCCESS IOO VIII. — THE PAPER IN THE GUN-ROOM .... 128 IX. — A WOMAN'S LOVE 148 X.— THE NIGHT WATCH 160 XI. — VANQUISHED 1 74 XII. — DEATH I92 XIII.— MADDALENA'S STORY ...... 214 XIV.— "FARE YOU WELL, MY TASK IS DONE" . . JACOBI'S WIFE.

Chapter I

. JACOBl's POSITION. " What do I care, after all, whether she is found or not ?" said Constantine Jacobi to himself, savagely biting the end of his cigar and then throwing it far away over the parapet of the Thames Embankment, as a sort of relief to his feelings. The scowl that he wore upon his hand some face was anything but pleasant. The cold east wind had given him a shrivelled, pinched appearance,, in spite of the richly furred, warmly-lined overcoat which he affected in Winter, or during the chilly VOL. III. 1! JACOBl's WIFE. 2 breezes of early Spring. He was suffering, too, from bodily fatigue, for he had been busy upon errands for Sir Wilfred and one or two on his own account all the previous day and part of the present one, and he did not relish fatigue or exertion of any kind unless it were undergone for the furtherance of his own purposes.

On this occasion he had chiefly been doing Sir Wilfred's work, and his nerves were exasperated at the lessening of his nightly dose of opium ; for he had been staying for a couple of days in Gilbert's house, where he did not think it advisable to procure for himself too deep a sleep by artificial means. His night's rest had therefore been much broken and, his eyes had the jaded look of one who needs a refreshing slumber. But it was not want of sleep entirely that gave him so worn an appearance, nor even the chilliness produced by a strong east wind. He was absorbed in the consideration of facts which gave him real cause for anxiety. For a year and a half he had had a comfortable home. He had saved money out of the liberal salary that Sir Wilfred had given him and the sums that he had at various times extorted from Gilbert.

He had hoped to constitute himself Sir Wilfred's son-in-law before Geoffrey or Nigel could hear of the projected marriage. He had meant to depart, immediately after the wed ding, to some safe corner of the world, out of the reach of the two men whom he had injured, there to spend the fortune that would accrue to him through Clarice, and to revel in every kind of pleasure suggested by the claims of a thoroughly sensuous and sensual nature. Life in a hot climate, with complete indolence, and luxury in every shape and form — these were the conditions that he had always vainly coveted — the gifts that fortune had hitherto persistently denied. They had seemed to be just within his reach. Were they now to vanish from his grasp like the food and drink that ever eluded the tortured lips of a fabled demi-god ?

Hot anger and bitter mortification raged within him at the thought. He reviewed his position. He firmly be lieved that his wife was dead. He did not think that, with their utmost efforts, Geoffrey and Nigel could prove that Maddalena had not been drowned seven years ago. He fancied that they had been deluded by some South American Pepita or Juana, who had thought to gain something by palming herself off upon them as Jacobi's wedded wife, and in his sleeve he laughed at them for their credulity. But he did believe that when Geoffrey regained his senses he might prove against him the attempt to rob and murder Nigel Tremaine, that had caused his ex pulsion from the camp upon the Pampas. The witness from South America might be Luke Darenth, Carson, or Hiram Gregg. Even the fact — the small fact, as it seemed to him — that he had stolen, would destroy his credit once and for all with Sir Wilfred Vanborough.

Geoffrey's accident was indeed a fortunate circumstance for Jacobi. It gave him a long space of time in which to mature his plans. Nigel Tremaine could evidently prove nothing against him without the help of other witnesses ; it was Geoffrey who might at once have identified him as the man who had been expelled from the camp for the attempt on Nigel's life. As long as Geoffrey lay insensible, as long as Geoffrey was well out of the way, so long might Constantine Jacobi enjoy comparative security. If he could but have married Clarice, and left the country before the bursting of the storm ! Should he throw up the game and go back to South America with his savings ? He had enough to live upon ; he might extort more from Gilbert ; should he content him self with this, and leave the Vanboroughs and the Tremaines to settle their affairs amongst themselves ?

No, not yet. The passion of revenge was strong in him. He had a grudge against Geoffrey. Was there no way in which to make him suffer yet ? If Geoffrey were out of the way, Jacobi himself would be safe. The thought re curred to him again and again with fright ful persistence. He put it away from him for the present. It needed lengthy and serious consideration. He had a grudge against Nigel, too. Well, if Jacobi married Clarice his debt of malice to Nigel Tremaine would be well paid. He knew nothing that would be likely to wound Nigel more. But Clarice was gone, and he was con vinced that Tremaine was acquainted with her place of concealment. There rose up once more the haunting image that had disturbed him through all the opium -begotten, half-delirious dreams and visions of the past few nights — the lovely yet mournful face of Clarice Van borough, white as snow, with the purple shadow of pain and weariness upon her half-closed eyelids, her dark hair lying like a shadow above her blue-veined forehead — more like the face of a dead than a living woman as it had looked of late.

At first he had mocked at the girl for her fear of him ; he had delighted in seeing her tremble in his presence, and had not scrupled to use any means in his power for terrifying or exasperating her. He had grown to take a savage pleasure in the bursts of passion into which she was sometimes goaded when repelling his advances ; if he had admired her statuesque beauty in her colder moods, he found that the colour and fire given to her face and eyes by her short-lived fits of anger rendered them far more fascinating. When her tempests of indignant fury had died away, it was his delight to see her humiliated and tongue-tied in her father's presence and his own. After a time her unconquerable aversion to him began to cause him some vexation. He had expected, with his characteristic misunderstanding of a woman's nature, that when he had induced Sir Wilfred to give her dresses, shawls, jewels sufficient of every kind, she would end by showing some femi nine interest in her new ornaments, even, perhaps, by evincing some gratitude to him.

Then he went through another phase of feeling. He hated the girl — he was resolved to make her suffer. He would punish her for her scorn and contumacy. He did not know how much of this seeling he discovered to her when he spoke under the influence of opium ; but for the time it was almost mad dening in its intensity, and made the enforced delay of the period, when he had promised himself to punish her, a time of great irritation and disappointment to him, succeeded only, towards its close, by a sullen resolution to make her his own in spite of every obstacle. Upon the wedding-day he was thinking more of Clarice herself than of the wealth which had once constituted to him her chief attraction. Then the blow that was even greater than that given by the interruption of the wedding fell upon him in all its force.

She disappeared, suddenly and swiftly from his ken, and left no trace behind. Those who knew the man best had thought that he was too degraded, too base in character and motive, to give a thought to any quality in Clarice Vanborough but her beauty, to any of her possessions but her wealth. They were mistaken. The girl's culture and refinement, her faithfulness to the man she loved, her uprightness, her purity, all had had an effect upon his mind. He might glory in putting his jewel to vile uses, but he knew the value of the jewel for all that. It was only Madame Vallor who, with her keen insight into his mind, began to divine what was passing there. A look or word from him had shown her the danger. Steadily, unflinchingly, she had set herself to combat it in her own way. She separated them completely.

The constant use of opium was acting strangely upon his nerves and spirits, in conjunction with the strain of anxiety re specting his future prospects. His dreams were successions of frightful nightmares, during which he was constantly pursued by the face of Clarice Vanborough ; and, of late, by two other faces, which, as far as he knew, were reposing under the billows of the stormy Atlantic — the faces of his wife and child. He had scarcely thought of his wife for years. He would have said, a few months before, that he could not recall a feature of the dark-eyed baby whom he had refused to save ; yet now, during the silent watches of the night, it floated up before him through the mist of bygone years, a sweet, pathetic little face, with the hue of death upon its childish features. Then Maddalena's dark eyes would look at him reproachfully ; then followed the vision of Clarice's vacant and wandering gaze, of Clarice's stricken lips and listless form.

When he lay down to sleep, he fell into the habit of wondering which of the three was going to haunt him through his dreams that night. He could not understand his own state of mind. He could not understand why Clarice's face should be present to him as it was. He was sure that he hated her with all the force of which he was capable, and yet he was consumed by the one over-mastering, passionate desire to see those sorrowful eyes of hers once more, to hold that slender hand in his, to call that white, fragile, delicate creature, at whose weakness he had jeered, over whose pride he had sought in vain to triumph, his own, in face of all the world, and though all the world forbade. He was not used to the analysis of feeling. He had not given a name to the subtle attraction which Clarice exercised over him.

If he called it anything, he called it hate ; but it was perilously like something that was not hate at all, but love. It was the persistency of these dreams that had caused him almost to discontinue the use of opium for a time. But the physical suffering that this abstinence entailed was growing to be more than he could bear. He knew that on the coming night he would sooner incur the chance of frightful visions than hours of sleepless, nervous pain. He had seen a physician on the previous day, and the physician had prescribed for him, but told him that a gradual cessation of his practice of taking opium was the only thing that could really quiet his overstrung nerves and excited brain. Jacobi had promised to follow the doctor's advice, but knew, as he walked upon the Embankment in the teeth of a cutting wind, that he should break his promise on the first opportunity.

He roused himself at last from his medi tations with a new light in his eyes. A fresh idea had struck him. As he hailed a hansom and drove to the railway station, as he seated himself in a corner of the railway carriage and looked absently at the passing rows of chimneys, of winding streets, of country fields and lanes through which the train was speeding on its way northward, Jacobi was pondering whether his new idea could or could not be turned to good account as a means of compelling Nigel Tremaine and the Vanboroughs to reveal the hiding-place of Clarice. Nigel could do so if he would ; of that he was sure ; and he believed that Gilbert and Sir Wilfred were not so ignorant as they professed to be. On his arrival at Charnwood Manor he made certain arrangements for the further consideration of his idea.

He talked of business matters until Sir Wilfred grew weary and retired to his own room. Then Jacobi sought out a bunch of keys which had already done good service, and locked himself into Sir Wilfred's study. He opened the desk, where the baronet's most private papers were always kept. The opportunity was a good one for running his eye over various documents, the contents of which Sir Wilfred was a little chary of reveal ing. Jacobi glanced with a smile at a " Last Will and Testament," in which he had an interest, and at various papers relating to settlements, leases and charters. Then he touched the spring of a secret drawer, which he had not opened for several weeks, and took out a large blue envelope. With another elongation of his lips — half smile, half sneer — he read the inscription upon the envelope.

" Papers relative to the cause of Geoffrey Vanborough's departure from England in the year 1877." Should he publish these papers to the world or not ? He might threaten to do so, at any rate. And yet it would be dangerous to abstract them from Sir Wilfred's desk without his permission ; but Jacobi thought that he could gain that permission. At present he would but look and see whether, in the papers kept in that secret drawer — the letter from the Secretary of the Hospital, a copy of Sir Wilfred's reply, a memorandum of some of the facts of the case, and the forged receipt for fifty pounds that had never been received by the persons to whom it was sent — there was evidence enough to convict either Geoffrey or Gilbert Vanborough. He opened the envelope and drew out a folded paper. Had there been only one when last he looked inside that drawer ?

Hastily he unfolded the solitary sheet. An exclamation escaped his lips ; an expression of utter dismay and perplexity crossed his face as the paper dropped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor. For all that the blue envelope now contained was a sheet of blank paper.

Chapter II

merle's new friend. Merle's fingers were wandering idly over the keys of her piano one afternoon in March, when a visitor was announced — a visitor who followed so closely on the heels of the servant who had ushered him upstairs, that he caught a momentary glimpse of the fair, sweet face, a little bent, the lithe form, clad in the peculiar shade of blue that Gilbert loved, leaning slightly towards the music-book, before she rose from her seat and came towards him. She heard his name, but it was one that was totally unknown to her — " Dr. Burnett Lynn." A faint expression of surprise was visible upon her face as she found herself confronted by a dark, lean, saturnine-looking man, with piercing eyes which gave her a very scrutinising glance as she slightly returned his profound bow. " May I hope that I do not come as an en tire stranger?" he said, with the ease of a man who finds himself welcome everywhere, and can make himself at home under the most untoward circumstances.

" I had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Vanborough when he was abroad, and I believe that he expects me." " I am sorry then, that he happens to be out at present," said Merle, running over in her mind the list of Gilbert's acquaintances, and finding none whose description tallied exactly with that of the man before her. She remembered, however, that Gilbert had met a Mr. Lynn in Florence some years before her marriage, and decided that this Mr. Lynn was her visitor. " I think I have heard of you from my husband," she went on, with the frank and pleasant manner which had already rendered her a favourite among Gilbert's friends, and which won her an un wonted tribute of admiring approval from Burnett Lynn's critical eyes. " You were very kind to him I know. He will be in before long." She rang for tea, and before he knew well what he was doing, Burnett Lynn found himself installed in one of the luxurious chairs which were, to many people, among the special charms of Merle Vanborough's pretty drawing-room, and she was sitting opposite to him, talking with more readi ness and self-possession than he, for the moment, felt himself to have at com mand.

Was this charming woman Geoffrey's wife? Had he found time, then, to get married in the few weeks that he had been at home ? Burnett Lynn was perplexed, confounded by this sudden turn of events, and it did not yet occur to him that he had strayed by mistake into the house of Sir Wilfred Vanborough's younger son, of whom he had very vaguely heard. For a few minutes the two talked on different subjects, then tea was brought in, and while he was drinking the cup that Merle poured out for him, he made the discovery of her real relationship to Geoffrey Vanborough. " You met my husband in Florence, did vol. hi. c you not ?" said Merle, as he took the cup from her hands. " I had not that pleasure. I met Mr. Vanborough in South America." "Oh!" Merle flushed a little, the awk wardness of the situation rushing upon her all at once ; then she smiled very slightly.

" I think it must be my husband's brother whom you know," she said. " Geoffrey Vanborough, not Gilbert." "Certainly, Geoffrey Vanborough." Bur nett Lynn looked at her in some perplexity. " I beg your pardon ; have I not the honour of speaking to Mrs. Geoffrey Vanborough ?" " Oh, no," said his hostess, hastily, while the flush deepened upon her fair cheek. " Geoffrey is my husband's brother. It is he who went to South America — not Gilbert." " Ah," said Burnett Lynn to himself, after a covert glance of scrutiny, "she is fond of her husband. Happy man ! And he is not Geoffrey. Then I am here under false pretences," he said aloud, as he rose with a smile. " I fear I have no claim on your hospitality, Mrs. Vanborough. Perhaps, however, you would kindly inform me what has become of my friend Geoffrey ?"

" You do not know !" said Merle, softly, yet with a little wonder in her tone. " Ah, you left South America before you could get news of him, no doubt. I am so sorry. Please sit down and I will tell you about poor Geoffrey." "Is he dead ?" Burnett Lynn questioned himself, with a startled recognition of the fact that her candid eyes had grown soft and shadowy as if from recent grief. " But no, he cannot be, or she would wear mourn ing for him. I have heard nothing," he said, seriously, as he complied with her request. " He had just arrived at Charnwood Station," Merle explained, with the same grave intentness of look, "when an accident happened to him. He was struck down upon the railway line and almost killed. He has lain insensible ever since." " Ever since ? But how long has that been ?" said the doctor, hastily.

" Nearly four weeks," she answered. " Nobody seems to know what is the matter with him. He has not spoken one word to any of his friends since he came home ; and we fear he never will. Is it not very sad ?" "Sad, indeed," said Burnett Lynn, with a glance full of heartfelt concern. He rose, and stood looking down into the fire for a moment or two. " I am very sorry to hear it," he said, at last. " And his friend and mine, Mr. Tremaine, did he arrive safely ?" " Oh, yes," said Merle ; and then she stopped a little abruptly. She did not know on what footing Geoffrey and Nigel had been with this keen-faced man, who looked so grieved when he heard of Geoffrey's accident, and she was half afraid of incurring Gilbert's wrath by saying more than she ought to say to an entire stranger. She thought that he looked at her curiously ; perhaps, however, this was only a fancy of hers, for his voice took a very ordinary tone as he said, presently — " I should be pleased to see Mr. Gilbert Vanborough upon the business which brought me here in search of his brother, if you will kindly tell me when I shall find him at home."

He made a movement as if to go, but Merle's instinct of hospitality caused her to reply with some haste — "He will be in soon ; will you not wait until he comes ? He would be sorry to miss you." • Burnett Lynn hesitated, remembering that a word had dropped from Nigel Tremaine's lips which had led him to conjecture that the brothers, Geoffrey and Gilbert, were not upon good terms with each other, and that Gilbert had consented to the proposed marriage of Jacobi with Clarice ; but he imagined, on second thoughts, that the quarrel, if there was one, would probably be suspended during Geoffrey's illness, and that Gilbert would, of course, be glad to learn further particulars concerning Jacobi's character, unless, indeed, the marriage had already taken place. If it had already been consummated before Geoffrey's return, or if Geoffrey's accident had prevented his inter fering, matters would be serious indeed.

For Burnett Lynn had, that very Christmas, soon after his friend's departure, received the lines assuring him that Maddalena Vallor was still alive and well. He sat down, reflecting that Mrs. Gilbert Vanborough was not the proper person to question on these matters, and he talked very pleasantly to Merle for the next quarter of-an-hour. At the end of that time a foot step was heard upon the stairs, and a hand laid upon the handle of the door. " My husband has come in," said Merle, softly. The doctor noted, almost against his will, the wistful tenderness that crept into her face, the faint anxiety that deepened the colour of her eyes as she turned them towards the door. " Fond of him ? — yes," he said to himself again ; " butnot altogether a happy woman, for all that. I wonder what is amiss."

And then the door opened and Gilbert Vanborough came in. Merle performed the little ceremony of introduction with her accustomed grace, and did not appear to notice the black shadow that darkened Gilbert's face as she uttered the stranger's name.. It was a name that he had heard already, and he at once became bitterly angry with his wife for admitting to the house a man whom he had learnt to regard as his own and Jacobi's bitterest enemy. Merle gave him some tea, spoke a few indifferent words, then quietly left the two together. She had learnt by this time that Gilbert had secrets to which he gave her no admittance. Oliver Burnett Lynn was meanwhile drawing his own conclusions. "A weak face," he thought, as he looked at Gilbert. "Weak and unhappy, too. What is the skeleton, I wonder? Unhealthy, into the bargain.

She is strong enough, mentally and physically, to be worth a better husband, I should imagine." And then he addressed himself to the task before him. " I came here by mistake, Mr. Van borough, fancying, from information I had received, that this was the house in which your brother Geoffrey resided, as Mrs. Vanborough kindly explained. You will excuse my remaining, after I discovered my mistake, on the ground of the business which brought me to England, which concerns your family very nearly." " Perhaps I had better give you the address of my father's solicitor," said Gil bert, coldly. " Business communications are generally addressed to him." The doctor looked at him observantly. "You will answer one question at any rate, I hope. Is your sister married to a man who calls himself Constantine Jacobi ?"

" She is not. Allow me," said Gilbert, with marked emphasis, "again to refer you to Mr. Pengelly, my solicitor." Burnett Lynn suddenly dropped the smooth and courteous manner which he had hitherto maintained, and spoke with startling abruptness. " I shall do nothing of the kind, Mr. Vanborough. I address myself to Miss Vanborough's brother, to her father, if I can see him, as her proper protector. Surely it is of some interest to you to learn that Constantine Jacobi is a married man." Gilbert recoiled a little as if struck by the force of his words, but answered after only a moment's pause. " I have heard that accusation against Mr. Jacobi before. I have — I have — every confidence in Mr. Jacobi " " Every confidence in Mr. Jacobi ? Heaven help you then !" said Burnett Lynn, with the brusque, caustic humour which was so natural to him, and which he had hitherto kept in check.

" I had better see Mr. Pengelly, indeed." He picked up his hat, and began to take his way to the door. But the sound of a gasp, a sigh, arrested him. He looked round. Gilbert had sunk back upon the sofa, with his head upon the cushions. He was in a dead faint. Doctor Burnett Lynn was at his side in a moment. Then he rang the bell sharply, placed the insensible man in a better posture, and dashed a tumbler of cold water over his face. Merle and Nixon were on the spot almost immediately, but the swoon was a long one, and it was possible that, but for the doctor's presence and timely aid, Gilbert migrit never have recovered consciousness o at all. These sudden fainting fits were happily rare with him, but they were more dangerous than almost any other phase of his disease, which had seemed lately to make little progress.

" He is subject to these attacks, is he not ?" said Burnett Lynn to Merle, very quietly. " Yes," she answered, simply. He looked into her face and saw again the expression of unutterable care and anxiety which he had noted once before. And then he dropped his eyes. That glance had told him everything he wanted to know. There was nothing new for him to say to her. By slow degrees Gilbert Vanborough came to himself, and was sufficiently recovered to be helped by Nixon into his own room, which was on the same floor. Burnett Lynn had withdrawn a little into the background as soon as Gilbert recovered consciousness ; but he did not like to leave the house until after the arrival of the medical man who attended the family, and for whom he had advised Merle to send at once. He was struck by the calm way in which Merle behaved while attending to her hus band.

She looked pale and anxious, indeed, but she displayed no trace of agitation such as unfitted her for her work. Her eyes were not dimmed with tears ; her hand did not shake. Something of this was due to the fact that she was accustomed to his attacks of illness ; something also, Burnett Lynn considered, to the rare qualities of perfect self-command and entire presence of mind — qualities which particularly com mended themselves to his approval. The doctor, who entered while he was still pondering over the matter, proved, to their mutual surprise, to be an old acquaintance of Burnett Lynn's whom he had not seen for seven years or more. The two exchanged a few hasty words before Mr. Leigh was summoned to Mr. Vanborough's bedroom, and then Burnett Lynn was once more alone. Less from curiosity than from an impatient need of employment, he made the circuit of the room, looking with some interest at the collection of beautiful things which Merle and Gilbert had amassed.

He had not half exhausted the list of treasures, when the light sweep of a dress upon the floor made him aware that Mrs. Gilbert Vanborough had returned. " I hope Mr. Vanborough is better," he said, quickly. " Yes, thank you. Mr. Leigh has gone, and he seems inclined to sleep. Mr. Leigh tells me he knows you," Merle said, for the first time in his presence allowing herself to give way to a look of almost prostrate fatigue and sadness, that gave a very pathetic ex pression to her fair and youthful beauty. " He asked me to tell you that a message came for him to go elsewhere immediately, and that he hoped you would call at his house as soon as possible. I wanted to ask you myself, privately, whether my husband had been agitated, or vexed in any way, during his conversation with you, or whether the attack came on suddenly, without any apparent cause.