The fatal secret

Front matter

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K O r «

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Preface

Many of the stories in this volume are transcripts of real life. The first story, “ The Fatal Secret,” is founded on a remarkable trial that took place in London, during the last century.

E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

Prospect Cottage,

Georgetown, D. C.,

Contents

WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM?

WAS IT A DREAM ?

WHO WAS THE THIEF ?

Chapter I. Between Two Loves

They said that you had faithless grown,

That gold had wiled your love from me ;

But my firm heart was constant still,

And thought that false you could not be;

It thought that truth and constancy Within your bosom dwellers were;

My love no ill of you could think ;

And are you then so false and fair? — NicOLL.

HE terrible events of this true story occurred some

-L years ago, before steam-cars or telegraph wires had been invented, or cruel laws with extreme penalties for slight offences had been repealed: while 5^et all distant communications were made through special messengers, or slow mail-carriers, and all travelling accomplished by private conveyances, or public stage-coaches that rumbled over bad turnpike roads infested by foot-pads and mounted highwaymen ; while yet gentlemen and doctors of divinity were “ executed ” for counterfeiting or forgery, and poor servant girls “ hanged ” for stealing.

It was on a beautiful afternoon towards the end of the month of May, in the evil days of those good old times, when a young man and woman came face to face in one of the loveliest green lanes/ of England.

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The young man stopped and stood his ground.

The young woman started, and would have hurried on, but that he gently detained her.

“ Well met, Sophie Melville ! I have been trying to see you for ^week past ; but you were always out when I called at the parsonage. Come now, sit down on this bank for a little while. I have something to say to you.”

The speaker was a fine-looking young fellow, a fair type of the British farmer, tall, broad-shouldered, full-chested, rather bull-necked and bullet-headed, with ruddy complexion, reddish hair and beard, regular features, and a frank, open, manly countenance, lighted up by a pair of clear, kind, bright, blue eyes, that dwelt upon the face of the girl with an expression of tenderness.

He wore a homely suit of rough gray tweed and a coarse straw hat. His shoes were rugged, and his ungloved hands were large and red with toil. No one could for an instant have mistaken Joseph Grainger for a “gentleman,” yet every one must have recognized in him something much better — a true man.

The girl to whom he spoke was a beauty ; there could be no two opinions about that. Her form was of medium height, at once slender and well rounded, elegant in all its proportions and graceful in all its movements. Her head was small, stately, and covered with a rich growth of lustrous blue-black hair. Her features were delicately and perfectly chiselled ; her eyes, of the darkest, softest gray, were fringed with long black lashes; her lips were small, plump, and ruby-like in color and clearness; her complexion was pale and clear, more delicate and beautiful in its alabaster light than any bloom could have been.

Her dress was plain, even to shabbiness, and consisted — though it was fine spring weather — of a faded and dingy brown merino suit, just relieved by neat white cuffs and

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collar. She wore also a rusty black felt hat with a rather stringy black feather, well-cleaned and mended brown kid gloves, and a pair of boots, once faultless in fit, but now rather the worse for wear. Yet this shabbily-dressed beauty bore herseK with pride of a mediaeval princess.

She was the eldest daughter of the curate of Santon, and one of the large family of girls and boys who subsisted or half subsisted on the father’s miserable salary of fifty pounds a year, with the help of an occasional lodger during the fishing season, for Santon-on-Serle was noted for its trout streams.

Joseph Grainger and Sophie Melville had been playmates in childhood, and understood but unavowed lovers in youth.

On this May-day they had met by mere accident in one of the lanes leading from the village out to the parsonage, and he had seized the chance to speak to her.

“ Well, I will sit down half a minute here. I really haven’t time to stay longer,” she said in reply to his request as she seated herself on a bank of wild thyme near the outlet of the lane.

“You never have time to see me now-a-days, Sophie!

Not since your fine gentleman from London has been down here I The Honorable Algernon De Courcey, is he ? The younger brother of the Earl of Allacres, eh? A pretty * honorable,’ he I And a credit to his noble family ! To set himself to turn the head of a simple country girl like you I ”

“ Joseph 1 You shall not talk so of Mr. De Courcey 1 • «

He is my mother’s lodger and — ”

“ Your suitor ! Nay, don’t fiare up, Sophie ! I mean no offence ; though it is rather hard to have a fine gentleman like he is, come between a plain man and his sweetheart ; for if I mean no harm, lass, it is just as certain that he

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means no good. But I did not come here to accuse a man behind his back, my dear. I would much rather tell him to his face what I think of him, and have it out then and there in a stand-up fight.”

“A stand-up fight? ” repeated the girl, scornfully, “ how can you be so low in your ideas, Joseph Grainger? Mr. De Cource}^ is a gentleman I ”

“ Gentleman ! But I’ll keep my temper ! Sophie, dear Sophie; we have been companions and friends all our lives. Surely that gives me some right to counsel you, some claim to your attention.”

“ I don’t know what claim, Mr. Joseph ! ”

“Sophie, although no promise to that efiect has ever passed betv/een us, yet I always felt that we were bound together in mutual love, and that I, at least, was bound to you in honor as well. Why, Sophie, I have never felt at liberty to pay such attentions to another girl as you have received from this Mr. De Courcey.”

“ I am sure you might have done so if you had pleased,” said the girl, with a toss of her stately little head.

“I did not please. I had no more inclination than liberty to do so.”

“ Really, Mr. Joseph, you talk as if we were already engaged,” exclaimed the beauty, curling her lip.

“Among true-hearted people a mutual understanding, though unspoken, constitutes a most sacred engagement. But, Sophie dearest, I come to you this afternoon with the sanction of your father, to ratify our engagement in words. My dear, you have known me all your life, from the time when you, a babe of three years old, used to ride on the shoulders of me, a lad of twelve. You know I have loved you with true affection from that time to this, and until that fellow—whose neck I shall break some of these days if the hangman don’t save me the trouble— came down

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here, I was sure of your affection in retur?i. Nor do I doubt it much now. He has only dazzled your fancy, not won your heart, my dear ; but there ! I will test that in another minute, Sophie. When I spoke to your father an hour ago, I only talked of my farm of forty acres well stocked, of my substantial stone farm-house well furnished, and my income of four hundred a year. And these were satisfactory. But to you, Sophie, I speak of the life-long love between us, and for that cause I beg you to end all doubt and suspense and to be my wife.”

“I can end all doubt and suspense, Mr. Joe; but I cannot be your wife,” answered the girl, not without emotion.

“ In the name of Heaven, Sophie, do you mean this ? ”

“ Yes, I do, most earnestly.”

“ But why ? Oh, why ? ”

“ Because you were too long about asking me, Mr. Joe. You felt too sure of me. You took too much time, and now you are too late.”

“ Too late ! What do you mean ? ”

“ I am not bound to tell you, Mr. Joe. Good-moming.”

With that the girl arose and walked off.

Joseph Grainger started up with the impulse to follow and detain her ; then he checked himself, saying :

“ No ; I will not lay hand on her. But that fellow I It is he ! And I will break every bone in his body.”

Meanwhile Sophie Melville walked rapidly down the green lane to the lower end, where stood the curate’s pretty parsonage, covered with trailing vines and overshadowed by trees.

She entered the gate and passed through the yard, opened the house-door and hurried up to her room, where she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears, sobbing :

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“ Poor Joe ! poor faithful heart ! It seems cruel to disappoint and grieve him so ; but I cannot help it ! I cannot ! I am not fit for a farmer’s wife, nor for a country life ! I want more of change, variety, excitement ! ”

Her soliloquy was interrupted by a rap at the door, and the voice of one of her little sisters saying :

“Sophie, papa wants you to come right down to his study.”

"^The girl hastily wiped her eyes and went down.

The Reverend Allan Melville sat in his shabby little den, dignified with the name of study, in a well-worn leathern chair, and beside a table covered with a faded green baize cloth, and furnished with a few well-thumbed books.

He was a small, thin man, with a long sallow face, dark eyes, and prematurely thin white hair.

He was wrapped in a thread-bare gray dressing-gown.

“ Come in, my dear child, and sit down. I have something to say to you ! ” he began.

The girl took the chair nearest the speaker.

“ Young Grainger has been here, as I suppose you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“ Well, he has only said what I have been expecting to , hear for the last twelve months — ^that he wants to marry you. Now, my girl, the match is in every respect a desirable one for a young woman in your position, and if my judgment is correct, I believe it to be an acceptable one i to you.” !

“No, sir; it is not. I do not want to marry Joe! Grainger,” replied Sophie, beginning to fold the ribbons j of her apron.

“ Oh, that is all mere girlish nonsense, you know. I am sure you like the young man, and he is most worthy of your regard. I am very sure you like him, unless, unless this Mr. De Courcey has supplanted him in your favor.

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Sophie, I warn you to have nothing further to say to that gentleman. Certain reports have reached me, but too well founded, I fear, and not to his credit. I have indeed felt compelled this afternoon to give him a week’s warning to seek other lodgings. I was wrong ever to have permitted any acquaintance to grow up between you. It must cease at once. As for young Grainger, I have no doubt you will sooner or later accept him. That is all I have to sa}" to you, my dear.”

Sophie left her father’s presence trembling with a variety of emotions.

In the narrow passage outside she came face to face with Algernon De Courcey.

He was a man of splendid beauty and diabolical fascination, tall, magnificently formed, with clear cut, regular features, fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and a profusion of gold-colored hair and beard. He wore a sportsman’s dress, carried his fishing-rod in his hand, and looked as if he had just come in or was just going out.

“ Sophie,” he whispered, in a quick and eager tone, “ get your hat and come with me down to the brook.”

She hesitated.

“It may be the very last time we shall ever speak together, for I am going away to-night.”

“ To-night ! ” she echoed, in an unmistakable tone of distress.

I “Yes, to-night. Will you give me one last interview?”

1 “ Yes,’^ she hastily exclaimed, as she snatched her hat

' from the rack in the corner of the hall and followed him down to the trout-stream where he daily fished.

* Sophie Melville had passed out of her father’s house for the last time. She never returned.

' That night the family missed her from the tea-table ; but

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felt no anxiety, for her absence at some of the cottages was not a very unusual circumstance.

But when the hour of evening prayer and retirement arrived, they became uneasy. Just as the curate was about to send messengers around to inquire for his daughter, a lad from The Bed Bull Tavern came and asked for the curate. Being admitted to the study, he handed a letter to Mr. Melville, saying :

“ I was gin a sixpence to keep it till night and then put it in his reverence own fingers, and there beant no answer. Good-night, and my sarvice to ye.”

Pulling his forelock, he disappeared before the curate had unfolded the note.

It was a cruel note from his reckless daughter, telling j him that she loved De Courcey, and, after what her father | had said to her that evening, being hopeless of his consent to their marriage, she had accepted her lover’s proposal and gone with him to London, where their wedding would take place. She implored her parents’ forgiveness, assu- j ring them that their pardon was all that was necessary to I complete her happiness.

“ Oh, follow her ! follow her ! prevent the marriage and bring her back ! ” shrieked the half-frantic mother, when she had heard the contents of the letter.

“ To what good ? Since she has run off with him, it is ! best that she should marry him. Even if the worst that . we have heard of him be true, is it not better that slie i should he his wife than be called his wanton ? Besides, she j is twenty-one years old, she is of age and we could not' prevent her marriage, even if it were expedient for us to' attempt to do so,” said the curate. j

His wife covered her face with her hands, rocked her body to and fro, and uttered groan upon groan, in the' anguish of her soul.

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“We must hope the best,” pursued the curate. “This may be a false report that has reached us. He may not be an adventurer. He may be in reality what he assumes to be — the younger brother of the Earl of Allacres. I looked in the peerage, and certainly the Earl of Allacres has half a dozen younger brothers, and one of them, whose age corresponds to this man’s appearance, is called Algernon. We will wait for news, dear wife, and in the meantime we will pray for them both,” said the curate, calmly, though his soul was sorely troubled within him.

That night the two babes, aged three and four, who had been used to sleep with Sophie, awoke and missed her, and wept and wailed for the lost sister.

The next morning, all the younger children who had been accustomed to be washed and dressed by Sophie, sobbed and cried for the missing sister.

That day, the faithful lover, Joseph Grainger, coming to the parsonage and hearing the news of her elopement with De Courcey, went home in deep bitterness in spirit and grieved for his lost sweetheart.

And night and morning, all day and all days, the bereaved parents mourned for their missing daughter lost by a fate far worse than death.

But always they prayed for her, and always they waited for news.

At length the news came — the most disastrous news by the most unexpected channel.

Very little did the Reverend Mr. Melville think that he should ever hear of his recreant daughter by the police reports of the London Morning Post. Yet this was the paragraph that met his eyes, about a fortnight after the disappearance of his child :

U TTERING COUNTERFEIT NOTES— SOPHIA MELville, the daughter of a curate at Santon-on-Serle, was yesterday morning committed to Newgate gaol, on the charge of passing counterfeit notes on the Bank of England,

The curate stared at this paragraph as if he would have stared it out of print and through the paper.

“‘Sophia Melville,’” he groaned. “Then she is not even married after all ! ‘ Charged with passing counterfeit notes ? ’ Then that villain was all and more than we had heard of him, and she is his victim I A more innocent and complete victim never before was sacrificed to an infernal scoundrel. I must go to London immediately.” , The curate called his eldest son, a discreet lad of eighteen, and to him he said :

“ Your sister is in deep trouble. I am going to London. Do not let your mother see a newspaper or a visitor until my return. Do not let her know why I go; Be very careful. I trust all to you.”

The son promised all the father required, and the curate left for London the same day, having given his wife only the general explanation of “ business.”

The first visitor that came to the cottage that afternoon was Joseph Grainger.

“ Where is his reverence ? ” he inquired of the son.

“ Gone to London on sudden business.”

“ Oh, he has ! All right ! I am going, too,” said Joseph.

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Chapter II. A Fatal Flight

She listened to a traitor's tale.— Scott,

He — glad

Of her attention, gained with serpent tongue —

His fraudulent temptation thus begun. — Milton.

B y what arts the fascinating stranger had dazzled the fancy, inflamed the imagination, and won the confidence of the simple village maiden, it would be unprofitable here to inquire.

It is enough to say, that during their interview down by the brook, he persuaded her that the best thing she could do for him, for herself, and for her poor family, would be to fly with him to London, and there change her name from simple Sophie Melville to the Honorable Mrs. De Courcey.

So sure had De Courcey felt of gaining her consent to his proposal, that he had a post-chaise already in waiting at the end of the lane.

She suffered him to put her into it and commence the first stage of their journey to London — ^her heart, sometimes depressed with humiliation and grief at the thought of the manner in which she had left her friends; and sometimes elated with pride and joy in the anticipation of future grandeur and prosperity for herself and for them.

They stopped at the “ Red Bull,” distant twelve miles from Santon, to change horses.

There, finding a farmer’s boy on a mule about to return to his home near the curate’s cottage, Sophie seized the chance to write and send that penitent farewell letter, whose reception by her father we have chronicled in the last chapter.

Changing horses every twelve miles, and travelling all night and the next day, they finally reached London late in the afternoon.

De Courcey procured handsome lodgings in a respectable house at the “West End,” and established his betrothed in them alone, while he engaged for himself a suit of apartments in a fashionable hotel near by.

“ You see, dear love,” he said, in plausible explanation of this arrangement, “ we have to stay over three Sundays in this parish in order to comply with the terms of the law, which requires that the bans shall be published three Sabbaths in succession before a legal marriage can be celebrated.”

“ Yes, I knew that, but had forgotten it and thought we might be married at once. Is there not a way by special license ? ” she inquired, uneasily.

“ For some persons, and under some circumstances ; but not for us. So, my dear girl, we must be very prudent and not see each other too often by day, and never by night, until our marriage. To-day is Saturday. To-morrow, being Sunday, I will have the first bans put up at St. Peter’s, here ; to-morrow week, the second bans ; to-morrow fortnight, the third and last ; immediately after which we may be married.”

“How careful you are of my good name! Even my father would forgive and approve you if he knew all this! ” said Sophie, gratefully.

De Courcey went away to his hotel that evening and | called and took Sophie to church the next morning, where j she, herself, heard her bans read out, and blushed as she listened.

De Courcey went away to his hotel early in the afternoon, and did not return until the next morning.

On Monday, he put in her hands a small business directory and a roll of bank-notes, saying :

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“As I have taken you away from your friends without giving them the opportunity of providing you with a wedding outfit, you must permit me, in the character of your future husband, to supply all these deficiencies of which my impatience has been the cause. Take, then, this business directory as your guide, and this roll of notes, and go to the best shops and provide your dear little self with the best goods.”

Sophie took the book and the money with a blush, half of shame at the thought of accepting anything from her lover until he should become her husband, and half with childish delight in having money to spend in dress.

And how soon, she reflected, she would have money and presents in abundance to send to her impoverished father and mother at home! The thought of enriching them gave her more delight than the thought of elevating herself. To become a lady, with unlimited means at her command, and to make all their fortunes I To have her father preferred to some rich living in the Earl of Allacres’ gift! To purchase a commission in the army for her brother Tom! To send Sam and Will to Oxford! To have Mary and Annie up to live with her in town, to dress them in a handsome style worthy of their rare beauty, and to marry them off to gentlemen of rank and fortune ! To do the same things for her younger sisters as they grew up ! Oh, what a happy future to anticipate !

All these thoughts, suggested by the bank-notes she held in her hands as the first-fruits of her wealth, passed rapidly through her mind as she timidly turned them over.

“Here is more, much more than I need,” she said. “ Here are about one hundred pounds, and I am sure I shall not spend twenty.”

“ I know it, my dear love ! Nor would I advise you to spend much here in Lond^on. For, immediately after our

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marriage, we will proceed to Paris, where you will find everything you can desire in greater abundance and of better quality,” said De Courcey.

“ Then take back all these notes but two tens — that will be enough for me.”

“No. I wish you to change the others for specie. Listen. We are going to the continent where notes will be of no use, and only silver and gold will pass. That is why I want to have the notes changed for specie. Now listen attentively. Every article that you buy, buy at a separate shop and change a note. In this way you will be able to change nearly all that money for gold and silver, as there is no Bank of England note of a denomination less than five pounds. You understand? ”

“ Oh, yes ! quite,” said Sophie, cheerfully.

“I will send you a cab from the next stand, and I advise you to go to Oxford and Regent street. Stop, no I We will walk to the cab-stand.”

Sophie quickly prepared for her drive. He took her to the stand and placed her in a cab, then put in his head and whispered :

“ Bring all your goods home with you.”

“ Yes,” she said, with a nod and a smile, and the cab drove away.

All that morning Sophie shopped in Regent and Oxford streets, changing every note and buying every article at a separate establishment.

She returned to her lodgings, having spent only ten pounds, and bringing back ninety in gold and silver.

“ W ell done ! W e have a little fund to start with,” said her lover, when on his evening visit she gave him the change.

She looked so pleased at his approbation that he continued :

“To-morrow I shall trouble you to make some pur-

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chases for me in the Strand. You must do it on the same principle, so that we may get rid of all our paper and have plenty of silver and gold to take with us. You understand ? ”

“ Oh, yes, I understand, perfectly,” said Sophie, feeling very rich in the community of goods when he talked about ‘‘ our ” paper, and silver, and gold.

But in truth, poor Sophie, with that honest face of hers, which would have won confidence anywhere, understood nothing about the matter, or she would have known that the Honorable Algernon De Courcey could have easily got good “ paper ” changed for specie by any broker or banker ; and sh^ might have suspected that her confiding heart and honest face were being recklessly and cruelly used for the nefarious purposes of an accomplished villain.

On Tuesday, he sent her out to shop and change money in the Strand; on Wednesday, he sent her to St. Paul’s Churchyard — the great locality for cheap goods ; on Thursday, to Fleet street; on Friday, to High Holborn; on Saturday, to Piccadilly.

Saturday evening, counting over the money, he found that she had changed five hundred pounds, in notes of five and ten pounds each, by spending only twenty, and that she had brought back in exchange four hundred and eighty pounds in gold and silver.

What a capital little financier you are ! You have no idea what a grand speculation you have made for us ! ” exclaimed De Courcey, with a peculiar smile. “ But now, my dear, I must say good-evening. It will not do for me to stay too late until the law gives me leave to stay with you forever,” he added playfully as he arose to depart.

Just as he reached the door, he stopped and turned back as if struck by a sudden thought.

“ Oh, by the way, ’’'Tie said, “ you regard an oath religiously, do you not ? ”

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“ Certainly,” she answered. Why do you ask ? ”

“ Because I want you to swear to me that you will never, under any circumstances, tell any one where you got those bank-notes you have changed this week, or mention my name in connection with them.”

“ As if it were probable any one would ever think of asking me ! ” she exclaimed. “ But, of course, if you wish me to keep the transaction a secret, I will do so, though I don’t see the use of it, and do so without taking any oath, either.”

“Ah, but I wish you to take an oath to the effect that you will never betray the secret of where you procured those notes ! Will you do so ? ”

“ Of course I will, since you wish me, though I cannot for the life of me see any use in it.”

“ You will see, in the course of the week, my love ; but, in the meantime, you must trust me.”

“ Of course I trust you, dearest Algernon. If I had not trusted you utterly, do you think I ever would have left home with you ? ”

“ No, certainly not,” he said, with a laugh.

Then he got the Bible and administered an oath which she took in the most solemn manner.

“That will do. Thank you, love. To-morrow I will come to take you to church. That will be the second Sunday for the bans to be published. A week from to-morrow, the third bans, and in the afternoon of the same day we will be married, and on Monday we will leave for the continent. Only one more week of waiting, dear love.”

“ Only one more week,” she echoed, as he raised her hand to his lips and left her.

“ Only one more week,” she thought, when he had gone.

Then she resolved that as soon as ever they should be

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married, and she should have the right to ask him, she would ‘‘ put her pride in her pocket ” and implore him to take her down to Santon, procure her parents’ forgiveness, and do something handsome for the family before leaving England.