The Secret of the Silver Car by Wyndham Martyn (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

“That is very hard to understand, Tony.”

It was the first time she had ever called him by the name her brother used. He took one of her gauntleted hands and kissed it.

“My dear,” he said tenderly, “it is crucifixion for me.”

She looked at him still with the little wistful smile on her face.

“And are you the only one to suffer?”

The knowledge that she cared as much as he did brought a look of misery to his face where only triumph should have reigned.

“Ada Barham told me about the girl in America,” she continued. “Of course I imagined there would be a girl somewhere whom you cared for but I think you might have confided in me. Weren’t we good friends enough for that?”

“There is no girl anywhere,” he said. “I told Miss Barham that because I didn’t want her to suspect it was you.”

“Then why must you go away?” There was almost a wail in her voice.

“I have told you,” he answered, trying desperately to keep his voice even, “I must go because I love you better than anything else in life.”

She laughed a little bitterly.

“And so that is how men behave when they are in lore!”

“When a man really loves a girl he should think first of her happiness.”

She looked at him simply. There was none of the false shame that lesser natures might feel in avowing love.

“Don’t you understand,” she said in a low voice, “that you are my happiness?”

For a moment the devil tempted him even as the Son of Man had been tempted upon a mountain top. Why should he think of the future when today was so sweet? In the big Lion car in the castle garage he could make Southampton in time enough for the White Star liner which went out tomorrow. They could be married on board or at any rate directly they reached America. Then with the money he had saved they could be happy. She was the woman he wanted, the woman he worshipped.

Then the other side of the picture presented itself. He saw them married on board and radiantly happy as they approached the land that was to be her home. Then the hard-faced men who showed official badges and informed him he was wanted for a series of crimes which would keep him away from wife and home and liberty until she was an old woman. One ending to the trip was just as likely as the other. Situated as he was he could never be certain of safety. This period in quiet Cornwall was the first time since he had taken to crime that he had become almost careless. He would break Daphne’s heart for she was of the kind who would never love another man. And the disgrace he would bring upon this kindly family of hers which had suffered enough already. The screeching headlines in the press of the earl’s daughter who married a crook. It was not to be thought of.

“Dear,” he said softly, “if there were any obstacles which could be removed by human effort I should not say goodbye like this. Please don’t ask me to tell you anything more.” .

“You said at Dereham that you felt you could sell your soul for a past. Is that it?”

“That is the irrevocable thing,” he told her.

“Pasts can be lived down,” she whispered.

“Not mine,” he said dismally. “Daphne I have not been here all this time without knowing you and the sort of people from whom you spring. It is because of your tradition of honor that you felt Arthur’s misfortunes so much. I can bring upon you and yours a greater disgrace than he could.”

“I won’t believe it,” she cried.

“I don’t want you to,” he said gratefully. “I remember the thing said about your family, ‘the Grenvils for Loyalty’ and I love you for it, but Lady Polruan was right when she called me an unknown adventurer from America. The other countrymen of mine you meet here, like Conington Warren for instance, have their place at home. I haven’t. I am without the pale. They don’t know me and I can’t know them. There is that great gulf fixed which you can never understand. I want to go away leaving you still my friend. If you ask me questions about myself and I answer them truly I may have to carry away with me the picture of your scorn. Be kind, Daphne and don’t ask any

more.”

“I should never scorn you,” she cried.

He put his arms about her and kissed her.

“My dear,” he whispered, “my sweet, believe always that there is something God himself could not alter or I would never give you up like this.”

“It is very hard,” she said presently, “to have found love and then to know it must only be a little dream that passes.”

“It is my just punishment,” he answered.

“When do you go?”

“Tomorrow.”

She put her arms about his neck and looked him full in the eyes.

“Darling,” she said, “I shall never love anybody but you. Girls always say that, I know, but I have always been a little afraid of love and its exactions and the sorrow it brings. You see I was right in being afraid for directly I find you I must lose you.” She leaned forward, one elbow on her knee, and looked at the countryside spread out at her feet. “I shall probably live here to be an old woman and look after other old women and see they have tea and warm wraps for the bad weather, and give the old men tobacco. That’s all I look forward to. Tony, Tony, why is it one can’t die on the day when one is killed?”

He sat in silence. Bitterly as he regretted his past which had risen to prevent happiness, he regretted his staying here in Cornwall even more. If he alone had suffered it were well enough, part indeed of the punishment he merited. But to have dragged this girl into it and to have made her love a man who could never marry her was the blackest of all. Perhaps she suspected it for she turned to him and put her hand on his.

“Poor Tony,” she said caressingly; “it’s no good blaming yourself. It had to be. I think I’ve always loved you. Before it is too late and you are gone away, are you sure this thing that stands between us cannot be banished or atoned or paid for in money? You know I have a large fortune of my own and it is all yours if you need it. Don’t let any little thing stand between us. Where one loves wholly one can forgive all. I shall not ask you again; but, my dear, if any human agency can give you to me let me know.”

Anthony Trent thought of the view he once had of a great penitentiary in which a man he used to know was serving a life sentence. The prison was set among arid country in sandy plains. Along the top of the stone walls sentries were placed at intervals, men with sawed-off shot guns waiting the opportunity to kill such as sought to escape the dreary days and dreadful nights. His friend made the desperate attempt and died as warders crowded about him and congratulated the guard on his marksmanship. It was this place which might at any moment receive the person of Anthony Trent.

He could not think of the law as a human agency. That was one of the differences between the Anthony Trent, writer and Anthony Trent, crook. The writer regarded the law and its officers with a certain meed of respect but the criminal hated them.

“There is nothing that can help me,” he said.

There was silence for a little; then she rose to her feet and pointed out scarlet coated men in the distance and galloping horses. Arthur’s hounds had lost their fox in Tregenna woods and had found another stout dog fox headed for his earth on the moors.

“We can follow after all,” she said, with an attempt to be cheerful.

They kissed silently and then remounted the impatient hunters. By devious ways they joined the field again. The moorland was a dangerous country to ride. Great stone walls divided small fields and there were sunken roads and paths by which, thousands of years before, the Phoenicians had taken their way.

It was observed with what recklessness the American rode.

“He’ll break his neck if he isn’t careful,” said a rosy faced old “hunting parson,” as Trent set his horse at a great granite barrier.

He was not to know that Anthony Trent would have welcomed just such an end.

Lord Rosecarrel who was out with the hounds that day was riding ahead of his daughter when she and her escort joined the field. He was a finely built man and looked exceedingly well in hunting costume. He wore a closely trimmed beard, now almost white, and seemed, so Trent thought more than his sixty-five years. It was a fine, sensitive face, and the earl had all his days until this strange retirement mixed with the great of the earth and taken part in the councils of nations. This mystery connected with his withdrawal from public affairs intrigued the American. He believed Daphne knew. He was wondering what it was when the earl reined in his horse.

“I am told you leave no later than tomorrow, Mr. Trent, I hope you will dine with us tonight.”

Anthony Trent hesitated a moment before answering.

“Thank you,” he said, “I should like to.”

He knew it would only reopen old wounds but the temptation to see Daphne again was not to be resisted.

It would have been a dull dinner but for the earl. Whether or not he saw Daphne’s depression, the disappointment of his son and the disinclination of the visitor to talk, he was entertaining and witty. He asked a number of questions about the United States where his son and heir was. While he played billiards with Arthur, Trent and the girl watched them. In truth they paid little attention to the scores or strokes.

It was not easy to get back to the intimacy of the morning. There was a certain reserve in the girl’s manner, and a look of sadness that immeasurably distressed Trent.

“Ours is a tragic family,” she said, when he tried to bring her to a brighter mood. “We used to be so happy. My mother was wonderful. She is gone, my two brothers are dead, St. Just is away and my father simply pining away of a dreadful thing that wasn’t his fault.”

“I wish you would tell me what it is,” he said.

“Impossible,” she said decisively. “It poisons his whole life.”

“It was Arthur’s fault, wasn’t it?” he demanded.

“What makes you say that?” she returned.

“I know it,” he said emphatically, “and whatever he did can be undone and if it’s humanly possible I can do it. Is someone blackmailing him?”

He could see she was startled. He must have hit on something not far removed from the truth.

“Not that,” she said, looking at where her father was standing apprehensively. “And I’m sure you could do nothing.”

“I can try,” he said earnestly. “Listen to me,Daphne. I feel that there is nothing in life for me but the memory of you. I want more than anything else to do something for you to prove my love. I have nothing in all life to lose. I have no relations, no friends to speak of. My life has been made up of,”