SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS
Maxwell Fair, an Englishman who has amassed a colossal fortune on ’Change, inherits from his ancestors a remarkable tendency to devote his life to some object, generally a worthy, if peculiar one, which is extravagantly chivalrous. The story opens with Fair and Mrs. Fair standing over the body of a man who has just been shot in their house—a foreigner, who had claimed to be an old friend of Mrs. Fair. Fair sends her to her room, saying: “Leave everything to me.” He hides the body in a chest, and decides to close the house “for a trip on the Continent.” Fair tells the governess, Kate Mettleby, that he loves her; that there is no dishonor in his love, in spite of Mrs. Fair’s existence, and that, until an hour ago, he thought he could marry her—could “break the self-imposed conditions of his weird life-purpose.” They are interrupted before Kate, who really loves him, is made to understand. While the Fairs are entertaining a few old friends at dinner, Kate, not knowing that it contains Mrs. Fair’s blood-stained dress, is about to hide a parcel in the chest when she is startled by the entrance of Samuel Ferret, a detective from Scotland Yard. He tells her that he, with other detectives, is shadowing the foreign gentleman who came to the Fair house that day and has not yet left it. He persuades Kate to promise that she will follow the suspect when he leaves the house and then report at Scotland Yard. As soon as Ferret is gone she lifts the lid off the chest, drops the package into it, and, with a shriek, falls fainting to the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Fair run to her aid. On being revived Kate goes to Scotland Yard, where, in her anxiety to shield Maxwell Fair from suspicion, she inadvertently leads the detectives to think that a crime has been committed at the Fair house. The two detectives are piecing together the real facts from the clues she has given, when Ferret is summoned to the telephone by his associate, Wilson, whom he had left on guard in the home of the Fairs. Fair tells Sir Nelson Poynter, at the latter’s country place, that he has committed some crime, and explains that Mrs. Fair is not his wife—that a Cuban scoundrel had married her, already having a wife, and deserted her, and that he, Fair, had brought her and her children to England, giving her his name before the world, yet being her husband in name only. Sir Nelson and Fair’s other friends, Allyne and Travers, begin to suspect his sanity.
“BUT what is the ridiculous idea that has turned your head? What sort of idiotic crime would you ask us to believe that you have committed? Come, sir, out with it—what’s the charge against this villainous man?” asked Sir Nelson, with equal certainty and confidence.
“Only a trifle,” answered Fair. “Just a quiet little—murder!”
“That settles it,” shouted the good old fellow, thumping his knee with his clenched fist. “That settles it, sir. Sir Porter will have you in a straitjacket before night. Murder, eh? You burglar, forger, pirate—you!”
Fair waited until Sir Nelson had had his laugh, and then said with irritating persistency: “Quite another sort of jacket, I think, sir.”
“We’ll see, we’ll see,” retorted Sir Nelson, and then, abruptly changing the subject and his own expression, “but, I say, Fair, why have you never married Janet? She was, of course, free?”
“I don’t wonder at the question,” Fair replied, relieved at the change. “That of course was the first question which presented itself to my mind. But by the time that Janet came back into my life the old love had passed away—or perhaps I should put it another way—the love I now found myself bearing for her was of a different sort. I am a Fair, you know, Sir Nelson, and destiny demanded that the passion of my life be not like those of ordinary men. So Janet seemed to come to me not as a woman whom I might think of as a wife, but as a holy, consecrated, crucifying Idea which fate had destined should be the ‘Fair Folly’ of this generation. I think you know that each generation in our family has had its ‘folly.’”
“Yes,” answered Sir Nelson, shaking his head and letting his mind run back to the follies of the two generations of Fairs that he had known. “But your folly, my poor boy, has been so above the world’s standards of rational conduct that it is madness in our earthly eyes—or, perhaps, it is like the ‘foolishness of the saints,’ of which Saint Paul talks. But now, old hero—or madman—for reason’s sake, tell me of this accursed hallucination of yours—this blooming murder, you know. Have you killed the Pope or the Czar of Russia or Napoleon Bonaparte?”
“I appreciate your inability to accept the truth,” replied Fair. “But you must do so when I have told you all. You see, I have murdered so seldom that I was forgetting to tell you the details. Well, Sir Nelson, the rascal whom I——”
He was cut short by the sudden and alarming appearance of Kate Mettleby, who came running upon the terrace in traveling dress and quite out of breath. Both of the men rose and Sir Nelson watched Fair’s face with ill-disguised concern, which rapidly increased as Fair’s usual self-control gave place to evident uncontrollable nervousness and feverish excitement.
“Oh—Mr.—Fair,” gasped Kate, trying to get her breath; “thank God, you are here! I was—afraid—that”——
“Miss Mettleby,” interrupted Fair, advancing to meet her, “I supposed that you were halfway to Paris by this time. What has happened? You look ill.”
“Pardon me, sir,” answered Kate, “but—I’m out of breath—I ran.”
“Do you mind letting me see this young lady alone, Sir Nelson?” asked Fair, noticing that Sir Nelson stood, dazed and troubled, watching them.
“No, no—by all means,” quickly responded the old man eagerly. “I just wanted to see if she would not go in and refresh herself first. Allow me to advise Lady Poynter. The poor girl seems regularly done.”
“Oh, thank you, no, sir,” put in Kate, waving a protest; “I can stop only a moment. I must return to town on the next train, sir.”
“But you really can’t, you know,” said Sir Nelson. “You really must not think of returning without luncheon—it’s about ready, you know. I shall advise Lady Poynter that you are come,” and he hurried off.
“Well?” asked Fair when Kate looked up at him. “Tell me, Kate—and tell me quickly and without hesitation, for nothing can shock me now. So the worst of it—all of it—at once!”
“Where is Mrs. Fair?” Kate asked, with a look which begged piteously that the reply to her question be what she hoped. “She is here? Say that she is here!”
“Here?” cried out Fair, now thoroughly alarmed, a certain suspicion that had been gathering force shaping itself into something like certainty in his mind. “Here. Did she not start for Paris with you and the children? What can you mean?”
Kate struggled with the dreadful fears that were choking her.
“We all left the house together in the carriage and drove to the railway station, but there Mrs. Fair said that she wished to drive to a chemist’s shop, and we were to wait for her speedy return. She went off accordingly, and about twenty minutes later the carriage came back and John fetched this letter from Mrs. Fair to me. Take it and read it—it says that she desired me to take the children to Mrs. Barrington’s, and announced that she would communicate her change of plans to you. Oh, Mr. Fair, what does it all mean? I can bear little more of this suspense!”
“Poor old Janet!” groaned Fair, taking but not reading the letter which Kate handed to him. He walked up and down for a few seconds, then coming back to Kate said: “I see. I see it now. My God, what a woman! Wait here, dear, until I consult Sir Nelson, for we’ve got to act with life for the spur. This is a race, Kate—the maddest ever run!”
“But, Mr. Fair—Maxwell,” complained Kate, “tell me what it all means! I know about—that horror, you know, in the chest. I saw it. But no harm shall come to you, Maxwell, for I told them at Scotland Yard that it was not you—and they told me that they believed me.”
Fair jumped forward and could not believe what he heard, but the triumph on her poor little agonized face showed only too clearly that what she said was true.
“Scotland Yard?” he finally cried out. “Are you mad?” Then with a wild hysterical laugh that chilled her, he added: “So you kindly assured them that I was innocent, did you?”
“Yes,” she answered, failing to note the irony in his laugh, and conscious only of the loftiness of her motive. “Yes, for it would have broken my heart had they even whispered your name. Tell me! tell me! What is it? Whose body is that in the accursed chest? My mind is going—I can bear no more! Maxwell, I love you—I love you!”
“My poor little girl,” he said pityingly, looking down at her; “my Kate! We will talk it all over on our way to town—for I shall go back with you. Only you must be brave now. Remember that what I did with my hand I did not do with my heart, will you? My hand killed him; not my mind nor my will. Believe that, will you not, darling?”
“I will believe neither,” she cried bitterly. “You did not! you did not!”
“Hush!—they will hear you,” warned Fair, adding more gently: “Now wait here and say nothing to anyone. I will return at once—and we will catch the next train for town. Poor, poor Janet—good God, what work!”
He dashed into the house, and Kate sat as if dreaming on the garden seat. After trying to collect her thoughts and to fathom the deepening mystery which was overwhelming her, she suddenly caught sight of the torn letter which Mrs. March had dropped upon the seat. Acting mechanically and scarcely knowing what she was doing or that she was doing anything at all, she glanced at the piece of the letter which she had chanced to pick up—and at once her mind was awake. There was a name—a name and an address that startled her by their seeming incomprehensible coincidence with her thoughts at the moment. Hearing voices approaching before she had fully taken in the meaning of this new bit of perplexing tangle, she thrust the scrap of paper into her pocket. The next instant she saw Fair coming out of the door, carrying his portmanteau. At his side was Mrs. March.
“I am so sorry,” Mrs. March was saying as they came up to her. “You have your bag—which means that you are not waiting for luncheon. Must you really rush off in this way? I wanted to speak to you ever so much.”
“Yes,” Fair replied, putting down the bag and consulting a time-table; “awfully sorry, but I have just heard that Mrs. Fair was unable to proceed to Paris this morning, and, of course, I shall be very anxious until I see her and learn the cause. I think you have met Miss Mettleby, Mrs. March?”
“Oh, how do you do?” smiled Mrs. March, giving Kate a warm hand grasp.
“Good morning, Mrs. March,” responded Kate, and then to Fair: “I think, if you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go along through the park by myself. We have some time, I think, before the train is due. Good morning.”
“Do,” urged Fair, and when Kate had disappeared he turned to Mrs. March not very cheerfully: “You wished to confess something or other to me? Do, if you love me, make it something uproariously funny—or else choose another father confessor. I’m a bit edgy this morning, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will think it the merriest news,” replied Mrs. March, with beaming good nature. “Maxwell—I’m married!”
Fair looked at her, stupefied. One expression followed another on his face, and then, when he had secured his usual genial expression, he said: “Not really? Well, all I can say is—one man is happy. But explain.”
“Wasn’t it just like me to slip over to Brussels and be married quietly? You know I hate the regulation fuss. And heaven has given me the love of a man whom I am sure you will love and respect when you know him. All heart and soul and honor—a knight and a poet.”
“Believe me, my dear friend,” answered Fair, “I wish you all the happiness that your good heart deserves. When may we congratulate you in a public manner? And what are we to call you henceforth?”
“It will seem strange to call me by my new name, won’t it—and a foreign name, too? My husband’s name is Don Pablo Mendes, formerly of Santiago de Cuba,” said Mrs. March, with a flush of happiness which blanched out and became the pallor of horror as she saw the effect on Fair.
He dropped the portmanteau, which he had picked up, stared as if stunned for a moment, and then with a tremendous effort to spare the wretched woman as long as possible, he said huskily: “I beg your pardon—the fact is, I am far from well—Good-bye!”
“I’m so sorry,” returned Mrs. March, satisfied that his singular conduct was really the result of a bad turn. “But tell me before you go, Maxwell—do you know my dear Spanish boy?”
“I can’t say that I do,” he stammered; “but really I shall miss my train—good-bye,” and before she could ask him anything more he was striding across the park.
“What strange behavior!” she said to herself as she watched him. “Maxwell of all men, too! The mirror of good form—and the one man who never fails to say the right thing at the right time. Ah, here he comes back to make the proper amends. Back so soon?” she asked as Fair rejoined her with his hat in his hand. “Forget something—or did you, like a good fellow, come back to say just one kind word?”
“Mrs. March,” he began, speaking with strange dignity and pain. “I have come back to implore your pardon. I lied to you. We shall never see each other again, and it was dastardly in me to try to shield myself from the horrible duty which as one of your oldest friends I owe you—the last thing, also, that I can ever do for you. You are a true woman and a great soul. Be great enough to face what I have now to tell you. I do know Pablo Mendes—and if you have not told any of your friends about your unspeakably deplorable marriage, for God’s sake do not tell them. You will understand why I say this, and bless me for saying it soon—you will thank me until your dying day. Your secret is, of course, sacred with me. Mrs. March, brace yourself now—life is a battle for us all—and victory is not for them that fight, but for them that bear—so hear me. You will never see your husband again. Give me your hand—so—are you ill? Courage now for a moment. Mendes is dead. I—Somebody, in there! Quick! Mrs. March has fainted!”
Not waiting to help carry her in, he bade Baggs tell Mr. Allyne and Mr. Travers to join him in town at once, and seeing that servants were already gone to fetch Lady Poynter, he sped along the avenue to overtake Miss Mettleby, whose skirts he saw through the shrubbery at some distance from the terrace. In ten minutes they were aboard the train.