The master criminal

by G. Sidney Paternoster

London seemed empty to Guy with their departure. He had made it his business in life to meet Meriel, and latterly not a day had passed without his seeing something of her. If he had not met her with Mrs. Marven at Raneleigh or Hurlingham or in the Park, he had been certain to run against Captain Marven in the club, and he had never refused the Captain's invitation to walk home with him for a cup of tea. At the opera, at dances, there had always been the chance of meeting the girl again, and chance had rarely proved unkind.

But he was not at all easy in his mind. The thought that he had been accepting the hospitality and the friendship of the man whom he had robbed of his trust, the man whose hand was given him in honest friendship, ever haunted him. Yet the desire to be with Meriel at all hazards overpowered his scruples. He made excuses for himself at first, and, when he perceived that he was trying to cheat himself, the half-formed resolution arose in his mind to so order his life in future as to square it with Meriel's ideals. He realised that it would not be difficult for him to do so, that a life of conventional morality meant a life of ease, as compared with an existence ordered on the lines of Hora's criminal philosophy. He told himself that his father would appreciate his motives, and, though he might sneer at his decision, yet would accept it. He even persuaded himself that the Commandatore must have intended to suggest that he should break away from the old life when he had persuaded him to take chambers of his own. Yet, though he thus argued with himself, he did not go to Westminster Mansions.

There was another reason for remaining away. The last sentence in the note which Cornelius Jessel had brought him and which had resulted in the immediate establishment of the shadow now under his own roof, had suggested a new idea to him.

"Myra is crying her eyes out at your absence," the Commandatore had written, and the written words had made him think of Myra in a new light. Myra was not his sister. Sisters did not cry their eyes out at their brothers' absence. Could it be that she cared for him in anything but sisterly fashion? The train of thought once started made him reflect. He could see now that Myra's demeanour had been different to him in a hundred little particulars during the past few months. The frank sisterly attitude of her early years had been replaced by something entirely different. When they had been boy and girl together she had been free as the day with him. A girl of moods, subject to hurtling gusts of passion which would pass as swiftly as they came, she had been prone to quarrel with him on the slightest pretext, and as easily to forget the cause of her grievance. But of late—for quite a year past—the attitude of the woman had materially altered from that of the girl. Guy remembered, when he came to reflect, that he had quite ceased to be the objective of any of her explosions of passion, that she had been almost humbly solicitous of his welfare, his comfort, his safety. He remembered her distress when Hora had broached the question of his residing in chambers, her troubled demeanour when any new adventure was projected. He had thought little of these things at the time, but in the clearer vision which was vouchsafed to him through the medium of his own feeling towards Meriel, he began to suspect something of the truth. He had never thought of Myra in the light of anything but a sister. Hardly that even, for Hora had not left him in ignorance of her parentage, and of later years his thought of her had been rather as of a good comrade, trained like himself to wage war with the world. But if she should have learned to care for him, as he had learned to care for Meriel! No, that would be impossible. He put the thought from him. But it recurred. It was the second good reason which kept him away from Westminster Mansions.

He was glad when his week of solitude was over, for a London which did not contain Meriel was an absolute wilderness, peopled only with meaningless shadows. The week had seemed a month, more, a year. But it passed, and the day dawned at last which was to bring them together again under the same roof. The mere contemplation of sleeping beneath the same roof set Guy's blood tingling in his veins. He awoke gay and bright. For a while he would put away all harassing thoughts of the future, and drink of the cup of happiness held to his lips.

Even as he lifted the cup, Hora, though absent, dropped a leaf of rue therein which destroyed its sweetness.

Amongst his letters that morning was one from the Commandatore. "You have not been to see us," he wrote, "and Myra is almost in despair. I tell her that youth has its distractions which momentarily make one forgetful of old ties and obligations. She seems to have some sort of fancy that a feminine distraction may be the explanation of your long absence, and is jealous of the unknown, an unphilosophic attitude of mind with which the mere male cannot possibly cope. She cannot be made to understand that pleasure is evanescent, and that satiety is avant courier to philosophy. I am not surprised that you find your hands full; indeed, I am glad to think that you must be acquiring a rich store of information which will be of the greatest service in our future operations. En passant, if you see anything of mine old enemy, do your best to cultivate the acquaintance. I have a scheme in my mind which I think may enable me to pay my debt in full. But more of that when we meet. I am in no hurry. Revenge is so sweet a morsel that one rolls it on the tongue, instead of bolting it whole, so I'll tell you about my idea when we return to town, for I am going to take Myra away for a few days. She seems a little pale, and sea breezes with companionship (of the other sex) is almost invariably a specific for a sentimental malady. We go to Scarborough to-day, but we shall be back in a fortnight. Let us see you immediately we return."

When Guy laid down the letter the sparkle had gone out of the cup of his enjoyment. He did not conceive that the writer of the letter had been fully conversant with all his plans. He credited Hora with trusting him as fully as he trusted Hora. To imagine that the Commandatore had set a spy upon his movements never entered into his calculations. He had no suspicions that the obsequious Jessel who waited upon him so attentively was other than he seemed. So, in following the dictates of his heart, he felt that he was acting treacherously to his father, while if he were to fulfil his father's desires he would sink unutterably in his own estimation. Between what he considered his duty and his inclination, his mind was in turmoil.

The thought of Meriel expecting him proved the dominant factor in his ultimate decision. While hesitating whether or no to telegraph an excuse for not keeping his appointment, Jessel announced that he was going on with the luggage. At that moment Guy formed the resolution definitely and absolutely that he would have done with the past.

The resolution strengthened on his journey. If Lynton Hora could have known the effect his letter had produced he might have hesitated before he posted it. But he had only suspected some weakening of Guy's enthusiasm, and he had thought that a reminder would be quite sufficient to recall Guy's errant fancy. Perhaps had he not trained Guy, for his own protection, to so honest a conception of loyalty to his friends, the subtle poison of his letter might have produced the effect he had intended. As it happened, the suggestion Hora had desired to convey, that Meriel should be a temporary distraction, to be tossed lightly aside when it suited his purpose, never came home to Guy. The further suggestion, that Myra was waiting and longing for him, did, however, affect him unpleasantly, even though he could truthfully declare that he had never given her reason to imagine that his affection towards her was more than brotherly.