Chapter XVI: Bride and Lover

Owen and Dick, on their arrival after the night journey from Trondhjem, idled about the Grand Hotel and took a stroll up the broad Karl-Johans-Gaden, smoking and inspecting the shops.

The young doctor did not fail to notice that, with Thyra’s departure, Dick’s manner had entirely changed. He had now become listless and careless, and once or twice had remarked, with a deep sigh, upon the tragedy of the girl’s union with the young Russian.

The life and movement of the capital was pleasant enough after their long sojourn in the silent north, yet both men were now anxious to get back to London.

As Dick strolled at his friend’s side up the principal street his mind was full of Thyra, and of apprehensions regarding her future. His blood boiled when he realised the full consequence of her marriage to Paul Grinevitch. That she should have married that man—of all others!

Through his brain surged a thousand bitter thoughts. The past arose before him, hideous as a bad dream. He saw nothing of the scene before him. His thoughts were far away in the south—away in another land. The face of another woman—one almost as fair as Thyra—arose before him—the woman who had loved the Russian better than her own life.

He bit his lip, and tried to brace himself up. Beneath his breath he uttered a fierce imprecation.

“What’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Owen. And only then Dick realised that he was making a fool of himself before his friend.

They lunched together in the big restaurant of the hotel, and, soon afterwards, Dick, with a somewhat lame excuse that he wanted a little exercise—for they had not been able to get any during the past month or so—put on his overcoat and went out.

Owen, not in walking mood, preferred to lounge about with a new Tauchnitz he had bought earlier in the morning.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Jervoise said as he left the hotel, and then, passing up the street for some distance, he took from his pocket the plan of the city which he had torn from his Baedeker, and, having studied it for a few moments, continued his walk right up to the royal palace, situate, as it is, on an eminence, in the centre of a pretty park. Then, taking the road through the royal grounds to the right, he emerged into the suburb of Homansby.

Walking some distance, he found himself in a small, rather secluded square, the name of which he noted upon it, and there he halted, lit a cigarette, and waited in expectation.

His countenance was pale, and his eager apprehension was apparent. Not a soul was to be seen in the vicinity, therefore the spot was eminently adapted as a place of rendezvous. A full quarter of an hour he waited, until at last around the corner came a smart, slim, female figure in furs—that of Thyra, the newly-wedded bride.

He raised his hat as he advanced, while her sweet countenance lit in a glad smile of welcome.

“I—I’m so glad you were able to get away,” he exclaimed quickly. “Where can we go, so that we may talk? I have something very important to say to you.”

“It is very wrong of me to have done this, Mr. Jervoise,” she said. “I was compelled to tell my husband an untruth—that I was going to visit an old schoolfellow.”

“You can go to see her afterwards,” laughed the Englishman. “Shall we go back into the park? We shall not be disturbed there.”

“As you wish,” was her reply, and, strolling at her side, they turned and retraced their steps along the Holbergs-Gade into the well-wooded royal demesne which nowadays is thrown open to the public.

“Doctor Odd does not suspect that you are meeting me, I hope?” she asked apprehensively.

“Certainly not. Our meeting must be kept a most profound secret—at all costs, and for several reasons.”

“I, on my part, shall never admit having seen you,” she smiled.

“Nor I. You may depend upon that.”

“But if you wished to speak to me, Mr. Jervoise, why didn’t you do so when we were on board the _Mercur_?” she asked, puzzled.

“There were reasons why I could not,” he said, rather evasively. And as they walked on in silence he glanced at her face, and could not help remarking her striking beauty. She, the sweet, pale-faced, innocent Thyra, was the victim of that man who was now her husband!

The very thought caused his nails to press themselves deeply into his palms.

At last, after entering the park and traversing one of the byways, they found a seat away from the more frequented paths. Then, when they were seated side by side, he turned to her, and, looking very seriously into her face, he said:

“Madame Grinevitch—for I suppose I must now call you by that name——”

“No,” she said; “Thyra to you, Mr. Jervoise—always Thyra,” and she smiled.

“Very well, then,” he said, “I will continue to call you Thyra. I first want you to forgive me for daring to presume to speak to you upon a subject which is—well, very painful to me.”

She stared at the Englishman in wonder. She did not follow his meaning.

“I—I think it was ill-advised for me to have met you,” she said, stirring uneasily. “What would Paul say if he knew?”

“Paul will never know—nobody must ever know. Understand that!” he cried. “I have my own honour, my own safety, at stake—as well as yours.”

“Your safety!” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if the secret of this meeting were ever betrayed, it might prove disastrous for us both. You do not know Paul Grinevitch as well as I do.”

“You surely do not insinuate anything against my husband!” she exclaimed, looking straight at him.

“I—oh, no!—well, I mean this,” he stammered. “But of course, it would not be my place to make any remark. Paul Grinevitch is your husband, after all.”

“Yes,” she said, and in a slow, distinct voice she added, “And I love him.”

Dick Jervoise drew a deep breath. He wanted to speak to her, but could not find a way. He realised that in asking her to that secret rendezvous he was only making a fool of himself.

“‘Love is blind’ is an old and true saying, Thyra,” he remarked.

“And you think I am blind—eh?” she asked quickly.

“Certainly not—except towards myself.”

“How?”

“You do not realise that in asking you to meet me here—for the last time—that I wish to act sincerely in your interests, but—but, unfortunately, am debarred from so doing.”

“Please explain further,” she urged with a slight frown of thoughtfulness.

“I intended to speak to you, but—well, Thyra, I—I haven’t the courage! You are married now. Therefore it is, alas! too late.”

He was longing to warn her against the man whose wife she had become, but she, unfortunately, misunderstood his words. She believed that his intention had been a declaration of love.

“Yes, Mr. Jervoise,” she said with a slight sigh. “It is, as you say, too late. I am already Paul’s wife.”

“Ah, that is the cruel tragedy of it all!” he cried, starting up suddenly. “If—if I only dared to tell you the truth—to speak openly. But I see that I was wrong in asking you here, in attempting to tell you the truth. If I did, you would never believe me.”

“I think, Mr. Jervoise, it would be better if I left you,” she said quietly. “This interview is as painful to me as to you.”

“Thyra!” he said. “You are in ignorance of the tragedy that lies before you—ignorant of the past of Paul Grinevitch. If you but knew, you would hate him with as deep and fierce a hatred as I do!”

In an instant her cheeks flushed crimson with anger.

“How dare you ask me here in order to make vague allegations against my husband!” she demanded resentfully.

“I want to tell you the truth, but you will not allow me,” he answered quickly. “Ah! do not misunderstand me, Thyra. I am acting in your interests, because, even though you are now married to this man, I—I still hold you in sincerest regard. If—if I cannot be your husband—I can at least stand your friend!” he blurted forth.

“My husband should be my best friend,” she said, her eyes downcast, for she saw in this speech of the Englishman’s a covert declaration of love.

“Your husband!” he cried. “Go to him, and ask him if he knows poor Helene Marquet.”

She turned and faced him with a strange look in her wide-open eyes. For a moment she held her breath in surprise.

“What is it—what do you really allege against Paul?”

“I allege,” he said, “that he is not what he represents himself to you to be. I have tried to remain silent, Thyra, for your sake. But I cannot any longer. I know that I ought to have spoken before, but—well, I did not wish to destroy your confidence in that man, lest you should think that I did it for my own personal ends and in order that I might take his place in your heart. But now it can no longer be alleged that I have any ulterior motive, except to warn you against him; I have met you here to speak with you and place you upon your guard.”

She was silent. His words had confused her. What could he mean?

“Tell me, Mr. Jervoise,” she asked in a hard strained voice, “who is this woman Marquet?”

“Ask him,” was Dick’s response. “Go back to him, and tell him that you know a friend of Helene Marquet’s, and that this friend has told Nicholas Bourtzeff of his whereabouts. Then watch the effect of your words upon him.”

“And this on the first day of my marriage!”

“Better to-day than later—when you are numbered among his victims,” was Dick’s earnest reply. “Only I beg of you to regard the source of your information as a secret one.”

“Then you fear Paul?”

“Fear him!” cried Dick in furious anger. “I do not fear him! He fears me, rather. I hate him, and if ever we meet again I—I’ll crush the life from him with as little compunction as I’d kill a viper!”

“You would kill Paul?” she gasped.

“It would only be what he richly deserves—and, alas! Thyra, you will agree with me some day—when you know the truth!”

The girl was silent. What the Englishman had told her caused her to reflect deeply. Could it really be true that Paul—her Paul—her husband—was only an adventurer after all?

No. It could not be. She refused to believe. What proof had she against him? She was his wife, and it was not just to him that she should listen to such calumny.

Who was Helene Marquet? At least she would know that, and would demand a reply from his own lips. Oh! why, she thought, had not the Englishman told her this before her marriage, instead of waiting until it was too late?

No word was spoken between the pair for a full five minutes. Then, suddenly stirring herself, she said, rising from her seat:

“I wish to go, Mr. Jervoise.”

“Why so quickly?”

“I have got my girl friend to call upon, in order to justify my absence.”

“Ah! You fear your husband,” he remarked bitterly. “But it will not be for long, I venture to think.”

She noticed the strangeness of his manners, and wondered.

Then she bowed, her eyes filled with tears, and refusing to remain longer with him wished him adieu, and hurrying away down the path was quickly lost to sight.

A few minutes later Dick, with his pale drawn face hard set, turned upon his heel and walked in the opposite direction.

“At any rate,” he muttered between his teeth, “I’ve told her the truth and unmasked the scoundrel!”

And he strode along, not knowing whither his footsteps led him.

About three hours later he returned to the hotel, distrait and thoughtful, and slowly dressed for dinner. The latter was not by any means a cheerful meal, and Owen noticed how gloomy his friend had become.

In order to liven him up a little he suggested a music-hall, and not until midnight did they return to the Grand.

About half-past twelve, just as they were leaving the big, noisy cafe which occupied the ground floor of their hotel, to ascend to their rooms, a page-boy approached them asking for Mr. Jervoise, and saying that a gentleman was in the bureau desiring to see him instantly.

Filled with curiosity as to who his visitor might be at that hour, Dick found a tall, thin-faced, elderly man, who, speaking in fairly good English, said:

“I have been sent, sir, by Madame Grinevitch, at the Hotel Victoria. Would you kindly go to her at once.—She is in greatest distress, poor young lady!”

“Distress at what?” he gasped, his face in an instant pale as death.

“Ah! then you have not heard—you have not read the newspaper this evening?” said the man. “You are unaware of the mysterious occurrence. Madame’s husband is dead!”

“Dead!” the two gasped in one breath, staring at each other.

Dick’s face was blanched to the lips. Owen noted how his hands were trembling, and how his eyes seemed starting from his head.

“Ah, gentlemen!” exclaimed the thin man who stood before them holding up his hands. “It is indeed a most annoying matter for our hotel, and calculated to greatly injure us. Poor little Madame! She has been out alone all the afternoon, and returning a little after six found her newly-wedded husband lying dead upon the floor of their sitting-room—_murdered_!”