The Photo-Play Journal (Jul 1919-Feb 1921)

July, 19 19 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 41 He certain personal possessions of Trevor and his father — likewise stolen — constituted the visible and tangible proof to back Lester's claim, although, in his own words, they were inconsequential in themselves and were designed to serve only as incidental aids to the main modus operandi of the conspiracy, which was to consist of the practical application of the law of suggestion verging on hypnotism. At this point of his narrative, Lester averred himself to be a serious student of psychology. He also declared that he had believed the late master of the Black House to be insane, and Trevor incipiently so. By subtle and adroit suggestion he had hoped to gain control of Trevor, body and soul — when the rest would have been easy. He solemnly vowed he had taken absolutely no part in the murder of Trevor's father, and that his ally, Mack, had committed the crime without his knowledge — which was a rather suspicious statement in view of the fact that the removing of Tremaine was the first necessary step towards the consummation of his plans. He disposed of Madame LePage briefly by saying that she was a good friend of his, whose wit and stealth he thought he could utilize at the Black House; in other words, he had employed her as a spy. Trevor threw the confession on the table and rose to his feet. "It tells me nothing — because it is silent about you and me.' gazed at her frowningly. "Why didn't you let him speak out . "Why — he had nothing more to say." "Have you anything more to say — ?" "Only . . . that I love you." He made an impatient gesture. "Always mystery — mystery within mystery ! Tonight, somehow, the weight presses on me more than usual — more heavily than I can bear. You are the mystery supreme. Then there are lesser things needing explanation. Why did I almost dislike my father? Why did he almost hate me? For several days the thought of him has possessed me — obsessed me — haunted me like a phantom. Sometimes I feel . . . God! If I only knew what I do feel ... !" He paced up and down the room, then halted directly in front of her. "Anne !" he cried feverishly. "Come — we'll go — " "Where?" "To my father's study. I haven't been in there since his death. Maybe the surroundings — the pictures he looked at — the books he read — the atmosphere of the place — will help me to solve some of these awful riddles. Will you come with me — ?" "Don't go, Guy ... It must be a melancholy room. Let us be happy in what we have accomplished. Paul Lester has been driven from the Black House and out of your life forever — " "That is nothing," he interrupted, passionately, "compared to what must remain in my life forever — the bitter and poisonous knowledge of your parentage — " "But, Guy — I — I lied. Don't you remember? There's not a drop of Tremaine blood in my body. I — " "Don't, don't . . . Will you go to my father's study with me?" Why do you want me to go?" His eyes grew mystical ; he was the wasteland dreamer again. "There's something waiting in there for me — a secret — or the secret's telling — a mystery — or the mystery's solution — I don't know . . . I'm only wondering ..." He looked at her with a start, as though suddenly aware of her presence. "Come, Anne. Will you see me through it — ?" The portent of his query chilled her. The hand seemed beckoning them again. Helpless, she let him lead her across the hall to the dead man's study. Trevor tried the knob. It yielded. The heavy door swung open. On the threshold Anne hesitated, trembled, recoiled. But Trevor — almost roughly — drew her inside. The door closed softly behind them. The room was dim rather than dark. A pool of bluish-white moonlight lay on the floor, the rays shining through a high diamondpaned window. An easel near a great glowering fireplace could be discerned in the gloom. From the walls shadowy, wraith-like faces gazed down wearily, framed in dull gold — the line of dead Tremaines. There were many books, souvenirs of travel in unfrequented corners of the earth, statuettes, trophies of the chase, Chinese vases, an exquisite silvered Japanese screen — all weirdly vague in the semidarkness. "Do you feel it . . . ?" whispered Trevor. "What—?" "The brooding soul of my father ..." His fingers on her arm stiffened suddenly. "Did you see that — ?" He gave a sigh of relief. "Ah, it was only that tapestry — but where did the current of air come from?" "Maybe one of the windows is open — " "See, it moves again — as though someone were behind it — " She laughed reassuringly. "Your imagination is at work — " "Possibly — possibly not ..." He turned towards her and gazed at her searchingly, but the darkness veiled her eyes. "Come," he said abruptly, "come into the moonlight. I must look at you — " She went with him to the slanting radiance. A moonbeam fell athwart her face, lighting her already brilliant eyes with a seductive glitter. With his two hands he held her cheeks while he gazed at her eagerly, feverishly. "Now," he said, "you must tell me all — the truth — all of it — nothing but it — about your past — that cursed chasm between us. You must, do you hear? I can wait no longer, not a day, an hour, a minute. Begin. Tell me." She did not demur. She did not even hesitate. She knew that the inevitable moment had arrived. So with the invasive moonlight flooding her, and with his eyes burning into her heart, she summoned her shrinking soul, and then, in desperate monotone, began telling him those ultimate falsehoods, those affectionate, magnanimous lies that were designed to save him — and in saving him to crush and dishonor herself. "Guy," she said, "you remember Lester told you I was a foundling— and I admitted it was true ? Well, it wasn't. I — " "Wait !" was the electric interruption in a strange, strong voice coming from the tapestry. "Now is the time for the truth!" A tall, vague figure emerged from behind the quivering fabric and approached. It was Simkin. In the moonlight his face looked singularly serene and noble. He had never seemed less the servant, so much the master. Anne, speechless, could only gaze at him — wondering, doubting, believing — gropingly solving at last the dominating mystery of his personality. Her lips moved — mutely. The voice of her heart cried out to him not to speak the words that were ready to fall from his lips ; and yet she yearned for him with a magical new tenderness. Trembling, shrinking, she glanced from one man to the other — lost in the miracle of it, waiting the tremendous issue with hope matched only by dread. Trevor stood motionless with set white face, his intuitive sense telling him that out of the chaos of his life a new world was about to be born. He waited — as men wait for death, for life. "It devolves upon me to tell you the truth," said Simkin quietly to Trevor. "Two lives were about to be wrecked. Your wife, in her love for you, was about to sacrifice herself — but in sacrificing herself she would have sacrificed you more ..." "Go on ... " He glanced swiftly at Anne, then began. "Your wife was a foundling. Her mother was drowned in a shipwreck. Her father was rescued — but only after a severe injury to his head, which made his memory a blank for years. The child, a mere babe, had a brother only a few years older than herself. They were taken from the wreckage by an eccentric fisherman, who reared them in his lonely little cottage by the sea. He had two children of his own — boys — about the age of the foundling. He was a widower. He had adored his wife — a gentlewoman, who had been attracted by his romantically handsome face and who married him against the express commands of her family — and her untimely death undoubtedly affected his mind to a certain extent." Simkin paused, touched by Anne's agitation. With pale face and ashen lips, she was the Gray Woman again, the woman of the wasteland. Trevor, looking at her, saw in her eyes the reflected truth of Simkin's words. Once more he begged the latter to continue. "The fisherman, as I have said, had two boys. One of them looked like his dead mother, a lady who married beneath her. This son the fisherman worshiped. The other he treated with indifference. You, Mr. Trevor, were the son who resembled his mother. The other son was — Paid Lester." Trevor, wild-eyed, staggered back a step. Anne, still trembling, put her arm around him. His head fell upon his breast. Then suddenly he straightened, and with a muttered curse, raised his clenched fists over Simkin's head. "You . . . ! How do you know this? Is it the truth — ?" "Listen," answered Simkin, gently, "I have taken from you a father you never loved, a name you do not even now bear, and have given you instead — your wife." In the marvelous realization of it Trevor's arms fell. His eyes kindled. He cried out in his joy. Then he turned to the beautiful woman beside him. "Anne!" he cried, folding her in his arms. "My darling! Mine forevermore !" "Listen," continued Simkin. "One day, years after the shipwreck, the father of the two foundlings, Mr. Tremaine, visited the fisherman in search of his children, the boy and the girl. The fisherman was on his deathbed. Three children were with him — the two foundlings, and you, Mr. Trevor, the boy who resembled his patrician mother, and whom his dying father loved with a devotion that was feverish and half-mad. The fisherman's other son, tiring of his father's neglect, had run away, young as he was." . He paused again. His listeners, hanging on his words, entreated him to go on. His tones were becoming a trifle husky. "The dying fisherman lied. He gave his own son — the boy who looked like his mother — to Air. Tremaine, at the same time telling him that his daughter had perished in the shipwreck. His paternal love, grown wholly mad now, could not brook the thought of the boy sharing the Tremaine riches and social position with another, even though