Story of the Month: The Sphinx... Without a Secret

One evening I was sitting at the Café de la Paix, watching the life of Paris, its splendor and its shabbiness, and marveling at those painful scenes that passed before my eyes—some showing poverty, others wonder. And as I sat there I heard a voice calling me. I turned, and there was Lord Murchison before me. We had not met since we were at college together, that is, for nearly ten years, so I was delighted to see him and we shook hands warmly. We had been close friends at Oxford, and I had loved him with a love that knew no bounds, for he was handsome, honorable, and high-spirited. I remember we used to say of him that he would have been a man of excellent character were it not for his truthfulness and candor—though in fact it was for his candor that we admired him. I found him much changed: he seemed anxious and agitated, as though in doubt over some matter. And I felt that this uncertainty could not be of recent date, for Murchison was of the Conservative party and a follower of the House of Lords. So I concluded that there was a woman...

I asked him whether he had married. He answered: "I do not understand women well enough!"
I said: "My dear Gerald, women were made to be loved, not to be understood!"

He answered: "I cannot love where I cannot trust!"
I said: "I believe there is a secret in your life, Gerald—will you not tell it to me?"

He answered: "Let us first go for a drive in a carriage; it is too crowded here. No, I do not want a yellow carriage... any other color; there is a dark green carriage—we shall take that one."

A few minutes later we were heading toward the Madeleine, and I asked him: "Where are we going?" He answered: "Oh, anywhere you like—to the restaurant in the Bois. We shall dine there and you will tell me your news."

I answered: "I would like to hear from you first. Let me in on your secret."
So he took from his pocket a silver-mounted case and handed it to me. I opened it, and inside was a photograph of a woman, tall and slender, with an enigmatic expression and eyes of mysterious gaze; she had let her hair fall over her shoulders and was wrapped in furs.

My companion said: "What do you think of this face? Do you believe its owner to be truthful?" I studied the picture carefully, and it seemed to me that the owner of that face harbored obscure secrets, though I could not judge whether her mystery was wicked or good. Her beauty was molded out of many mysteries—a beauty that does not yield. And that faint smile hovering on the lips was far indeed from innocence and simplicity.

He cried out, his patience exhausted: "What do you say of her?"
I answered him: "She is the Gioconda in somber colors; tell me everything about her."
He answered: "Not now—after dinner." And he went on to talk of other matters.

After dinner the waiter brought us coffee and sweets. I reminded Gerald of his promise, and he rose and paced the room back and forth, then came back and threw himself into a chair and began to tell the following story. He said:

"One evening I was walking down Bond Street at five o'clock. The street was crowded with carriages, but the din had almost subsided a little when a small yellow carriage stopped beside the pavement and caught my attention without my knowing why. And as I was passing it I glimpsed the face whose picture I showed you this evening, and its beauty bewitched me. I spent that night and the following day thinking of it. How many times I went up and down that street searching for that carriage—to no avail. I said to myself: it can have been nothing but a dream. A week later I was dining at Madame de Rastail's. Dinner was at eight, but we remained until half past eight waiting in the drawing room. At last the maid opened the door and announced the arrival of Lady Alroy. I looked, and there I was, face to face with my lady of the yellow carriage. She came forward slowly, like moonbeams when the moon sends out its long, quiet threads. And how great was my joy when I was asked to take her in to dinner. After we had sat down together I said with evident artlessness:

"'I think I have seen you before, in Bond Street, Lady Alroy.'

"At that a pallor spread over her face, and she said in a quiet voice: 'Please do not raise your voice, lest someone hear you.' I felt remorse at having made so bad a beginning, and, retrieving the situation, I passed on to the subject of French plays. She spoke a little, in that same mysterious tone and calm, musical voice. She seemed as though she feared someone might hear her. I had fallen in love with her in a rush of impetuosity, bewilderment, and pain. Yet the mystery and secrecy that surrounded her stirred my curiosity and my perplexity. She did not stay long after dinner, but rose to leave, and I asked her to permit me to call on her. She hesitated a little, then glanced about her and answered me in a low voice: 'Yes, tomorrow at a quarter to five.'

"I begged Madame de Rastail to tell me about her, but all I learned from her was that she was a widow who owned a beautiful house in Park Lane. Some of the tiresome guests sitting with us broke in with explanations of the causes of her widowhood, saying it was the result of the woman's unfitness for marriage and motherhood,

so I rose and left them and went away.

"The next day I arrived at Park Lane at the appointed hour, but the doorman informed me that Lady Alroy had gone out only a very short while before.

"I returned to the club that evening vexed at her conduct and bewildered about my affair. After reflection and thought I wrote her a letter asking her to allow me to see her on another occasion. No answer came from her for several days, and at last I received a short note from her saying that she would be ready to meet me at four o'clock on the coming Sunday afternoon. And she added this strange remark: 'Please do not write to me again; I will explain the reason when I see you.'

"On Sunday she received me at her house, and she was charming, alluring, enchanting; and before I left she entreated me not to write to her at her home address but to the following one: 'Mrs. Knox, Whittaker's Library, Green Street.' Then she said: 'There are reasons that prevent me from receiving letters at my house.'

"We met often during that season, and the air of secrecy and mystery never left her. I sometimes thought she might be at the mercy of some man, but I believed she was not one of those women who can be easily approached.

"In truth it was very hard for me to reach any conclusion about her, for she was like those relics we see in museums of antiquities, which at one moment appear clear to the eye and at another turn dark and dim. In the end I resolved to ask her hand in marriage. I had grown weary of this secrecy repeated at every one of my visits and in my few letters to her, so I wrote to her at the library address asking her to meet me at six o'clock on the coming Monday evening. She answered yes, and I felt as though I were flying to the seventh heaven for very joy; she had bewitched me and robbed me of my reason.

"I said to myself: 'She is the woman I love, and whatever secrecy and mystery I imagine in her is nothing but sheer illusion and fancy. Yet I wondered how the fates had driven me and thrown me upon the mercy of this obscurity and mystery.'"

I said to my companion: "Then you discovered her secret at last?"

He answered: "I think so—and you can judge for yourself...

"When Monday came I went to lunch at my uncle's. At about four o'clock I found myself walking along the Marylebone Road, for my uncle lives in Regent's Park. I wanted to reach Piccadilly, so I cut through some narrow streets, and suddenly there I was, face to face with Lady Alroy. She was walking quickly, her face covered with a thick veil, and when she reached the end of the street I saw her go up the steps of the last house in it, take a key from her pocket, open the door, and slip inside. I said to myself: here is the secret! I hurried to the house and stood examining it, and it seemed to be one of those lodging houses used for storing goods. And looking down, I saw that her handkerchief had fallen from her onto the step. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what ought to be done. But I said to myself that I had no right to spy upon her. Then I walked to the club, and at six o'clock I went to call on her. She was reclining on a sofa, dressed in a silver gown shot through with threads of gleaming silver rays, and adorned with some of the precious stones she was accustomed to wear, and she looked enchanting and alluring. She said: 'I am glad to see you; I have not been out all day.' I looked at her steadily, then took the handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her, and said quietly:

"'You dropped this in Cumnor Street this afternoon.'

"She looked at me in terror and made no attempt to take the handkerchief from my hand. I asked her:

"'What were you doing there?'
"She answered: 'What right have you to question me?'
"I answered her: 'The right of a man who loves you; I came to ask you to be my wife.' She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

"I went on: 'You must tell me.' She stood up and gazed at me, then said: 'There is nothing to tell you, Lord Murchison!' I cried out: 'You went there to meet someone. That is your secret!'

"Her face turned white and she cried: 'There is no one I go to meet!'

"I asked her: 'Can you not confess the truth?' She answered: 'I have told it to you.' But I did not trust her words; I went out of my mind, and I do not know what I said to her, but I said terrible things. At last I rushed out of the house and made no attempt to see her. A letter from her reached me the next day. I returned it to her unopened. Then I went away with Alan Colville, and when I came back a month later the first piece of news I read in the Morning Post was the death of Lady Alroy: she had caught a chill at the Opera and died five days later of inflammation of the lungs. The event stunned me, and I withdrew from people. I loved her greatly—I loved her madly. My God, how I loved that woman!..."

I said to him: "Did you not go to that house you saw her enter?"

He answered: "Yes, I went one day to Cumnor Street. Doubt had tormented me and I could no longer bear the uncertainty. I knocked at the door, and a woman of respectable appearance opened it to me. I asked her whether she had a room to let...

"She answered: 'The reception rooms are let, but no matter—since Lady Alroy has not come for a month and has not paid the debts she owes, you may take her place.'

"I showed her the photograph and asked her: 'Is this the lady?'

"She answered: 'Yes, that is she exactly. When is she coming back, sir?'

"I said to her: 'She is dead.'
"She exclaimed: 'What are you saying?... Oh, sir, she was one of the best lodgers I ever had. She used to pay me three pounds a week merely to sit from time to time in my sitting rooms!'

"I asked her: 'Did she meet anyone here?'

"The woman assured me that she never saw anyone, but always came alone.
"I cried out: 'For heaven's sake, what did she do here, then?'

"She answered: 'She came only to read, and sometimes she would take a cup of tea!'

"I did not know what to say, so I gave her some money and went away without a backward glance.

"Now, what is the meaning of all this? And what do you think of this story? Do you believe the woman told me the truth?"

I said: "Yes!"

He said: "Then why did Lady Alroy go there?"

I answered him: "My dear Gerald, Lady Alroy had a passion for the pretense of concealment and mystery. She took that room so that she might go there veiled, with the veil drawn over her face, and it pleased her to imagine herself the heroine of a story. But in truth she was nothing but a Sphinx—without a secret!"

He said: "Do you truly believe that?"
I said: "I am certain of what I say."

He took the photograph from his pocket and gazed at it, then sighed and said:

"I wonder at all this!"...