Chapter Twenty Four.
Face to Face.
The days passed merrily until the end of September. There was never a dull moment, for Sir Henry’s wife was one of those born hostesses who always gauge accurately the tastes of her guests, and was constantly making arrangements for their pleasure.
All the young ladies—save one young widow—and several of the men had brought their cycles, and many were the enjoyable spins we had in the vicinity. The fashion of cycling nowadays relieves a hostess of much responsibility, for on fine days guests can always amuse themselves, providing that the roads are good. I obtained a very decent machine from Bath, and, at Beryl’s side, accompanied the others on excursions into Bath or Chippenham, or, on longer journeys, to Malmesbury, Stroud, and Trowbridge. In her well-cut cycling skirt, cotton blouse, and straw hat, her wealth of hair dressed tightly by her maid, and her narrow waist girdled by a belt of grey chamois leather, she looked smart and lithe awheel. As a rule there is not much poetry in the cycling skirt, for it is generally made in such a manner as to hang baggy at the sides, which become disturbed by every puff of wind, and give the wearer the greatest amount of unnecessary annoyance. The French culottes are practical, if not altogether in accordance with our British view of feminine dress, and that they impart to a woman a considerable chicness, when in the saddle, cannot be denied. Yet there is nothing more graceful, nor more becoming to a woman than the English cycling skirt when cut by an artist in that form.
Sometimes alone, but often accompanied by our hostess, Sir Henry, or some of the guests. Beryl and I explored all the roads in the vicinity. My love constituted herself my guide, showing me the Three Shire Stones (the spot where the counties of Gloucester, Somerset, and Wilts join), the old Abbey of Lacock, the ancient moat and ruins at Kington Langley, the Lord’s Barn at Frogwell, the Roman tumuli at Blue Vein, and other objects of interest in the neighbourhood.
After my hard, laborious life in London these bright hours—spent in the fresh air by day, and in dancing and other gaieties at night—were indeed a welcome change. But it was not of that I reflected; my every thought was of her.
A score of times, during the week that had passed since my arrival at Atworth, I had been on the point of declaring my love for her and relating to her all I knew. Yet I hesitated. By so doing I might arouse her indignation. I had spied upon her; I was endeavouring to learn her secret.
Thus, from day to day I lingered at her side, played tennis, walked in the park, danced after dinner, and played billiards in the hour before we parted for the night, with eyes only for her, thoughts only of her, my life was hers alone. Perhaps I neglected the other guests. I think I must have done. Yet, well aware how quickly gossip arises among a house-party, I was always careful to remain sufficiently distant towards her to avoid any suspicion of flirtation. With a woman’s natural instinct she sometimes exerted her coquetry over me when we were alone, and by that I felt assured she was by no means averse to my companionship.
Often I gave young Chetwode a passing thought. I hated the prig, and thanked the Fates that he was not there. Sometimes his name was mentioned by one or other of the guests, and always in a manner that showed how her engagement to him was accepted by all her friends. Thus any mention of him caused me a sharp twinge.
During those warm, clear August days, spent with my love, I became somehow less suspicious of her ladyship’s actions. Hers was a complex nature; but I could not fail to notice her extreme friendliness towards me, and more than once it struck me that she contrived to bring Beryl and myself together on every possible occasion. The motive puzzled me.
Little time, however, was afforded for rumination, save in the privacy of one’s room at night. The round of gaiety was unceasing, and as one guest left another arrived, so that we always had some fresh diversion and merriment. It was open house to all. We men were told that no formalities would be permitted. The tantalus was ever open, the glasses ready, the soda in the ice, and the cigars of various brands placed invitingly in the smoking-room. Hence, every one made himself thoroughly at home, and helped himself, at any hour, to whatever he pleased.
The phantasmagoria of life is very curious. Only a fortnight before I was a penniless medico, feeling pulses and examining tongues in order to earn a shilling or two to keep the wolf from the door, yet, within eight days, I had entered into the possession of a thousand pounds, and was, moreover, the guest of one of the smartest hostesses in England.
I had been at Atworth about a fortnight, and had written twice to Hoefer, but, as yet, had received no response. He was a sorry correspondent, I knew, for when he wrote it was a painful effort with a quill.
Bob Raymond had written me one of those flippant notes characteristic of him; but to this I had not replied, for I could not rid myself of the belief that he had somehow played me false.
One evening, while sitting in the hall with my hostess, in the quiet hour that precedes the dressing-bell, she, of her own accord, began to chat about the curious phenomena in Gloucester Square.
“I have told my husband nothing,” she said. “I do hope your friend will discover the cause before we return to town.”
“If he does not, then it would be best to keep the door locked,” I said. “At present the affair is still unexplained.”
“Fortunately Beryl is quite as well as ever—thanks to you and to him.”
“It was a happy thought of yours to call me,” I said. “Hoefer was the only man in London who could give her back her life, and, if ever the mystery is solved, it is he who will solve it.”
I noticed that she was unusually pale, whether on account of the heat, or from mental agitation, I could not determine. The day had been a blazing one—so hot, indeed, that no one had been out before tea. At that moment every one had gone forth except ourselves, and, as she sat in a cane rocking-chair, swinging herself lazily to and fro, she looked little more than a girl, her cream serge tennis-dress imparting to her quite a juvenile appearance.
“I hope you are not bored here, Doctor,” she said presently, after we had been talking for some time.
“Bored?” I laughed. “Why, one has not a moment in which to be bored. This is the first half-hour of repose I’ve had since I arrived here.”
She looked at me strangely, and, with a curious smile, said—
“Because you are always so taken up with Beryl.”
“With Beryl!” I echoed, starting quickly. “I really did not know that—” I hastened to protest.
“Ah, no,” she laughed, “To excuse yourself is useless. The truth is quite patent to me if not to the others.”
“The truth of what?” I inquired, with affected ignorance.
“The truth that you love her.”
I laughed aloud, scouting the idea. I did not intend to show my hand, for I was never certain of her tactics.
“My dear Doctor,” she said presently, “you may deny it, if you like, but I have my eyes open, and I know that in your heart you love her.”
“Then you know my feelings better than myself,” I responded, inwardly angry that I should have acted in such a manner as to cause her to notice my infatuation.
“One’s actions often betray one’s heart. Yours have done,” she replied. “But I would warn you that love with Beryl is a dangerous game.”
“Dangerous! I don’t understand you.”
“I mean that you must not love her. It is impossible.”
“Why impossible?”
“For one simple and very good reason,” she responded. Then, looking straight in my face, she added, “Could you, Doctor, keep a secret if I told you one?”
“I think I could. It would not be the first one I’ve kept.”
“Well, it is for the sake of your own happiness that I tell you this,” she said. “You will promise never to breathe a word to her if I tell you.”
“I promise, of course.”
She hesitated, with her dark eyes fixed upon mine. Then she said, in a low voice—
“Beryl is already married.”
“To whom?” I asked, so calmly that I think I surprised her.
“To whom I cannot tell you.”
“Why not? Surely it is no secret.”
“Yes, it is a secret. That is why I dare not tell you her husband’s name.”
“Is she actually the wife of young Chetwode?”
“Certainly not.”
“But she is engaged to him,” I observed.
“She is believed to be,” my hostess announced, “but such is not really the case.”
“And her husband? Where is he?”
It was strange that I should be asking such a question about my own whereabouts.
“In London, I think.”
“Then he is quite content that his wife should pose as the affianced bride of young Chetwode? Such an arrangement is certainly rather strange.”
“I know nothing of the whys and wherefores,” she replied. “I only know that she is already married, and I warn you not to lose your heart to her.”
“Well, what you have told me is curious, but I think—”
The remainder of the sentence died upon my lips, for at that moment Beryl burst gaily into the hall, dusty and flushed after cycling, exclaiming—
“We’ve had such an awfully jolly ride. But the others came along so slowly that Connie and I scorched home all the way from Monkton. How stifling it is to-night!” And she drew the pins from her hat, and, sinking into a chair, began fanning herself, while, at the same moment, her companion, Connie Knowles, a rather smart girl who was one of the party, also entered.
Hence our conversation was interrupted—a fact which for several reasons I much regretted. Yet from her words, it seemed plain that she did not know that I was actually her cousin’s husband. She knew Beryl’s secret, that she was married, but to whom she was unaware.
There is an old saying among the contadinelli of the Tuscan mountains, “Le donne dicono semure i vero; ma non lo dicono tutto intero.” Alas, that it is so true!
That same evening when, after dressing, I descended for dinner, I found Beryl in the study, scribbling a note which, having finished, she gave to the servant.
“Is he waiting?” she inquired.
“Yes, miss.”
“Then give it to him—with this;” and she handed the girl a shilling.
When, however, she noticed me standing in the doorway she seemed just a trifle confused. In this message I scented something suspicious; but, affecting to take no notice, walked at her side down the corridor into the hall to await the others. She wore a toilette that night which bore the cut of a first-class couturier. It was a handsome heliotrope gown with a collar of seed pearls. After dining we danced together, and, in so doing, I glanced down at her white, heaving chest, for her corsage was a trifle lower than others she had hitherto worn. I found that for which my eyes were searching—a tiny dark mark low down, and only just visible above the lace edging of the gown—the tattoo-mark which I had discovered on that fateful day, the mark of the three hearts entwined.
What, I wondered, did that indelible device denote?
That it had some significance was certain. I had been waltzing with her for perhaps five minutes, when suddenly I withdrew my hand from her waist, and halting, reeled and almost fell.
“Why, Doctor,” she cried, “what’s the matter? How pale you are?”
“Nothing,” I gasped, endeavouring to reassure her. “A little faintness, that is all. I’ll go out into the night.” And, unnoticed by the others, I staggered out upon the broad, gravelled terrace which ran the whole length of the house.
She had walked beside me in alarm, and, when we were alone, suggested that she should obtain assistance.
“No,” I said; “I shall be better in a moment.”
“How do you feel?” she inquired, greatly concerned.
“As though I had suddenly become frozen,” I answered. “It is the same sensation as when I entered that room at Gloucester Square.”
“Impossible!” she cried in alarm.
“Yes,” I said; “it is unaccountable—quite unaccountable.”
The circumstance was absolutely beyond credence. I stood there, for a few minutes, leaning upon her arm, which she offered me, and slowly the curious sensation died away, until a quarter of an hour afterwards I found myself quite as vigorous as I had been before. Neither of us, however, danced again, but lighting a cigar, I spent some time strolling with her up and down the terrace, enjoying the calm, warm, starlit night.
We discussed my mysterious seizure a good deal, but could arrive at no conclusion.
After some hesitation I broached the subject which was very near my heart.
“I have heard nothing of late of Chetwode,” I said. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” she responded. “His regiment has left Hounslow for York, you know.”
“And he is in York?”
“I suppose so.”
“Suppose! And yet you are to be his wife!” I exclaimed.
“Who told you that?” she asked quickly, halting and looking straight at me.
“Every one discusses it,” I answered. “They say he is to be your husband very shortly. What would he say, I wonder, if he knew that you and I frivol so much together?”
“What right has he to say anything regarding my actions? I am quite free.”
“Then he is not your lover?” I inquired in deep earnestness. “Tell me the truth.”
“Of course not. We have danced together and walked together, just as you and I have done; but as for love—why, the thing is absurd.”
“You do not love him?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” she laughed. Then she added, “I never love. That is why I am not like other women.”
“Every woman denies the tender passion,” I said, smiling.
“Well, I only tell you the truth,” she responded, with a slight sigh. “If every woman must love at one time in her life, there must of course be some exceptions. I am one of them.”
“Ah, you do yourself an injustice?” I declared. “Every woman has a heart.”
She was silent. Then, in a hard strained voice, she answered—
“True; but mine is like stone.”
“Why? What has hardened it?”
“Ah, no!” she cried quickly. “You are always, trying to learn my secret, but I can never tell you—never! Let us go in.” And, without another word, she passed through the French windows into the billiard-room, where the usual game of pool was in progress and the merry chatter was general.
Like that of her cousin, her nature was a complex one. The more I strove to understand her the more utterly hopeless the analysis became. I loved her—nay, in all the world there was but one woman for my eyes. Superb in beauty and in grace, she was incomparable—perfect.
That night, when the household was at rest, I still sat smoking in my room, puzzled over the curious recurrence of the sensation which seized all who entered the lethal chamber in London. The turret-clock over the stables had chimed half-past one, yet I felt in no mood to turn in. The writing of that hasty note by Beryl was an incident which I had forgotten, but which now came back to me. What if I could discover its nature? She had written it upon the blotting-pad in Sir Henry’s study, and the thought occurred to me that I might, perhaps, discover the impression there.
With that object I placed a box of matches in my pocket, switched off my light, and crept in the darkness noiselessly along the corridor. The carpeting was thick, and, being without slippers, I stole along without a sound past the door of Beryl’s room, and down the great oaken staircase into the hall.
I had crossed the latter, and had my hand upon the green baize door which kept out the draught of the corridors, and was about to open it, when of a sudden my quick ear caught a sound. In an instant I halted, straining my ears to listen. In the stillness of the night, and especially in the darkness, every sound becomes exaggerated and distorted. I stood there not daring to breathe.
Through the great high windows of the hall, filled with diamond panes like the windows of an ancient church, the faint starlight struggled so that the opposite side of the place was quite light. I glanced around at the shining armour standing weird in the half-light, with visors down and pikes in hand—a row of steel-clad warriors of the days gone by when Atworth was a stronghold. They looked a ghostly lot, and quite unnerved me.
But, as I listened, the suspicious sound again greeted my quick ear, and I heard in the door on the opposite side of the hall, straight before me, a key slowly turn. Even in that dead silence it made but little noise; the lock had evidently been well oiled.
Then cautiously the door gradually opened, and I was no longer alone. The dark figure of a woman advanced, treading so silently that she seemed to walk on air. She came straight towards the spot where I stood watching in the darkness, and I saw that she was dressed in black.
As she reached the centre of the hall the pale light fell upon her face, and, although uncertain, it was sufficient to reveal to me the truth; I was face to face with the woman who had been described by Beryl—the mysterious La Gioia!
Chapter Twenty Five.
The Woman in Black.
The encounter was unexpected and startling. I stood glaring at the dark figure, unable for the moment to move. The dark face, with its keen black eyes, fascinated me; there was a look of evil there. What business could bring her there, stealthily, like a thief?
She had halted in the centre of the hall, and seemed to be examining some object upon the Indian table, whereon tea was always served in the afternoon. The light was just sufficient to reveal that she held something small and white in her hand, but what it was I was unable to distinguish.
The “partial aboulia,” as we doctors term the lack of ability to perform intentional acts, which had seized me on discovering the intruder, quickly gave place to an endeavour to conceal myself; and this I accomplished by crouching down behind a large square pedestal whereon stood a giant palm. As I watched I saw her make a tour of the place, examining every object as though in search of something. Then, with deliberation, she passed through the door by which I had entered, and crept noiselessly up the stairs.
She was ascending to the room of the woman who feared her! I stole along after her. It was an adventurous piece of spying, for the slightest creak of the stairs would betray my presence, and oaken stairs creak horribly.
At last I gained the top, and, as I stood, watched her steal noiselessly along the corridor, past Beryl’s room, to my own room. She tried the door cautiously, opened it, and entered. As though in disappointment that I was not there she quickly came forth, stood in hesitation listening in the corridor, and then, creeping back, stopped before Beryl’s room. Evidently, she was well acquainted with the geography of the house, and knew who occupied the various chambers.
In the corridor it was much lighter than in the hall, and, as she came to a standstill before Beryl’s door, I was quite close to her, crouching on the dark stair, my head only on a level with the floor of the corridor. It was then I made a discovery which was somewhat puzzling: while her right hand was free, on the left she wore a black glove.
She bent at the door, peered into the keyhole, and, having listened in order to satisfy herself that Beryl was asleep, slowly turned the handle to try if it were locked.
Would she enter? I stood watching her actions with bated breath. That she was there with evil intent was absolutely certain.
The lock yielded, and, pushing open the door very slowly, she stole in on tiptoe, closing it after her.
What should I do? My love was in deadly peril—of that I felt certain. She had defied the Major, and the revenge of that all-powerful but unknown person, La Gioia, was upon her. She was alone—asleep, and at her mercy!
To dash in and seize her would be to alarm the house and, perhaps, compromise my loved one. Yet what could I do to save her? I had seen by the evil glint in her eyes that she was there with fell intent, and I knew by the cautious manner in which she moved, without hesitation or fear, that she was no amateur at such nocturnal visits. Indeed, she moved like a dark shadow, gliding without the slightest noise until one might almost have believed her to be some supernatural visitant.
It was my duty, however, to protect my love, no matter at what cost. I had come there for that purpose, having a distinct foreboding that some deadly peril surrounded her; therefore, now was my time to act, to meet that woman face to face and to demand an explanation.
Upon this decision I acted without further delay, for creeping as noiselessly as she had done, I reached the door and slowly turned the handle in order to burst in unexpectedly upon her. The handle turned, but the door would not open; she had locked it behind her.
I bent to the keyhole. All was dark within. There was no sound. The noise I had made by trying the door had, no doubt, alarmed her, and she was standing within preparing to make a sudden dash for liberty.
I drew myself up at the door prepared. Those moments were full of excitement. I held my breath, straining my ears to listen. There was no sound. The silence was like that of the grave.
My love was within that room, and her enemy was at her side!
Should I arouse the household? Again I hesitated, fearing lest I should compromise Beryl. Of a sudden, however, I recollected that in many houses the doors of the bedrooms frequently bear similar locks, and finding that the key had been removed by the intruder—possibly for the purpose of watching my movements from the inside—it occurred to me that I might try the key of my own room.
Yet if I left my post she might escape; she was evidently watching her opportunity.
Fully ten minutes passed, each second ticked out loudly by the long grandfather’s clock at the end of the corridor, until I could stand the tension no longer, and, receding slowly backwards, with my eyes still upon the door, ready for La Gioia’s dash for liberty, I reached my own room and secured the key.
Then, slipping back again, I placed the key swiftly in the lock, heedless of the noise it made, and turned it. The lock yielded, and a second later I stood within the room.
An involuntary cry of amazement escaped me, and I drew back. I dashed towards the bed, but it had not been slept in. The room, with its great mirror draped with silk, and its silver toilet-set catching the pale light, was empty! The window stood open, and, springing towards it, I saw to my dismay a rope-ladder reaching to the ground. Both La Gioia and my well-beloved had disappeared.
I looked out, but all was dark across the park. The night wind rustled in the trees, and a dog was howling dismally in the kennels. Could Beryl have been awaiting La Gioia, and have left in her company? The discovery utterly dismayed me.
I ran to my room, obtained a cap and boots, and, returning, passed through the open window, descending by the ladder to the terrace. Around the house I dashed like a madman, and down the drive towards the lodge-gates, halting suddenly now and then with my ear to the wind, eager to distinguish any sound of movement. I was utterly without clue to guide me as to the direction the fugitives had taken. Four or five roads and paths led from the house, in various directions, to Atworth village, to Corsham, and to Lacock, while one byway through the wood led out upon the old high-road to, Bath. The latter went straight into a dark copse at the rear of the house, and would afford ample concealment for any one wishing to get away unobserved. All the other roads cut across the park, and any one travelling along them would be visible for some distance. Therefore, I started down the byway in question, entering the wood and traversing it as noiselessly as I could, and emerged at last into the broad, white high-road which I knew so well, having cycled and driven over it dozens of times.
I calculated that the fugitives had about ten to twelve minutes’ start, and if they had really taken the road, I must be close upon them. The road ascended steadily all the way from the Wormwood Farm to Kingsdown, yet I slackened not my pace until I gained the crest of the hill. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, and the night was so light that any object upon that white open road could be seen for a long distance. Having gained the hilltop at the junction of the road to Wraxall, I stood and strained my eyes down both highways, but to my disappointment saw no one. Either I had passed them while they had hidden themselves in the wood, or I had mistaken the direction they had taken.
The presence in the house of that sinister woman in black, her mode of exit, and the startling fact that Beryl was missing, had, I think, unnerved me. As I stood reflecting I regretted that I had relied too much upon my own strategy, and had not aroused the household. In my constant efforts to preserve the secret of my well-beloved I had made a fatal mistake.
My mind had become confused by these constantly recurring mysteries. As a medical man I knew that all mental troubles involve diseases of the brain. The more complex troubles, such as my own at that moment, are still wrapped in obscurity. To the psychologist there are, of course, certain guiding principles through the maze of facts which constitute the science of the mind; but, after all, he knows practically nothing about the laws which govern the influence of mind over body. I had acted foolishly and impulsively. Both the women had fled.
I took the road down the hill to Wraxall, and thence, by a circular route by way of Ganbrook Farm and the old church at Atworth, back to the Hall. I hoped that they might take that road to Bath, but, although I walked for more than an hour, I met not a soul. A church clock chimed three as I came down the hill from Kingsdown, and it was already growing light ere I gained the terrace of the Hall again. I climbed back into Beryl’s room by the ladder still suspended there. Her absence was as yet undiscovered. Everything was just as I had left it an hour and a half before. I was undecided, at that moment, whether to alarm the household or to affect ignorance of the whole thing and await developments of the strange affair. Judged from all points the latter course seemed the best; therefore, still in indecision, I crept back to my room, and, entering there, closed the door.
I sank into a chair, exhausted after my walk, when a sudden pain shot through me from head to foot, causing me to utter an involuntary cry. The next instant the same sensation of being frozen crept over me, as it had done outside that room in Gloucester Square, and again on the previous night when dancing with my beloved. The same rigidity of my muscles, the same aphasia and amnesia, the same complex symptoms that I had before experienced, and so well remembered, were again upon me. My lower limbs seemed frozen and lifeless, my heart was beating so faintly that it seemed almost imperceptible, and my senses seemed so utterly dulled that I was unable either to cry out or to move.
If I had but a little of that curious liquid which Hoefer had injected! I blamed myself for not asking him to give me some in case of emergency. The unknown woman in black had left again behind her the curious unseen influence that so puzzled the greatest known medico-legist.
The sensation was much sharper, and of far longer duration, than that which had so suddenly fallen upon me when dancing. Reader, I can only describe it, even now, I sit recounting to you the curious story, as the icy touch of the grim Avenger. The hand of Death was actually upon me.
I think that the automatic processes of my brain must have ceased. Without entering into a long description, which the majority of the laity would not properly understand, it is but necessary to say that the lowest, or “third level” of the brain includes all the functions which the spinal cord and its upper termination, which we call the “medulla,” are able to perform alone—that is, without involving necessarily the activity of the nervous centres and brain areas which lie above them. The “third level” functions are those of life-sustaining processes generally—breathing, heart-beat and vaso-motor action—which secure the circulation of the blood. It was this portion of the brain, controlling the automatic processes, which had become paralysed. I needed, I knew, an artificial stimulation—some agent by which the physiological processes might be started again. What if they would not start again normally!
I sat in my chair, rigid as a corpse, unable to move or to utter a sound—cold, stiff, and as I well knew, resembling in every way a person lifeless. Slight consciousness remained to me, but, after a while, even that faded, and I knew not then what followed.
The period of blank unconsciousness appeared to me but a few minutes, but it must have been hours, for when I awoke the morning sun was high and was shining full in my face as I sat there. My limbs were cramped and my head was heavy, but there was no pain with my returning sensibility, as is generally the case after a period of insensibility. I rose with difficulty, and, staggering unevenly to the window, looked out. Upon the terrace two men were idly strolling as was the habit of those who came down early, awaiting the breakfast bell. I glanced at the timepiece and saw that it was about nine o’clock.
Had Beryl’s absence yet been discovered?
I glanced over to my bed, and then recollected that I had not undressed. Truly that night had been an eventful one. La Gioia had actually been in that room. In an instant, recollections of my midnight vigil and my chase crowded upon me. Surely, if that rope-ladder were still suspended from the window of the room occupied by my love, those two men strolling there must have noticed it!
I opened my own window and leaned out to look. No, it had been removed. My loved one’s absence had been discovered.
The breakfast bell rang and aroused me to a sense of responsibility. I knew of the secret visit of La Gioia, and it was my duty to reveal it so that the truth might be ascertained. Therefore, I shaved quickly, changed my clothes, and tossed about my bed so that the maids should not suspect my wakefulness.
There was merry chatter outside in the corridor as the guests descended, but, although I listened, I could hear no mention of Beryl’s disappearance. On completion of my toilet I opened my door and followed them down. Yet scarcely had I got to the head of the stairs when that same now-familiar sensation came upon me, like the touch of an icy hand. I gripped the old oaken banisters and stood cold and dumb. The same phenomena had occurred in my room as in that room of mystery at Gloucester Square. The thing utterly staggered belief.
Nevertheless, almost as swiftly as the hand of Death touched me was it withdrawn, and, walking somewhat unsteadily, I went down and along the corridor to the breakfast room.
The chatter was general before I entered, but there was a sudden silence as I opened the door.
“Why, Doctor Colkirk?” cried a voice, “this isn’t like you to be late. You’re an awful sluggard this morning!”
I glanced quickly across at the speaker and held my breath in amazement. It was Beryl! She was sitting there, in her usual place looking fresh in her pale blue cotton blouse, the merriest and happiest of the party.
What response I made I have no idea; I only know that I saluted my hostess mechanically and then walked to my chair like a man in a dream.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Husband and Wife.
Personally, I am one of those who pay no tribute of grateful admiration to those who have oppressed mankind with the dubious blessings of the penny post. Just as no household, which is adorned with the presence of pen-propelling young ladies, is ever without its due quantity of morning letters, so no breakfast table is quite complete if the post-bag has been drawn blank. The urn may hiss, eggs may be boiled to the precise degree of solidity, frizzling strips of “home-cured” may smile upon you from dish of silver, or golden marmalade may strive to allure you with the richness of its hue, but if the morning letters are not present the picture is incomplete. They are the crowning glory of the British breakfast table.
For a good many days my correspondents had happily left me in the lurch, but as I sank into my seat I saw upon my plate a single letter, and took it up mechanically. As a rule the handwriting of the envelope betrayed the writer, but this possessed the additional attraction of unfamiliar penmanship. It had been addressed to Rowan Road, and Bob had forwarded it.
The communication was upon paper of pale straw-colour, headed “Metropolitan Police, T. Division, Brentford,” and signed “J. Rowling, sub-divisional inspector.” There were only two or three lines, asking whether I could make it convenient to appoint an hour when he could call upon me, as he wished to consult me upon “a matter of extreme importance.” The matter referred to was, of course, the tragedy at Whitton. Truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all this ever-increasing maze of circumstances, and placed the letter in my pocket with a resolve to allow the affair to rest until I returned to London on the conclusion of my visit.
The receipt of it, however, had served one purpose admirably: it had given me an opportunity to recover my surprise at discovering Beryl sitting there opposite me, bright and vivacious, as though nothing unusual had occurred. The letter which I had seen her writing in the study on the previous evening had been, I now felt convinced, to make an appointment which she had kept.
But with whom?
I glanced at my hostess, who was busily arranging with those near her at table for a driving party to visit the Haywards at Dodington Park, and wondered whether she could be aware of the strange midnight visitant. I contrived to have a brief chat with her after breakfast was finished, but she appeared in entire ignorance of what had transpired during the night. I lit a cigarette, and as usual strolled around for a morning visit to the kennels with Sir Henry. On returning I saw my well-beloved seated beneath one of the great trees near the house, reading a novel. The morning was hot, but in the shade it was delightful. As I crossed the grass to her she raised her head, and then, smiling gladly, exclaimed—
“Why, I thought you’d gone to Dodington with the others, Doctor Colkirk?”
“No,” I answered, taking a chair near her; “I’m really very lazy this hot weather.”
How charming she looked in her fresh cotton gown and large flop-hat of Leghorn straw trimmed with poppies.
“And I prefer quiet and an interesting book to driving in this sun. I wonder they didn’t start about three, and come home in the sunset. But Nora’s always so wilful.”
Though as merry as was her wont, I detected a tired look in her eyes. Where had she been during the long night—and with whom? The silence was only disturbed by the hum of the insects about us and the songs of the birds above. The morning was a perfect one.
“I found it very oppressive last night,” I said, carefully approaching the subject upon which I wanted to talk to her. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out here into the park.”
“Into the park?” she echoed quickly, and I saw by her look that she was apprehensive.
“Yes. It was a beautiful night—cool, refreshing, and starlit.”
“You were alone?”
I hesitated. Then, looking her straight in the face, answered—
“No, I was not. I had yourself as company.”
The colour in an instant left her cheeks.
“Me?” she gasped.
“Yes,” I replied, in a low, earnest voice. “You were also in the park last night.”
She was silent.
“I did not see you,” she faltered. Then, as though recovering her self-possession, she added, with some hauteur, “And even if I chose to walk here after every one had gone to rest, I really don’t think that you have any right to question my actions.”
“Forgive me,” I said quickly. “I do not question you in the least; I have no right to do so. You are certainly free to do as you please, save where you neglect your own interests or place yourself in peril—as you did last night.”
“In peril of what?” she demanded defiantly.
“In peril of falling a victim to the vengeance of an enemy.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Then I will speak more frankly, Miss Wynd, in the hope that you will be equally frank with me,” I said, my eyes fixed upon her. “You were last night, or, rather, at an early hour this morning, with a person whom you have met on a previous occasion.”
“I admit that. It is, indeed, useless to deny it,” she answered.
“And yet, on the last occasion that you met, you nearly lost your life! Was it wise?”
“Nearly lost my life?” she echoed. “I do not follow you.”
“The woman in black who called at Gloucester Square on that evening not so many days ago. You surely remember her? Was it not after her departure that her unaccountable, evil influence remained?”
“Certainly. But what of her?”
“You were with her last night.”
“With her?” she gasped, surprised. “I certainly was not.”
“Do you deny having seen her?” I demanded.
“Most assuredly,” she responded promptly. “You certainly did not see us together.”
“And your companion was not a woman?”
“No; it was a man.”
“Who?”
“I have already told you that I object to any one interfering in my private affairs.”
“A lover?” I said, with some asperity perhaps. “You are entirely at liberty to think what you please. I only deny that I have set eyes upon my mysterious visitor since that evening in Gloucester Square.”
“Well, she was in the house last night,” I answered decisively. “She was in your room.”
“In my room?” gasped my well-beloved, in alarm. “Impossible?”
“I watched her enter there,” I replied; and then continuing, gave her an exact account of all that transpired—how she had first entered my room, and how the strange evil of her presence had so strangely affected me afterwards.
“It’s absolutely astounding,” she declared. “I was utterly ignorant of it all. Are you absolutely certain that it was the same woman?”
“The description given of her by yourself and your cousin’s servant is exact. She came here with some distinctly sinister purpose, that is quite evident.”
“But she must have entered by the servants’ quarters if she passed through the hall as you have described. She seemed to have been in search of us both.”
“No doubt,” I answered. “And if, as you say, you were absent from the room at the time, it is evident that she went straight out into the park in search of you. In that case she would have left the room before I tried the door, and would be ignorant of the fact that I had detected her presence in the house.”
“But what could she want with us?” she asked in a voice which told me that this unexpected revelation had unnerved her.
“Ah, that I cannot tell,” I responded. “She came here with an evil purpose, and fortunately we were both absent from our rooms.”
She knit her brows in thought. Possibly she was recalling some event during her midnight walk.
“And you say that you actually experienced in your own room, on returning there, an exactly similar sensation to that which we all felt at Gloucester Square?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you know,” she faltered, “I felt the same sensation in my own room this morning—very faintly, but still the same feeling of being chilled. What is your private opinion about it, Doctor?”
“My opinion is that there is a conspiracy afoot against both of us,” I responded very earnestly. “For some unaccountable reason we are marked down as victims—why, I cannot tell. You will forgive me for speaking plainly, but I believe that you alone hold the key to the mystery, that you alone know the motive of this vengeance—if vengeance it be—and if you were to tell me frankly of the past we might unite to vanquish our enemies.”
“What do you mean by the past?” she inquired, with just a touch of indignation.
“There are several questions I have put to you which you have refused to answer,” I replied. “The light which you could throw upon two or three points, now in obscurity, might lead me to a knowledge of the whole truth.”
She sighed, as though the burden of her thoughts oppressed her.
“I have told you all I can,” she answered.
“No; you have told me all you dare. Is not that a more truthful way of putting it?”
She nodded, but made no response.
“You have feared to tell me of the one fact concerning yourself which has, in my belief, the greatest bearing upon your perilous situation.”
“And what is that?”
“The fact that you are married!”
Her face blanched to the lips, her hands trembled and for a moment my words held her dumb.
“Who told you that?” she gasped, in a low voice.
“I knew it long ago,” I replied.
“Nora has betrayed my secret,” she observed in a hard voice.
“No,” I declared; “your cousin has told me nothing. I have known the fact for months past.”
“For months past! How?”
“You are not frank with me,” I replied; “therefore I may be at liberty to preserve what secrets I think best.”
“I—I do not deny it,” she faltered. Then, in a voice trembling with emotion, she added, “Ah, Doctor Colkirk, if you knew all that I have suffered you would quite understand my fear lest any one should discover my secret. I often wonder how it is that I have not taken my own life long, long ago.”
“No,” I said in deep sympathy, taking her hand. “Bear up against all these troubles. Let me assist you as your friend.”
“But you cannot,” she declared despairingly, tears welling in her eyes. “You can only assist me by keeping my secret. Will you promise me to do that?”
“Most certainly,” I replied. “But I want to do more. I want to penetrate the veil of mystery which seems to surround your marriage. I want—”
“You can never do that,” she interrupted quickly. “I have tried and tried, but have failed.”
“Why?”
“Because, strange though it may seem, I am entirely unaware of the identity of my husband. I have never seen him.”
I was silent. Should I reveal to her the truth? She could not believe me, if I did. What proof could I show her?
“And you do not know his name?”
“No; I do not even know his name,” she answered. “All I know is that by this marriage I am debarred for ever from all love and happiness. I have nothing to live for—nothing! Each day increases the mystery, and each day brings to me only bitterness and despair. Ah! how a woman may suffer and still live.”
“Have you no means by which to discover the identity of your unknown husband?” I inquired.
“None whatever,” she answered. “I know that I am married—beyond that, nothing.”
“And who else is in possession of this secret?” I inquired.
“Nora.”
“No one else?”
“No one—to my knowledge.”
“But you are, I understand, engaged to marry Cyril Chetwode,” I said, anxious to get the truth. “How can you marry him if you are really a wife?”
“Ah! that’s just it!” she cried. “I am the most miserable girl in all the world. Everything is so hazy, so enshrouded in mystery. I am married, and yet I have no husband.”
“But is it not perhaps best that, under the circumstances, you should be apart,” I said. “He may be old, or ugly, or a man you could never love.”
“I dread to think of it,” she said hoarsely. “Sometimes I wonder what he is really like, and who he really is.”
“And, at the same time, you love Cyril Chetwode?” I said, the words almost choking me.
I saw she loved that young ape, and my heart sank within me.
“We are very good friends,” she answered.
“But you love him? Why not admit it?” I said.
“And if I do—if I do, it is useless—all useless,” she murmured.
“Yes,” I observed, “it is useless. You are already married.”
“No!” she cried, holding up her tiny hand as though to stay my words. “Do not let us talk of it. I cannot bear to think. The truth hangs like a shadow over my life.”
“Does Chetwode know?” I inquired. “Is he aware that you can never be his?”
“He knows nothing. He loves me, and believes that one day we shall many. Indeed, now that he has succeeded to the estate, he sees no reason why our marriage should be delayed, and is pressing me for an answer.”
Her breast heaved and fell quickly beneath her starched blouse. I saw how agitated she was, and how, with difficulty, she was restraining her tears.
“What answer can you give him?”
“Ah!” she cried, “what answer, indeed. Was there ever woman before who knew not her husband, or who suffered as I am suffering?”
“Your case is absolutely unique,” I said. “Have you not endeavoured to solve the problem? Surely, from the official record of the marriage, it is possible to obtain your husband’s name? You have a wedding-ring, I suppose?” I said, my thoughts running back to that fateful moment when I had placed the golden bond of matrimony upon her hand.
“Yes,” she answered, and, placing her hand within her bodice, drew forth the ring suspended by a narrow blue ribbon; “it is here.”
I took it in my hand with a feeling of curiosity. How strange it was! That was the very ring which I had placed upon her finger when in desperation I had sold myself to the Tempter.
“Have you no idea whatever of the circumstances of your marriage? Do you know nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing—save that I am actually married.”
“The identity of the man who placed this ring upon your hand is an enigma?”
“Yes. I found it upon my finger; that is all that I am aware of. I changed my name, yet I am ignorant of what my new name really is.”
A sound of wheels approaching up the drive greeted our ears, but I still held the ring in the hollow of my hand.
“Shall I tell you the true name of your husband?” I said earnestly, looking straight into those deep, clear eyes.
“What?” she cried, starting in quick surprise; “you know it? Surely, that is impossible!”
“Yes,” I said in a low voice; “I know it.”
At that instant the ralli-car, which had evidently been to Corsham Station, dashed past us towards the house, interrupting our conversation and causing us both to raise our heads.
At the side of Barton, the coachman, there sat a stranger, who, as he passed, turned his head aside to glance at us. Our eyes met. In an instant I recognised him. It was none other than the man for whom I had been in active search through all these weeks—the Tempter!