In White Raiment

“I hope, Doctor, you will forgive me for bounding into the room like this,” she said.

“Certainly,” I answered, still gazing at her like a man in a dream.

She had been introduced to me as Feo Ashwicke, the cousin of this rather curious woman, Lady Pierrepoint-Lane. Yet there could be no doubt that she was actually Beryl Wynd, the sweet-faced girl whom I had seen lying dead in that house of mystery eight days before.

Neither our introduction nor the mention of my name had in the least disconcerted her. She remained perfectly frank and natural, betraying not the slightest surprise. Could it be possible that she was not aware of her marriage with me?

I looked straight into her clear blue eyes. Neither appeared affected. Nevertheless, had I not, on that fatal night, seen the strange contraction of the pupil, which had rendered one – the left eye – sightless and so strange-looking?

She was talking to her cousin, and thus I had opportunity of regarding her critically. Her hands were gloved, therefore I could not see whether she still wore the ring I had placed upon her finger. Still, if she were really Feo Ashwicke, what motive had she in masquerading as the daughter of that crafty scoundrel Wyndham Wynd?

I longed to speak plainly to her and seek some explanation, yet at that moment it was impossible. Her frank and open manner rendered it quite evident that to her I was an utter stranger.

It was this failure on her part to recognise my name that aroused within my mind a doubt whether, after all, her personal appearance only bore a very striking resemblance to that of my mysterious wife.

“Nora always forgets her engagements,” she laughed, turning to me. “This morning we’ve got quite a host of places to go to and things to buy, for we leave town again to-night. After breakfast we arranged to go out together at eleven, and she’s actually forgotten all about it!”

“Short memories are sometimes useful,” I remarked with a smile.

“I hope that is not meant for sarcasm, Doctor,” protested the baronet’s wife.

“I am never sarcastic at the expense of my patients,” I responded.

“But I presume I am a friend. Do your friends fare any better?”

“With my friends it is quite different. I myself am generally the object of their sarcasm.”

They both laughed.

“How hot it is this morning,” observed the mysterious Feo. “I’ve only been in town three days, and shall be very glad to get back again into the country.”

“To what part are you going?” I inquired.

“Only to Whitton, near Hounslow, to visit the Chetwodes. Do you know them?”

“No,” I replied. “Are you staying there long?”

“Oh, a fortnight or so,” she replied. “The Chetwode girls were at school with me near Paris, and we are very good friends. They always have a big house-party at this time of the year, and there is usually lots of fun.”

“You’re quite right, dear,” exclaimed her cousin, rising. “We must really make haste if we are to do all our shopping and catch the five o’clock from Waterloo. In Maud’s letter, this morning, she says she will send the carriage to meet that train.”

I rose also. I was loth to leave the presence of this charming girl, who was undoubtedly my bride, but who, it appeared, was entirely unconscious of the fact. Yet the woman who had called me in for consultation, and had acted so strangely that it almost seemed as though she had fallen in love with me, had pointedly dismissed me; therefore I was compelled to take my leave.

“I hope, Doctor, that we shall see something more of you on our return to town,” her ladyship said, as we shook hands. “Recollect our conversation of this morning,” she added meaningly.

“Of course I shall be most delighted to call and see how you have progressed,” I responded. “You have the prescription, and I hope you will persevere with it.”

“If I feel worse.” She laughed, and I knew that she did not mean to have the mixture made up. She had shammed illness very cleverly. I was amused and annoyed at the same moment.

“I hope Doctor Colkirk will dine with us here one evening,” said the woman who was my bride. “I’m sure Sir Henry would be charmed to meet him.”

“Yes,” answered her cousin; “only he must not know that I have consulted him professionally. That must be kept a secret.”

“All women love secrets,” I remarked.

“And men also,” responded Feo. “Some appear to think that a little mystery adds an additional zest to life.”

Her words were strange ones, and seemed to have been uttered with some abstruse meaning.

“Do you yourself think so?” I inquired, looking earnestly into those bright eyes of clear, childlike blue, that were so plainly indicative of a purity of soul.

“Well, I scarcely know,” she responded, returning my glance unflinchingly. “We all of us have some little mystery or other in our lives, I suppose.”

I had taken her hand in adieu, and was still holding it.

“And are you no exception?”

“Ah! now, Doctor, you’re really too inquisitive.” And she laughed, just a trifle unnaturally I thought, as though I had approached an unwelcome topic.

“Well,” I said smiling, “I won’t press you further; it isn’t fair. Good-bye, and I trust I shall meet both your cousin and yourself at a date not far distant – that is, if I am still in town.”

“Oh, I hope you will be!” exclaimed her ladyship; “I can’t think why doctors go and bury themselves in the country.”

“There are just as many patients in the country districts as in the towns,” I responded. “And in the country one carries on one’s profession amid more congenial surroundings.”

I repeated my farewells, and, with a final and longing glance at my mysterious wife, went forth into the hall, and was let out by the liveried servant.

To approach my wife boldly and demand the truth was, I saw, useless. First I must, by my own careful observation, establish her identity with Beryl Wynd, and, secondly, clear up the mystery of how a woman could be dead and yet still live.

The expression of those clear, honest eyes, the form of the beautiful face, as flawless as that of Titian’s “Flora” in the Tribune of the Uffizzi, the unusual tint of that gold-brown hair were all unmistakable. They set at rest any doubt which arose within me that the woman whose hand I had held was not the same upon whose finger I had placed the wedding-ring. Incredible though it seemed, I had that morning spoken with my unknown wife, and she had not known me. We were strangers, yet united in matrimony.

Mechanically I walked towards Kensington Church in order to take the omnibus back to Hammersmith. My mind was filled with the mystery of my marriage and the reason why the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds had been offered me if I would consent to secretly kill my bride.

Certain it was that I had been the victim of a cunningly devised plot, and further, that the fact of my return to London was known to those who had conspired against me. Therefore, it behoved me to exercise considerable care and caution in the prosecution of my inquiries. The two scoundrels, Wyndham Wynd and Major Tattersett, must, I resolved, be discovered at all hazards, while I must also leave no stone unturned to find out the house in which the marriage had taken place.

The man Wynd had intended that my wife should die, but it was plain that, by some good fortune, she had escaped him. Yet the most curious phase of the affair was that she appeared utterly unconscious of it all.

It struck me that I might, by dint of careful questioning, learn something from Sir Henry’s wife. But she was, I knew, a clever, intelligent woman; and if she held a secret, it would be exceedingly difficult to obtain knowledge of it.

I returned to Rowan Road, and, on entering with my latch-key, found Bob standing in the hall.

“Why, my dear fellow?” he cried; “I had a wire to say you were missing, and so came up to look after you. Where, in the name of fortune, have you been?”

“I’ve been abroad,” I responded vaguely.

“Abroad!” he cried incredulously. “Why? What made you go abroad?”

“I’ll tell you all when we get upstairs,” I answered; and we ascended together to the little den.