In White Raiment

“Know her?” she gasped, looking up at me quickly. “Know her? How should I know her?”

“Because she visited you as a messenger from the friend whose name you refused to tell me.”

“I did not know it was her?” she declared wildly. “I cannot think that it was actually that woman.”

“You have, then, a reason for wishing not to meet her?”

“I have never met her,” she declared in a hard voice. “I do not believe she was actually that woman?”

“I have merely told you Hoefer’s statement,” I answered. “I know nothing of who or what she is; the name sounds as though she were an actress.”

“Did he tell you anything else?” she demanded. “Not another word beyond what you have already said?”

“He only told me that he had discovered her identity.”

“He has not found out her motive in visiting me?” she cried quickly.

“Not yet – as far as I am aware.”

She breathed more freely. That she desired to preserve the secret of this woman, whom she feared, was plain, but for what reason it was impossible to guess. Indeed, from her attitude, it seemed very much as though she were actually aware that her visitor and La Gioia were one and the same person. I saw by the twitching of her lips that she was nervous, and knew that she now regretted allowing Hoefer to prosecute his inquiries into the curious phenomena.

As I sat there with her, feasting my eyes upon her peerless beauty, I thought it all over, and arrived at the conclusion that, to discover the truth, I must remain patient and watchful, and never for a single instant show “my hand.”

I was suspicious of the baronet’s wife, and regarded her rather as an enemy than as a friend. She had forced herself upon me with some ulterior motive, which, although not yet apparent, would, I felt confident, be some day revealed.

Fortunately, at that moment, a smart woman in a cream gown went to the piano and began to play the overture from Adams’ Poupée de Nuremburg, rendering silence imperative. And afterwards, at my suggestion, my wife and I strolled along to the billiard-room, where we joined a party playing pool. She handled her cue quite cleverly, for a woman, and was frequently applauded for her strokes.

Of the agitation caused by my words not a single trace now remained. She was as gay, merry, and reckless as the others; indeed, she struck me as the very soul of the whole party. There was a smartness about her, without that annoying air of mannishness, which has, alas! developed among girls nowadays, and all that she did was full of that graceful sweetness so typically English.

The billiard-room echoed with laughter, again and again, for the game proved an exciting one, and the men of the party were, of course, gallant to the ladies in their play. There was a careless freedom in it all that was most enjoyable. The baronet was altogether an excellent fellow, eager to amuse everybody. What, I wondered, would he say if he knew of the vagaries of his smart wife, namely, that instead of visiting her relatives, she had run up to London for some purpose unknown? One fact was plain to me before I had been an hour in his house: he allowed her absolute and complete liberty.

We chatted together, sipping our whiskies between our turns at the game, and I found him a true type of the courteous, easy-going English gentlemen. I cannot, even to-day, tell what had prejudiced me against his wife, but somehow I did not like her. My distrust was a vague, undefined one, and I could not account for it.

She was eager to entertain me, it was true, anxious for my comfort, merry, full of smart sayings, and altogether a clever and tactful hostess. Nevertheless, I could not get away from the distinct feeling that I had been invited there with some ulterior motive.

The thought was a curious one, and it troubled me, not only that evening, but far into the silent night, as I lay awake striving to form some theory, but ever in vain.

Of one thing alone I felt absolutely assured – I am quick to distinguish the smallest signs, and I had not failed to become impressed by the truth I had read in her eyes that night – she was not sincere, she was plotting against me. I knew it, and regretted that I had accepted her invitation.

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.”