In White Raiment

“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?”