In White Raiment

“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.