In White Raiment

“Was his company so disagreeable?” I asked.

“Disagreeable?” she echoed. “He is detestable.”

“Why?”

“Oh, for many reasons,” she responded ambiguously; “I have never liked him.”

“He says that he is always abroad,” I remarked. “But I’m confident that we have met somewhere in England.”

“He did not apparently recognise you, when I introduced you.”

“No. He didn’t wish to. The circumstances of our meeting were not such as to leave behind any pleasant recollections.”

“But you told me that you knew the identity of my husband,” she said, after a pause, as we strolled together in the shadow of the great oaks. “Were you really serious?”

“No, I was not serious,” I answered quickly, for the unexpected arrival of this man who called himself Ashwicke, and whose name appeared in the London Directory as occupier of the house in Queen’s-gate Gardens, caused me to hesitate to tell her the truth. The manner in which they had met made it quite plain that some secret understanding existed between them. It seemed possible that this man had actually occupied the house before the present owner, Mrs Stentiford.

“Then why did you say such a thing?” she asked, in a tone of reproach. “My position is no matter for joking.”

“Certainly not,” I hastened to declare. “Believe me, Miss Wynd, that you have all my sympathy. You are unfortunately unique as one who is married and yet without knowledge either of her husband or his name.”

“Yes,” she sighed, a dark shadow of despair crossing her handsome face. “There is a shadow of evil ever upon me, just as puzzling and mysterious as the chill touch of that unseen influence which at intervals strikes both of us.”

“And the presence of this man adds to your uneasiness. Is that not so?”

She nodded, but no word escaped her.

“I noticed when you met and he descended from the trap that he was not your friend.”

“What caused you to suspect that?” she inquired quickly.

“The man’s face betrayed his feeling towards you. He is your enemy.”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, as though carefully weighing each word; “he is my enemy – my bitterest enemy.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a firm suspicion that he has discovered the secret of my marriage – that he alone knows who my unknown husband really is.”

And turning her wonderful eyes to mine, her troubled breast slowly rose and fell.

When, oh, when should I succeed in solving the maddening problem and be free to make confession of the truth?

Chapter Twenty Eight

Sought Out

With untiring astuteness I watched every movement of the new-comer, but detected nothing suspicious in his actions. We lunched together, only five of us, the others being away at Dodington, and were a merry party. The man with the small eyes was excellent company, full of witty sayings and droll stories, and was really an acquisition to our party.

Yet I noticed that he spoke little with Beryl, as, though some secret understanding existed between them. And when he did address her she answered him vacantly, as though her thoughts were afar off.

That night, on the return of the party from the flower-show, his arrival was hailed with delight. At all events he was a very popular person at Atworth. He seemed rejuvenated since we had last met, and appeared fully twenty years younger than on the night when he had tempted me.

I had many chats with him. I played him at billiards, and was afterwards his partner at whist before we parted for the night. I did this in order to put him off his guard, if possible, and to induce him to believe that I had not recognised him. I had not yet decided how to act.

When at midnight I left my companions, entered my room, and closed the door, that strange, weird influence again made itself felt upon me. My lower limbs became benumbed, my blood seemed frozen in my veins.

I stood glancing around the bedroom in fear and wondering. There was nothing supernatural there, and yet this unseen influence was as the finger of Evil. The strange sensation was not of long duration, but gradually faded until I found myself in my normal state. I tested my temperature with my thermometer, and saw that I had just a slight tendency to fever – due, I supposed, to alarm and excitement.

Then, having satisfied myself that my motor nerves, which had become partially paralysed, had regained their strength, and that the sensitive portion of the spinal nervous system, that had been affected, had returned to its normal capacity, I turned in and tried to sleep.

I say I tried to sleep, but I think, if the truth were told, I did not try. My brain was too perturbed by the events of that day. Beneath that very roof the Tempter was actually sleeping. I had shaken his hand, and played billiards with him. Truly, I had been patient in my efforts to analyse and dissect the various complications of that extraordinary mystery.

At sunrise I dressed, and on stepping from my room out into the fresh air of the corridor, I again felt that bewildering influence upon me, quite distinctly; yet not so strong as to cause me any inconvenience. The feeling was a kind of cold, creepy one, without any sudden shock.

During the day I lounged at Beryl’s side, endeavouring to obtain from her the truth of her midnight escapade. But she would tell me absolutely nothing. The man who had posed as her father was undoubtedly her enemy, and she held him in deadly fear. It was this latter fact that caused me at last to make a resolution, and in the idle hour before the dressing-bell went for dinner, I contrived to stroll alone with him out across the park.

With a good cigar between his lips, he walked as jauntily as a man of twenty, notwithstanding his grey hairs. He laughed and chatted merrily, recounting to me all the fun of last year’s house-party, with its ill-natured chatter and its summer flirtations.

Suddenly, when we were a long way from the house, skirting the quiet lake that lay deep in a hollow surrounded by a small wood, I turned to him resolutely, saying —

“Do you know that I have a distinct recollection that we have met before?”

He started almost imperceptibly, and glanced at me quickly with his small round eyes.

“I think not,” he answered. “Not, at least, to my knowledge.”

“Defects of memory are sometimes useful,” I replied. “Cannot you recall the twenty-fourth of July?”

“The twenty-fourth of July,” he repeated reflectively. “No. There is no event which fixes the date in my memory.”

His face had grown older. The light of youthfulness had gone out of it, leaving it the grey, ashen countenance of the Tempter.

“You were in London on that date,” I asserted.

“No. I was in Alexandria. I sailed from there on the twenty-second.”

“Then, at the outset, you deny that you were in London on the date I have mentioned? Good! Well, I will go a step further in order to refresh your memory. On that July night you met your friend, Tattersett.”

“My dear fellow,” he cried, laughing outright, “I have no idea of what you’re driving at. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“No,” I answered angrily, “I have not, fortunately for myself. Therefore it is useless to deny the truth.”

“I am not denying the truth,” he replied. “I am denying the extraordinary assertion you are making.”

“Because you fear to face the truth.”

“I fear nothing,” he responded defiantly. “What, in Heaven’s name, have I to fear?”