In White Raiment

For answer she burst again into a flood of tears, and I, with mad passion, covered her white brow with hot kisses while she clung to me – my love, my wife.

Ah! when I reflect upon the ecstasy of those moments – how I kissed her sweet lips, and she, in return, responded to my tender caresses, how she clung to me as though shrinking in fear from the world about her, how her heart beat quickly in unison with my own, I feel that I cannot properly convey here a sufficient sense of my wild delight. It is enough to say that in those tender moments I knew that I had won the most beautiful and graceful woman I had ever beheld – a woman who was peerless above all – and that she was already my wife. The man who reads this narrative, and whose own love has been reciprocated after long waiting, as mine has been, can alone understand the blissful happiness that came to me and the complete joy that filled my heart.

We stood lost in the ecstasies of each other’s love, heedless of time, heedless of those who might discover us, heedless of everything. The remembrance of that hour remains with me to-day like a pleasant dream, a foretaste of the bliss of paradise.

Many were the questions that I asked and answered, many our declarations of affection and of fidelity. Our marriage had been made by false contract on that fateful day, months before, but that night, beneath the shining stars, we exchanged solemn vows before God as man and wife.

I endeavoured to obtain from her some facts regarding Ashwicke and his accomplice, Tattersett, but what she knew seemed very unsatisfactory. I related to her the whole of the curious circumstances of our marriage, just as I have recounted it in the opening chapters of my narrative, seeking neither to suppress nor exaggerate any of the singular incidents.

Then, at last, she made confession – a strange amazing confession which held me dumb.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Put to the Test

“I remember very little of the events of that day,” my love said, with some reluctance. “I know Ashwicke, he having been a guest here last year, and a frequent visitor at Gloucester Square. With Nora and Sir Henry I returned to London in early May, after wintering in Florence, and one morning at the end of June I met Major Tattersett unexpectedly in the Burlington. He told me that his sister and niece from Scotland were visiting him at his house in Queen’s-gate Gardens, and invited me to call and make their acquaintance.”

“Had you never been to his house previously?”

“Never. He, however, gave me an invitation to luncheon for the twenty-fourth of July, which I accepted. On arrival I found the Major; his sister and his niece were out shopping, therefore I sat alone awaiting them in the drawing-room, when of a sudden I experienced for the first time that curious sensation of being frozen. I tried to move, but was unable. I cried out for help, but no one came. My limbs were stiff and rigid as though I were struck by paralysis, while the pain was excruciating. I fought against unconsciousness, but my last clear recollection of those agonising moments was of an indistinct, sinister face peering into mine. All then became strangely distorted. The balance of my brain became inverted and I lost my will-power, being absolutely helpless in the hands of those who directed my movements. I could not hold back, for all my actions were mechanical, obeying those around me. I remember being dressed for the wedding, the journey to the church, my meeting with my future husband – whose face, however, I was unable to afterwards recall – the service, and the return. Then came a perfect blank.”

“And afterwards?”

“Night had fallen when I returned to my senses, and the strange sensation of intense cold generally left me. I looked around, and, to my amazement, saw the pale moon high in the sky. My head was resting upon something hard, which I gradually made out to be a wooden seat. Then, when I sat up, I became aware of the bewildering truth – that I was lying upon one of the seats in Hyde Park.”

“In Hyde Park? And you had been placed there while in a state of unconsciousness?”

“Yes. Upon my finger I found a wedding-ring. Was it possible, I wondered, that I was actually married to some unknown man?”

“You saw nothing of Ashwicke?”

“I saw no one except the maid-servant who showed me into the drawing-room, and cannot in the least account for the strange sensation which held me helpless in the hands of my enemies. I saw the man I married at the church, but so mistily that I did not recognise you when we met again.”

“But you knew the house in Queen’s-gate Gardens. Did you not afterwards return there, and seek an explanation of Tattersett?”

“On discovering my whereabouts I rose and walked across the park to Gloucester Square. It was then nearly one o’clock in the morning, but Nora was sitting up in anxiety as to what had become of me. I had, however, taken the ring from my finger, and to her told a fictitious story to account for my tardy return. Two days later I returned to the house to which Tattersett had invited me, but on inquiry found, to my amazement, that it was really occupied by a lady named Stentiford, who was abroad, while the man left in charge knew nothing whatever either of the Major or of his sister and niece. I told him how I had visited there two days previously, but he laughed incredulously; and when I asked for the maid-servant who had admitted me, he said that no maid had been left there by Mrs Stentiford. In prosecution of my inquiries I sought to discover the register of my marriage, but, not knowing the parish in which it had taken place, my search at Somerset House was fruitless. They told me that the registers were not made up there until six months or so after the ceremony.”

“You did not apply at Doctors’ Commons?”

“No,” she responded; “I thought the entry would be at Somerset House.”

“What previous knowledge had you of the Major?”

“He was a friend of Ashwicke’s, who had been introduced to us one night in the stalls at Daly’s. He afterwards dined several times at Gloucester Square.”

“But Sir Henry does not know him.”

“It was while he was away at the Cape.”

“Then you have not the faintest idea of the reason of our extraordinary marriage, darling?” I asked, holding her hand. “I have told you all that actually occurred. Can you form no conclusion whatever as to the motive?”

“Absolutely none,” she answered. “I am as utterly in the dark as yourself. I cannot understand why you were selected as my husband.”

“But you do not regret?” I asked tenderly.

“Regret? No,” she repeated, raising her beautiful face to mine, perfect in its loveliness and purity. “I do not regret now, Richard – because I love you.” And our lips met again in fervent tenderness.

“It is still an absolute mystery,” I observed at last. “We know that we are wedded, but there our knowledge ends.”

“We have both been victims of a plot,” she responded. “If we could but discern the motive, then we might find some clue to lead us to the truth.”

“But there is a woman called La Gioia,” I said; and, continuing, explained my presence in the park at Whitton, and the conversation I had overheard between herself and Tattersett.

Her hand, still in mine, trembled perceptibly, and I saw that I had approached a subject distasteful to her.

“Yes,” she admitted at last, in a hard, strange voice, “it is true that he wrote making an appointment to meet me in the park that night. I kept it because I wished to ascertain the truth regarding my marriage. But he would tell me nothing; he only urged me to secure my own safety because La Gioia had returned.”

“And who is La Gioia?”

“My enemy – my bitterest enemy.”

“Can you tell me nothing else?” I asked in a tone of slight reproach.

“I know nothing else. I do not know who or what she is, or where she lives. I only know that she is my unseen evil genius.”

“But you have seen her. She called upon you on that evening at Gloucester Square when she assumed the character of your dressmaker, and a few nights ago she was here – in this house.”

“Here?” she echoed in alarm. “Impossible!”

Then I related how I had seen her, and how her evil influence had fallen upon me when afterwards I had entered my room.

“The thing is actually beyond belief,” she declared. “Do you really think you were not mistaken?”

“Most assuredly I was not. It was the woman who called upon you in London. But you have not told me the reason you were absent from your room that night.” She was silent for a few moments, then answered, “I met Tattersett. He demanded that I should meet him, as he wished to speak with me secretly. I did so.”

“Why did he wish to see you?”

“In order to prove to me that he had no hand in the tragic affair at Whitton. I had suspected all along that he was responsible for the Colonel’s death, and my opinion has not altered. I begged him to tell me the reason of the plot against me, the motive of my marriage, and the identity of my husband. But he refused point-blank, telling me to ask La Gioia, who knew everything.”

“Have you no idea of her whereabouts?”

“None whatever.”

“If we could but find her,” I said, “she might tell us something. Ah! if we could but find her.”

My love was trembling. Her heart was filled to overflowing with the mystery of it all. Yet I knew that she loved me – yes, she loved me.

How long we lingered there upon the terrace I know not, but it was late ere we re-entered the drawing-room. Who among those assembled guests would have dreamt the truth – we were man and wife!