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.”

“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?”

“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!