Chapter Twenty Seven. The Tempter.

The small-eyed man, to whom I had sold myself that fateful day, caught sight of Beryl, and, raising his grey felt hat in recognition, pulled up, and swung himself down from the trap. I glanced at my love and saw that her face was blanched to the lips. The meeting was, to her, evidently a most unexpected one.

Beneath the seat I saw a well-worn kit-bag, and a gun-case, which showed that he had come on a visit. Smartly dressed in light grey, he wore a button-hole of pink carnations, which gave him an air of gaiety and irresponsibility scarcely in keeping with his age.

“Ah, my dear Miss Wynd!” he cried, advancing to her with outstretched hand. “I’m so delighted to find you here. It is a long time since we met.”

“Yes,” she answered in a voice which trembled with suppressed excitement. “But I had no idea that you were coming down,” she added. “Nora told me nothing.”

“I too had no idea of visiting you, until the day before yesterday,” he said. “I’ve been abroad for nearly a year, and only arrived back in town three days ago, when I found Sir Henry’s, invitation, a month old, lying at my club. I wired to ask if I might still accept it, and here I am.”

He stood with his legs apart, his hat set rather jauntily upon his head, looking an entirely different person to that crabbed, strange old fellow who sat behind the bar of sunlight, with the banknotes in his claw-like fingers, every detail of that scene was as vivid in my memory as though it had occurred but yesterday. Again, I looked into his face. Yes, I had no doubt whatever that it was he.

“I—I am the first to bid you welcome to Atworth,” Beryl said. “Nora has gone over with some of the people to visit the Haywards, at Dodington. There’s a flower-show there.”

“I quite remember,” he exclaimed, “I went over there last year. Lady Dyrham drove us. Do you recollect?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “And how it rained too. My new frock was quite spoilt, and I had a bad cold for a fortnight afterwards. I’m not likely to easily forget that drive home.”

“Because of the spoilt frock?” he laughed, raising his small eyes to me.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what has impressed itself upon my memory. We women are never forgetful where clothes are concerned.”

“And who’s here? Anybody I know?” he inquired.

“Oh, there are the Pirries and the Tiremans, as usual, and, of course, Lady Dyrham,” she answered. Then, a moment later she added, “This is Doctor Colkirk—Mr Ashwicke. Let me introduce you, if you have not already met before.”

“We have not had that pleasure,” said the Tempter, turning to me and raising his hat.

He remained perfectly calm, betraying no sign whatever of recognition. In this I saw an intention on his part to deny all knowledge of our previous acquaintance.

His keen eyes glanced at me quickly, and, as though in that moment he gauged exactly my strength of character, he expressed his pleasure at our meeting, and hoped that we should all spend as pleasant a time as he had done last year.

“Here one has not an hour for leisure,” he laughed. “Sir Henry and his wife are really a wonderful pair as host and hostess. You’ve already found them so, I’ve no doubt.”

“Yes,” I responded mechanically, his marvellous self-control staggering me. “The house-party is a very jolly one.”

“I’ve been abroad,” he went on. “But I’m pleased to be at home again. There’s nothing like an English country house in summer. It is an ideal existence.”

“How long have you been away?” I inquired, anxious to ascertain his tactics.

“Nearly a year. After leaving here last summer, I spent a week in London and then left for Vienna. Afterwards I went south, spending greater part of the winter in Cairo, thence to Bombay, and returned for the late spring in Florence, and afterwards wandered about France, until three days ago I found myself again back in England.”

“And you did not return once during the whole year?” I asked, with affected carelessness.

His small eyes darted quickly to mine, as though in suspicion.

“No,” he responded promptly. “It is almost a year to-day since I was in England.”

Then, noticing Barton waiting with the trap, he ordered him to take the luggage to the house, while all three of us walked up the drive together.

A sudden change had passed over Beryl. She knew this man Ashwicke, her attitude towards him was that of fear. The looks they had exchanged at first meeting were sufficient to convince me that there was some hidden secret between them.

“Nora cannot be aware of your arrival,” Beryl said, as we walked together up the sunny drive to the house. “Otherwise she would either have told me, or she certainly would have remained at home to receive you.”

“Why should she?” he laughed lightly. “Surely we are old enough friends to put aside all ceremony. I’m a rolling stone, as you know, and I hate putting people out.”

“Yes,” she said; “you are a rolling stone, and no mistake. I don’t think any one travels further afield than you do. You seem to be always travelling.”

“I’ve only spent six months in England these last eight years,” he responded. “To me, England is only bearable in August or September. A little shooting, and I’m off again.”

“You only come back because you can’t get decent sport on the Continent?” I said, for want of other observation to make.

“Exactly,” he answered. ”‘La Chasse,’ as the French call it, is never a success across the Channel. Some rich Frenchman started a fox-hunt down at Montigny, in the Seine and Marne, not long ago, and part of the paraphernalia was an ambulance wagon flying the red-cross flag. A fact! I went to the first meet myself.”

“The French are no sportsmen,” I said.

“The same everywhere, all over the Continent. Sport is chic, therefore the get-up of sportsmen must be outrageous and striking. No foreigner enjoys it. He shoots or hunts just because it’s the correct thing to do. Here in England one kills game for the love of the thing. To the Frenchman in patent leather, sport is only a bore.”

He had all the irresponsible air of the true cosmopolitan, yet his assertion that he had been absent from England a year was an unmitigated lie. Knowing this, I was doubtful of all his chatter.

On entering the hall, Beryl, as mistress of the house in her cousin’s absence, rang for the servants and told them to take Mr Ashwicke’s baggage to the same room he had occupied last year, sending Barton round to the kennels to find Sir Henry and inform him of the arrival of his guest.

In the meantime, Ashwicke had tossed his hat aside, and seated himself cross-legged, in one of the low cane-chairs, making himself thoroughly at home.

“Well,” he said, stretching himself, “it is really very pleasant, Miss Wynd, to be here once again. I have so many pleasant recollections of last year—when I spent three weeks with you. What a merry time we had!”

“I hope you’ll remain here longer this time,” she said in a dry, unnatural voice.

“You’re awfully kind—awfully kind,” he answered.

“I always enjoy myself under Sir Henry’s roof, both here and in town.”

The baronet entered, and the greeting between the two men was a cordial one.

“You’ll forgive me, Ashwicke, won’t you?” Sir Henry said a moment later. “I quite forgot to tell my wife, and she’s gone off to the flower-show at Dodington; must support the local things, you know.”

“Of course, of course,” responded the other. “I quite understand, and I know I’m welcome.”

“That you certainly are,” Sir Henry said, turning and ordering the man to bring whisky and sodas. “Let’s see, the last letter I had from you was from Alexandria, back in the Spring. Where have you been since then?”

“Oh, knocking about here and there, as usual. I can’t stay long in one place, you know. It’s a bad complaint I have.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you—very glad,” the baronet declared heartily. “I hope you’ll stay some time. Have you brought your gun?”

“Of course,” the other laughed. “I shouldn’t think, of coming to Atworth without it.”

While they were chatting thus, I looked at him, recalling every feature. Yes, it was the same face, scarcely perhaps the same sinister countenance as it had appeared to me on that well-remembered day, but nevertheless the face of the Tempter.

I lounged back in my chair, close to that of my well-beloved, filled with wonderment.

That the new-comer recognised me was certain, for I had been introduced by name. And that he had been unaware of my presence as guest there was equally certain. Yet he had, on encountering us together, preserved a self-control little short of marvellous.

I glanced at Beryl. She was sitting listening to the conversation of the two men, and regarding Ashwicke covertly from beneath her lashes. I knew by her manner that, although she had outwardly affected pleasure at his arrival, she, in her heart, regarded him as an enemy. He, on his part, however, was perfectly confident, and sat sipping his drink and laughing merrily with his host.

What, I wondered, was passing within Beryl’s mind. She knew this man as Ashwicke, while I knew him as her own father, Wyndham Wynd. The latter were evidently a name and position both assumed, and, after all, as he sat there with the easy refined air of a gentleman, I could scarcely believe him to be an adventurer. Surely Sir Henry knew him well, or they would not be on terms of such intimate friendship.

But now I had discovered him, I meant, at all hazards, to probe the truth.

Beryl, who had spoken but little after Sir Henry’s entrance, rose at last, announcing her intention of going out beneath the trees again. Her words conveyed an invitation to accompany her; therefore I strolled out at her side, anxious to learn from her what I could regarding the man to whom she had introduced me.

How curiously events occur in our lives. Many of the ordinary circumstances of everyday existence which we pass by unnoticed seem to be governed by some laws of which we have absolutely no knowledge whatever. Reader, in your own life, there has occurred some strange combinations of circumstances quite unaccountable, yet by them the whole course of your existence has been altered. You may have noticed them, or you may not. You may call it Fate, or you may be a follower of that shadowy religion called Luck, yet it remains the same—the unexpected always happens.

Who indeed would have expected that my wife herself would have introduced me to the man who had so cleverly baited the trap into which I had fallen? And yet it is always so. There is a mysterious all-ruling spirit of perversity ever at work in that complicated series of events which go to make up what we term life.

“You were telling me that you know my husband,” she said quickly, as we crossed the grass together. “Our conversation was interrupted by that man’s arrival.”

Such reference to the new-comer showed me that she was not well-disposed towards him.

“Do you know,” I said, “I believe that we’ve met somewhere before. I know his face.”

“Possibly. But why Sir Henry should have invited him here again, I can’t imagine.”

“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?