Chapter Twenty Three
A Counter-Plot
“I have no knowledge yet of who the woman is,” responded Hoefer, in answer to my question. “I only know that her name is La Gioia. But you are aware of her identity, it seems.”
“No; like yourself, I only know her name.”
He glanced at me rather curiously through his big spectacles, and I knew that he doubted my words. I pressed him to explain by what means he had made the discovery, but his answers were ambiguous. In brief, he believed that I knew more than I really did, and therefore declined to tell me anything. He was extremely eccentric, this queer old dabbler in the occult, and I well knew that, having once adopted a plan in the pursuit of an inquiry, no power on earth would induce him to deviate from it.
Fully an hour I remained in that atmosphere full of poisonous fumes, watching a further but futile analysis that he made, and afterwards took my leave of him.
I went back to Bayswater, wrote a letter of resignation to the doctor who had employed me, and then went forth again upon my round of visits. The practice was large and scattered, and several cases were critical ones, therefore it was not until nearly eight o’clock that I returned again, fagged and hungry, only to find the waiting-room filled with club patients and others.
The irregularity of meals is one of the chief discomforts of a busy doctor’s life. I snatched a few moments to swallow my soup, and then entered the surgery and sat there until past nine ere I could commence dinner.
Then, over my coffee and a pipe, I sat at ease, thinking over the many occurrences of the day. Truly it had been an eventful one – the turning-point of my life. I had telegraphed to my mother, telling her of my good fortune, and, in response, received her hearty congratulations. One of the chief gratifications which the thousand pounds had brought to me was the fact that, for a year or so, she would not feel the absolute pinch of poverty as she had done through so long past.
And I was invited to Atworth! I should there have an opportunity of being always at the side of the woman I loved so madly, and perhaps be enabled to penetrate the veil of mystery with which she was surrounded. I was suspicious of the baronet’s wife – suspicious because she had made her first call upon me under such curious circumstances. How did she know me? and for what reason had she sought my acquaintance?
She had endeavoured to flirt with me. Faugh! Her beauty, her smartness, and her clever woman’s wiles might have turned the heads of the majority of men. But I loved Beryl, and she was mine – mine!
Reader, I have taken you entirely into my confidence, and I am laying bare to you my secret. Need I tell you how maddening the enigma had now become, how near I always seemed to some solution and yet how far off the truth? Place yourself in my position for a single moment – adoring the woman who, although she was actually my wife, was yet ignorant of the fact; and I dare not tell her the truth lest she might hold me in suspicion as one of those who had conspired against her. So far from the problem being, solved, each day rendered it more intricate and more inscrutable, until the continual weight upon my mind drove me to despair. Hence my anxiety for the days to pass in order that I might journey down to Atworth.
At last, on a close, overcast afternoon in the middle of September, when the hot sun seemed unable to penetrate the heavy veil of London smoke and the air was suffocating, I left Paddington, and, in due course, found myself upon the platform of the wayside station of Corsham, close to the entrance to the Box tunnel, where Sir Henry and his wife awaited me. The former was a tall, smart-looking, elderly man with grey hair and a well-trimmed grey beard, who, on our introduction, greeted me most cordially, expressing a hope that I should have “a good time” with them. I liked him at once; his face was open and honest, and his hand-grip was sincere.
We mounted the smart dogcart, and, leaving my baggage to the servant, drove out into the high-road which ran over the hills, looming purple in the golden sunset haze, to Trowbridge. Five miles through that picturesque, romantic district – one of the fairest in England – skirting the Monk’s Park, crossing the old Roman Road between Bath and London, and having ascended the ridge of the steep known as Corsham Side, we descended again through the little old-fashioned village of Atworth by a road which brought us, at last, to the lodge of the Hall. Then, entering the drive, we drove up to the fine old Tudor mansion, low and comfortable looking, with its long façade almost overgrown with ivy. One of “the stately homes of England,” it stood commanding a view of the whole range of the Wiltshire hills, the trees and park now bathed in the violets of the afterglow.
From the great hall the guests came forth to meet us in old English welcome, and, as I descended, Beryl herself, fresh in a pink cotton blouse and short cycling skirt, was the first to take my hand.
“At last, Doctor Colkirk!” she cried. “We’re all awfully delighted to see you.”
Our eyes met, and I saw in hers a look of genuine welcome.
“You are very kind,” I answered. “The pleasure is, I assure you, quite mutual.”
Then my host introduced me to all the others.
The house, built in the form of a square, with a large courtyard in the centre, was much larger than it appeared from the exterior. The hall, filled as it was with curios and trophies of the chase – for the baronet was a keen sportsman, and his wife, too, was an excellent shot – formed a comfortable lounge. My host and hostess had travelled widely in India and the East, and most of the Atworth collection had been acquired during their visits to the Colonies. The room assigned to me was a bright pleasant one, clean, with old-fashioned chintzes, while from the deep window I could see across the lawn and the deep glen beyond, away over the winding Avon to the darkening hills.
At dinner I was placed next my hostess, with Beryl on my left. The latter wore a striking gown of turquoise blue, which, cut low at the neck, suited her admirably. Her wonderful gold-brown hair had evidently been arranged by a practised maid; but, as I turned to her, before she seated herself, I saw, at her throat, an object which caused me to start in surprise; suspended by a thin gold chain around her neck, a small ornament in diamonds, an exact replica of that curious little charm, shaped like a note of interrogation, which I had taken from her on the fateful day of our marriage, which I wore around my own neck at the moment. As I looked it sparkled and flashed with a thousand brilliant fires. Could that strange little device convey any hidden meaning? It was curious that, having lost one, she should wear another exactly similar.
We sat down together chatting merrily. The baronet’s wife was in black lace, her white throat and arms gleaming through the transparency, while her corsage was relieved by crimson carnations. Around the table, too, were several other striking dresses, for the majority of the guests were young, and the house-party was a decidedly smart one. The meal, too, was served with a stateliness which characterised everything in the household of the Pierrepoint-Lanes.
I watched my love carefully, and saw, by her slightly flushed cheeks, that my arrival gave her the utmost satisfaction.
It was in the drawing-room afterwards, when we were sitting together, that I inquired if she had entirely recovered.
“Oh, entirely,” she replied. “It was extraordinary, was it not? Do you know whether Doctor Hoefer has visited the house again?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “He’s so very secret in all his doings. He will tell me nothing – save one thing.”
“One thing – what is that?”
“He has discovered the identity of your visitor in black.”
“He has?” she cried quickly. “Who was she?”
“A woman whom he called by a curious foreign name,” I said, watching Beryl’s face the while. “I think he said she was known amongst her intimates as La Gioia.”
The light died in an instant from her face.
“La Gioia!” she gasped. “And he knows her?”
“I presume that, as a result of his inquiries, he has made this discovery. His shrewdness is something marvellous; he has succeeded in many cases where the cleverest detectives have utterly failed.”
“But how can he have found her?” she went on, greatly agitated by my statement.
“I have no idea. I only tell you this just as he made the announcement to me – without any explanation.”
She was silent, her eyes downcast. The ornament at her throat caught the light and glittered. My words had utterly upset her.
“I must tell Nora,” she said briefly, at last.
“But I presume that you know this person called La Gioia?” I remarked.
“Know her?” she gasped, looking up at me quickly. “Know her? How should I know her?”
“Because she visited you as a messenger from the friend whose name you refused to tell me.”
“I did not know it was her?” she declared wildly. “I cannot think that it was actually that woman.”
“You have, then, a reason for wishing not to meet her?”
“I have never met her,” she declared in a hard voice. “I do not believe she was actually that woman?”
“I have merely told you Hoefer’s statement,” I answered. “I know nothing of who or what she is; the name sounds as though she were an actress.”
“Did he tell you anything else?” she demanded. “Not another word beyond what you have already said?”
“He only told me that he had discovered her identity.”
“He has not found out her motive in visiting me?” she cried quickly.
“Not yet – as far as I am aware.”
She breathed more freely. That she desired to preserve the secret of this woman, whom she feared, was plain, but for what reason it was impossible to guess. Indeed, from her attitude, it seemed very much as though she were actually aware that her visitor and La Gioia were one and the same person. I saw by the twitching of her lips that she was nervous, and knew that she now regretted allowing Hoefer to prosecute his inquiries into the curious phenomena.
As I sat there with her, feasting my eyes upon her peerless beauty, I thought it all over, and arrived at the conclusion that, to discover the truth, I must remain patient and watchful, and never for a single instant show “my hand.”
I was suspicious of the baronet’s wife, and regarded her rather as an enemy than as a friend. She had forced herself upon me with some ulterior motive, which, although not yet apparent, would, I felt confident, be some day revealed.
Fortunately, at that moment, a smart woman in a cream gown went to the piano and began to play the overture from Adams’ Poupée de Nuremburg, rendering silence imperative. And afterwards, at my suggestion, my wife and I strolled along to the billiard-room, where we joined a party playing pool. She handled her cue quite cleverly, for a woman, and was frequently applauded for her strokes.
Of the agitation caused by my words not a single trace now remained. She was as gay, merry, and reckless as the others; indeed, she struck me as the very soul of the whole party. There was a smartness about her, without that annoying air of mannishness, which has, alas! developed among girls nowadays, and all that she did was full of that graceful sweetness so typically English.
The billiard-room echoed with laughter, again and again, for the game proved an exciting one, and the men of the party were, of course, gallant to the ladies in their play. There was a careless freedom in it all that was most enjoyable. The baronet was altogether an excellent fellow, eager to amuse everybody. What, I wondered, would he say if he knew of the vagaries of his smart wife, namely, that instead of visiting her relatives, she had run up to London for some purpose unknown? One fact was plain to me before I had been an hour in his house: he allowed her absolute and complete liberty.
We chatted together, sipping our whiskies between our turns at the game, and I found him a true type of the courteous, easy-going English gentlemen. I cannot, even to-day, tell what had prejudiced me against his wife, but somehow I did not like her. My distrust was a vague, undefined one, and I could not account for it.
She was eager to entertain me, it was true, anxious for my comfort, merry, full of smart sayings, and altogether a clever and tactful hostess. Nevertheless, I could not get away from the distinct feeling that I had been invited there with some ulterior motive.
The thought was a curious one, and it troubled me, not only that evening, but far into the silent night, as I lay awake striving to form some theory, but ever in vain.
Of one thing alone I felt absolutely assured – I am quick to distinguish the smallest signs, and I had not failed to become impressed by the truth I had read in her eyes that night – she was not sincere, she was plotting against me. I knew it, and regretted that I had accepted her invitation.
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!