In White Raiment
Page 27
he had tried to dissuade me from following up theslight clue I had obtained. With what motive? This man, whom I hadbelieved was my friend, had played me false.
The discovery was as a blow that staggered me.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
TWO HEARTS.
The truth was plain. Bob Raymond, the man whom I had believed to be myfriend, had endeavoured to dissuade me from following up the clue I hadobtained, fearing lest I should discover the whole of the strangeconspiracy.
I pressed him for an explanation of how he had been able to recogniseher, but with marvellous tact he answered--
"Oh, I recognised her from your descriptions, you know."
Frankly I did not believe it. Whether he had a personal acquaintancewith her or not, it was nevertheless manifest that she was actually inLondon at a time when she was believed to be at Atworth; and further,that not knowing of my change of address, had been in search of me.
Why had she not rung the bell and inquired? There seemed but a singleanswer to that question; because she feared to meet Bob!
I scented suspicion. In our conversation that followed I detected, onhis part, a strenuous determination to evade any explanation. That hewas actually acquainted with Beryl was apparent. Perhaps, even, he knewthe truth regarding my strange marriage, and, from motives of his own,refused to tell me.
Anger arose within me, but I preserved a diplomatic calm, striving toworm his secret from him. Either he would not or could not tell meanything. In that hour of affluence, after all the penury of pastyears, I was perhaps a trifle egotistical, as men who suddenly receivean unexpected legacy are apt to be. Money has a greater influence uponour temperament or disposition than even love. A few paltry pounds cantransform this earth of ours from a hell into a paradise.
I drained my glass, flung my cigarette end into the empty grate, andleft my friend with a rather abrupt farewell.
"You'll let me know if you elicit anything further?" he urged.
"Of course," I answered, although such was not my intention. Then Iwent forth walking out to the Hammersmith Road.
The noon was stifling--one of those hot, close, oven-cast days of theLondon summer--when I was shown into the drawing-room of GloucesterSquare, and, after the lapse of a few minutes, my love came forwardgladly to meet me.
"It's awfully kind of you to call, Doctor," she exclaimed, offering herthin little hand--that hand that on the previous night had been so stiffand cold. "Nora is out, but I expect her in again every moment. She'sgone to the Stores to order things to be sent up to Atworth."
"And how do you feel?" I inquired, as she seated herself upon a lowsilken lounge-chair and stretched out her tiny foot, neat in its patentleather slipper with large steel buckle.
She looked cool and fresh in a gown of white muslin relieved with a dashof Nile-green silk at the throat and waist.
"Oh, I am so much better," she declared. "Except for a slight headache,I feel no ill effects of last night's extraordinary attack."
I asked permission to feel her pulse, and found it beating with theregularity of a person in normal health.
As I held her white wrist, her deep clear eyes met mine. In her purewhite clinging drapery, with her gold-brown hair making thehalf-darkened room bright, with her red lips parted in a tender andsolemn smile, with something like a halo about her of youth and ardour,she was a vision so entrancing that, as I gazed at her, my heart grewheavy with an aching consciousness of her perfection. And yet she wasactually my wife!
I stammered satisfaction that she had recovered so entirely from thestrange seizure, and her eyes opened widely, as though in wonder at myinarticulate words.
"Yes," she said, "the affair was most extraordinary. I cannot imaginewhat horrid mystery is concealed within that room."
"Nor I," I responded. "Has Doctor Hoefer been here yet?"
"Oh yes," she laughed; "he came at nine o'clock, opened the room,entered, and was seized again, but only slightly. He used the same drugas last night, and quickly recovered. For about an hour he remained,and then left. He's such a queer old fellow," she added, with a laugh;"I don't think he uttered a dozen words during the whole time."
"No," I said; "his habit is to give vent to those expressive grunts.When interested his mind seems always so actively centred upon thematter under investigation that to speak is an effort. But tell me," Iurged, glancing into those pure, honest eyes, "have you ever experiencedbefore such a seizure as that last night?"
She turned rather pale, I thought: this direct question seemed not easyto answer.
"I was ill once," she responded, with hesitation, yet with sweet,simple, girlish tenderness. "One day, some little time ago, I suddenlyfell unconscious, and seemed to dream all sorts of absurd and grotesquethings."
Did she refer to the fateful day of our marriage?
"Were you quite unconscious on that occasion?" I asked quickly, "orwere you aware, in a hazy manner, of what was going on around you, asyou were last night?"
A wild hope sprang up in my heart. Was it possible that she wouldreveal to me her secret?
"I think," she answered, "that my condition then was very similar tothat of last night; I recollect quite well being unable to move my limbsor to lift a finger. Every muscle seemed paralysed, while, at the sametime, I went as cold as ice, just as though I were frozen to death.Indeed, a horrible dread took possession of me lest my friends shouldallow me to be buried alive."
"You were in a kind of cataleptic state," I remarked. "Who were thesefriends?"
Her great eyes were lifted. They were full of depths unfathomable evento my intense love.
"I was practically unconscious, therefore I do not know who was present;I only heard voices."
"Of whom?"
"Of men talking."
"Could you not recognise them?"
"No," she answered, in a low tone; "they were dream-voices, strange andweird--sounding afar off."
"What did they say?"
"I cannot tell, only I recollect that I thought I was in church; I had acurious dream."
Again she hesitated. Her voice had suddenly fallen so that I couldscarcely make out the sound of the last word.
"What did you dream? The vagaries of the brain sometimes give us a clueto the nature of such seizures."
"I dreamed that I was wedded," she responded, in a low, unnatural voice.
The next instant she seemed to realise what she had said. With a startof terror she drew herself away from me.
"Wedded? To whom?"
"I do not know," she replied, with a queer laugh. "Of course, it was amere dream; I saw no one."
"But you heard voices?"
"They were so distorted as to be indistinguishable," she repliedreadily.
"Are you absolutely certain that the marriage was only a dream?" Iasked, looking her straight in the face.
A flash of indignant surprise passed across her features, now pale asmarble; her lips were slightly parted, her large full eyes were fixedupon me steadfastly, and her fingers pressed themselves into the palmsof her hands.
"I don't understand you, Doctor!" she said at length, after a pause ofthe most awkward duration. "Of course I am not married?"
"I regret if you take my words as an insinuation," I said hastily.
"It was a kind of dream," she declared. "Indeed, I think that I was ina sort of delirium and imagined it all, for when I recovered completelyI found myself here, in my own room, with Nora at my side."
"And where were you when you were taken ill?"
"In the house of a friend."
"May I not know the name?" I inquired.
"It is a name with which you are not acquainted," she assured me. "Thehouse at which I was visiting was in Queen's-gate Gardens."
Queen's-gate Gardens! Then she was telling the truth!
"And you have no knowledge of how you came to be back here in yourcousin's house?"
"None whatever. I tell you that I was entirely unconscious."
"And you are certain that the symptoms on that day were the same asthose which we all experienced last night? You felt frozen to death?"
"Yes," she responded, lying back in her chair, sighing rather wearilyand passing her hand across her aching brow.
There was a deep silence. We could hear the throbbing of each other'sheart. At last she looked up tremblingly, with an expression ofundissembled pain, saying--
"The truth is, Doctor, it was an absolute mystery, just as were theevents of last night--a mystery which is driving me to desperation."
"It's not the mystery that troubles you," I said, in a low earnestvoice, "but the recollection of