CHAPTER XXIV.
ETHELWYNN IS SILENT.
At midnight I was seated in the drawing-room of the Manor. Before me,dressed in plain black which made her beautiful face look even palerthan it was, sat my love, bowed, despondent, silent. The household,although still astir, was hushed by the presence of the dead; the longold room itself, usually so bright and pleasant, seemed full of darkshadows, for the lamp, beneath its yellow shade, burned but dimly, andeverywhere there reigned an air of mourning.
Half-demented by grief, my love had arrived in hot haste about teno'clock, and, rushing to poor Mary's room, had thrown herself upon herknees beside the poor inanimate clay; for, even though of latedifferences might have existed between them, the sisters werecertainly devoted to each other. The scene in that room was an unhappyone, for although Ethelwynn betrayed nothing by her lips, I saw by hermanner that she was full of remorse over the might-have-beens, andthat she was bitterly reproaching herself for some fact of which I hadno knowledge.
Of the past we had not spoken. She had been too full of grief, tooutterly overcome by the tragedy of the situation. Her mournful figurestruck a sympathetic chord in my heart. Perhaps I had misjudged her;perhaps I had attributed to her sinister motives that werenon-existent. Alas! wherever mystery exists, little charity entersman's heart. Jealousy dries up the milk of human kindness.
"Dearest," I said, rising and taking her slim white hand that lay idlyin her lap, "in this hour of your distress you have at least oneperson who would console and comfort you--one man who loves you."
She raised her eyes to mine quickly, with a strange, eager look. Herglance was as though she did not fully realize the purport of mywords. I knew myself to be a sad blunderer in the art of love, andwondered if my words were too blunt and abrupt.
"Ah!" she sighed. "If only I believed that those words came directfrom your heart, Ralph!"
"They do," I assured her. "You received my letter at Hereford--youread what I wrote to you?"
"Yes," she answered. "I read it. But how can I believe in you further,after your unaccountable treatment? You forsook me without giving anyreason. You can't deny that."
"I don't seek to deny it," I said. "On the contrary, I accept all theblame that may attach to me. I only ask your forgiveness," and bendingto her in deep earnestness, I pressed the small hand that was withinmy grasp.
"But if you loved me, as you declare you have always done, why did youdesert me in that manner?" she inquired, her large dark eyes turnedseriously to mine.
I hesitated. Should I tell her the truth openly and honestly?
"Because of a fact which came to my knowledge," I answered, after along pause.
"What fact?" she asked with some anxiety.
"I made a discovery," I said ambiguously.
"Regarding me?"
"Yes, regarding yourself," I replied, with my eyes fixed full uponhers. I saw that she started at my words, her countenance fell, andshe caught her breath quickly.
"Well, tell me what it is," she asked in a hard tone, a tone whichshowed me that she had steeled herself for the worst.
"Forgive me if I speak the truth," I exclaimed. "You have asked me,and I will be perfectly frank with you. Well, I discovered amongst oldMr. Courtenay's papers a letter written by you several years ago whichrevealed the truth."
"The truth!" she gasped, her face blanched in an instant. "The truthof what?"
"That you were once engaged to become his wife."
Her breast heaved quickly, and I saw that my words had relieved her ofsome grave apprehension. When I declared that I knew "the truth" shebelieved that I spoke of the secret of Courtenay's masquerading. Thefact of her previous engagement was, to her, of only secondaryimportance, for she replied:
"Well, and is that the sole cause of your displeasure?"
I felt assured, from the feigned flippancy of her words, that she heldknowledge of the strange secret.
"It was the main cause," I said. "You concealed the truth from me, andlived in that man's house after he had married Mary."
"I had a reason for doing so," she exclaimed, in a quiet voice. "I didnot live there by preference."
"You were surely not forced to do so."
"No; I was not forced. It was a duty." Then, after a pause, shecovered her face with her hands and suddenly burst into tears, crying,"Ah, Ralph! If you could know all--all that I have suffered, you wouldnot think ill of me! Appearances have been against me, that I knowquite well. The discovery of that letter must have convinced you thatI was a schemer and unworthy, and the fact that I lived beneath theroof of the man who had cast me off added colour to the theory that Ihad conceived some deep plot. Probably," she went on, speaking betweenher sobs, "probably you even suspected me of having had a hand in theterrible crime. Tell me frankly," she asked, gripping my arm, andlooking up into my face. "Did you ever suspect me of being theassassin?"
I paused. What could I reply? Surely it was best to be open andstraightforward. So I told her that I had not been alone in thesuspicion, and that Ambler Jevons had shared it with me.
"Ah! that accounts for his marvellous ingenuity in watching me. Forweeks past he has seemed to be constantly near me, making inquiriesregarding my movements wherever I went. You both suspected me. But isit necessary that I should assert my innocence of such a deed?" sheasked. "Are you not now convinced that it was not my hand that struckdown old Mr. Courtenay?"
"Forgive me," I urged. "The suspicion was based upon ill-formedconclusions, and was heightened by your own peculiar conduct after thetragedy."
"That my conduct was strange was surely natural. The discovery wasquite as appalling to me as to you; and, knowing that somewhere amongthe dead man's papers my letters were preserved, I dreaded lest theyshould fall into the hands of the police and thereby connect me withthe crime. It was fear that my final letter should be discovered thatgave my actions the appearance of guilt."
I took both her hands in mine, and fixing my gaze straight into thosedear eyes wherein the love-look shone--that look by which a man isable to read a woman's heart--I asked her a question.
"Ethelwynn," I said, calmly and seriously, "we love each other. I knowI've been suspicious without cause and cruel in my neglect;nevertheless the separation has quickened my affection, and has shownthat to me life without you is impossible. You, darling, are the onlywoman who has entered my life. I have championed no woman saveyourself; by no ties have I been bound to any woman in this world.This I would have you believe, for it is the truth. I could not lie toyou if I would; it is the truth--God is my witness."
She made me no answer. Her hands trembled, and she bowed her head sothat I could not see her face.
"Will you not forgive, dearest?" I urged. The great longing to speakout my mind had overcome me, and having eased myself of my burden Istood awaiting her response. "Will you not be mine again, as in theold days before this chain of tragedy fell upon your house?"
Again she hesitated for several minutes. Then, of a sudden, she liftedher tear-stained face towards me, all rosy with blushes and wearingthat sweet look which I had known so well in the happy days bygone.
"If you wish it, Ralph," she faltered, "we will forget that any breachbetween us has ever existed. I desire nothing else; for, as you wellknow, I love no one else but you. I have been foolish, I know. I oughtto have explained the girlish romantic affection I once entertainedfor that man who afterwards married Mary. In those days he was myideal. Why, I cannot tell. Girls in their teens have strangecaprices, and that was mine. Just as schoolboys fall violently in lovewith married women, so are schoolgirls sometimes attracted towardsaged men. People wonder when they hear of May and December marriages;but they are not always from mercenary motives, as is popularlysupposed. Nevertheless I acted wrongly in not telling you the truthfrom the first. I am alone to blame."
So much she said, though with many a pause, and with so keen aself-reproach in her tone that I could hardly bear to hear her, when Iinterrupted----
"Th
ere is mutual blame on both sides. Let us forget it all," and Ibent until my lips met hers and we sealed our compact with a long,clinging caress.
"Yes, dear heart. Let us forget it," she whispered. "We have bothsuffered--both of us," and I felt her arms tighten about my neck. "Oh,how you must have hated me!"
"No," I declared. "I never hated you. I was mystified and suspicious,because I felt assured that you knew the truth regarding the tragedyat Kew, and remained silent."
She looked into my eyes, as though she would read my soul.
"Unfortunately," she answered, "I am not aware of the truth."
"But you are in possession of certain strange facts--eh?"
"That I am in possession of facts that lead me to certain conclusions,is the truth. But the clue is wanting. I have been seeking for itthrough all these months, but without success."
"Cannot we act in accord in this matter, dearest? May I not beacquainted with the facts which, with your intimate knowledge of theCourtenay household, you were fully acquainted with at the time of thetragedy?" I urged.
"No, Ralph," she replied, shaking her head, and at the same timepressing my hand. "I cannot yet tell you anything."
"Then you have no confidence in me?" I asked reproachfully.
"It is not a question of confidence, but one of honour," she replied.
"But you will at least satisfy my curiosity upon one point?" Iexclaimed. "You will tell me the reason you lived beneath Courtenay'sroof?"
"You know the reason well. He was an invalid, and I went there to keepMary company."
I smiled at the lameness of her explanation. It was, however, aningenious evasion of the truth, for, after all, I could not deny thatI had known this through several years. Old Courtenay, beingpractically confined to his room, had himself suggested Ethelwynnbearing his young wife company.
"Answer me truthfully, dearest. Was there no further reason?"
She paused; and in her hesitation I detected a desire to deceive,even though I loved her so fondly.
"Yes, there was," she admitted at last, bowing her head.
"Explain it."
"Alas! I cannot. It is a secret."
"A secret from me?"
"Yes, dear heart!" she cried, clutching my hands with a wild movement."Even from you."
My face must have betrayed the annoyance that I felt, for the nextsecond she hastened to soften her reply by saying:
"At present it is impossible for me to explain. Think! Poor Mary islying upstairs. I can say nothing at present--nothing--youunderstand."
"Then afterwards--after the burial--you will tell me what you know?"
"Until I discover the truth I am resolved to maintain silence. All Ican tell you is that the whole affair is so remarkable and astoundingthat its explanation will be even more bewildering than the tangledchain of circumstances."
"Then you are actually in possession of the truth," I remarked withsome impatience. "What use is there to deny it?"
"At present I have suspicions--grave ones. That is all," sheprotested.
"What is your theory regarding poor Mary's death?" I asked, hoping tolearn something from her.
"Suicide. Of that there seems not a shadow of doubt."
I was wondering if she knew of the "dead" man's existence. Being insisterly confidence with Mary, she probably did.
"Did it ever strike you," I asked, "that the personal appearance ofMr. Courtenay changed very considerably after death. You saw the bodyseveral times after the discovery. Did you notice the change?"
She looked at me sharply, as though endeavouring to discern mymeaning.
"I saw the body several times, and certainly noticed a change in thefeatures. But surely the countenance changes considerably if death issudden?"
"Quite true," I answered. "But I recollect that, in making thepost-mortem, Sir Bernard remarked upon the unusual change. He seemedto have grown fully ten years older than when I had seen him alivefour hours before."
"Well," she asked, "is that any circumstance likely to lead to asolution of the mystery? I don't exactly see the point."
"It may," I answered ambiguously, puzzled at her manner and wonderingif she were aware of that most unaccountable feature of theconspiracy.
"How?" she asked.
But as she had steadfastly refused to reveal her knowledge to me, orthe reason of her residence beneath Courtenay's roof, I myself claimedthe right to be equally vague.
We were still playing at cross-purposes; therefore I urged her to befrank with me. But she strenuously resisted all my persuasion.
"No. With poor Mary lying dead I can say nothing. Later, when I havefound the clue for which I am searching, I will tell you what I know.Till then, no word shall pass my lips."
I knew too well that when my love made up her mind it was useless totry and turn her from her purpose. She was no shallow, empty-headedgirl, whose opinion could be turned by any breath of the social windor any invention of the faddists; her mind was strong andwell-balanced, so that she always had the courage of her ownconvictions. Her sister, on the contrary, had been one of those giddywomen who follow every frill and furbelow of Fashion, and who take upall the latest crazes with a seriousness worthy of better objects. Intemperament, in disposition, in character, and in strength of mindthey had been the exact opposite of each other; the one sister flightyand thoughtless, the other patient and forbearing, with an utterdisregard for the hollow artificialities of Society.
"But in this matter we may be of mutual assistance to each other," Iurged, in an effort to persuade her. "As far as I can discern, themystery contains no fewer than seven complete and distinct secrets. Toobtain the truth regarding one would probably furnish the key to thewhole."
"Then you think that poor Mary's untimely death is closely connectedwith the tragedy at Kew?" she asked.
"Most certainly. But I do not share your opinion of suicide."
"What? You suspect foul play?" she cried.
I nodded in the affirmative.
"You believe that poor Mary was actually murdered?" she exclaimed,anxiously. "Have you found marks of violence, then?"
"No, I have found nothing. My opinion is formed upon a surmise."
"What surmise?"
I hesitated whether to tell her all the facts that I had discovered,for I was disappointed and annoyed that she should still preserve adogged silence, now that a reconciliation had been brought about.
"Well," I answered, after a pause, "my suspicion of foul play is basedupon logical conclusions. I have myself been witness of one mostastonishing fact--namely, that she was in the habit of meeting acertain man clandestinely at night, and that their favourite walk wasalong the river bank."
"What!" she cried, starting up in alarm, all the colour fading fromher face. "You have actually seen them together?"
"I have not only seen them, but I have overheard their conversation,"I answered, surprised at the effect my words had produced upon her.
"Then you already know the truth!" she cried, in a wild voice that wasalmost a shriek. "Forgive me--forgive me, Ralph!" And throwing herselfsuddenly upon her knees she looked up into my face imploringly, herwhite hands clasped in an attitude of supplication, crying in a voicebroken by emotion: "Forgive me, Ralph! Have compassion upon me!" andshe burst into a flood of tears which no caress or tender effort ofmine could stem.
I adored her with a passionate madness that was beyond control. Shewas, as she had ever been, my ideal--my all in all. And yet themystery surrounding her was still impenetrable; an enigma that grewmore complicated, more impossible of solution.
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