CHAPTER XXII.
A MESSAGE.
The pretty woman in her widow's weeds stirred slightly and settled herskirts, as though my answer had given her the greatest satisfaction.
"Then take my advice, Ralph," she went on. "See her again before it istoo late."
"You refer to her fresh lover--eh?" I inquired bitterly.
"Her fresh lover?" she cried in surprise. "I don't understand you. Whois he, pray?"
"I'm in ignorance of his name."
"But how do you know of his existence? I have heard nothing of him,and surely she would have told me. All her correspondence, all herpoignant grief, and all her regrets have been of you."
"Mrs. Henniker gave me to understand that my place in your sister'sheart has been filled by another man," I said, in a hard voice.
"Mrs. Henniker!" she cried in disgust. "Just like that evil-tonguedmischief-maker! I've told you already that I detest her. She was myfriend once--it was she who allured me from my husband's side. Whyshe exercises such an influence over poor Ethelwynn, I can't tell. Ido hope she'll leave their house and come back home. You must try andpersuade her to do so."
"Do you think, then, that the woman has lied?" I asked.
"I'm certain of it. Ethelwynn has never a thought for any man saveyourself. I'll vouch for that."
"But what object can she have in telling me an untruth?"
The widow smiled.
"A very deep one, probably. You don't know her as well as I do, or youwould suspect all her actions of ulterior motive."
"Well," I said, after a pause, "to tell the truth, I wrote toEthelwynn last night with a view to reconciliation."
"You did!" she cried joyously. "Then you have anticipated me, and myappeal to you has been forestalled by your own conscience--eh?"
"Exactly," I laughed. "She has my letter by this time, and I amexpecting a wire in reply. I have asked her to meet me at the earliestpossible moment."
"Then you have all my felicitations, Ralph," she said, in a voice thatseemed to quiver with emotion. "She loves you--loves you with afiercer and even more passionate affection than that I entertainedtowards my poor dead husband. Of your happiness I have no doubt, for Ihave seen how you idolised her, and how supreme was your mutualcontent when in each other's society. Destiny, that unknown influencethat shapes our ends, has placed you together and forged a bondbetween you that is unbreakable--the bond of perfect love."
There seemed such a genuine ring in her voice, and she spoke with suchsolicitude for our welfare, that in the conversation I entirely forgotthat after all she was only trying to bring us together again in orderto prevent her own secret from being exposed.
At some moments she seemed the perfection of honesty and integrity,without the slightest affectation of interest or artificiality ofmanner, and it was this fresh complexity of her character that utterlybaffled me. I could not determine whether, or not, she was in earnest.
"If it is really destiny I suppose that to try and resist it is quitefutile," I remarked mechanically.
"Absolutely. Ethelwynn will become your wife, and you have all my goodwishes for prosperity and happiness."
I thanked her, but pointed out that the matrimonial project was, asyet, immature.
"How foolish you are, Ralph!" she said. "You know very well that you'dmarry her to-morrow if you could."
"Ah! if I could," I repeated wistfully. "Unfortunately my position isnot yet sufficiently well assured to justify my marrying. Weddedpoverty is never a pleasing prospect."
"But you have the world before you. I've heard Sir Bernard say so,times without number. He believes implicitly in you as a man who willrise to the head of your profession."
I laughed dubiously, shaking my head.
"I only hope that his anticipations may be realized," I said. "But Ifear I'm no more brilliant than a hundred other men in the hospitals.It takes a smart man nowadays to boom himself into notoriety. As inliterature and law, so in the medical profession, it isn't the cleverman who rises to the top of the tree. More often it is a second-rateman, who has private influence, and has gauged the exact worth ofself-advertisement. This is an age of reputations quickly made, andjust as rapidly lost. In the professional world a new man rises withevery moon."
"But that need not be so in your case," she pointed out. "With SirBernard as your chief, you are surely in an assured position."
Taking her into my confidence, I told her of my ideal of a snugcountry practice--one of those in which the assistant does thenight-work and attends to the club people, while there is a circle ofcounty people as patients. There are hundreds of such practices inEngland, where a doctor, although scarcely known outside his owndistrict, is in a position which Harley Street, with all its turmoilof fashionable fads and fancies, envies as the elysium of what lifeshould be. The village doctor of Little Perkington may be an ignorantold buffer; but his life, with its three days' hunting a week, itsconstant invitations to shoot over the best preserves, and its freefishing whenever in the humour, is a thousand times preferable to thesilk-hatted, frock-coated existence of the fashionable physician.
I had long ago talked it all over with Ethelwynn, and she entirelyagreed with me. I had not the slightest desire to have aconsulting-room of my own in Harley Street. All I longed for was alife in open air and rural tranquillity; a life far from the tinkle ofthe cab-bell and the milkman's strident cry; a life of ease and bliss,with my well-beloved ever at my side. The unfortunate man compelled tolive in London is deprived of half of God's generous gifts.
"Though this unaccountable coldness has fallen between you," Marysaid, looking straight at me, "you surely cannot have doubted thestrength of her affection?"
"But Mrs. Henniker's insinuation puzzles me. Besides, her recentmovements have been rather erratic, and almost seem to bear out thesuggestion."
"That woman is utterly unscrupulous!" she cried angrily. "Depend uponit that she has some deep motive in making that slanderous statement.On one occasion she almost caused a breach between myself and my poorhusband. Had he not possessed the most perfect confidence in me, theconsequences might have been most serious for both of us. The outcomeof a mere word, uttered half in jest, it came near ruining myhappiness for ever. I did not know her true character in those days."
"I had no idea that she was a dangerous woman," I remarked, rathersurprised at this statement. Hitherto I had regarded her as quite aharmless person, who, by making a strenuous effort to obtain a footingin good society, often rendered herself ridiculous in the eyes of herfriends.
"Her character!" she echoed fiercely. "She's one of the mostevil-tongued women in London. Here is an illustration. While posing asEthelwynn's friend, and entertaining her beneath her roof, sheactually insinuates to you the probability of a secret lover! Is itfair? Is it the action of an honest, trustworthy woman?"
I was compelled to admit that it was not. Yet, was this action of herown, in coming to me in those circumstances, in any way morestraightforward? Had she known that I was well aware of the secretexistence of her husband, she would assuredly never have dared tospeak in the manner she had. Indeed, as I sat there facing her, Icould scarcely believe it possible that she could act the imposture soperfectly. Her manner was flawless; her self-possession marvellous.
But the motive of it all--what could it be? The problem had been amaddening one from first to last.
I longed to speak out my mind then and there; to tell her of what Iknew, and of what I had witnessed with my own eyes. Yet such a coursewas useless. I was proceeding carefully, watching and notingeverything, determined not to blunder.
Had you been in my place, my reader, what would you have done?Recollect, I had witnessed a scene on the river-bank that wasabsolutely without explanation, and which surpassed all humancredence. I am a matter-of-fact man, not given to exaggerate or torecount incidents that have not occurred, but I confess openly andfreely that since I had walked along that path I hourly debated withinmyself whether I was actually awake and in the
full possession of myfaculties, or whether I had dreamt the whole thing.
Yet it was no dream. Certain solid facts convinced me of its stern,astounding reality. The man upon whose body I had helped to make anautopsy was actually alive.
In reply to my questions my visitor told me that she was staying atMartin's, in Cork Street--a small private hotel which the Mivarts hadpatronised for many years--and that on the following morning sheintended returning again to Neneford.
Then, after she had again urged me to lose no time in seeingEthelwynn, and had imposed upon me silence as to what had passedbetween us, I assisted her into a hansom, and she drove away, wavingher hand in farewell.
The interview had been a curious one, and I could not in the leastunderstand its import. Regarded in the light of the knowledge I hadgained when down at Neneford, it was, of course, plain that both sheand her "dead" husband were anxious to secure Ethelwynn's silence, andbelieved they could effect this by inducing us to marry. Theconspiracy was deeply-laid and ingenious, as indeed was the whole ofthe amazing plot. Yet, some how, when I reflected upon it on my returnfrom the club, I could not help sitting till far into the night tryingto solve the remarkable enigma.
A telegram from Ethelwynn had reached me at the Savage at nineo'clock, stating that she had received my letter, and was returning totown the day after to-morrow. She had, she said, replied to me by thatnight's post.
I felt anxious to see her, to question her, and to try, if possible,to gather from her some fact which would lead me to discern a motivein the feigned death of Henry Courtenay. But I could only wait inpatience for the explanation. Mary's declaration that her sisterpossessed no other lover besides myself reassured me. I had notbelieved it of her from the first; yet it was passing strange thatsuch an insinuation should have fallen from the lips of a woman whonow posed as her dearest friend.
Next day, Sir Bernard came to town to see two unusual cases at thehospital, and afterwards drove me back with him to Harley Street,where he had an appointment with a German Princess, who had come toLondon to consult him as a specialist. As usual, he made his lunch offtwo ham sandwiches, which he had brought with him from VictoriaStation refreshment-room and carried in a paper bag. I suggested thatwe should eat together at a restaurant; but the old man declined,declaring that if he ate more than his usual sandwiches for luncheonwhen in town he never had any appetite for dinner.
So I left him alone in his consulting-room, munching bread and ham,and sipping his wineglassful of dry sherry.
About half-past three, just before he returned to Brighton, I saw himagain as usual to hear any instructions he wished to give, forsometimes he saw patients once, and then left them in my hands. Heseemed wearied, and was sitting resting his brow upon his thin bonyhands. During the day he certainly had been fully occupied, and I hadnoticed that of late he was unable to resist the strain as he oncecould.
"Aren't you well?" I asked, when seated before him.
"Oh, yes," he answered, with a sigh. "There's not much the matter withme. I'm tired, I suppose, that's all. The eternal chatter of thoseconfounded women bores me to death. They can't tell their symptomswithout going into all the details of family history and domesticinfelicity," he snapped. "They think me doctor, lawyer, and parsonrolled into one."
I laughed at his criticism. What he said was, indeed, quite true.Women often grew confidential towards me, at my age; therefore I couldquite realize how they laid bare all their troubles to him.
"Oh, by the way!" he said, as though suddenly recollecting. "Have youmet your friend Ambler Jevons lately?"
"No," I replied. "He's been away for some weeks, I think. Why?"
"Because I saw him yesterday in King's Road. He was driving in a fly,and had one eye bandaged up. Met with an accident, I should think."
"An accident!" I exclaimed in consternation. "He wrote to me the otherday, but did not mention it."
"He's been trying his hand at unravelling the mystery of poorCourtenay's death, hasn't he?" the old man asked.
"I believe so?"
"And failed--eh?"
"I don't think his efforts have been crowned with very much success,although he has told me nothing," I said.
In response the old man grunted in dissatisfaction. I knew howdisgusted he had been at the bungling and utter failure of the policeinquiries, for he was always declaring Scotland Yard seemed to beuseless, save for the recovery of articles left in cabs.
He glanced at his watch, snatched up his silk hat, buttoned his coat,and, wishing me good-bye, went out to catch the Pullman train.
Next day about two o'clock I was in one of the wards at Guy's, seeingthe last of my patients, when a telegram was handed to me by one ofthe nurses.
I tore it open eagerly, expecting that it was from Ethelwynn,announcing the hour of her arrival at Paddington.
But the message upon which my eyes fell was so astounding, soappalling, and so tragic that my heart stood still.
The few words upon the flimsy paper increased the mystery to an evenmore bewildering degree than before!