An Eye for an Eye Part 13

"At any rate it's most extraordinary," I said. Then, turning to Boyd, I asked, "Why not leave the inquiry in that quarter to me? Knowing her, I can obtain information far more easily than you can."

"Yes," Cleugh urged. "It would be a better course--much better."

"Very well," answered the detective, not, however, without some hesitation. "But be careful not to disclose too much. Try and find out one fact only--the reason she took the house. Leave all the rest to us."

I promised, and after drinking together over in the refreshment bar at High Street Station we parted, and Cleugh and I took a bus back to our chambers.

He stopped in Holborn to buy some last editions of the papers, while I hurried on, for, being terribly hungry, I wished to give old Mrs. Joad early intimation of our readiness for the diurnal steak.

With my latch-key I entered our chambers. The succulent scent of grilled meat greeted my nostrils, and I strode eagerly forward shouting for the Hag.

As I entered the sitting-room I started and drew back. A quick word of apology died from my lips, for out of our single armchair there arose a tall female dark, well-fitting dress, bowing with a grace that was charming.

I saw before me, half concealed beneath a thin black veil, a smiling face eminently pretty, a tiny mouth parted to show an even row of pearly teeth, a countenance that was handsome in every feature.

That pair of eyes peering forth at me held me motionless, dumb. I stood before my visitor, confused and speechless.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE LOVE OF LONG AGO.

There are hours in our lives which are apparently without importance, but which, nevertheless, exercise an influence on our destiny.

Little wonder was it that at this instant I stood before my visitor voiceless in amazement, for in her erect, neat figure I recognised the broken idol of those long-past summer days--Mary Blain.

Of all persons she was the one I most desired at that moment to meet.

Her letter to me, and her presence in my chambers that evening, were two facts that appeared pre-arranged with some ulterior motive rather than mere coincidence. Not an hour before Boyd had made a most puzzling statement regarding her mother, and here she was, confronting me with that smile I knew so well, as if anxious to make explanation.

"I believe I've startled you, Frank," she exclaimed, laughing, as she held out her gloved hand in greeting. "Is it so long since we met?

Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to come here to your chambers, but I wanted to see you. Mother would be furious if she knew. Why didn't you answer my letter?"

"Forgive me," I said in excuse. "I've been busy. The life of a daily journalist leaves so very little time for correspondence," and I invited her to be re-seated in our only armchair.

She shrugged her shoulders, smiling dubiously.

"You men are always adepts at the art of excuse," she remarked.

She was pretty--yes, decidedly pretty. As I sat looking at her, there came back to me vivid recollections of a day that was dead, a day when we had exchanged vows of undying affection and had wandered in secret arm-in-arm along those quiet leafy lanes. She was a girl then, and I not much more than a stripling youth. But we had both grown older now, and other ideas had sprung up in our minds, other jealousies and other loves. Almost four whole years had pa.s.sed since I had last seen her.

She had grown a little more plump and matronly, and in her dark, luminous eyes was a look more serious than in her old hoydenish days at Harwell. How time flies! It did not seem four years since that autumn evening when we parted in the golden sunset. Yet how great had the change been in the fortunes of her purse-proud family, and even in my own life.

There was no love between us now. None. The days were long-past since a woman's touch and words would make me colour like a girl. Even this meeting when she pressed my hand and her eyelids fluttered, did not re-stir within me the chord of love so long untouched. I had heard of her only as a flirt and fortune-hunter, and had read in the newspapers a paragraph announcing her engagement to the elder son of a millionaire ironfounder of Wigan. Nevertheless, a month ago the papers contained a further paragraph stating that the marriage arranged "would not take place." Since we had parted she had evidently been through many love adventures. Still, she was nevertheless uncommonly good-looking, with a grace of manner that was perfect.

"I've often wondered, Frank, what had become of you," she said, leaning her elbow on the table, raising her veil and looking straight into my eyes. "We were such real good friends long ago that I've never failed to entertain pleasant recollections of our friendship. Once or twice I've heard of you through your people, and have now and then read your articles in the magazines. Somehow I've felt a keen desire for a long time past to see you and have a chat."

"I feel honoured," I answered, perhaps a trifle sarcastically, for mine was but a bitter recollection. "It is certainly pleasant to think that one is remembered after these years." Then, in order to add irony to my words, I added: "I've heard you are engaged."

"I was," she responded, glancing at me sharply. "But it is broken off."

"You found some one you liked better, I presume? It is always so."

"No, not at all," she hastened to a.s.sure me. "The fact is there was very little love on either side, and we parted quite amicably."

"As amicably as we did ourselves--eh?"

"No, Frank," she said with a sudden seriousness, dropping her eyes to the table. "Do not refer to that. With years has come wisdom. We were both foolish, were we not?"

"Perhaps I was when I believed your vow to be a true one," I responded a trifle bitterly, for I had thought the summer of my life over and at an end.

"Ah, no!" she cried. "I did not come here to reopen an incident that has been so long closed. You love another woman, no doubt."

"No," I answered. "I loved you once, until you forsook me. I have not loved since."

"But I was a mere girl then," she urged. "Ours was but a midsummer madness--that you'll surely admit."

I was silent. I had believed myself proof against all sentiment in this respect, for of late I had thought little, if at all, of my lost love.

Yet alone with her at that moment all the bitter past flooded upon me, my wild pa.s.sion and my shattered hopes, with a vividness that stirred up a great bitterness within me. Not that I loved her now. No. On the contrary, I hated her. She had played others false and treated them just as she had treated me.

"After madness there is always a reaction," I answered, recollecting how fondly I had once loved her, and how, since the day we parted, my life, even Bohemian as it must ever be in journalistic London, was nevertheless loveless and misanthropic, the life of one whose hopes were shattered and whose joy in living had been sapped. Shenley was but the tomb of those summer recollections. I never now visited the place.

"But all this is very foolish, Frank," she exclaimed with a calm philosophical air and a smile probably meant to be coquettish. "Why recollect the past?"

"When one has loved as I once did, it is difficult to rid oneself of the memory of its sweetness or its bitterness," I said. "Your visit here has brought it all back to me--all that I have striven so long and so strenuously to forget."

She sighed. For a single instant her dark eyes met mine, and then she avoided my gaze.

"I ventured here," she explained in a low, apologetic tone, "because I believed that our youthful pa.s.sion had mutually died, and that I might renew your acquaintance not as lover but as friend. If, by coming here, I have pained you, or caused you any particularly unhappy recollections, forgive me, Frank--forgive me," and she stretched forth her hand and placed it upon my arm with a gesture of deep earnestness and regret.

"Certainly, I forgive you," I answered, annoyed with myself for having thus worn my heart on my sleeve. It was foolish, I knew. That idyllic love of ours was a mere dream of youth, like the other castles in the air we build when in our teens. It was unwise to have spoken as I had, for after all, truth to tell, I was at that moment secretly glad of my freedom. And why? Because the mysterious woman, whose beauty was perfect, yet whose very existence was an enigma, had awakened within my soul a new-born love.

Since that bright morning when she had first pa.s.sed me in St. James's Park my thoughts had been constantly of her. Although I had not exchanged a single word with her I loved her, and all thought of this dark-eyed woman who had once played me false had pa.s.sed from me.

Thus, angry with myself at having spoken as I had, I strove to remedy whatever impression my words had made by treating my visitor with a studied courtesy, at the same time seeking to discover the real motive of her call. I recollected the mystery, together with the fact that had been elicited regarding the tenancy of the house, and felt convinced that her visit was not without some strong incentive. She either came to me in order to learn something, or else with the object of satisfying herself upon some point remaining in doubt.

This thought flashing through my troubled brain placed me on the alert, and as we with mutual eagerness changed the topic of conversation, I sat gazing into her mobile countenance, filled with ecstatic wonder.

"As you know," she chattered on, quite frankly, in her rather high-pitched key, "before we left Shenley father had some very heavy losses in the City. At first we found a smaller house simply horrible, but now we are quite used to it, and personally I'm happier there, because we are right on the river and can have such jolly boating."

"But Riverdene is not such a very small place, surely?" I said. d.i.c.k, who knew the river well, had once told me that it was a fine house situated in one of the most picturesque reaches.

"No," she laughed, "not really so very small, I suppose. But why not come down and see for yourself? Mother often speaks of you, and you know you're always welcome."

Now, in ordinary circ.u.mstances I should have refused that invitation point-blank, but when I reflected that I was bound to make certain inquiries of Mrs. Blain, I, with apparent reluctance, accepted.

"Mother will be most delighted to see you. We have tennis very often, and boating always. It's awfully jolly. Come down the day after to-morrow--in the afternoon. I shall tell mother that I met you in the street and asked you down. She must, of course, never know that I came here to see you," and she laughed at her little breach of the _convenances_.

"Of course not. I won't give you away," I said. Then suddenly recollecting, I added: "May I get you a cup of tea?"

"Oh, no, thanks, really," she answered. "I've been in Regent Street to do some shopping, and I had tea there. I was on my way home, but thought that, being alone, I'd venture to try and find you."