The Seven Secrets Part 17

"He was an acquaintance of yours?"

"An acquaintance--yes. But I have always distrusted him."

"Mary likes him, I believe," I remarked. "He was poor Courtenay's most intimate friend for many years."

"She judges him from that standpoint alone. Any of her husband's friends were hers, and she was fully cognisant of Sir Bernard's unceasing attention to the sufferer."

"If that is so it is rather a pity that she was recently so neglectful," I said.

"I know, Ralph--I know the reason of it all," she faltered. "I can't explain to you, because it is not just that I should expose my sister's secret. But I know the truth which, when revealed, will make it clear to the world that her apparent neglect was not culpable. She had a motive."

"A motive in going to town of an evening and enjoying herself!" I exclaimed. "Of course, the motive was to obtain relaxation. When a man is more than twice the age of his wife, the latter is apt to chafe beneath the golden fetter. It's the same everywhere--in Mayfair as in Mile End; in Suburbia as in a rural village. Difference of age is difference of temperament; and difference of temperament opens a breach which only a lover can fill."

She was silent--her eyes cast down. She saw that the attempt to vindicate her sister had, as before, utterly and ignominiously failed.

"Yes, Ralph, you are right," she admitted at last. "Judged from a philosophic standpoint a wife ought not to be more than ten years her husband's junior. Love which arises out of mere weakness is as easily fixed upon one object as another; and consequently is at all times transferable. It is so pleasant to us women to be admired, and so soothing to be loved that the grand trial of constancy to a young woman married to an elderly man is not to add one more conquest to her triumphs, but to earn the respect and esteem of the man who is her husband. And it is difficult. Of that I am convinced."

There was for the first time a true ring of earnestness in her voice, and I saw by her manner that her heart was overburdened by the sorrow that had fallen upon her sister. Her character was a complex one which I had failed always to a.n.a.lyse, and it seemed just then as though her endeavour was to free her sister of all the responsibilities of her married life. She had made that effort once before, prior to the tragedy, but its motive was hidden in obscurity.

"Women are often very foolish," she went on, half-apologetically.

"Having chosen their lover for his suitability they usually allow the natural propensity of their youthful minds to invest him with every ideal of excellence. That is a fatal error committed by the majority of women. We ought to be satisfied with him as he is, rather than imagine him what he never can be."

"Yes," I said, smiling at her philosophy. "It would certainly save them a world of disappointment in after life. It has always struck me that the extravagant invest.i.ture of fancy does not belong, as is commonly supposed, to the meek, true and abiding attachment which it is woman's highest virtue and n.o.blest distinction to feel. I strongly suspect it is vanity, and not affection, which leads a woman to believe her lover perfect; because it enhances her triumph to be the choice of such a man."

"Ah! I'm glad that we agree, Ralph," she said with a sigh and an air of deep seriousness. "The part of the true-hearted woman is to be satisfied with her lover such as he is, old or young, and to consider him, with all his faults, as sufficiently perfect for her. No after development of character can then shake her faith, no ridicule or exposure can weaken her tenderness for a single moment; while, on the other hand, she who has blindly believed her lover to be without a fault, must ever be in danger of awaking to the conviction that her love exists no longer."

"As in your own case," I added, in an endeavour to obtain from her the reason of this curious discourse.

"My own case!" she echoed. "No, Ralph. I have never believed you to be a perfect ideal. I have loved you because I knew that you loved me.

Our tastes are in common, our admiration for each other is mutual, and our affection strong and ever-increasing--until--until----"

And faltering, she stopped abruptly, without concluding her sentence.

"Until what?" I asked.

Tears sprang to her eyes. One drop rolled down her white cheek until it reached her veil, and stood there sparkling beneath the light.

"You know well," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "Until the tragedy. From that moment, Ralph, you changed. You are not the same to me as formerly. I feel--I feel," she confessed, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, "I feel that I have lost you."

"Lost me! I don't understand," I said, feigning not to comprehend her.

"I feel as though you no longer held me in esteem," she faltered through her tears. "Something tells me, Ralph, that--that your love for me has vanished, never to return!"

With a sudden movement she raised her veil, and I saw how white and anxious was her fair countenance. I could not bring myself to believe that such a perfect face could conceal a heart blackened by the crime of murder. But, alas! all men are weak where a pretty woman is concerned. After all, it is feminine wiles and feminine graces that rule our world. Man is but a poor mortal at best, easily moved to sympathy by a woman's tears, and as easily misled by the touch of a soft hand or a pa.s.sionate caress upon the lips. Diplomacy is inborn in woman, and although every woman is not an adventuress, yet one and all are clever actresses when the game of love is being played.

The thought of that letter I had read and destroyed again recurred to me. Yes, she had concealed her secret--the secret of her attempt to marry Courtenay for his money. And yet if, as seemed so apparent, she had nursed her hatred, was it not but natural that she should a.s.sume a hostile att.i.tude towards her sister--the woman who had eclipsed her in the old man's affections? Nevertheless, on the contrary, she was always apologetic where Mary was concerned, and had always sought to conceal her shortcomings and domestic infelicity. It was that point which so sorely puzzled me.

"Why should my love for you become suddenly extinguished?" I asked, for want of something other to say.

"I don't know," she faltered. "I cannot tell why, but I have a distinct distrust of the future, a feeling that we are drifting apart."

She spoke the truth. A woman in love is quick of perception, and no feigned affection on the man's part can ever blind her.

I saw that she read my heart like an open book, and at once strove to rea.s.sure her, trying to bring myself to believe that I had misjudged her.

"No, no, dearest," I said, rising with a hollow pretence of caressing her tears away. "You are nervous, and upset by the tragedy. Try to forget it all."

"Forget!" she echoed in a hard voice, her eyes cast down despondently.

"Forget that night! Ah, no, I can never forget it--never!"

CHAPTER XIV.

IS DISTINCTLY CURIOUS.

The dark days of the London winter brightened into spring, but the mystery of old Mr. Courtenay's death remained an enigma inexplicable to police and public. Ambler Jevons had prosecuted independent inquiries a.s.siduously in various quarters, detectives had watched the subsequent movements of Short and the other servants, but all to no purpose. The sudden disappearance of Short was discovered to be due to the illness of his brother.

The ident.i.ty of the a.s.sa.s.sin, as well as the mode in which the extraordinary wound had been inflicted, both remained mysteries impenetrable.

At Guy's we were a trifle under-staffed, and my work was consequently heavy; while, added to that, Sir Bernard was suffering from the effects of a severe chill, and had not been able to come to town for nearly a month. Therefore, I had been kept at it practically night and day, dividing my time between the hospital, Harley Street, and my own rooms. I saw little of my friend Jevons, for his partner had been ordered to Bournemouth for his health, and therefore his constant attendance at his office in Mark Lane was imperative. Ambler had now but little leisure save on Sundays, when we would usually dine together at the Cavour, the Globe, the Florence, or some other foreign restaurant.

Whenever I spoke to him of the tragedy, he would sigh, his face would a.s.sume a puzzled expression, and he would declare that the affair utterly pa.s.sed his comprehension. Once or twice he referred to Ethelwynn, but it struck me that he did not give tongue to what pa.s.sed within his mind for fear of offending me. His methods were based on patience, therefore I often wondered whether he was still secretly at work upon the case, and if so, whether he had gained any additional facts. Yet he told me nothing. It was a mystery, he said--that was all.

Of Ethelwynn I saw but little, making my constant occupation with Sir Bernard's patients my excuse. She had taken up her abode with Mrs.

Henniker--the cousin at whose house Mary had stayed on the night of the tragedy. The furniture at Richmond Road had been removed and the house advertised for sale, young Mrs. Courtenay having moved to her aunt's house in the country, a few miles from Bath.

On several occasions I had dined at Redcliffe Square, finding both Mrs. Henniker and her husband extremely agreeable. Henniker was partner in a big brewing concern at Clapham, and a very good fellow; while his wife was a middle-aged, fair-haired woman, of the type who shop of afternoons in High Street, Kensington. Ethelwynn had always been a particular favourite with both, hence she was a welcome guest at Redcliffe Square. Old Mr. Courtenay had had business relations with Henniker a couple of years before, and a slight difference had led to an open quarrel. For that reason they had not of late visited at Kew.

On the occasions I had spent the evening with Ethelwynn at their house I had watched her narrowly, yet neither by look nor by action did she betray any sign of a guilty secret. Her manner had during those weeks changed entirely; for she seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed, and although she alluded but seldom to our love, she treated me with that same sweet tenderness as before the fatal night of her brother-in-law's a.s.sa.s.sination.

I must admit that her att.i.tude, although it inspired me with a certain amount of confidence, nevertheless caused me to ponder deeply. I knew enough of human nature to be aware that it is woman's metier to keep up appearances. Was she keeping up an appearance of innocence, although her heart was blackened by a crime?

One evening, when we chanced to be left alone in the little smoking-room after dinner, she suddenly turned to me, saying:

"I've often thought how strange you must have thought my visit to your rooms that night, Ralph. It was unpardonable, I know--only I wanted to warn you of that man."

"Of Sir Bernard?" I observed, laughing.

"Yes. But it appears that you have not heeded me," she sighed. "I fear, Ralph, that you will regret some day."

"Why should I regret? Your fears are surely baseless."

"No," she answered decisively. "They are not baseless. I have reasons--strong ones--for urging you to break your connexion with him.

He is no friend to you."