I went myself next morning and saw the manager of Madame Gabrielle,
Limited, to demand an explanation. He was one of those frock-coated
diviners of the depths of woman's mind--a person of polite deportment
and address, who, although expressing extreme regret at having "to part
with the young lady," nevertheless declared that it was impossible to
carry on business if the rules were daily broken. The rules, he said,
were framed in order that the establishment should be well conducted,
and it was considered that eleven o'clock was quite late enough for any
young female to be out in that neighbourhood.
I explained that it was entirely my fault, and that if I had known I
would have called and apologised for her; but he merely raised his
eyebrows and observed that the young lady had left, and the others had
taken her summary dismissal as a salutary lesson. Inwardly I denounced
him as a tyrannical taskmaster of the superior shop-walker class, and
left with, I confess, very little good-feeling towards him. Muriel had
long ago told me how on one occasion this man had attempted to kiss her,
and she had smacked his face. He had now driven her out into the world
at an instant's notice, merely because of the vengeful dislike which
still rankled within him.
Several weeks passed. The June sun shone brightly in the London
streets, giving promise of near holidays to those toiling millions who
twice each day hurry across the Thames bridges to and from their
labours, and whose only relaxation is a week at Margate or at Southend.
But from me all desire for life and gaiety had departed.
Though evening after evening I sought Muriel, and also wrote to her
relatives at Stamford in an endeavour to discover her whereabouts, yet
all was in vain. She had disappeared entirely.
The thought struck me that on leaving Madame Gabrielle's she had perhaps
immediately found another situation; but as the frock-coated manager had
received no letter of inquiry about her that theory seemed scarcely
feasible. More and more the circumstances puzzled me. When I reflected
upon our conversation that Sunday afternoon in Bushey Park I was
inclined to doubt her declaration that she knew nothing of the
mysterious Aline. Again, her apparent fear and anxiety when I chanced
to mention the death of poor Roddy was more than passing strange. That
she had a minute knowledge of Aline's visits to me was quite plain,
therefore what more natural than that she should be aware of the
extraordinary acquaintance between Roddy and that woman whose touch
consumed. Sometimes I was inclined to believe that she was in
possession of the true circumstances of my friend's death; and at such
moments the thought occurred to me that she, Muriel Moore, had been
Roddy's female visitor, who had called in his valet's absence.
The thought was truly a startling one. Had she thus cast me aside
because she feared me--because there was a terrible guilt upon her?
There was some inexplicable association between the fair-faced worker of
evil, whom I knew as Aline Cloud, and this pure and honest woman whom I
was ready to make my wife. Its nature was an enigma which drove me to
despair in my constant efforts to solve it.
One morning, when in the depths of despair, I was sitting after
breakfast idling over the newspaper, and wondering whether I could find
Muriel by means of advertisement, Simes brought in a telegram, which
summoned me at once to Tixover.
An hour later I left, and that afternoon arrived home to find that my
father had been thrown from his horse, while riding towards Deene by a
bridlepath, and was lying in a dangerous condition, with my old friend
Dr Lewis, of Cliffe, and Dr Richardson, of Stamford, in attendance
upon him. As may be imagined, my mother was in a state of terrible
anxiety, and I at once telegraphed to my sister, who had left Beaulieu
long before, and was now at Bournemouth. Next morning she arrived, but
by that time my father had taken a turn for the better, and Dr Lewis,
who was untiring in his attention, declared that the turning point was
past and that he would recover. A good fellow was Lewis; a hardworking,
careful, good-natured bachelor, who was known and respected throughout
the whole countryside, because of his merry demeanour, the great pains
he took with even the poorest, and the skill with which he treated one
and all of his patients, from Countess to farm-labourer. Besides which,
he was a remarkable whist player.
On the day of my arrival I feared the worst, but when I had been at
Tixover for a day or two it was apparent that my father would recover,
therefore all our spirits rose again, and one evening after dinner I
went up to Mrs Walker's to have a smoke with Yelverton.
He greeted me with the cordiality of the old days at Wadham as I was
ushered in, produced the inevitable whiskey from the cupboard, and we
settled down to chat.
He related to me the principal local events of the past month, but with
the air of one who was already tired of rusticating.