For the first time it occurred to me that my position was one of a
certain peril, for if I did not act with tact and caution, that woman
who called herself my wife, aided by that idiot Britten, might declare
that I was mad, and cause me to be placed beneath restraint. Therefore,
to gain my freedom, it was evidently necessary that I should act with
discretion and keep my own counsel.
I looked around upon the fair panorama of nature spread before me. The
world was six years older than when I had known it. What national
events had, I wondered, happened in that time? Place yourself in my
position, and picture to yourself the feeling of bewilderment that
overcame me when I reflected upon what might or might not have
transpired.
There crept over me a longing to escape from that place, the habitation
of that awful woman with the powdered cheeks, and to return to London.
All my life and pleasure had been centred in the giant capital, and to
it I intended now to go back and seek, if possible, the broken thread of
my history, which might lead me to an elucidation of the marvellous
mystery.
The world around me, the calm blue sea, the cloudless sky, the green
grass-lands, the soft whispering of the foliage seemed so peaceful that
I could scarce believe that so much evil, so much of human malice, could
exist. The tranquillity of my surroundings induced within me a quieter
frame of mind, and I set to planning carefully how I might escape and
return to London.
To endeavour to do so openly would, I saw, be to draw upon me the spies
of my hideous wife. Was I not believed by all to be insane? Then
certainly I should not be allowed to go at large without some one at my
side.
I wanted to be alone. The presence of a second person entertaining
suspicions as to my sanity would seriously hamper me, and prevent me
prosecuting the inquiries I intended to institute regarding my past.
No. To escape successfully I should be compelled to fly to London, and
once there alter my appearance and assume another name. Search would
undoubtedly be made for me, but once in London I felt confident in being
able to foil any efforts of my wife's agents.
Therefore I sat upon the stile and calmly matured my plans.
The chiming of a clock, apparently in the turret upon my own stables at
Denbury, fell upon my ears. It struck one. Then the sharp ringing of a
bell--the luncheon-bell--followed.
Gedge had told me that the place was near Budleigh-Salterton. Was it
near enough, I wondered, for me to walk there, and was there a station?
There might, I reflected, be a map in the library. I would be compelled
to trace it out and seek my route, for I was absolutely ignorant of that
corner of Devonshire.
Yes, my best policy, I decided, was to return to the house, act as
indifferently as possible, and meanwhile complete my plans for escape.
I retraced my steps to the house by the path I had traversed, and upon
the lawn was met by the man Gill, who announced--
"The luncheon-bell has rung, sir. I hope you feel a little better,
sir."
"Oh, much better," I answered airily, and with an effort at
self-possession followed him into the imitation old-oak dining-room,
which Gedge had shown me during our tour of the place.
The woman with the powdered cheeks was already seated at the head of the
table, erect and stately, with an expression of _hauteur_ which ill
became her.
"I hope you feel better after your walk," she said, as I seated myself.
"Oh, much better," I responded in a tone of irony. "The pain has
practically passed."
"You should really rest," she said, in that squeaky, artificial tone
which so jarred upon my nerves. "Do take the doctor's advice."
It was on the tip of my tongue to make a further unwriteable remark
regarding the doctor, but I managed to control myself and reply--
"Yes, I think after luncheon I shall lie down for a little time. I
have, however, some pressing letters to write first."
"Let Gedge attend to your correspondence for to-day," she urged, with
that mock juvenility which rendered her so hideously ridiculous.
"No," I responded. "I have, unfortunately, to attend to several
pressing matters personally. Afterwards I will rest."
"Do, there's a dear," she said.
I bit my lip. She nauseated me when she used that affectionate term.
The only woman I loved was Mabel Anson, but whether she were still
alive, or whether married, I knew not. The very thought that I was
bound in matrimony to this woman sitting in the high-backed chair of
carved oak was disgusting. I loathed her.
How I continued to eat the dishes Gill handed me I know not, nor do I
remember what conversation passed between my pseudo-wife and myself as
we sat there. Many were the abrupt and painful silences which fell
between us.
She struck me as an ascetic, strong-minded woman, who, before others,
fawned upon me with an affected devotion which in one of her age was
ludicrous; yet when we were alone she was rigid and overbearing, with
the positive air of one who believed me far beneath her alike in social
station and in intellect. When Gill was absent she spoke in a hard,
patronising tone, which so angered me that with great difficulty I
retained my temper.
Yet it was my policy, I knew, to conceal my thoughts, and to lead her to
believe that the words I had uttered, and my failure to recognise her,
were owing to the blow I accidentally received, and that I was now, just
as I had been before, her husband.
What a hollow sham that meal was! Now that I think of it I cannot
refrain from smiling at my extraordinary position, and how I showed her
delicate attention in order to the more impress her of my solicitude for
her welfare.
When at last she rose it was with a hope that I would go to my room and
rest.