When I had parted from my love she had declared that to meet again was
useless, but I had assured her that in the morning I would call--that
now we had met I would not again leave her. Had she not confessed her
love for me? Did we not love each other with a fond, mad passion? And
yet my darling had, it appeared, fallen beneath the influence of some
nameless fellow, who was, no doubt, a scoundrel and an adventurer!
Should I calmly stand by and allow her to ruin her life and mine? No.
A thousand times, no. And as I stood there in silence in the
low-ceilinged old room with Lucie Miller at my side, I made a firm and
furious resolve that my Ella should not again escape me. Our love,
however, seemed ill-fated. The remembrance of that night in Bayswater
ever arose within my memory. Again how curious it was, that through the
dead I had found the living. By the death of Nardini I had rediscovered
my lost love.
I wondered whether I should confide in Lucie and explain what my love
had told me, or whether it was best to allow her, at least for the
present, to remain in ignorance? I decided, after due reflection, upon
the latter course.
"I, of course, thought that she had wished you good-bye, and made an
appointment for another meeting," Lucie said. "In fact, both my father
and myself were greatly surprised when she came and asked that the horse
might be put to. And yet--" and without finishing her sentence, she
looked mysteriously into my face.
"And yet what?" I asked.
For a few moments she was silent, hesitating to explain. I saw by her
face that something had puzzled her. We had so quickly become friends,
and our friendship had been cemented by our mutual acquaintanceship with
Ella Murray, that we had found ourselves speaking perfectly frankly as
though we had known each other for years.
"Well--will you pardon me for asking you a rather impertinent question,
Mr Leaf?" she said.
"Why, certainly."
"You'll perhaps think me curiously inquisitive, but how long were you
with Ella in the avenue after you left last night?"
"About half an hour."
"Not more?"
"No. I can fix it, because I noted the time by that long grandfather
clock in the hall as we went out, and I looked at my watch when I got
back to the inn. I was three-quarters of an hour in getting back to
Studland."
"That's rather strange," she remarked, with a distinct note of suspicion
in her voice.
"Why?"
"Well--because Ella was gone nearly two hours and a half. My father
went to bed, and I remained up for her. Wasn't she with you?"
"Certainly not," was my prompt answer, much surprised at her statement.
"Then something must have occurred after she left you," my companion
said.
"After she left me! What do you mean?"
"A very long time elapsed before her return," Lucie remarked. "She may
have been alone--but I think not."
"Who was with her?"
"How can we tell?"
"But what causes you to think that Ella was not alone?"
"By her strange manner when she returned. She was pale and breathless,
as though she had been hurrying, and although she had pinned it up I
noticed that the sleeve of her blouse was torn, and that her wrist bore
dark marks as though she had had a desperate struggle with some one."
"Was she attacked by some tramp or other, I wonder?" I cried, amazed.
"She refused to tell me anything save that she was rather upset. She
seemed in great fear that my father should have knowledge of the affair,
and made me faithfully promise not to tell him. Her hair was awry, and
some of the lace at the throat was torn as though some person had seized
her and tried to strangle her. Indeed, while speaking to me she placed
her hand at her throat, as if it pained her. Alarmed at her appearance,
I inquired what was the matter, but she would only tell me vaguely that
she was not very well. I at once jumped to the conclusion that you had
quarrelled."
"We certainly had no quarrel, Miss Miller," I quickly reassured her.
"Then it is evident that she was attacked by some one! Yet it is
curious that, intimate friends that we are, she would tell me nothing of
the incident."
"She wished to shield her assailant, perhaps," I remarked, much puzzled.
"It certainly seems so. Seeing her so pale, and believing her about to
faint, I took her to the dining-room and gave her some brandy. She
sipped it, and a moment afterwards burst into tears. I sat with her for
nearly half an hour trying to learn the mystery of her unhappiness. I
asked her quite frankly if she had quarrelled with you, but she replied
in the negative. Under the light, as she sat in the dining-room, I
remarked the great change in her. Her countenance was pale as death,
her lips white, and her eyes bore a look of terror in them. She was
undoubtedly in great fear. But of what, I am unable to tell."
"Your surmise is, no doubt, correct. She met some one unexpectedly--
some one who attacked her. I wonder who it is?"
"She was evidently followed here this evening, and was, perhaps, seen
walking with you. Your conversation, as you walked down to the lodge,
might have been overheard."
"Probably. But surely, Miss Miller, the incidents of last night were
very remarkable ones. I followed you and I met my love. And then, just
at the moment of my re-found happiness, she has gone again without a
word. Indeed, when I reflect, the incidents of last night hardly seem
real. I find myself doubting whether it was not all a dream, and would
really hesitate to believe in its reality if you, too, had not been
present--if you, too, had not seen and spoken with her."
"Yes, it is curious--very curious. I was quite as startled by her
sudden appearance as you were. It is inexplicable. I, too, believed
she was dead. I heard so from half a dozen people, and I can't help
thinking, Mr Leaf, that there was some deep ulterior motive in
spreading such a report concerning her."
"She's a mystery," I declared; "a complete mystery."
"She is--and yet do you not find her far more beautiful than in the old
days? I do."
"Perhaps her beauty is fatal--like that of so many women," I sighed.
"The source of many a woman's unhappiness is to be found in her face."
"Last night tragedy was written deeply upon hers," my companion said, in
a low, sympathetic voice. "I wonder what has occurred?"
I, too, wondered. Her firm refusal to allow me to kiss her upon the
lips showed her either to be in deadly fear of the jealousy of another;
or that she was true to the vow she had given, even though she still
loved me. Yet who could be this person whom she had undoubtedly met
after we had parted? Why had he attacked her? Why had she fled again
so quickly? Was she in fear of some one who was still lurking in the
vicinity? A sense of deadly chilliness stole over me.
The whole affair was, indeed, a mystery, yet not so utterly bewildering
as were certain of the events which followed--events which were so
strange and startling that they formed a problem that was for so long
beyond solution.
Being so passionately devoted to Ella I determined to follow her, demand
an explanation of the attack upon her and seek to discover the identity
of her unknown lover--the man whom she had admitted to me she was to
marry under compulsion.
I had risen from my chair, expressing my intention of driving into
Swanage in the hope that she had not already left, when the door opened,
and a dark, well-dressed man about forty, clean-shaven, having the
appearance of a naval officer and dressed in a dark grey flannel suit,
came forward with extended hand to my companion, wishing her
good-morning.
From his easy manner I saw that he was a guest in the house, although on
the previous night I had not seen him.
"Will you allow me to introduce you?" Lucie said, and next instant
presented the newcomer to me as "My father's friend, Mr Gordon-Wright."
The visitor turned to take the hand I extended to him, and raised his
eyes to mine.
The conventional greeting and assurance of pleasure at the meeting froze
upon my lips.
We had met before--under circumstances that were, to say the least, both
startling and strange.
In that instant I recognised how that the mystery had deepened a
thousandfold.