Together we stood on the lawn near the river-bank gossiping, and as I
looked into Eva's flawless face, whereon the expression had now become
softened, I longed to tell her the most sacred secret of my heart. Had
she, I wondered, recognised in me the man she encountered in St. James's
Park when on that mysterious errand of hers? What could have been the
nature of that errand? Whom did she go there to meet?
One fact was at that moment to me more curious than all others, namely,
her friendship with Mrs. Blain, the woman who, according to the
landlord, rented that house of mystery. By the exercise of care and
discretion, I might, I told myself, learn something which would perhaps
lead, if not to the solution of the enigma, then to some clue upon which
the police might work. But to accomplish this I should be compelled to
exercise the most extreme caution, for both mother and daughter were
evidently acute to detect any attempt to gain their secret, while it
seemed more than probable that Eva herself--if actually aware of the
affair, which was, of course, not quite certain--had some motive in
keeping all knowledge of it concealed.
Who, a hundred times I wondered, was the man who, after lingering
opposite Buckingham Palace, had entered the house in Ebury Street?
Without doubt Eva had gone to the park to meet him, but it seemed that,
growing impatient, or fearful of recognition by others, she had left
before his arrival.
True, the police had watched the house wherein the man disappeared, but
up to the present he had not been seen again. Boyd had told me, when I
had seen him that very morning, that he had left by some exit at the
rear, and that his entry there was only to throw any watcher off the
scent.
It was evident that the man, whoever he was, had very ingeniously got
clear away.
Dick, who was playing tennis, at last came forward to be introduced to
my divinity, and presently whispered to me his great admiration for her.
I was about to tell him who she really was, but on reflection felt that
I could act with greater discretion if the truth remained mine alone,
together with the secret of my love for her. Therefore I held my peace,
and he, in ignorance that she was the missing victim of that amazing
tragedy, walked at her side along the water's edge, laughing merrily,
and greatly enjoying her companionship.
Mrs. Blain invited us all to dine, but the Moberlys were compelled to
decline, they having a party of friends at home. Therefore, we saw them
off amid many shouts, hand-wavings and peals of laughter, and when they
had gone we sat again on the lawn, now brilliant in the golden blaze of
sundown.
It still wanted an hour to dinner, therefore Mary suggested that we all
four should go out on the water, a proposal accepted with mutual
enthusiasm. As I was not an expert in punting, Mary and Dick pushed off
in the punt, the former handling the long pole with a deftness acquired
by constant practice, while, with Eva Glaslyn in the stern of a gig, I
rolled up my sleeves and bent to the oars.
The sunset was one of those gorgeous combinations of crimson and gold
which those who frequent the Thames know so well. Upstream the flood of
crimson of the dying day caused the elms and willows to stand out black
against the cloudless sky, while every ripple caused by the boat caught
the sun-glow until the water seemed red as blood.
A great peace was there. Not a single boat was in sight, not a sound
save the quiet lapping of the water against the bows and the slight
dripping of the oars as I feathered them. We were rowing upstream, so
that the return would be easier, while Dick and his companion had punted
down towards Chertsey. For the first time I was now alone with her.
She was lovely.
She had settled herself lazily among the cushions, lying back at her
ease and enjoying to the full the calm of the sunset hour, remarking now
and then upon the beauty of the scene and the charm of summer days
upstream. Her countenance was animated and perfect in feature,
distinctly more beautiful than it had been on that well-remembered night
when I had found her lying back cold and lifeless. How strange it all
was, I thought, that I should actually be rowing her there, when only a
few days before I had beheld her stiff and dead. Alone, with no one to
overhear, I would have put a direct inquiry to her regarding the past,
but I feared that such question, if put prematurely, might prevent the
elucidation of the secret. To get at the truth I must act
diplomatically, and exercise the greatest caution.
I sat facing her, bending with the oars, while she chatted on in a voice
that sounded as music to my ears.
"I love the river," she said. "Last year we had a house-boat up beyond
Boulter's, and it was delightful. There is really great fun in being
boxed up in so small a space, and one can also make one's place
exceedingly artistic and comfortable at very small expense. We had a
ripping time."
"It is curious," I remarked, "that most owners of house-boats go in for
the same style of external decoration--rows of geraniums along the roof,
and strings of Chinese lanterns--look at that one over there."
"Yes," she laughed, glancing in the direction I indicated. "I fear we
were also sinners in that respect. It's so difficult to devise anything
new." And she added, "Are you up the river much?"
"No," I responded, "not much, unfortunately. My profession keeps me in
London, and I generally like to spend my three weeks' vacation on the
Continent. I'm fond of getting a glance at other cities, and one
travels so quickly that the thing is quite easy."
"There are always more girls than men up the river," she said. "I
suppose it is because men are at business and girls have to kill time.
We live down at Hampton, not far from the river. It's a quiet,
dead-alive sort of place, and if it were not for boating and punting it
would be horribly dull."
"And in winter?"
"Oh, in winter we are always on the Riviera. We go to Cannes each
December and stay till the end of April. Mother declares she could not
live through an English winter."
This statement did not coincide with what the innkeeper's wife had told
me, namely, that the Glaslyns were much pressed for money.
"I spent one season in Nice a few years ago," I said. "It is certainly
charming, and I hope to go there again."
"But is not our own Thames, with all its natural picturesqueness, quite
as beautiful in its way?" she asked, looking around. "I love it.
People who have been up the Rhine and the Rhone, the Moselle and the
Loire, say that for picturesque scenery none of those great European
rivers compare with ours."
"I believe that to be quite true," I answered. "Like yourself, I am
extremely fond of boating and picnicking."
"We often have picnics," she said. "I'll get mother to invite you to
the next--if you'll come."
"Certainly," I answered, much gratified. "I shall be only too
delighted."
We were at that moment passing two fine house-boats moored near one
another, one of which my companion explained belonged to a well-known
City stockbroker, and the other to a barrister of repute at the Chancery
Bar. Both were gay with the usual geraniums and creepers, having
inviting-looking deck-chairs on the roof and canaries in gilded cages
hanging at the windows.
"Shall we go up the backwater?" she suddenly suggested. "It is more
beautiful there than the main stream. We might get some lilies."
"Of course," I answered, and with a pull to the left turned the boat
into the narrower stream branching out at the left, a stream that wound
among fertile meadows yellow with buttercups, and where long lines of
willows trailed in the water.
I was hot after a pretty stiff pull; therefore, when we had gone some
distance, I leaned on the oars, allowing the boat to drift on under the
bank where the long rushes waved in the stream and the pure white of the
water-lilies showed against the dark green of floating leaves. Heedless
of the rudder-lines, Eva leaned over and gathered some, trailing her
hand in the water.
"How quiet and pleasant it is here," she remarked, her calm, sweet,
beautiful face showing what a great peace had come to her at that
moment. It may not have been quite in keeping with the _convenances_
that she should have gone out like this alone with me, a comparative
stranger, yet girls of to-day think little of such things, and she was
nothing if not modern in dress, speech and frankness of manner.
We were far from the haunts of men in that calm hour of the dying day.
Indeed, already the crimson of the sun was fading into the rose of the
afterglow, and the stillness precursory of nightfall was complete save
for the rustle of some water-rat or otter among the sedge, or the swift
flight of a night-bird across the bosom of the stream. The shadows were
changing and the glow on the water was turning from one colour to
another. The cattle had come down to the brink, and wading to their
knees, whisked the flies away with their tails as they slowly chewed the
cud.
"Yes," I agreed. "There is rest, perfect and complete, here. How
different to London!"
"Ah, yes," she answered. "I hate London, and very seldom go there,
except when necessity compels us to do shopping."
"Why do you hate it?" I asked, at once pricking up my ears. "Have you
any especial reason for disliking it?"
"Well, no," she laughed. "I suppose it's the noise and bustle and hurry
that I don't like. I'm essentially a lover of the country. Even
theatres, concerts and such-like amusements have but little attraction
for me. I know it sounds rather absurd that a girl should make such a
declaration, but I assure you I speak the truth."
I did not doubt her. Any one with an open face like hers could not be
guilty of lying. That statement was, in itself, an index to her
character. She possessed a higher mind than most women, and was
something of a philosopher. Truth to tell, this fact surprised me, for
I had until then regarded her as of the usual type of the educated woman
of to-day, a woman with a penchant for smartness in dress, freedom of
language, and the entertainment of the modern music-hall in preference
to opera.
I was gratified by my discovery. She was a woman with a soul beyond
these things, with a sweet, lovable disposition--a woman far above all
others. She was my idol. In those moments my love increased to a mad
passion, and I longed to imprint a kiss upon those smiling lips, and to
take her in my arms to tell her the secret that I dared not allow to
pass my lips.
She leaned backwards on the cushions; her hands were tightly clasped
behind her head; her sleeves fell back, showing her well-moulded arms;
her sweet, childlike face was turned upward, with her blue eyes watching
me through half-closed lids; her small mouth was but half shut; she
smiled a little.
It entranced me to look upon her. For the first time the loveliness of
a woman had made me blind and stupid.
I wanted to know more of the cause of her dislike of London, for I had
scented suspicion in her words. Nevertheless, through all, she
preserved a slight rigidity of manner, and I feared to put any further
question at that moment.
Thus we rested in silence, dreaming in the darkening hour.
I sat facing her, glancing furtively at her countenance and wondering
how she had become a victim in that inexplicable tragedy. By what means
had she been spirited from that mysterious house and another victim
placed there in her stead? All was an enigma, insoluble, inscrutable.
To be there with her, to exchange confidences as we had done, and to
chat lightly upon river topics all gave me the greatest gratification.
To have met her thus was an unexpected stroke of good fortune, and I was
overjoyed by her spontaneous promise to invite me to one of their own
river-parties.
Joy is the sunshine of the soul. At that restful hour I drank in the
sweetness of her eyes, for I was in glamour-land, and my companion was
truly enchanting.
We must have remained there fully half an hour, for when I suddenly
looked at my watch and realised that we must in any case be late for
dinner, the light in the wild red heavens had died away, the soft pale
rose-pink had faded, and in the stillness of twilight there seemed a
wide, profound mystery.
"We must be getting back," I said quickly, pulling the boat out into
mid-stream with a long stroke.
"Yes. The Blains will wonder wherever we've been," she laughed. "Mary
will accuse you of flirting with me."
"Would that be such a very grave accusation?" I asked, smiling.
"Ah, that I really don't know," she answered gaily. "You would be the
accused."
"But neither of us are guilty, therefore we can return with absolutely
clear consciences, can't we?"
"Certainly," she laughed. Then, after a brief pause, she asked, "Why
did you not bring Mary out in preference to me?"
"Why do you ask?" I inquired in surprise.
"Well--it would be only natural, as you are engaged to her."
"Engaged to her?" I echoed. "I'm certainly not engaged to Mary Blain."
"Aren't you?" she exclaimed. "I always understood you were."
"Oh, no," I said. "We are old friends. We were boy and girl together,
but that is all."
Her great blue eyes opened with a rather bewildered air, and she
exclaimed--
"How strange that people should make such a mistake! I had long ago
heard of you as Mary's future husband."
Then again we were silent, both pondering deeply. Had this remark of
hers been mere guess-work? Was this carefully-concealed question but a
masterstroke of woman's ingenuity to ascertain whether I loved Mary
Blain? It seemed very likely to be so. But she was so frank in all
that I could not believe it of her. No doubt she had heard some story
of our long-past love, and it had been exaggerated into an engagement,
as such stories are so often apt to be.
Soon we emerged from the backwater into the main stream, and with our
bow set in the direction of Laleham I rowed down with the current
without loss of time. The twilight had fast deepened into dusk; the
high poplars and drooping willows along the bank had grown dark, though
the broad surface of the stream, eddying here and there where a fish
rose, was still of a blue steely hue, and far away upstream only a long
streak of grey showed upon the horizon. The stars shone down in the
first faint darkness of the early night. Presently I glanced behind me,
and in the distance saw a yellow ray, which my companion, well versed in
river geography, told me was a light in one of the windows of Riverdene.
It had grown quite chilly, and the meadows were wreathed in faint white
mist, therefore I spurted forward, and soon brought the boat up to the
steps.