The remainder of our pull to Riverdene was accomplished in comparative
silence. Crushed, hopeless and despairing, I bent to the oars
mechanically, with the feeling that in all else my interest was dead,
save in the woman I so dearly loved, who, lounging back among her
cushions, sighed now and then, her face very grave and agitated.
I spoke at last, urging her to reconsider her decision, but she only
responded with a single word, a word which destroyed all my fondest
hopes--
"Impossible."
In that bright hour when the broad bosom of the Thames sent back the
reflection of the summer sun, when the sky was clear as that in Italy,
when all the world seemed rejoicing, and the gay laughter wafted over
the water from the launches, boats and punts gliding past us, we alone
had heavy hearts. Overwhelmed by this bitter disappointment and sorrow,
the laughter jarred upon my ears. I tried to shut it out, and with my
teeth set rowed with all my might against the stream until, skirting the
shady wood, we rounded the bend of the stream and suddenly drew up at
the landing-steps of Riverdene.
"Why, here's Eva!" cried Mary, running down to the water's edge, her
tennis-racquet in her hand. "And Frank, too!" Then, turning to Eva as
we stood together on the lawn a moment later, she asked, "Where's your
mother? We've expected her all the afternoon."
"Isn't she here?" asked Eva, in surprise.
"No."
"Well, she started to come here immediately after luncheon. She must
have missed the train or something."
"She must, for it's now past five. I really hope nothing has happened."
"Nothing ever happens to mother," observed Eva, with a light laugh.
"She'll turn up presently." Then she explained how I had called at The
Hollies and she had brought me along. On reaching Riverdene she had
instantly concealed her agitation and reassumed her old buoyant spirits
in order that none should suspect. She was an adept at the art of
disguising her feelings, for none would now believe that twenty minutes
before her face had been blanched, almost deathlike in agitation.
Together we walked up the lawn, being warmly welcomed by Mrs. Blain and
introduced to several friends who, seated beneath a tree, were idling
over afternoon tea, a pleasant function in which we were, of course,
compelled to join.
Seated next to Mrs. Blain I gossiped for a long time with her, learning
that her husband was still in Paris, detained upon his company business.
He was often there, for he was one of the greatest shippers of
champagne, and much of his business was with firms in the French
capital.
"I don't expect him back for at least a fortnight," she said. "The
other day, when writing, I mentioned that you had visited us again and
he sent his good wishes to you."
"Thanks," I answered. Truth to tell, I rather liked him. He was a
typical City man, elderly, spruce, smartly dressed, always showing a
large expanse of elaborate shirt-front, fastened by diamond studs, and a
heavy gold albert, a fashion which seems to alone belong to wealthy
merchants and to that financial tribe who attend and speak at meetings
at Winchester House or the _Cannon Street Hotel_.
From time to time when I glanced at Eva I was surprised to see how
happily she smiled, and to hear how light and careless was her laughter.
Had she already forgotten my words and the great overwhelming sorrow
her response had brought upon me?
To Mrs. Blain's irresponsible chatter I answered quite mechanically, for
all my thoughts were of that woman whom I loved. Deeply I reflected
upon all she had said, remembering how intensely agitated she had become
when I had implied that she was in possession of some secret. The
vehemence with which she had denied my imputation was quite sufficient
to show that I had unconsciously referred to the one object uppermost in
her mind. I was undecided in opinion whether her refusal to accept my
love was actually in consequence of her fear of Mary's jealousy. If so,
then Mary was in possession of this secret of hers. There was no doubt
in my mind that she really loved me, and that, if she were fearless, she
would hasten to reciprocate my affection. Apparently hers was a guilty
secret, held over her as menace by Mary Blain, and knowing this she had
been compelled to respond in the negative. This theory took possession
of me, and during the hours I spent at Riverdene that evening, dining
and boating with several of my fellow-visitors, I reflected upon it,
viewing it in its every phase, and finding it to be well founded.
Indeed, as I sat opposite the two girls at dinner, I watched the actions
of both furtively behind the great silver epergne of roses and ferns,
and although they chatted merrily, laughing and joking with their male
companions, I nevertheless fancied that I could detect a slight
expression of concealed annoyance--or was it of hatred?--upon Eva's face
whenever Mary addressed her. Ever so slight, merely the quivering or
slight contraction of the eyebrows, it passed unnoticed by the merry
party, yet with my eyes on the alert for any sign it was to me a proof
sufficient that the theory I had formed was correct, and that the woman
I loved went in deadly fear of Mary Blain.
If this were really so, did it not add additional colour to the other
vague theories that had been aroused in my mind through various
inexplicable circumstances? Did it not, indeed, point to the fact that
upon Eva, although she might have been a victim of that bewildering
tragedy in Phillimore Place, there rested a terrible guilt?
I recollected how she had gone to St. James's Park to keep the
appointment which the unknown assassin's accomplice had made, and the
remarkable allegation of old Lowry, the herbalist--two facts which,
viewed in the light of other discoveries, were circumstances in
themselves sufficient evidence of her guilt. Besides, had she not, with
her own lips, told me that one day ere long I should hate her very name,
and thank her for refusing to accept my love?
Was not this sufficient proof of the correctness of my theory?
As evening wore on and darkness deepened into night, the strings of
Chinese lanterns at the bottom of the lawn were lit, imparting to the
place a very gay, almost fairylike, aspect. There were many remarks
regarding the non-appearance of Lady Glaslyn. Mrs. Blain seemed
extremely anxious, yet Eva betrayed no anxiety, merely saying--
"She may have felt unwell and returned. I shall no doubt find her at
home with one of her bad headaches."
Thus all were reassured. Nevertheless, the incident struck me as
curious, for Eva's calm unconcern showed that her mother must be a woman
of somewhat eccentric habits.
Simpson drove us both to Shepperton Station in the motor-car, and we
caught the ten-thirty train, from which she alighted at Hampton while I
continued my journey up to Waterloo. During the fifteen minutes or so
we were alone together in the train our conversation was mainly of our
fellow-visitors. Of a sudden I asked--
"Have you seen Mr. Langdale lately?"
"Yes. I often see him. He lives quite near us," she answered frankly.
"You told me this afternoon, Eva, that you were not engaged. Are you
confident there is not likely to be a match between you?"
"A match between us!" she exclaimed with an expression of surprise.
"What, are you joking, or do you actually suspect that I love him?"
"I have thought so."
"Never!" she answered decisively. "I may be friendly, but to love a man
of that stamp--a man who thinks more of his dress than a woman--never!"
I smiled at this denunciation of his foppishness. He was certainly a
howling cad, for ever dusting his patent leather boots with his
handkerchief, shooting forth his cuffs, and settling his tie. He parted
his hair in the middle, and patronised women because he believed himself
to be a lady-killer. Truly he was a typical specimen of the City
"bounder," who might some day develop into a bucket-shop keeper, a
company promoter, or perhaps a money-lender.
At the moment when we were speaking the train entered the station of
Hampton, and she rose.
"Tell me, Eva," I said with deep earnestness as I took her hand to say
farewell, "is what you told me this afternoon the absolute truth? Can
you never--never reciprocate my love?"
Her lips quivered for an instant as her great blue eyes met mine. Even
though she wore a veil, I saw that there were tears in them.
"Yes," she answered in a hoarse tone, "I have told you the truth, Mr.
Urwin. We may never love--never."
The train was already at a standstill, and she was compelled to descend
hurriedly.
"Good-night," she said hoarsely as I released her hand. Then, without
waiting for my response, she hurried away and was a moment later lost in
the darkness of the road beyond the barrier.
The carriage door was slammed, the train moved on, and as it did so I
flung myself back into a corner, plunged in gloom and abject despair.
She was the only woman I had ever truly loved, yet she was held apart
from me. It was the first passionate agony of my life. I suffered now
as those do without hope.
I found Dick at home smoking furiously, and busily writing in duplicate
for the morning papers a strange story he had that evening picked up out
at Gipsy Hill concerning a romantic elopement, which would cause
considerable sensation in those little tea-and-tennis circles which call
themselves suburban society. He briefly related it to me without
pausing in his work, writing on oiled tissue paper and taking six
copies, one for each of the great dailies. My friend's position in the
journalistic world was by no means an uncommon one, for many men holding
good berths on newspapers add to their incomes by doing what in press
parlance is termed "lineage"--that is contributing to other newspapers
for the payment of a penny, or perhaps three-halfpence, a line.
I told him that I'd been down to Riverdene, but so engrossed was he in
his work that he hazarded no remark, and when he had finished and placed
the copies in separate envelopes, already addressed, he put on his hat
and went forth to the Boy-Messenger Office in Chancery Lane, whence they
would be distributed to the sub-editors about Fleet Street.
I lit a cigarette and stretched myself in the armchair, gloomily
pondering. Of late we had spoken but little of the mystery in
Phillimore Place, for other inquiries had occupied Dick's attention, and
on my part, loving Eva as I did, I preferred to continue my
investigation alone.
Perhaps I had been sitting there a quarter of an hour or so, when
suddenly a strange dizziness crept over me. It might, I thought, be due
to my cigarette, therefore I tossed it out of the window and sat quiet.
But the feeling of nausea, accompanied by a giddiness such as I had
never before experienced, increased rather than diminished, and in order
to light against it I rose and attempted to cross the room. I must have
walked very unsteadily, for in the attempt I upset a chair, the back of
which was broken, beside sweeping Dick's terra-cotta tobacco-pot from
the table and smashing it to fragments. I clutched at the table in
order to steady myself, but found myself reeling and swaying as though I
were intoxicated. My legs seemed unable to support me, and the thought
crossed my mind that this seizure might be one of paralysis. The idea
was horrible.
At length, after some difficulty, I managed to again crawl back to the
chair, and sinking down, closed my eyes. By doing so my brain seemed
more evenly balanced, yet it seemed as though inside my skull was all on
fire, and I wondered if exposure to the sun while rowing had caused
these remarkable symptoms. I recollected how blazing hot it had been
from Shepperton up to the second lock, and how once Eva, ever solicitous
for my welfare, had warned me to be careful of sunstroke.
Yes, I had been careless, and this was undoubtedly the result.
My hands were trembling as though palsied, just as my legs had done a
few minutes before, yet strangely enough I felt compelled to clench my
fingers into my palms. All my muscles seemed slowly to contract, until
even my jaws worked with painful difficulty.
An appalling fear fell upon me. I was suffering from tetanus.
Resolved not to allow my jaws to close tightly, I opened and shut my
mouth, knowing that if it became fixed I should die a slow, lingering
death as so many thousands had done. If I could only keep my jaws
working the seizure might, perhaps, pass.
I longed for Dick's return. At that hour there was no one I could
summon to call a doctor. I glanced at the clock. He had been already
gone nearly half an hour. Would he never come back?
The sickening dizziness increased, and seemed to develop into an
excruciating pain in my throbbing temples. I placed my hand to my head
and felt that the veins were standing out hard and knotted, just as
though I were exerting every muscle in some feat of strength. Then
almost at that very instant I was gripped by a fearful pain in the
stomach, as though it were being torn by a thousand needles. A cold
sweat stood upon my brow until it rolled down my cheeks in great beads.
I tried to shout for help, but my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth,
and my voice was thin and weak as a child's. My throat seemed to have
contracted. I was altogether helpless.
My agony was excruciating, yet I could only await Dick's return.
Perhaps he had met a friend, and was lounging in some bar ignorant of my
peril. The only doctor I knew in the vicinity was a hospital surgeon
who lived a little way down Chancery Lane, over the Safe Deposit
Company's vaults. I clenched my teeth to endure the racking, frightful
pains by which my body was tortured, and in patience awaited my friend's
home-coming.
My eyes were closed, for the gas-light was too strong for them. Perhaps
I lost consciousness. At any rate I was awakened from a kind of heavy
stupor by Dick's tardy entry.
"Good God, Urwin!" he gasped. "Why, what's the matter? What's
occurred? You're as white as a sheet, man!"
"I'm ill," I managed to gasp with extreme difficulty. "Go and get
Tweedie--at once!"
He stood for a moment looking at me with a frightened expression, then
turned and dashed away down the stairs.
I remember raising myself, after he had gone, in an endeavour to reach a
cupboard where there was some brandy in a bottle, but as I made a step
forward all strength let me. I became paralysed, clutched at the table,
missed it, and fell headlong to the floor. Then all consciousness
became blotted out. I knew no more.
How long I remained insensible I have only a very vague idea. It must
have been many hours. When, however, I slowly became aware of things
about me, I found myself lying upon my own bed partly dressed. I tried
to move, but my limbs seemed icy cold and rigid; I tried to think, but
my thoughts were at first only a confused jumble of reminiscences.
There was a tearing pain across my stomach, and across my brow--a pain
that was excruciating. It seemed as though my waist was bound tightly
with a belt of wire, while my brain throbbed as if my skull must burst.
I opened my eyes, but the bright light of day caused me to close them
quickly again.
Noises sounded about me, strange and distorted. I distinguished voices,
and I knew that I was not alone. Again I opened my eyes.
"Thank Heaven! my dear old fellow, you are saved!" cried Dick, whose
coat was off, as he bent down eagerly to me, looking with keenest
anxiety into my face.
"Saved!" I echoed. "What has happened?" for at that moment I
recollected little of the past.
Then I saw, standing beside Dick, my friend, Dr. Tweedie, of the Royal
Free Hospital in Gray's Inn Road, a mild-mannered old gentleman whom I
had many times met during my inquiries at that institution.
"What's happened?" the latter repeated. "That's what we want to ask
you?"
"I don't know," I answered, "except that I was suddenly taken
frightfully queer."
"Taken queer! I should rather think you were," he said, bending down to
get a better look at my countenance, at the same time feeling my pulse.
"You're better now, much better. But it's been a very narrow squeak for
you, I can tell you."
"What's been the matter with me?" I inquired mystified.
"You've been eating something that hasn't quite agreed with you," he
answered with a mysterious smile.
"But that couldn't have brought on a seizure like this," I argued
weakly.
"Well," the doctor said, "of course you can tell better what you've been
eating than I can. Only one fact is clear to me."
"And what's that?" I asked.
"Why, that you've been within an ace of death, young man," he answered.
"You'll want the most careful treatment, too, if we are to get you round
again, for the truth is you've been poisoned!"
"Poisoned?" I gasped.
"Yes," he responded, handing me some medicine. "And this seizure of
yours is a very mysterious one indeed. I've never seen such symptoms
before. That you've been poisoned is quite plain, but how the accident
has occurred remains for us to discover later."