Through several days I remained in bed, my limbs rigid, my senses
bewildered.
Although we said nothing to Tweedie, Cleugh entirely shared my suspicion
that if an attempt had actually been made upon my life it had been made
at Riverdene. The doctor ran in several times each day, and Dick,
assisted by old Mrs. Joad, was as attentive to my wants as any trained
nurse, snatching all the time he could spare from his duties to sit by
me and gossip of men and things in Fleet Street, and the latest "scoop"
of the _Comet_.
Tweedie was puzzled. Each time he saw me he remarked upon my curious
symptoms, carefully noting them and expressing wonder as to the exact
nature of the deleterious substance. He pronounced the opinion that it
was some alkaloid, for such it was shown by the reagents he had used in
his analysis, but of what nature he was utterly at a loss to determine.
Many were the questions he put to me as to what I had eaten on that day,
and I explained how I had lunched at one of the restaurants in Fleet
Street, and afterwards dined with friends at Laleham.
"You ate no sandwiches, or anything of that kind at station refreshment
bars?" he asked, when he visited me one morning, in the vague idea, I
suppose, that the poison might, after all, be a ptomaine.
"None," I answered. "With the exception of what I told you, I had a
glass of wine at the house of a friend at Hampton before rowing up to
Laleham."
"A glass of wine," he repeated slowly, as if reflecting. "You noticed
no peculiar taste in it? What was it--port?"
"Yes," I replied. "An excellent wine it was, without any taste
unusual."
For the first time the recollection of that glass of wine given me by
Eva at The Hollies came back to me. Surely she could not have
deliberately given me a fatal draught?
"Often," he said, "a substance which is poison to one person is harmless
to another. If we could only discover what it really was which affected
you, we might treat you for it and cure you much more rapidly. As
matters rest, however, you must grow strong again by degrees, and thank
Providence that you're still alive. I confess when I first saw you, I
thought you'd only a few minutes to live."
"Was I so very bad?"
"As ill as you could be. You were cold and rigid, and looked as though
you were already dead. In fact, any one but a doctor would, I believe,
have pronounced life extinct. Your breath on a mirror alone showed
respiration, although the heart's movement was so weak as to be
practically imperceptible. But don't trouble further over it, you'll be
about soon," and shortly afterwards he shook my hand and went on his way
to the hospital, already late on my account.
I longed to tell him all the curious events of the past, but saw that
such a course would be unwise. If I did so, Eva--the woman I adored--
must be prematurely judged, first because of old Lowry's revelations,
and now secondly because of the suspicious fact of my illness after
partaking of the wine she offered.
The idea that the attempt had been made upon me at Riverdene seemed very
improbable, because I had dined in common with the other guests; the tea
I had taken was poured from the same Queen Anne pot from which the cups
of others were filled, and in the whisky-and-soda I had had before
leaving I was joined by three other men who had rowed up from a
house-boat about a quarter of a mile lower down.
As I lay there restless in my bed, trying vainly to read, I spent hours
in recalling every event of that day, but could discover no suspicious
circumstance other than that incident of the wine at The Hollies. I
recollected how Eva after ringing for the servant and ordering it, had
herself gone out into the dining-room, and had been absent a couple of
minutes or so. Possibly she might only have gone there in order to
unlock the cellarette, yet there were likewise, of course, other graver
possibilities.
This thought which fastened upon my mind so tenaciously allowed me but
little rest. I tried to rid myself of it, tried to scorn such an idea,
tried to reason with myself how plain it was that she actually held me
in some esteem, and if so she would certainly not seek to take my life
in that cowardly, dastardly manner. Sometimes I felt that I misjudged
her; at others grave suspicions haunted me. Yet withal my love for her
never once wavered. She was my idol. Through those long, weary hours
of prostration and convalescence I thought always of her--always.
I had written her a short note, saying that I was unwell and unable to
go down to Riverdene, not, however, mentioning the cause of my illness,
and in response there came in return a charmingly-worded little letter,
expressing profound regret and hoping we should meet again very soon. A
hundred times I read that note.
Was the thin, delicate hand that penned it the same that had endeavoured
to take my life?
That was the sole question uppermost in my mind; a problem which racked
my brain day by day, nay, hour by hour. But there was no solution.
Thus was I compelled to exist in torturing suspicion, anxiety and
uncertainty.
One hot afternoon I had risen for the first time, and was sitting among
pillows in the armchair reading some magazines which Dick had
thoughtfully brought me during the luncheon hour, when a timid knock
sounded at the door. The Hag had left me to attend upon her other
"young gentlemen" in the Temple, and I was alone. Therefore I rose and
answered the summons, finding to my surprise that my visitor was Lily
Lowry.
At once, at my invitation, she entered, a slim figure dressed in neat,
if cheap, black, without any attempt at being fashionable, but with that
primness and severity expected of lady's-maids and shop-assistants. Her
gloves were neat, her hat suited her well, and beneath her veil I saw a
pretty face, pale, interesting and anxious-looking.
"I didn't expect to find any one in, except Mrs. Joad," she said
apologetically, as she took the chair I offered. Then, noticing my
pillows, and perhaps the paleness of my countenance, she asked. "What?
You are surely not ill, Mr. Urwin?"
"Yes," I answered. "I've been rather queer for a week past. The heat,
or something of that sort, I suppose. Nothing at all serious."
"I'm so glad of that," she said. "I only called because I was passing.
I've been matching some silk at the wholesale houses in the City, and as
I wanted to give Mr. Cleugh a message I thought I'd leave it with Mrs.
Joad."
"A message?" I repeated. "Can I give it?"
She hesitated, and I saw that a slight blush suffused her cheeks.
"No," she faltered. "You're very kind, but perhaps, after all, it would
be better to write to him."
"As you like," I said, smiling. "You don't, of course, care to trust
your secrets in my keeping--eh?"
She looked at me seriously for a moment, her lips quivered, and she drew
a long breath.
"You've always been extremely kind," she said in a low voice,
half-choked with emotion. "And now that I find you alone, I feel
impelled to confide in you and seek your advice."
"I'm quite ready to offer any advice I can," I answered, quickly
interested. "If I can render you any assistance I will certainly do so
with pleasure."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, sighing again, "I knew you would. I am in
trouble--in such terrible trouble."
"What has happened?" I inquired quickly, for I saw how white and wan
she was, and of course attributed it to Dick's action in renouncing his
pledge.
"You, of course, know that Mr. Cleugh and I have parted," she said,
looking up at me quickly.
"He has told me so," I responded gravely. "I regret very much to hear
it. What is the reason?"
"Has he not told you?" she asked, her eyes filled with tears.
"No," I answered. "He gave no reason."
"Well," she explained, "he has judged me wrongly. I am entirely
innocent, I assure you. In a place of business like ours we are
compelled to be on friendly terms with the male assistants, and the
other evening, as I was leaving the shop to go to the house where we
girls live, at the other end of Rye Lane, one of the men--an
insufferable young fellow in the hosiery department--chanced to be going
the same way and walked with me.
"On the way, Dick--Mr. Cleugh, I mean--passed us, and now he declares
that I've been in the habit of flirting with these men. It is not
pleasant for any girl to walk alone along Rye Lane at ten o'clock at
night, therefore this young fellow was only escorting me out of
politeness. Yet I cannot make Dick believe otherwise than that he is my
lover."
"He's jealous of you," I said. "Is not jealousy an index of true love?"
"But if he loved me truly," she protested, bursting into tears, "he
surely would not treat me so cruelly as this. I've done nothing to
warrant this denunciation as a worthless flirt--indeed, I haven't."
"And you love him?" I asked with deep sympathy, for I saw how intense
was her suffering.
"He knows that I do," she answered. "He could see but little of me
because his work prevented him, yet I was supremely happy in the
knowledge of his love. Yet now he has forsaken me," she added, sobbing.
"I'm but a poor girl, and I suppose if the truth were known he admires
some one else better educated and more attractive than I am."
"No, I think not," I said, although at heart I felt that she spoke the
truth. "This is merely a lover's quarrel, and you'll quickly make it up
again. Look at the brighter side of things--come."