From my place of concealment I was able to watch the Major closely
without risk of detection.
His presence there boded no good. He had crept slowly up the avenue
until within sight of the house, and was intently scanning the gay party
assembled on the lawn. Was it possible that he had walked behind me and
watched me enter there?
He was scarcely as smart in appearance as on the day when he led my
bride up the aisle of the church, and had afterwards handed me the
cigarette; but, nevertheless, he retained the distinctly foppish air of
the man-about-town. For a few moments only he remained there eagerly
scanning the distant group, and then, as though reassured, he turned on
his heel and retraced his steps towards the lodge.
Determined to watch his movements, I followed him until he gained
Hounslow Station, and there I saw him turn into a low-built,
old-fashioned inn, where I afterwards discovered he had been staying for
a couple of days.
That some conspiracy was being formed, I could not doubt, therefore I
set myself to keep strict watch upon him--no easy matter, for from hour
to hour I feared that he might recognise me. It was he who had
petitioned the Archbishop for the special licence for our marriage; he
who had, with some mysterious motive, posed as the father of the woman I
now loved. Surely she must have known that he was not her father, and,
if so, she herself had taken a part in a plot which had so nearly cost
her her life.
But was she not dead when I found her lying there? The puzzle was
bewildering.
The Major's movements might possibly give me some clue. It was
fortunate that we had met.
At a cheap clothier's I had purchased a rough secondhand suit and a
bowler hat, much the worse for wear, and these I had assumed in order to
alter my appearance as much as possible. About nine o'clock that same
night, while I stood idling about the station with my eye ever upon the
inn opposite, my vigilance was suddenly rewarded, for the Major emerged
leisurely, carefully lit a cigar, and then strolled across the railway
bridge and down the road towards Whitton. Darkness had not quite set
in, therefore I hesitated to follow him; but, fortunately, I had
explored the neighbourhood thoroughly during the past few hours, and
knew that by crossing to the opposite platform of the station, I could
gain a footpath which led through fields and market-gardens, emerging
into the high-road almost opposite the gates of the park.
This byway I took, and, hurrying down it, arrived at the point near the
lodge fully five minutes before he appeared along the road. The gates
were, however, closed.
Would he ring and demand admittance? I wondered.
When about two hundred yards from the gates he suddenly halted, glanced
up and down the road as though to make certain that no one was watching,
and then, bending down, squeezed himself through a hole in the wooden
fencing and disappeared. He evidently knew that the gates were locked,
and had already discovered that mode of entry, if indeed he had not
broken away the palings himself earlier in the day.
Without hesitation I hurried forward over the grass by the roadside, so
that he might not hear my footsteps, and, discovering the hole in the
paling, entered after him. I found myself in the midst of hawthorn
bushes and thick undergrowth, but, pausing and listening intently, I
soon detected which direction he had taken by the noise of breaking
twigs. For some ten minutes I remained there, fearing to move lest the
noise might alarm him; but when at last he was out of hearing I crept
forward, breaking my way through in the direction of the avenue. The
night was hot and so still that each sound seemed to awaken the echoes.
With the greatest caution I crept on, walking noiselessly over the grass
in the direction of the house.
As soon as the old mansion came into view I saw that lights burned in
many of the windows, and from the drawing-rooms, where the open doors
led on to the lawn, came the living strains of dance music.
From where I stood I could see the high lamps with their shades of
yellow silk, and now and then bright dresses flashed past the long
windows. A couple of figures were strolling up and down before the
house. I could see their white shirt-fronts in the darkness, and knew
that they were men smoking and enjoying the night air.
The two men at last tossed away their cigar ends and entered the house:
thus I became encouraged to approach closer, cross the lawn, and peep
through one of the side windows of the drawing-room. Fully a dozen
people were there, but as I gazed around I was disappointed not to see
my love. I had risked discovery and detection to obtain sight of her,
but she was not present, neither was her cousin Nora. Most of the
guests seemed smart people, judging from the women's toilettes, and all
were lolling about with the air of laziness which overcomes one after a
good dinner. Dancing had ended, and, as I watched, a young dark-haired
girl approached the piano and commenced to sing a song by which I knew
that she was French.
I peered in through those windows eager for a glimpse of Beryl. Surely
she was not like those others? No, I recollected her calm dignity and
sweet grace when I had spoken to her. She, at least, was high-minded
and womanly. I was glad she was not there to hear that song.
The singer sat down, having finished, amid roars of applause, and then
the conversation was resumed; but at that instant I became conscious of
some one passing near me, and had only just time to draw back into the
shadow and thus escape observation. It was one of the guests, a man who
lounged slowly along, the glowing end of his cigar shining in the
darkness, alone; he was apparently full of recollections, for he passed
slowly and mechanically onward without noticing me. Unable to see his
face, I could only detect that he was rather above the average height,
and, by his silhouette, I saw that he stooped slightly.
The encounter, however, caused me to recede from the house, for I had no
desire to be detected there and compelled to give an account of myself.
I was in shabby clothes, and if found in the vicinity might be suspected
of an intention to commit a theft.
Where was the Major? He had certainly entered there, but had escaped my
vigilance by passing through the thicket. I had been there nearly half
an hour, yet had not been able to re-discover him. The lawn on one side
was bounded by a light iron fencing, beyond which was a thick wood, and
upon this fencing I mounted, and sat to rest in full view of the house
and the long window of the drawing-room. In the deep shadow of the
trees I waited there, safe from detection, listening to the music, which
had recommenced, and wondering what had become of the man whom I had
tried to follow. He seemed to have avoided the house and gone to the
opposite side of the park.
Although I could actually see into the circle of assembled guests, yet I
was so far off that I could only distinguish the women by the colour of
their gowns. Had Beryl returned to join them? I wondered. I was
longing for a single glance at her dear face--that face sweeter than any
other in the world.
A woman in a cream dress, cut low at the neck, came suddenly to the
doorway and peered forth into the night as though in search of some one,
but a moment later had disappeared; and again the piano broke forth with
the pretty minuet from _Manon_.
I had, I felt certain, been there almost, if not quite, an hour;
therefore I was resolved to make a tour of the park in an endeavour to
find the man whose suspicious movements had so interested me earlier in
the evening. With that object in view I leaped down upon the lawn,
crossed it until I reached the edge of the lake, which I skirted until I
gained a rustic bridge which crossed the tiny brook that rippled over
the stones and fell into the pool.
Of a sudden I heard a sound. It was quite distinct, like a
half-suppressed cough. I halted in surprise, but no other sound reached
my ear. Could I have been mistaken? The noise seemed very human, yet I
knew that in the darkness of night the most usual sound becomes
exaggerated and distorted. Therefore reassured I continued my way by
the narrow, unfrequented path, which, leaving the lake-side, struck
across the park and led me across a stile into a dark belt of wood.
Scarcely had I entered it, however, when I heard human voices
distinctly. I halted and listened. An owl hooted weirdly, and there
was a dead silence.
I wondered whether the persons I had surprised had detected my presence.
I stood upon the narrow path holding my breath so that I could catch
every sound.
A couple of minutes passed. To me they seemed as hours. Then, again,
the voices sounded away to the left, apparently on the edge of the wood.
Noiselessly I retraced my steps to the stile, and then found that from
it there ran a path beside the iron railing, whither I knew not. But
somewhere down that path two persons were in consultation.
Treading carefully, so that my footsteps should not be overheard, I
crept down the path until, of a sudden, I caught sight of a woman's
white dress in the gloom. Then, sufficiently close to overhear, I
halted with strained ears.
I was hidden behind a high hazel bush, but could just distinguish
against that reddish glare which shines in the sky of the outskirts of
London on a summer's night, two silhouettes, those of a man and a woman.
The former had halted, and was leaning against the railing, while the
latter, with a shawl twisted about her shoulders, stood facing him.
"If you had wished you could certainly have met me before this," the man
was grumbling. "I've waited at the stile there a solid hour. Besides,
it was a risky business with so many people about."
"I told you not to come here," she answered; and in an instant I
recognised the voice. They were the sweet, musical tones of the woman
who was my wife.
"Of course," laughed her companion sardonically. "But, you see, I
prefer the risk." And I knew by the deep note that the man who stood by
her was the Major.
"Why?" she inquired. "The risk is surely mine in coming out to meet
you?"
"Bah! women can always make excuses," he laughed. "I should not have
made this appointment if it were not imperative that we should meet."
"Well?" she sighed. "What do you want of me now?"
"I want to talk to you seriously."
"With the usual request to follow," she observed wearily. "You want
money--eh?"
"Money? Oh no," he said, with bitter sarcasm. "I can do without it. I
can live on air, you know."
"That's better than prison fare, I should have thought," she answered
grimly.
"Ah, now, my dear, you're sarcastic," he said, with a touch of irony.
"That doesn't become you."
"Well, tell me quickly what you want, and let me get back, or they will
miss me."
"You mean that your young lover will want to know with whom you've been
flirting, eh? Well, you can mislead him again, as you've done many
times before. What a fine thing it is to be an accomplished liar. I
always envy people who can lie well, for they get through life so
easily." He spoke in a familiar tone, as though he held her beneath an
influence that was irresistible.
"I am no liar," she protested quickly. "The lies I have been compelled
to tell have been at your own instigation."
"And to save yourself," he added, with a dry, harsh laugh. "But I
didn't bring you here for an exchange of compliments."