The days passed merrily until the end of September. There was never a
dull moment, for Sir Henry's wife was one of those born hostesses who
always gauge accurately the tastes of her guests, and was constantly
making arrangements for their pleasure.
All the young ladies--save one young widow--and several of the men had
brought their cycles, and many were the enjoyable spins we had in the
vicinity. The fashion of cycling nowadays relieves a hostess of much
responsibility, for on fine days guests can always amuse themselves,
providing that the roads are good. I obtained a very decent machine
from Bath, and, at Beryl's side, accompanied the others on excursions
into Bath or Chippenham, or, on longer journeys, to Malmesbury, Stroud,
and Trowbridge. In her well-cut cycling skirt, cotton blouse, and straw
hat, her wealth of hair dressed tightly by her maid, and her narrow
waist girdled by a belt of grey chamois leather, she looked smart and
lithe awheel. As a rule there is not much poetry in the cycling skirt,
for it is generally made in such a manner as to hang baggy at the sides,
which become disturbed by every puff of wind, and give the wearer the
greatest amount of unnecessary annoyance. The French _culottes_ are
practical, if not altogether in accordance with our British view of
feminine dress, and that they impart to a woman a considerable chicness,
when in the saddle, cannot be denied. Yet there is nothing more
graceful, nor more becoming to a woman than the English cycling skirt
when cut by an artist in that form.
Sometimes alone, but often accompanied by our hostess, Sir Henry, or
some of the guests. Beryl and I explored all the roads in the vicinity.
My love constituted herself my guide, showing me the Three Shire Stones
(the spot where the counties of Gloucester, Somerset, and Wilts join),
the old Abbey of Lacock, the ancient moat and ruins at Kington Langley,
the Lord's Barn at Frogwell, the Roman tumuli at Blue Vein, and other
objects of interest in the neighbourhood.
After my hard, laborious life in London these bright hours--spent in the
fresh air by day, and in dancing and other gaieties at night--were
indeed a welcome change. But it was not of that I reflected; my every
thought was of her.
A score of times, during the week that had passed since my arrival at
Atworth, I had been on the point of declaring my love for her and
relating to her all I knew. Yet I hesitated. By so doing I might
arouse her indignation. I had spied upon her; I was endeavouring to
learn her secret.
Thus, from day to day I lingered at her side, played tennis, walked in
the park, danced after dinner, and played billiards in the hour before
we parted for the night, with eyes only for her, thoughts only of her,
my life was hers alone. Perhaps I neglected the other guests. I think
I must have done. Yet, well aware how quickly gossip arises among a
house-party, I was always careful to remain sufficiently distant towards
her to avoid any suspicion of flirtation. With a woman's natural
instinct she sometimes exerted her coquetry over me when we were alone,
and by that I felt assured she was by no means averse to my
companionship.
Often I gave young Chetwode a passing thought. I hated the prig, and
thanked the Fates that he was not there. Sometimes his name was
mentioned by one or other of the guests, and always in a manner that
showed how her engagement to him was accepted by all her friends. Thus
any mention of him caused me a sharp twinge.
During those warm, clear August days, spent with my love, I became
somehow less suspicious of her ladyship's actions. Hers was a complex
nature; but I could not fail to notice her extreme friendliness towards
me, and more than once it struck me that she contrived to bring Beryl
and myself together on every possible occasion. The motive puzzled me.
Little time, however, was afforded for rumination, save in the privacy
of one's room at night. The round of gaiety was unceasing, and as one
guest left another arrived, so that we always had some fresh diversion
and merriment. It was open house to all. We men were told that no
formalities would be permitted. The tantalus was ever open, the glasses
ready, the soda in the ice, and the cigars of various brands placed
invitingly in the smoking-room. Hence, every one made himself
thoroughly at home, and helped himself, at any hour, to whatever he
pleased.
The phantasmagoria of life is very curious. Only a fortnight before I
was a penniless medico, feeling pulses and examining tongues in order to
earn a shilling or two to keep the wolf from the door, yet, within eight
days, I had entered into the possession of a thousand pounds, and was,
moreover, the guest of one of the smartest hostesses in England.
I had been at Atworth about a fortnight, and had written twice to
Hoefer, but, as yet, had received no response. He was a sorry
correspondent, I knew, for when he wrote it was a painful effort with a
quill.
Bob Raymond had written me one of those flippant notes characteristic of
him; but to this I had not replied, for I could not rid myself of the
belief that he had somehow played me false.
One evening, while sitting in the hall with my hostess, in the quiet
hour that precedes the dressing-bell, she, of her own accord, began to
chat about the curious phenomena in Gloucester Square.
"I have told my husband nothing," she said. "I do hope your friend will
discover the cause before we return to town."
"If he does not, then it would be best to keep the door locked," I said.
"At present the affair is still unexplained."
"Fortunately Beryl is quite as well as ever--thanks to you and to him."
"It was a happy thought of yours to call me," I said. "Hoefer was the
only man in London who could give her back her life, and, if ever the
mystery is solved, it is he who will solve it."
I noticed that she was unusually pale, whether on account of the heat,
or from mental agitation, I could not determine. The day had been a
blazing one--so hot, indeed, that no one had been out before tea. At
that moment every one had gone forth except ourselves, and, as she sat
in a cane rocking-chair, swinging herself lazily to and fro, she looked
little more than a girl, her cream serge tennis-dress imparting to her
quite a juvenile appearance.
"I hope you are not bored here, Doctor," she said presently, after we
had been talking for some time.
"Bored?" I laughed. "Why, one has not a moment in which to be bored.
This is the first half-hour of repose I've had since I arrived here."