Six months later.
Vera was now my wife. After spending a blissful honeymoon among the
Cumberland Lakes we had taken up our abode at Elveham Dene, the home of
my childhood, which I had inherited from my father. She was delighted
with the old place, and, indeed, I myself have always been fond of it,
and may be forgiven if I descant upon its old-world beauties.
It sounds egotistical, even snobbish, nowadays, to talk of ancient
lineage, but ours was not a mushroom family, for the Burgoynes have been
the possessors of the estate for the greater portion of three centuries.
Six miles from the nearest railway station, Stamford, and one from the
village of Blatherwyke, Elveham stands high up, commanding magnificent
views across that most fertile of the midland counties--
Northamptonshire. Built when the First James was King, with its wings
of brick and stone dressings, the centre entirely of stone shrouded by
the ivy of years and decorated with Renaissance ornaments, its great
charm lies in the air of unprofaned antiquity which surrounds it. There
are no modern additions; and the broad balustraded terraces, the quaint
old flower gardens with their sundials, and the venerable oaks and
yew-trees, all call up visions of sturdy white-plumed cavaliers whose
talk is of the unhappy fight at Cheriton and the downfall of "Loyalty."
Through the long years the interior has been little changed, and
contains some fine old tapestry, ancient furniture, and a gallery
wherein hang the time-sombred portraits of my ancestors.
It is a quaint old place throughout, and it was my delight when I
brought Vera there to point out and explain the curiosities, odd nooks
and corners, and relate to her its many traditions.
The Dene itself is noteworthy, too: a long steep glade carpeted with
turf, closed in by a wooded amphitheatre, which opens close to the
house. The lower part forms a flower garden; the whole scene, with its
occasional cypresses and sunny patches of greensward, is Poussinesque,
and strictly classical, belonging not to English fairies, but to the
wood spirit of the old world.
Beyond, a walk leads through a beech wood, the undergrowth of which
consists of huge rhododendrons. Blatherwyke may be reached by this
path, being a shorter distance than by the high-road.
Such was the home which, owing to a quarrel with my father, I had left
seven years before to battle with the world and earn my living by dint
of sheer hard work; the home to which I returned, my bride upon my arm,
wealthy, happy, with a bright future of bliss unalloyed before me. Our
welcome, too, was a very hearty one, possibly because from a child I had
been popular with the servants and tenants, and since coming into
possession of the place I had not stinted them.
It was scarcely surprising that my wife should have been charmed with
the natural and artistic beauties of this dear home, for they were such
as should content any one of good sense, even though their tastes were
fastidious.
Mine were not. I was a happy, contented man, blessed with a beautiful
and affectionate wife, and feeling glad, having at last secured the
prize for which I risked so much.
As she had scarcely any friends in this country we had been married
quietly at Richmond. Monsieur Hertzen performed the formality of giving
away his niece, and at the church door we left him, as we understood he
had to leave England upon pressing business. On our return from the
Lakes I proposed that we should spend the autumn at Elveham and invite
some people for the shooting. For the winter season it was my intention
to take a house in London and introduce Vera in society. At these plans
she expressed her utmost satisfaction, though she said she should be
happy to live aways at Elveham.
In peaceful contentment, without thought, devoid of care, the days
passed pleasantly after our arrival home.
As mistress, she soon set about arranging and reorganising the
household, and I could not fail to notice that her quiet, kindly
demeanour at once endeared her to the servants, all of whom spoke highly
of her.
I had married her knowing absolutely nothing about her past, and this
was a fact which she apparently had not forgotten, for on the night of
our arrival, when we had dined, and were seated _tete-a-tete_ in her
boudoir, she rose, and coming behind my chair, said,--
"Frank, dear, I had no idea my future home was to be so beautiful a
place; it is absolutely perfect. Few women begin their married life in
happier circumstances than these."
"Was it a pleasant surprise?" I asked, laughing. "Yes, very," she
answered. "But I cannot forget, dear, that you know nothing whatever
about me. I might be a base adventuress for aught you know. How is it
you trust me so?"
"Because--why, because I love you," I replied. She passed her hand
lightly through my hair, as she said, "In return I will always be true
to you, Frank. The day will come, sooner or later, when I can tell you
the story of my life, and much that will astonish you, perhaps."
"And you promise there shall be no clouds to mar our happiness?--clouds
caused by jealousy or distrust, I mean."
"No, never. You love me truly, I know. No man who did not would have
married me with appearances so much against me as they were. I am
world-weary, tired of the wandering life I have led, and glad to be with
you here--always. I swear I will ever be good and faithful to you," and
a light of great contentment shone in her eyes.
It was enough. I desired no more, for my cup of happiness was filled,
and with all my heart I worshipped my wife as an angel of goodness and
purity. Ah! if we men could but remember that there is no beauty
beneath the skin, that a soft tongue is not an outward sign of genuine
affection in that crisis in our lives when we take a woman for our wife,
how many brief fools' paradises should we avoid, how many hours, nay
years of trouble and unhappiness, how much shame, how many broken
hearts!
Alas! my bliss was but short-lived, for very soon the glamour fell from
my eyes, and I made discoveries of a nature so horrible that I would
gladly have given all I possessed as a ransom for my freedom.
Love is blind, 'tis true, but jealousy has a thousand eyes which
hideously distort that which is seen, at the same time eating into our
hearts like a corrosive acid, with results almost as dire. Yet what
greater calamity could befall a man than to discover his wife's perfidy,
and to know that while she smiles and caresses him she is conspiring
with others to bring about his death?
Fate decreed that such position, ere long, should be mine.
One morning, after we had been at Elveham several weeks, the post-bag
contained a letter addressed to Vera, which I handed to her. There was
nothing extraordinary in this, as she received many letters from
friends, some of which bore the Russian stamp. But the postmark of this
particular one was remarkable, inasmuch as it was from Oundle, a town
but a few miles distant, where I knew none of her acquaintances resided.
Hastily glancing at its superscription, she turned pale and became
visibly agitated; then glancing at me, as if to assure herself I had not
noticed her anxiety, she broke the envelope and read the contents,
afterwards thrusting it hurriedly into her pocket, evidently trying to
hide it from my sight.
I am constrained to confess that in my then mood I attached but little
importance to the matter, and not until subsequent events had occurred
did I remember it, though I remarked inwardly that during the remainder
of the day she seemed nervously anxious, and about her face there was a
strange, careworn expression, such as I had only once before seen--on
the night of our interview at Richmond.
In the evening, having some correspondence to attend to, I retired to
the library, a fine old room, filled from floor to ceiling with books,
and containing many choice editions, for bibliophilism had been my
father's hobby, and he had rendered this portion of the house extremely
pleasant and comfortable. A lover of books himself, I, as a literary
man, inherited his tastes, and now on my return home frequently spent
several hours here daily, reading, and transacting that business which
necessarily falls upon the owner of an estate.
It was pleasant enough in the daytime, with its windows opening upon the
terrace, commanding an extensive view of the Dene, but at night, when
the thick crimson curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and the fire
blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, casting its
inconstant light upon the stands of shining armour of departed
Burgoynes, then it was one of the most snug and cosy rooms in the house.
We had dined, and I had been alone a couple of hours busily answering
several important letters, when Vera entered.
She did not speak, fearing perhaps to interrupt me, but with a loving
glance drew a lounge chair towards the fire, and sank into it. I was
startled to notice how deathly pale she was, and asked whether she felt
ill.
"I have a very painful headache, dear," she replied in a tremulous
voice. "I think I will go to my room and rest. If I am undisturbed I
shall, perhaps, be better."
"Very well," I replied; "I will ring for Elise," for my wife's maid had
been retained, and was devoted to her mistress.
"No, no, do not trouble her; I will go myself. Don't disturb me, dear,
and I shall be well to-morrow," she replied, as I rose to touch the
bell.
"As you wish, dearest," I said, kissing her; "I hope sleep will refresh
you."
She rose and departed, but before she closed the door, added: "I shall
not come down again to-night. You will not feel dull?"
"No, dear," I replied. "Here's a heap of writing before me, and while
you are getting rid of your headache I can get through it. Good-night."
She wished me _bon soir_ in a low, strained voice, and closed the door.
Till nearly eleven o'clock I continued writing, but feeling cramped, lit
a cigarette, and opening one of the French windows, stepped out into the
night.
It was dark. There was no sound beyond my own footsteps, but as I left
the house the thought of the strange murders in London by some chance
recurred to me. Was it a presage of coming evil; of an approaching
crisis of my fate? Somehow I felt that it was, and with my thoughts
fixed upon the awful subject I wandered away over the gravelled paths,
scarcely heeding the direction in which I was walking. Gradually,
however, I became more composed; the surrounding peace, the soft air,
and the thought of my wife's strong affection, had their soothing effect
upon me.
Recalled to myself by the weird hoot of an owl, I looked round, and saw
I had penetrated into the beech wood, and that I trod noiselessly upon
the mossy ground.
Pausing for a moment to take out a fresh cigarette, the sound of voices,
close to where I stood, fell indistinctly upon my ears. It did not, and
would not, have struck me as curious, had I not suddenly observed two
figures, a man and a woman, who were standing together. I had no
desire, nor inclination, to witness the love-making of a couple of
rustics, yet what could I do? To move was to be discovered, so I
remained motionless, hidden behind the trunk of a huge tree.
After a few moments they resumed their conversation earnestly, and my
curiosity was aroused. I listened, but was unable to distinguish a
single word. Suddenly, however, the truth became evident. I knew they
were speaking in Russian!