The Woman He Loved
Certainly there is no more delightful retreat on a hot July day, than
one of those picturesque cottages standing in an expanse of verdant
turf, cool to the eye and soft to the feet, down by the silver wave of
Father Thames, near Marlow. By the bend of the river, just above the
quaint old town, one of these red-tiled domiciles was, as "The Lock to
Lock Times" informed its readers, occupied by Sir John Maunders, his
daughter Olive, and a party of friends, who had fled from the noise
and dust of London to the pleasant cool of the country.
"The Nook," as it was called, was a cosy little place, of somewhat
incongruous architecture, the present proprietor having purchased it
as a cottage and added wings, gables, turrets and oriel windows to the
original erection, until it had assumed quite an imposing appearance.
Nothing ancient about it certainly, no Tudor battlements, Georgian
frontages nor Norman towers, for it was eminently Victorian in its
appearance, and all its arrangements both without and within had all
the latest improvements conducive to comfort and luxury. There was a
deep verandah round the red brick front, with wide French windows
giving access to drawing-room, dining-room and smoking-snuggery, all
of which were furnished regardless of cost by the most famous
upholsterer in London. From the verandah a velvety smooth lawn spread
like an emerald carpet down to the river banks, where there was a
boat-house and a flight of broad steps to the water, near to which
steps two handsome boats of cedar were generally moored for the
convenience of Sir John's guests. Between the river and the house were
four huge beech trees, whose foliage made a pleasant shade, and under
which were plenty of rustic seats and tables, while a lazy-looking
hammock of net swung from a giant limb.
On this hot July afternoon one of the tables was spread for afternoon
tea, presided over by Olive Maunders, and Sir John who sat near her,
while all around were the guests, mostly young men and women with a
sprinkling of chaperones. Sir John, a genial-looking old gentleman,
was always delighted to surround himself with young people, as he said
they made life look bright to him, and certainly there was plenty of
laughing and talking as the party on the lawn chatted about the events
of the day, listened to the voice of the wind stirring the leaves
overhead or watched the boats floating past on the sunlit river, with
their loads of young men in flannels and pretty girls daintily
costumed in river fashion.
Teddy Rudall, a fashionable journalist, society verse writer, and
know-everybody-about-town young man was seated in a wicker chair,
playing his banjo and singing a nonsensical impromptu ditty suggested
by the situation:
_Oh, London's summer I like it not,
In June the season becomes a bore,
The last sensation is quite forgot,
The last new lion has ceased to roar
Pleasure is over and bills come in;
The girl I worshipped has married a peer,
I'll leave this town with its life of sin,
And not come near it--until next year_.
_Oh country's summer I much prefer,
For perfume blows from a thousand flowers,
Delightful breezes the still leaves stir,
Nightingales sing in the twilight hours.
Phillis has captured my worn-out heart,
But only a moment 'tis hers I fear,
I'll love her and love her until we part,
And not come near her--until next year_.
"What a fickle person you are, Mr. Rudall," remarked a pretty blonde
when the song came to an end.
"I always am--in poetry, Mrs. Manson," replied Rudall, idly touching
the strings of his banjo, with an amused smile on his boyish face.
"And what about real life?"
"Depends very much on the lady."
Everyone laughed at this rejoinder except Olive Maunders, who sat
staring at the river with a frown on her handsome face.
"It's a case of 'Gather ye Rosebuds while ye may' with Rudall," said
Sir John in a jovial manner.
"Herrick," observed Mr. Rudall meditatively, "was a philosopher, and
if by rosebuds he meant ladies, I'm not at all averse to following his
example."
Olive Maunders evidently found the conversation too frivolous, for she
suddenly arose, and without saying a word went up to the house, and
retired into the drawing-room. Sir John looked after her with a rather
pained expression on his face, and, seizing the opportunity afforded
by Teddy Rudall beginning another song, he slipped away to look for
her.
She was seated in a lounging chair, leaning forward with bent head and
clasped hands, the frown still on her face. A striking looking girl,
tall and slender, with a handsome resolute countenance of a pronounced
brunette type, and her small head, with its coils of smooth black
hair, was well set on her sloping shoulders.
"Why did you run away so suddenly, Olive?" asked her father, sitting
beside her, and taking one of her slim hands in his own.
"I grew tired of the conversation," said Olive in a clear sharp voice;
"it is so frivolous, and there is such a lot to be thought of."
"My dear, you must not brood too much over Trevanna's accident."
"I'm not thinking about Mr. Trevanna, but I am about Adrian. Where can
he be? It is now a fortnight since he disappeared, and nothing has
been heard of him."
"Oh! he'll come back again as soon as he hears Trevanna is getting
better. I expect he thought he had killed Trevanna, and is keeping
quiet."
"But now that Mr. Trevanna is getting well, he has exonerated Adrian
entirely. They were both foolish, no doubt, but nothing was so bad as
to make Adrian hide himself like this."
"Perhaps the advertisement you put in the paper will bring him,"
suggested Sir John, thoughtfully.
"I hope so," replied Olive quickly. "If he's anywhere in England he
must have seen it by this time, but he seems to have vanished
altogether. Why cannot your occult science discover him, father?"
"I'm not well enough up in theosophy to try any experiments of that
nature," said Sir John, ruefully, "but I'll tell you who might find
out where Adrian is."
"Some detective, I suppose," retorted Olive. "Nonsense, they never
make any discoveries worth talking about, out of the pages of shilling
shockers."
"No, not a detective," answered her father, quietly, "but a dealer in
mysteries--Doctor Roversmire."
"Charlatan!"
"I don't think he's a charlatan; he knows more about the unseen world
than you think."
Olive Maunders looked at her father in a puzzled manner, then, rising
from her seat, walked to and fro hurriedly, with her arms folded
behind her back.
"I can't make you out, father," she said lightly. "You are so sensible
in some things, and in others--well! I really don't know how you can
believe in this theosophical rubbish."
"'_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!_'"
quoted Sir John, with a smile.
"Oh! I know that quotation," answered his daughter, shaking her head;
"it is always quoted by people who believe in the supernatural as an
unanswerable argument, and so it is in one sense, but, of course, I
did not see enough of Doctor Roversmire to know what his pretensions
are, so I can't say a word against him."
"You did not like him, Olive?"
"No, I certainly did not."
"Yet he admired you?"
"So much so that he did me the honour to ask me to be his wife,"
replied Olive, gravely, "but, of course, I am engaged to Adrian. Ah,
poor Adrian! I wonder where he can be?"
"Wait and hope."
"I'm tired of waiting and hoping," said the girl, petulantly. "There
was enough about this affair in the papers already, and I want Adrian
to come forward and defend himself from the malicious tongues of
busybodies. Philip Trevanna will stand by him."
"Well, I'm sure I don't know what to advise," said poor Sir John,
helplessly, "unless you ask Doctor Roversmire."
"A drowning man will clutch at a straw," observed Olive, after a
pause. "I do not believe much in Doctor Roversmire and his relations
with the supernatural world, still, if I could see him, I would ask
him to use his knowledge for the benefit of Adrian. Do you know where
he lives, father?"
"At Hampstead, I believe."
"Then I will write to him, to-night. Mind you, I don't believe any
good will come of it; still, I'm so anxious to find Adrian that I'd
consult even a fortune-teller."
She spoke in a scoffing tone which appeared to wound her father, and
he was about to remonstrate with her upon her levity when a servant
entered and gave her a card. Olive glanced carelessly at it and then
started in surprise as she handed it to her father, for the name
inscribed thereon was that of Dr. Roversmire.
"Your prophet of theosophy must certainly have had an intuitive
instinct he was wanted," she observed idly.
"At all events he could not come at a better time," replied Sir John,
with a smile. "Ask Dr. Roversmire to come in."
The servant departed, and Olive and her father looked at one another
in silence, while from the garden sounded the gay voice of Teddy
Rudall singing the last four lines of a ballad.
_Lift not thou the future's curtain,
Though the present be not gay;
Only present hours are certain,
Laugh and love and live to-day_.
"There's a good deal of philosophy in that," said Sir John sagely.