"THE NOOK."
When, a couple of hours later, we entered Mrs Laing's garden, the first
person we encountered was the man I hated, Andrew Beck, in his
ill-fitting dress clothes and broad, crumpled shirt-front, with its
great diamond solitaire, lounging in a wicker chair at the river's
brink, smoking, and in solitude enjoying the glorious sunset that,
reflecting upon the water, transformed it into a stream of rippling
gold. "The Nook," as Mrs Laing's house was called, was a charming old
place facing the river at a little distance above Staines Bridge--long,
low, completely covered with ivy and surrounded by a wide sweep of lawn
that sloped down to the water's edge, and a belt of old elms beneath the
cool shade of which I had spent many delightfully lazy afternoons by the
side of my well-beloved.
"Ah! Deedes," exclaimed Beck, gaily, rising as we approached, "I was
waiting for somebody to come. The ladies haven't come down yet."
"Have you seen them?" I asked.
"Not yet," he replied; then turning to my friend Dudley, he began
chaffing him about a young and wealthy widow he had rowed up to Windsor
in our boat a few days before.
"We saw you, my boy. We saw you?" he laughed. "You were talking so
confidentially as you passed, that Ella remarked that you were
contemplating stepping into the dead man's shoes."
"No, no," Dudley retorted good-humouredly. "No widows for me. She was
merely left under my care for an hour or so, and I had to do the
amicable. It's really too bad of you all to jump to such rash
conclusions."
At that instant a soft, musical voice behind me uttered my name, and,
turning, I met Ella, with a light wrap thrown about her shoulders,
coming forward to me with outstretched hand. "Ah! Geoffrey, how are
you?" she cried gaily, with joy in her brilliant, sparkling eyes. Then,
as our hands clasped, she added in an undertone, "I knew you would come;
I knew you would forgive."
"I have not forgiven," I answered, rather coldly, bending over her slim
white hand.
"But I have committed no fault," she said, pouting prettily.
"You have given me no satisfactory explanation."
"Wait until after dinner. We will come out here together, where we can
talk without being overheard," she whispered hurriedly, then left me
abruptly to greet Dudley and Andrew Beck. There was something
significant in the swift, inquisitive glance she exchanged with the
last-named man, and turning away I strode across the lawn annoyed. A
moment later I met Mrs Laing herself. She was elderly and effusive;
tall, and of stately bearing. Her hair was perfectly white but by no
means scanty, her face was clever and refined without that grossness
that too often disfigures a well-preserved woman of fifty, and in her
dark eyes, undimmed by time, there was always an expression of calm
contentment. Her husband had been a great traveller until his death ten
years ago, and she, accompanying him on his journeys in the East, had
become a clever linguist, an accomplishment which her only daughter,
Ella, shared.
As we stood together chatting, and watching the boats full of happy
youths and maidens gliding past in the brilliant afterglow, I thought
that never had I seen Ella looking so handsome, as, standing with
Dudley, she had taken up Beck's theme, and was congratulating him upon
his trip with the skittish widow.
Hers was an oval face, perfect in its symmetry, clear cut and refined, a
trifle pale perhaps, but from her eyes of that darkest blue that
sometimes sparkled into the brightness of a sapphire, sometimes deepened
into softest grey like the sky on a summer night, there shone an inner
beauty, indicative of a purity of soul. The mouth was mobile, short and
full, with an exquisite finish about the curve of the lips, the nose
short and straight, and the hair of darkest gold--the gold that cannot
be produced artificially, but has a slight dash of red in it, just
sufficient to enrich the brown of the shadows and give a burnish to the
ripples in the high lights. Her eyebrows were set rather high up from
the eye itself, and were slightly drooped at the corner nearest the ear,
imparting to her face a kind of plaintive, questioning look that was
exceedingly becoming to her. Her gown was of soft clinging silk of
palest heliotrope, that bore the unmistakable stamp of Paris, while on
her slim wrist I noticed she wore the diamond bangle I had given her six
months before. As she chatted with Dudley, she turned and laughed at me
gaily over her shoulder from time to time, and when we entered the house
a few minutes later, it was with satisfaction that I found myself placed
beside her at table.
Dinner was always a pleasant, if slightly stately, meal at Mrs Laing's.
She was a brilliant and accomplished hostess, whose entertainments at
her house in Pont Street were always popular, and who surrounded herself
with interesting and intellectual people. Bohemia was generally well
represented at her receptions, for the lions of the season, whether
literary, artistic, or musical, were always to be met there--a fact
which induced many of the more exclusive set to honour the merry widow
by their presence. Wearied, however, of the eternal small talk about
new books, new plays, new pictures, and the newest fads, I was glad
when, after smoking, we were free to rejoin the ladies in the quaint,
oak-panelled drawing-room.
The moon had risen, and ere long I strolled with Ella through the French
windows, and out upon the lawn, eager to talk alone with her.
"Well," she said at length, when we were seated in the shadow beneath
one of the high rustling elms, "so you want an explanation. What can I
give?"
"Your letter conveys the suspicion that there exists some secret between
Beck and yourself," I said, as calmly as I could.
"My letter!" she exclaimed, in a voice that seemed a little harsh and
strained. "What did I say? I really forget."
"It's useless to prevaricate, Ella," I said, rather impatiently. "You
say that if I knew all I would never utter words of love to you. What
do you mean?"
"Exactly what I wrote," she answered huskily, in a low voice.
"You mean to imply that you are unworthy of the love of an honest man?"
I observed in astonishment.
"Yes," she gasped hoarsely. "I do not--I--cannot deceive you, Geoffrey,
because I love you." The last sentence she uttered passionately, with a
fierce fire burning in her eyes. "You are jealous of Andrew Beck, a man
old enough to be my father. Well, I confess I was foolish to allow him
to walk with me here with his arm around my waist; yet at that moment
the indiscretion did not occur to me."
"But he was speaking to you--whispering into your ready ears words of
love and tenderness. He spoke in persuasive tones, as if begging you to
become his wife," I said angrily, the very thought of the scene I had
witnessed filling me with indignation and bitter hatred.
"No, you are entirely mistaken, Geoffrey. No word of love passed
between us," she said quietly, looking into my eyes with unwavering
glance.