On our return home in the early hours, Ella sat before the fire in her
cosy boudoir, her opera-cape still about her shoulders, resting her
tired head upon a cushion, and staring thoughtfully into the dying
embers, while I lounged near, smoking a final cigarette. Times out of
number I tried to account for the Earl's agitation when he had
encountered her. It was evident they were not strangers, although when
I had introduced them he treated her with studied courtesy. There were,
I remembered, many suspicious incidents connected with her as yet
unexplained, nevertheless, from that memorable evening when Dudley and I
had dined at "The Nook" and we had become reconciled, I had never
doubted that she loved me. Perhaps I had been foolish, I told myself.
I ought to have obtained full explanation of the several circumstances
that had caused me such uneasiness before marriage, yet I had abandoned
all active effort to ascertain the truth, because of the intensity of my
passion. Her beauty had captivated me; her voice held me spellbound,
and because I loved her I could not bring myself to suspect her. For a
long time she sat, reflecting gravely upon the events of the evening;
then, shivering slightly, rose and went to her room, leaving me alone to
ponder over her sudden seriousness.
Sometimes a slight shadow of suspicion would flit across my mind, as it
often had on finding her absent, yet when she spoke caressingly to me I
at once found myself laughing at the foolishness of my thoughts, basking
in the sun of her brilliant beauty, heedless and content. Prior to our
marriage, I had been madly jealous of every slight attention paid to her
by one of my own sex, of whatever age, but now, recognising how
marvellously fair she was, and that wherever she went she became the
centre of attraction, I was no longer angry with any of our guests who
paid court to her. Beck dined with us frequently, always gay and
amusing, while once or twice Verblioudovitch had also accepted our
invitation, and treated Ella with the courtliness of the polished
diplomatist. I did not invite the latter often, because of her
antipathy towards him. When, after his first visit, I had asked her
what she thought of him, she had replied,--
"There is something about him I don't like, dearest. I cannot explain
what it is. Perhaps it is his excessive politeness; or it may be his
profuse flattery that bores me; nevertheless, I seem to have a feeling
that I ought to avoid him."
"He's one of the best of fellows, darling," I said, laughing at her
misgivings. "In my bachelor days we were very close friends."
"I don't like him," she answered frankly. "I hate all Russians."
"I thought you said once you would like to go to Russia?"
"Yes, I am anxious to see the country, but the Russians I have met I
have always detested," she said, adding, with seriousness, "Now that I
am your wife I may speak plainly, may I not?"
"Of course, darling."
"Then, in your own interests, promise me to avoid Paul Verblioudovitch
as much as possible."
"Why?" I asked, surprised.
"Because--well," she answered in hesitation; "because I have some
curious, inexplicable feeling that he is not your friend."
Then it occurred to me that they had been sitting together that evening
in a cosy-corner in the drawing-room, deep in conversation, and it might
be that Paul had uttered some compliments meant to be polite, but which
she had misconstrued into flirtation. In that case, it was only natural
that, loving me so deeply as she did, she should warn me that Paul was
not my friend.
"In what way do you suspect him of being my enemy?" I inquired.
"He is untrustworthy," she replied, an answer that tended to confirm my
supposition. On several other occasions I laughed at her fears, but she
always made the same reply, that she believed he was not
straightforward, and even went so far as to ask me not to invite him to
our house in future. This caused me some little annoyance, for of all
men Paul Verblioudovitch was one of my most valued friends; and,
further, while she had conceived a violent dislike towards him, she
nevertheless allowed herself to be flattered by the man of whom I had
once been madly jealous--Andrew Beck.
Thus the early days of our married life proceeded, blissful and full of
love, but with one tiny cloud of mystery that, although growing no
larger, still cast its ominous shadow ever between us. Sometimes when
alone I pondered deeply, wondering whether my confidence had after all
been ill-placed, puzzled over one or two incidents such as I have
already described. Trifling as they were in themselves, they
nevertheless caused me much uneasiness, yet when Ella entered, bright
and radiant, greeting me with an affectionate caress, I could not doubt
her. I knew that, however suspicious her actions might appear in my
eyes, she loved me honestly, with a passion as fierce and uncontrollable
as my own.
Meanwhile Renouf, who explained his absence on the night of the Embassy
ball to Ella's complete satisfaction, still continued to remain in
service at Pont Street, and each time we dined there he hovered about us
noiselessly and ever watchful, like a spirit of evil. When our eyes
met, I saw in his a cold glance of contemptuous triumph, for he had
already seen that I feared to denounce him for Paul's sake, and he was
pursuing his mysterious investigations, whatever they were, without let
or hindrance. Mrs Laing, sighing as stout ladies will, was always loud
in his praise, declaring him to be the most steady and attentive servant
that had ever been in her service, while Ella expressed a wish that we
could meet with a man possessed of similar virtues. A dozen times I
longed to take my wife and her mother into my confidence, but dared not,
for the silence imposed upon me was absolutely imperative.
One day, early in January, I had received a message from Lord Warnham to
call at his house in Berkeley Square, but when I arrived found a note
stating that he had been compelled unexpectedly to go down to Lord
Maybury's seat in Hertfordshire to consult him. Therefore I left, and
it being a cold but invigorating afternoon I resolved to walk home.
Proceeding along Piccadilly and Knightsbridge, I skirted the Park, and
entering Kensington Gardens by the Alexandra Gate, strolled towards
Kensington in the full enjoyment of a cigar. Ella had, I knew, gone to
Pont Street, her mother being rather unwell, therefore I walked
leisurely beneath the leafless, smoke-blackened trees. The short,
gloomy day was now fast drawing to a close, and, with the falling gloom,
a chill wind had sprung up, whistling mournfully through the bare
branches, causing me to turn up my coat-collar and draw on my gloves. I
fancied myself alone, for at four o'clock in winter the place is dismal
and deserted. Having passed Queen's Gate, I was approaching the Broad
Walk, when I was attracted by two figures strolling slowly together in
front of me, a man and a woman. At first I took no heed, and would in a
few moments have overtaken them, when it occurred to me that the
silhouette of the woman was familiar even in the dusk. Again I looked,
and noticed that she was fashionably dressed in a dark-brown tailor-made
gown, a sealskin cape and close-fitting hat. Next second I realised the
amazing truth.
The woman walking before me was Ella.
Her companion, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, wore a long drab
overcoat of distinctly "horsey" cut, a silk hat of the latest shape, and
displayed a good deal of shirt cuff. He was evidently a fop, and his
whole exterior, from his varnished boots to the velvet cuffs of his
overcoat, pronounced him to be a cad. Leisurely he strode by her side,
smoking a cigarette, and earnest in conversation, now and then
emphasising his words by striking the palm of one gloved hand with his
fist.
Once, as I dogged their footsteps, my teeth clenched in fierce anger, I
heard her give vent to a rippling peal of laughter that echoed among the
black, gaunt tree trunks. I knew by that laugh she was tantalising him.
My first impulse was to rush up to them and demand an explanation, but
my second thought had been to hold my anger in control, and ascertain
the true extent of her perfidy. Was not this the second time I had
detected Ella walking alone with a man in lover-like attitude?
I loved her with all my heart, and had believed implicitly that she
reciprocated my affection, yet here, in this single moment, the cup of
happiness was dashed from my lips. I knew I had been the victim of base
deception. While I, fool that I had been, had fondly imagined that she
loved me; she had abandoned all self-respect and allowed herself to walk
in a public garden with a chance-met acquaintance. Sonia's ominous
words recurred to me, and I saw how I had been tricked and betrayed.
The pretty refugee was right, notwithstanding the denunciations of the
diplomatist and the spy, both of whom had some motive in discrediting
her statements.
With eager eyes and heavy heart I followed the pair cautiously, fearing
each moment lest either should turn and detect my presence. Apparently
they were too deeply engrossed in each other's talk, which, although
carried on in a tone so low that I could catch no single word, seemed
scarcely of an amatory nature, judging from the man's gestures. To me
it appeared rather as if he were urging her to do something from which
she shrank. Once, while he spoke, she stopped short and stretched out
both hands towards him in an attitude of supplication. But he did not
heed her, for, giving vent to a low laugh, he continued, emphasising his
words as before. Then, clenching her hands, she stamped her foot in
anger, and tossing her head in contempt, walked forward again, heedless
of her companion's threatening attitude.
From that moment both grew calmer, for the man, uttering words of
forgiveness, snatched up her hand and imprinted a kiss upon it. For a
brief second she allowed her hand to linger in his grasp, then withdrew
it gently, but firmly, regarding him with earnestness the while. This
action aroused my anger to a fierce, murderous hatred. With difficulty
I managed to preserve an outward calm, because, in my state of mind, I
felt compelled to watch and wait. Yet, if I had had a weapon ready to
my hand at that moment, I verily believe that I must have thrown myself
upon this arrogant cad, and mercilessly killed him.
The manner in which his hat was set upon his head, slightly askew, in
the manner of the London "'Arry," and his over-burdening mannerism, were
in themselves sufficient to show the type of lover my wife cultivated.
As I stepped softly behind them in the gloom, I told myself that she
must leave my house that night, or I should. I felt in my throat a
choking sensation, for I had loved her so fervently that this discovery
of her falseness had utterly unnerved me, and even in those moments of
fierce anger and hatred I confess that tears welled in my eyes. Ella
was the only woman I had ever loved, yet she who had taken her marriage
vows only a few short months before had already discarded me for this
overdressed idiot, who would be termed in vulgar parlance a "bounder."
Perhaps he did not know her to be married. This thought took possession
of me. When their quarrel ended it became manifest that Ella herself
was endeavouring to fascinate and hold him, just as she had charmed me,
by the softness of her speech, her exquisite grace, and her wonderful
beauty. She spoke quietly, with her dainty finger-tips laid lightly
upon his arm, while he listened, gazing earnestly into her face,
enchanted.
To-night, I told myself, the bonds uniting me to Ella should be for ever
severed. I remembered the many occasions when she had been absent,
visiting imaginary friends; I recollected the evening she brought home
the violets and preserved them carefully in water until they smelt so
faint that she was compelled to throw them away; I had not forgotten the
fact that blades of grass did not grow in the squalid, overcrowded
streets of modern Camberwell. I glanced around at the grass on every
side. Perhaps she frequented that place, and took clandestine walks
daily with her lover beneath those leafless trees. The thought provoked
my bitter hatred, and I know not how I refrained from facing the pair.
I managed, however, to hold myself back, watching them exchange a tender
farewell at the gate that led into Kensington High Street, next the
Palace Hotel, and while the man raised his hat politely and, turning,
walked away in the direction of Knightsbridge, Ella, her face radiant
and happy, bowed and set out homeward in the opposite direction.
Beneath the lamp in the gateway I had, in those brief seconds, obtained
a glimpse of his face. It was that of a young man of about
two-and-twenty, with strongly marked features, fair-haired, and of quite
a different type than I had conjectured. The features were rather
refined, by no means those of a cad, but rather those of a well-bred
young idler, who affected the dress and manners of that class of youths
who frequent the Cafe Monico on Sunday evenings, the slaves of the
counter.
Once he glanced back to Ella, but she did not turn; then he went on and
was lost in the darkness, while I followed my wife's neat figure through
the bustling throng of foot-passengers.