The daily ride was a regular institution at Wadenhoe, whither Dora came
frequently to visit my mother, and during the few days following the
dance we went out each morning. We chose early hours for riding;
starting betimes to enjoy to the full the poetry of those bright
mornings, and often the sounds of our horses' hoofs were the first to
awaken the echoes along the roads and lanes. From the brown fields
would be rising in white clouds the filmy mist, gossamers would be
gently waving, reflecting all the colours of the rising sun, while on
every tuft and blade of grass stood glistening dewdrops. Then as we
reached the woods the air would become fresher, and from all sides would
arise the pleasant smell of damp moss and wood, of wild thyme, and of
the many little spring flowers that filled the air with woodland
fragrance, seeming to blossom out altogether as if anxious not to lose
an instant of the opening day.
It was then that I felt mostly under her influence, the influence of a
true, honest woman. The way was narrow, and we had to go in single
file--Dora going first, entirely absorbed in holding up her horse, who
would occasionally stumble over the slippery stumps; I following,
leaving my horse to follow his own way, my attention fixed upon the
lithe, graceful figure in straw hat and perfectly-fitting habit before
me.
Alas! an undefined sense of trouble remained to me, and now that I was
questioning myself and trying to read my heart, I was so astonished at
my own feelings that I endeavoured to give them any name, to explain
them by any possibility, rather than resolve them into a single word.
I knew that my admiration was almost akin to love. That instinctive
feeling which attends all affection, the need of reciprocity, had
awakened in my heart. The only event that could save me from falling
actually in love with her would, I knew, be the advent of Jack Bethune.
Six days had already passed, but I had received no word from him.
Possibly the fugitive had left Turin before my telegram arrived, or,
more likely, he had regarded it as a ruse on the part of the police to
induce him to return, and thus save the complicated process of
extradition.
Yet each morning as we rode together she discussed the prospect of
seeing him, and wondering why he had neither arrived nor telegraphed,
while I endeavoured to console her by anticipating his arrival each
evening. Foolishly I clung to those hours of ignorance, and, like a man
who shuts his eyes because he will not see, I forced my mind and heart
not to remember or forebode. I would snatch from Fate yet one more day,
one single day longer of that vague, ill-defined uneasiness which I
could treat as foolishness until the voice of authority had pronounced
it to be well-founded. Once more I would feel without alloy that I was
young, happy, beloved.
She, too, was happy in the expectation of having the man she loved again
by her side. She was ignorant that he was suspected of murder; and I
felt myself utterly unable to begin attacking so deep and tranquil a
happiness, linked so firmly into what seemed an endless chain of bliss.
We were riding together one morning on the road between Thrapston and
Aldwinkle, and when near the cross-road that leads to Titchmarsh, Dora
suddenly uttered an exclamation of joy and pointed on before. I looked,
and saw upon the road a familiar figure in a tweed suit and grey felt
hat. With one accord we galloped forward, and in a few minutes were
shaking Jack Bethune heartily by the hand.
But in those glad moments I could not fail to notice how changed he was.
His unshaven face was pale and thin, and in his eyes was a curious
expression; indeed, he seemed to avoid my gaze. Then again there fell
upon me the suspicion that this man had been Sybil's lover. Yet I
gripped his hand in welcome.
"I received your telegram, old fellow," he said, turning to me after he
had greeted the woman he loved. "How did you ascertain I was in Turin?"
I laughed, but vouchsafed no satisfactory reply, and as we all three
walked towards Wadenhoe the conversation grew animated. Jack,
suppressing the truth that he had feared arrest, made it appear to Dora
that he had been sent abroad on a secret mission and had been compelled
to move rapidly from place to place. At breakfast he related how he had
received my telegram late at night, after travelling to Asti, and had
packed up and left immediately.
"But why have you not written oftener?" Dora asked. "Your letters were
couched so strangely that I confess I began to fear you had done
something dreadfully wrong."
I watched the effect of those innocent words upon him. He started
guiltily, his thin lips compressed, and his face grew pale.
"You are not very complimentary, dearest," he stammered. "I have never
been a fugitive, and I hope I never shall be. I suppose the papers have
been saying something about me. They always know more about one than
one knows one's self. The statements I read in my press-cuttings are
simply amazing."
"As far as I am aware the papers have not commented upon your absence,"
she answered. "It was merely a surmise of my own, and, of course,
absolutely absurd. Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," he answered, rather dryly.
"No, nothing," I said; then turning to him I added: "Dora has been
talking daily of you, and wondering when you would return."
"I obeyed your commands immediately," he observed, with an expression
that was full of mystery.
"And you have acted wisely," I said. I saw it was not judicious to
continue the conversation further, therefore we rose from the table, and
during the morning I left Dora and her lover to wander in the garden and
talk together.
After luncheon, on the pretext of playing billiards, I took Jack alone
to the billiard-room, where I knew we should be undisturbed. Instead of
taking up the cues we sat together smoking in the deep old-fashioned
bay-window that overlooked the broad pastures and the winding Nene.
"Well," I said at length. "Now be frank with me, Jack, old fellow; what
does all this mean? Why did you leave the country so suddenly and cause
all this talk?"
"What has been said about me? Have the papers got hold of it?" he
inquired quickly.
"Not to my knowledge."
"Thank Heaven!" he gasped, with a sigh of relief. "Then I am safe up to
the present."
Up to the present! He feared the future. This was a confession of his
guilt! The fingers that held his cigar trembled slightly as he spoke.
"But you have not told me the reason of your flight. What is it you
fear?" I inquired.
"The reason is a secret," he said, as if speaking to himself, looking
away fixedly across the meadows and the sun-illumined river. "Some
incidents have occurred that, although they have happened in real life,
are even more startling and extraordinary than any I have ever imagined
in fiction."
"Cannot you explain them to me, your friend?"
"No. I cannot--I--I dare not, believe me. For the present I must
preserve my secret," and he shook his head sadly.
"Why?"
"Because my whole future depends upon my ability to remain silent."
For some minutes I did not speak; my bitter thoughts were wandering back
to the conversation I had overheard in the garden at Blatherwycke. At
last I resolved to attack him point blank.
"Jack," I exclaimed earnestly, looking into his pale, pained face.
"Answer me one question. Did you ever know a woman named Sybil?"
For an instant his brow contracted, and his breath seemed to catch. His
hand again trembled as he removed the cigar from his mouth.
"Sybil!" he echoed, his face paler than before. "Yes, it is true, I--I
once knew someone of that name. You have discovered the secret of--"
"Captain Bethune," interrupted my father's man, who, followed by Dora,
had entered the billiard-room unobserved, and who stood before us
holding a card on a salver.
"Yes," answered Jack, turning sharply.
"A gentleman has called to see you, sir."
Jack took the card, glanced at it for an instant, and then starting
suddenly to his feet, stood with clenched fists and glaring eyes.
"My God, Stuart! He is here! Save me, old fellow! You are my friend.
Save me!"
Next second he sank back again into his chair with his chin upon his
breast, rigid and motionless as one dead.
Noticing Dora's look of surprise at the words he uttered, he set his
teeth, steadied himself by dint of great effort, and turning to the man
ordered him to show the visitor in. Then, addressing the woman he
loved, he added hoarsely:
"I must see this man alone, dearest."
"You wish me to leave?" she inquired, her pretty face clouded by a
sudden expression of bewilderment. He nodded, without replying, and as
she moved slowly towards the door, I followed.
"No, Stuart," he cried anxiously. "No, stay, old fellow, stay! You are
my friend, stay!"
Dora turned, glanced at her lover and then disappeared through the
doorway, while I returned slowly to where he was standing, staring like
one fallen under some occult influence.
"Who is this visitor?" I asked, but before he could reply, the man
appeared at the door, and announced:
"Mr Francis Markwick."
At the same moment there advanced into the room the mysterious
individual who had been my conductor on the night of my marriage; the
man whose intimate acquaintance with Lady Fyneshade was so puzzling! He
was well-groomed and sprucely-dressed in a well-cut frock-coat, tightly
buttoned, and wore a flower and grey suede gloves.
"Ah! my dear Bethune!" he cried, walking towards him with extended hand,
without apparently noticing me. "I heard you were back, and have taken
the earliest opportunity of calling. Where have you been all this
time?" But Jack, thrusting his hands into his pockets, made no reply to
this man's effusiveness. His greeting was frigid, for he merely
inclined his head. Suddenly the remembrance of those partially charred
letters I had found in Jack's chambers on the night of the murder of
Sternroyd flashed through my brain. In them the name "Markwick"
occurred several times, and the writer of one had referred to him as
"that vile, despicable coward." Who had penned these words? Sybil had
no doubt written one of the letters I had discovered, but did this
condemnation emanate from her? I stood watching him and wondering.
When he found Bethune disinclined to enter into any conversation, he
turned to me and with a slight start recognised me for the first time.
"I believe, Mr Markwick, we have the pleasure of mutual acquaintance,"
I said, bowing.
He looked at me in silence for a few seconds, then, with an expression
of perplexity, replied:
"You really have the advantage of me, sir. I cannot recall where we
have met before."
I was certainly not prepared for this disclaimer, but his eyes were
unwavering, and there was no sign of confusion. His sinister face was a
perfect blank.
"Come," I said, rather superciliously, "you surely remember our meeting
one night at Richmond, our strange journey together and its tragic
result!"
"Strange journey--tragic result!" he repeated slowly, with well-feigned
ignorance. "I confess I have no knowledge of what you mean."
"Complete loss of memory is advantageous sometimes," I remarked dryly.
"But if you deny that you did not meet me one night in the Terrace
Gardens at Richmond, that you did not induce me to go to a certain house
to have an interview with the woman I loved, and that while in that
house an event occurred which--"
"How many whiskies have you had this morning?" he asked with a laugh.
His impassibility was astounding.
"I tell you if you deny these facts you lie!" I cried angrily.
"I certainly do deny them," he answered firmly. "And what is more, I
have never set eyes upon you before today."
"Then you will deny that Lady Fyneshade had a visitor who met her
clandestinely--in the shrubbery at Blatherwycke the other night--and
that that visitor was yourself? You will deny that you have acted as
the Countess's inquiry agent; that you followed my friend, Captain
Bethune, to the Continent, dogged his footsteps through France, Germany
and Italy, and made such arrangements that he could be arrested at any
moment--"
"What for?" cried Bethune, amazed. "What crime is alleged against me?"
There was silence. Markwick flashed a rapid glance at me.
"None," I said at last I saw that this man Markwick was too wary to show
his hand.
"Then if what you say is true, why should this man act as spy upon me?"
demanded Jack fiercely.
"Ask him," I replied. "From his own lips I heard him report to his
employer, Lady Fyneshade, the result of his investigations."
"Mabel! then she, too, is my enemy," he exclaimed furiously. "She has
endeavoured all along to part me from Dora, but she shall not--by God!
she shan't."
"And what proof have you?" asked Markwick, addressing me. "What proof
have you, pray, that I had been employed--as you so delicately put it--
by the Countess?"
"Your own words. I overheard you. It was highly interesting, I assure
you," I answered, smiling as I watched the effect of my words.
Suddenly Jack, pale with anger, started with a sudden impulse towards
him, crying:
"You have spied upon me and endeavoured unsuccessfully to give me into
the hands of the police. Well, it is a fight between us. Were it not
for the fact I am a guest in a friend's house I would horsewhip you as a
cad and a coward. As it is, you shall go free. I shall, however, be
armed against you; these revelations by my friend Ridgeway have proved
what I long ago suspected, and--"
"This friend of yours, who desires to claim acquaintance with me, lies!"
he said with calm indifference.
"Go! Tell the Countess, whose lover you may be for aught I know, that
the man she suspects is innocent, and that if necessary he will prove
it," Bethune answered bitterly.
"I knew you were innocent, Jack!" I cried. "Prove it, old fellow!
Don't delay a moment."
He turned quickly, and asked me frigidly: "Then you also suspect me--of
what?"
I saw that my involuntary exclamations had again betrayed my suspicions.
Ere I could reply, Markwick, who had flung himself into an arm-chair
and was sitting in an indolent attitude with legs outstretched, had
cried:
"Innocent--bah!"
"What crime then do you allege?" Jack demanded. His face blanched as
he strode up to his strange visitor with clenched fists.