DISCUSSES SEVERAL MATTERS.
Reader, I know that what I have narrated is astounding. It astounded
me just as it astounded you.
There are moments when one's brain becomes dulled by sudden
bewilderment at sight of the absolutely impossible.
It certainly seemed beyond credence that the man whose fatal and
mysterious wound I had myself examined should be there, walking with
his wife in lover-like attitude. And yet there was no question that
the pair were there. A small bush separated us, so that they passed
arm-in-arm within three feet of me. As I have already explained, the
moon was so bright that I could see to read; therefore, shining full
upon their faces, it was impossible to mistake the features of two
persons whom I knew so well.
Fortunately they had not overheard my involuntary exclamation of
astonishment, or, if they had, both evidently believed it to be one of
the many distorted sounds of the night. Upon Mary's face there was
revealed a calm expression of perfect content, different indeed from
the tearful countenance of a few hours before, while her husband,
grey-faced and serious, just as he had been before his last illness,
had her arm linked in his, and walked with her, whispering some low
indistinct words which brought to her lips a smile of perfect
felicity.
Now had I been a superstitious man I should have promptly declared the
whole thing to have been an apparition. But as I do not believe in
borderland theories, any more than I believe that a man whose heart is
nearly cut in twain can again breathe and live, I could only stand
aghast, bewildered and utterly dumfounded.
Hidden from them by a low thorn-bush, I stood in silent stupefaction
as they passed by. That it was no chimera of the imagination was
proved by the fact that their footsteps sounded upon the path, and
just as they had passed I heard Courtenay address his wife by name.
The transformation of her countenance from the ineffable picture of
grief and sorrow to the calm, sweet expression of content had been
marvellous, to say the least--an event stranger, indeed, than any I
had ever before witnessed. In the wild writings of the old romancers
the dead have sometimes been resuscitated, but never in this workaday
world of ours. There is a finality in death that is decisive.
Yet, as I here write these lines, I stake my professional reputation
that the man I saw was the same whom I had seen dead in that upper
room in Kew. I knew his gait, his cough, and his countenance too well
to mistake his identity.
That night's adventure was certainly the most startling, and at the
same time the most curious, that ever befel a man. Thus I became
seized with curiosity, and at risk of detection crept forth from my
hiding-place and looked out after them. To betray my presence would be
to bar from myself any chance of learning the secret of it all;
therefore I was compelled to exercise the greatest caution. Mary
mourned the loss of her husband towards the world, and yet met him in
secret at night--wandering with him by that solitary bye-path along
which no villager ever passed after dark, and lovers avoided because
of the popular tradition that a certain unfortunate Lady of the Manor
of a century ago "walked" there. In the fact of the mourning so well
feigned I detected the concealment of some remarkable secret.
The situation was, without doubt, an extraordinary one. The man upon
whose body I had made a post-mortem examination was alive and well,
walking with his wife, although for months before his assassination he
had been a bed-ridden invalid. Such a thing was startling, incredible!
Little wonder was it that at first I could scarce believe my own eyes.
Only when I looked full into his face and recognised his features,
with all their senile peculiarities, did the amazing truth become
impressed upon me.
Around the bend in the river I stole stealthily after them, in order
to watch their movements, trying to catch their conversation,
although, unfortunately, it was in too low an undertone. He never
released her arm or changed his affectionate attitude towards her, but
appeared to be relating to her some long and interesting chain of
events to which she listened with rapt attention.
Along the river's edge, out in the open moonlight, it was difficult to
follow them without risk of observation. Now and then the elder-bushes
and drooping willows afforded cover beneath their deep shadow, but in
places where the river wound through the open water-meadows my
presence might at any moment be detected. Therefore the utmost
ingenuity and caution were necessary.
Having made the staggering discovery, I was determined to thoroughly
probe the mystery. The tragedy of old Mr. Courtenay's death had
resolved itself into a romance of the most mysterious and startling
character. As I crept forward over the grass, mostly on tiptoe, so as
to avoid the sound of my footfalls, I tried to form some theory to
account for the bewildering circumstance, but could discern absolutely
none.
Mary was still wearing her mourning; but about her head was wrapped a
white silk shawl, and on her shoulders a small fur cape, for the
spring night was chilly. Her husband had on a dark overcoat and soft
felt hat of the type he always wore, and carried in his hand a light
walking-stick. Once or twice he halted when he seemed to be impressing
his words the more forcibly upon her, and then I was compelled to stop
also and to conceal myself. I would have given much to overhear the
trend of their conversation, but strive how I would I was unable. They
seemed to fear eavesdroppers, and only spoke in low half-whispers.
I noticed how old Mr. Courtenay kept from time to time glancing around
him, as though in fear of detection; hence I was in constant dread
lest he should look behind him and discover me slinking along their
path. I am by no means an adept at following persons, but in this case
the stake was so great--the revelation of some startling and
unparalleled mystery--that I strained every nerve and every muscle to
conceal my presence while pushing forward after them.
Picture to yourself for a moment my position. The whole of my future
happiness, and consequently my prosperity in life, was at stake at
that instant. To clear up the mystery successfully might be to clear
my love of the awful stigma upon her. To watch and to listen was the
only way; but the difficulties in the dead silence of the night were
well-nigh insurmountable, for I dare not approach sufficiently near to
catch a single word. I had crept on after them for about a mile, until
we were approaching the tumbling waters of the weir. The dull roar
swallowed up the sound of their voices, but it assisted me, for I had
no further need to tread noiselessly.
On nearing the lock-keeper's cottage, a little white-washed house
wherein the inmates were sleeping soundly, they made a wide detour
around the meadow, in order to avoid the chance of being seen. Mary
was well known to the old lock-keeper who had controlled those great
sluices for thirty years or more, and she knew that at night he was
often compelled to be on duty, and might at that very moment be
sitting on the bench outside his house, smoking his short clay.
I, however, had no such fear. Stepping lightly upon the grass beside
the path I went past the house and continued onward by the riverside,
passing at once into the deep shadow of the willows, which
effectually concealed me.
The pair were walking at the same slow, deliberate pace beneath the
high hedge on the further side of the meadow, evidently intending to
rejoin the river-path some distance further up. This gave me an
opportunity to get on in front of them, and I seized it without delay;
for I was anxious to obtain another view of the face of the man whom I
had for months believed to be in his grave.
Keeping in the shadow of the trees and bushes that overhung the
stream, I sped onward for ten minutes or more until I came to the
boundary of the great pasture, passing through the swing gate by which
I felt confident that they must also pass. I turned to look before
leaving the meadow, and could just distinguish their figures. They had
turned at right angles, and, as I had expected, were walking in my
direction.
Forward I went again, and after some hurried search discovered a spot
close to the path where concealment behind a great old tree seemed
possible; so at that coign of vantage I waited breathlessly for their
approach. The roaring of the waters behind would, I feared, prevent
any of their words from reaching me; nevertheless, I waited anxiously.
A great barn owl flapped lazily past, hooting weirdly as it went; then
all nature became still again, save the dull sound of the tumbling
flood. Ambler Jevons, had he been with me, would, no doubt, have acted
differently. But it must be remembered that I was the merest tyro in
the unravelling of a mystery, whereas, with him, it was a kind of
natural occupation. And yet would he believe me when I told him that I
had actually seen the dead man walking there with his wife?
I was compelled to admit within myself that such a statement from the
lips of any man would be received with incredulity. Indeed, had such a
thing been related to me, I should have put the narrator down as
either a liar or a lunatic.
At last they came. I remained motionless, standing in the shadow, not
daring to breathe. My eyes were fixed upon him, my ears strained to
catch every sound.
He said something to her. What it was I could not gather. Then he
pushed open the creaking gate to allow her to pass. Across the moon's
face had drifted a white, fleecy cloud; therefore the light was not so
brilliant as half an hour before. Still, I could see his features
almost as plainly as I see this paper upon which I am penning my
strange adventure, and could recognise every lineament and peculiarity
of his countenance.
Having passed through the gate, he took her ungloved hand with an air
of old-fashioned gallantry and raised it to his lips. She laughed
merrily in rapturous content, and then slowly, very slowly, they
strolled along the path that ran within a few feet of where I stood.
My heart leapt with excitement. Their voices sounded above the rushing
of the waters, and they were lingering as though unwilling to walk
further.
"Ethelwynn has told me," he was saying. "I can't make out the reason
of his coldness towards her. Poor girl! she seems utterly
heart-broken."
"He suspects," his wife replied.
"But what ground has he for suspicion?"
I stood there transfixed. They were talking of myself!
They had halted quite close to where I was, and in that low roar had
raised their voices so that I could distinguish every word.
"Well," remarked his wife, "the whole affair was mysterious, that you
must admit. With his friend, a man named Jevons, he has been
endeavouring to solve the problem."
"A curse on Ambler Jevons!" he blurted forth in anger, as though he
were well acquainted with my friend.
"If between them they managed to get at the truth it would be very
awkward," she said.
"No fear of that," he laughed in full confidence. "A man once dead and
buried, with a coroner's verdict upon him, is not easily believed to
be alive and well. No, my dear; rest assured that these men will never
get at our secret--never."
I smiled within myself. How little did he dream that the man of whom
he had been speaking was actually overhearing his words!
"But Ethelwynn, in order to regain her place in the doctor's heart,
may betray us," his wife remarked dubiously.
"She dare not," was the reply. "From her we have nothing whatever to
fear. As long as you keep up the appearance of deep mourning, are
discreet in all your actions, and exercise proper caution on the
occasions when we meet, our secret must remain hidden from all."
"But I am doubtful of Ethelwynn. A woman as fondly in love with a man,
as she is with Ralph, is apt to throw discretion to the winds," the
woman observed. "Recollect that the breach between them is on our
account, and that a word from her could expose the whole thing, and at
the same time bring back to her the man for whose lost love she is
pining. It is because of that I am in constant fear."
"Your apprehensions are entirely groundless," he declared in a
decisive voice. "She's the only other person in the secret besides
ourselves; but to betray us would be fatal to her."
"She may consider that she has made sufficient self-sacrifice?"
"Then all the greater reason why she should remain silent. She has her
reputation to lose by divulging."
By his argument she appeared only half-convinced, for I saw upon her
brow a heavy, thoughtful expression, similar to that I had noticed
when sitting opposite her at dinner. The reason of her constant
preoccupation was that she feared that her sister might give me the
clue to her secret.
That a remarkable conspiracy had been in progress was now made quite
plain; and, further, one very valuable fact I had ascertained was that
Ethelwynn was the only other person who knew the truth, and yet dared
not reveal it.
This man who stood before me was old Mr. Courtenay, without a doubt.
That being so, who could have been the unfortunate man who had been
struck to the heart so mysteriously?
So strange and complicated were all the circumstances, and so cleverly
had the chief actors in the drama arranged its details, that Courtenay
himself was convinced that for others to learn the truth was utterly
impossible. Yet it was more than remarkable that he sought not to
disguise his personal appearance if he wished to remain dead to the
world. Perhaps, however, being unknown in that rural district--for he
once had told me that he had never visited his wife's home since his
marriage--he considered himself perfectly safe from recognition.
Besides, from their conversation I gathered that they only met on rare
occasions, and certainly Mary kept up the fiction of mourning with the
greatest assiduity.
I recollected what old Mrs. Mivart had told me of her daughter's
erratic movements; of her short mysterious absences with her
dressing-bag and without a maid. It was evident that she made flying
visits in various directions in order to meet her "dead" husband.
Courtenay spoke again, after a brief silence, saying:
"I had no idea that the doctor was down here, or I should have kept
away. To be seen by him would expose the whole affair."
"I was quite ignorant of his visit until I went in to dinner and found
him already seated at table," she answered. "But he will leave
to-morrow. He said to-night that to remain away from his patients for
a single day was very difficult."
"Is he down here in pursuance of his inquiries, do you think?"
suggested her husband.
"He may be. Mother evidently knew of his impending arrival, but told
me nothing. I was annoyed, for he was the very last person I wished to
meet."
"Well, he'll go in the morning, so we have nothing to fear. He's safe
enough in bed, and sleeping soundly--confound him!"
The temptation was great to respond aloud to the compliment; but I
refrained, laughing within myself at the valuable information I was
obtaining.