The Seven Secrets

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER IV.

  A NIGHT CALL.

  "Do you know, Ralph," she faltered presently, "I have a faintsuspicion that you are annoyed about something. What is it? Be franknow and tell me."

  "Annoyed?" I laughed. "Not at all, dearest. Nervous and impatient,perhaps. You must make allowances for me. A doctor's life is full ofprofessional worries. I've had a trying day at the hospital, and Isuppose I'm quarrelsome--eh?"

  "No, not quarrelsome, but just inclined to be a little suspicious."

  "Suspicious? Of what?"

  Her woman's power of penetration to the innermost secrets of the heartwas marvellous.

  "Of me?"

  "How absurd!" I exclaimed. "Why should I be suspicious--and of what?"

  "Well," she laughed, "I really don't know, only your manner ispeculiar. Why not be frank with me, Ralph, dear, and tell me what itis that you don't like. Have I offended you?"

  "Not at all, darling," I hastened to assure her. "Why, you're the bestlittle woman in the world. Offend me--how absurd!"

  "Then who has offended you?"

  I hesitated. When a woman really loves, a man can have but few secretsfrom her. Ethelwynn always read me like an open book.

  "I'm worried over a critical case," I said, in an endeavour to evadeher question.

  "But your patients don't annoy you, surely," she exclaimed. "There isa distinction between annoyance and worry."

  I saw that she had detected my suspicion, and at once hastened toreassure her that she had my entire confidence.

  "If Mary finds her life a trifle dull with her husband it is surely noreason why I should be blamed for it," she said, in a tone of mildcomplaint.

  "No, you entirely misunderstand me," I said. "No blame whateverattaches to you. Your sister's actions are no affair of ours. It ismerely a pity that she cannot see her error. With her husband lyingill she should at least remain at home."

  "She declares that she has suffered martyrdom for his sake longenough," my well-beloved said. "Perhaps she is right, for betweenourselves the old gentleman is a terrible trial."

  "That is only to be expected from one suffering from such a disease.Yet it can serve no excuse for his wife taking up with that gay set,the Penn-Pagets and the Hennikers. I must say I'm very surprised."

  "And so am I, Ralph. But what can I do? I'm utterly powerless. She ismistress here, and does exactly as she likes. The old gentleman doteson her and allows her to have her way in everything. She has everbeen wilful, even from a child."

  She did not attempt to shield her sister, and yet she uttered nocondemnation of her conduct. I could not, even then, understand thesituation. To me one of two things was apparent. Either she feared todisplease her sister because of some power the latter held over her,or this neglect of old Mr. Courtenay was pleasing to her.

  "I wonder you don't give Mary a hint that her conduct is being noticedand remarked upon. Of course, don't say that I've spoken of it. Merelyput it to her in the manner of a vague suggestion."

  "Very well, if you wish it," she responded promptly, for she was everready to execute my smallest desire.

  "And you love me quite as truly and as well as you did a year ago?" Iasked, eagerly, stroking the dark tendrils from her white brow.

  "Love you?" she echoed. "Yes, Ralph," she went on, looking up into myface with unwavering gaze. "I may be distrait and pre-occupiedsometimes, but, nevertheless, I swear to you, as I did on thatsummer's evening long ago when we were boating together at Shepperton,that you are the only man I have ever loved--or shall ever love."

  I returned her caress with a passion that was heartfelt. I was devotedto her, and these tender words of hers confirmed my belief in hertruth and purity.

  "Need I repeat what I have told you so many times, dearest?" I asked,in a low voice, as her head rested upon my shoulder and she stood inmy embrace. "Need I tell you how fondly I love you--how that I amentirely yours? No. You are mine, Ethelwynn--mine."

  "And you will never think ill of me?" she asked, in a faltering tone."You will never be suspicious of me as you have been to-night? Youcannot tell how all this upsets me. Perfect love surely demandsperfect confidence. And our love is perfect--is it not?"

  "It is," I cried. "It is. Forgive me, dearest. Forgive me for mychurlish conduct to-night. It is my fault--all my fault. I love you,and have every confidence in you."

  "But will your love last always?" she asked, with just a tinge ofdoubt in her voice.

  "Yes, always," I declared.

  "No matter what may happen?" she asked.

  "No matter what may happen."

  I kissed her fervently with warm words of passionate devotion upon mylips, and went forth into the rainy winter's night with my suspicionsswept away and with love renewed within me.

  I had been foolish in my suspicions and apprehensions, and hatedmyself for it. Her sweet devotedness to me was sufficient proof of herhonesty. I was not wealthy by any means, and I knew that if she choseshe could, with her notable beauty, captivate a rich husband withoutmuch difficulty. Husbands are only unattainable by the blue-stocking,the flirt and the personally angular.

  The rain pelted down in torrents as I walked to Kew Gardens Station,and as it generally happens to the unlucky doctor that calls are madeupon him in the most inclement weather, I found, on returning toHarley Place, that Lady Langley, in Hill Street, had sent a messageasking me to go round at once. I was therefore compelled to pay thevisit, for her ladyship--a snappy old dowager--was a somewhat exactingpatient of Sir Bernard's.

  She was a fussy old person who believed herself to be much worse thanshe really was, and it was, therefore, not until past one o'clock thatI smoked my final pipe, drained my peg, and retired to bed, full ofrecollections of my well-beloved.

  Just before turning in my man brought me a telegram from Sir Bernard,dispatched from Brighton, regarding a case to be seen on the followingday. He was very erratic about telegrams and sent them to me at allhours, therefore it was no extraordinary circumstance. He alwayspreferred telegraphing to writing letters. I read the message, tossedit with its envelope upon the fire, and then retired with a ferventhope that I should at least be allowed to have a complete night'srest. Sir Bernard's patients were, however, of that class who call thedoctor at any hour for the slightest attack of indigestion, andsummonses at night were consequently very frequent.

  I suppose I had been in bed a couple of hours when I was awakened bythe electric bell sounding in my man's room, and a few minutes laterhe entered, saying:--

  "There's a man who wants to see you immediately, sir. He says he'sfrom Mr. Courtenay's, down at Kew."

  "Mr. Courtenay's!" I echoed, sitting up in bed. "Bring him in here."

  A few moments later the caller was shown in.

  "Why, Short!" I exclaimed. "What's the matter?"

  "Matter, doctor," the man stammered. "It's awful, sir!"

  "What's awful?"

  "My poor master, sir. He's dead--he's been murdered!"