The Seven Secrets

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XIII.

  MY LOVE.

  As soon as Ambler Jevons had slipped out through my little study mylove came slowly forward, as though with some unwillingness.

  She was dressed, as at the inquest, in deep mourning, wearing asmartly-cut tailor-made dress trimmed with astrachan and a neat toque,her pale countenance covered with a thick spotted veil.

  "Ralph," she exclaimed in a low voice, "forgive me for calling uponyou at this hour. I know it's indiscreet, but I am very anxious to seeyou."

  I returned her greeting, rather coldly I am afraid, and led her to thebig armchair which had only a moment before been vacated by my friend.

  When she seated herself and faced me I saw how changed she was, eventhough she did not lift her veil. Her dark eyes seemed haggard andsunken, her cheeks, usually pink with the glow of health, were white,almost ghastly, and her slim, well-gloved hand, resting upon the chairarm, trembled perceptibly.

  "You have not come to me for two whole days, Ralph," she commenced ina tone of complaint. "Surely you do not intend to desert me in thesehours of distress?"

  "I must apologise," I responded quickly, remembering Jevons' advice."But the fact is I myself have been very upset over the sad affair,and, in addition, I've had several serious cases during the past fewdays. Sir Bernard has been unwell, and I've been compelled to lookafter his practice."

  "Sir Bernard!" she ejaculated, in a tone which instantly struck me asstrange. It was as though she held him in abhorrence. "Do you know,Ralph, I hate to think of you in association with that man."

  "Why?" I asked, much surprised, while at that same moment the thoughtflashed through my mind how often Sir Bernard had given me vaguewarnings regarding her.

  They were evidently bitter enemies.

  "I have no intention to give my reasons," she replied, her browsslightly knit. "I merely give it as my opinion that you should nolonger remain in association with him."

  "But surely you are alone in that opinion!" I said. "He bears a highcharacter, and is certainly one of the first physicians in London. Hispractice is perhaps the most valuable of any medical man at thepresent moment."

  "I don't deny that," she said, her gloved fingers twitching nervously."A man may be a king, and at the same time a knave."

  I smiled. It was apparent that her intention was to separate me fromthe man to whom I owed nearly all, if not quite all, my success. Andwhy? Because he knew of her past, and she feared that he might, in amoment of confidence, betray all to me.

  "Vague hints are always irritating," I remarked. "Cannot you give mesome reason for your desire that my friendship with him should end?"

  "No. If I did, you would accuse me of selfish motives," she said,fixing her dark eyes upon me.

  Could a woman with a Madonna-like countenance be actually guilty ofmurder? It seemed incredible. And yet her manner was that of a womanhaunted by the terrible secret of her crime. At that moment she wasseeking, by ingenious means, to conceal the truth regarding the past.She feared that my intimate friendship with the great physician mightresult in her unmasking.

  "I can't see that selfish motives enter into this affair at all," Iremarked. "Whatever you tell me, Ethelwynn, is, I know, for my ownbenefit. Therefore you should at least be explicit."

  "I can't be more explicit."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I have no right to utter a libel without being absolutelycertain of the facts."

  "I don't quite follow you," I said, rather puzzled.

  "I mean that at present the information I have is vague," she replied."But if it is the truth, as I expect to establish it, then you mustdissociate yourself from him, Ralph."

  "You have only suspicions?"

  "Only suspicions."

  "Of what?"

  "Of a fact which will some day astound you."

  Our eyes met again, and I saw in hers a look of intense earnestnessthat caused me to wonder. To what could she possibly be referring?

  "You certainly arouse my curiosity," I said, affecting to laugh. "Doyou really think Sir Bernard such a very dreadful person, then?"

  "Ah! You do not take my words seriously," she remarked. "I am warningyou, Ralph, for your own benefit. It is a pity you do not heed me."

  "I do heed you," I declared. "Only your statement is so strange thatit appears almost incredible."

  "Incredible it may seem; but one day ere long you will be convincedthat what I say to-night is the truth."

  "What do you say?"

  "I say that Sir Bernard Eyton, the man in whom you place everyconfidence, and whose example as a great man in his profession you areso studiously following, is not your friend."

  "Nor yours, I suppose?"

  "No, neither is he mine."

  This admission was at least the truth. I had known it long ago. Butwhat had been the cause of difference between them was hidden indeepest mystery. Sir Bernard, as old Mr. Courtenay's most intimatefriend, knew, in all probability, of his engagement to her, and of itsrupture in favour of her sister Mary. It might even be that SirBernard had had a hand in the breaking of the engagement. If so, thatwould well account for her violent hostility towards him.

  Such thoughts, with others, flashed through my mind as I satthere facing her. She was leaning back, her hands fallen idlyupon her lap, peering straight at me through that spotted veilwhich, half-concealing her wondrous beauty, imparted to her anadditional air of mystery.

  "You have quarrelled with Sir Bernard, I presume?" I hazarded.

  "Quarrelled!" she echoed. "We were never friends."

  Truly she possessed all a clever woman's presence of mind in theevasion of a leading question.

  "He was an acquaintance of yours?"

  "An acquaintance--yes. But I have always distrusted him."

  "Mary likes him, I believe," I remarked. "He was poor Courtenay's mostintimate friend for many years."

  "She judges him from that standpoint alone. Any of her husband'sfriends were hers, and she was fully cognisant of Sir Bernard'sunceasing attention to the sufferer."

  "If that is so it is rather a pity that she was recently soneglectful," I said.

  "I know, Ralph--I know the reason of it all," she faltered. "I can'texplain to you, because it is not just that I should expose mysister's secret. But I know the truth which, when revealed, will makeit clear to the world that her apparent neglect was not culpable. Shehad a motive."

  "A motive in going to town of an evening and enjoying herself!" Iexclaimed. "Of course, the motive was to obtain relaxation. When a manis more than twice the age of his wife, the latter is apt to chafebeneath the golden fetter. It's the same everywhere--in Mayfair as inMile End; in Suburbia as in a rural village. Difference of age isdifference of temperament; and difference of temperament opens abreach which only a lover can fill."

  She was silent--her eyes cast down. She saw that the attempt tovindicate her sister had, as before, utterly and ignominiously failed.

  "Yes, Ralph, you are right," she admitted at last. "Judged from aphilosophic standpoint a wife ought not to be more than ten years herhusband's junior. Love which arises out of mere weakness is as easilyfixed upon one object as another; and consequently is at all timestransferable. It is so pleasant to us women to be admired, and sosoothing to be loved that the grand trial of constancy to a youngwoman married to an elderly man is not to add one more conquest to hertriumphs, but to earn the respect and esteem of the man who is herhusband. And it is difficult. Of that I am convinced."

  There was for the first time a true ring of earnestness in her voice,and I saw by her manner that her heart was overburdened by the sorrowthat had fallen upon her sister. Her character was a complex one whichI had failed always to analyse, and it seemed just then as though herendeavour was to free her sister of all the responsibilities of hermarried life. She had made that effort once before, prior to thetragedy, but its motive was hidden in obscurity.

  "Women are often very foolish," she went on, half-apologetically."Having chosen t
heir lover for his suitability they usually allow thenatural propensity of their youthful minds to invest him with everyideal of excellence. That is a fatal error committed by the majorityof women. We ought to be satisfied with him as he is, rather thanimagine him what he never can be."

  "Yes," I said, smiling at her philosophy. "It would certainly savethem a world of disappointment in after life. It has always struck methat the extravagant investiture of fancy does not belong, as iscommonly supposed, to the meek, true and abiding attachment which itis woman's highest virtue and noblest distinction to feel. I stronglysuspect it is vanity, and not affection, which leads a woman tobelieve her lover perfect; because it enhances her triumph to be thechoice of such a man."

  "Ah! I'm glad that we agree, Ralph," she said with a sigh and an airof deep seriousness. "The part of the true-hearted woman is to besatisfied with her lover such as he is, old or young, and to considerhim, with all his faults, as sufficiently perfect for her. No afterdevelopment of character can then shake her faith, no ridicule orexposure can weaken her tenderness for a single moment; while, on theother hand, she who has blindly believed her lover to be without afault, must ever be in danger of awaking to the conviction that herlove exists no longer."

  "As in your own case," I added, in an endeavour to obtain from her thereason of this curious discourse.

  "My own case!" she echoed. "No, Ralph. I have never believed you to bea perfect ideal. I have loved you because I knew that you loved me.Our tastes are in common, our admiration for each other is mutual,and our affection strong and ever-increasing--until--until----"

  And faltering, she stopped abruptly, without concluding her sentence.

  "Until what?" I asked.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. One drop rolled down her white cheek untilit reached her veil, and stood there sparkling beneath the light.

  "You know well," she said hoarsely. "Until the tragedy. From thatmoment, Ralph, you changed. You are not the same to me as formerly. Ifeel--I feel," she confessed, covering her face with her hands andsobbing bitterly, "I feel that I have lost you."

  "Lost me! I don't understand," I said, feigning not to comprehend her.

  "I feel as though you no longer held me in esteem," she falteredthrough her tears. "Something tells me, Ralph, that--that your lovefor me has vanished, never to return!"

  With a sudden movement she raised her veil, and I saw how white andanxious was her fair countenance. I could not bring myself to believethat such a perfect face could conceal a heart blackened by the crimeof murder. But, alas! all men are weak where a pretty woman isconcerned. After all, it is feminine wiles and feminine graces thatrule our world. Man is but a poor mortal at best, easily moved tosympathy by a woman's tears, and as easily misled by the touch of asoft hand or a passionate caress upon the lips. Diplomacy is inborn inwoman, and although every woman is not an adventuress, yet one andall are clever actresses when the game of love is being played.

  The thought of that letter I had read and destroyed again recurred tome. Yes, she had concealed her secret--the secret of her attempt tomarry Courtenay for his money. And yet if, as seemed so apparent, shehad nursed her hatred, was it not but natural that she should assume ahostile attitude towards her sister--the woman who had eclipsed her inthe old man's affections? Nevertheless, on the contrary, she wasalways apologetic where Mary was concerned, and had always sought toconceal her shortcomings and domestic infelicity. It was that pointwhich so sorely puzzled me.

  "Why should my love for you become suddenly extinguished?" I asked,for want of something other to say.

  "I don't know," she faltered. "I cannot tell why, but I have adistinct distrust of the future, a feeling that we are driftingapart."

  She spoke the truth. A woman in love is quick of perception, and nofeigned affection on the man's part can ever blind her.

  I saw that she read my heart like an open book, and at once strove toreassure her, trying to bring myself to believe that I had misjudgedher.

  "No, no, dearest," I said, rising with a hollow pretence of caressingher tears away. "You are nervous, and upset by the tragedy. Try toforget it all."

  "Forget!" she echoed in a hard voice, her eyes cast down despondently."Forget that night! Ah, no, I can never forget it--never!"