In White Raiment

Who indeed would have expected that my wife herself would have introduced me to the man who had so cleverly baited the trap into which I had fallen? And yet it is always so. There is a mysterious all-ruling spirit of perversity ever at work in that complicated series of events which go to make up what we term life.

“You were telling me that you know my husband,” she said quickly, as we crossed the grass together. “Our conversation was interrupted by that man’s arrival.”

Such reference to the new-comer showed me that she was not well-disposed towards him.

“Do you know,” I said, “I believe that we’ve met somewhere before. I know his face.”

“Possibly. But why Sir Henry should have invited him here again, I can’t imagine.”

“Was his company so disagreeable?” I asked.

“Disagreeable?” she echoed. “He is detestable.”

“Why?”

“Oh, for many reasons,” she responded ambiguously; “I have never liked him.”

“He says that he is always abroad,” I remarked. “But I’m confident that we have met somewhere in England.”

“He did not apparently recognise you, when I introduced you.”

“No. He didn’t wish to. The circumstances of our meeting were not such as to leave behind any pleasant recollections.”

“But you told me that you knew the identity of my husband,” she said, after a pause, as we strolled together in the shadow of the great oaks. “Were you really serious?”

“No, I was not serious,” I answered quickly, for the unexpected arrival of this man who called himself Ashwicke, and whose name appeared in the London Directory as occupier of the house in Queen’s-gate Gardens, caused me to hesitate to tell her the truth. The manner in which they had met made it quite plain that some secret understanding existed between them. It seemed possible that this man had actually occupied the house before the present owner, Mrs Stentiford.

“Then why did you say such a thing?” she asked, in a tone of reproach. “My position is no matter for joking.”

“Certainly not,” I hastened to declare. “Believe me, Miss Wynd, that you have all my sympathy. You are unfortunately unique as one who is married and yet without knowledge either of her husband or his name.”

“Yes,” she sighed, a dark shadow of despair crossing her handsome face. “There is a shadow of evil ever upon me, just as puzzling and mysterious as the chill touch of that unseen influence which at intervals strikes both of us.”

“And the presence of this man adds to your uneasiness. Is that not so?”

She nodded, but no word escaped her.

“I noticed when you met and he descended from the trap that he was not your friend.”

“What caused you to suspect that?” she inquired quickly.

“The man’s face betrayed his feeling towards you. He is your enemy.”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, as though carefully weighing each word; “he is my enemy – my bitterest enemy.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a firm suspicion that he has discovered the secret of my marriage – that he alone knows who my unknown husband really is.”

And turning her wonderful eyes to mine, her troubled breast slowly rose and fell.

When, oh, when should I succeed in solving the maddening problem and be free to make confession of the truth?

Chapter Twenty Eight

Sought Out

With untiring astuteness I watched every movement of the new-comer, but detected nothing suspicious in his actions. We lunched together, only five of us, the others being away at Dodington, and were a merry party. The man with the small eyes was excellent company, full of witty sayings and droll stories, and was really an acquisition to our party.

Yet I noticed that he spoke little with Beryl, as, though some secret understanding existed between them. And when he did address her she answered him vacantly, as though her thoughts were afar off.

That night, on the return of the party from the flower-show, his arrival was hailed with delight. At all events he was a very popular person at Atworth. He seemed rejuvenated since we had last met, and appeared fully twenty years younger than on the night when he had tempted me.

I had many chats with him. I played him at billiards, and was afterwards his partner at whist before we parted for the night. I did this in order to put him off his guard, if possible, and to induce him to believe that I had not recognised him. I had not yet decided how to act.

When at midnight I left my companions, entered my room, and closed the door, that strange, weird influence again made itself felt upon me. My lower limbs became benumbed, my blood seemed frozen in my veins.

I stood glancing around the bedroom in fear and wondering. There was nothing supernatural there, and yet this unseen influence was as the finger of Evil. The strange sensation was not of long duration, but gradually faded until I found myself in my normal state. I tested my temperature with my thermometer, and saw that I had just a slight tendency to fever – due, I supposed, to alarm and excitement.

Then, having satisfied myself that my motor nerves, which had become partially paralysed, had regained their strength, and that the sensitive portion of the spinal nervous system, that had been affected, had returned to its normal capacity, I turned in and tried to sleep.

I say I tried to sleep, but I think, if the truth were told, I did not try. My brain was too perturbed by the events of that day. Beneath that very roof the Tempter was actually sleeping. I had shaken his hand, and played billiards with him. Truly, I had been patient in my efforts to analyse and dissect the various complications of that extraordinary mystery.

At sunrise I dressed, and on stepping from my room out into the fresh air of the corridor, I again felt that bewildering influence upon me, quite distinctly; yet not so strong as to cause me any inconvenience. The feeling was a kind of cold, creepy one, without any sudden shock.

During the day I lounged at Beryl’s side, endeavouring to obtain from her the truth of her midnight escapade. But she would tell me absolutely nothing. The man who had posed as her father was undoubtedly her enemy, and she held him in deadly fear. It was this latter fact that caused me at last to make a resolution, and in the idle hour before the dressing-bell went for dinner, I contrived to stroll alone with him out across the park.

With a good cigar between his lips, he walked as jauntily as a man of twenty, notwithstanding his grey hairs. He laughed and chatted merrily, recounting to me all the fun of last year’s house-party, with its ill-natured chatter and its summer flirtations.

Suddenly, when we were a long way from the house, skirting the quiet lake that lay deep in a hollow surrounded by a small wood, I turned to him resolutely, saying —

“Do you know that I have a distinct recollection that we have met before?”

He started almost imperceptibly, and glanced at me quickly with his small round eyes.

“I think not,” he answered. “Not, at least, to my knowledge.”

“Defects of memory are sometimes useful,” I replied. “Cannot you recall the twenty-fourth of July?”

“The twenty-fourth of July,” he repeated reflectively. “No. There is no event which fixes the date in my memory.”

His face had grown older. The light of youthfulness had gone out of it, leaving it the grey, ashen countenance of the Tempter.

“You were in London on that date,” I asserted.

“No. I was in Alexandria. I sailed from there on the twenty-second.”

“Then, at the outset, you deny that you were in London on the date I have mentioned? Good! Well, I will go a step further in order to refresh your memory. On that July night you met your friend, Tattersett.”

“My dear fellow,” he cried, laughing outright, “I have no idea of what you’re driving at. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“No,” I answered angrily, “I have not, fortunately for myself. Therefore it is useless to deny the truth.”

“I am not denying the truth,” he replied. “I am denying the extraordinary assertion you are making.”

“Because you fear to face the truth.”

“I fear nothing,” he responded defiantly. “What, in Heaven’s name, have I to fear?”

“The consequences of the cleverly-planned conspiracy against myself.”

He smiled superciliously, and answered, “I don’t understand you. What conspiracy?”

“Listen!” I cried furiously. “It is useless for you to affect either ignorance or indifference. This is no case of mistaken identity. You forget that I am a medical man, and that my eye can detect a mark upon the flesh where the layman sees nothing. That crinkled depression on the inside of your wrist is a mark left in infancy. It cannot be imitated, neither can it be obliterated. You may alter your facial expression, or the outline of your figure; but you cannot alter that.”

He glanced at his wrist, and I saw that he had never before noticed the indelible mark upon the flesh.

“You bore that mark on the day we met three months ago, and you bear it now,” I went on. “Do you still deny your presence in London on the date I have mentioned?”

“Of course I do,” he said.

“Then, you are a liar, and I will treat you as such!” I responded firmly.

We were standing facing one another, and I saw in his eyes an evil glint which told me plainly that he was no mean antagonist.

“You pay me a compliment,” he said coolly. “I cannot see what motive you have in thus insulting me.”

“It is no insult,” I cried. “You are my enemy. You and your accomplice, Tattersett, devised an ingenious trap, and then called me in for professional consultation. The trap was well baited, and, as you intended, I fell into it. I thank God for one thing – namely, that I did not commit murder at your instigation.”

He smiled again, but no word escaped him.

“You cannot think that I am in ignorance of the plot, or that I am unaware that, owing to the deception you have practised upon me, Beryl Wynd is my wife.”

“And what connexion have I with all this?” he demanded. “If Beryl Wynd is your wife, what is it to do with me, pray?”

“The marriage was effected by conspiracy,” I answered. “She was your victim – just as I unfortunately was. The penalty for such conspiracy is penal servitude.”

“Well?” he inquired, smiling again. “And I take it that you suspect me of being implicated in the conspiracy? All I can reply is that you are entirely mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken,” I said hotly. “It was yourself who tempted me, holding the banknotes in your hand – ”

“And if you consented, as you allege, you became equally implicated in the conspiracy,” he observed, interrupting me.

I had never before looked at the matter in such a light. His words were true. I had sold myself to the conspirators – had become an accessory, and was therefore just as liable to prosecution as they were!

“You attempted to suborn me to commit murder,” I added.

“It’s a lie,” answered the Tempter flatly.

“But I can prove it,” I asserted.

“How?”

“I have proof,” I replied ambiguously, for I did not intend to show my hand.

“Then you are at liberty to use it for whatever purpose you like,” he answered defiantly. “But we were alone.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed quickly. “Then you admit your identity?”

“I admit nothing.”

“Until I can show proof positive, eh? Until I can bring those who will bear witness that, on the twenty-fourth of June, you were at number 94, Queen’s-gate Gardens; that you sent for me; that on my arrival you tempted me to marry Beryl Wynd; that you accompanied me to the church of St. Ann’s, and that, having accepted the promise of payment, you afterwards attempted to induce me to take her life.”

“Lies – all of it.”

“We shall see. You tried to take my life. Revenge is now mine,” I added in a hard, distinct voice.

It may have been only my fancy, yet I could not help noticing that the word revenge caused him to shrink, and regard me with some misgiving.

“How?” he inquired.

“No,” I responded firmly; “we are enemies. That is sufficient. I have discovered the whole plot, therefore rest assured that those who victimised both Beryl and myself, and have made dastardly attempts upon our lives, shall not go unpunished.”

I had altered my tactics, deeming it best to assume a deeper knowledge of the affair than that which I really possessed. It was a delicate matter; this accusation must be dealt with diplomatically.

“My private opinion of you, sir, is that you are a confounded fool,” he said.

“I may be,” I responded. “But I intend that you, who enmeshed into your plot a defenceless woman, and who abducted me aboard so cleverly, in order to gain time, shall bear the exposure and punishment that you merit.”

He nodded slowly as though perfectly comprehending my meaning.

“Then I take it that Beryl is aware of your actual alliance with her?” he asked, his small eyes flashing at me.

But I made no satisfactory answer. I was wary of him, for I knew him to be a clever miscreant. His tone betrayed an anxiety to know the exact extent of Beryl’s knowledge.

“Beryl is my wife, and my interests are hers,” I replied. “It is sufficient that I am aware of the whole truth.”

“You think so,” he laughed with sarcasm. “Well, you are at liberty to hold your own opinion.”

“The fact is,” I said, “that you accepted Sir Henry’s invitation here, never dreaming that you would come face to face with me. I am the last person in the world you desired to meet.”

“The encounter has given me the utmost pleasure, I assure you,” he replied with a sneer.

“Just as it will not only to yourself but to a certain other.”

“Who?”

“A person whom you know well – an intimate friend of yours.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“It is a woman. Think of your female friends.”

“What is her name?”

“La Gioia.”

“La Gioia?” he gasped glaring at me.

His face was livid and his surprise apparent. I saw that he had never dreamt that I knew of her existence.

“You see, I may be a confounded fool, as you have declared,” I said. “But I have not been idle during these past months. La Gioia’s revenge is mine also.”

He made no response. My words had, as I intended, produced an overwhelming effect upon him. He saw, that if La Gioia’s secret was out he stood in deadliest peril. I had impressed him with an intimate knowledge of the whole affair.

It was at that moment he showed himself full of resourceful villainy.

“The vengeance of La Gioia will fall upon the woman who is your wife – not upon yourself.”

“And through whom?” I cried. “Why, through yourself and your accomplice, Tattersett, who betrayed Beryl into her hands. The mystery of Whitton is to me no mystery, for I know the truth.”

He glared at me as though I were some evil vision, and I knew that by these words I was slowly thrusting home the truth.

“What have I to do with the affair at Whitton?” he cried. “I know nothing of it?”

“I may, perhaps, be enabled to prove differently,” I said.

“Do you then allege that I am implicated in the Colonel’s death?” he exclaimed furiously.

“I have my own opinion,” I responded. “Remember that you once made a desperate and dastardly, attempt to kill me, fearing lest I should denounce you as having tried to bribe me to commit murder.”

His eyes glittered, and I saw that his anger was unbounded. We stood there in the calm sunset near the lakeside, and I could see that he would rid himself of me, if such a course was possible. But I thought of Beryl. Ah! how I loved her. That she had fallen a victim of the cleverly contrived conspiracy incensed me, and I resolved to show the scoundrel no quarter.

“Well,” he said at last, in a tone of defiance, “and after all these wild allegations, what can you do? Surely you do not think that I fear any statement that you can make?”

“You may not fear any statement of mine, but I do not anticipate that you will invite La Gioia to reveal all she knows. The latter might place you in enforced confinement for a few years.”

“La Gioia is at liberty to say whatever she likes,” he answered. “If she is actually a friend of Beryl’s she will, no doubt, assist you; but at present she is her deadliest antagonist. Therefore, if you take my advice, you’ll just calm yourself and await another opportunity for revenge at a latter date.”

His cool words caused my blood to boil.

“You treat this affair as though it were a matter of little importance, sir!” I cried. “Let me tell you, however, that I have been your victim, and I intend to probe the matter to the bottom and ascertain your motives.”

“That you’ll never do,” he laughed.

“I tell you I will!” I cried. “I am Beryl’s husband, and she is no longer defenceless. You have to answer to me!”

“I have answered you by saying that in future you are at liberty to act as you think fit. I merely warn you that La Gioia is no more your friend than she is your wife’s.”

“You contrived to entrap me into marriage. Why? Answer me that question,” I demanded.

“I refuse. You have threatened me with all sorts of pains and penalties, but I defy you!”

From his silver case he took a cigar, and, biting off the end, leisurely lit it. His countenance had changed. Again it was the same grey sinister face that had so long haunted me in my dream – the face of the Tempter.

“Have you finished?” he asked, with mock politeness.

“For the moment, yes,” I answered. “But yours is an ill-advised defiance, as you will very soon see.”

He burst forth into a peal of strained, unnatural laughter, whereat I turned upon my heel and left him standing there a dark silhouette in the crimson sunset. Blindly I walked on to the house, dressed mechanically, and descended late for dinner. But the Tempter was not in his place; he had been called away to London, it was said, and had been compelled to catch the 07:30 train from Corsham.

I glanced at my watch; it was already 07:35. I had blundered, and had allowed him to slip through my fingers. I bit my lip in mad vexation.

Beryl’s beautiful eyes were fixed upon me, and in her face I detected deep anxiety. She looked perfectly charming in a gown of pale pink crêpe-de-chine. Had he sought her before departure, I wondered?

“It’s an awful disappointment that he has had to leave,” said the baronet’s wife. “I endeavoured to persuade him to remain until the morning, but he received a letter by the afternoon post making it imperative that he should return to London. But he says he will be back again either on Monday or Tuesday.”

“I do hope he will return,” observed some one at the end of the table, and then the subject dropped. When the ladies had left the room Sir Henry remarked – “Queer fellow, Ashwicke – a bit eccentric, I always think. His movements are most erratic – a regular rolling stone.”

I embraced that opportunity to inquire regarding his antecedents, but my host appeared to know very little beyond the fact that he was wealthy, good company, a keen sportsman, and moved in a very smart set in town.

“I’ve known him a couple of years or so; he’s a member of my club,” he added. “My wife declares that none of the parties are complete without him.”

“Do you know his friend, Tattersett – Major Tattersett?”

“No,” responded Sir Henry; “never met him.” With the others I went along to the drawing-room and found Beryl alone in a cozy corner, obviously awaiting me. She twisted a lace scarf about her shoulders and we strolled out upon the terrace, as was our habit each evening if fine and starlight. When we had gained the further end she suddenly halted, and turning to me said, in a low, husky voice that trembled with emotion —

“Doctor Colkirk, you have deceived me!”

“Deceived you, Miss Wynd?” I exclaimed, taken completely aback by her allegation. “How?”

“I know the truth – a truth that you cannot deny. I – I am your wife.”

“I do not seek to deny it,” I answered in deep, solemn earnestness, taking her small white hand in mine. “It is true, Beryl, that you are my wife – true also that I love you.”

“But it cannot be possible!” she gasped. “I knew that I was a wife, but never dreamed that you were actually my husband.”

“And how did you discover it?”

“I was down by the waterside this evening, before dinner, and overheard your conversation with Mr Ashwicke.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, all of it. I know that I am your wife;” and she sighed, while her little hand trembled within mine.

“I love you, Beryl,” I said, simply and earnestly. “I have known all along that you are my wife, yet I dared not tell you so, being unable to offer sufficient proof of it and unable to convince you of my affection. Yet, in these few weeks that have passed, you have surely seen that I am devoted to you – that I love you with a strange and deeper love than ever man has borne within his heart. A thousand times I have longed to tell you this, but have always feared to do so. The truth is that you are my wife – my adored.”

Her hand tightened upon mine, and unable to restrain her emotions further, she burst into tears.

“Tell me, darling,” I whispered into her car – “tell me that you will try to love me now that you know the truth. Tell me that you forgive me for keeping the secret until now, for, as I will show you, it was entirely in our mutual interests. We have both been victims of a vile and widespread conspiracy, therefore we must unite our efforts to combat the vengeance of our enemies. Tell me that you will try and love me – nay, that you do love me a little. Give me hope, darling, and let us act together as man and wife.”

“But it is so sudden,” she faltered. “I hardly know my own feelings.”

“You know whether you love me, or whether you hate me,” I said, placing my hand around her slim waist and drawing her towards me.

“No,” she responded in a low voice, “I do not hate you. How could I?”

“Then you love me – you really love me, after all!” I cried joyously.

For answer she burst again into a flood of tears, and I, with mad passion, covered her white brow with hot kisses while she clung to me – my love, my wife.

Ah! when I reflect upon the ecstasy of those moments – how I kissed her sweet lips, and she, in return, responded to my tender caresses, how she clung to me as though shrinking in fear from the world about her, how her heart beat quickly in unison with my own, I feel that I cannot properly convey here a sufficient sense of my wild delight. It is enough to say that in those tender moments I knew that I had won the most beautiful and graceful woman I had ever beheld – a woman who was peerless above all – and that she was already my wife. The man who reads this narrative, and whose own love has been reciprocated after long waiting, as mine has been, can alone understand the blissful happiness that came to me and the complete joy that filled my heart.

We stood lost in the ecstasies of each other’s love, heedless of time, heedless of those who might discover us, heedless of everything. The remembrance of that hour remains with me to-day like a pleasant dream, a foretaste of the bliss of paradise.

Many were the questions that I asked and answered, many our declarations of affection and of fidelity. Our marriage had been made by false contract on that fateful day, months before, but that night, beneath the shining stars, we exchanged solemn vows before God as man and wife.

I endeavoured to obtain from her some facts regarding Ashwicke and his accomplice, Tattersett, but what she knew seemed very unsatisfactory. I related to her the whole of the curious circumstances of our marriage, just as I have recounted it in the opening chapters of my narrative, seeking neither to suppress nor exaggerate any of the singular incidents.

Then, at last, she made confession – a strange amazing confession which held me dumb.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Put to the Test

“I remember very little of the events of that day,” my love said, with some reluctance. “I know Ashwicke, he having been a guest here last year, and a frequent visitor at Gloucester Square. With Nora and Sir Henry I returned to London in early May, after wintering in Florence, and one morning at the end of June I met Major Tattersett unexpectedly in the Burlington. He told me that his sister and niece from Scotland were visiting him at his house in Queen’s-gate Gardens, and invited me to call and make their acquaintance.”

“Had you never been to his house previously?”