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Seven Secrets, The

<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> <h3>REVEALS AN ASTOUNDING FACT.</h3> Dinner was announced, and I took Mrs. Mivart into the room on the opposite side of the big old-fashioned hall, a long, low-ceilinged apartment the size of the drawing-room, and hung with some fine old family portraits and miniatures. Old Squire Mivart had been an enthusiastic collector of antique china, and the specimens of old Montelupo and Urbino hanging upon the walls were remarkable as being the finest in any private collection in this country. Many were the visits he had made to Italy to acquire those queer-looking old mediæval plates, with their crude colouring and rude, inartistic drawings, and certainly he was an acknowledged expert in antique porcelain. The big red-shaded lamp in the centre of the table shed a soft light upon the snowy cloth, the flowers and the glittering silver; and as my hostess took her seat she sighed slightly, and for the first time asked of Ethelwynn. “I haven’t seen her for a week,” I was compelled to admit. “Patients have been so numerous that I haven’t had time to go out to see her, except at hours when calling at a friend’s house was out of the question.” “Do you like the Hennikers?” her mother inquired, raising her eyes inquiringly to mine. “Yes, I’ve found them very agreeable and pleasant.” “H’m,” the old lady ejaculated dubiously. “Well, I don’t. I met Mrs. Henniker once, and I must say that I did not care for her in the least. Ethelwynn is very fond of her, but to my mind she’s fast, and not at all a suitable companion for a girl of my daughter’s disposition. It may be that I have an old woman’s prejudices, living as I do in the country always, but somehow I can never bring myself to like her.” Mrs. Mivart, like the majority of elderly widows who have given up the annual visit to London in the season, was a trifle behind the times. More charming an old lady could not be, but, in common with all who vegetate in the depths of rural England, she was just a trifle narrow-minded. In religion, she found fault constantly with the village parson, who, she declared, was guilty of ritualistic practices, and on the subject of her daughters she bemoaned the latter-day emancipation of women, which allowed them to go hither and thither at their own free will. Like all such mothers, she considered wealth a necessary adjunct to happiness, and it had been with her heartiest approval that Mary had married the unfortunate Courtenay, notwithstanding the difference between the ages of bride and bridegroom. In every particular the old lady was a typical specimen of the squire’s widow, as found in rural England to-day. Scarcely had we seated ourselves and I had replied to her question when the door opened and a slim figure in deep black entered and mechanically took the empty chair. She crossed the room, looking straight before her, and did not notice my presence until she had seated herself face to face with me. Of a sudden her thin wan face lit up with a smile of recognition, and she cried: “Why, Doctor! Wherever did you come from? No one told me you were here,” and across the table she stretched out her hand in greeting. “I thought you were reposing after your long walk this morning, dear; so I did not disturb you,” her mother explained. But, heedless of the explanation, she continued putting to me questions as to when I had left town, and the reason of my visit there. To the latter I returned an evasive answer, declaring that I had run down because I had heard that her mother was not altogether well. “Yes, that’s true,” she said. “Poor mother has been very queer of late. She seems so distracted, and worries quite unnecessarily over me. I wish you’d give her advice. Her state causes me considerable anxiety.” “Very well,” I said, feigning to laugh, “I must diagnose the ailment and see what can be done.” The soup had been served, and as I carried my spoon to my mouth I examined her furtively. My hostess had excused me from dressing, but her daughter, neat in her widow’s collar and cuffs, sat prim and upright, her eyes now and then raised to mine in undisguised inquisitiveness. She was a trifle paler than heretofore, but her pallor was probably rendered the more noticeable by the dead black she wore. Her hands seemed thin, and her fingers toyed nervously with her spoon in a manner that betrayed concealed agitation. Outwardly, however, I detected no extraordinary signs of either grief or anxiety. She spoke calmly, it was true, in the tone of one upon whom a great calamity had fallen, but that was only natural. I did not expect to find her bright, laughing, and light-hearted, like her old self in Richmond Road. As dinner proceeded I began to believe that, with a fond mother’s solicitude for her daughter’s welfare, Mrs. Mivart had slightly exaggerated Mary’s symptoms. They certainly were not those of a woman plunged in inconsolable grief, for she was neither mopish nor artificially gay. As far as I could detect, not even a single sigh escaped her. She inquired of Ethelwynn and of the Hennikers, remarking that she had seen nothing of them for over three weeks; and then, when the servants had left the room, she placed her elbows upon the table, at the risk of a breach of good manners, and resting her chin upon her hands, looked me full in the face, saying: “Now, tell me the truth, Doctor. What has been discovered regarding my poor husband’s death? Have the police obtained any clue to the assassin?” “None—none whatever, I regret to say,” was my response. “They are useless—worse than useless!” she burst forth angrily; “they blundered from the very first.” “That’s entirely my own opinion, dear,” her mother said. “Our police system nowadays is a mere farce. The foreigners are far ahead of us, even in the detection of crime. Surely the mystery of your poor husband’s death might have been solved, if they had worked assiduously.” “I believe that everything that could be done has been done,” I remarked. “The case was placed in the hands of two of the smartest and most experienced men at Scotland Yard, with personal instructions from the Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department to leave no stone unturned in order to arrive at a successful issue.” “And what has been done?” asked the young widow, in a tone of discontent; “why, absolutely nothing! There has, I suppose, been a pretence at trying to solve the mystery; but, finding it too difficult, they have given it up, and turned their attention to some other crime more open and plain-sailing. I’ve no faith in the police whatever. It’s scandalous!” I smiled; then said: “My friend, Ambler Jevons—you know him, for he dined at Richmond Road one evening—has been most active in the affair.” “But he’s not a detective. How can he expect to triumph where the police fail?” “He often does,” I declared. “His methods are different from the hard-and-fast rules followed by the police. He commences at whatever point presents itself, and laboriously works backwards with a patience that is absolutely extraordinary. He has unearthed a dozen crimes where Scotland Yard has failed.” “And is he engaged upon my poor husband’s case?” asked Mary, suddenly interested. “Yes.” “For what reason?” “Well—because he is one of those for whom a mystery of crime has a fascinating attraction.” “But he must have some motive in devoting time and patience to a matter which does not concern him in the least,” Mrs. Mivart remarked. “Whatever is the motive, I can assure you that it is an entirely disinterested one,” I said. “But what has he discovered? Tell me,” Mary urged. “I am quite in ignorance,” I said. “We are most intimate friends, but when engaged on such investigations he tells me nothing of their result until they are complete. All I know is that so active is he at this moment that I seldom see him. He is often tied to his office in the City, but has, I believe, recently been on a flying visit abroad for two or three days.” “Abroad!” she echoed. “Where?” “I don’t know. I met a mutual friend in the Strand yesterday, and he told me that he had returned yesterday.” “Has he been abroad in connection with his inquiries, do you think?” Mrs. Mivart inquired. “I really don’t know. Probably he has. When he takes up a case he goes into it with a greater thoroughness than any detective living.” “Yes,” Mary remarked, “I recollect, now, the stories you used to tell us regarding him—of his exciting adventures—of his patient tracking of the guilty ones, and of his marvellous ingenuity in laying traps to get them to betray themselves. I recollect quite well that evening he came to Richmond Road with you. He was a most interesting man.” “Let us hope he will be more successful than the police,” I said. “Yes, Doctor,” she remarked, sighing for the first time. “I hope he will—for the mystery of it all drives me to distraction.” Then placing both hands to her brow, she added, “Ah! if we could only discover the truth—the real truth!” “Have patience,” I urged. “A complicated mystery such as it is cannot be cleared up without long and careful inquiry.” “But in the months that have gone by surely the police should have at least made some discovery?” she said, in a voice of complaint; “yet they have not the slightest clue.” “We can only wait,” I said. “Personally, I have confidence in Jevons. If there is a clue to be obtained, depend upon it he will scent it out.” I did not tell them of my misgivings, nor did I explain how Ambler, having found himself utterly baffled, had told me of his intention to relinquish further effort. The flying trip abroad might be in connection with the case, but I felt confident that it was not. He knew, as well as I did, that the truth was to be found in England. Again we spoke of Ethelwynn; and from Mary’s references to her sister I gathered that a slight coolness had fallen between them. She did not, somehow, speak of her in the same terms of affection as formerly. It might be that she shared her mother’s prejudices, and did not approve of her taking up her abode with the Hennikers. Be it how it might, there were palpable signs of strained relations. Could it be possible, I wondered, that Mary had learnt of her sister’s secret engagement to her husband? I looked full at her as that thought flashed through my mind. Yes, she presented a picture of sweet and interesting widowhood. In her voice, as in her countenance, was just that slight touch of grief which told me plainly that she was a heart-broken, remorseful woman—a woman, like many another, who knew not the value of a tender, honest and indulgent husband until he had been snatched from her. Mother and daughter, both widows, were a truly sad and sympathetic pair. As we spoke I watched her eyes, noted her every movement attentively, but failed utterly to discern any suggestion of what her mother had remarked. Once, at mention of her dead husband, she had of a sudden exclaimed in a low voice, full of genuine emotion: “Ah, yes. He was so kind, so good always. I cannot believe that he will never come back,” and she burst into tears, which her mother, with a word of apology to me, quietly soothed away. When we arose I accompanied them to the drawing-room; but without any music, and with Mary’s sad, half-tragic countenance before us, the evening was by no means a merry one; therefore I was glad when, in pursuance of the country habit of retiring early, the maid brought my candle and showed me to my room. It was not yet ten o’clock, and feeling in no mood for sleep, I took from my bag the novel I had been reading on my journey and, throwing myself into an armchair, first gave myself up to deep reflection over a pipe, and afterwards commenced to read. The chiming of the church clock down in the village aroused me, causing me to glance at my watch. It was midnight. I rose, and going to the window, pulled aside the blind, and looked out upon the rural view lying calm and mysterious beneath the brilliant moonlight. How different was that peaceful aspect to the one to which I was, alas! accustomed—that long blank wall in the Marylebone Road. There the cab bells tinkled all night, market wagons rumbled through till dawn, and the moonbeams revealed drunken revellers after “closing time.” A strong desire seized me to go forth and enjoy the splendid night. Such a treat of peace and solitude was seldom afforded me, stifled as I was by the disinfectants in hospital wards and the variety of perfumes and pastilles in the rooms of wealthy patients. Truly the life of a London doctor is the most monotonous and laborious of any of the learned professions, and little wonder is it that when the jaded medico finds himself in the country or by the sea he seldom fails to take his fill of fresh air. At first a difficulty presented itself in letting myself out unheard; but I recollected that in the new wing of the house, in which I had been placed, there were no other bedrooms, therefore with a little care I might descend undetected. So taking my hat and stick I opened the door, stole noiselessly down the stairs, and in a few minutes had made an adventurous exit by a window—fearing the grating bolts of the door—and was soon strolling across the grounds by the private path, which I knew led through the churchyard and afterwards down to the river-bank. With Ethelwynn I had walked across the meadows by that path on several occasions, and in the dead silence of the brilliant night vivid recollections of a warm summer’s evening long past came back to me—sweet remembrances of days when we were childishly happy in each other’s love. Nothing broke the quiet save the shrill cry of some night bird down by the river, and the low roar of the distant weir. The sky was cloudless, and the moon so bright that I could have read a newspaper. I strolled on slowly, breathing the refreshing air, and thinking deeply over the complications of the situation. In the final hour I had spent in the drawing-room I had certainly detected in the young widow a slight eccentricity of manner, not at all accentuated, but yet sufficient to show me that she had been strenuously concealing her grief during my presence there. Having swung myself over the stile I passed round the village churchyard, where the moss-grown gravestones stood grim and ghostly in the white light, and out across the meadows down to where the waters of the Nene, rippling on, were touched with silver. The river-path was wide, running by the winding bank away to the fen-lands and beyond. As I gained the river’s edge and walked beneath the willows I heard now and then a sharp, swift rustling in the sedges as some water-rat or otter, disturbed by my presence, slipped away into hiding. The rural peace of that brilliant night attracted me, and finding a hurdle I seated myself upon it, and taking out my pipe enjoyed a smoke. Ever since my student days I had longed for a country life. The pleasures of the world of London had no attraction for me, my ideal being a snug country practice with Ethelwynn as my wife. But alas! my idol had been shattered, like that of many a better man. With this bitter reflection still in my mind, my attention was attracted by low voices—as though of two persons speaking earnestly together. Surprised at such interruption, I glanced quickly around, but saw no one. Again I listened, when, of a sudden, footsteps sounded, coming down the path I had already traversed. Beneath the deep shadow I saw the dark figures of two persons. They were speaking together, but in a tone so low that I could not catch any word uttered. Nevertheless, as they emerged from the semi-darkness the moon shone full upon them, revealing to me that they were a man and a woman. Next instant a cry of blank amazement escaped me, for I was utterly unprepared for the sight I witnessed. I could not believe my eyes; nor could you, my reader, had you been in my place. The woman walking there, close to me, was young Mrs. Courtenay—the man was none other than her dead husband! <hr class="large" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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