In White Raiment Part 28

"Well," I asked, "what is it?"

"That you'll try and forget all about this mystery of yours," he said earnestly. "You'll be getting brain fever, or something equally disagreeable, if you don't try to control yourself and think no more of it. The experience is unusual, but, depend upon it, the mystery is so well kept by the set of scoundrels into whose hands you fell, that you'll never get to the bottom of it."

"But I mean to solve it," I said resolutely. "I'm married, my dear fellow, and--well, I love her."

"I know. That's just the devil of it," he answered bluntly. "You're gone on her, and the mystery makes you the more eager to claim her as your wife!"

"Exactly, old fellow," I answered. "I know that you're my best friend.

Indeed, you have kept me out of the gutter or the common lodging-house these past weeks, and I am ready to repay you in any way in my power; but as to taking your advice in this matter, I really can't."

"Then, you're a fool, d.i.c.k."

"I may be," I responded; "but I mean to clear up the mystery."

"Because you are jealous of this young Chetwode."

"I don't deny that I'm jealous," I replied with perfect frankness. "But I know that Beryl is in danger, and, as her husband, I should be at her side to protect her."

"That's all very well; but, after all your exertions, you've really discovered absolutely nothing."

His words were, alas! only too true. I had made many discoveries, but each of them had only served to render the veil of mystery more impenetrable.

"But why do you urge me to give it up?"

"For your own sake," he responded. "You can't practise properly when your head is full of such a bewildering puzzle. Don't you see that in this affair your reputation is at stake?"

"But her life is of greater moment to me than my own reputation," I declared. "Let me have my own way, there's a good chap." And I wished him good-bye.

An hour later I became installed as temporary a.s.sistant to a surgeon in Richmond Road, Bayswater, who, having been "run down" by the unusual number of cases of influenza, had resolved to take a month's vacation.

The Bayswater surgeon proved a genial fellow, but I saw little of him, for he left for North Wales with his family early next morning, after handing me his visiting-book and giving me general instructions. A fortnight went by, and so large was the practice--for I had to attend a number of the large drapery establishments in Westbourne Grove, where my princ.i.p.al was medical officer--that I had but little leisure. To forget the strange enigma which so troubled my brain I had thrown myself heartily into the work.

One hot, oppressive evening, after I had been in Richmond Road about three weeks, I was busy seeing the patients who, crowding the waiting-room between the hours of seven and nine, entered the consulting-room one by one to describe their physical ills, when the servant came in with a card, saying--

"A lady wishes to see you at once, sir."

I took the card she handed me, and started with mingled surprise and satisfaction when I recognised the name--Lady Pierrepoint-Lane. At last she was in London again! But how, I wondered had she discovered my whereabouts. Quickly I went into the hall, and there found her with blanched face and in a state of great agitation.

"Ah, Doctor," she gasped breathlessly, as I greeted her and our hands met, "I am so glad I've found you? I went to Hammersmith, but your friend, Doctor Raymond, told me you were here."

"What is the matter?" I inquired, surprised at her eager manner. "Has anything occurred?"

"Yes, something most mysterious!" she answered hoa.r.s.ely. "You are the only doctor whom I can trust. Will you come with me at once? I have a cab in waiting."

"Where?" I inquired. "To your house?"

"Yes," she urged. "Do not let us lose time. Apologise to your other patients here, and come at once. It's a matter of life or death."

"Of life or death?" I cried. "Who is ill?"

"It's all a mystery," she answered in the same breathless manner. "But you will keep it a secret--promise me."

"I have many family secrets entrusted to me," I answered. "Rest a.s.sured that I shall betray no confidence."

"Then come quickly, and recollect that what you may see or hear to-night you must never divulge. On your word of honour as a gentleman."

"I give you my word of honour," I answered, wondering what fresh mystery was in store for me.

Then, turning, I asked a servant, who stood near, to tell the patients waiting for me that I had been unexpectedly called out to an urgent case, and would return in an hour.

"Good!" her ladys.h.i.+p exclaimed. "Let us not lose an instant."

Instinctively I placed my instrument case in my pocket, and took down my hat.

"Tell me the nature of the illness," I urged. "How did it occur? Who is the patient?"

"How it occurred n.o.body knows. It is a mystery, as I tell you. My cousin Feo, to whom I think I introduced you, is dying!"

"Dying!" I gasped, staring at her amazed. "Here in London?"

"Yes, at my house. I have called you because you are a doctor, and I can rely upon your secrecy."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

IN PERIL.

Without loss of a moment we entered the hansom and drove along Bishop's Road and Westbourne Terrace, and thence across Suss.e.x Gardens to Gloucester Square.

Beside me my companion sat pale, erect, and rigid, responding only in monosyllables to my questions, and refusing to tell me anything beyond what she had already said--that her cousin was dying. Her manner was strange, as though she were in deadly fear.

I had taken her hand to a.s.sist her into the cab, and found it was cold as ice. Her face was the face of a woman haunted by some imminent terror, a white countenance with eyes dark and deep sunken. How changed she was from the bright, pleasant woman who had consulted me under such curious circ.u.mstances, when I had first taken Bob's place at Rowan Road.

Could this change in her be in any way due, I thought, to the tragedy at Whitton? I recollected the singular fact that Mrs Chetwode had omitted the name and that of Beryl from the list furnished to the police. Again I glanced at her ashen face as we rounded the corner into Gloucester Square; it was that of a woman absolutely desperate. She was trembling with fear, yet at the same time striving to preserve an outward calm. My suspicion of her was increased.

The hall door having been thrown open by a servant, my companion led me through into a pretty boudoir on the left, where, lying fully dressed upon a divan of yellow silk, I saw my love. Her wonderful hair had become disengaged from its fastenings and fell dishevelled about her white face, and her corsage was open at the throat as though some one had felt her heart.

In an instant I was at her side, and, while her cousin held the shaded lamp, I examined her. Her great fathomless eyes were closed, her cheeks cold, her heart motionless. Every symptom was that of death.

"Is she still alive?" asked the terror-stricken woman at my elbow.

"I cannot decide," I answered, rising and obtaining a small mirror to test whether respiration had ceased.

Hers was no ordinary faintness, that I at once saw. The limbs were stiff and rigid as in death, the hands icy cold, the lips drawn and hard-set, the whole body so paralysed that the resemblance to death was exact.

All the startling events of my fateful wedding day came back to me.

From that white throat that lay there exposed I had taken the tiny gold charm, which now hung round my own neck, reminding me ever of her. That sweet face, with the halo of gold-brown hair, was the same that I had seen lying dead upon the pillow in that house of mystery in Queen's-gate Gardens, the same that I had bent and kissed.

I took her hand again; there were rings upon it, but all were set with gems. The bond of matrimony that I had placed there was absent.