Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) IN WHITE RAIMENT

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XXII, 1 December 1900, Page 1002

Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) IN WHITE RAIMENT

By

WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

Author of “Purple and Fine Linen," “Whoso Findeth a Wife,” “Of Royal Blood," “If Sinners Entice Thee," “The Day of Temptation,” Etc., Etc.

(COPYRIGHT.)

CHAPTER XXV. THE WOMAN IN BLACK. The encounter was unexpected and startling. 1 stood glaring at the dark figure, unable for the moment to move.

That dark face, with its keen, black eyes fascinated me. There was a look of evil there. What business could bring her there, stealthily like a thief? She had halted in the centre of the hall, and seemed to be examining some object upon the Indian table whereon tea was always served in the afternoon. The light was just sufficient to reveal that she held something small and white in her hand, but what it was 1 was unable to distinguish. The partial aboulia, as we doctors term the lack of ability to perform intentional acts, which had seized me on discovering the intruder, quickly gave place to an endeavour to conceal myself; and this I accomplished by crouching down behind a large square pedestal whereon stood a great palm. As I watched I saw her make a tour of the place, examining every object as though in search of something. Then, with deliberation, she passed through the door by which I had entered and crept noiselessly up he stairs.

She was ascending to the room of the woman who feared her. I stole along after her. It was an adventurous piece of spying, for the slightest creaking of the stairs would betray my presence, and oaken stairs creak horribly.

At last I gained the top, and, as I stood, watched her steal noiselessly along the corridor past Beryl’s chamber, to my own room. She tried the door cautiously, opened it and entered. As though in disappointment that 1 was not there, she quickly came forth, stood in hesitation listening in the corridor, and then creeping back stopped before Beryl’s room. Evidently she was well acquainted With the geography of the house, and knew who occupied the various chambers.

In the corridor it was much lighter than in the hall, and as she came to a standstill before Beryl’s door I was quite close to her, crouching on the dark stairs, my head only on a level with the floor of the corridor. It was then I made a discovery which was somewhat puzzling. While her right hand was free, one the left she wore a black glove. She bent at the door, peered into the keyhole, and. having listened in order to satisfy herself that Beryl was asleep, slowly turned the handle to try if it were locked.

Would she enter? I stood watching her actions with bated breath. That she was there with evil intent was absolutely certain.

The lock yielded, and, pushing open the door very slowly, she stole in on tip-toe, closing it after her.

What should I do? My love was in deadly peril. Of that 1 felt certain. She had defied the major, and the revenge of that all-powerful but unknown person La Gioia wtis upon her. She was alone, asleep, and at her mercy! To clash in and seize her would be to alarm the house, and perhaps compromise my loved one. Yet what could I do to save her? I had seen by the evil glint in her eyes that she was there with fell intent, and by the cautious, silent manner in which she moved, without hesitation or fear, that she was no amateur at such nocturnal visits. Indeed, she moved like :i dark shadow, gliding without the slightest noise until one might almost have believed her to be some supernatural visitant.

It was my duty, however, to protect my love, no matter at what cost.

I had come there for that purpose, having a distinct foreboding that some deadly peril surrounded her, therefore now was my time to act to meet that woman face to face, and to demand an explanation. i'pon this suggestion I acted without further delay, -+or, creeping as noiselessly as she had done, I reached I he door and slowly turned the handle in order to burst in unexpectedly upon her.

The handle turned, but the door wotdd not open. She had locked it behind her.

I bent to the keyhole. All was dark within. There was no sound. The noise 1 had made by trying the door had no doubt alarmed her, and she was standing within, preparing to make a sudden dash for liberty. I drew myself up at the door prepared. Those moments were full of excitement. I held my breath, straining my ears to listen. There was no sound. The silence was like that of the grave. My love was within that room, and her enemy was at her side. Should I arouse the household? Again I hesitated, fearing lest I should compromise her. Of a sudden, however, I recollected that in many houses the doors of the bedrooms frequently bear similar locks, and finding that the key had been removed by the intruder, possibly for the purpose of watching my movements from the inside, it occurred to me that I might fry the key of my own room. Yet if 1 left my post she might escape. She was evidently watching her opportunity. Fully ten minutes passed, each second ticked out loudly by the long grandfather’s elock at the further end of the corridor, until I could stand the tension no 'longer, and receding slowly backwards, with my eyes still upon the door ready for La. Gioia’s dash for liberty, I reached my own room and secured the key.

Then slipping back again I placed the key swiftly in the lock, heedless of the noise 1 made, and t urned it. It yielded ami a second later I stood within the room. An involuntary cry of amazement escaped me and I drew back. 1 dashed towards the bed, but it had not been slept in. The room, with its great mirror draped with silk, and silver toilet set catching the pale light, was empty! The Window stood open, and springing towards it 1 saw to my dismay a rope ladder reaching to the ground. Both La Gioia and my well-beloved had disappeared.

I looked out. but all was dark across the park. The night wind rustled in the trees and a dog was howling dismally in the kennels. Could she have been awaiting her there and have left in her company? The discovery utterly dismayed me.

1 ran to my room, obtained a cap and boots, and returning passed, through the open window, descending by the ladder to the terrace. Around the house I dashed like a madman, and down the drive towards the lodge gates, halting suddenly now and then with my ear to the wind, eager to distinguish any sound of movement. I was utterly without clue to guide me as to the direction the fugitives had taken. Four and five roads and paths led from the house in various directions, to Atworth village, to Corsham, and to Laoock, while one by-way through the wood led out upon the old high road to Bath. The latter went straight into a dark copse at the rear of the house and would afford ample concealment for anyone wishing to get away unobserved. All the other roads cut across the park, and anyone travelling along them would la* visible for some distance. Therefore I started down the by-way in question, entering the wood and traversing it as

noise'iessly as I could, and emerging at last into the broad, white high road which 1 know so well, having cycled and driven over it dozens of times.

I calculated that the fugitives had about ten to twelve minutes’ start, ami if they had really taken that road I must be elose upon them. The road ascended steadily all the way from the Wormwood Farm to Kingsdown, yet I slackened not my pace until I gained the crest of the hill. The moon had come forth from behind a bank of clouds, and it was so light that any object upon that white open road could be seen for a 'iong distance. Having gained the hill top at the junction of the road to Wraxall I stood and strained my eyes down both highways, but to my disappointment saw’ no one. Either I had passed them while they had hidden themselves in the wood, or I had mistaken the direction which they had taken. The presence in the house of that sinister woman in black, her mode of exit, and the startling fact that Beryl was missing, had, I think, unnerved me. As I stood reflecting I regretted that I had relied too much ujx>n my own strategy and had not aroused the household. In my constant efforts to preserve the secret of my well-beloved 1 had made a fatal mistake.

My mind had become confused by these constantly recurring mysteries. As a medical man I knew that all mental troubles involve di““ases of the brain. The more complex troubles, such as my own at that moment, are still wrapped in obscurity. To the psychologist there areofcourse certain guiding principles through the maze of facts which constitute the science of the ini nd, but after all he knows practically nothing about the laws which govern the influence of mind over body. I had acted foolishly and without forethought. Both had fled.

I took the road down the hill to Wraxall, and ‘'thence by a circular route by way of Ganbrook Farm and the old church of Atwood, back to the Hall, I hoped that they might take that road to Bath, but although 1 walked for more than an hour I met not a soul. A church clock chimed three as I came down the hill from Kingsdon. and it was already growing light ere • 1 gained the terrace of the Hall again. I (‘.imbed back into Beryl's room by the ladder still suspended there. Her absence as yet remained undiscovered. Everything was just as 1 had left it an hour and a half before. 1 was undecided at that moment whether to alarm the household or to affect ignorance of the who’e thing and await developments of the strange affair. Judged from all points the latter course seemed the best: therefore, still in indecision, I crept back to my room, and entering there closed the door.

I sank into a. chair, exhausted after my walk, when a sudden pain shot through me from head to foot, causing me to utter an involuntary cry. Then next instant the same sensation of being frozen crept over me, as it had done outside that room in Gloucester Square, and again on the previous night, when dancing with my wellbefioved. The same rigidness of my muscles! the same aphasia and amnesia, the same complex symptoms

that I had before experienced and so well remembered were again upon me. My lower limbs seemed frozen and lifeless, my heart was beating* so faintly that it seemed imperceptible, and my senses seemed so utterly dulled that I was unable either to cry out or to move.

If I had but a little of that curious liquid which Hoefer had injected! I blamed myself for not asking him to give me some in case of emergency. The unknown woman in black had left behind her there the curious unseen influence that so puzzled the greatest known medico-legist. File sensation was much sharper and of far longer duration than that which had so suddenly fallen upon me when dancing. Reader, I can only describe it, even now, as [ sit recounting to you the curious story, as the icy touch of the grim Avenger. The hand of Death was actually upon me. I think that the automatic processes of my brain must have ceased. Without entering into a long description, which the majority of the laity would not properly understand, it’ te but necessary to say that the lowest or ■‘third level” of the brain includes all the functions which the spinal cord and its upper termination, which we call the “medulla,” are able to perform alone—that is, without involving necessarily the activity of the nervous centres and brain areas which lie above them. The “third level” functions are those of life-sustaining processes generally, breathing, heart beat, and vaso-motor action—which secure the circulation of the blood. It was this portion of the brain controlling the automatic processes which had become paralysed, f needed, I knew, an artificial stimulation—some agent by which the physiological processes might lie started again. What if they would not start again normally! I sat in my chair rigid as a corpse, unable to move, unable to utter a sound, cold, stiff, and. as I well knew, resembling in every particular a person lifeless. Slight consciousness remained to me, but after a while even that faded, and 1 knew not then what followed.

The period of blank unconsciousness appeared to me but a- few minutes, but if must have been hours; for w T hen 1 awoke the morning sun was high and was shining full in my face as 1 sat there. My limbs were cramped, and my head was heavy, but there was no pain with my returning sensibility, as is generally the case after a period of insensibility. I rose with difficulty, and staggering unevenly to the window, looked out. Upon the terrace two men were idly strolling, as was the habit of those who came down early, awaiting the breakfast bell. I glanced at the time-piece, and saw that it was about nine o’clock. Had Beryl’s absence yet been discovered?

I glanced over at my bed and then recollected tha-t I had not undressed. Truly that night had been an eventful one. La Gioia- had actually been in that room. In an instant recollections of my midnight vigil and my chase crowded upon me. Surely if that rope ladder were still suspended from the window of the room occupied by my love those two men strolling there must have noticed it!

I opened my ow’ii window ami leaned out to look. No, it had been removed. Her absence had been discovered.

The breakfast bell rang. and aroused me to a sense of responsibility. I knew of the secret visit of La Gioia, and it was my duty to reveal it, so that the truth might be ascertained. Therefore I shaved quickly, changed my clothes, and tossed about my bed so that the maids should not suspect my watchfulness. There was merry chatter outside in the corridor as the guests descended, but although I listened I could hear no mention of Beryl’s disappearance. On completion of my toilet I opened my door and follow’ed them down. Yet scarcely had I got to the head

of the stairs when that same now’ familiar sensation came ujw>n me, like the touch of an ley hand. 1 gripped the old oaken banisters and stood cold and dumb. The same phenomena had occurred in my room as in that room of mystery nt Gloucester Square. The thin£ utterly staggered belief. Nevertheless, almost as swiftly jas the hand of Death touched me was it withdrawn, and walking somewhat unsteadily 1 went down and along the corridor to the breakfast-room.

The chatter was general before I entered, but there was a sudden silence as 1 opened the door. “Why, Dr. Col kirk!” cried a voice, “this isn’t like you to be late! You’re an awful sluggard this morning!”

I glanced quickly across at thfe speaker and held my breath in amazement. It was Beryl. She was sitting there in her usual place, looking fresh in her pale blue cotton blouse, the merriest and happiest of the party. What response I made I have no idea. I only know that I saluted my hostess mechanically, ami then walked to my ehair like a man in a dream. CHAPTER XXVI. HUSBAND AND WIFE. Personally, I am one of those who pay no tribute of grateful admiration to those who have oppressed mankind with the dubious blessings of the (jenny post. Just as no household which is adorned with the presence of pen-compelling young ladies is ever without its due quantity of morning letters, so no breakfast table is quite complete if the post bag has been drawn blank. The urn may hiss, eggs may be boiled to the precise degree of solidity, fizzling strips of “home cured" may smile upon you from dish of silver, or golden marmalade may strive to allure you with the richness of its hue; but if the morning letters are not present the picture is incomplete. They are the crowning glory of the British breakfast table. Saunter down to it, and find two or three stiff square envelopes on your plate, and you feel yourself a somebody, in constant touch with the world at large, justified in talking of “my letters.” Saunter down to find yourself one of the letterless members of the gathering, and you cannot help noticing the fact with a measure of wistfulness.

For a good many days my correspondence had happily left me in the lurch, but as I sank into my seat 1 saw upon my plate a single letter, and took it up mechanically. As a rule the handwriting of the envelope betrayeth the writer. but this possessed the additional attraction of unfamiliar penmanship. It had been addressed to Rowan Road, and Bob had forwarded it.

The communication was upon paper of pale straw-colour, headed “Metropolitan Police, T Division, Brentford,” and signed “J. Rowling, sub-divisional inspector.’ ’There were only two or three lines, asking whether I could make it convenient to appoint an hour when he could eall upon me. as he wished to consult me upon “a matter of extreme importance.” The matter referred to was, of course, the tragedy at, Whitton. Truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all this everincreasing maze of circumstances, and placed the letter in my pocket with a resolve to allow the affair to rest until I returned to London on the conclusion of my visit.

The receipt of it. however, had served one purpose admirably. It had given me an opportunity to recover my surprise at discovering Beryl sitting there opposite me, bright and vivacious, as though nothing unusual had occurred. That letter which I had seen her writing in the study on the previous evening had, I now felt convinced, made an appointment which she had kept. But with whom ?

I glanced at my hostess, who was busily arranging with those near her at table for a driving party to visit the Haywards at Dodington Park, and wondered whether she could be aware of the strange midnight visitant. I contrived to have a brief chat with her after breakfast was finished, but she appeared in entire ignorance of what had transpired during the night. I lit a cigarette, and as usual strolled around for a morning visit to the kennels with Sir Henry. On returning I saw my well-beloved seated beneath one of the great trees near the

house reading a novel. The morning was hot, but in the shade it was delightful. As I crossed the grass to her she raised her head, and then smiling gladly, exclaimed:

“Why, I thought you'd gone to Dodiugton with the others. Dr. Colkirk!" “No,” I answered, taking a chair near her. “I’m really very lazy this hot weather.”

How charming she looked in her fresh cotton gown and large flop hat of Leghorn straw trimmed with poppies.

“And I prefer quiet and an interesting book to driving in this sun. I wonder they didn’t start about three and come home in the sunset. But Nora's always so wilful.”

Though as merry as was her wont, I detected a tired look in her eyes. Where had she lieen during the long night, and with whom? The silence was only disturbed by the hum of the insects about us and the songs of the birds above. The morning was a perfect one.

“I found it very oppressive last night.” 1 said, carefully approaching the subject upon which I wanted to talk to her. “I couldn’t sleep, so 1 came out here, into the park.” “Into the park?” she echoed quickly, and I saw by her look that she was apprehensive. “Yes. It was a beautiful night, cool, refreshing and starlight.”

“You were alone?” I hesitated. Then, looking her straight in the face, answered.

“No, I was not. I had you yourself as company.”

The colour in an instant left her cheeks.

“Me?” she gasped. “Yes,” I replied in a low earnest tone. “You were also in the park last night.”

She was silent. “I did not see you.” she faltered. Then, as though recovering her selfpossession. she added with some hauteur: “And even if I ehose to walk here after everyone had gone to rest. I really don't think that you have any right to question my actions.” “Forgive me,” I said quickly. “I do not question you in the least. I have no right to do so. Y’ou are certainly free to do as you pleas?, save where you neglect your own interests or place yourself in peril—as you did last night.” “In peril of what?" she demanded defiantly.

“In peril of falling a victim to the vengeance of an enemy.” “1 don’t understand you.”

“Then I will speak more frankly. Miss Wynd, in the hope that you will be equally frank with me,” I said, my eyes fixed upon her. “You were last night, or rather at an early hour this morning, with a person whom yon have met on a previous occasion.”

“I admit that. It is indeed useless to deny it,” she answered. “And yet on the last occasion that you met, you nearly lost your life! Was it wise?”

"Nearly lost my life?” she echo d. I do not follow you." “The woman in blaek who c died at Gloucester Square on that evening not main davs ago. You surely remember her?' Was it not after tier departure that her unaccountable evil influenc • remained ?”

"Certainlv. But what of her? “You were with her last night ? “With her?” she gasped, surprised. “I certainly was not." • “Do you deny having seen her'. I demanded. “Most assuredly. she responded, promptly. “You certainly did not see ns together.” “And your companion was not a woman ?" “No. It was a man.” “Who?” “I have already told you that 1 object to anyone interfering in my private affairs. “A lover!” I said with some asperity perhaps. “You are entirely at liberty to think what you please. I only deny that I have set eyes upon my mysterious visitor since that evening in Gloucester Square.” “Well, she was in the house last night.” T answered decisively. “She was in your room.” “Tn my room!” gasped my well-be-loved in alarm. “Impossible!'’' “I watched her enter there.” I replied; and then continuing gave her an exact account of all that transpired—how she had first entered my room, and how the evil influence of her pre-

sence had so strangely affected me afterwards.

"It's absolutely astounding!” she declared. “1 was utterly ignorant of it all. Are you absolutely certain that it was the same woman?”

“The description given of her by yourself and your cousin's servant in London is exact. She came here with some distinctly sinister purpose, that is quite evident."

"But she must have entered by the servants’ quarters if she passed through the hall as you have described. She seems to have been in search of us both.”

"No doubt,” I answered- “And if, as you say, you were absent from the room at the time, it is evident that she went straightway out into the park in search of you. In that case she would have left the room before 1 tried the door, and would be ignorant of the fact that I had detected her.” “But what could she want with us?” she asked, in a voice which told me that this unexpected revelation had unnerved her.

“Ah! that I cannot tell,” I responded. “She came here with an evil purpose, and fortunately we were both absent from our rooms.”

She knit her brows in thought. Possibly she was recalling some event during her midnight walk. “And you say that you actually experienced in your own room on returning there, an exactly similar sensation to that which we all felt at Gloucester Square?” "Exactly. It seems as though when this woman enters any chamber she leaves behind her the chill of the grave. The thing is uncanny indeed, and an utter enigma which even Hoefer himself, with all his research, cannot solve.”

“IJo you know,” she fa.vered. "I felt the same sensaltion in my own room this morning; very - faintly, but still the same feeling of being chilled. What is your own private opinion about it. Doctor ?”

“My opinion is that there is a conspiracy afoot against both of us,” I responded very earnestly. “For some unaccountable reason we are marked down as victims; why, I cannot tell. You will forgive me for speaking plainly, but I believe that you alone hold the key to the mystery —that you alone know the motive of this vengeance, if vengeance it be, and if you were to tell me frankly of the past we might unite to vanquish our enemies.” “What do you mean by the past?” she inquired with just a touch of indignation. “There are several questions I have put to you which you have refused to answer.” I replied. “The light which you could throw upon two or three points now in obscurity might lead me to a knowledge of the whole truth.” She sighed, as though the burden of he thoughts oppressed her. “I have told you all I can," she answered. “No. Yon have told me all you dare —is not that a more truthful way of putting it?” She nodded, but made no response. “You have feared to tell me of the one faet concerning yourself- which has. in my belief, the greatest bearing upon your perilous situation." “And what is that?” "The faet that you are married.” Her face blanched to the lips. Her hands trembled, and for a moment my words held her dumb. "Who told you that?” she gasped in a low voice.

“1 knew it long ago," I replied. “Nora has betrayed my secret,” she observed in a hard voice.

“No,'T declared. “Your cousin has told me nothing. I have known the faet for months past.” “For months past? How?”

"You are not frank with me,” 1 replied, “therefore 1 may lie at liberty to preserve what secrets I think best.’

"1 I do not deny it,” she faltered. 'I hen in a voice Cremi.iing with emotion. she added: “Ah. .>r. Colkirk. if you knew all that I have suffered, you would quite understand my fear lest anyone should discover my secret. I often wonder how it is that 1 have not taken my own life long, long ago.” “No,” I said, with deep sympathy, taking her hand. “Bear up against all these troubles that have crowded themselves upon you. whatever they may he. Let me assist you as your friend.”

“But you cannot,” she declared, despairingly, tears welling in her eyes. “You can only assist me by keeping my secret. Will you promise me to do that?”

“Most certainly,” I replied. “But I want to do more. I want to penetrate the veil of mystery which seems to surround your marriage. I want —” “You can never do that,” she interrupted quickly. “I have tried and tried, but have failed.” “Why?" “Because, strange though it may seem, I am entirely unaware of the identity of my husband. I h ive neve' - seen him ” I was silent. Should I reveal to her the truth? She would not believe me if 1 did. What proof could I show her? “And do you not know his name?” "No. 1 do not even know his name," she answered. “All I know is that by this marriage I am del ai red for ever from love and happ’ness. I have nought to live for—nothing. Each day increases the mystery, and each day brings to me only bitte'ress and despair. Ah! how a woman may suffer and still live!" “Have you no means by which to discover the identity of your unknown husband?" I inquired. “None whatever.” she answered. “I know that I am married: beyond that nothing.” “And who else is in poss ss on of this secret ?” 1 inquired. “Nora.” “No one else?” “No one. to my knowledge.” “But you are. I understand, engaged to marry Cyril Chetwode,” 1 said, anxious to get at the truth. "How can you marry him if you are really a wife?” “Ah. that's just it!” she cried. “1 am the most miserable girl in all the world. Everything is so hazy, s > enshrouded in mystery. 1 am married, and yet I have no husband.” “But is it not perhaps best that under the circumstances you should be apart?" 1 said. “He may be old, or ugly, or a man whom you could never love.” “I dread to think of it.” she said hoarsely. "Sometimes I wonder what he is really like, and who he really is.” “And at t.he same time you love Cvril Chetw de,”l said, the word- almost choking me. I saw that she loved that young ape, and my heart sank within me. "We are very good friends,” she answered. “But you love him. Why not admit it?” I said.

“And if I di>—if 1 do, it is useless- ■ all useless," she murmured. “Yes,” I observed, “it is useless. You are already married.”

“No,” she cried, holding up her tiny hands as though to stay my words. “Do not let us talk of it. I cannot bear to think. The truth hangs like a shadow over my life.” “Does Chetwode know?” 1 inquired, “Is he aware that you can never be his?” “He knows nothing. He lores me, and believes that one day we shall marry. Indeed, now that he has succeeded to the estate he sees no reason why our marriage should be delayed, and is pressing me for an answer.” Her breast heaved and fell quickly beneath her starched blouse. I saw how agitated she was, and how with difficulty she was restraining her tears. “What answer can you give him?” “Ah!” she cried. “What answer, indeed! Was there ever woman before who knew not her husband, or who suffered as I am suffering?” “Your ease is absolutely unique,” I said. “Have you not endeavoured to solve the problem? Surely from the official record of the marriage it Is possible to obtain your husband’s name? You have a wedding-ring, I suppose?” I said, my thoughts running back to that fateful moment when T had placed the golden bond of matrimony upon her hand. “Yes,” she answered, and placing her hand within her bodice drew forth the ring suspended by a narrow blue ribobn. ‘lt is here.” T took it in my hand with a feeling of curiosity. How strange it was. That was the very ring which I had placed upon her finger when in desperation I had sold myself to the Tempter. “Have you no idea whatever of the circumstances of your marriage? Do you know nothing?” “Absolutely nothing—stive that 1 am actually married.” “The identity of the man who placed this ring upon your hand is an enigma?” “Yes. I found it upon my finger. That is all that I am aware of- I changed my name, yet I am ignorant of what my new name really is.” A sound of wheels approaching up the drive greeted our ears, but 1 still held the ring in the hollow of my hand. “Shall I tell you the true name of your husband?” T said, earnestly, looking straight into those c’e ir deep eyes. “What?” she cried, starting in quick surprise, “you know it? Surely that is impossible!” “Yes,” I said, in a low voice, “I know it.” At that instant the ralli-ear which had evidently been to Corsham Station, dashed past us towards the house, interrupting our conversation and causing us both to raise our heads. At the side of Barton, the coachman, there sat a stranger who, as he passed, turned his head aside to glanc • at us. Our eves met. Tn an instant I recognised him. It was none other than the man for whom I had been in active search al! those weeks —the Tempter. (To be Continued.)