Next morning, after a night of dark reflections, spent at the dormer window of the village inn, I called at the Manor1 House as early as the convenances would permit.
Lucie, cool in a white blouse and piqué skirt, met me in the hall, and, to my surprise, told me that Ella had already departed. At seven o’clock she asked that she might be driven back to Swanage to rejoin her father, as they were leaving early on the motor-car.
She was as surprised as I myself was at this sudden decision to leave, for she expected that she would remain there for another day at least, now that we had again met.
“Didn’t she tell you that she was leaving early?” Lucie asked, looking me straight in the face.
“No. I certainly expected to find her here,” I said, as she led me into the old-fashioned morning-room sweet with the odour of pot-pourri in the big Oriental punch-bowls.
I was utterly2 taken aback by her announcement.
When I had parted from my love she had declared that to meet again was useless, but I had assured her that in the morning I would call—that now we had met I would not again leave her. Had she not confessed her love for me? Did we not love each other with a fond, mad passion? And yet my darling had, it appeared, fallen beneath the influence of some nameless fellow, who was, no doubt, a scoundrel and an adventurer! Should I calmly stand by and allow her to ruin her life and mine? No. A thousand times, no. And as I stood there in silence in the low-ceilinged old room with Lucie Miller3 at my side, I made a firm and furious resolve that my Ella should not again escape me. Our love, however, seemed ill-fated. The remembrance of that night in Bayswater ever arose within my memory. Again how curious it was, that through the dead I had found the living. By the death of Nardini I had rediscovered my lost love.
I wondered whether I should confide4 in Lucie and explain what my love had told me, or whether it was best to allow her, at least for the present, to remain in ignorance? I decided5, after due reflection, upon the latter course.
“I, of course, thought that she had wished you good-bye, and made an appointment for another meeting,” Lucie said. “In fact, both my father and myself were greatly surprised when she came and asked that the horse might be put to. And yet—” and without finishing her sentence, she looked mysteriously into my face.
“And yet what?” I asked.
For a few moments she was silent, hesitating to explain. I saw by her face that something had puzzled her. We had so quickly become friends, and our friendship had been cemented by our mutual6 acquaintanceship with Ella Murray, that we had found ourselves speaking perfectly7 frankly8 as though we had known each other for years.
“Well—will you pardon me for asking you a rather impertinent question, Mr Leaf?” she said.
“Why, certainly.”
“You’ll perhaps think me curiously9 inquisitive10, but how long were you with Ella in the avenue after you left last night?”
“About half an hour.”
“Not more?”
“No. I can fix it, because I noted11 the time by that long grandfather clock in the hall as we went out, and I looked at my watch when I got back to the inn. I was three-quarters of an hour in getting back to Studland.”
“That’s rather strange,” she remarked, with a distinct note of suspicion in her voice.
“Why?”
“Well—because Ella was gone nearly two hours and a half. My father went to bed, and I remained up for her. Wasn’t she with you?”
“Certainly not,” was my prompt answer, much surprised at her statement.
“Then something must have occurred after she left you,” my companion said.
“After she left me! What do you mean?”
“A very long time elapsed before her return,” Lucie remarked. “She may have been alone—but I think not.”
“Who was with her?”
“How can we tell?”
“But what causes you to think that Ella was not alone?”
“By her strange manner when she returned. She was pale and breathless, as though she had been hurrying, and although she had pinned it up I noticed that the sleeve of her blouse was torn, and that her wrist bore dark marks as though she had had a desperate struggle with some one.”
“Was she attacked by some tramp or other, I wonder?” I cried, amazed.
“She refused to tell me anything save that she was rather upset. She seemed in great fear that my father should have knowledge of the affair, and made me faithfully promise not to tell him. Her hair was awry12, and some of the lace at the throat was torn as though some person had seized her and tried to strangle her. Indeed, while speaking to me she placed her hand at her throat, as if it pained her. Alarmed at her appearance, I inquired what was the matter, but she would only tell me vaguely13 that she was not very well. I at once jumped to the conclusion that you had quarrelled.”
“We certainly had no quarrel, Miss Miller,” I quickly reassured14 her.
“Then it is evident that she was attacked by some one! Yet it is curious that, intimate friends that we are, she would tell me nothing of the incident.”
“She wished to shield her assailant, perhaps,” I remarked, much puzzled.
“It certainly seems so. Seeing her so pale, and believing her about to faint, I took her to the dining-room and gave her some brandy. She sipped15 it, and a moment afterwards burst into tears. I sat with her for nearly half an hour trying to learn the mystery of her unhappiness. I asked her quite frankly if she had quarrelled with you, but she replied in the negative. Under the light, as she sat in the dining-room, I remarked the great change in her. Her countenance16 was pale as death, her lips white, and her eyes bore a look of terror in them. She was undoubtedly17 in great fear. But of what, I am unable to tell.”
“Your surmise18 is, no doubt, correct. She met some one unexpectedly—some one who attacked her. I wonder who it is?”
“She was evidently followed here this evening, and was, perhaps, seen walking with you. Your conversation, as you walked down to the lodge19, might have been overheard.”
“Probably. But surely, Miss Miller, the incidents of last night were very remarkable20 ones. I followed you and I met my love. And then, just at the moment of my re-found happiness, she has gone again without a word. Indeed, when I reflect, the incidents of last night hardly seem real. I find myself doubting whether it was not all a dream, and would really hesitate to believe in its reality if you, too, had not been present—if you, too, had not seen and spoken with her.”
“Yes, it is curious—very curious. I was quite as startled by her sudden appearance as you were. It is inexplicable21. I, too, believed she was dead. I heard so from half a dozen people, and I can’t help thinking, Mr Leaf, that there was some deep ulterior motive22 in spreading such a report concerning her.”
“She’s a mystery,” I declared; “a complete mystery.”
“She is—and yet do you not find her far more beautiful than in the old days? I do.”
“Perhaps her beauty is fatal—like that of so many women,” I sighed. “The source of many a woman’s unhappiness is to be found in her face.”
“Last night tragedy was written deeply upon hers,” my companion said, in a low, sympathetic voice. “I wonder what has occurred?”
I, too, wondered. Her firm refusal to allow me to kiss her upon the lips showed her either to be in deadly fear of the jealousy23 of another; or that she was true to the vow24 she had given, even though she still loved me. Yet who could be this person whom she had undoubtedly met after we had parted? Why had he attacked her? Why had she fled again so quickly? Was she in fear of some one who was still lurking25 in the vicinity? A sense of deadly chilliness26 stole over me.
The whole affair was, indeed, a mystery, yet not so utterly bewildering as were certain of the events which followed—events which were so strange and startling that they formed a problem that was for so long beyond solution.
Being so passionately27 devoted28 to Ella I determined29 to follow her, demand an explanation of the attack upon her and seek to discover the identity of her unknown lover—the man whom she had admitted to me she was to marry under compulsion.
I had risen from my chair, expressing my intention of driving into Swanage in the hope that she had not already left, when the door opened, and a dark, well-dressed man about forty, clean-shaven, having the appearance of a naval30 officer and dressed in a dark grey flannel31 suit, came forward with extended hand to my companion, wishing her good-morning.
From his easy manner I saw that he was a guest in the house, although on the previous night I had not seen him.
“Will you allow me to introduce you?” Lucie said, and next instant presented the newcomer to me as “My father’s friend, Mr Gordon-Wright.”
The visitor turned to take the hand I extended to him, and raised his eyes to mine.
The conventional greeting and assurance of pleasure at the meeting froze upon my lips.
We had met before—under circumstances that were, to say the least, both startling and strange.
In that instant I recognised how that the mystery had deepened a thousandfold.
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1
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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8
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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9
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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10
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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11
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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14
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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15
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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18
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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19
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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20
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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23
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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24
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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25
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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27
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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28
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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30
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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31
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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