The Seven Secrets

At midnight I was seated in the drawing-room of the Manor. Before me, dressed in plain black which made her beautiful face look even paler than it was, sat my love, bowed, despondent, silent. The household, although still astir, was hushed by the presence of the dead; the long old room itself, usually so bright and pleasant, seemed full of dark shadows, for the lamp, beneath its yellow shade, burned but dimly, and everywhere there reigned an air of mourning.

Half-demented by grief, my love had arrived in hot haste about ten o’clock, and, rushing to poor Mary’s room, had thrown herself upon her knees beside the poor inanimate clay; for, even though of late differences might have existed between them, the sisters were certainly devoted to each other. The scene in that room was an unhappy one, for although Ethelwynn betrayed nothing by her lips, I saw by her manner that she was full of remorse over the might-have-beens, and that she was bitterly reproaching herself for some fact of which I had no knowledge.

Of the past we had not spoken. She had been too full of grief, too utterly overcome by the tragedy of the situation. Her mournful figure struck a sympathetic chord in my heart. Perhaps I had misjudged her; perhaps I had attributed to her sinister motives that were non-existent. Alas! wherever mystery exists, little charity enters man’s heart. Jealousy dries up the milk of human kindness.

“Dearest,” I said, rising and taking her slim white hand that lay idly in her lap, “in this hour of your distress you have at least one person who would console and comfort you—one man who loves you.”

She raised her eyes to mine quickly, with a strange, eager look. Her glance was as though she did not fully realize the purport of my words. I knew myself to be a sad blunderer in the art of love, and wondered if my words were too blunt and abrupt.

“Ah!” she sighed. “If only I believed that those words came direct from your heart, Ralph!”

“They do,” I assured her. “You received my letter at Hereford—you read what I wrote to you?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I read it. But how can I believe in you further, after your unaccountable treatment? You forsook me without giving any reason. You can’t deny that.”

“I don’t seek to deny it,” I said. “On the contrary, I accept all the blame that may attach to me. I only ask your forgiveness,” and bending to her in deep earnestness, I pressed the small hand that was within my grasp.

“But if you loved me, as you declare you have always done, why did you desert me in that manner?” she inquired, her large dark eyes turned seriously to mine.

I hesitated. Should I tell her the truth openly and honestly?

“Because of a fact which came to my knowledge,” I answered, after a long pause.

“What fact?” she asked with some anxiety.

“I made a discovery,” I said ambiguously.

“Regarding me?”

“Yes, regarding yourself,” I replied, with my eyes fixed full upon hers. I saw that she started at my words, her countenance fell, and she caught her breath quickly.

“Well, tell me what it is,” she asked in a hard tone, a tone which showed me that she had steeled herself for the worst.

“Forgive me if I speak the truth,” I exclaimed. “You have asked me, and I will be perfectly frank with you. Well, I discovered amongst old Mr. Courtenay’s papers a letter written by you several years ago which revealed the truth.”

“The truth!” she gasped, her face blanched in an instant. “The truth of what?”

“That you were once engaged to become his wife.”

Her breast heaved quickly, and I saw that my words had relieved her of some grave apprehension. When I declared that I knew “the truth” she believed that I spoke of the secret of Courtenay’s masquerading. The fact of her previous engagement was, to her, of only secondary importance, for she replied:

“Well, and is that the sole cause of your displeasure?”

I felt assured, from the feigned flippancy of her words, that she held knowledge of the strange secret.

“It was the main cause,” I said. “You concealed the truth from me, and lived in that man’s house after he had married Mary.”

“I had a reason for doing so,” she exclaimed, in a quiet voice. “I did not live there by preference.”

“You were surely not forced to do so.”

“No; I was not forced. It was a duty.” Then, after a pause, she covered her face with her hands and suddenly burst into tears, crying, “Ah, Ralph! If you could know all—all that I have suffered, you would not think ill of me! Appearances have been against me, that I know quite well. The discovery of that letter must have convinced you that I was a schemer and unworthy, and the fact that I lived beneath the roof of the man who had cast me off added colour to the theory that I had conceived some deep plot. Probably,” she went on, speaking between her sobs, “probably you even suspected me of having had a hand in the terrible crime. Tell me frankly,” she asked, gripping my arm, and looking up into my face. “Did you ever suspect me of being the assassin?”

I paused. What could I reply? Surely it was best to be open and straightforward. So I told her that I had not been alone in the suspicion, and that Ambler Jevons had shared it with me.

“Ah! that accounts for his marvellous ingenuity in watching me. For weeks past he has seemed to be constantly near me, making inquiries regarding my movements wherever I went. You both suspected me. But is it necessary that I should assert my innocence of such a deed?” she asked. “Are you not now convinced that it was not my hand that struck down old Mr. Courtenay?”

“Forgive me,” I urged. “The suspicion was based upon ill-formed conclusions, and was heightened by your own peculiar conduct after the tragedy.”

“That my conduct was strange was surely natural. The discovery was quite as appalling to me as to you; and, knowing that somewhere among the dead man’s papers my letters were preserved, I dreaded lest they should fall into the hands of the police and thereby connect me with the crime. It was fear that my final letter should be discovered that gave my actions the appearance of guilt.”

I took both her hands in mine, and fixing my gaze straight into those dear eyes wherein the love-look shone—that look by which a man is able to read a woman’s heart—I asked her a question.

“Ethelwynn,” I said, calmly and seriously, “we love each other. I know I’ve been suspicious

without cause and cruel in my neglect; nevertheless the separation has quickened my affection, and has shown that to me life without you is impossible. You, darling, are the only woman who has entered my life. I have championed no woman save yourself; by no ties have I been bound to any woman in this world. This I would have you believe, for it is the truth. I could not lie to you if I would; it is the truth—God is my witness.”

She made me no answer. Her hands trembled, and she bowed her head so that I could not see her face.

“Will you not forgive, dearest?” I urged. The great longing to speak out my mind had overcome me, and having eased myself of my burden I stood awaiting her response. “Will you not be mine again, as in the old days before this chain of tragedy fell upon your house?”

Again she hesitated for several minutes. Then, of a sudden, she lifted her tear-stained face towards me, all rosy with blushes and wearing that sweet look which I had known so well in the happy days bygone.

“If you wish it, Ralph,” she faltered, “we will forget that any breach between us has ever existed. I desire nothing else; for, as you well know, I love no one else but you. I have been foolish, I know. I ought to have explained the girlish romantic affection I once entertained for that man who afterwards married Mary. In those days he was my

ideal. Why, I cannot tell. Girls in their teens have strange caprices, and that was mine. Just as schoolboys fall violently in love with married women, so are schoolgirls sometimes attracted towards aged men. People wonder when they hear of May and December marriages; but they are not always from mercenary motives, as is popularly supposed. Nevertheless I acted wrongly in not telling you the truth from the first. I am alone to blame.”

So much she said, though with many a pause, and with so keen a self-reproach in her tone that I could hardly bear to hear her, when I interrupted——

“There is mutual blame on both sides. Let us forget it all,” and I bent until my lips met hers and we sealed our compact with a long, clinging caress.

“Yes, dear heart. Let us forget it,” she whispered. “We have both suffered—both of us,” and I felt her arms tighten about my neck. “Oh, how you must have hated me!”

“No,” I declared. “I never hated you. I was mystified and suspicious, because I felt assured that you knew the truth regarding the tragedy at Kew, and remained silent.”

She looked into my eyes, as though she would read my soul.

“Unfortunately,” she answered, “I am not aware of the truth.”

“But you are in possession of certain strange facts—eh?”

“That I am in possession of facts that lead me to certain conclusions, is the truth. But the clue is wanting. I have been seeking for it through all these months, but without success.”

“Cannot we act in accord in this matter, dearest? May I not be acquainted with the facts which, with your intimate knowledge of the Courtenay household, you were fully acquainted with at the time of the tragedy?” I urged.

“No, Ralph,” she replied, shaking her head, and at the same time pressing my hand. “I cannot yet tell you anything.”

“Then you have no confidence in me?” I asked reproachfully.

“It is not a question of confidence, but one of honour,” she replied.

“But you will at least satisfy my curiosity upon one point?” I exclaimed. “You will tell me the reason you lived beneath Courtenay’s roof?”

“You know the reason well. He was an invalid, and I went there to keep Mary company.”

I smiled at the lameness of her explanation. It was, however, an ingenious evasion of the truth, for, after all, I could not deny that I had known this through several years. Old Courtenay, being practically confined to his room, had himself suggested Ethelwynn bearing his young wife company.

“Answer me truthfully, dearest. Was there no further reason?”

She paused; and in her hesitation I detected

a desire to deceive, even though I loved her so fondly.

“Yes, there was,” she admitted at last, bowing her head.

“Explain it.”

“Alas! I cannot. It is a secret.”

“A secret from me?”

“Yes, dear heart!” she cried, clutching my hands with a wild movement. “Even from you.”

My face must have betrayed the annoyance that I felt, for the next second she hastened to soften her reply by saying:

“At present it is impossible for me to explain. Think! Poor Mary is lying upstairs. I can say nothing at present—nothing—you understand.”

“Then afterwards—after the burial—you will tell me what you know?”

“Until I discover the truth I am resolved to maintain silence. All I can tell you is that the whole affair is so remarkable and astounding that its explanation will be even more bewildering than the tangled chain of circumstances.”

“Then you are actually in possession of the truth,” I remarked with some impatience. “What use is there to deny it?”

“At present I have suspicions—grave ones. That is all,” she protested.

“What is your theory regarding poor Mary’s death?” I asked, hoping to learn something from her.

“Suicide. Of that there seems not a shadow of doubt.”

I was wondering if she knew of the “dead” man’s existence. Being in sisterly confidence with Mary, she probably did.

“Did it ever strike you,” I asked, “that the personal appearance of Mr. Courtenay changed very considerably after death. You saw the body several times after the discovery. Did you notice the change?”

She looked at me sharply, as though endeavouring to discern my meaning.

“I saw the body several times, and certainly noticed a change in the features. But surely the countenance changes considerably if death is sudden?”

“Quite true,” I answered. “But I recollect that, in making the post-mortem, Sir Bernard remarked upon the unusual change. He seemed to have grown fully ten years older than when I had seen him alive four hours before.”

“Well,” she asked, “is that any circumstance likely to lead to a solution of the mystery? I don’t exactly see the point.”

“It may,” I answered ambiguously, puzzled at her manner and wondering if she were aware of that most unaccountable feature of the conspiracy.

“How?” she asked.

But as she had steadfastly refused to reveal her knowledge to me, or the reason of her residence beneath Courtenay’s roof, I myself claimed the right to be equally vague.

We were still playing at cross-purposes; therefore I urged her to be frank with me. But she strenuously resisted all my persuasion.

“No. With poor Mary lying dead I can say nothing. Later, when I have found the clue for which I am searching, I will tell you what I know. Till then, no word shall pass my lips.”

I knew too well that when my love made up her mind it was useless to try and turn her from her purpose. She was no shallow, empty-headed girl, whose opinion could be turned by any breath of the social wind or any invention of the faddists; her mind was strong and well-balanced, so that she always had the courage of her own convictions. Her sister, on the contrary, had been one of those giddy women who follow every frill and furbelow of Fashion, and who take up all the latest crazes with a seriousness worthy of better objects. In temperament, in disposition, in character, and in strength of mind they had been the exact opposite of each other; the one sister flighty and thoughtless, the other patient and forbearing, with an utter disregard for the hollow artificialities of Society.

“But in this matter we may be of mutual assistance to each other,” I urged, in an effort to persuade her. “As far as I can discern, the mystery contains no fewer than seven complete and distinct secrets. To obtain the truth regarding one would probably furnish the key to the whole.”

“Then you think that poor Mary’s untimely death is closely connected with the tragedy at Kew?” she asked.

“Most certainly. But I do not share your opinion of suicide.”

“What? You suspect foul play?” she cried.

I nodded in the affirmative.

“You believe that poor Mary was actually murdered?” she exclaimed, anxiously. “Have you found marks of violence, then?”

“No, I have found nothing. My opinion is formed upon a surmise.”

“What surmise?”

I hesitated whether to tell her all the facts that I had discovered, for I was disappointed and annoyed that she should still preserve a dogged silence, now that a reconciliation had been brought about.

“Well,” I answered, after a pause, “my suspicion of foul play is based upon logical conclusions. I have myself been witness of one most astonishing fact—namely, that she was in the habit of meeting a certain man clandestinely at night, and that their favourite walk was along the river bank.”

“What!” she cried, starting up in alarm, all the colour fading from her face. “You have actually seen them together?”

“I have not only seen them, but I have overheard their conversation,” I answered, surprised at the effect my words had produced upon her.

“Then you already know the truth!” she cried, in a wild voice that was almost a shriek. “Forgive me—forgive me, Ralph!” And throwing herself suddenly upon her knees she looked up into my face imploringly, her white hands clasped in an attitude of supplication, crying in a voice broken by emotion: “Forgive me, Ralph! Have compassion upon me!” and she burst into a flood of tears which no caress or tender effort of mine could stem.

I adored her with a passionate madness that was beyond control. She was, as she had ever been, my ideal—my all in all. And yet the mystery surrounding her was still impenetrable; an enigma that grew more complicated, more impossible of solution.