in glad welcome.
“Short told me you were here,” she exclaimed. “What a long time you have been upstairs. Nothing serious, I hope,” she added with a touch of anxiety, I thought.
“Nothing at all,” I assured her, walking with her across to the fire and seating myself in the cosy-corner, while she threw herself upon a low lounge chair and pillowed her dark head upon a big cushion of yellow silk. “Where is Mary?” I asked.
“Out. She’s dining with the Hennikers to-night, I think.”
“And leaves you at home to look after the invalid?” I remarked.
“Oh, I don’t mind in the least,” she declared, laughing.
“And the old gentleman? What does he say to her constant absence in the evening?”
“Well, to tell the truth, Ralph, he seldom knows. He usually believes her to be at home, and I never undeceive him. Why should I?”
I grunted, for I was not at all well pleased with her connivance at her sister’s deceit. The sound that escaped my lips caused her to glance across at me in quick surprise.
“You are displeased, dear,” she said. “Tell me why. What have I done?”
“I’m not displeased with you,” I declared. “Only, as you know, I’m not in favour of deception, and especially so in a wife.”
She pursed her lips, and I thought her face went a trifle paler. She was silent for a moment, then said:
“I don’t see why we should discuss that, Ralph. Mary’s actions concern neither of us. It is not for us to prevent her amusing herself, neither is it our duty to create unpleasantness between husband and wife.”
I did not reply, but sat looking at her, drinking in her beauty in a long, full draught. How can I describe her? Her form was graceful in every line; her face perfect in its contour, open, finely-moulded, and with a marvellous complexion — a calm, sweet countenance that reminded one of Raphael’s “Madonna” in Florence, indeed almost its counterpart. Her beauty had been remarked everywhere. She had sat to a well-known R.A. for his Academy picture two years before, and the artist had declared her to be one of the most perfect types of English beauty.
Was it any wonder, then, that I was in love with her? Was it any wonder that those wonderful dark eyes held me beneath their spell, or those dark locks that I sometimes stroked from off her fair white brow should be to me the most beautiful in all the world? Man is but mortal, and a beautiful woman always enchants.
As she sat before me in her evening gown of some flimsy cream stuff, all frills and furbelows, she seemed perfect in her loveliness. The surroundings suited her to perfection — the old Chippendale and the palms, while the well-shaded electric lamp in its wrought-iron stand shed a mellow glow upon her, softening her features and harmonising the tints of the objects around. From beneath the hem of her skirt a neat ankle encased in its black silk stocking was thrust coquettishly forward, and her tiny patent leather slipper was stretched out to the warmth of the fire. Her pose was, however, restful and natural. She loved luxury, and made no secret of it. The hour after dinner was always her hour of laziness, and she usually spent it in that self-same chair, in that self-same position.
She was twenty-five, the youngest daughter of old Thomas Mivart, who was squire of Neneford, in Northamptonshire, a well-known hunting-man of his day, who had died two years ago leaving a widow, a charming lady, who lived alone at the Manor. To me it had always been a mystery why the craving for gaiety and amusement had never seized Ethelwynn. She was by far the more beautiful of the pair, the smartest in dress, and the wittier in speech, for possessed of a keen sense of humour, she was interesting as well as handsome — the two qualities which are par excellence necessary for a woman to attain social success.
She stirred slightly as she broke the silence, and then I detected in her a nervousness which I had not noticed on first entering the room.
“Sir Bernard Eyton was down here yesterday and spent over an hour with the old gentleman. They sent the nurse out of the room and talked together for a long time, upon some private business, nurse thinks. When Sir Bernard came down he told me in confidence that Mr. Courtenay was distinctly weaker.”
“Yes,” I said, “Sir Bernard told me that, but I must confess that to-night I find a decided improvement in him. He’s sitting up quite lively.”
“Very different to a month ago,” my well-beloved remarked. “Do you recollect when Short went to London in a hansom and brought you down at three in the morning?”
“I gave up all hope when I saw him on that occasion,” I said; “but he certainly seems to have taken a new lease of life.”
“Do you think he really has?” she inquired with an undisguised eagerness which struck me as distinctly curious. “Do you believe that Sir Bernard’s fears are after all ungrounded?”
I looked at her surprised. She had never before evinced such a keen interest in her sister’s husband, and I was puzzled.
“I really can’t give an opinion,” I responded mechanically, for want of something or other to say.
It was curious, that question of hers — very curious.
Yet after all I was in love — and all lovers are fools in their jealousy.
CHAPTER IV
A NIGHT CALL
“Do you know, Ralph,” she faltered presently, “I have a faint suspicion that you are annoyed about something. What is it? Be frank now and tell me.”
“Annoyed?” I laughed. “Not at all, dearest. Nervous and impatient, perhaps. You must make allowances for me. A doctor’s life is full of professional worries. I’ve had a trying day at the hospital, and I suppose I’m quarrelsome — eh?”
“No, not quarrelsome, but just inclined to be a little suspicious.”
“Suspicious? Of what?”
Her woman’s power of penetration to the innermost secrets of the heart was marvellous.
“Of me?”
“How absurd!” I exclaimed. “Why should I be suspicious — and of what?”
“Well,” she laughed, “I really don’t know, only your manner is peculiar. Why not be frank with me, Ralph, dear, and tell me what it is that you don’t like. Have I offended you?”
“Not at all, darling,” I hastened to assure her. “Why, you’re the best little woman in the world. Offend me — how absurd!”
“Then who has offended you?”
I hesitated. When a woman really loves, a man can have but few secrets from her. Ethelwynn always read me like an open book.
“I’m worried over a critical case,” I said, in an endeavour to evade her question.
“But your patients don’t annoy you, surely,” she exclaimed. “There is a distinction between annoyance and worry.”
I saw that she had detected my suspicion, and at once hastened to reassure her that she had my entire confidence.
“If Mary finds her life a trifle dull with her husband it is surely no reason why I should be blamed for it,” she said, in a tone of mild complaint.
“No, you entirely misunderstand me,” I said. “No blame whatever attaches to you. Your sister’s actions are no affair of ours. It is merely a pity that she cannot see her error. With her husband lying ill she should at least remain at home.”
“She declares that she has suffered martyrdom for his sake long enough,” my well-beloved said. “Perhaps she is right, for between