A silent witness
did me the honour of hoisting me overboard, I am clearly not in a
position to depose as to the sex of that person. But if it was a
woman, she must have been an uncommonly strong one.”
Mrs. Samway continued to look at me questioningly.
“I thought you seemed to hint at a suspicion that it actually was a
woman. You would surely be able to tell.”
“I suppose I should if there were time to think about the matter; but,
you see, before I was fairly aware that anyone had hold of me, I was
sticking my head into the mud at the bottom of the river, which is a
process that does not tend very much to clarify one’s thoughts.”
“No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “But it is a most mysterious and
dreadful affair. I can’t think how you can take it so calmly. You
don’t seem to be in the least concerned by the fact that you have been
within a hairs-breadth of being murdered. What do your friends think
about it?”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Samway,” I replied evasively, “one doesn’t talk
much about incidents of this kind. It doesn’t sound very credible, and
one doesn’t want to gain a reputation as a sort of modern Munchausen.
I shouldn’t have told you but that you were already partly in the
secret and that you cross-examined me in such a determined fashion.”
“But,” she exclaimed, “do you mean to tell me that you have said
nothing to anyone about this extraordinary adventure of yours?”
“No, I don’t say that. Of course, I had to give some sort of
explanation to my landlady, for instance, but I didn’t tell her all
that I have told you; and I would rather, if you don’t mind, that you
didn’t mention the affair to anyone. I should hate to be suspected of
romancing.”
“You shan’t be through anything that I may say,” she replied, “though
I should hardly think that anyone who knew you would be likely to
suspect you of inventing imaginary adventures.”
For some minutes after this we walked on without speaking, and, from
time to time, I stole a glance at my companion. And, once again, I
found myself impressed by something distinctive and unusual in her
appearance. Her unquestionable beauty was not like that of most pretty
women, localized and unequal, having features of striking
attractiveness set in an indifferent or even defective matrix. It was
diffused and all pervading, the product of sheer physical excellence.
With most women one feels that the more attractive wares are
judiciously pushed to the front of the window while a discreet
reticence is maintained respecting the unpresentable residue. Not so
with Mrs. Samway. Her small, shapely head, her symmetrical face, her
fine supple figure, and her easy movements, all spoke of a splendid
physique. She was not merely a pretty woman, she was that infinitely
rarer creature, a physically perfect human being; comely with the
comeliness of faultless proportion, graceful with the grace of
symmetry and strength.
Suddenly she looked up at me with just a hint of shyness and a little
heightening of the colour in her cheek.
“Are you going to tell me again, Dr. Jardine, that a cat may look at a
king? Or was it that a king may look at a cat?”
“Whichever you please,” I replied. “We will put them on a footing of
equality, excepting that the king might have the better claim if the
cat happened to be an exceptionally good-looking cat. But I wasn’t
really staring at you this time, I was only giving you a sort of
friendly look over. You weren’t quite yourself, I think, when we met
last.”
“No, I certainly was not. So you are now making an inspection. May I
ask if I am to be informed of the diagnosis, as I think you call it?”
Now, to tell the truth, I had thought her looking rather haggard and
worn and decidedly thinner; and when her sprightliness subsided in the
intervals of our somewhat flippant talk, it had seemed to me that her
face took on an expression that was weary and even sad. But it would
hardly do to say as much.
“It is quite irregular,” I replied. “The diagnosis is for the doctor;
the patient is only concerned with the treatment. But I’ll make an
exception in your case, especially as my report is quite
unsensational. I thought you looked as if you had been doing rather
too much and not greatly enjoying the occupation. Am I right?”
“Yes. Quite right. I’ve had a lot of worry and bother lately, and not
enough rest and peace.”
“I hope all that is at an end now?”
“I don’t know that it is,” she replied, wearily, “or, for that matter,
that it will ever be. Fate or destiny, or whatever we may call it,
starts us upon a certain road, and along that road we must needs
trudge, wherever it may lead.”
I was rather startled at the sudden despondency of her tone.
Apparently the road that Mrs. Samway trod was not strewn with roses.
“Still,” I said, “it is a long road that has no turning.”
“It is,” she agreed, bitterly, “but many have to travel such a road,
to find the turning at last barred by the churchyard gate.”
“Oh, come!” I protested, “we don’t talk of churchyards at your time of
life. We think of the jolly wayside inns and the buttercups and
daisies and the may-blossom in the hedgerows. Churchyard indeed! We
will leave that to the old folk and the village donkey, if you
please.”
She smiled rather wanly. Her gaiety seemed to have deserted her for
good.
“The wayside inns and the wayside flowers,” said she, “are your
portion--at least, I hope so. They are not for me. And, after all,
there are worse things to think of than a nice quiet churchyard, with
the village donkey browsing among the graves, as you say.”
“I quite agree with you. From the standpoint of the disinterested
spectator, not contemplating freehold investments, nothing can be more
delightfully rustic and peaceful. It is the personal application that
I object to.”
Again she smiled, but very pensively, and for a while we walked on in
silence. Presently she resumed. “I used to think that the shortness of
life was quite a tragedy. That was when I was young. But now--”
“When you were young!” I interrupted. “Why, what are you now? I can
tell you, Mrs. Samway, that there is many a girl of twenty who would
be only too delighted to exchange personalities with you, and who
would stand to make a mighty fine bargain if she could do it. If you
talk like this, I shall have to refer you to the great Leonardo’s
advice to painters.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“He recommends the frequent use of a looking-glass.”
She gave me a quick glance and then blushed so very deeply that I was
quite alarmed lest I should have given offence. But her next words
reassured me.
“It was nice of you to say that, and most kindly meant. I won’t say
that I don’t care very much how I look, because that would be an
ungracious return for your compliment and it wouldn’t be quite true.
There are times when one is quite glad to feel that one looks
presentable; the present moment, for instance.”
I acknowledged the compliment, with a bow.
“Thank you,” I said. “That was more than I deserved. I only wish that
your fortune was equal to your looks, but I am afraid it isn’t. I have
an uncomfortable feeling that you are not very happy.”
“I’m afraid I’m not,” she replied. “Life is rather a lottery, you
know, and the worst of it is that you can only take a single ticket.
So, when you find that you’ve drawn the wrong number and you realize
that there is no second chance--well, it isn’t very inspiriting, is
it?”
I had to admit that it was not; and, after a short pause, she
continued:
“Women are poor dependent creatures, Dr. Jardine; dependent, I mean,
for their happiness on the people who surround them.”
“But that is true of us all.”
“Not quite. A man--like yourself, for instance--has his work and his
ambitions that make him independent of others. But, for a woman,
whatever pretences she may make as to larger interests in life, a
husband, a home and one or two nice children form the real goal of her
ambition.”
“But you are not a lone spinster, Mrs. Samway,” I reminded her.
“No, I am not. But I have no children, no proper home, and not a real
friend in the world--unless I may think of you as one.”
“I hope you always will,” I exclaimed impulsively; for there was, to
me, something very pathetic in the evident loneliness of this woman.
She must, I felt, be friendless indeed if she must needs appeal for
friendship to a comparative stranger like myself.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” she replied, “for I am making you
bear a friend’s burden. I hope you will forgive me for pouring out my
complaints to you in this way.”
“It isn’t difficult,” said I, “to bear other people’s troubles with
fortitude. But if sympathy is any good, believe me, Mrs. Samway, when
I tell you that I am really deeply grieved to think that you are
getting so much less out of life than you ought. I only wish that I
could do something more than sympathize.”
“I believe you do,” she said. “I felt, at Folkestone, how kind you
were--as a good man is to a woman in her moments of weakness. That is
why, I suppose, I was impelled to talk to you like this. And that is
why,” she added, after a little pause, “I felt a pang of envy when I
saw you pass with your pretty companion.”
I started somewhat at this. Where the deuce could she have seen us
near enough to tell whether my companion was pretty or not? I turned
the matter over rapidly in my mind, and meanwhile, I said:
“I don’t quite see why you envied me, Mrs. Samway.”
“I didn’t say that I envied _you_,” she replied, with a faint smile
and the suspicion of a blush.
“Or her either,” I retorted. “We are only the merest acquaintances.”
My conscience smote me somewhat as I made this outrageous statement,
but Mrs. Samway took me up instantly.
“Then you’ve only known her quite a short time?”
The rapidity with which she had jumped to this conclusion fairly took
my breath away, and I had answered her question before I was aware of
it.
“But,” I added, “I don’t quite see how you arrived at your
conclusion.”
“I thought,” she replied, “that you seemed to like one another very
well.”
“So we do, I think. But can’t acquaintances like one another?”
“Oh, certainly; but if they are a young man and a maiden they are not
likely to remain mere acquaintances very long. That was how I argued.”
“I see. Very acute of you. By the way, where did you see us? I didn’t
see you.”
“Of course you didn’t. Yet you passed quite close to me on the
Spaniard’s Road, immersed in conversation, and little suspecting that
the green eyes of envy were fixed on you.”
“Oh, now, Mrs. Samway, I can’t have that. They’re not green, you know,
although what their exact colour is I shouldn’t like to say offhand.”
“What! Not after that careful inspection?”
“That didn’t include the eyes. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I made
another, just to satisfy my curiosity and settle the question for
good.”
“Oh, do, by all means, if it is such a weighty question.”
We both halted and I stared into the clear depths of her singular,
pale hazel eyes with an impertinent affectation of profound scrutiny,
while she looked up smilingly into mine. Suddenly, to my utter
confusion, her eyes filled and she turned away her head.
“Oh! please forgive me!” she exclaimed. “I beg your pardon--I do beg
your pardon most earnestly for being such a wretched bundle of
emotions. You would forgive me if you knew--what I can’t tell you.”
“There is no need, dear Mrs. Samway,” I said very gently, laying my
hand on her arm. “Are we not friends? And may I not give you my
warmest sympathy without asking too curiously what brings the tears to
your eyes?”
I was, in truth, deeply moved, as a young man is apt to be by a pretty
woman’s tears. But more than this, something whispered to me that my