Chapter 7

The Woman He Loved

Certainly there is no more delightful retreat on a hot July day, than one of those picturesque cottages standing in an expanse of verdant turf, cool to the eye and soft to the feet, down by the silver wave of Father Thames, near Marlow. By the bend of the river, just above the quaint old town, one of these red-tiled domiciles was, as "The Lock to Lock Times" informed its readers, occupied by Sir John Maunders, his daughter Olive, and a party of friends, who had fled from the noise and dust of London to the pleasant cool of the country.

"The Nook," as it was called, was a cosy little place, of somewhat incongruous architecture, the present proprietor having purchased it as a cottage and added wings, gables, turrets and oriel windows to the original erection, until it had assumed quite an imposing appearance. Nothing ancient about it certainly, no Tudor battlements, Georgian frontages nor Norman towers, for it was eminently Victorian in its appearance, and all its arrangements both without and within had all the latest improvements conducive to comfort and luxury. There was a deep verandah round the red brick front, with wide French windows giving access to drawing-room, dining-room and smoking-snuggery, all of which were furnished regardless of cost by the most famous upholsterer in London. From the verandah a velvety smooth lawn spread like an emerald carpet down to the river banks, where there was a boat-house and a flight of broad steps to the water, near to which steps two handsome boats of cedar were generally moored for the convenience of Sir John's guests. Between the river and the house were four huge beech trees, whose foliage made a pleasant shade, and under which were plenty of rustic seats and tables, while a lazy-looking hammock of net swung from a giant limb.

On this hot July afternoon one of the tables was spread for afternoon tea, presided over by Olive Maunders, and Sir John who sat near her, while all around were the guests, mostly young men and women with a sprinkling of chaperones. Sir John, a genial-looking old gentleman, was always delighted to surround himself with young people, as he said they made life look bright to him, and certainly there was plenty of laughing and talking as the party on the lawn chatted about the events of the day, listened to the voice of the wind stirring the leaves overhead or watched the boats floating past on the sunlit river, with their loads of young men in flannels and pretty girls daintily costumed in river fashion.

Teddy Rudall, a fashionable journalist, society verse writer, and know-everybody-about-town young man was seated in a wicker chair, playing his banjo and singing a nonsensical impromptu ditty suggested by the situation:

Oh, London's summer I like it not,

In June the season becomes a bore,

The last sensation is quite forgot,

The last new lion has ceased to roar

Pleasure is over and bills come in;

The girl I worshipped has married a peer,

I'll leave this town with its life of sin,

And not come near it—until next year.

Oh country's summer I much prefer,

For perfume blows from a thousand flowers,

Delightful breezes the still leaves stir,

Nightingales sing in the twilight hours.

Phillis has captured my worn-out heart,

But only a moment 'tis hers I fear,

I'll love her and love her until we part,

And not come near her—until next year.

"What a fickle person you are, Mr. Rudall," remarked a pretty blonde when the song came to an end.

"I always am—in poetry, Mrs. Manson," replied Rudall, idly touching the strings of his banjo, with an amused smile on his boyish face.

"And what about real life?"

"Depends very much on the lady."

Everyone laughed at this rejoinder except Olive Maunders, who sat staring at the river with a frown on her handsome face.

"It's a case of 'Gather ye Rosebuds while ye may' with Rudall," said Sir John in a jovial manner.

"Herrick," observed Mr. Rudall meditatively, "was a philosopher, and if by rosebuds he meant ladies, I'm not at all averse to following his example."

Olive Maunders evidently found the conversation too frivolous, for she suddenly arose, and without saying a word went up to the house, and retired into the drawing-room. Sir John looked after her with a rather pained expression on his face, and, seizing the opportunity afforded by Teddy Rudall beginning another song, he slipped away to look for her.

She was seated in a lounging chair, leaning forward with bent head and clasped hands, the frown still on her face. A striking looking girl, tall and slender, with a handsome resolute countenance of a pronounced brunette type, and her small head, with its coils of smooth black hair, was well set on her sloping shoulders.

"Why did you run away so suddenly, Olive?" asked her father, sitting beside her, and taking one of her slim hands in his own.

"I grew tired of the conversation," said Olive in a clear sharp voice; "it is so frivolous, and there is such a lot to be thought of."

"My dear, you must not brood too much over Trevanna's accident."

"I'm not thinking about Mr. Trevanna, but I am about Adrian. Where can he be? It is now a fortnight since he disappeared, and nothing has been heard of him."

"Oh! he'll come back again as soon as he hears Trevanna is getting better. I expect he thought he had killed Trevanna, and is keeping quiet."

"But now that Mr. Trevanna is getting well, he has exonerated Adrian entirely. They were both foolish, no doubt, but nothing was so bad as to make Adrian hide himself like this."

"Perhaps the advertisement you put in the paper will bring him," suggested Sir John, thoughtfully.

"I hope so," replied Olive quickly. "If he's anywhere in England he must have seen it by this time, but he seems to have vanished altogether. Why cannot your occult science discover him, father?"

"I'm not well enough up in theosophy to try any experiments of that nature," said Sir John, ruefully, "but I'll tell you who might find out where Adrian is."

"Some detective, I suppose," retorted Olive. "Nonsense, they never make any discoveries worth talking about, out of the pages of shilling shockers."

"No, not a detective," answered her father, quietly, "but a dealer in mysteries—Doctor Roversmire."

"Charlatan!"

"I don't think he's a charlatan; he knows more about the unseen world than you think."

Olive Maunders looked at her father in a puzzled manner, then, rising from her seat, walked to and fro hurriedly, with her arms folded behind her back.

"I can't make you out, father," she said lightly. "You are so sensible in some things, and in others—well! I really don't know how you can believe in this theosophical rubbish."

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!'"

quoted Sir John, with a smile.

"Oh! I know that quotation," answered his daughter, shaking her head; "it is always quoted by people who believe in the supernatural as an unanswerable argument, and so it is in one sense, but, of course, I did not see enough of Doctor Roversmire to know what his pretensions are, so I can't say a word against him."

"You did not like him, Olive?"

"No, I certainly did not."

"Yet he admired you?"

"So much so that he did me the honour to ask me to be his wife," replied Olive, gravely, "but, of course, I am engaged to Adrian. Ah, poor Adrian! I wonder where he can be?"

"Wait and hope."

"I'm tired of waiting and hoping," said the girl, petulantly. "There was enough about this affair in the papers already, and I want Adrian to come forward and defend himself from the malicious tongues of busybodies. Philip Trevanna will stand by him."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know what to advise," said poor Sir John, helplessly, "unless you ask Doctor Roversmire."

"A drowning man will clutch at a straw," observed Olive, after a pause. "I do not believe much in Doctor Roversmire and his relations with the supernatural world, still, if I could see him, I would ask him to use his knowledge for the benefit of Adrian. Do you know where he lives, father?"

"At Hampstead, I believe."

"Then I will write to him, to-night. Mind you, I don't believe any good will come of it; still, I'm so anxious to find Adrian that I'd consult even a fortune-teller."

She spoke in a scoffing tone which appeared to wound her father, and he was about to remonstrate with her upon her levity when a servant entered and gave her a card. Olive glanced carelessly at it and then started in surprise as she handed it to her father, for the name inscribed thereon was that of Dr. Roversmire.

"Your prophet of theosophy must certainly have had an intuitive instinct he was wanted," she observed idly.

"At all events he could not come at a better time," replied Sir John, with a smile. "Ask Dr. Roversmire to come in."

The servant departed, and Olive and her father looked at one another in silence, while from the garden sounded the gay voice of Teddy Rudall singing the last four lines of a ballad.

Lift not thou the future's curtain,

Though the present be not gay;

Only present hours are certain,

Laugh and love and live to-day.

"There's a good deal of philosophy in that," said Sir John sagely.