Hugh Trethowen hesitated.
Standing pensively before the fire in his own den at Coombe a fortnight after his marriage, he was examining the photograph and partially destroyed letters, the unaccountable presence of which among his brother’s possessions had caused him so much perturbation. As he held the photograph in his hand the pictured face of Valérie seemed to smile with tantalising seductiveness, and, with a fond husbands admiration, he told himself that in no way had her beauty deteriorated, but, on the contrary, she had grown handsomer.
Nevertheless, the fact that it had, together with the letters, been carefully concealed by his brother, was a problem which frequently caused him a good deal of uneasy speculation. The wording of the missives was strangely ominous, and there was no disguising the fact that they were in his wife’s handwriting.
“I’m half inclined to tear them up and burn them. If I did, they certainly would worry me no longer,” he argued, aloud. “I wish I could let her see them, and ask for an explanation. But I cannot; it would show mistrust.”
He lifted his eyes from the photograph and gazed perplexedly around the apartment. More than once he had been sorely tempted to destroy the carefully-preserved documents; still the mystery surrounding them was fascinating, and he vaguely hoped that some day he might elucidate it.
Suddenly he turned and crossed the room resolutely, saying—
“No, I’ll keep them; by Jove, I will! I must master these absurd apprehensions. What does it matter? The communications certainly relate to something which looks suspiciously like a mystery; nevertheless, it’s probable that, after all, they only refer to some very commonplace affair.”
Laughing sardonically, he paused for a moment to glance at the photograph under the stronger light shed by the lamp upon the table; then he opened the bureau and replaced them in a drawer.
“Bah! I’m a fool to think about them,” he added, as he locked the flap and turned away. “Yet, why should they constantly recur in my thoughts, interfering with my happiness, and rendering me almost miserable? Even Jack’s semi-prophetic utterances seem to convey some meaning when they are before me. Still, most people harbour a family skeleton in their cupboard, and I suppose this is mine. But there’s no reason why I should bother my head over it; the solution will come some day, and until then I can wait.”
He flung himself into a roomy armchair in a less thoughtful mood. That afternoon Valérie had driven to Bude to call upon the vicar’s wife, whom she had met on several occasions in London, and, although nearly seven o’clock, she had not returned. The cold November wind howled dismally in the chimney as Hugh sat by the fireside already dressed, and awaiting dinner. For the first time since his marriage he found himself alone, with time hanging heavily upon his hands, and had recognised how utterly unbearable his life would be without her fair presence and kindly smile. His love for her was unbounded; she was, indeed, his idol.