They were silent. To her it seemed that the silence shrieked aloud. He looked at her with an expression on his face which she was destined never to forget--as if he were hard of hearing, or fancied that his senses played him a trick, or that she had indulged in some ill-timed jest.
"What did you say?"
"I said that I am a wife already."
His look had become one of inquiry; as if desirous of learning if she were really in earnest. She felt her heart beating against her ribs, or seeming to--a habit of which it had been too fond of late. When it behaved like that it was only with an uncomfortable effort that she could keep a hold upon her consciousness; being fearful that it might slip away from her, in spite of all that she might be able to do. When he spoke again his tone had changed; as if he were puzzled. She had a sudden feeling that he was speaking to her as he might have spoken to a child.
"Do you know what you are saying? and do you mean what you say?"
"Of course I do."
"But--pardon me--I don't see the of course at all. Do you--seriously--wish me to understand that you're--a married woman?"
"Whether you understand it or not, I am."
"But you are scarcely more than a child. How old are you?"
"I am twenty-two."
"And how long do you wish me to understand that you've been married?"
"Two years."
"Two years? Then--you were married before you came here?"
"Of course."
"Of course? But everyone here has always spoken to me of you as Miss Arnott."
"That is because no one who knows me here knows that I am married."
He put his arms down to his sides, and drew himself up still straighter, so that she had to look right up at him, and knit his brows, as if he found himself confronted by a problem which was incapable of solution.
"I believe that I am the least curious of men, I say it seriously; but it appears to me that this is a situation in which curiosity is justified. You made yourself known to me as Miss Arnott; as Miss Arnott there have previously been certain passages between us; as Miss Arnott you have permitted me to tell you that I love you; you have even admitted that you love me. It is only when I take it for granted--as I am entitled to do--that the mutual confession involves your becoming my wife, that you inform me--that you are already a married woman. Under the circumstances I think I have a right to ask for information at least on certain points; as, for instance, so that I may know how to address you--what is your husband's name?"
"Robert Champion."
"Robert Champion? Then--you are Mrs Champion?"
"I am."
"Am I to take it that Mr Champion is alive?"
"So far as I know."
"So far as you know? That does not suggest very intimate--or very recent knowledge. When did you hear from him last?"
"I saw him twelve months ago."
"You saw him twelve months ago? That was not long before you came here. Why did he not accompany you when you came?"
"He couldn't."
"He couldn't? Why?"
"He was in prison."
"In--" He stopped, looked at her with, in his eyes, an altogether different expression; then, throwing his head back, seemed to be staring straight at the moon, as if he were endeavouring to read something which was written on her surface. Presently he spoke in an entirely altered tone of voice. "Now I understand, or, rather, now I begin to understand. It dawns on me that here is a position which will want some understanding." As if seized with sudden restlessness he began to pace to and fro, keeping to the same piece of ground, of which he seemed to be making mental measurements; she meanwhile, watching him, silent, motionless, as if she were waiting for him to pronounce judgment. After a while he broke into speech, while he still continued pacing to and fro. "Now I begin to see daylight everywhere; the meaning of the things which puzzled me. Why you seemed to take no interest in anything; why you were so fond of solitude; why, in the middle of a conversation, one found that your thoughts had strayed. The life you were living in public was not the one you were living to yourself. It's not nice to be like that. Poor child! And I have laughed at you, because I thought you were a character, and--you were. How many fools escape being kicked just at those moments when a kicking would do them good. It occurs to me, Mrs Champion--"
"Don't call me that!"
"But--if it's your name?"
"It's not my name to you; I wish you always to think of me as Miss Arnott."
"Then--" He paused; ceased to walk; looked at her, and went and stood with his back against the tree. "I fancy that what you stand most in need of is a friend. I can be that to you, if I can be nothing else. Come, tell me all about it--it will ease your mind."
"I've wanted to tell someone all the time; but I've told no one. I couldn't."
"I know what you mean; and I think I know what it feels like. Tell me--you'll find me an excellent father confessor."
"I shall have to begin at the beginning."
"Do. If I am to be of any assistance, and it's possible I may be, I shall have to understand it all quite clearly."
"My father died first, and then my mother, and when she died I was left with only quite a little money."
"And no relations?"
"No--no relations."
"And no friends?"
"No--no friends."
"Poor child!"
"You mustn't talk like that, or I sha'n't be able to go on, and I want to go straight on. I wasn't yet eighteen. There wasn't anything to be done in the country--we had lived quite out of the world--so I went to London. I was strange to London; but I thought I should have more chance there than in Scarsdale, so I went. But, when I got there, I soon found that I wasn't much better off than before, I'm not sure I wasn't worse. It was so lonely and so--so strange. My money went so fast, I began to be afraid, there seemed to be no means of earning more--I didn't know what to do. Then I saw an advertisement in a paper, of a shop where they wanted models in the costume department; they had to be tall and of good appearance. I didn't know what the advertisement meant; but I thought I was that, so I went, and they engaged me. I was to have board and lodging, and a few shillings a week. It was horrible. I had to keep putting on new dresses, and walk up and down in them in front of strange women, and sometimes men, and show them off. I had always been used to the open air, and to solitude; sometimes I thought I was going mad. Then the food was bad--at least, I thought it was bad--and, there were all sorts of things. But I had come so close to my last few shillings--and been so afraid--that I didn't dare to leave. There was one girl, who was also a model, whom I almost trusted; now that I look back I know that I never did quite. I used to walk about with her in the streets; I couldn't walk about alone, and there was nowhere else to walk, and I had to have some fresh air. She introduced me to a friend of hers--a man. She said he was a gentleman, but I knew better than that. She made out that he was very rich, and everything he ought to be. Directly he was introduced he began to make love. I so hated being a model; and I saw no prospect of doing anything else, and--besides, I wasn't well--I wasn't myself the whole of the time. She laughed when I said I didn't like him, and, therefore, couldn't be his wife. She declared that I was throwing away the best chance a girl in my position ever had; and said he would make the most perfect husband I could possibly want. He promised all sorts of things; he said we should live in the country, he even took me to see a house which he said he had taken. I grew to hate being a model more and more; I was miserable and ill, and they all made fun of me. At last, after he had asked me I don't know how many times, I said yes. We were married. We went to Margate for our honeymoon. Within four-and-twenty hours I knew what kind of a man he was."
She stopped; putting her hands up before her face. He could see her trembling in the moonlight, and could only stand and watch. He dared not trust himself to speak.
Presently she went on.
"I lived with him twelve months."
"Twelve months!"
"When I think of it now I wonder why I didn't kill him. I had chances, but I daren't even run away. All the life had gone out of me, and all the spirit too. I didn't even try to defend myself when he struck me."
"Struck you?"
"Oh, he often did that. But I was a weak and helpless creature. I seemed to myself to be half-witted. He used to say that he believed I had a tile loose. I had, then. Then they locked him up."
"What for?"
"He put an advertisement in the paper for a person to fill a position of trust. When someone applied he got them to make what he termed a 'deposit' of a few pounds. Then he stole it. Of course there was no position of trust to fill. That was how he made his living. I always wondered where he got his money from. After he was arrested I understood."
"And he was sentenced?"
"To twelve months' hard labour."
"Only twelve months' hard labour? Then his term of imprisonment will soon be drawing to a close."
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow! You poor child!"
"Now you perceive why I hurried back from Lake Como to say good-bye."
"I hope I need not tell you, in words, how intensely I sympathise with you."
"Thank you, I would rather you didn't; I know."
"We will speak of such matters later. In the meantime, obviously, what you want is a friend; as I guessed. As a friend, let me assure you that your position is not by any means so hopeless as you appear to imagine."
"Not with my husband coming out of prison to-morrow? You don't know him."
"If you can do nothing else, you can keep him at arm's length."
"How do you mean?"
"You have money, he hasn't. You can at least place yourself in a position in which he can't get at you."
"Can't he compel me to give him money?"
"Emphatically, no. He has no claim to a penny of yours, not to a farthing. The marriage laws are still quite capable of being improved, but one crying injustice they have abolished. What a woman has is her own, and hers only, be she married or single. If Mr Champion wants money he will have to earn it. He has not a scintilla of right to any of yours, or anything that is yours. So, at anyrate, you should have no difficulty in placing yourself beyond his reach. But there is something more. You should experience no trouble in freeing yourself from him altogether. There is such a place as the divorce court. Plainly, it would be easy to show cruelty, and probably something else as well."
"I don't know. I knew nothing of what he did, and cared nothing, so long as he left me alone."
"Quite so. This is a matter which will be better managed by other hands than yours. Only--there are abundant ways and means of dealing with a person of his kind. What I want you to do now is not to worry. One moment! it's not a counsel of perfection! I see clearly what this means to you, what it has meant, but--forgive me for saying so--the burden has been made much heavier by your insisting on bearing it alone."
"I couldn't blurt out my shame to everyone--to anyone!"
"Well, you have told me now, thank goodness! And you may rely on this, that man sha'n't be allowed to come near you; if necessary, I will make it my business to prevent him. I will think things over to-night; be sure that I shall find a way out. To-morrow I will come and tell you what I've thought about, when the conditions are more normal."
"Rather than that he should again be able to claim me for his wife, even for an hour, I would kill him."
"Certainly; I will kill him for you if it comes to that. I have lived in countries where they make nothing of killing vermin of his particular type. But there'll be no necessity for such a drastic remedy. Now, I want you to go home and promise not to worry, because your case is now in hands which are well qualified to relieve you of all cause for apprehension of any sort or kind. I beg you will believe it. Good-night."
She hesitated, then put her hands up to her temples, as if her head was aching.
"I will say good-night to you. You go, I will stay. My brain's all in a whirl. I want to be alone--to steady it."
"I don't like to leave you, in such a place, at such an hour."
"Why not? While I've been abroad I've sometimes spent half the night in wandering alone over the mountains. Why am I not as safe here as there?"
"It's not a question of safety, no doubt you're safe enough. But--it's the idea."
"Be so good as to do as I ask--leave me, please."
"Since you ask me in such a tone. Promise me, at least, that you won't stay half the night out here; that, indeed, you won't stay long."
"I promise, if my doing so affords you any satisfaction. Probably I'll be in my own room in half an hour, only--I must be alone for a few minutes first. Don't you see?"
"I fancy that I do. Good-night. Remember that I'm at least your friend."
"I'll remember."
"By the way, in the morning where, and when, shall I find you?"
"I shall be in the house till lunch."
"Good, then before lunch I'll come to you, as early as I can. Good-night again."
"Good-night. And"--as he was moving off--"you're not to stop about and watch me, playing the part of the unseen protector. I couldn't bear the thought of being watched. I want to be alone."
He laughed.
"All right! All right! Since you've promised me that you'll not stay long I promise you that I'll march straight home."
He strode off, his arms swinging at his sides, his head hanging a little forward on his chest, as his habit was. She followed him with her eyes. When she saw that he vanished among the trees on his own estate, and did not once look back, she was conscious of an illogical little pang. She knew that he wanted her to understand that, in obedience to her wishes, he refused to keep any surveillance over her movements, even to the extent of looking back. Still she felt that he might have given her one backward glance, ere he vanished into the night.
Her first feeling, when she knew herself in truth to be alone, was of thankfulness so intense as almost to amount to pain. He knew! As he himself had said, thank goodness! Her relief at the knowledge that her burden was shared, in however slight a degree, was greater than she could have imagined possible. And of all people in the world--by him! Now he understood, and understanding had, in one sense, drawn him closer to her; if in another it had thrust him farther off. Again, to use his own words, he was at least her friend. And, among all persons, he was the one whom-- for every possible reason--she would rather have chosen as a friend. In his hands she knew she would be safe. Whatever he could do, he would do, and more. That ogre who, in a few hours, would again be issuing from the prison gates, would not have her so wholly at his mercy as she had feared. Now, and henceforward, there would be someone else with whom he would have to reckon. One in whom, she was convinced, he would find much more than his match.
Again as he had said--thank goodness!
For some minutes she remained just as he had left her, standing looking after him, where he had vanished among the trees. After a while the restraint which she had placed upon herself throughout that trying interview, began to slacken. The girl that was in her came to the front--nature had its way. All at once she threw herself face downward on the cushioned turf in her own particular nook, and burst into a flood of tears. It was to enable her to do that, perhaps, that she had so wished to be alone. For once in a way, it was a comfort to cry; they were more than half of them tears of happiness. On the grass she lay, in the moonlight, and sobbed out, as it were, her thanks for the promise of help which had so suddenly come to her.
Until all at once she became aware, amidst the tumult of her sobbing, of a disturbing sound. She did not at first move or alter her position. She only tried to calm herself and listen. What was it which had struck upon her consciousness? Footsteps? Yes, approaching footsteps.
Had he played her false, and, despite his promise, kept watch on her? And was he now returning, to intrude upon her privacy? How dare he! The fountain of her tears was all at once dried up; instead, she went hot all over. The steps were drawing nearer. The person who was responsible was climbing the fence, within, it seemed, half a dozen feet of her. She started up in a rage, to find that the intruder was not Hugh Morice.
Seated on the top rail of the fence, on which he appeared to have perched himself, to enable him to observe her more at his ease, was quite a different-looking sort of person, a much more unprepossessing one than Hugh Morice. His coat and trousers were of shepherd's plaid; the open jacket revealing a light blue waistcoat, ornamented with bright brass buttons. For necktie he wore a narrow scarlet ribbon. His brown billycock hat was a little on one side of his head; his face was clean shaven, and between his lips he had an unlighted cigarette. In age he might have been anything between thirty and fifty.
His appearance was so entirely unexpected, and, in truth, so almost incredible, that she stared at him as she might have stared at some frightful apparition. And, indeed, no apparition could have seemed more frightful to her; for the man on the fence was Robert Champion.
For the space of at least a minute neither spoke. It was as if both parties were at a loss for words. At last the man found his tongue.
"Well, Vi, this is a little surprise for both of us."
So far she had been kneeling on the turf, as if the sight of him had paralysed her limbs and prevented her from ascending higher. Now, with a sudden jerky movement, she stood up straight.
"You!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, my dear--me. Taken you a little by surprise, haven't I? You don't seem to have made many preparations for my reception, though of course it's always possible that you've got the fatted calf waiting for me indoors."
"I thought you were in prison."
"Well, it's not a very delicate reminder, is it? on this the occasion of our first meeting. But, strictly between ourselves, I've been in prison, and that's a solid fact; and a nasty, unsociable place I found it."
"But I thought they weren't going to let you out until to-morrow."
"No? Did you? I see. That's why you were crying your heart out on the grass there, because you thought they were going to keep me from you four-and-twenty hours longer. The brutes! I should have thought you'd have found it damp enough without wanting to make it damper; but there's no accounting for tastes; yours always were your own, and I recognise the compliment. As it happens, when a gentleman's time's up on a Sunday, they let him tear himself away from them on the Saturday. Sunday's what they call adies non; you're a lady of education, so you know what that means. You were right in reckoning that the twelve months for which they tore a husband from his wife wasn't up until tomorrow; but it seems that you didn't reckon for that little peculiarity, on account of which I said goodbye to them this morning. See?"
"But--I don't understand!"
She threw out her arms with a gesture which was eloquent of the confusion--and worse--with which his sudden apparition had filled her.
"No? what don't you understand? It all seems to me clear enough; but, perhaps, you always were a trifle dull."
"I don't understand how you've found me! how it is that you are here!"
"Oh, that's it, is it? Now I begin to catch on. That's the simplest part of the lot. You--the wife of my bosom, the partner of my joys and sorrows--particularly of my sorrows--you never wrote me a line; you never took the slightest interest in my hard fate. For all you cared I might have died. I don't like to think that you really didn't care, but that's what it looked like." He grinned, as if he had said something humorous. "But I had a friend--a true friend--one. That friend met me this morning, where my wife ought to have met me, at the prison gates. From that friend I learned of the surprising things which had happened to you; how you had come into a fortune--a fortune beyond the dreams of avarice. It seems strange that, under the circumstances, you weren't outside the prison, with a coach and four, waiting to bear me away in triumph to your gilded bowers. Ah-h!" He emitted a sound which might have been meant for a sigh. "But I bore up--with the aid of the first bottle of champagne I'd tasted since I saw you last--the gift of my one true friend. So, as you hadn't come to me, I came to you. You might have bungled up the dates or something; there's never any telling. I knew you'd be glad to see me--your loving husband, dear. My late arrival is due to no fault of mine; it's that beastly railway. I couldn't make out which was the proper station for this little shanty of yours! and it seems I took a ticket for the wrong one. Found myself stranded in a God-forsaken hole; no conveyance to be got; no more trains until tomorrow. So I started to walk the distance. They told me it was about five miles. About five miles! I'd like to make 'em cover it as five against the clock; they'd learn! When I'd gone about ten I met an idiot who told me there was a short cut, and set me on it. Short cut! If there's a longer cut anywhere I shouldn't care to strike it. Directly I'd seen the back of him it came on pitch dark; and there was I, in a pathless wilderness, with no more idea of where I was going than the man in the moon. For the last two hours I've been forcing my way through what seemed to me to be a virgin forest. I've had a time! But now I've found you, by what looks very like a miracle; and all's well that ends well. So give us a kiss, like a good girl, and say you're glad to see me. Come and salute your husband."
"You're not my husband!"
"Not--I say! Don't go and throw away your character like that. As my wife, it's precious to me, if it isn't to you."
"What do you suppose you're going to do now?"
"Now?--Do you mean this minute? Well, I did dream of a tender meeting; you know the kind of thing. As a loving wife you ought to, but, perhaps, you'd like to put that off till a little later. Now I suppose we're going up together to the little home of which I've heard, and have come so far to see; and there--well, there we'll have the tender meeting."
"I advise you not to set foot upon my ground!"
"Your ground? Our ground, you mean. Really, how you do mix things up."
"My ground, I mean. You have no more to do with it than--than the jailer who let you out of the prison gate, to prey upon the world again."
She had evidently learnt her lesson from Mr Morice in the nick of time.
"Don't be silly; you don't know what you're talking about. What's yours is mine; what's the wife's the husband's."
"That's a lie, and you know it. I know it's a lie, as you'll discover. This side of that fence is my property. If you trespass on it I'll summon my gamekeepers--there are always plenty of them about--and I'll have you thrown off it. What you do on the other side of the fence is no business of mine. That belongs to someone who is well able to deal with men like you."
"This is a cheerful hearing, upon my word! Can this virago be the loving wife I've come all this way to see? No, it can't be--it must be a delusion. Let me tell you again--don't be silly. Where the wife is the husband's a perfect right to be. That's the law of England and it's the law of God."
"It's neither when the husband is such as you. Let me repeat my advice to you--don't trespass on my ground."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to find a gamekeeper; to warn him that bad characters are about, and to instruct him how to deal with them."
"Stop! don't talk nonsense to me like that! Have you forgotten what kind of man I am?"
"Have I forgotten! As if I ever could forget!"
"Then mind it! Come here! Where are you off to? Did you hear me tell you to come here?"
"I repeat, I'm going to find a gamekeeper. I heard you tell me; but I pay no more attention to what you tell me than the trunk of that tree."
"By----! we'll see about that!"
Descending from the fence, he moved towards her. She stopped, turned and faced him.
"What do you think you're going to do?"
"I'm going to see you mind me--that's what I'm going to do."
"Does that mean that you're going to assault me, as you used to?"
He laughed.
"Assault you! Not much! Look here. What's the good of your carrying on like this? Why can't you behave like a reasonable girl, and talk sensibly?" She looked him steadily in the face; then turned on her heel. "You'd better stand still! I'm your husband; you're my wife. It's my duty to see that you obey me, and I'm going to do my duty. So just you mark my words!"
"Husband! Duty! You unutterable thing! Don't touch me! Take your hand from off my shoulder!"
"Then you stand still. I'm not going to have you slip through my fingers, and leave me here, and have the laugh on me; so don't you make any mistake, my girl. You've never had the laugh on me yet, and you never will."
"If you don't take your hand off my shoulder, I'll kill you."
Again he laughed.
"It strikes me that if there's going to be any killing done it's I who'll do it. You're getting my temper up, like you used to; and when you've got it fairly up there'll be trouble. You stand still! Do you hear me? Your eyes-- What's that?" With a sudden, vigorous movement she broke from his retaining grasp. "Would you! I'll teach you!"
He advanced, evidently meaning to renew his grip upon her shoulders. Before he could do so she swung out her right arm with all the strength at her command, and struck him in the face. Not anticipating such violent measures, taken unawares, he staggered blindly backwards. Ere he could recover himself she had sprung round, and was rushing at the top of her speed towards the narrow, winding path along which she had come. As she gained it the moon passed behind the clouds.
She hurried along as rapidly as she could in the darkness which had followed the eclipse of the moon. Momentarily she expected to hear his footsteps coming after her. But, so far as she was able to tell, there was not a sound which suggested pursuit. Something, possibly, had prevented his giving immediate chase. In the darkness it was impossible to see where she was going, or to make out surrounding objects. What seemed to be the branch of a tree struck her across the face with such force that it brought her to an instant standing. She stood still, trembling from head to foot. The collision had partly stunned her. Her face was smarting, where it had come in contact with the unseen obstacle. For the moment she was demoralised, incapable of moving in any direction. Her breath was coming in great gasps. It would have needed very little to have made her burst into tears.
As she was gradually regaining her equilibrium, her presence of mind, a sound crashed through the darkness, which started her trembling worse than ever. It was a gunshot. Quite close at hand. So close that the flash of it flamed before her eyes. In the air about her was the smell of the powder.
Silence followed, which was the more striking, because it was contrasted with the preceding thunderclap. What had happened? Who had fired? at what? and where? The gun had been fired by someone who was on the left of where she was then standing, possibly within twenty or thirty feet. The direction of the aim, it seemed, had been at something behind her. What was there behind her at which anyone would be likely to fire, in that reckless fashion, at that hour of the night? Robert Champion was behind her; but the idea that anyone--
The silence was broken. Someone was striding through the brushwood towards the place which had been aimed at. She became conscious of another sound, which made her heart stand still. Was not someone groaning, as if in pain? Someone who, also, was behind her? Suddenly there was the sound of voices. The person who had strode through the underwood was speaking to the person who was groaning. Apparently she was farther off than she had supposed, or they were speaking in muffled tones. She could only just distinguish voices. Who were the speakers, and what they said, she had not a notion. The colloquy was but a brief one. Again there was a sound of footsteps, which retreated; then, again, groans.
What did it mean? What had happened? who had come and gone? who had been the speakers? of what had they been talking? The problem was a knotty one. Should she go back and solve it? The groans which continued, and, if anything, increased in vigour, were in themselves a sufficiently strenuous appeal. That someone was in pain was evident--wounded, perhaps seriously. It seemed that whoever was responsible for that gunshot had, with complete callousness, left his victim to his fate. And he might be dying! Whoever it was, she could not let him die without, at least, attempting succour. If she did, she would be a participant in a crime of which--to use an Irishism--she had not only been an unseen, but also an unseeing, witness. If she let this man die without doing something to help him live, his blood would be on her hands also; certainly, she would feel it was. However repugnant the task might be, she must return and proffer aid.
She had just brought herself to the sticking point, and was about to retrace her steps, when, once more, she became conscious of someone being in movement. But, this time, not only did it come from another direction, but it had an entirely different quality. Before, there had been no attempt at concealment. Whoever had gone striding through the underwood, had apparently cared nothing for being either seen nor heard. Whoever was moving now, unless the girl's imagination played her a trick--was desirous of being neither seen nor heard. There was a stealthy quality in the movements, as if someone were stealing softly through the brushwood, taking cautious steps, keenly on the alert against hidden listeners.
In what quarter was the newcomer moving? The girl could not at first decide; indeed, she never was quite clear, but it seemed to her that someone was creeping along the fence which divided Exham Park and Oak Dene. All the while, the wounded man continued to groan.
Suddenly, she could not tell how she knew, but she knew that the newcomer had not only heard the groans, but, in all probability, had detected the quarter from whence they came; possibly had caught sight of the recumbent figure, prostrate on the grass. Because, just then, the moon came out again in undiminished splendour, and, almost simultaneously, the footsteps ceased. To Violet Arnott, the plain inference seemed to be that the returning light had brought the sufferer into instant prominence. Silence again, broken only by groans. Presently, even they ceased.
Then, without the slightest warning, something occurred which was far worse than the gunshot, which affected her with a paralysis of horror, as if death itself had her by the throat.
The footsteps began again, only with a strange, new swiftness, as if whoever was responsible for them had suddenly darted forward. In the same moment there was a noise which might have been made by a man struggling to gain his feet. Then, just for a second, an odd little silence. Then two voices uttering together what seemed to her to be formless ejaculations. While the voices had still not ceased to be audible, there came a dreadful sound; the sound as of a man who was in an agony of fear and pain. Then a thud--an eloquent thud. And, an instant afterwards, someone went crashing, dashing through the underwood, like some maddened wild beast, flying for life.
The runner was passing close to where she stood. She did not dare to move; she could not have moved even had she dared--her limbs had stiffened. But she could manage to move her head, and she did. She turned, and saw, in the moonlight, in headlong flight, forcing aside the brushwood as he went, Hugh Morice.
What happened during the next few moments she never knew. The probability is that, though she retained her footing, consciousness left her. When, once more, she realised just where she was, and what had occurred, all was still, with an awful stillness. She listened for a sound--any sound; those inarticulate sounds which are part and parcel of a wood at night. She could hear nothing--no whisper of the breeze among the leaves; no hum of insect life; no hint of woodland creatures who wake while men are sleeping. A great hush seemed to have fallen on the world--a dreadful hush. Her heart told her that there was horror in the silence.
What should she do? where should she go? what was lying on the ground under the beech tree, on which not so long ago, Hugh Morice had cut their initials with his hunting-knife? She was sure there was something--what?
She would have to go and see. The thought of doing so was hideous--but the idea of remaining in ignorance was not to be borne. Knowledge must be gained at any price; she would have to know. She waited. Perhaps something would happen to tell her; to render it unnecessary that she should go upon that gruesome errand. Perhaps--perhaps he would groan again? If he only would! it would be the gladdest sound she had ever heard.
But he would not--or he did not.
Yet all was still--that awful stillness.
It was no use her playing the coward--putting it off. She would have to go--she must go. She would never know unless she did. The sooner she went, the sooner it would be done.
So she returned along the footpath towards the beech tree. In the moonlight the way was plain enough. Yet she went stumbling along it as she had never stumbled even in the darkness--uncertain upon her feet; reeling from side to side; starting at shadows; stopping half-a-dozen times in as many yards, fearful of she knew not what.
What was that? A sound? No, nothing. Only a trick of her imagination, which was filled with such fantastic imaginings, such shapes and sounds of horror.
She came to the end of the path. Before her was the open space; the favourite nook where she had first met Hugh Morice, which she had come to regard almost as a sanctuary. In front was the saucer-shaped break in the ground which she had found offered such luxurious ease. What was lying in it now?
Nothing? Or--was that something? Well under the shadow of the beech tree, where the moonlight scarcely reached? almost in the darkness, so that at a first glance it was difficult to see? She stood, leaning a little forward, and looked--long, intently. As she looked her heart seemed to become gradually constricted; she became conscious of actual pain--acute, lancinating.
Something was there. A figure--of a man--in light-coloured clothes. He lay on the ground, so far as she could judge from where she stood, a little on his right side, with his hands thrown over his head as if asleep--fast asleep. The recumbent figure had for her an unescapable fascination. She stared and stared, as though its stillness had in it some strange quality.
She called to the sleeper--in a tone which was so unlike her ordinary voice that--even in that awful moment--the sound of it startled her.
"Robert! Robert! Wake up!"
Probably not a dozen times since she had known this man had she called him by his Christian name. It was so singular that she should have done so; the mere singularity of the thing should have roused him from the soundest slumber. But he continued silent. He neither moved nor answered, nor was there any sign to show that he had heard. She called again.
"Robert! Robert! Do you hear me, wake up! Answer me!"
But he did neither--he neither woke nor answered.
The persistent silence was assuming an appalling quality. She could endure it no longer. She suddenly moved forward under the shadow of the beech tree, and bent down to look. What was that upon the front of his jacket? She touched it with her finger.
"Oh--h--h!"
A sound, which was part shriek, part groan, broke from her trembling lips. Her finger-tips were wet. She had not realised what the dark mark might mean--now she understood. All at once she burst out crying, until she saw something shining up at her from the turf almost at her feet. At sight of it she ceased to cry with the same suddenness with which she had begun. She picked the shining thing up. It was a knife--his knife--Hugh Morice's--the one with which he had cut their initials in the trunk of the tree. Its great blade was all wet.
She gave one quick glance round, slipped the blade--still all wet--inside her bodice; then, returning to the winding footpath, ran along it at the top of her speed, neither pausing nor looking back.
At the foot of the broad flight of steps leading up to her own hall door she stopped for the first time. It was late. What was the exact hour she had no notion. She only knew that, in that part of the world, it would be regarded as abnormal. The hall door was closed, that little fact in itself was eloquent. There were outer and inner doors. It was the custom to leave the outer door wide open until all the household had retired to rest. She would have to knock to gain admission. Her late return could hardly fail to attract attention. She was breathless with the haste she had made, heated, dishevelled. Whoever admitted her would be sure to notice the condition she was in.
It could not be helped. Let them notice. She was certainly not going to fear the scrutiny of her own servants. So she told herself. She declined to admit that they were sufficiently human to dare to criticise her movements. Besides, what did it matter?
She knocked with difficulty, the knocker was so heavy. Instantly the door was opened by old Day, the butler. Day was a person of much importance. He was a survival of her uncle's time, being in occupation of the house while the next owner was being sought for. An excellent servant, with a very clear idea of his own dignity and the responsibility of his position. That he should have opened the door to her with his own hands at that hour, seemed to her to convey a reproof. She marched straight past him, however, without even a word of thanks. He addressed to her an inquiry as she went, in his even, level tones, as if there were nothing strange in her entering in such a condition, immediately after her return from a prolonged absence, at the dead of the night. Again her ardent imagination seemed to scent an unspoken criticism, which she ignored.
"Will anything else be required?"
"Nothing. I am going to bed."
In her bedroom she found Evans dozing in an easy-chair. The woman started up as she entered.
"I beg your pardon, miss, for slipping off, but I was beginning to be afraid that something might be wrong." She stared as she began to realise the peculiarity of her young mistress's appearance. "Why, miss, whatever-- I hope that nothing's happened."
"What should have happened? Why haven't you gone to bed?"
"Well, miss, I thought that you might want me as this was the first night of your coming home."
"What nonsense! Haven't I told you that I won't have you sit up for me when I'm unusually late? I dislike to feel that my movements are being overlooked by my servants, that they are too intimately acquainted with my goings out and comings in. Go to bed at once."
"Is there nothing I can do for you, miss? Are you--I beg your pardon--but are you sure there's nothing wrong? You look so strange!"
"Wrong? What do you mean--wrong? Go!"
Evans went, the imperturbable demeanour of the well-trained servant not being sufficient to conceal the fact that she went unwillingly. When she was gone Miss Arnott looked at the silver clock on the mantel-shelf. It was past two. She had been out more than four hours. Into those four hours had been crowded the events of a lifetime; the girl who had gone out was not the woman who had returned.
For the first time she began to suspect herself of being physically weary. She moved her hand up towards her forehead. As she did so her glance fell on it; it was all smirched with blood. Simultaneously she became aware that stains of the same sort were on the light blue linen costume she was wearing, particularly on the front of the bodice. She moved to a cheval glass. Was it possible? were her eyes playing her a trick? was there something the matter with the light? Not a bit of it, the thing was clear enough, her face was all smeared with blood, probably where it had been touched by her fingers. Why, now that she could see herself plainly, she saw that she looked as if she had come fresh from a butcher's shambles. No wonder Evans had stared at her in such evident perturbation, demanding if she was sure that there was nothing wrong. Old Day must have been an automaton, not a man, to have betrayed no surprise at the spectacle she presented.
She tore open her bodice, took out from it the knife-- his knife, Hugh Morice's. It was drier, but still damp. It was covered with blood all over. It must have been thrust in up to the hilt--even the handle was mired. It had come off on to all her clothes, had penetrated even to her corsets. Seemingly it resembled ink in its capacity to communicate its presence. She stripped herself almost to the skin in the sudden frenzy of her desire to free herself from the contamination of his blood. When she had washed herself she was amazed to see what a sanguine complexion the water had assumed. It seemed to her that she was in an atmosphere of blood--his blood. What was to be done? She sat down on a chair and tried to think.
It was not surprising that she found it hard to bring herself to a condition in which anything like clarity of thought was possible. But, during the last four hours, she had matured unconsciously, had attained to the possession of will power of strength of which she herself was unsuspicious. She had made up her mind that she would think this thing out, and by degrees she did, after a fashion.
Three leading facts became gradually present to her mind to the exclusion of almost all beside. One was that Robert Champion was dead--dead. And so she had obtained release by the only means to which, as it seemed to her, Mr Whitcomb, that eminent authority on the law of marriage, had pointed. But at what a price! The price exceeded the value of the purchase inconceivably. There was the knife--his knife--to show it. When she shut her eyes she could still see him rushing in the moonlight through the brushwood, like some wild creature, mad with the desire to escape. Beyond all doubt the price was excessive. And it had still to be paid. That was the worst of it, very much the worst. The payment--what form would it take?
As that aspect of the position began to penetrate her consciousness, it was all she could do to keep herself from playing the girl. After all, in years, she was only a girl. In simplicity, in ignorance of evil, in essential purity--a child. When she found herself confronted by the inquiry, what form would the payment take? girl-like, her courage began, as it were, to slip through her finger ends. Then there was that other side to the question, from whom would payment be demanded? Suddenly required to furnish an answer to this, for some moments her heart stood still. She looked about her, at the ruddy-hued water in the wash basin, at the clothing torn off because it was stained. Recalled her tell-tale entry, her admission by Day who, in spite of his unnaturally non-committal attitude, must have noticed the state that she was in; Evans's startled face when, attempting no concealment, she blurted out her confession of what she saw. Here, plainly, were all the essentials for a comedy or tragedy of misunderstanding.
If Hugh Morice chose to be silent all the visible evidences pointed at her. They all seemed to cry aloud that it was she who had done this thing. From the ignorant spectator's point of view there could hardly be a stronger example of perfect circumstantial proof.
For some occult reason her lips were wrinkled by a smile at the thought of Hugh Morice keeping silent. As if he would when danger threatened her, for whom he had done this thing. And yet, if he did not keep silent, who would have to pay? Would--? Yes, he would; certainly. At that thought her poor, weak, childish heart seemed to drop in her bosom like a lump of lead. The tears stood in her eyes. She went hot and cold. No--not that. Rather than that, it would be better that he should keep silent. Better--better anything than that. He had done this for her; but, he must not be allowed to do more. He had done enough for her already--more than enough--much more. She must make it her business to see that he did nothing else. Nothing.
Just as she was, all unclothed, she knelt down and prayed. The strangest prayer, a child's prayer, the kind of prayer which, sometimes, coming from the very heart of the child, is uttered in all simplicity. Many strange petitions have been addressed to God; but few stranger than that. She prayed that whoever might have to suffer for what had been done, he might escape scot-free; not only here but also hereafter; in heaven as well as on earth. Although the supplication invoked such an odd confusion of ideas, it was offered up with such intense earnestness and simplicity of purpose, that it had, at anyrate, one unlooked for effect. It calmed her mind. She rose up from her knees feeling more at ease than she had done since ten o'clock. In some vague way, which was incomprehensible to herself, her prayer seemed already to have been answered. Therefore, the future had no perils in store for her; she was at peace with the world.
She collected the garments which she had taken off, arranged them in a neat bundle and placed them in an almost empty drawer which she found at the bottom of a wardrobe. The knife she put under the bundle. Then, locking the drawer, she disposited the key beneath her pillows. In the morning her brain would be clearer. She would be able to decide what to do with the things which, although speechless, were yet so full of eloquence. The water in which she had washed she carried into the apartment which opened out of her bedroom, and, emptying it into the bath, watched it disappear down the waste water pipe. She flushed the bath so as to remove any traces which it might have left behind. Then, arraying herself in her night attire, she put out the lights and got into bed.
She awoke with that sense of pleasant refreshment which comes after calm, uninterrupted slumber. She lay, for some seconds, in a state of blissful indolence. Then, memory beginning to play its part, she raised herself upon her elbow with a sudden start. She looked about the room. All was as she had left it. Although the curtains and the blinds were drawn the presence of the sun was obvious. Through one window a long pencil of sunshine gleamed across the carpet. Evidently a fine night was to be followed by a delightful day. She touched the ivory push piece just above her head. Instantly Evans appeared.
"Get my bath ready. I'm going to get up at once."
She eyed the woman curiously, looking for news upon her face. There were none. Her countenance was again the servant's expressionless mask. When the curtains and blinds were drawn the room was filled with golden light. She had the windows opened wide. The glory of a summer's day came streaming in. The events of the night seemed to have become the phantasmagoria of some transient dream. It was difficult to believe that they were real, that she had not dreamed them. Her spirits were higher than they had been for some time. She sang to herself while she was having her bath. Evans, putting out her clothes in the next room, heard her.
"She seems to be all right now. That's the first time I've heard her singing, and she looks better. Slept well, I suppose. When you're young and healthy a good sleep works wonders. A nice sight she looked when she came in this morning; I never saw anything like it-- never! All covered with blood, my gracious! A queer one she is, the queerest I've ever had to do with, and I've had to do with a few. Seems to me that the more money a woman's got the queerer she is, unless she's got a man to look after her. However, it's no business of mine; I don't want to know what games she's up to. I have found knowing too much brings trouble. But whatever has become of the clothes that she had on? They've vanished, every single thing except the stockings. What can she have done with them? It's queer. I suppose, as she hasn't left them about it's a hint that I'm not to ask questions. I don't want to; I'm sure the less I know the better I'm pleased. Still, I do hope there's nothing wrong. She's a good sort; in spite of all her queernesses, I never want to meet a better. That generous! and simple as a child! Sooner than anything should happen to her I'd--well, I'd do a good deal. If she'd left those clothes of hers about I'd have washed 'em and got 'em up myself, so that no one need have known about the state that they were in. I don't want to speak to her about it. With her ideas about not liking to be overlooked she might think that I was interfering; but, I wish she had."
Somewhat to her surprise Miss Arnott found Mrs Plummer waiting for her at the breakfast-table.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I thought you would have finished long ago--ever so long ago."
"I was a little late myself; so I thought I'd wait for you. What time did you come in?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. I only wondered. Directly I had finished dinner I went to bed--straight from the table. I was tired; I thought you wouldn't care for me to sit up for you."
"Of course not; what an idea! You never have sat up for me, and I shouldn't advise you to begin. But--you still look tired. Haven't you slept away your fatigue?"
"I don't fancy I have quite. As you say, I'm still a little tired. Yet I slept well, fell asleep as soon as I got into bed directly, and never woke."
"Didn't you dream?"
"Dream? Why should I dream?"
"There's no particular reason that I know of, only when people march straight from dinner to bed dreams do sometimes follow--at least, so I've been told."
"They don't with me; I never dream, never. I don't suppose I've dreamt half-a-dozen times in my life."
"You're lucky."
"I've a clear conscience, my dear; a perfectly clear conscience. People with clear consciences don't dream. Where did you go to?"
"Oh--I strolled about, enjoying the fresh air."
"An odd hour to enjoy it, especially after the quantity of fresh air that you've been enjoying lately. What time did you say it was that you came in?"
"I didn't say. Day will be able to tell you, if you are anxious to know--you appear to be. He let me in." The elder lady was silent, possibly not caring to lay herself open to the charge of being curious. Presently Miss Arnott put the inquiry to the butler on her own account. "Probably, Day, you will be able to supply Mrs Plummer with the information she desires. What time was it when I came in?"
"I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't look at my watch. I've no idea."
The butler kept his eyes turned away as he answered. Something in his tone caused her to look at him-- something which told her that if the man had not been guilty of a positive falsehood, he had at least been a party to the suppression of the truth. She became instantly convinced that his intention was to screen her. She did not like the notion, it gave her an uncomfortable qualm.