On Monday morning Hugh Carnaby received a letter from Mrs. Ascott Larkfield. It was years since Sibyl's mother had written to him, and the present missive, scrawled in an unsteady hand, gave him some concern. Mrs. Larkfield wrote that she was very ill, so ill that she had abandoned hope of recovery. She asked him whether, as her son-in-law, he thought it right that she should be abandoned to the care of strangers. It was the natural result, no doubt, of her impoverished condition; such was the world; had she still been wealthy, her latter days would not have been condemned to solitude. But let him remember that she still had in her disposal an income of about six hundred pounds, which, under ordinary circumstances, would have passed to Sibyl; by a will on the point of being executed, this money would benefit a charitable institution. To him this might be a matter of indifference; she merely mentioned the fact to save Sibyl a possible disappointment.
Hugh and his wife, when both had read the letter, exchanged uneasy glances.
'It isn't the money,' said Carnaby. 'Hang the money! But—after all, Sibyl, she's your mother.'
'And what doesthatmean?' Sibyl returned coldly. 'Shall I feel the least bit of sorrow if she dies? Am I to play the hypocrite just because this woman brought me into the world? We have always hated each other, and whose fault? When I was a child, she left me to dirty-minded, thieving servants; they were my teachers, and it's wonderful enough that—that nothing worse came of it. When I grew up, she left me to do as I pleased—anything so that I gave her no trouble. Do you wish me to go and pretend——'
'I tell you what—I'll run down to Weymouth myself, shall I? Perhaps I might arrange something—for her comfort, I mean.'
Sibyl carelessly assented. Having business in town, Hugh could not start till afternoon, but he would reach Weymouth by half-past six, and might manage to be back again in time for Mrs. Rolfe's concert tomorrow.
'I shouldn't put myself to any inconvenience on that account,' said Sibyl, smiling.
'Out of regard for Rolfe, that's all.'
He left home at eleven, transacted his business, and at half-past one turned in for lunch at a Strand restaurant before proceeding to Waterloo. As he entered, he saw Mrs. Rolfe, alone at one of the tables; she was drawing on her gloves, about to leave. They met with friendly greeting, though Hugh, from the look with which Mrs. Rolfe recognised him, had a conviction that his growing dislike of her was fully reciprocated. In the brief talk before Alma withdrew, he told her that he was going down into the country.
'To Coventry?' she asked, turning her eyes upon him.
'No; to Weymouth. Mrs. Larkfield is no better, I'm afraid, and—Sibyl wants me to see her.'
'Then you won't be back——'
'For tomorrow?—oh yes, I shall certainly be back in time, unless anything very serious prevents me. There's a good train from Weymouth at 10.10—gets in about half-past two. I shall easily get to Prince's Hall by three.'
Alma again regarded him, and seemed on the point of saying something, but she turned her head, rose, and rather hastily took leave. Hugh remarked to himself that she looked even worse by daylight than in the evening; decidedly, she was making herself ill—perhaps, he added, the best thing that could happen.
For his luncheon he had small appetite. The journey before him was a nuisance, and the meeting at the end of it more disagreeable than anything he had ever undertaken. What a simple matter life would be, but for women! That Sibyl should detest her mother was perhaps natural enough, all things considered; but he heartily wished they were on better terms. He felt that Sibyl must have suffered in character, to some extent, by this abnormal antipathy. He did not blame her; her self-defence this morning proved that she had ground for judging her mother sternly; and perhaps, as she declared, only by her own strength and goodness had she been saved from the worst results of parental neglect. Hugh did not often meditate upon such things, but just now he felt impatience and disgust with women who would not care properly for their children. Poor old Rolfe's wife, for instance, what business had she to be running at large about London, giving concerts, making herself ill and ugly, whilst her little son was left to a governess and servants! He had half a mind to write a letter to old Rolfe. But no; that kind of thing was too dangerous, even between the nearest friends. Men must not quarrel; women did more than enough of that. Sibyl and Alma had as good as fallen out; the less they saw of each other the better. And now he had to face a woman, perhaps dying, who would doubtless rail by the hour at her own daughter.
O heaven! for a breath of air on sea or mountain or prairie! Could he stand this life much longer?
Driving to Waterloo, he thought of Mrs. Larkfield's bequest to the charitable institution. Six hundred pounds might be a paltry income, but one could make use of it. A year ago, to be sure, he would have felt more troubled by the loss; at present he had reason to look forward hopefully, so far as money could represent hope. The cycle business was moving; as likely as not, it would ultimately enrich him. There was news, too, from that fellow Dando in Queensland, who declared that his smelting process, gradually improved, had begun to yield results, and talked of starting a new company. Hugh's business of the morning had been in this connection: by inquiry in the City he had learnt that Dando's report might be relied upon, and that capital which had seemingly vanished would certainly yield a small dividend this year. He was thankful that he could face Mrs. Larkfield without the shame of interested motives. Let her do what she liked with her money; he went to see the woman merely out of humane feeling, sense of duty; and assuredly no fortune-hunter had ever imposed upon himself a more distasteful office.
On alighting at the station, he found that the only coin, other than gold, which he had in his pocket was a shilling. In accordance with usage, he would have given the cabman an extra sixpence, had he possessed it. When the man saw a tender of his legal fare, he, also in accordance with usage, broadened his mouth, tossed the coin on his palm, and pointedly refrained from thanks. At another time Hugh might have disregarded this professional suavity, but a little thing exasperated his present mood.
'Well?' he exclaimed, in a voice that drew the attention of everyone near. 'Is it your fare or not? Learn better manners, vicious brute!'
Before the driver could recover breath to shout a primitive insult, Hugh walked into the station. Here, whilst his wrath was still hot, a man tearing at full speed to catch a train on another platform bumped violently against him. He clenched his fist, and, but for the gasped apology, might have lost himself in blind rage. As it was, he inwardly cursed railway stations, cursed England, cursed civilisation. His muscles were quivering; sweat had started to his forehead. A specialist in nervous pathology would have judged Hugh Carnaby a dangerous person on this Monday afternoon.
He took his ticket, and, having some minutes to wait, moved towards the bookstall. By his side, as he scanned the papers, stood a lady who had just made a purchase; the salesman seemed to have handed her insufficient change, for she said to him, in a clear, business-like voice, 'It was half-a-crown that I gave you.'
At the sound of these words, Hugh turned sharply and looked at the speaker. She was a woman of thirty-five, solidly built, well dressed without display of fashion; the upper part of her face was hidden by a grey veil, through which her eyes shone. Intent on recovering her money, she did not notice that the man beside her was looking and listening with the utmost keenness; nor, on turning away at length, was she aware that Hugh followed. He pursued her, at a yard's distance, down the platform, and into the covered passage which leads to another part of the station. Here, perhaps because the footstep behind her sounded distinctly, she gave a backward glance, and her veiled eyes met Carnaby's. At once he stepped to her side. 'I don't think I can be mistaken,' were his low, cautiously-spoken words, whilst he gazed into her face with stern fixedness. 'You remember me, Mrs. Maskell, no doubt.'
'I do not, sir. You certainlyaremistaken.'
She replied in a voice which so admirably counterfeited a French accent that Hugh could not but smile, even whilst setting his teeth in anger at her impudence.
'Oh! that settles it. As you have two tongues, you naturally have two names—probably more. I happened to be standing by you at the bookstall a moment ago. It's a great bore; I was just starting on a journey; but I must trouble you to come with me to the nearest police station. You have too much sense to make any fuss about it.'
The woman glanced this way and that. Two or three people were hurrying through the passage, but they perceived nothing unusual.
'You have a choice,' said Carnaby, 'between my companionship and that of the policeman. Make up your mind.'
'I don't think you will go so far as that, Mr. Carnaby,' said the other, with self-possession and in her natural voice.
'Why not?'
'Because I can tell you something that will interest you very much—something that nobody else can.'
'What do you mean?' he asked roughly.
'It refers to your wife; that's all I need say just now.'
'You are lying.'
'As you please. Let us go.'
She moved on with unhurried step, and turned towards the nearest cab-rank. Pausing within sight of the vehicles, she looked again at her companion.
'Would you rather have a little quiet talk with me in a four-wheeler, or drive straight to——?'
Hugh's brain was in commotion. The hint of secrets concerning his wife had not its full effect in the moment of utterance; it sounded the common artifice of a criminal. But Mrs. Maskell's cool audacity gave significance to her words; the two minutes' walk had made Hugh as much afraid of her as she could be of him. He stared at her, beset with horrible doubts.
'Won't it be a pity to miss your train?' she said, with a friendly smile. 'I can give you my address.'
'No doubt you can. Look here—it was a toss-up whether I should let you go or not, until you saidthat. If you had begged off, ten to one I should have thought I might as well save myself trouble. But after that cursed lie——'
'That's the second time you've used the word, Mr. Carnaby. I'm not accustomed to it, and I shouldn't have thought you would speak in that way to a lady.'
He was aghast at her assurance, which, for some reason, made him only the more inclined to listen to her. He beckoned a cab.
'Where shall we drive to?'
'Say Clapham Junction.'
They entered the four-wheeler, and, as soon as it began to move out of the station, Mrs. Maskell leaned back. Her claim to be considered a lady suffered no contradiction from her look, her movements, or her speech; throughout the strange dialogue she had behaved with remarkable self-command, and made use of the aptest phrases without a sign of effort. In the years which had elapsed since she filled the position of housekeeper to Mrs. Carnaby, she seemed to have gained in the externals of refinement; though even at that time her manners were noticeably good.
'Raise your veil, please,' said Hugh, when he had pulled up the second window.
She obliged him, and showed a face of hard yet regular outline, which would have been almost handsome but for its high cheek-bones and coarse lips.
'And you have been going about all this time, openly?'
'With discretion. I am not perfect, unfortunately. Rather than lose sixpence at the bookstall, I forgot myself. That's a woman's weakness; we don't easily get over it.'
'What put it into your head to speak of my wife?'
'I had to gain time, had I not?'
In a sudden burst of wrath, Hugh banged the window open; but, before he could call to the cabman, a voice sounded in his ear, a clear quick whisper, the lips that spoke all but touching him.
'Do you know that your wife is Mr. Redgrave's mistress?'
He fell back. There was no blood in his face; his eyes stared hideously.
'Say that again, and I'll crush the life out of you!'
'You look like it, but you won't. My information is too valuable.'
'It's the vilest lie ever spoken by whore and thief.'
'You are not polite, Mr. Carnaby.'
She still controlled herself, but in fear, as quick glances showed. And her fear was not unreasonable; the man glared murder.
'Stop that, and tell me what you have to say.'
Mrs. Maskell raised the window again.
'You have compelled me, you see. It's a pity. I don't want to make trouble.'
'What do you know of Redgrave?'
'I keep house for him at Wimbledon.'
'You?'
'Yes. I have done so for about a year.'
'And does he know who you are?'
'Well—perhaps not quite. He engaged me on the Continent. A friend of his (and of mine) recommended me, and he had reason to think I should be trustworthy. Don't misunderstand me. I am housekeeper—rien de plus. It's a position of confidence. Mr. Redgrave—but you know him.'
The listener's face was tumid and discoloured, his eyes bloodshot. With fearful intensity he watched every movement of Mrs. Maskell's features.
'How do you know I know him?'
'You've been at his place. I've seen you, though you didn't see me; and before I saw you I heard your voice. One remembers voices, you know.'
'Go on. What else have you seen or heard?'
'Mrs. Carnaby has been there too.'
'I know that!' Hugh shouted rather than spoke. 'She was there with Mrs Fenimore—Redgrave's sister—and several other people.'
'Yes; last summer. I caught sight of her as she was sitting in the veranda, and it amused me to think how little she suspected who was looking at her. But she has been there since.'
'When?'
Mrs. Maskell consulted her memory, and indicated a day in the past winter. She could not at this moment recall the exact date, but had a note of it. Mrs. Carnaby came at a late hour of the evening, and left very early the next day.
'How are you going to make this lie seem probable?' asked Hugh, a change of voice betraying the dread with which he awaited her answer; for the time of which she spoke was exactly that when Redgrave had offered himself as a partner in the firm of Mackintosh & Co. 'Do you want me to believe that she came and went so that every one could see her?'
'Oh no. I was new to the place then, and full of curiosity. I have my own ways of getting to know what I wish to know. Remember, once more, that it's very easy to recognise a voice. I told you that I was in a position of confidence. Whenever Mr. Redgrave wishes for quietness, he has only to mention it; our servants are well disciplined. I, of course, am never seen by visitors, whoever they may be, and whenever they come; but it happens occasionally that I seethem, even when Mr. Redgrave doesn't think it. Still, he is sometime very careful indeed, and so he was on that particular evening. You remember that his rooms have French windows—a convenient arrangement. The front door may be locked and bolted, but people come and go for all that.'
'That's the bungalow, is it?' muttered Carnaby. 'And how often do you pretend you have heardhervoice?'
'Only that once.'
It was worse than if she had answered 'Several times.' Hugh looked long at her, and she bore his gaze with indifference.
'You don't pretend that yousawher?'
'No, I didn't see her.'
'Then, if you are not deliberately lying, you have made a mistake.'
Mrs. Maskell smiled and shook her head.
'Whatwordsdid you hear?'
'Oh—talk. Nothing very particular.'
'I want to know what it was.'
'Well, as far as I could make out, Mrs. Carnaby was going to get a bicycle, and wanted to know what was the best. Not much harm in that,' she added, with a silent laugh.
Hugh sat with his hands on his knees, bending forward. He said nothing for a minute or two, and at length looked to the window.
'You were going back to Wimbledon?'
'Yes. I have only been in town for an hour or two.'
'Is Redgrave there?'
'No; he's away.'
'Very well; I am going with you. You will find out for me on what date that happened.'
'Certainly. But what is the understanding between us?'
Hugh saw too well that any threat would be idle. Whether this woman had told the truth or not, her position in Redgrave's house, and the fact of Redgrave's connection with the firm of Mackintosh—of which she evidently was not aware—put it in her power to strike a fatal blow at Sibyl. He still assured himself that she was lying—how doubt it and maintain his sanity?—but the lie had a terrible support in circumstances. Who could hear this story without admitting the plausibility of its details? A man such as Redgrave, wealthy and a bachelor; a woman such as Sibyl, beautiful, fond of luxurious living; her husband in an embarrassed position—how was it that he, a man of the world, had never seen things in this light? Doubtless his anxiety had blinded him; that, and his absolute faith in Sibyl, and Redgrave's frank friendliness. Even if he obtained (as he would) complete evidence of Sibyl's honesty, Mrs. Maskell could still dare him to take a step against her. How many people were at her mercy? He might be sure that she would long ago have stood in the dock but for her ability to make scandalous and ruinous revelations. Did Redgrave know that he had a high-class criminal in his employment? Possibly he knew it well enough. There was no end to the appalling suggestiveness of this discovery. Hugh remembered what he had said in talk with Harvey Rolfe about the rottenness of society. Never had he felt himself so much a coward as in face of this woman, whose shameless smile covered secrets and infamies innumerable.
The cabman was bidden drive on to Wimbledon, and, with long pauses, the dialogue continued for an hour. Hugh interrogated and cross-examined his companion on every matter of which she could be induced to speak, yet he learned very little in detail concerning either her own life or Redgrave's; Mrs. Maskell was not to be driven to any disclosure beyond what was essential to her own purpose. By dint of skilful effrontery she had gained the upper hand, and no longer felt the least fear of him.
'If I believed you,' said Carnaby, at a certain point of their conversation, 'I should have you arrested straight away. It wouldn't matter to me how the thing came out; it would be public property before long.'
'Where would you find your witnesses?' she asked. 'Leave me alone, and I can be of use to you as no one else can. Behave shabbily, and you only make yourself look foolish, bringing a charge against your wife that you'll never be able to prove. You would get no evidence from me. Whether you want it kept quiet or want to bring it into court, you depend upon my goodwill.'
They reached the end of the road in which was the approach to Redgrave's house.
'You had better wait here,' said the woman. 'I shall be ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. You needn't feel uneasy; I haven't the least intention of running away. Our interests are mutual, and if you do your part you can trust me to do mine.'
She stopped the cab, alighted, told the driver to wait, and walked quickly down the by-road. Hugh, drawn back into a corner, sat with head drooping; for a quarter of an hour he hardly stirred. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes, passed, but Mrs. Maskell did not show herself. At length, finding it impossible to sit still any longer, he sprang out, and paced backwards and forwards. Vastly to his relief, the woman at length appeared.
'He is there,' she said. 'I couldn't get away before.'
'Is he alone?'
'Yes. Don't do anything foolish.' Carnaby had looked as if he would move towards the house. 'The slightest imprudence, and you'll only harm yourself.'
'Tell me that date.'
She named it.
'I can't stay longer, and I advise you to get away. If you want to write to me, you can do so without fear; my letters are quite safe. Address to Mrs. Lant. And remember——!'
With a last significant look she turned and left him. Hugh, mentally repeating the date he had learnt, walked back to the cab, and told the man to drive him to the nearest railway station, whichever it was.
When he reached home, some four hours had elapsed since his encounter with Mrs. Maskell (or Mrs. Lant) at Waterloo; it seemed to him a whole day. He had forgotten all about his purposed journey to Weymouth. One sole desire had possession of him to stand face to face with Sibyl, and toseeher innocence, rather than hear it, as soon as he had brought his tongue to repeat that foul calumny. He would then know how to deal with the creature who thought to escape him by slandering his wife.
He let himself in with his latchkey, and entered the drawing-room; it was vacant. He looked into other rooms; no one was there. He rang, and a servant came.
'Has Mrs. Carnaby been out long?'
She had left, was the reply, at half-past two. Whilst she sat at luncheon a telegram arrived for her, and, soon after, she prepared to go out, saying that she would not return tonight.
Not return tonight? Hugh scarcely restrained an exclamation, and had much ado to utter his next words.
'Did she mention where she was going?'
'No, sir. I took the dressing-bag down to the cab, and the cabman was told to drive to the post-office.'
'Very well. That will do.'
'Shall you dine at home, sir?'
'Dine? No.'
Sibyl gone away for the night? Where could she have gone to? He began to look about for the telegram she had received; it might be lying somewhere, and possibly would explain her departure. In the waste-paper basket he found the torn envelope lying at the top; but the despatch itself was not to be discovered.
Gone for the night? and just when he was supposed to have left town? The cabman told to drive to the post-office? This might be for the purpose of despatching a reply. Yet no; the reply would have been written at once and sent by the messenger in the usual way. Unless—unless Sibyl, for some reason, preferred to send the message more privately? Or again, she might not care to let the servant know whither the cab was really to convey her.
Sheer madness, all this. Had not Sibyl fifty legitimate ways of spending a night from home? Yet there was the fact that she had never before done so unexpectedly. Never before——?
He looked at his watch; half-past six. He rang the bell again.
'Has any one called since Mrs. Carnaby left home?'
'Yes, sir; there have been three calls. Mrs. Rolfe——'
'Mrs. Rolfe?'
'Yes, sir. She seemed very disappointed. I told her Mrs. Carnaby would not be back tonight.'
'And the others?'
Two persons of no account. Hugh dismissed them, and the servant, with a wave of the hand.
He felt a faintness such as accompanies extreme hunger, but had no inclination for food. The whisky bottle was a natural resource; a tumbler of right Scotch restored his circulation, and in a few minutes gave him a raging appetite. He could not eat here; but eat he must, and that quickly. Seizing his hat, he ran down the stairs, hailed a hansom, and drove to the nearest restaurant he could think of.
After eating without knowledge of the viands, and drinking a bottle of claret in like unconsciousness, he smoked for half an hour, his eyes vacantly set, his limbs lax and heavy, as though in the torpor of difficult digestion. When the cigar was finished, he roused himself, looked at the time, and asked for a railway guide. There was a train to Wimbledon at ten minutes past eight; he might possibly catch it. Starting into sudden activity, he hastily left the restaurant, and reached Waterloo Station with not a moment to spare.
At Wimbledon he took a cab, and was driven up the hill. Under a clouded sky, dusk had already changed to darkness; the evening was warm and still. Impatient with what he thought the slow progress of the vehicle, Hugh sat with his body bent forward, straining as did the horse, on which his eyes were fixed, and perspiring in the imaginary effort. The address he had given was Mrs. Fenimore's; but when he drew near he signalled to the driver: 'Stop at the gate. Don't drive up.'
From the entrance to Mrs. Fenimore's round to the by-road which was the direct approach to Redgrave's bungalow would be a walk of some ten minutes. Hugh had his reasons for not taking this direction. Having dismissed his cab, he entered by the lodge-gate, and walked up the drive, moving quickly, and with a lighter step than was natural to him. When he came within view of the house, he turned aside, and made his way over the grass, in the deep shadow of leafy lime-trees, until the illumined windows were again hidden from him. He had seen no one, and heard no sound. A path which skirted the gardens would bring him in a few minutes to Redgrave's abode; this he found and followed.
The bungalow was built in a corner of the park where previously had stood a gardener's cottage; round about it grew a few old trees, and on two sides spread a shrubbery, sheltering the newly-made lawn and flower-beds. Here it was very dark; Hugh advanced cautiously, stopping now and then to listen. He reached a point where the front of the house became visible. A light shone at the door, but there was no movement, and Hugh could hear only his own hard breathing.
He kept behind the laurels, and made a half-circuit of the house. On passing to the farther side, he would come within view of those windows which opened so conveniently, as Mrs. Maskell had said—the windows of Redgrave's sitting-room, drawing-room, study, or whatever he called it. To this end it was necessary to quit the cover of the shrubs and cross a lawn. As he stepped on to the mown grass, his ear caught a sound, the sound of talking in a subdued tone; it came, he thought, from that side of the building which he could not yet see. A few quick silent steps, and this conjecture became a certainty: someone was talking within a few yards of him, just round the obstructing corner, and he felt sure the voice was Redgrave's. It paused; another voice made reply, but in so low a murmur that its accents were not to be recognised. That it was the voice of a woman the listener had no doubt. Spurred by a choking anguish, he moved forward. He saw two figures standing in a dim light from the window-door—a man and a woman; the man bareheaded, his companion in outdoor clothing. At the same moment he himself was perceived. He heard a hurried 'Go in!' and at once the woman disappeared.
Face to face with Redgrave, he looked at the window; but the curtain which dulled the light from within concealed everything.
'Who was that?'
'Why—Carnaby? What the deuce——?'
'Who wasthat?'
'Who?—what do you mean?'
Carnaby took a step; Redgrave laid an arresting hand upon him. There needed but this touch. In frenzied wrath, yet with the precision of trained muscle, Hugh struck out; and Redgrave went down before him—thudding upon the door of the veranda like one who falls dead.
He forced the window; he rushed into the room, and there before him, pallid, trembling, agonising, stood Alma Rolfe.
'You?'
She panted incoherent phrases. She was here to speak with Mr. Redgrave on business—about her concert tomorrow. She had not entered the house until this moment. She had met Mr. Redgrave in the garden——
'What is that to me?' broke in Hugh, staring wildly, his fist still clenched. 'I am not your husband.'
'Mr. Carnaby, youwillbelieve me? I came for a minute or two—to speak about——'
'It's nothing to me, Mrs. Rolfe,' he again interrupted her, in a hoarse, faint voice. 'What have I done?' He looked to the window, whence came no sound. 'Have I gone mad? By God, I almost fear it!'
'You believe me, Mr. Carnaby?' She moved to him and seized his hand. 'You know me too well—you know I couldn't—say you believe me! Say one kind, friendly word!'
She looked distracted. Clinging to his hand, she burst into tears. But Hugh hardly noticed her; he kept turning towards the window, with eyes of unutterable misery.
'Wait here; I'll come back.'
He stepped out from the window, and saw that Redgrave lay just where he had fallen—straight, still, his face turned upwards. Hugh stooped, and moved him into the light; the face was deathly—placid, but for its wide eyes, which seemed to look at his enemy. No blood upon the lips; no sign of violence.
'Where did I hit him? He fell with his head against something, I suppose.'
From the parted lips there issued no perceptible breath. A fear, which was more than half astonishment, took hold upon Carnaby. He looked up—for the light was all at once obstructed—and saw Alma gazing at him.
'What is it?' she asked in a terrified whisper. 'Why is he lying there?'
'I struck him—he is unconscious.'
'Struck him?'
He drew her into the room again.
'Mrs. Rolfe, I shall most likely have to send for help. You mustn't be seen here. It's nothing to me why you came—yes, yes, I believe you—but you must go at once.'
'You won't speak of it?'
Her appeal was that of a child, helpless in calamity. Again she caught his hand, as if clinging for protection. Hugh replied in thick, hurried tones.
'I have enough trouble of my own. This is no place for you. For your own sake, if not for your husband's, keep away from here. I came because someone was telling foul lies—the kind of lies that drive a man mad. Whatever happens—whatever you hear—don't imagine thatsheis to blame. You understand me?'
'No word shall ever pass my lips!'
'Go at once. Get home as soon as you can.'
Alma turned to go. Outside, she cast one glance at the dark, silent, unmoving form, then bowed her head, and hastened away into the darkness.
Again Hugh knelt by Redgrave's side, raised his head, listened for the beating of his heart, tried to feel his breath. He then dragged him into the room, and placed him upon a divan; he loosened the fastenings about his neck; the head drooped, and there was not a sign of life. Next he looked for a bell; the electric button caught his eye, and he pressed it. To prevent any one from coming in, he took his stand close by the door. In a moment there was a knock, the door opened, and he showed his face to the surprised maid-servant.
'Is Mrs. Lant in the house?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Mr. Redgrave wants her at once; he is ill.'
The servant vanished. Keeping his place at the door, and looking out into the hall, Hugh, for full two minutes, heard no movement; then he was startled by a low voice immediately behind him.
'What are you doing here?'
The housekeeper, who had entered from the garden, and approached in perfect silence, stood gazing at him; not unconcerned, but with full command of herself.
'Look!' he replied, pointing to the figure on the divan. 'Is he only insensible—or dead?'
She stepped across the room, and made a brief examination by the methods Carnaby himself had used.
'I never saw any one look more like dead,' was her quiet remark. 'What have you been up to? A little quiet murder?'
'I met him outside. We quarrelled, and I knocked him down.'
'And why are you here at all?' asked the woman, with fierce eyes, though her voice kept its ordinary level.
'Because of you and your talk—curse you! Can't you do something? Get some brandy; and send someone for a doctor.'
'Are you going to be found here?' she inquired meaningly.
Hugh drew a deep breath, and stared at the silent figure. For an instant his face showed irresolution; then it changed, and he said harshly—'Yes, I am. Do as I told you. Get the spirits, and send someone—sharp!'
'Mr. Carnaby, you're a great blundering thickhead—if you care for my opinion of you. You deserve all you've got and all you'll get.'
Hugh again breathed deeply. The woman's abuse was nothing to him.
'Are you going to do anything!' he said. 'Or shall I ring for someone else?'
She left the room, and speedily returned with a decanter of brandy. All their exertions proved useless; the head hung aside, the eyes stared. In a few minutes Carnaby asked whether a doctor had been sent for.
'Yes. When I hear him at the door I shall go away. You came here against my advice, and you've made a pretty job of it. Well, you'll always get work at a slaughter-house.'
Her laugh was harder to bear than the words it followed. Hugh, with a terrible look, waved her away from him.
'Go—or I don't know what I may do next. Take yourself out of my sight!—out!'
She gave way before him, backing to the door; there she laughed again, waved her hand in a contemptuous farewell, and withdrew.
For half an hour Carnaby stood by the divan, or paced the room. Once or twice he imagined a movement of Redgrave's features, and bent to regard them closely; but in truth there was no slightest change. Within doors and without prevailed unbroken silence; not a step, not a rustle. The room seemed to grow intolerably hot. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Hugh went to the window and opened it a few inches; a scent of vegetation and of fresh earth came to him with the cool air. He noticed that rain had begun to fall, large drops pattering softly on leaves and grass and the roof of the veranda. Then sounded the rolling of carriage wheels, nearer and nearer. It was the doctor's carriage, no doubt.
Uncertainty soon came to an end. Cyrus Redgrave was beyond help: he must have breathed his last—so said the doctor—at the moment when he fell. Not as a result of the fall; the blow of Carnaby's fist had killed him. There is one stroke which, if delivered with sufficient accuracy and sufficient force, will slay more surely than any other: it is the stroke which catches an uplifted chin just at the right angle to drive the head back and shatter the spinal cord. This had plainly happened. The man's neck was broken, and he died on the spot.
Carnaby and the doctor stood regarding each other. They spoke in subdued voices.
'It was not a fight, you say?'
'One blow from me, that was all. He said something that maddened me.'
'Shall you report yourself?'
'Yes. Here is my card.'
'A sad business, Mr. Carnaby, Can I be of any use to you?'
'You can—though I hesitate to ask it. Mrs. Fenimore should be told at once. I can't do that myself.'
'I know Mrs. Fenimore very well. I will see her—if she is at home.'
On this errand the doctor set forth. As soon as he was gone, Hugh rang the bell; the same domestic as before answered it, and again he asked for Mrs. Lant. He waited five minutes; the servant came back, saying that Mrs. Lant was not in the house. This did not greatly surprise him, but he insisted on a repetition of the search. Mrs. Lant could not be found. Evidently her disappearance was a mystery to this young woman, who seemed ingenuous to the point of simple-mindedness.
'You are not to go into that room,' said Hugh. (They were talking in the hall.) 'The doctor will return presently.'
And therewith he left the house. But not the grounds; for in rain and darkness he stood watching from a place of concealment, watching at the same time Redgrave's curtained window and the front entrance. His patience was not overtaxed. There sounded an approaching vehicle; it came up the drive and stopped at the front door, where at once alighted the doctor and a lady. Hugh's espial was at an end. As the two stepped into the house he walked quickly away.
Yes, he would 'report himself', but not until he had seen Sibyl. To that end he must go home and wait there. The people at Wimbledon, who doubtless would communicate with the police, might cause him to be arrested before his wife's return. He feared this much more than what was to follow. Worse than anything that could befall him would be to lose the opportunity of speaking in private with Sibyl before she knew what had happened.
In the early hours of the morning he lay down upon his bed and had snatches of troubled sleep. Knowing that he was wrong in the particular surmise which led him to Redgrave's house, Sibyl's absence no longer disturbed him with suspicions; a few hours would banish from his mind the last doubt of her, if any really remained. He had played the madman, bringing ruin upon himself and misery incalculable upon his wife, just because that thieving woman lied to him. She, of course, had made her speedy escape; and was it not as well? For, if the whole story became known, what hope was there that Sibyl would come out of it with untarnished fame? Merely for malice' sake, the woman would repeat and magnify her calumnies. If she successfully concealed herself, it might be possible to avoid a mention of Sibyl's name. He imagined various devices for this purpose, his brain plotting even when he slept.
To Alma Rolfe he gave scarcely a thought. If the worst were true of her, Rolfe had only to thank his own absurdity, which allowed such a conceited simpleton to do as she chose. The case looked black against her. Well, she had had her lesson, and inthatquarter could come to no more harm. What sort of an appearance was she likely to make at Prince's Hall today?—feather-headed fool!
Before five o'clock the sunlight streamed into his bedroom. Sparrows twittered about the window, and somewhere close by, perhaps in a neighbour's flat, a caged throstle piped as though it were in the fields. Then began the street noises, and Hugh could lie still no longer. Remembering that at any moment his freedom might come to an end, he applied himself to arranging certain important matters. The housemaid came upon him with surprise; he bade her get breakfast, and, when the meal was ready, partook of it with moderate appetite.
The postman brought letters; nothing of interest for him, and for Sibyl only an envelope which, as one could feel, contained a mere card of invitation. But soon after nine o'clock there arrived a telegram. It was from Sibyl herself, and—from Weymouth.
'Why are you not here? She died yesterday. If this reaches you, reply at once.'
He flung the scrap of paper aside and laughed. Of all natural explanations, this, of course, had never occurred to him. Yesterday's telegram told of Mrs. Larkfield's serious condition, and Sibyl had started at once for Weymouth, expecting to meet him there. One word of hers to the servant and he would simply have followed her. But Sibyl saw no necessity for that word. She was always reserved with domestics.
By the messenger, he despatched a reply. He would be at Weymouth as soon as possible.
He incurred the risk of appearing to run away; but that mattered little. Sibyl could hardly return before her mother's burial, and by going yonder to see her he escaped the worse danger, probably the certainty, of arrest before any possible meeting with her in London. Dreading this more than ever, he made ready in a few minutes; the telegraph boy had hardly left the building before Hugh followed. A glance at the timetables had shown him that, if he travelled by the Great-Western, he could reach Weymouth at five minutes past four; whereas the first train he could catch at Waterloo would not bring him to his destination until half an hour later; on the other hand, he could get away from London by the South-Western forty minutes sooner than by the other line, and this decided him. Yesterday, Waterloo had been merely the more convenient station on account of his business in town; today he chose it because he had to evade arrest on a charge of homicide. So comforted was he by the news from Sibyl, that he could reflect on this joke of destiny, and grimly smile at it.
At the end of his journey he betook himself to an hotel, and immediately sent a message to Sibyl. Before her arrival he had swallowed meat and drink. He waited for her in a private room, which looked seaward. The sight of the blue Channel, the smell of salt breezes, made his heart ache. He was standing at the window, watching a steamer that had just left port, when Sibyl entered; he turned and looked at her in silence.
'What are these mysterious movements?' she asked, coming forward with a smile. 'Why did you alter your mind yesterday?'
'I wasn't well.'
He could say nothing more, yet. Sibyl's face was so tranquil, and she seemed so glad to rejoin him, that his tongue refused to utter any alarming word; and the more he searched her countenance, the more detestable did it seem that he should insult her by the semblance of a doubt.
'Not well? Indeed, you look dreadfully out of sorts. How long had I been gone when you got home again?'
'An hour or two. But tell me first about your mother. She died before you came?'
'Very soon after they sent the telegram.'
Gravely, but with no affectation of distress, she related the circumstances; making known, finally, that Mrs. Larkfield had died intestate.
'You are quite sure of that?' asked Hugh, with an eagerness which surprised her.
'Quite. Almost with her last breath she talked about it, and said that shemustmake her will. And she had spoken of it several times lately. The people there knew all about her affairs. She kept putting it off—and as likely as not she wished the money to be mine, after all. I am sure she must have felt that she owed me something.'
Carnaby experienced a profound relief. Sibyl was now provided for, whatever turn his affairs might take. She had seated herself by the window, and, with her gloved hands crossed upon her lap, was gazing absently towards the sea. How great must beherrelief! thought Hugh. And still he looked at her smooth, pure features; at her placid eyes, in which, after all, he seemed to detect a little natural sadness; and the accusation in his mind assumed so grotesque an incredibility that he asked himself how he should dare to hint at it.
'Sibyl——'
'Isn't there something you haven't told me?' she said, regarding him with anxiety, when he had just uttered her name and then averted his look. 'I never saw you look so ill.'
'Yes, dear, there is something.'
It was not often he spoke so gently. Sibyl waited, one of her hands clasping the other, and her lips close set.
'I was at Wimbledon last night—at Redgrave's.'
He paused again, for the last word choked him. Unless it were a tremor of the eyelids, no movement betrayed itself in Sibyl's features; yet their expression had grown cold, and seemed upon the verge of a disdainful wonder. The pupils of her eyes insensibly dilated, as though to challenge scrutiny and defy it.
'What of that?' she said, when his silence urged her to speak.
'Something happened between us. We quarrelled.'
Her lips suddenly parted, and he heard her quick breath; but the look that followed was of mere astonishment, and in a moment, before she spoke, it softened in a smile.
'This is your dreadful news? You quarrelled—and he is going to withdraw from the business. Oh, my dear boy, how ridiculous you are! I thought all sorts of horrible things. Were you afraid I should make an outcry? And you have worried yourself into illness aboutthis? Oh, foolish fellow!'
Before she ceased, her voice was broken with laughter—a laugh of extravagant gaiety, of mocking mirth, that brought the blood to her face and shook her from head to foot. Only when she saw that her husband's gloom underwent no change did this merriment cease. Then, with abrupt gravity, which was almost annoyance, her eyes shining with moisture and her cheeks flushed, she asked him——
'Isn't that it?'
'Worse than that,' Hugh answered.
But he spoke more freely, for he no longer felt obliged to watch her countenance. His duty now was to soften the outrage involved in repeating Mrs. Maskell's fiction by making plain his absolute faith in her, and to contrive his story so as to omit all mention of a third person's presence at the fatal interview.
'Then do tell me and have done!' exclaimed Sibyl, almost petulantly.
'We quarrelled—and I struck him—and the blow was fatal.'
'Fatal?—you mean he was killed?'
The blood vanished from her face, leaving pale horror.
'A terrible accident—a blow that happened to—I couldn't believe it till the doctor came and said he was dead.'
'But tell me more. What led to it? How could you strike Mr. Redgrave?'
Sibyl had all at once subdued her voice to an excessive calmness. Her hands were trembling; she folded them again upon her lap. Every line of her face, every muscle of her body, declared the constraint in which she held herself. This, said Hugh inwardly, was no more than he had expected; disaster made noble proof of Sibyl's strength.
'I'll tell you from the beginning.'
He recounted faithfully the incidents at Waterloo Station, and the beginning of Mrs. Maskell's narrative in the cab. At the disclosure of her relations with Redgrave, he was interrupted by a short, hard laugh.
'I couldn't help it, Hugh. That woman!—why, you have always said you were sure to meet her somewhere. Housekeeper at Mr. Redgrave's! We know what the end of that would be!'
Sibyl talked rapidly, in an excited chatter—the kind of utterance never heard upon her lips.
'It was strange,' Hugh continued. 'Seems to have been mere chance. Then she began to say that she had learnt some of Redgrave's secrets—about people who came and went mysteriously. And then—Sibyl, I can't speak the words. It was the foulest slander that she could have invented. She meant to drive me mad, and she succeeded—curse her!'
Drops of anguish stood upon his forehead. He sprang up and crossed the room. Turning again, he saw his wife gazing at him, as if in utmost perplexity.
'Hugh, I don't in the least understand you. Whatwasthe slander? Perhaps I am stupid—but——'
He came near, but could not look her in the eyes.
'My dearest'—his voice shook—'it was an infamous lie aboutyou—thatyouhad been there——'
'Why, of course I have! You know that I have.'
'She meant more than that. She said you had been there secretly—at night——'
Hugh Carnaby—the man who had lived as high-blooded men do live, who had laughed by the camp-fire or in the club smoking-room at many a Rabelaisian story and capped it with another, who hated mock modesty, was all for honest openness between man and woman—stood in guilty embarrassment before his own wife's face of innocence. It would have been a sheer impossibility for him to ask her where and how she spent a certain evening last winter; Sibyl, now as ever, was his ideal of chaste womanhood. He scorned himself for what he had yet to tell.
Sibyl was gazing at him, steadily, inquiringly.
'She made you believe this?' fell upon the silence, in her softest, clearest tones.
'No! She couldn't make mebelieveit. But the artful devil had such a way of talking——'
'I understand. You didn't know whether to believe or not. Just tell me, please, what proof she offered you.'
Hugh hung his head.
'She had heard you talking—in the house—on a certain——'
He looked up timidly, and met a flash of derisive scorn.
'She heard me talking? Hugh, I really don't see much art in this. You seem to have been wrought upon rather easily. It never occurred to you, I suppose, to ask for a precise date?'
He mentioned the day, and Sibyl, turning her head a little, appeared to reflect.
'It's unfortunate; I remember nothing whatever of that date. I'm afraid, Hugh, that I couldn't possibly prove an alibi.'
Her smiling sarcasm made the man wince. His broad shoulders shrank together; he stood in an awkward, swaying posture.
'Dear, I told her she lied!'
'That was very courageous. But what came next? You had the happy idea of going to Wimbledon to make personal inquiries?'
'Try to put yourself in my place, Sibyl,' he pleaded. 'Remember all the circumstances. Can't you see the danger of such a lie as that? I went home, hoping to find you there. But you had gone, and nobody knew where—you wouldn't be back that night. A telegram had called you away, I was told. When I asked where you told the cabman to drive you to—the post-office.'
'Oh, it looked very black!—yes, yes, I quite understand. The facts are so commonplace that I'm really ashamed to mention them. At luncheon-time came an urgent telegram from Weymouth. I sent no reply then, because I thought I knew that you were on your way. But when I was ready to start, it occurred to me that I should save you trouble by wiring that I should join you as soon as possible—so I drove to the post-office before going to Paddington.—Well, you rushed off to Wimbledon?'
'Not till later, and because I was suffering damnably. If I hadn't—been what would it have meant? When a man thinks as much of his wife as I do of you——'
'He has a right to imagine anything of her,' she interrupted in a changed tone, gently reproachful, softening to tenderness. A Singularity of Sibyl's demeanour was that she seemed utterly forgetful of the dire position in which her husband stood. One would have thought that she had no concern beyond the refutation of an idle charge, which angered her indeed, but afforded scope for irony, possibly for play of wit. For the moment, Hugh himself had almost forgotten the worst; but he was bidden to proceed, and again his heart sank.
'I went there in the evening. Redgrave happened to be outside—in that veranda of his. I saw him as I came near in the dark, and I fancied that—that he had been talking to someone in the room—through the folding windows. I went up to him quickly, and as soon as he saw me he pulled the window to. After that—I only remember that I was raving mad. He seemed to want to stop me, and I struck at him—and that was the end.'
Sibyl shuddered.
'You went into the room?'
'Yes. No one was there.'
Both kept silence. Sibyl had become very grave, and was thinking intently. Then, with a few brief questions, vigilant, precise, she learnt all that had taken place between Hugh and Mrs. Maskell, between Hugh and the doctor; heard of the woman's disappearance, and of Mrs Fenimore's arrival on the scene.
'What shall you do now?'
'Go back and give myself up. What elsecanI do?'
'And tell everything—as you have told it to me?'
Hugh met her eyes and moved his arms in a gesture of misery.
'No! I will think of something. He is dead, and can't contradict; and the woman will hide—trust her. Your name shan't come into it at all. I owe you that, Sibyl. I'll find some cause for a quarrel with him. Your name shan't be spoken.'
She listened, her eyes down, her forehead lined in thought.
'I know what!' Hugh exclaimed, with gloomy resolve. 'That woman—of course, there'll be a mystery, and she'll be searched for. Why'—he blustered against his shame—'why shouldn't she be the cause of it? Yes, that would do.'
His hoarse laugh caused a tremor in Sibyl; she rose and stepped close to him, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
'So far you have advised yourself. Will you let me advise you now, dear?'
'Wouldn't that seem likely?'
'I think not. And if itdid—what is the result? You will be dealt with much more severely. Don't you see that?'
'What's that to me? What do I care so long as you are out of the vile business? You will have no difficulties. Your mother's money; and then Mackintosh——'
'And is that all?' asked Sibyl, with a look which seemed to wonder profoundly. 'Am I to think only of my own safety?'
'It's all my cursed fault—just because I'm a fierce, strong brute, who ought to be anywhere but among civilised people. I've killed the man who meant me nothing but kindness. Am I going to dragyourname into the mud—to set people grinning and winking——'
'Be quiet, Hugh, and listen. I have a much clearer head than yours, poor boy. There's only one way of facing this scandal, and that is to tell everything. For one thing, I shall not let you shield that woman—we shall catch her yet. I shall not let you disgrace yourself by inventing squalid stories. Don't you see, too, that the disgrace would be shared by—by the dead man? Would that be right? And another thing—if shame comes upon you, do you think I have no part in it? We have to face it out with the truth.'
'You don't know what that means,' he answered, with a groan. 'You don't know the world.'
Sibyl did not smile, but her lips seemed only to check themselves when the smile was half born.
'I know enough of it, Hugh, to despise it; and I know you much better than you know yourself. You are not one of the men who can tell lies and make them seem the truth. I don't think my name will suffer. I shall stand by you from first to last. The real true story can't possibly be improved upon. That woman had every motive for deceiving you, and her disappearance is all against her. You have to confess your hot-headedness—that can't be helped. You tell everything—even down to the mistake about the telegram. I shall go with you to the police-station; I shall be at the inquest; I shall be at the court. It's the only chance.'
'Good God! how can I let you do this?'
'You had rather, then, that I seemed to hide away? You had rather set people thinking that there is coldness between us? We must go up tonight. Look out the trains, quick.'
'But your mother, Sibyl——'
'She is dead; she cares nothing. I have to think of my husband.'
Hugh caught her and crushed her in his arms.
'My darling, worse than killing a man who never harmed me was to think wrong of you!'
Her face had grown very pale. She closed her eyes, smiled faintly as she leaned her head against him, and of a sudden burst into tears.