Perhaps it was best so. What else can one say to a little child of four years old? Harvey Rolfe had no choice but to repeat what seemed good to Louie the nursemaid. But he could refrain from saying more.
Alma was in a fever by night-time. There followed days and days of misery; any one hour of which, as Rolfe told himself, outbalanced all the good and joy that can at best be hoped for in threescore years and ten. But Alma clung to life. Harvey had thought she would ask for her little son, and expend upon him the love called forth by her dead baby; she seemed, however, to care even less for Hughie than before. And, after all, the bitter experience had made little change in her.
Since the removal from Pinner, Rolfe had forgotten his anxieties with regard to money. Expenses were reduced; not very greatly, but to a point which made all the difference between just exceeding his income and living just within it. He had not tried to economise, and would scarcely have known how to begin; it was the change in Alma's mode of life that brought about this fortunate result. With infinite satisfaction he dismissed from his mind the most hateful of all worries.
It looked, too, as if the business in Westminster Bridge Road might eventually give a substantial return for the money he had invested in it. Through the winter, naturally, little trade was done; but with springtime things began to look brisk and hopeful. Harvey had applied himself seriously to learning the details of the business; he was no longer a mere looker-on, but could hold practical counsel with his partner, make useful suggestions, and help in carrying them out.
In the sixth month after her father's decease, Rolfe enjoyed the privilege of becoming acquainted with Miss Winter. Morphew took him one afternoon to the house at Earl's Court, where the widow and her daughter were still living, the prospect of Henrietta's marriage having made it not worth while for them to change their abode in the interim. With much curiosity, with not a little mistrust, Harvey entered the presence of these ladies, whose names and circumstances had been so familiar to him for years. Henrietta proved to be very unlike the image he had formed of her. Anticipating weakness, conventionality, and some affectation, he was surprised to meet a lady of simple, grave manners; nervous at first, but soon perfectly self-possessed; by no means talkative, but manifesting in every word a well-informed mind and a habit of reflection. It astonished him that such a man as Cecil Morphew should have discovered his ideal in Henrietta Winter; it perplexed him yet more that Cecil's attachment should have been reciprocated.
Mrs. Winter was a very ordinary person; rather pretentious, rather too fluent of speech, inclined to fretfulness, and probably of trying temper. Having for many years lived much beyond his means (in the manner so often described by Morphew), Mr. Winter had left his family as good as unprovided for. There was money to be divided between mother and daughter, but so small a sum that it could not be regarded as a source of income. To the widow was bequeathed furniture; to Henrietta, a library of two thousand volumes;finally, the testator directed that the sum of five hundred pounds should be spent on a window of stained glass (concerning which full particulars were given), to be set up, in memory of himself, in the church he had been wont to honour with his pious attendance. This item of her husband's will had so embittered Mrs. Winter, that she hardly ever spoke of him; if obliged to do so, it was with cold severity that she uttered his name. Immediately, she withdrew all opposition to Henrietta's marriage with the man she had considered so objectionable; she would not have been sorry had her daughter chosen to be married with the least possible delay. As for the future, of course she must live in her daughter's house; together, they must make what they could of their small capital, and hope that Cecil's business would prosper.
Harvey had been acquainted with these facts since Mr. Winter's death. Bearing them in mind as he talked with Henrietta, and exerting his powers of observation to the utmost, he still found himself as far as ever from a definite opinion as to the wisdom of the coming marriage. That Mrs. Winter would be a great obstacle to happiness admitted of no doubt; but Henrietta herself might or might not prove equal to the change of circumstances. Evidently one of her characteristics was an extreme conscientiousness; it explained, perhaps, her long inability to decide between the claims of parents and lover. Her tastes in literature threw some light upon the troubles which had beset her; she was a student of George Eliot, and spoke of the ethical problems with which that author is mainly concerned, in a way suggestive of self-revelation. Conversing for the first time with Morphew's friend, and finding him sufficiently intelligent, she might desire to offer some indirect explanation of the course she had followed. Harvey could not question her sincerity, but she seemed to him a trifle morbid. It might be natural reaction, in a temper such as hers, against the monstrous egotism by which her life had been subdued and shadowed. She inclined to mystical views; mentioned Christina Rossetti as one of her favourites; cared little or nothing for the louder interests of the time. Impossible to detect the colour of her thoughts with regard to Cecil; she spoke of him gravely and gently, but without the least perceptible emotion. Harvey noticed her when Morphew was saying goodbye; her smile was sweet, and perhaps tender, but even then she seemed to be debating with herself some point of conscience. Perhaps Cecil had pressed her hand rather too fervently?
The friends walked away in silence along the dim-lighted street, between monotonous rows of high sombre houses, each with its pillared portico which looked like the entrance to a tomb. Glancing about him with a sense of depression, Harvey wondered that any mortal could fix his pride on the fact of residence in such a hard, cold, ugly wilderness.
'Has she altered much since you first knew her?' he asked at length.
'A good deal,' answered the other. 'Yes, a good deal. She used to laugh sometimes; now she never does. She was always quiet—always looked at things seriously—but it was different. You think her gloomy?'
'No, no; not gloomy. It's all natural enough. Her life wants a little sunlight, that's all.'
For the rest, he could speak with sincere admiration, and Cecil heard him delightedly.
The choice of a dwelling was a most difficult matter. As it must be quite a small house, the remoter suburbs could alone supply what was wanted; Morphew spent every Saturday and Sunday in wearisome exploration. Mrs. Winter, though in theory she accepted the necessity of cheapness, shrank from every practical suggestion declaring it impossible to live in such places as Cecil requested her to look at. She had an ideal of the 'nice little house,' and was as likely to discover it in London's suburbs as to become possessed once more of the considerable fortune which she and her husband had squandered in mean extravagance. Morphew had already come to the conclusion, and Henrietta agreed with him, that their future home must be chosen without regard to Mrs. Winter's impracticable ideas. And the sooner the better, in her own interests; for it was plain that so long as she continued in the old house she would thoughtlessly waste her means. The end of the twelvemonth, at latest, must see them all in their new home.
But meanwhile fate was preparing a new trial for Henrietta's much-disciplined conscience.
On a Saturday afternoon, when the crisis of Alma's illness was over, Harvey received a telegram summoning him to Westminster Bridge Road. "Come if you possibly can. Or I must come to you." Only yesterday he had been with Morphew for a couple of hours, and all seemed well; Cecil thought he had found the house that would suit him; he was in jubilant spirits, laughing, singing, more boylike than ever. Suspecting new obstructiveness on the part of Mrs. Winter, Harvey went to town in an impatient mood. He found the shop closed, as usual at this hour on Saturday, and rang the house-door bell. Morphew himself replied, with a countenance which made known forthwith that something extraordinary had happened; eyes red and swollen, cheeks puffy, colourless, smeared.
"Well?"
Cecil clutched at his hand, and drew him in. They went upstairs to the office, where all was quiet.
"Rolfe, if I hadn't had you to send for, I should have been dead by now. There's poison enough in this place. It has tempted me fearfully."
"What, is it?" asked the other, in a not very sympathetic voice. His own troubles of the past month made mere love-miseries seem artificial.
"I shall have to tell you what I wanted to tell you long ago. If I had, most likely this would never have happened.--It's all over with me, Rolfe. I wish to God you had let me die in that hotel at Brussels.--She has been told something about me, and there's an end of everything. She sent for me this morning. I never thought she could be so pitiless.--The kind of thing that a man thinks nothing of. And herself the cause of it, if only I had dared to tell her so!"
'The old story, I suppose,' said Harvey. 'Some other woman?'
'I was very near telling you, that day you came to my beastly garret in Chelsea; do you remember? It was the worst time with me then—except when you found me in Brussels. I'd been gambling again; you knew that. I wanted money for something I felt ashamed to speak of.—You know the awful misery I used to suffer about Henrietta. I was often enough nearly mad with—what is one to call it? Why isn't there a decent name for the agony men go through at that age? I simply couldn't live alone any longer—I couldn't; and only a fool and a hypocrite would pretend to blame me. A man, that is; women seem to be made different.—Oh, there's nothing to tell. The same thing happens a hundred times every day in London. A girl wandering about in the Park—quarrel at home—all the rest of it. A good many lies on her side; a good deal of selfishness on mine. I happened to have money just then. And just when I hadnomoney—about the time you met me—a child was born. She said it was mine; anyway, I had to be responsible. Of course I had long ago repented of behaving so badly to Henrietta. But no woman can understand, and it's impossible to explain to them. You're a beast and a villain, and there's an end of it.'
'And how has this become known to Miss Winter?' Harvey inquired, seeing that Morphew lost himself in gloom.
'You might almost guess it; these things always happen in the same way. You've heard me speak of a fellow called Driffel—no? I thought I might have mentioned him. He got to know the girl. He and I were at a music-hall one night, and she met us; and I heard, soon after, that she was living with him. It didn't last long. She got ill, and wrote to me from Westminster Hospital; and I was foolish enough to give her money again, off and on, up to only a few months ago. She talked about living a respectable life, and so on, and I couldn't refuse to help her. But I found out it was all humbug, and of course I stopped. Then she began to hunt me, Out of spite. And she heard from someone—Driffel, as likely as not—all about Henrietta; and yesterday Henrietta had a letter from her. This morning I was sent for, to explain myself.'
'At one time, then, you had lost sight of her altogether?'
'She has always had money from me, more or less regularly, except at the time that Driffel kept her. But there has been nothing else between us, since that first year. I kept up payments on account of the child, and she was cheating me in that too. Of course she put out the baby to nurse, and I understood it lived on; but the truth was it died after a month or two—starved to death, no doubt. I only learnt that, by taking a good deal of trouble, when she was with Driffel.'
'Starved to death at a month or two old,' murmured Rolfe. 'The best thing for it, no doubt.'
'It's worse than anything I have done,' said Morphew, miserably. 'I think more of it now than I did at the time. A cruel, vile thing!'
'And you told Miss Winter everything?'
'Everything that can be spoken about. The plain truth of the story. The letter was a lie from beginning to end, of course. It made me out a heartless scoundrel. I had been the ruin of the girl—a helpless innocent; and now, after all these years, wanted to cut her adrift, not caring what became of her. My defence seemed to Henrietta no defence at all. The fact that there had been such an episode in my life was quite sufficient. Everything must be at an end between us, at once and for ever. Shecouldnot live with me, knowing this. No one should learn the cause; not even her mother; but I must never see her again. And so I came away, meaning to end my life. It wasn't cowardice that prevented me; only the thought thatshewould be mixed up in it, and suffer more than I had made her already.'
Voice and look constrained Harvey to believe this. He spoke more sympathetically.
'It's better that it happened before than after.'
'I've tried to think that, but I can't. Afterwards, I could have made her believe me and forgive me.'
'That seems to me more than doubtful.'
'But why should it have happened at all?' cried Cecil, in the tone of despairing bitterness. 'Did I deserve it? Haven't I behaved better, more kindly, than most men would have done? Isn't it just because I was too good-natured that this has come on me?'
'I myself readily take that view,' answered Rolfe. 'But I can perfectly understand why Miss Winter doesn't.'
'So can I—so can I,' groaned Cecil. 'It's in her nature. And do you suppose I haven't cursed myself for deceiving her? The thought has made me miserable, often enough. I never dreamt she would get to know of it; but it weighed upon me all the same. Yet who was the cause of it, really and truly? I'm glad I could keep myself from saying all I thought. She wouldn't have understood; I should only have looked more brutal in her eyes. But if she had married me when she might have done!Therewas the wrong that led to everything else.'
Harvey nodded and muttered.
'At one and twenty she might have taken her own way. I wasn't a penniless adventurer. My name is as good as hers. We could have lived well enough on my income, until I found a way of increasing it, as I should have done. Girls don't know what they are doing when they make men wait year after year. No one can tell them. But I begged—I prayed to her—I said all I dared. It was her cursed father and mother! If I had had three thousand, instead of three hundred, a year, they would have rushed her into marriage. No! we must have a big house, like their own, and a troop of thieving servants, or we were eternally disgraced.HowI got the money didn't matter, so long as I got it. And she hadn't courage—she thought it wrong to defy them. As if the wrong wasn't in giving way to such a base superstition! I believe she has seen that since her father's death. And now——'
He broke down, shaking and choking in an agony of sobs. Harvey could only lay a kind hand upon him; there was no verbal comfort to offer. Presently Cecil talked on again, and so they sat together as twilight passed into darkness. Rolfe would gladly have taken the poor fellow home with him, out of solitude with its miseries and dangers, but Cecil refused. Eventually they walked westward for a few miles; then Morphew, with a promise to see his friend next day, turned back into the crowd.
Alma was walking on the sea-road at Penzance, glad to be quite alone, yet at a loss how to spend the time. Rolfe had sailed for Scilly, and would be absent for two or three days; Mrs. Frothingham, with Hughie for companion, was driving to Marazion. Why—Alma asked herself—had she wished to be left alone this morning? Some thought had glimmered vaguely in her restless mind; she could not recover it.
The little shop window, set out with objects carved in serpentine, held her for a moment; but remembering how often she had paused here lately, she felt ashamed, and walked on. Presently there moved towards her a lady in a Bath-chair; a lady who had once been beautiful, but now, though scarcely middle-aged, looked gaunt and haggard from some long illness. The invalid held open a newspaper, and Alma, in passing, saw that it wasThe World. At once her step quickened, for she had remembered the desire which touched her an hour ago.
She walked to the railway station, surveyed the papers on the bookstall, and bought three—papers which would tell her what was going on in society. With these in hand she found a quiet spot, sheltered from the August sun, where she could sit and read. She read eagerly, enviously. And before long her eye fell upon a paragraph in which was a name she knew. Lady Isobel Barker, in her lovely retreat at Boscombe, was entertaining a large house-party; in the list appeared—Mrs. Hugh Carnaby. Unmistakable: Mrs. Hugh Carnaby. Who Lady Isobel might be, Alma had no idea; nor were any of the other guests known to her, but the names of all seemed to roll upon the tongue of the announcing footman. She had a vision of Sibyl in that august company; Sibyl, coldly beautiful, admirably sage, with—perhaps—ever so little of the air of a martyr, to heighten her impressiveness.
When she could command herself, she glanced hurriedly through column after column of all the papers, seeking for that name again. In one, an illustrated publication, she came upon a couple of small portraits, side by side. Surely she recognised that face—the bold, coarse-featured man, with his pretentious smile? But the girl, no; a young and very pretty girl, smirking a little, with feathery hair which faded off into an aureole. The text was illuminating.
'I am able to announce,' wrote Ego, 'and I think I shall be one of the first to do so, that the brilliant composer, Mr. Felix Dymes, will shortly vanish from the gay (if naughty) world of bachelorhood. I learn on excellent authority that Mr. Dymes has quite recently become engaged to Miss Lettice Almond, a very charming young lady, whose many gifts (especially musical) have as yet been known only to a comparatively small circle, and for the delightful reason that she is still only eighteen. Miss Almond is the daughter of Mr. Haliburton Almond, senior partner in the old and well-known firm of Almond Brothers, the manufacturers of fireworks. She is an only daughter, and, though she has two brothers, I may add (I trust without indiscretion) that the title of heiress may be fittingly applied to her. The marriage may take place in November, and will doubtless be a brilliant as well as a most interesting affair. By-the-bye, Mr. Dymes's new opera is not likely to be ready till next year, but some who have been privileged to hear the parts already composed declare that it will surpass even "Blue Roses" in the charm of sweet yet vivacious melody.'
When she had read and mused for more than an hour, Alma tore out the two passages that had a personal interest for her, and put them in her purse. The papers she left lying for anyone who chose to pick them up.
A fortnight later she was back at Gunnersbury; where, indeed, she would have been content to stay all through the summer, had not Harvey and the doctor insisted on her leaving home. All sorts of holidays had been proposed, but nothing of the kind attracted her. She declared that she was quite well, and that she preferred home to anywhere else; she had got used to it, and did not wish to be unsettled. Six weeks at Penzance simply wearied her; she brightened wonderfully on the day of return. Harvey, always anxious, tried to believe that the great sorrow through which she had passed was effecting only a natural change, subduing her troublesome mutability of temper, and leading her to find solace in domestic quietude.
On the third day after her return, she had lunched alone, and was sitting in the library. Her dress, more elaborate than usual, and the frequent glances which she cast at the clock, denoted expectation of some arrival. Hearing a knock at the front door, she rose and waited nervously.
'Mr. Dymes is in the drawing-room, mum.'
She joined him. Dymes, with wonted frankness, not to say impudence, inspected her from head to foot, and did not try to conceal surprise.
'I was awfully glad to get your note. As I told you, I called here about a month ago, and I should have called again. I didn't care to write until I heard from you. You've been ill, I can see. I heard about it. Awfully sorry.'
Alma saw that he intended respectful behaviour. The fact of being in her own house was, of course, a protection, but Dymes, she quite understood, had altered in mind towards her. She treated him distantly, yet without a hint of unfriendliness.
'I began to wonder whether I had missed a letter of yours. It's some time since you promised to write—on business.'
'The fact is,' he replied, 'I kept putting it off, hoping to see you, and it's wonderful how time slips by. I can hardly believe that it's more than a year since your recital. How splendidly it came off! If only you could have followed it up—but we won't talk about that.'
He paused for any remark she might wish to make. Alma, dreamy for a moment, recovered herself, and asked, in a disinterested tone——
'We paid all expenses, I suppose?'
'Well—not quite.'
'Not quite? I understood from you that there was no doubt about it.'
'I thought,' said Dymes, as he bent forward familiarly, 'that my silence would let you know how matters stood. If there had been anything due to you, of course I should have sent a cheque. We did very well indeed, remarkably well, but the advertising expenses were very heavy.' He took a paper from his pocket. 'Here is the detailed account. I shouldn't have spent so much if I hadn't regarded it as an investment. You had to be boomed, you know—floated, and I flatter myself I did it pretty well. But, of course, as things turned out——'
Alma glanced over the paper. The items astonished her.
'You mean to say, then, that I am in your debt for a hundred and thirty pounds?'
'Debt be hanged!' cried Dymes magnanimously. 'That's all done with, long ago. I only wanted to explain how things were.'
Alma reddened. She was trying to remember the state of her banking account, and felt sure that, at this moment, considerably less than a hundred pounds stood to her credit. But she rose promptly.
'Of course, I shall give you a cheque.'
'Nonsense! Don't treat me like a regular agent, Mrs. Rolfe. Surely you know me better than that? I undertook it for the pleasure of the thing——'
'But you don't suppose I can accept a present of money from you, Mr Dymes?'
'Hang it! Just as you like, of course. But don't make me take it now, as if I'd looked in with my little bill. Send the cheque, if you must. But what I really came for, when I called a few weeks ago, was something else—quite a different thing, and a good deal more important. Just sit down again, if you can spare me a few minutes.'
With face averted, Alma sank back into her chair. Harvey would give her the money without a word, but she dreaded the necessity of asking him for it. So disturbed were her thoughts that she did not notice how oddly Dymes was regarding her, and his next words sounded meaningless.
'By-the-bye, can we talk here?'
'Talk——?'
'I mean'—he lowered his voice—'are we safe from interruption? It's all right; don't look frightened. The fact is, I want to speak of something rather awkward—but it's something you ought to know about, if you don't already.'
'I am quite at leisure,' she replied; adding, with a nervous movement of the head, 'there will be no interruption.'
'I want to ask you, then, have you seen Mrs. Strangeways lately?'
'No.'
'Nor Mrs. Carnaby?'
'No.'
'I understand you've broken with them altogether? You don't want anything more to do with that lot?'
'I have nothing whatever to do with them,' Alma replied, steadying her voice to a cold dignity.
'And I think you're quite right. Now, look here—you've heard, I dare say, that I'm going to be married? Well, I'm not the kind of fellow to talk sentiment, as you know. But I've had fair luck in life, and I feel pretty pleased with myself, and if I can do anybody a friendly turn—anybody that deserves it—I'm all there. I want you just to think of me as a friend, and nothing else. You're rather set against me, I know; but try and forget all about that. Things are changed. After all, you know, I'm one of the men that people talk about; my name has got into the "directories of talent", as somebody calls them; and I have a good deal at stake. It won't do for me to go fooling about any more. All I mean is, that you can trust me, down to the ground. And there's nobody I would be better pleased to help in a friendly way than you, Mrs. Rolfe.'
Alma was gazing at him in surprise, mingled with apprehension.
'Please say what you mean. I don't see how you can possibly do me any service. I have given up all thought of a professional career.
'I know you have. I'm sorry for it, but it isn't that I want to talk about. You don't see Mrs. Carnaby, but I suppose you hear of her now and then?'
'Very rarely.'
'You know that she has been taken up by Lady Isobel Barker?'
'Who is Lady Isobel Barker?'
'Why, she's a daughter of the Earl of Bournemouth, and she married a fellow on the Stock Exchange. There are all sorts of amusing stories about her. I don't mean anything shady—just the opposite. She did a good deal of slumming at the time when it was fashionable, and started a home for women of a certain kind—all that sort of thing. Barker is by way of being a millionaire, and they live in great style; have Royalties down at Boscombe, and so on. Well, Mrs. Carnaby has got hold of her. I don't know how she managed it. Just after that affair it looked as if she would have a bad time. People cut her—you know all about that?'
'No, I don't. You mean that they thought——'
'Just so; they did think.' He nodded and smiled. 'She was all the talk at the clubs, and, no doubt, in the boudoirs. I wasn't a friend of hers, you know—I met her now and then, that was all; so I didn't quite know what to think. But it looked—didn'tit?'
Alma avoided his glance, and said nothing.
'I shouldn't wonder,' pursued Dymes, 'if she went to Lady Isobel and talked about her hard case, and just asked for help. At all events, last May we began to hear of Mrs. Carnaby again. Women who wanted to be thought smart had quite altered their tone about her. Men laughed, but some of them began to admit that the case was doubtful. At all events, Lady Isobel was on her side, and that meant a good deal.'
'And she went about in society just as if nothing had happened?'
'No, no. That would have been bad taste, considering where her husband was. She wasn't seen much, only talked about. She's a clever woman, and by the time Carnaby's let loose she'll have played the game so well that things will be made pretty soft for him. I'm told he's a bit of a globe-trotter, sportsman, and so on. All he has to do is to knock up a book of travels, and it'll go like wildfire.'
Alma had pulled to pieces a tassel on her chair.
'What has all this to do with me?' she asked abruptly.
'I'm coming to that. You don't know anything about Mrs. Strangeways either? Well, theremaybe a doubt about Mrs. Carnaby, but there's none about Mrs. S. She's just about as bad as they make 'em. I could tell you things—but I won't. What I want to know is, did you quarrel with her?'
'Quarrel! Why should we have quarrelled? What had I to do with her?'
'Nothing about Redgrave?' asked Dymes, pushing his head forward and speaking confidentially.
'What do you mean?'
'No harm, I assure you—all the other way. IknowMrs. Strangeways, and I've had a good deal of talk with her lately, and I couldn't help suspecting you had a reason of your own for getting clear of her. Let me tell you, first of all, that she's left her house in Porchester Terrace. My belief is that she and her husband haven't a five-pound note between them. And the queer thing is, that this has come about since Redgrave's death.'
He paused to give his words their full significance. Alma, no longer disguising her interest, faced him with searching eyes.
'She's a bad un,' pursued the musician, 'and I shouldn't care to tell all I think about her life for the last few years. I've seen a good deal of life myself, you know, and I don't pretend to be squeamish; but I draw a line for women. Mrs. Strangeways goes a good bit beyond it, as I know for certain.'
'What is it tome?' said Alma, with tremulous impatience.
'Why, this much. She is doing her best to harm you, and in a devilish artful way. She tries to makemebelieve—and it's certain she says the same to others—that what happened at Wimbledon wasthe result of a plot between you and Redgrave's housekeeper!'
Alma stared at him, her parted lips quivering with an abortive laugh.
'Do you understand? She says that you were furiously jealous of Mrs Carnaby, and didn't care what you did to ruin her; that you put Redgrave's housekeeper up to telling Carnaby lies about his wife.'
'How long has she been saying this?'
'I heard it for the first time about two months ago. But let me go on. The interesting thing is that, at the time of the trial and after it, she was all the other way. She as good as told me that she had proof against Mrs. Carnaby; I fancy she told lots of people the same. She talked as if she hated the woman. But now that Mrs. Carnaby is looking up—you see?—she's going to play Mrs. Carnaby's game at your expense. What I should like to know is whether they've done it together?'
'There can't be much doubt of that,' said Alma, between her teeth.
'I don't know,' rejoined the other cautiously. 'Have you reason to think that Mrs. Carnaby would like to injure you?'
'I'm quite sure she would do so if it benefited herself.'
'And yet you were fast friends not long ago, weren't you?' asked Dymes, with a look of genuine curiosity.
'We don't always know people as well as we think. Where is that woman living now?—I mean, Mrs. Strangeways.'
'That's more than I can tell you. She is—or is supposed to be—out of town. I saw her last just before she left her house.'
'Is the other in town?'
'Mrs. Carnaby? I don't know. I was going to say,' Dymes pursued, 'that the story Mrs. S. has been telling seems to me very clumsy, and that's why I don't think the other has any hand in it. She seemed to have forgotten that Redgrave's housekeeper, who was wanted by the police, wasn't likely to put herself in Carnaby's way—the man she had robbed. I pointed that out, but she only laughed. "We're not bound to believe," she said, "all that Carnaby said on his trial."'
'We are not,' Alma remarked, with a hard smile.
'You think he dressed things up a bit?'
'I think,' answered Alma, 'that he may have known more than he told.'
'That's my idea, too. But never mind; whatever the truth may be, that woman is doing you a serious injury. I felt you ought to know about it. People have talked about you a good deal, wondering why on earth you dropped out of sight so suddenly after that splendid start; and it was only natural they should connect your name with the Carnaby affair, knowing, as so many did, that you were a friend of theirs, and of Redgrave too.'
'I knew Mr. Redgrave,' said Alma, 'but I was no friend of his.'
Dymes peered at her.
'Didn't he interest himself a good deal in your business?'
'Not more than many other people.'
'Well, I'm very glad to hear that,' said Dymes, looking about the room. 'I tell you, honestly, that whenever I have a chance of speaking up for you, I shall do it.'
'I am very much obliged, but I really don't think it matters what is said of me. I am not likely ever to meet the people who talk about such things.'
She said it in so convincing a tone that Dymes looked at her gravely.
'I never know any one change so much,' he observed. 'Is it really your health? No other reason for giving up such magnificent chances?'
'Of course, I have my reasons. They concern nobody but myself.'
'I might give a guess, I dare say. Well, you're the best judge, and we won't say any more about that. But look here—about Mrs. S. and her scandal. I feel sure, as I said, that she's toadying to Mrs. Carnaby, and expects to make her gain out of it somehow. Her husband's a loafing, gambling fellow, and I shouldn't wonder if he gave her the skip. Most likely she'll have to live by her wits, and we know what that means in a woman of her kind. She'll be more or less dangerous to everybody that's worth blackmailing.'
'You think she had—she was dependent in some way upon Mr. Redgrave?' asked Alma, in an undertone.
'I've heard so. Shall I tell you what a woman said who is very likely to know? Long ago, in the time of her first marriage, she got hold of something about him that would have made a furious scandal, and he had to pay for her silence. All gossip; but there's generally a foundation for that kind of thing. If it's true, no doubt she has been at his relatives since his death. It doesn't look as if they were disposed to be bled. Perhaps they turned the tables on her. She has looked sour and disappointed enough for a long time.'
'I was just thinking,' said Alma, with an air of serious deliberation, 'whether it would be worth while formeto turn the tables on her, and prosecute her for slander.'
'If you take my advice, you'll keep out of that,' replied the other, with emphasis. 'But another thing has occurred to me. I see your opinion of Mrs. Carnaby, and no doubt you have good reason for it. Now, would it be possible to frighten her? Have you'—he peered more keenly—'any evidence that would make things awkward for Mrs. Carnaby?'
Alma kept close lips, breathing rapidly.
'If youhave,' pursued the other, 'just give her a hint that Mrs Strangeways had better stop talking. You'll find it effectual, no doubt.'
He watched her, and tried to interpret the passion in her eyes.
'If I think it necessary,' said Alma, and seemed to check herself.
'No need to say any more. I wished to put you on your guard, that's all. We've known each other for a longish time, and I've often enough felt sorry that something didn't come off—you remember when. No good talking about that; but I shall always be glad if I can be a friend to you. And, I say, don't think any more about that cheque, there's a good girl.'
The note of familiar patronage was more than distasteful to Alma.
'I shall, of course, send it,' she replied curtly.
'As you please. Would you like to hear a bit from my new opera? It isn't every one gets the chance, you know.'
Quite in his old way, he seated himself at the piano, and ran lightly through a few choicemorceaux, exacting praise, and showing himself vexed because it was not fervent. In spite of her wandering thoughts, Alma felt the seductiveness of these melodies—their originality, their grace—and once more she wondered at their coming from the mind of such a man.
'Very pretty.'
'Pretty!' exclaimed the composer scornfully. 'It's a good deal more than that, and you know it. I don't care—there's somebody else feels deuced proud of me, and good reason too. Well, ta-ta!'
There are disadvantages in associating with people whose every word, as likely as not, may be an insidious falsehood. Thinking over what she had heard from Dymes, Alma was inclined to believe him; on the other hand, she knew it to be quite possible that he sought her with some interested motive. The wise thing, she knew, would be to disregard his reports, and hold aloof from the world in which they originated. But she had a strong desire to see Mrs. Strangeways. There might be someone at the house in Porchester Terrace who could help her to discover its late tenant. However dangerous the woman's wiles and slanders, an interview with her could do no harm, and might set at rest a curiosity long lurking, now feverishly stimulated. With regard to Sibyl, there could be little doubt that Dymes had heard, or conjectured, the truth. Sibyl was clever enough to make her perilous reverse a starting-point for new social conquests. Were there but a hope of confronting her with some fatal disclosure, and dragging her down, down!
That cheque must be sent. She would show Harvey the account this evening, and have done with the unpleasantness of it. Probably he remembered from time to time that she had never told him how her business with Dymes was settled. No more duplicity. The money would be paid, and therewith finis to that dragging chapter of her life.
Harvey came home at five o'clock, and, as usual, had tea with her. Of late he had been uneasy about Cecil Morphew, whose story Alma knew; today he spoke more hopefully.
'Shall I bring him here tomorrow, and make him stay over Sunday? Sunday is his bad day, and no wonder. If there were a licensed poison-shop in London, they'd do a very fair trade on Sundays.'
'There are the public-houses,' said Alma.
'Yes; but Morphew doesn't incline that way. The fellow has delicate instincts, and suffers all the more; so the world is made. I can't help hoping it may come right for him yet. I have a suspicion that Mrs. Winter may be on his side; if so, it's only a question of time. I keep at him like a slave-driver; hehasto work whilst I'm there; and he takes it very good-humouredly. But you mustn't give him music, Alma; he says he can't stand it.'
'I'm much obliged to him,' she answered, laughing.
'You understand well enough.'
After dinner Alma found her courage and the fitting moment.
'I have something disagreeable to talk about. Mr. Dymes called this afternoon, and handed in hisbill.'
'His bill? Yes, yes, I remember.—What's all this? Surely you haven't obliged him to come looking after his money?'
'It's the first account I have received.'
Rolfe puckered his face a little as he perused the document, but ended, as he began, with a smile. In silence he turned to the writing-table, took out his cheque-book, and wrote.
'You don't mind its being in my name?'
'Not at all. Indeed, I prefer it. But I am sorry and ashamed,' she added in a murmur.
'Let it be taken to the post at once,' said Rolfe quietly.
When this was done, Alma made known what Dymes had told her about Sibyl, speaking in an unconcerned voice, and refraining from any hint of suspicion or censure.
'I had heard of it,' said Harvey, with troubled brow, and evidently wished to say no more.
'What do you suppose Mr. Carnaby will do?' Alma inquired.
'Impossible to say. I'm told that the business at Coventry is flourishing, and no doubt his interest in it remains. I hear, too, that those Queensland mines are profitable at last. So there'll be no money troubles. But what he will do——'
The subject was dropped.
Harvey had succeeded in hiding his annoyance at the large debt to Dymes, a sum he could ill afford; but he was glad to have paid it, and pleased with Alma's way of dismissing it to oblivion. The talk that followed had turned his mind upon a graver trouble: he sat thinking of Hugh Carnaby. Dear old Hugh! Not long ago the report ran that his health was in a bad state. To one who knew him the wonder was that he kept alive. But the second year drew on.
On Monday morning, when Harvey and his friend had started for town, and Hughie was at school, Alma made ready to go out. In many months she had been to London only two or three times. Thus alone could she subdue herself. She tried to forget all that lay eastward from Gunnersbury, rejecting every kind of town amusement, and finding society in a very small circle of acquaintances who lived almost as quietly as herself. But this morning she yielded to the impulse made irresistible by Dymes's visit. In leaving the house, she seemed to escape from an atmosphere so still and heavy that it threatened her blood with stagnation; she breathed deeply of the free air, and hastened towards the railway as if she had some great pleasure before her.
But this mood had passed long before the end of her journey. Alighting at Queen's Road, she walked hurriedly to Porchester Terrace, and from the opposite side of the way had a view of Mrs. Strangeways' house. It was empty, to let. She crossed, and rang the bell, on the chance that some caretaker might be within; but no one answered. Her heart throbbing painfully, she went on a little distance, then stood irresolute. A cab crawled by; she raised her hand, and gave the direction, 'Oxford and Cambridge Mansions'. Once here, she had no difficulty in carrying out her purpose. Passion came to her aid; and when Sibyl's door opened she could hardly wait for an invitation before stepping in.
The drawing-room was changed; it had been refurnished, and looked even more luxurious than formerly. For nearly ten minutes she had to stand waiting; seat herself she could not. Then entered Sibyl.
'Good morning, Mrs. Rolfe. I am glad to see you.'
The latter sentence was spoken not as a mere phrase of courtesy, but with intention, with quiet yet unmistakable significance. Sibyl did not offer her hand; she moved a chair so that its back was to the light, and sat down very much as she might have done if receiving an applicant for a 'situation'.
'You had some reason for coming so early?'
Alma, who had felt uncertain how this interview would begin, was glad that she had to meet no pretences of friendship. Her heart burned within her; she was pallid, and her eyes shone fiercely.
'I came to ask if you could tell me where Mrs. Strangeways is to be found?'
'Mrs. Strangeways?' Sibyl repeated, with cold surprise. 'I know nothing about her.'
Feeling in every way at a disadvantage—contrast of costume told in Sibyl's favour, and it was enhanced by the perfection of her self-command—Alma could not maintain the mockery of politeness.
'Of course, you say that,' she rejoined haughtily; 'and, of course, I don't believe it.'
'That is nothing to me, Mrs. Rolfe,' remarked the other, smiling. 'Doubtless you have your own reasons for declining to believe me; just as you have your own reasons for—other things. Your next inquiry?'
'Hasn't it been rather unwise of you, keeping away from me all this time?'
'Unwise? I hardly see your meaning.'
'It looked rather as if you felt afraid to meet me.'
'I see; that is your point of view.' Sibyl seemed to reflect upon it calmly. 'To me, on the other hand, it appeared rather strange that I neither saw nor heard from you at a time when other friends were showing their sympathy. I heard that you were ill for a short time, and felt sorry I was unable to call. Later, you still kept silence. I didn't know the reason, and could hardly be expected to ask for it. As for being afraid to meet you—that, I suppose, is a suspicion natural to your mind. We won't discuss it. Is there any other question you would like to ask?'
Humiliated by her inability to reply with anything but a charge she could not support, and fearing the violence of her emotions if she were longer subjected to this frigid insult, Alma rose.
'One moment, if you please,' continued Mrs. Carnaby. 'I was glad that you had come, as I had half wished for an opportunity of speaking a few words to you. It isn't a matter of much importance, but I may as well say, perhaps, that you are indiscreet in your way of talking about me to your friends. Of course, we haven't many acquaintances in common, but I happen to have heard the opinion of me which you expressed to—let me see, some ladies named Leach, whom I once knew slightly. It seems hardly worth while to take serious steps in the matter—though I might find it necessary. I only wish, in your own interest, to say a word of warning. You have behaved, all things considered'—she dwelt on the phrase—'rather indiscreetly.'
'I said what I knew to be the truth,' replied Alma, meeting her look with the satisfaction of defiance.
Sibyl approached one step.
'You knew it?' she asked, very softly and deliberately, searching the passionate face with eyes as piercing as they were beautiful.
'With certainty.'
'I used to think you intelligent,' said Sibyl, 'but I fancy you don't perceive what this "certainty" of yours suggests.' She paused, with a curling lip. 'Let me put you on your guard. You have very little command of your primitive feelings, and they bring you into danger. I should be sorry to think that an unpleasant story I have heard whispered was anything more than ill-natured scandal, but it's as well to warn you thatotherpeople have a taste for that kind of gossip.'
'I'm well aware of it,' flashed the listener. 'And that was the very reason why I came to ask you where Mrs. Strangeways is hiding.'
'Mrs. Rolfe, you are aware of too many things. In your position I should be uneasy.'
'I will leave you to enjoy yourownuneasiness,' returned Alma, with a contemptuous laugh. 'You must have enough of it, without imagining that of others.'
She half turned. Sibyl again took one step forward, and spoke with ever so little tremor in the even voice.
'You have understood me, I hope?'
'Oh, quite. You have shown plainly how—afraid you are. Good morning, Mrs. Carnaby.'
Baker Street station being so near, Alma was tempted to go straightway and demand from the Leach sisters an explanation of what she had heard; they, too, seemed to be behaving treacherously. But she was unwilling to miss the luncheon hour at home, for Hughie would speak of it to his father, and so oblige her to make false excuses. Besides, she had suffered more than enough indignity (though not unavenged!), and it was better to summon the sisters to her presence.
On reaching home, she at once sent them an ordinary invitation, but of the briefest. In the evening she received Dymes's acknowledgment of the cheque. Next day she wrote to him, a few formal lines, requesting that he would let her know Mrs. Strangeways' address as soon as he had discovered it.
Dora Leach came to Gunnersbury alone. She was in distress and worry, for her father had fallen ill again, and the doctors doubted whether he would ever be fit to resume work; it had just dawned upon Dora that the breadwinner of the family deserved rather more consideration than he had been wont to receive, and that his death might involve unpleasant consequences for those dependent upon him. To Alma's questioning she replied frankly and with self-reproach. It was true that she had whispered her friend's suspicions of Mrs. Carnaby, but only to one person, and in strictest confidence. Neither she nor Gerda had met Mrs Carnaby, and how the whisper could have reached Sibyl's ears was inconceivable to her.
'It doesn't matter in the least,' said Alma, finally. 'To tell you the truth, I'm not sorry.'
'Why, that's just what I thought!' exclaimed Dora, with sudden clearing of her countenance.
In a fortnight or so there came a note from Dymes, written at Brussels. He had ascertained that Mrs. Strangeways was somewhere on the Continent, but as yet he could not succeed in 'running her down'. Let Mrs. Rolfe depend upon his zeal in this search, as in any other matter in which he could be of use to her. Unfortunately, this envelope came under Harvey's eyes, and Alma, knowing he had seen it, felt obliged to speak.
'Mr. Dymes refuses to believe that I shall never play again in public,' she remarked, putting down his letter, as carelessly as possible, by her plate at breakfast.
'Does he pester you? If so, it might be better for me to——'
'Oh dear, no! I can manage my own correspondence, Harvey, thank you.'
Her tone of slight petulance was due to fear that he might ask to see the letter, and it had its effect. But Alma's heart sank at the deception, and her skill in practising it. Was it impossible to become what she desired to be, an honest woman! Only yesterday Harvey had spoken to her with vexation of a piece of untruthfulness in Hughie, and had begged her to keep a watch upon the child's habit in this respect. And she had promised, with much earnestness, much concern.
There are women who can breathe only in the air of lies and of treachery. Alma rebelled against the fate which made her life dishonourable. Fate—she declared—not the depravity of her own heart. From the dark day that saw her father's ruin, she had been condemned to a struggle with circumstances. She meant honestly; she asked no more than the free exercise of instincts nature had given her; but destiny was adverse, and step by step had brought her into a position so false, so hopeless, that she wondered at her strength in living on.
Hughie had begun to learn the maps of countries, and prided himself on naming them as he turned over an atlas. One day, about this time, she looked over his shoulder and saw the map of Italy.
'Those are lakes,' said the child, pointing north. 'Tell me their names, Mother.'
But she was silent. Her eye had fallen upon Garda, and at the head of the lake was a name which thrilled her memory. What if she had gone to Riva? Suddenly, and for the first time, she saw it as a thing that might have happened; not as a mere dark suggestion abhorrent to her thought. Had she known the world a little better, it might have been. Then, how different her life! Pleasure, luxury, triumph; for she had proved herself capable of triumphing. He, the man of money and influence, would have made it his pride to smooth the way for her. And perhaps never a word against her reputation; or, if whispers, did she not know by this time how indulgent society can be to its brilliant favourites?
As it was: a small house at Gunnersbury, a baffled ambition, a life of envy, hatred, fear, suffered in secret, hidden by base or paltry subterfuge. A husband whom she respected, whose love she had never ceased to desire, though, strange to say, she knew not whether she loved him. Only death could part them; but how much better for him and for her if they had never met! Their thoughts and purposes so unlike; he, with his heart and mind set on grave, quiet, restful things, hating the world's tumult, ever hoping to retire beyond its echo; she, her senses crying for the delight of an existence that loses itself in whirl and glare.
In a crowded drawing-room she had heard someone draw attention to her—'the daughter of Bennet Frothingham'. That was how people thought of her, and would it not have been wiser if she had so thought of herself? Daughter of a man who had set all on a great hazard; who had played for the world's reward, and, losing, flung away his life. What hadsheto do with domestic virtues, and the pleasures of a dull, decorous circle? Could it but come over again, she would accept the challenge of circumstance, which she had failed to understand; accept the scandal and the hereditary shame; welcome the lot cast for her, and, like her father, play boldly for the great stakes. His widow might continue to hold her pious faith in him, and refuse to believe that his name merited obloquy; his child knew better. She had mistaken her path, lost the promise of her beauty and her talent, led astray by the feeble prejudice of those who have neither one nor the other. Too late, and worse than idle now, to recognise it. She would be a good woman, rule her little house, bring up her child, and have no will but her husband's.
House-ruling was no easy matter. Things did not go as she wished; the servants were inefficient, sometimes refractory, and she loathed the task of keeping them up to their duties. Insomnia began to trouble her again, and presently she had recourse to the forbidden sleeping-draught. Not regularly, but once a week or so, when the long night harried her beyond endurance. Rolfe did not suspect it, for she never complained to him. Winter was her bad time. In the spring her health would improve, as usual, and then she would give up the habit.
At Christmas the Langlands had the customary visit from their relative, Mr. Thistlewood, who renewed his acquaintance with Alma. At their first meeting she was struck by his buoyant air, his animated talk. A week later, he called in the afternoon. Two ladies happened to be with Alma, and they stayed a long time; but Thistlewood, who comported himself rather oddly, saying little and sometimes neglecting a remark addressed to him, stayed yet longer. When he was alone with his hostess, he took a chair near to her, bent forward, and said, smiling——
'You remember our talk about marriage on a minute income?'
'I do, very well.'
'I have found someone who isn't afraid of it.'
'You have? The same person who formerlywas?'
'No; she was not afraid of the income, but of me. I couldn't be surprised, though it hit me hard. Time has spoken for me.'
Harvey was dining in town. He came back with vexatious news about Cecil Morphew, who neglected business, looked ill, and altogether seemed in a bad way. As he talked, he began to notice that Alma regarded him with brighter and happier eyes than for many a day.
'Why does it amuse you?' he asked, stopping in his narrative.
'It doesn't; I'm as sorry as you are. But I have a surprise for you.'
'A pleasant one, this time, I see.'
'Mrs. Abbott is going to marry Mr. Thistlewood.'
She watched the effect of her words, and for an instant felt the old pang, the old bitterness. But Harvey's confusion of feeling soon passed, giving way to a satisfaction that could not be mistaken.
'Who has told you?'
'The happy man himself.'
'I am glad—heartily glad! But I didn't think it would interest you so much.'
'Oh, women—marriages——!'
She threw a pretty scorn upon herself.
'Yes, that's good news. They will suit each other. But she'll give up her school, and that's a nuisance.'
'There are others as good.'
'But not here. Another removal, I suppose.—When is it to be?'
'Not till the Easter holidays.'
They were in the library. Harvey began to fill his pipe, and nothing more was said until he had drawn a few meditative puffs.
'Another removal,' then escaped him, with half a groan.
'Why should you care?' asked Alma thoughtfully. 'You don't like this place.'
'As well as any other. It's convenient for town.'
'Do you really think of going on in that business, which you detest?'
'It has brought in a little money, and may—ought to—bring more. But if Morphew goes down——'
Alma glanced at him, and said timidly——
'You are going to Greystone at Easter.'
'We shall all go. What of that?'
'Haven't you'—she spoke with an effort—'sometimes thought you would like to live there?'
'Great heavens—Alma!'
He stared at her in humorous astonishment, then slowly shook his head. How couldshelive in such a place as Greystone? And what on earth did she mean by disturbing him with such a suggestion? But Alma, gravely and repeatedly, assured him that she could live there very well; that in all likelihood she would be much more contented there than here.
'I should bring out my violin again, and the Greystone people would admire me. There's a confession—to prove that I am in earnest. I can't conquer the world; I don't wish it; that's all over. But I should find it pleasant to have a reputation in Greystone—I should indeed.'
Harvey sighed, and could not look at her.
'And Hughie,' she continued, 'would go to the Grammar-School. You know how you would like that. And living there is cheap; we might keep our horse again.—Don't say anything now, but think about it.'
He raised his eyes, and fixed them upon her with a look of infinite tenderness and gratitude. It was Alma now who sighed, but not audibly.
Before Thistlewood went north again, Harvey enjoyed long talks with him. Mary Abbott he saw only in the presence of other people. But on an evening in February, when Alma was at the Langlands' and he had promised to call for her at ten o'clock, he left home an hour earlier and walked past Mrs. Abbott's house. A light in the window of her sitting-room showed that Mary was at home. After a turn or two backwards and forwards, he went up to the door and knocked. A very young servant took his name to her mistress, and then admitted him.
'Will you let me answer your letter personally?' he said, as Mrs. Abbott welcomed him in the room where she sat alone.
She had written about Minnie Wager, begging that he would in future cease to contribute to the girl's support, and be responsible only for the boy. In her new home there would be no need of a servant; she and Minnie would do the housework together. Impossible, she wrote, to speak of his kindness both to her and the children. For Minnie, who might henceforth be looked upon as self-supporting, he must no longer be taxed. The child owed him every hope in her life; let him be satisfied with what he had done so generously.
Of these things they talked for a few minutes. It was easy to see how great a change had befallen Mary Abbott's outlook upon life. She was younger by several years, yet not like herself of that earlier time; much gentler, much sweeter in face and word. Harvey observed her with keen pleasure, and, becoming aware of his gaze, his smile, she blushed like a girl.
'Mr. Rolfe—I am sure you feel that I am deserting my post.'
'To be sure you are. I shall always owe you a grudge for it.'
'I thought of it all—of Hughie and the others. I didn't know how I should ever face you.'
''Twas a shameless thing. And yet I can find it in my heart to forgive you. You are so ingenuous about it.'
Mary looked up again.
'What shall you do—about Hughie?'
'Oh, there's a great scheme on foot. Alma suggests that we shall go and live at Greystone. It tempts me.'
'That it must, indeed! I know how you would like it.'
'We shouldn't be so very far apart then—an hour's journey or so. You would come to us, and we to you.'
'Delightful!'
They had not much more to say, but each was conscious of thought in the other's mind that supplemented their insufficient phrases. As they shook hands, Mary seemed trying to speak. The lamplight made a glimmer in her eyes, and their lids drooped as she said at length——
'I am so glad that you like each other.'
'He's a splendid fellow,' replied Rolfe joyously. 'I think no end of him.'
'And he of you—for I have told him everything.'
Then Harvey quitted the house, and walked about under the starry sky until it was time to call for Alma.