Produced by Al Haines.
*THE SUNDIAL*
BY
FRED M. WHITE
_Author of "The Crimson Blind," etc._
NEW YORK
B. W. DODGE & COMPANY
Copyright, 1908, by
B. W. DODGE & COMPANY
NEW YORK
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. A Blighted Life
II. "The Desire of the Moth"
III. "Home, Sweet Home!"
IV. Sackcloth and Ashes
V. "But yet a Woman"
VI. A Scientific Discussion
VII. The Photograph
VIII. The Rubicon
IX. Beyond the Bridge
X. The First of the Fruit
XI. The Doctrine of Plato
XII. A Crime or Not?
XIII. Modern Friendship
XIV. Bark is Confidential
XV. Ill Tidings
XVI. The Honour of the Family
XVII. "Love me, Love my Dog"
XVIII. Cupboard Love
XIX. Unbidden Guests
XX. Across the Threshold
XXI. The Honour of the Family.
XXII. Bread and Salt
XXIII. Behind the Veil
XXIV. Mistress of Herself
XXV. A Plausible Scoundrel
XXVI. The Jewel Casket
XXVII. Kate comes Back
XXVIII. A Startling Contrast
XXIX. A Lapse of Memory
XXX. "Thou art the Man"
XXXI. An Unexpected Friend
XXXII. Swift comes out
XXXIII. A Word in Season
XXXIV. A Black Suspicion
XXXV. The Search
XXXVI. An Unseen Danger
XXXVII. A Dark Suspicion
XXXVIII. The Empty Room
XXXIX. In the Bar
XL. "Infirm of Purpose"
XLI. Damning Proofs
XLII. The Fire
XLIII. A One-sided Contest
XLIV. Brought to Book
XLV. The Hiding-Place
XLVI. The Price of a Crime
XLVII. Absolution
XLVIII. Sealed in the Grave
*THE SUNDIAL*
*CHAPTER I*
*A BLIGHTED LIFE*
The bitterness of it tasted dry and insipid in John Charlock's mouth,
like Dead Sea fruit. It was only lately that he had found out that all
he had longed and hoped for since the early days was nothing more than
vexation of spirit.
This process had been gradual, but it was none the less painful for
that. It mattered nothing now that fame and fortune had come to him
through the medium of his brush and pencil. For Charlock had fought his
way up from the bottom. He had known what it was to starve. He had
often slept in the open parks. And now everything was changed, and he
stood almost unrivalled as a portrait-painter. And at the same time he
appeared to have found the one woman who could make his happiness
complete.
It was only five years ago, yet it seemed to Charlock like a lifetime.
Perhaps he had been to blame; perhaps he had been harsh and hard, but
the gulf between his wife and himself seemed to have been bridged over
since the boy came.
And the child was slipping away, as an evening primrose blooms and dies
within the compass of a night.... It had been a weary vigil and cruel
withal, since there was only one end. The doctor held out no hope. He
had told him that the boy could not last till morning, and that was why
Charlock had sent the nurse away, so that he might be with his child
till the end. Very quietly he crept back to the bed again and stood
looking down at the small, white face. The features were so colourless
that death might have come already, save that the lips were parting and
the eyelids twitched. The child had spoken his last words. Charlock
would never hear that voice again.
The end was very, very near. The tiny life was drifting out to sea with
the tide. As Charlock stood there his eye noted the sudden change, his
quick ear caught a fluttering sigh. There was no need to tell him that
the boy had gone.
Well, that was over, at any rate. Charlock felt quite calm and
collected. There was no great grief in his heart. He supposed it was
all for the best. Perhaps it would have been a pity if little Jack had
grown up to the knowledge of a divided household. But it would be a
divided household no longer. And the sooner Kate Charlock realised that
the better. Of course, she would have all the sympathy and he would
have all the blame. Not that he cared much about that. A great artist
like John Charlock was beyond the measure of ordinary criticism. No
doubt his was a sour, saturnine nature. No doubt Kate Charlock was
pitied by all who knew her. It seemed almost a tragedy that a woman so
pure and beautiful should be allied to so uncouth a being as Charlock.
These strange thoughts ran through the painter's mind like a thread of
scarlet intermingled with a warp of black.
Well, the boy was dead. Charlock repeated the words over and over
again, as if forcing himself to realise it. He had sat there for hours
watching the small light burn lower and lower in its socket, while his
wife slept in her own room. She had persistently refused to believe
that there was anything radically wrong with the boy, though she had
asked Charlock to call her in case a crisis might arise. Perhaps
Charlock had forgotten about his wife. But the boy was dead, and Kate
Charlock lay asleep, happily oblivious to the toy tragedy.
But she would have to be told. She must be aroused at once. Quietly
Charlock crossed the corridor and entered his wife's room. He gave a
quick, contemptuous glance at all the signs of extravagance and luxury
which was the dominant note of the place. Here was a Duchesse
dressing-table, littered with silver toilet appliances. The air was
heavy with perfume. A pair of wax candles gleamed on either side of the
dressing-table. In an armchair close by a figure in black lay fast
asleep. The hangings from the bed were thrown back, and on the bed
itself lay a heap of discarded clothing. With a sudden outburst of
anger Charlock shook the figure in the armchair. The woman opened her
eyes.
"What has become of your mistress?" Charlock asked hoarsely. "Now,
don't tell any of your lies to me! Where has she gone?"
The maid began to whimper, but it was no use to wriggle and prevaricate
under those stern eyes. There was something in the square, grim face of
John Charlock that caused most people to fear him. He looked positively
cruel.
"She has gone out, sir," the maid stammered.
"Oh, she has gone out, and she left you to wait up for her? She went
early? It was a few minutes past ten when your mistress came to bed,
and I was to wake her if anything--happened."
An insolent look came over the maid's face.
"If you want to know, she's gone to Mrs. Bromley-Martin's," she said.
"It's no business of mine, and, though I am a servant, I am not used to
being spoken to like this. If you looked after your wife a bit better
there wouldn't be so much talk."
"Talk!" Charlock echoed. "What do you mean?"
"Ask the other servants. Ask your neighbours. Ask them what Mrs.
Charlock does in the garden by night. It is all very well to be fond of
solitude. If it could only speak, that old sundial could tell a story or
two. Once they used to hide love-letters in trees. Nowadays they have
got a better idea than that. If I were you----"
But Charlock was not listening. It was doubtful, even, if he had
noticed the studied insolence of the French maid. He strode back to the
chamber of death and locked the door behind him. He was thinking of men
who had killed their wives for less than this. He was filled with the
heartless cruelty of it, the cold-blooded cruelty and deceit. How could
a mother have slipped away in this fashion, knowing that her child was
so ill? It was no excuse that she had been sanguine of his recovery.
From the very first she had refused to believe that there was anything
wrong with the boy. And doubtless that was why she had gone off,
thinking that her husband would be none the wiser. And once he had
regarded her as one of the best of women and the sweetest. He had not
been much of a squire of dames, except from a business point of view.
But Kate Chantrey had been different from the rest. Her beauty was so
_spirituelle_. Those great brown eyes of hers were clear and pure and
soulful as those of a Madonna.
Bare-headed, Charlock walked through the garden and out into the road.
The dawn was breaking in the east and pearly mists were rolling up the
valleys. But Charlock saw none of these things. In a vague kind of way
he noticed the old sundial at the bottom of the garden, with the
fountain round it--that marvellous piece of carving which had been one
of his extravagances on his last trip to Venice. It looked fair and
chaste in the light of the early morn. There was nothing about it to
suggest a vulgar _liaison_ such as that at which Hortense, the French
maid, had hinted. Charlock would have dismissed the idea
contemptuously, but somehow he could not get it out of his mind; and yet
it must have been mere servants' gossip. Kate Charlock was too
inordinately selfish, too fond of the luxuries that her husband's money
provided, to compromise herself even for so fascinating a man as Arnold
Rent. Charlock knew that Rent was a friend of his wife's, a man whom
she professed to understand and sympathise with. But the matter had
never troubled him before. He could trust Kate. Assuredly he had
confidence in her so long as her interests were his.
He came at length to his destination. He walked across the lawn of Mrs.
Bromley-Martin's house. He could see two figures on the balcony. With a
bitter smile he recognised his wife.
"The woman pays," he muttered to himself. "Oh, yes, the woman pays right
enough, but it is generally the man who finds the money. Presumably God
in His wisdom has some use for women like that, but it is hard to see
where that fool of a fellow comes in. I dare say he fancies her
ill-used and ill-treated, and tied to a brute unworthy of a mate at all.
And yet as I stand here, knowing everything, I am not surprised that
Rent should be deceived. Well, he shall have his chance to learn his
lesson as I learnt mine. It seems almost a pity to intrude upon a scene
of high emotion like that, but it must be done."
Charlock bent to listen again. There was no word of the conversation
that escaped him. Then he saw the hostess emerge and claim his wife's
attention. A wild desire to rush into the drawing-room, to overturn
chairs and card-tables and drive those puppets into the open air seized
him. They longed for a new sensation. They were very near having one
at that moment. Checking the insane impulse, Charlock passed through
the open window and entered the drawing-room. The close, highly spiced
atmosphere seemed to choke him. His mind went back, now, to the great
trouble which he had just gone through. There sat the woman who should
have shared his vigil, smiling and sorting her cards as if she had not a
care in the world.
It was hard to restrain the reproaches that rose to his lips. It was a
tense task to approach the card-table quietly and lay his hand upon his
wife's arm. It was small wonder, too, that the grip should have been
close as that of a vise.
*CHAPTER II*
*"THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH"*
"It would be quite safe," Kate Charlock had said to herself. John was
so foolish about the boy. He always took the gloomiest view of
everything. She would retire to her bedroom and would pretend to be
asleep. She could dress herself and slip across to Mrs.
Bromley-Martin's and pass the night in the fascinating pursuit of
bridge. Nobody would know. She would be back by daylight. And then she
could take her husband's place by the boy's bedside.
She had forgotten everything in the excitement of the moment. She leant
forward as the game finished.
"Mrs. Charlock cuts out," the dealer murmured.
She rose reluctantly and another gambler eagerly took her place. The
subdued lights of the shaded candles touched drawn faces. Now and again
came a cry of annoyance from some plunger whose luck was past bearing.
Outside, the silence of the night was coming to an end. The trees
murmured with the first touch of the morning breeze. As Kate Charlock
crossed the room towards one of the French windows a man followed her.
One of the card-players elevated his eyebrows and smiled significantly
at his partner, who happened also to be his hostess. Her eyes twinkled
in reply.
"Who is the man?" he asked.
"Arnold Rent," was the reply. "They say he is going to be President of
the Royal Society. He is a man of various attainments. He is writing a
series of essays on the follies of Society. I believe electricity is
his specialty. But he says he came here to-night to gain experience."
"That was ingenious of him," the questioner said sarcastically. "He
couldn't have come to a better house. All the follies and frivolities
worth seeing can be found here."
"That is right enough," Mrs. Bromley-Martin said placidly. "I thought
it was awfully sweet of him to choose me out of so many others. I am
living in hopes that perhaps he will mention my name in one of his
essays, and then how furiously jealous all the rest will be! Still, I
like Arnold Rent. He is so terribly cynical. In the old days he would
have made an ideal libertine."
The man under discussion crossed the room and stood by Kate Charlock's
side. She turned her beautiful face to him, her eyes smiled a welcome.
It was by no means the first time the two had met under Mrs.
Bromley-Martin's roof.
"There is a seat on the balcony," Rent said. "Shall we sit there and
chat for five minutes? The atmosphere of that room is positively poison
to me. It seems incredible that civilised men and women, endowed with
all the blessings of life, can sit down and deliberately pass their
nights like this."
A gentle sigh escaped Kate Charlock's lips. Her face glowed with
sympathy; there was a sad expression on the lovely features.
"Is it as bad as you expected, then?" she asked.
"Oh, worse, infinitely worse. In their way these people are just as
heathenish as the Romans of the Empire were. What a strange thing
fashion is! Your friends come down here ostensibly from the Cowes
Regatta, but they have played nothing but bridge all day since Monday.
It disgusts me to see young girls given over to the vice of gambling,
heedless of aught else. Forgive me if I wonder why you come here. It
cannot be out of sympathy with women like Mrs. Bromley-Martin and her
class."
"Perhaps not," Kate Charlock murmured. She sighed again in the same
gentle fashion. Her eyes had a far-away look in them. "Perhaps I am
like the man who is on the verge of a breakdown from overwork, or the
man who falls back upon brandy to drown some overwhelming sorrow."
The words came slowly and sadly. In the first flush of the dawn Rent
did not fail to see the look of patient unhappiness on the face of his
companion. Many fair women Arnold Rent had seen in his time, but never
one who appealed to him as Kate Charlock did then. He had been too
seriously engaged in study to think of women in the abstract. This tall,
fair creature in silver grey appeared to be asking mutely for his
sympathy. It was such a perfect face, too, a face that seemed to be out
of place here. There was a suggestion of sadness in the glorious eyes,
as if the woman nursed some secret sorrow and hid it bravely from the
world. Nine men out of ten would have picked out Kate Charlock as a
perfect confidante in the hour of trouble or affliction. And Arnold
Rent had heard whispers of the story of her life. He turned to her
quickly, forgetting his cynicism.
"Do you speak from experience?" he asked.
A wave of colour swept over her face.
"You have no right to ask that question," she said.
"That is true, but I am not speaking out of vulgar curiosity. It was
yourself who hinted that you came here to escape your own thoughts."
"Did I say as much as that?" Kate Charlock asked absently. "You must
make allowance for us poor women who have seen enough of the world to
know that it is the woman who always pays."
"So you are one of the women who pay, are you? Do you know, I guessed
that the first time I saw you. There is something sad and pathetic
about you. And yet I am sure you are brave and strong. But, tell me,
is the trouble likely to last?"
"I am afraid so," Kate Charlock murmured. "It is such a terrible thing
for a woman to be tied to a man who has no sympathy with her. But I am
speaking disloyally of my husband."
Arnold Rent pursued the subject no further. He had heard something of
the kind of man that John Charlock, the famous artist, was. Despite his
brilliant genius, despite the position which he had attained from the
ranks of the people, he was spoken of as a boor and a savage brute where
his beautiful wife was concerned. Strange, Rent thought cynically, how
frequently men like these win the pearls among womanhood. He was about
to say something of this kind when the hostess darted suddenly out and
pounced upon Kate Charlock. With a sigh of protest the latter rose.
"You must come and take my hand," Mrs. Bromley-Martin shrieked. "I am
called away for the moment."
With a self-sacrificing smile Kate Charlock returned to the
drawing-room, followed by Rent. After the sweetness of the morning air,
the atmosphere of the room was close and repellent. The gamblers sat
jaded and weary, their faces ghastly where the light fell upon them, but
the greedy light in their eyes was still as keen as ever. Rent could
hear the swish of the cards as they slid over the green baize tables.
He could hear the click of gold and the rustle of bank paper. His heart
beat faster as he stood watching. What chance could there be for the
common people, he asked himself, when the rich amused themselves like
this? It was so demoralising, too. It seemed almost impossible to
believe that the keen-eyed, eager woman sorting her cards dexterously
could be the same sweet creature who had been seated by his side a few
moments ago. If ever woman was in need of spiritual support, that woman
was Kate Charlock. What a glorious thing it would be to play the game
of platonic friend, to show her how to suffer her misfortunes calmly.
She was the sort of woman, too, who in happier auspices might be a maker
of history. Rent could understand men going mad for the sake of a face
like that, or travelling to the end of the world to obey her lightest
wish. He wondered what manner of man it was that treated so beautiful a
creature with cruel indifference.
He was still wondering when the open French window was flung back and an
intruder entered. The intruder was not in evening dress. He was attired
in a shabby flannel suit, his hair was dishevelled, his short brown
beard in disorder. The man's face was a strong one, and there was an
almost sinister suggestion of power about the short, blunt nose and
deep-set, gleaming eyes. There was anger as well as bitter contempt
written on the features as he strode across the room towards the table
where Kate Charlock was seated. By instinct Arnold Rent knew that he
was face to face with Mrs. Charlock's husband.
The stranger strode up to her and laid his hand on her arm. Her
features turned a shade paler as she glanced up.
"John," she faltered. Just for a moment it occurred to Rent that the
woman's face had a guilty air. "What are you doing here like this? Is
anything wrong?"
"Oh, I know I am out of place," the stranger said grimly. "Mrs.
Bromley-Martin has asked me more than once to call, and now I am here.
I have come for _you_."
The speaker's stern, clear tones rang through the room, and cards were
dropped for the moment. The hostess laughed.
"Oh, don't mention it," she said. "I love originality. You can't think
how tired one gets sometimes of bridge in a drawing-room."
All eyes were turned upon Charlock, and he seemed to have become master
of the situation. He walked to the windows and jerked up the blinds.
The clear glow of the morning fell on tired eyes and painted faces that
looked ghastly white and drawn. There was no sign of a smile on
Charlock's face.
"Take the tables and play outside," he said. "That will be something
new, something for the papers to chatter about. But I am intruding
here, and I want my wife. You will come at once. I beg your pardon, I
am sure I did not mean to hurt you, but I am a little beside myself
to-night. You will know why presently. I will go outside and wait for
you."
*CHAPTER III*
*"HOME, SWEET HOME!"*
Unconsciously, Charlock had tightened his grip on his wife's bare arm.
A cry of pain escaped her, a murmuring, uncomplaining cry which drew a
hum of sympathy from the onlookers. The red band on the white flesh was
plainly visible. Rent, standing by the table, ventured a word of
expostulation. Charlock saw that he was a handsome man, with a
clean-shaven, sensitive face, though the eyes were resolute, and the
firm lines about the mouth denoted strength of character. So much the
better. As to the rest, he wore the dress coat of modern civilisation.
This was Kate's sympathetic friend. There was something like a sneer on
Charlock's face as he turned to Rent.
"I am extremely sorry," he said. "You will forgive me, but I am quite
out of place here. And in that respect I ought to have your sympathy
and support, my dear sir."
The other man's face flushed, and he bit his lip. The retort was so
obvious, so keen and pungent, that many of the onlookers made no efforts
to restrain their amusement. Kate Charlock rose from the table and
turned to the stranger.
"Would you mind getting my wrap for me, Mr. Rent?" she said. "I am
sure, John, that Mrs. Bromley-Martin will excuse you, and I know you
would prefer to wait outside for me."
Charlock muttered something, and turned upon his heel. It was no time
now for nice conventionalities. After the close and stuffy atmosphere
the outer air was cool and refreshing. Charlock passed his hand across
his eyes. He was trying to realise what had happened during the last
few minutes. He could remember nothing of what he had said and done.
There was but one picture uppermost in his mind--the picture of a tiny
figure lying white and motionless upon a bed. That was all Charlock's
world to-night.
While he stood waiting, Kate Charlock lingered in the hall for a moment
with Arnold Rent. There was an angry gleam in the man's eyes as he
folded the wrap round his companion's shoulders.
"You poor, dear child," he burst out. "So that is your husband? You
will forgive me for daring to speak like this----"
"One forgives everything when it is dictated by kindness such as yours,"
Kate Charlock murmured. "But I assure you it is nothing. It is only his
manner. If you think I am in danger you are mistaken."
"But his face," Rent protested. "The look in his eyes. I was watching
him when he caught sight of you. I saw murder written there. I could
not rest if I stayed here. You will not mind if I follow you as far as
your house? I will take care not to be seen. You may think this is an
extraordinary suggestion, but we have been friends for a considerable
time, and you know that I would do anything for you."
There was passion as well as sincerity in the speaker's tones, and a
tinge of colour crept into Kate Charlock's cheeks. She raised a pair of
dewy eyes to her companion's face.
"You are more than kind," she murmured, "but I know your life is one
long self-sacrifice. I know what penance it must be to you to spend a
long evening among shallow, heartless people such as these, but your
mission lies with people like us----"
"But you do not identify yourself with them, surely?" Rent cried. "No,
no, you are a broken-hearted, disappointed woman, striving to forget
your unhappiness. I confess I am sorry to see you here to-night, but
your future is in no danger. If we had only met before----"
"Hush, hush," Kate Charlock said hastily. "You must not talk like that.
I--I dare not listen to you. As you would not be faithless to your own
vows, you would not have me faithless to mine. And so long as I can come
here, and forget my miseries, so long as I can meet you, I feel that I
am safe."
Arnold Rent thrilled with a curious feeling as he listened to those
impassioned words. It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of them,
impossible to be anything but sorry for the beautiful, unhappy speaker.
Her voice was dangerously low. There was an appeal in her eyes that set
Rent fairly trembling.
"I must come and see you," he said. "You will tell me the whole of your
sad story. And now I must not detain you longer, seeing that your
husband is waiting for you. But I am going to follow you home, all the
same."
Again came the look of gratitude in Kate Charlock's dark eyes. Then she
turned away, as if afraid to trust herself further, and joined John
Charlock in the garden. The pearly mists had rolled away. There was a
deep, roseate flush in the eastern sky, but as yet the sun had not
risen. A distant church clock struck the hour of three.
John Charlock strode along with his hands in his pockets, his sombre
eyes fixed upon the ground. The silence was growing intolerable. It
seemed to Kate that she must speak, that she could not endure it longer.
"How did you find out?" she asked.
"I went to your room," Charlock explained. "I found your maid fast
asleep, and I compelled her to tell me where you had gone. Did I make a
fool of myself to-night?"
"You were not polite," the woman murmured, "and----"
"And all your friends are profoundly sorry for you. It must be a
terrible thing for a woman of your temperament to be allied to a brute
like myself. And to think that I should humiliate you by dragging you
home like this! Your lot is indeed a hard one. Think how happy we
might have been had I only been blessed with a more amiable temperament!
Think how you have helped me in my work, and how unflinchingly you have
spent my money!"
Kate Charlock shivered and trembled, the tears gathered in her eyes, and
the scarlet mouth was quivering.
"What have I done?" she protested. "Why shouldn't I go out? If I had
told you I was going, you would have been annoyed with me, you might
even have forbidden me. And all this because you fancy that the boy's
life is in danger. It seems singular that a hard, unfeeling man like you
should make such a ridiculous fuss over a child. It was kinder on my
part to slip away without saying anything. It isn't as if the poor
little fellow is any worse than he was yesterday."
Charlock clenched his hands behind his back. He was trembling from head
to foot with an overmastering passion. A red mist floated before his
eyes, and something seemed to oppress his breathing. It was only for a
moment; then he was his grim self again.
"The boy is better," he said, "far better. In fact, there is no cause
for anxiety any more. I will never trouble you about him again. Why,
you will know presently. Now you will oblige me by coming this way....
There, fond mother! Look at that!"
The woman stood just for a moment, beginning dimly to comprehend. She
placed her hand to her head. A moaning cry escaped her lips. With
faltering steps she crossed the room and laid a long, slim hand on the
child's face. For a while she neither spoke nor moved. No cry escaped
her lips. Then, at length, she turned to face her husband. But he was
gone.
He had shown her enough, and more than enough. In the face of the
tragedy any word of his would be superfluous. If she did not benefit by
such a lesson as this, assuredly he could teach her nothing. She had
nothing to learn.
His heart was very sore and heavy within him as he walked out of the
house and down the garden. Here was the garden of his dreams--the place
he had planned in his mind when fame should come to him. It was here in
this perfect spot that he and Kate were going to dwell for ever in their
floral paradise.
What a fool he had been! Yet that fair face and those pensive eyes
would have deceived a more polished man of the world than John Charlock.
He knew now for a certainty that he had given up everything for beauty
devoid of heart. And one of the worst features was that the woman who
cared nothing for him was wasting his money with a lavish hand. He
ought to be happy and comfortable, instead of which he was up to his
neck in debt and difficulty. He almost smiled as he looked at the
ancient sundial which he had given so much for, merely to please his
wife, but he regretted his folly now. The price of a portrait had gone
to purchase that white marble. Charlock walked towards it in a sour
frame of mind. He could have found it in his heart to destroy the whole
thing. And yet, even in the moment of his trouble, he saw that the
fountain was no longer playing in the carved basin round the base of the
dial. Some dark object lay there. He fancied he could see a dress
fluttering in the wind.
He moved forward more quickly. At the same moment one of the gardeners
came down the path. The man came in response to Charlock's call.
Together they bent over the object in the basin. Charlock's face grew
pale. The gardener shouted in open-mouthed dismay. They had the object
out on the grass now--a black, wet, horrible thing, with pale, sodden
face.
"Hortense, my wife's maid!" Charlock whispered. "How did she get here?
How could she have fallen in?"
"Excuse me, sir," the gardener said huskily, "but it looks to me like
foul play. A grown person would hardly drown in so little water. And
look at that ugly bruise on her forehead. You may depend upon it, there
has been mischief here."
*CHAPTER IV*
*SACKCLOTH AND ASHES*
There was trouble and enough to spare in the house of John Charlock. A
day or two had passed. The child was buried, and the blinds were drawn
up once more. It was characteristic of Charlock that he held his grief
sternly in hand and devoted his energy and attention in striving to get
to the bottom of the mystery which surrounded the death of his wife's
maid. The affair had created a sensation in the district. It was held
to be so important that it had passed out of the hands of the local
police into those of Scotland Yard. As to the girl's past, nothing
could be discovered. No trace of her relatives could be found. And it
could not be proved that she had been entangled in any love affair.
Robbery was not the motive, either, for she had a well-filled purse in
her pocket and wore a handsome gold watch.
Yet, in some way, Charlock felt that the woman had been more or less of
a dangerous character. He had never liked her. He distrusted her
manner, which had always been a mixture of humility and veiled
insolence. She was just the sort of creature who would have stooped to
blackmail, and from this point of view Charlock was working. But a week
had passed, and nothing had happened to throw light on the mystery.
And, besides, Charlock had other things to occupy him. He had made up
his mind to end the present intolerable state of things. He was waiting
now in his studio for his wife. The paint brush hung idly in his hand
and his thoughts were far away. This was John Charlock in one of his
most dangerous moods. He turned upon his wife a pair of sullen,
brooding eyes.
"Well, what do you want?" he demanded.
"I am sorry to intrude," Mrs. Charlock said coldly, "but we cannot go on
like this."
"That is true," Charlock said, a grim smile playing about the corners of
his mouth. "If it is any consolation to you to know it, some change
must be made. I have sat opposite to you for three days now, with
hardly a word, but your thoughts have been to me like an open book. You
have made up your mind what to do. Your programme is clear. Now that
the child has gone, and there is no tie to bind us, you think it would
be far better not to remain under this roof. Grossly extravagant though
you are, you are shrewd enough, when it comes to a question of money to
spend. You calculate, I suppose, that my income is about four thousand
a year."
"Really, you fill me with pain," Mrs. Charlock murmured.
"Our Lady of Pain!" Charlock sneered. "Good heavens, do you want to
pose after we have been married five years? Why, there is not a cranny
in your soul that holds a dark place for me. I say you have reckoned it
all out, and you are going to propose that I should share my income with
you and give you a free hand to do as you like. This opportunity of
martyrdom is not to be lost. Think how you would look wearing a crown!
What a picturesque figure of a long-suffering woman you would make! And
all your friends would pity the dear saint and condemn the malignant
husband. But we need not go into that. Do you know that I am over six
thousand pounds in debt? I have not a single commission on hand and
hardly know where to turn for the money to pay the servants' wages.
This is one of the tricks that fortune plays a man who gets his living
as I do. Two of my commissions are in abeyance, and two other pictures
may never be paid for, because the men who ordered them are dead. It
sounds like a romance, but it is literally true. And of this load of
debt that hangs about my neck like a millstone, less than two hundred of
it belongs to me! Putting aside the expenses of the household, which
have not been heavy, in the last two years you have pledged my credit
for more than four thousand pounds. You said nothing to me. You ordered
what you wanted. I have one bill here for five hundred pounds from a
Bond Street milliner. You may call this only thoughtlessness, if you
like, but I call it mean and dishonourable. And with all your beauty
and sweetness and sympathy, you are little better than a criminal. And
the joke of it is, it is I who have to pay the penalty, I who will incur
the contempt of honest men, while you get off scot free. But there is
going to be an end of all this. Before the week is out everything shall
be disposed of."
Kate Charlock looked up swiftly. There was something like a challenge
in her eyes. The mantle of sweetness and resignation had fallen from
her shoulders.
"Do you mean to say you will give up this house?" she demanded. "Do you
mean to tell me that you will sell the furniture? Surely there is no
necessity."
"I owe all that money," Charlock said doggedly, "and I am going to pay
it off. I could easily whitewash myself as other men do, but that is
not my way. To be candid with you, there is a bill of sale on the
things here which covers their value, and, at any time, my creditors
could come in and remove everything. Now, make the best of it. Revel
in your extravagance while it lasts, for the time is getting short. And
you shall have your opportunity to prove to your friends that you are
the saint they take you to be. Everything I can lay my hands upon I
shall realise for the benefit of my creditors. I will not rest till the
last farthing is paid. It will be a question of rigid economy for a
couple of years, and then I shall be able to look the world in the face
once more. But in future there is going to be no London or Paris for
you. We shall move into a three-roomed cottage, where we shall not even
keep a servant. I will take the rough work off your hands, and in
return you will do the housework and cooking. I intend to keep back no
more than three pounds a week from my earnings until my debts are paid.
That is all I am entitled to. This you can share with me, or, if you
prefer it, you can have thirty shillings a week to live upon. If you
take legal proceedings to obtain more, you will find that no Court will
ask a man to give his wife more than half his income."
Kate Charlock stood white and rigid, striving in vain to force a smile.
"You are mad," she said hoarsely. "You could not do it. Think of your
position! Think of what the world would say!"
"Did I ever care what the world said?" Charlock cried. "What does it
matter, so long as one's good name remains unsmirched? I have no more
to say. I have no desire to argue the thing farther. I have already
taken the cottage and furnished it. You have till the end of the week
to make up your mind. You will please yourself whether you come with me
or not, and I care little or nothing what your decision may be. Now, as
I am busy, I shall be glad to be alone."
Mrs. Charlock crept from the studio to her own room. There were real
tears in her eyes. She was trembling from head to foot with a sense of
humiliation and disappointment. She no longer doubted what her husband
had said. She knew that when John Charlock had made up his mind to a
thing it was as good as done. And he was doing this deliberately, in
order to spite her, to wound her most susceptible feelings, because she
had made such a terrible mistake the night of the boy's death. He would
not understand her point of view. She could not induce him to believe
that she had never dreamt the end was so near. No mother would have
gone away had she known what was likely to happen. And as to Charlock's
debts, it would have been easy to retrench and wipe them off by degrees.
Kate Charlock wept as she looked about her. It was a beautiful house,
luxuriously and artistically furnished. All Kate Charlock's friends
envied her such a place.
To give it up was an act of mean and cowardly vengeance. The thing
would never have been thought of had the boy lived. It never occurred
to the passionate, weeping woman that John Charlock valued his honour
beyond his comfort, for there were scores of people in the smart set to
which she belonged who never paid their debts at all. There were
members of that charmed circle who boasted of this and were thought none
the worse of.
Here were the beautiful pictures, the magnificent furniture, the
marvellous old silver which Kate Charlock had bought from time to time.
Here was everything that made life sweet and enjoyable, and she was
commanded to resign it all, and live alone in a draughty cottage with
the man whom she regarded less as her husband than as her jailer. Two
years' penal servitude at least! The thing was impossible,
insupportable!
She must tell somebody. She must confide in someone. But in whom?
Among her frivolous friends, who would give her a measure of broad and
genuine sympathy? She could only think of one person, and the colour
crept into her cheeks as she recalled Arnold Rent. Then she became
conscious that a servant had come into the room and stood watching her
curiously.
"Well?" she demanded. "What do you want? Don't you see that I want to
be alone?"
"It is Mr. Rent, madam," the servant said. "He is waiting in the
drawing-room, and would like to see you."
*CHAPTER V*
*"BUT YET A WOMAN"*
The thing was opportune, almost providential, or so Kate Charlock
thought. She came down to the drawing-room, a subdued smile on her
face. She seemed to fit into the room, to be part and parcel of it, like
a pure jewel in a beautiful setting. And yet what a pity it was that no
happiness went with all this. The thought flashed through Arnold Rent's
mind as he shook hands with her. She had looked fair the last time they
met, but now, clad in deepest black, she appeared even more attractive.
Rent was not often at a loss for words, but he felt strangely awkward at
the moment.
"I hope I am not intruding," he murmured, "but I am going away
to-morrow, and I could not leave without telling you how grieved I am at
your loss. It must have been a great shock."
The ready tears rose to Kate Charlock's eyes. Although she had troubled
little about the boy when he was alive, she had persuaded herself that
she had sustained a loss which no lapse of time would heal.
"It was a terrible shock," she murmured, "so unexpected. What must you
think of me when you remember how I was spending the evening at the very
moment----"
"But, of course, you did not know. How could you know?" Rent protested.
"I have a much higher opinion of you than that. You must try to bear
up. Remember that life has its compensations, even for the most
miserable. You have a beautiful home. I never saw a more charming
place."
Mrs. Charlock hesitated a moment.
"I think I had better tell you," she said slowly. "Even this home is not
likely to last long. Whatever his faults may be, my husband is a genius,
and everybody knows that geniuses are bad men of business. I am afraid
I am not altogether blameless myself. I took it for granted that we had
plenty of money. When my husband told me last night that he was
hopelessly in debt I was positively staggered. He says he owes six
thousand pounds, and he upbraided me bitterly for what he was pleased to
call my extravagance. He accused me of being the author of all the
mischief. But I am too much accustomed to his bitter tongue to take
much heed of that. He always likes to see me well dressed. He has
never complained like that before. I suppose he wanted to humiliate me.
Indeed, he has been far worse since the child died. It is a wicked way
to treat a mother. It is refined cruelty to taunt me with being away on
pleasure when the boy was dying.... Oh, I don't see how I can endure
the life which lies before me. So long as we are here, where there is
plenty of room and we need not see much of one another, I might manage
to rub along. But to go away to a tiny cottage----"
"A cottage?" Rent echoed. "Is your husband mad?"
"Sometimes I almost fear he is," Mrs. Charlock said in a whisper.
"Since our loss he has been terrible. And now he has it in his mind to
remove to a labourer's cottage and live on a few shillings a week until
his debts are paid. Surely no sane man could behave in that way! I am
ready to retrench, but when I think of the life that John has mapped
out----"
The speaker's voice broke with a pathetic catch. She pressed her
handkerchief to her eyes. There was something in the speech that
tickled Rent. His assumed sympathy was not so keen and clear as it had
been. Charlock was a fool, a passionate believer in self-sacrifice.
And, moreover, he was playing into his hands. But probably he was not
moved by any nice considerations of honour and had adopted this course
to humiliate the beautiful creature who sat opposite.
"You are going to leave him?" he asked hopefully.
"I am afraid so," Kate Charlock said. "Surely, I can make a living,
though I have been brought up in a very useless fashion. If you would
only see my husband, you might persuade him----"
"Presently," Rent said. "Just now I am more concerned with yourself.
Whatever happens, you will always have a friend in me. And you must not
hesitate in the hour of need. Fortunately, I have the command of a
considerable amount of money----"
"Oh, I couldn't do that," Kate Charlock cried. "How good and kind you
are! If I had only met you before I threw in my lot with John
Charlock.... But what am I saying!"
The woman rose to her feet and threw out her hands towards Rent. Her
soft, pleading eyes were turned upon him. They were not wholly devoid
of passion, and impulsively Rent stepped forward and took her hands in
his. For the moment he had forgotten everything--his characteristic
prudence, even. A sudden recklessness possessed him. What he was doing
he hardly knew. Then, a moment later, he awoke to the fact that Kate
Charlock was in his arms and his lips were pressed passionately to hers.
Yet there was no sense of shame in Rent's mind, only a feeling of
exultation and the knowledge that this woman cared for him. It was
impossible to believe otherwise as he looked long and ardently into her
eyes. Then, very slowly, he put her from him and walked towards the
door. The game was his if he did not lose his head.
"This must not happen again," he said. "I am shocked to find that I am
as human and weak as the rest. And I have no blame for you, nothing but
the deepest and sincerest pity. Oh, what a false and treacherous world!
It is hateful to think that you must go on living your life here----"
"Not here," Kate Charlock said quietly. "A lonely cottage, where I
shall have to do my own work, and sit day by day opposite---- Oh, I
cannot bear to think of it! I will go mad. I shall do him some
mischief--of that I am certain."
"No, no," Rent said sternly, "not if I can prevent it. I will see your
husband now and try to argue with him. If you will show me the way----"
Charlock looked up from his easel with a frown on his face as Rent
entered. Then the frown changed to a bitter smile as he bade his
visitor be seated. He waited for the latter to speak.
"I have been talking to your wife," Rent began lamely. "She tells me
that you are thinking of leaving."
"Oh, did she? Perhaps she told you that I was up to my eyes in debt,
and that I am not going to rest until every penny has been paid. That
is why I am leaving and have furnished a small cottage in the
neighbourhood. After all, I am not asking my wife very much. For the
last three or four years she has had everything that the heart of woman
could desire, and now I am asking her to pay the penalty. You can't eat
your cake and have it, you know. Really, my good sir, as a man of the
world, you ought to applaud my resolution."
"So I do," Rent murmured. "But you will pardon me if I ask you a plain
question. People say you are a hard man. They say that your wife's lot
is not a happy one. I do hope and trust that in the step you are taking
you have no desire to humiliate the lady----"
"Stop!" Charlock cried. "You are going too far. I hear you are
fearless and outspoken. I know you are a man of sense. And seeing you
are candid, let me be candid in return. If I had married a plain,
commonplace woman, would you take as much interest in her as you do in
the lady whom I have the honour to call my wife? Ah, you are silent. I
thought so. Yes, those are very pleading eyes. That is a very sad,
sweet countenance. And doubtless I am a brute, because I can watch the
tears fall from those eyes with a smile on my lips. Did it ever strike
you that there may be another side to the question? Oh, I am not going
to speak of it. You are quite free to form your own conclusions. And
now you have come to persuade me to modify my scheme. Is not that so?"
"I must confess that I had some such idea in my mind," Rent admitted.
"It seems so hard upon your wife."
"Oh, I know," Charlock said, the bitter sneer still on his face. "It is
always the woman who pays. But I am busy now and have no time to
discuss this matter. Come and see me again, say to-morrow evening,
about eight o'clock. Then you shall have an answer to your question.
You are a well-meaning man, but, like most of your class, you have no
knowledge of the world and you fail to see the grim humour of the
situation. It is rather amusing, don't you think, for a married man to
be lectured by a bachelor? Some day, when your time comes----"
Charlock turned to his easel and refused to say another word. With a
feeling that he had been baffled, Rent left the house. He walked slowly
across the fields, the vision of Kate Charlock's beautiful, pathetic
face occupying his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He tingled
as he thought of that passionate caress. The feeling of hope was
drowned in an unreasoning exultation. And yet he ought not to see her
again. He had his future to consider. That chapter must be closed for
ever. But as he walked along, for the first time in his life, Arnold
Rent regretted his aims and the career which he had mapped out for
himself since his schooldays.
*CHAPTER VI*
*A SCIENTIFIC DISCUSSION*
Much at the same moment two men were sitting on the deck of a yacht,
drifting idly before a light breeze in the Solent. One was a young,
keen-faced fellow, with quick, alert eyes and a restless expression, who
was known as Malcolm Grey. He was regarded as a coming man in science,
more especially in electricity. Already one or two discoveries of his
bade fair to revolutionise hitherto accepted theories, and he was
engaged upon a series of investigations which had for their end the
promulgation of life and the alleviation of human suffering. Scientific
folk were looking forward with interest to the next pronouncement of
Malcolm Grey.
His companion was a very different-looking man. He was short and
inclined to be stout. The outline of his figure denoted great personal
strength. His piercing black eyes had a humorous twinkle. A heavy dark
moustache concealed the lines of his mouth. Dr. Tanza was a scientist,
also, but his researches were more concerned with humanity, and
particularly with the cause and prevention of crime. Tanza had devoted
most of his life to this important subject, and, though some of his
theories had been laughed at once, some of the best men in Europe were
coming round to his way of thinking. Certainly he had been marvellously
successful on two or three occasions and had operated upon the brains of
criminals with the most amazing effect. As to the rest, he used his
yacht and his great wealth for the sole purpose of developing his hobby.
It was a small matter to him to travel half-way round the world to
interview a wretched creature who had invented something atrocious in
the way of fresh and startling crime. For the moment he appeared to be
taking his leisure, though his friend knew that he had something on his
mind.
"And now," said Grey, "tell me why you brought me down here. You know
how busy I am and how precious my moments are. What have you in view?"
Tanza lighted a fresh cigarette and sipped his after-luncheon coffee
with a ruminating air.
"I want your assistance," he said. "I think it will be worth your
while. It isn't every day that I come across a criminal problem that
interests me, but I think I have found one in the case of the mysterious
death of Mrs. Charlock's French maid. Charlock is a man difficult to
approach and resents interference of any kind. As it happens, you are
acquainted with him, which makes our task easier. Between ourselves, I
mean to get to the bottom of that affair, because I feel certain that
here is a new phase of crime."