servants had lighted the lamps. Though pale and agitated, she could not
resist the temptation to glance furtively about her. She had not lived
under the same roof with a great artist for five years without learning
something of the value of beautiful things. She was not slow to
appraise the works of art. In her eyes the place was a trifle
old-fashioned and out of date. Already she could see her way to make an
imposing salon of the room. Then, as she saw Rent looking eagerly
towards her, she lowered her eyelids and sighed deeply.
"I ought not to have come in with you," she murmured. "I see that it
was a mistake. I ought to have waited outside till you had seen your
mother and prepared her for my coming. It would have been so much
more----"
The speaker's voice trailed off into a murmur. She was going to say
"dramatic," but she stopped just in time. At the same moment there were
sounds of voices outside, and the outline of dim figures could be seen
advancing across the misty lawn. Instinctively Kate Charlock drew
closer to Rent's side.
"My dearest, there is nothing to be frightened of," he said soothingly.
"That was my mother's voice you heard. See, she is coming this way. I
can't make out who the others are, but one of them looks to me like our
solicitor, Mr. Westlake. If so, it is rather fortunate. Westlake
always takes such a common-sense view of matters. He is sure to be on
our side."
There was nothing more to be said, nothing to do but wait for the coming
of Mrs. Rent. And she seemed in no hurry to detach herself from her
companions. Why did she not come? Arnold wondered. Usually she was so
eager to see him. In the selfishness of the moment it had not occurred
to Rent that the ordeal his mother was about to go through would be more
distressful than his own. And the cruel shock of finding that he was
here in defiance of her telegram was not calculated to make the mother's
heart any the less sore and angry. Mrs. Rent stood outside, her hands
tightly clasped, looking first from one to the other for support.
"Oh, this is downright cruel," Ethel burst out. "He ought never to have
come like this. If he came at all, it should have been alone. My dear
aunt, sit down and collect yourself. I know you will be brave and
steadfast when it comes to the point, or perhaps you would like Mr.
Westlake----"
"No, I must go through with it myself," Mrs. Rent said. "This is a
burden that no one can share with me."
"I am afraid the fault is mine," Charlock said. "I ought to have gone
away when I found out whose house I had come into. I should not have
hesitated. It is a cruel stroke of fortune, and no one regrets it more
than myself."
"It is no fault of yours," Mrs. Rent murmured. "Will you mind talking to
Miss Hargrave while Mr. Westlake and I go into the house? I should like
him to be near me, though I do not wish him to be present at the
interview."
Ethel and Charlock stood alone together, silent and anxious. They
watched the others as they went slowly towards the house, then Charlock
touched his companion's arm.
"We had better not stay here," he suggested. "We can see and hear too
much. Do you know, I feel as if, in a measure, I have thrust this black
humiliation and disgrace upon you. I feel hot and cold all over that I
should even be discussing the thing with one so young and innocent as
yourself."
"And why?" Ethel said. "I am not a child. I have heard of these things
before, though I never dreamt that I should live to see the like of this
at Alton Lee."
"It is like a romance," Charlock laughed bitterly. "What puppets we are
in the hands of Fate! And I thought once that I was a strong man capable
of defying the world and shaping my own destiny. I daresay you will say
that it is my own fault, and perhaps you will be right. I don't know
why I should be talking to you like this. But the peacefulness of the
night and the look of sympathy in your eyes invite my confidence. But I
will swear to you that if I could have foreseen that this honourable old
family would be disgraced in this fashion, I would never have let my
home go. I would have worked all the harder to gratify my wife's
extravagance. I would have made it worth her while to stay. Perhaps I
was too candid, too brutal. Do you suppose she would have left me as
she did if she had come back the other night and found the homestead
intact? Oh, dear, no. With all her air of purity and sweetness, my
wife always had a shrewd sense of business and self-interest."
"Yet you loved her once," Ethel murmured.
"My dear young lady, I love her now. She has only to say one word and
the whole past is forgotten. It may seem strange to you, brought up as
you have been, that a man should love a woman for whom he has the
deepest contempt. But there are many such cases in the world. Call it
madness, call it fascination--anything you like. It is possible for a
man to love a woman devotedly and yet not to speak to her, though she is
under the same roof as himself. That has been my case during the last
four years. I have despised myself for my weakness--I, who in other
matters can be so strong. I am a self-contained man, and five years ago
I thought I had found paradise. Then it began slowly to dawn upon me
that I had made a mistake. There was sweetness and melancholy and
fascination in my wife's smiling face, but no atom of sympathy behind
it. She had no feeling for me. She had no kind of pride in my work.
Even when she began to hang the millstone of debt about my neck she had
no concern, though on more than one occasion I was on the verge of a
breakdown. But I don't ask you to take all these things for granted. I
don't even ask you to believe me. You will know my wife later, and it
is probable that she will convince you that I am a brute and a boor and
not fit to mix with decent people."
Ethel made no reply. There was something in this man's grim tones that
moved her strongly. Someone was coming from the house. She could hear
footsteps on the gravel. Then the light from the drawing-room windows
fell upon the face of a woman who was slowly crossing the lawn. Her
features were serene and beautiful. Her eyes glistened with heavy
tears. It was only for a moment that Ethel saw the vision before it
vanished in the shadows. The girl felt Charlock's hand tighten on her
arm.
"My wife," he said hoarsely. "She has come out to leave her lover and
his mother alone. Did you see her face?"
"Indeed I did," Ethel murmured. "The beauty of it! And such an air and
expression of sweetness and resignation I never saw before. It seems
impossible to believe----"
"I see you pause," Charlock said grimly. "I know exactly what you are
going to say. It does seem impossible. Before God, it seems to me
sometimes that it is impossible and that I am only dreaming. It would
go hard with me if we both stood before a jury of our countrymen and she
told her tale after I had finished mine. But I won't say more. I will
leave you to judge for yourself. You have seen us both, and you must
rely upon your own instincts. I won't ask you to give any verdict,
because I feel sure it will be against me."
"I am very, very sorry," Ethel murmured.
"Of course you are. But the point is, whom are you sorry for? There is
no halfway in the business."
Ethel hesitated for a moment. She hardly seemed to know what to say. A
bitter smile crossed Charlock's lips.
"Let me put it plainly to you," he said. "And yet I don't know why I
should worry you with this business. I have never spoken to a living
soul like this before. At any rate, I am going to be candid now. Let
us assume that my wife has a genuine grievance against me. Say that I
am too great a bully and savage for any decent woman to live with. I am
prepared to admit that I did turn her out of doors in a brutal fashion.
It is possible she can justify her conduct in her own eyes and that she
is here with the purest and most disinterested of motives. Mind, in her
way, she is a good woman--that is, she is highly virtuous. She would
never forget herself. She would never step over the border, not even
for the sake of Arnold Rent and all the fortune he is to inherit. No
doubt she has persuaded herself that she has been right in coming here,
that she has a moral claim upon Mrs. Rent's protection. She would argue
it all out in her own mind. She would wait for me to commit some
blazing indiscretion, and then invoke the aid of the law to release her
from such a creature as myself. She would think that the proper thing
to do. And after that she would be in a position to marry Arnold Rent
and settle here as a county lady. Whether she would keep it up or not
is another matter. And now, after I have told you this, let me repeat
my question. You said you were sorry just now. Is your sympathy for her
or for me?"
Ethel hesitated for a moment, and Charlock watched her with an anxiety
which surprised himself.
"I think," she said in a voice little above a whisper, "that I am the
more sorry for--you."
*CHAPTER XXI*
*THE HONOUR OF THE FAMILY*
Meanwhile, an entirely different scene was being enacted in the
drawing-room. All her life Mrs. Rent had lived most placidly. She had
never been confronted with a crisis like this. Indeed, the mere
suggestion that such a cataclysm could have happened in the family would
have moved her to gentle scorn. And now, on the spur of the moment, and
almost solely upon her own initiative, she had to decide between her
duty and her beloved son. It had cost her an effort to speak as she had
done to Kate Charlock, and when she saw the half-wounded expression on
the woman's face her heart smote her, and she became, for the time
being, almost infirm of purpose.
Still, the situation had to be faced. She had a stern and rigid duty
both to her conscience and to the family whose name she bore. There was
a curious vein of Puritanism in her blood which came to her aid now.
And it was very difficult, indeed, to stand looking at these two, to see
her son advance with outstretched hands, and yet to hold back. He would
have taken her in his arms and kissed her, but something warned him that
the occasion was not opportune.
Under her long lashes, Kate Charlock watched him demurely. Why was he
hesitating? It was necessary the fortress should be taken by storm. And
Arnold Rent stood there shyly, his face downcast like that of a child
detected in some fault.
"Mother," he murmured, "have you nothing to say to me? Have you no kind
of welcome to offer to-night?"
The words were pleading and almost passionate, but seemingly they did
not move Mrs. Rent at all.
"I am at a loss to understand why you are here," she said.
"Why I am here?" Arnold echoed. "Where else could I go? When you have
heard all the circumstances of the case----"
"I have heard them already. Mr. Westlake came down on purpose to tell
me. Come and stand here where I can see you--where the light shines
full upon your face."
Arnold Rent came obediently a step or two forward.
"Strange," the mother murmured. "You have not altered. To all outward
appearances you are still the man of honour and integrity you used to
be. And yet you can commit this crime and come here to boast of it
without the shadow of remorse, even without a word of apology. It seems
incredible."
"But what apology should I make?" Arnold demanded. "What have I done
that you should speak to me like this?"
"You ask me what you have done! Are you so blind as not to see the
results of your indiscretion?"
Kate Charlock raised her head suddenly.
"May I not be allowed to speak?" she pleaded. "Is it not possible that
when you come to hear my story----"
Mrs. Rent raised her hand imperiously.
"Tell her to be silent," she commanded her son. "Oh, I do not know what
to do or what to say in such a crisis. Is it not bad enough without
bringing your partner in folly under this roof? To think that I should
have lived to see a scene like this at Alton Lee! To think that I
should be the instrument chosen by Providence for the punishment of my
own son! For that is what it comes to, Arnold. I was stunned at first.
I was unable to believe the evidence of my senses. But I begin to see
my way clearly. The path of duty lies plainly before me."
There was something cold and chilling in the words. They filled Kate
Charlock with dismay. All the world seemed to be slipping from under her
feet. If the opportunity were lost, the chance would never come again.
She darted forward and threw herself in an _abandon_ of grief on her
knees before the mistress of the house. The ready tears were streaming
from her eyes. Her beautiful features were almost irresistible in their
entreaty.
"Oh, won't you listen to me?" she said. "You are a kind, good woman;
your face tells me that. And yet, though you would be good and generous
towards the world, you decline to listen to one poor woman's story.
Can't you understand how one may suffer year by year until the strain
becomes too great, and, in a moment of passing madness, sacrifice
everything that a woman holds dear? That is my case exactly. Oh, it is
all very well for you, whose married life has been the path of
happiness, to judge humanity from your own standpoint. But there are
others----"
The woman's voice snapped suddenly like the breaking of a harp-string.
She covered her face with her hands, her whole frame shaking with
convulsive sobs.
Nor was it all acting. For the time, Kate Charlock was convinced that
she was the unhappy, abandoned wife of a man who had driven her almost
to madness in one moment of divine despair. She thrilled with
self-pity. She saw her airy castles crumbling to the ground. Unless
this old woman could be moved, there would be no rest for the sole of
her foot at Alton Lee. The face that she raised once more to Mrs.
Rent's dark eyes was stained with tears and broken with emotion.
Fighting for self-control as she was, Helen Rent was moved now as she
had seldom been moved before.
"Get up," she said, almost gently. "It is unseemly that you should be
kneeling here. If you have a story to tell, I may be disposed to listen
to it presently."
Slowly Kate Charlock rose to her feet and felt her way across the room
to a chair. She had made an impression. On that point she felt
certain. If she could only remain here a week, or even a day, she had
no fear of the result. Alton Lee was growing nearer. She began to see
herself installed. She could hear the swish of the cards on the
green-topped tables. She could imagine the rooms gay with the laughter
of friends. But not yet, she told herself, not quite yet.
"I will say no more," she murmured. "Indeed, when I came here I had no
intention of speaking at all. I see now how wrong it was to come. But
in the moment of my madness and despair----"
Once more the pleading voice ceased. Once more the ready tears rained
down the beautiful white face. Surely this was no abandoned creature,
Helen Rent thought. Surely John Charlock had much to answer for. No
woman could be bad with a face like that. If Mrs. Rent could imagine a
saint stepping aside from the path of grace, then was Kate Charlock in
similar case. And, in common fairness, most of the blame must fall upon
the shoulders of her own son. A wave of madness must have come over
him, in which he had forgotten everything excepting the features of a
woman and his wild desire to sacrifice the world for her sake. Other
men, in most respects both great and good, had fallen in like manner. A
score of them rose before Helen Rent's mental vision.
Yet she must be firm. She must keep her head throughout this ordeal.
Her white lips moved rapidly in prayer for strength and endurance. Kate
Charlock noted the flutter of those white lips, and her subtle instinct
told her what was passing through the other woman's mind. As a child
she had seen her mother at a crisis of her life praying in like fashion.
The scene rose curiously before her mind. She could see it all as clear
as if it had happened only yesterday.
"It seems to me that we are wasting time," Mrs. Rent said, presently.
"I cannot ask you both to leave the house to-night, because that would
be impossible, and there is nowhere else to go. But to-morrow will be
different. I have made up my mind what I am going to do in your case."
"What is that, mother?" Arnold asked.
"That I will tell you when we are alone. It only concerns our two
selves. If you will come with me----"
"No," Kate Charlock cried. "Let it be here and now. As for myself, I
wish to be alone for a time in the open air."
Without waiting for remonstrance on the part of either, she crossed the
drawing-room and threw back the windows. She stood there with her face
turned up to the purple glory of the summer sky. She saw the golden
pageant of the stars; the flower-laden breath of the evening was
infinitely cool and refreshing. Here were the wide, trim lawns with
their well-ordered flower-beds. Here was the noble sweep of the stone
terrace, and beyond it the dim vista of the park, with the trees
floating in a mist like ships on a peaceful sea.
And all this was likely to be hers if she had but the skill and patience
to play for it. There was no regret in her heart for John Charlock. He
had gone his own way. He had left her free to choose her own path. And
there was always the chance of renewing the battle again on the morrow.
There were many cards to play, too, and if the worst came to the worst,
Kate Charlock would play the great card of self-renunciation. She would
offer Arnold back to his mother. She would go out into the world alone,
hopeless and penniless, to work out her own salvation. Not in vain had
she been studying Helen Rent's features, under the long fringe of her
eyelashes.
"I wonder how he will manage it?" she murmured to herself. "I can stand
here and listen, and if my presence becomes necessary, well, then, I
shall be at hand."
*CHAPTER XXII*
*BREAD AND SALT*
Helen Rent thought she should have been conscious of a great feeling of
relief when the room was free of the presence of the woman who had
brought about her son's delirium. But such a sense was not experienced,
nor even suggested.
"Now tell me how this happened," she said.
"Mother, I really cannot tell you," Arnold responded. "The truth is, I
do not know. It was all so spontaneous. It seemed so natural and
inevitable at the time. Here was one of the most beautiful women in the
world, a good and true and pure woman, mind you, neglected by her
husband in a manner that was positively shocking. Don't forget that
there are some natures to which neglect or hard words are worse than any
physical cruelty. Kate Charlock's case is one in point. She was being
slowly driven mad by the creature to whom she was tied. She was forced
to go into frivolous society, or she would assuredly have lost her
reason. It was at the house of one of these Society women that I met
her. Even among a gathering like that she was looked up to and
respected as none of the rest was. I saw her most cruelly insulted by
her own husband in a house where I was spending the evening; in fact,
the thing was so brutal that I ventured to expostulate. Perhaps I went
too far, but Charlock did not seem to mind. I implored him to treat his
wife differently, and it seemed to me that I had made some impression.
Then he asked me to call upon him at a certain time in the evening, when
he would give me a practical reply. And what did I find when I got
there?--the house stripped of everything, and the woman alone, with no
better home to go to than a labourer's cottage, where she would not even
be allowed the use of a servant. That is how Charlock treated so
perfect a woman as his wife. And then, I don't know how, but the whole
rest happened on the spur of the moment, and I am here to-night to tell
you this strange story. I could not say more."
"It sounds amazing," Mrs. Rent murmured. "Let me put another point to
you. Suppose Mr. Charlock had no alternative but to part with his home!
Suppose that his wife's extravagance had brought him to the verge of
ruin! Suppose that a creditor had removed everything to pay his debt!
Do you think, in these circumstances, that the woman was justified in
refusing to share the cottage which the man had to offer her? Don't you
think it was her bounden duty to make every sacrifice until those debts
were paid?"
Arnold Rent waved the question impatiently aside.
"I don't know where you get your information," he said, "though I am
prepared to admit, for the sake of argument, that what you say is true.
At present other things trouble me. For better or worse, I have cast
the die. You will admit that I cannot change my course now."
"I should be the last to suggest it," Mrs. Rent said mournfully. "What
are you going to do in the meantime? Your friends will turn their backs
upon you. You will have to abandon your career. But I will not dwell
upon that. I will confine myself to the moment. What are your plans?"
"My plans are simple enough, mother," Rent replied. "For the present I
shall continue my scientific work. Nothing could interfere with that.
And from now, until Charlock makes up his mind what to do, I do not
intend to see Kate. You will acknowledge I want to prevent all the
scandal I can, and in that respect I am looking forward to your
assistance. If you will allow Mrs. Charlock to stay here and give her
your moral support, I am certain----"
"Oh, the boy is mad," Mrs. Rent exclaimed. "That woman's beauty has
intoxicated you. I see now what a mistake I made when I regarded you as
unspotted by the world. My friends were right when they said I should
have sent you to a public school and university. Do you suppose for a
single moment that I could dream of having that woman here? Do you
suppose that I could allow her to come in contact with Ethel Hargrave?"
"Need Ethel know?" Rent suggested sullenly.
"She knows already. I had to tell her. No, you shall stay one night
here, but to-morrow you must go elsewhere. I have thought this matter
out, and I have made up my mind what to do. Your path is plain. You
must make this woman see her folly and return to her husband. But did
it never occur to you to ask yourself one question before you took this
fatal step? Do you suppose that this woman would have thrown in her lot
with you if she had not known that you are Arnold Rent of Alton Lee and
the heir to a large property? If I call her and tell her that
everything is at my disposal, do you think she would not want time for
consideration?"
"You malign her," Arnold cried. "I am certain she never gave the matter
a thought. For my sake----"
"Ah, for your sake," Helen Rent said. "That is just the point I want to
arrive at. For your sake I am going to try that woman in the balance.
We shall see whether she is found wanting or not. From this week your
allowance ceases. You will receive no more money from me. You will be
thrown upon your own resources. You will have to earn your own living,
and you will be the better man for it. The same remark applies to Mrs.
Charlock, though not to such an extent, because, until the law settles
the differences between her and her husband, she will be entitled to an
income. Mr. Westlake told me this--I think he called it maintenance. It
will not be much, but, at the same time, it will be enough to keep her
in a modest way with due and becoming economy. I don't say that my
decision is final, because if I find, say, at the expiration of five
years that there is likely to be no more of these self-indiscretions and
platonic follies, I may change my mind. But I am not going to see Alton
Lee made an asylum for social experiments. Had my prayers been answered
and you had asked Ethel to be your wife, I might think differently. But
this matter is quite another story. I hope I have made my meaning plain.
I hope I have made you understand that you will have to face the world
now and work for your own living. You little realise how much it hurts a
mother to speak in this fashion. Perhaps you will know some day.
Meanwhile, I have nothing to add to what I have said. Do you follow
me?"
"Oh, I hear right enough," Arnold said bitterly. "I hope before long
that you will realise the cruel injustice of what you are doing. And
you may be sure that nothing will make any difference to Kate Charlock.
She will be only too proud and pleased to have the opportunity of
showing the stuff she is made of. I suppose I have to thank Mr.
Westlake for all this."