To sit and eat dinner alone in the large dining-room was beyond
Caroline this evening. She went upstairs resolutely determining to work
again, but she had reckoned without Dennis.
The maid was ripe for a good long chat. She insisted, too, on bringing
up some dinner and waiting on Caroline.
Dennis found the girl looking very tired and depressed. But when she
pressed this point Miss Graniger promptly declared that she had never
felt better in her life.
"Tell me all that you have been doing, Dennis," she said.
Really it was a rest for her to sit and say nothing, a rest not to vex
her brain with futile questioning for a while.
It amused her to hear the maid's views of things in general. Dennis's
admiration for a beautiful country largely depended on how the servants
were lodged and cared for in any particular house.
"This ere's a kind of paradise," she said; "down with them rich folk in
Devonshire we was that crowded we didn't know how to turn round. Some
of them slept in huts, but I was a bit better off than most, because
Miss Camilla wanted me with her most all the time. What do you think of
her, miss?" Dennis asked abruptly, "don't you find her looking simply
awful? She's that shaky, I do declare, at times I can hardly get her
into a frock, and for all she swears it isn't so; I'm certain sure
she's got something worritin' her."
Dennis was silent a moment, then she went on: "I wouldn't say it to a
soul but you, but I can't help thinking as it's that fellow
Broxbourne's as is vexing her."
Caroline sat with her elbow on the table, her face shadowed by her hand.
"But isn't that rather ridiculous, Dennis?" she asked. "Why should Sir
Samuel vex her?"
"Ah! my dear," said Dennis, "that's a question I'd like to answer. I
wish to the Lord she'd marry and settle down; for there's no getting
away from the fact that Sir Samuel's been buzzing about her ever so
much of late, and it does her no sort of good." A note of exasperation
came here into Dennis's voice. "Just to think of all she's got now, all
what's been done for her. How she's been took out of all her
difficulties, and stands on her own feet! Didn't she ought to be lively
and well? I can't make it out! Why don't they marry, miss?"
"Oh, I think they will now very shortly," Caroline said. "Now, run down
and have your own supper, Dennis ... it is getting late."
When the maid had gone, Caroline sat in the same attitude. She was not
thinking of what Dennis had just told her, she was thinking of that
deep, tender note in Haverford's voice when he had been speaking of
Camilla. How he loved her! The one creature who had brought to him all
that had been lacking in his life till now! How many years he must have
hungered for such love. Surely now that it had come it would have its
real value! Surely a love such as his could not be born only to be
wasted!
"She is so dear to me," the words haunted Caroline, and when her mind
jerked back and she recalled the earlier hours of this day, and the
veritable anguish which she had experienced when she had looked at
Camilla's changed, almost worn face, her eagerness to stand and to help
him, to put an end to this indecision, this dangerous and futile
waiting, seemed to burn in her veins, and quicken the beat of her heart.
"I will certainly go to London to-morrow," she said; "I feel almost
inclined to pretend that I am overtaxed, that the children try me, that
I want attention. She is always urging me to let her know if that
should happen, and that is where she is so sweet, everything else
stands on one side when she thinks there is a claim on her."
Here a sound from the nursery drew Caroline into the children's room.
It was only Baby talking in her sleep, but she sat down a little while,
and in the tranquillity of the children's room some tranquillity fell
on her own nerves too.
"At least I have one great joy," she said to herself as she sat there;
"they all trust me. She could not give me greater proof of this than in
the words she spoke to me about these dear little souls to-day."
Just then she heard some one moving in the other room, and rising, she
went softly to the door. It was the maid who usually waited on her.
"I have brought you a letter, miss. It's just come. Sent over from Lea
Abbey."
"Thank you," said Caroline.
She waited until the maid had made up the fire and gone out of the
room, and then when she was alone she still waited.
It was very ridiculous of her, but she felt suddenly frightened.
There was nothing unusual in Camilla sending a letter at this hour. Her
letters and messages arrived at any time.
"What _is_ the matter with me?" asked Caroline of herself impatiently.
"I am all upside down to-day!" And then she opened the letter.
It was written in pencil; written in haste.
"I did intend not to have sent a word to any of you, but just as I am
starting for London I feel I must scribble a message to you, dear
little Caroline. Ask Agnes to forgive me. The fact is I cannot bring
myself to write to her, and you--you little bit of a thing as you are,
draw me as I have never been drawn before. I am taking a big step
to-night, Caroline. It is ridiculous to suppose that you will any of
you regard what I am doing as anything but madness, but I cannot help
myself. Everything forces me away from what you all think the best for
me; but then, you see, you none of you have known just exactly what has
been passing with me. I had a great temptation to open my heart to you
when we were together out on the marshes to-day, but I could not do it.
Remember what I told you about the children. They won't see me for some
little while, but as soon as possible they will come to me, and you,
too ... if you _will_ come. Tell Agnes I will write to her in a day or
two, and that I am always hers lovingly, that is if she cares any
longer for my love."
The initials "C. L." were scribbled under this.
Caroline put down the letter, and stood staring ahead of her, seeing
nothing.
At first the full significance of what Camilla had written did not come
to her. She was only conscious of that almost hopeless feeling of
irresistance, of surrender to emotion, which any acutely pathetic
element produces.
But this dazed, only half-conscious sensation, passed from her quickly,
and then her mind began to act nervously, feverishly. She spun threads
together, and with hideous clearness she remembered now the words
Dennis had spoken only just a little while before.
She took up the letter again, and she read it this time deliberately.
"She is gone to London," she said to herself; "that means that she will
sleep there--that she will not leave till to-morrow, wherever she is
going. It has all been planned out. She got rid of Dennis because
Dennis might have asked questions. Lea Abbey was only one of the
details, and now she is in London. Well, I shall go there, too!"
She crumpled the letter, and went quickly into the corridor. The
nursery-maid was in a room a little further along.
"Please stay with the children," said Caroline; "I am going downstairs."
She ran down to the hall, and sought and found a railway guide. All at
once she remembered that a guest who had once been summoned away very
hurriedly from Yelverton at night had caught a train at some junction a
little distance away. By so doing he had reached London at a very early
hour.
Caroline decided to follow his course. The express paused at Swaile
Junction somewhere before four o'clock, but she would start off now.
To have to sit there and wait till the Brentons came back, and to go
into explanations was utterly beyond her. Besides, she felt half afraid
that Mrs. Brenton might try to dissuade her from going, and Caroline
could not endure that. It was not only the woman who called to her, it
was the man who loved this woman--the man whom she loved herself--who
seemed to clamour to her to stand between Camilla and what she intended
to do.
She scribbled an explanation to Agnes Brenton, and slipped Camilla's
letter inside.
"It may be only a chance," she wrote; "but I cannot help feeling that I
shall find her in London. She will never dream that one of us would
follow her, and if human hands can drag her back from this miserable
mistake, I want mine to be the hands to do it."
She intended to keep Dennis in ignorance of her going, but she took one
of the other maids into her confidence.
"Don't let there be any fuss," she said, "but I must get up to London
as quickly as I can. I am sorry not to wait for Mrs. Brenton, but you
will give her that letter. Can you manage to keep Dennis downstairs
while I run up and slip on my hat and coat?"
"Yes, miss, of course. But where are you going from, there's no trains
now, miss?"
"There is a train that stops at Swaile Junction somewhere between three
and four, I am going to catch that."
"Swaile," said the maid; "but that's miles away, miss. How will you go?"
"Quite easily," said Caroline. "I am going to walk."
"But you'll never do it, miss. It's much too far."
"Don't talk rubbish," said Caroline, quickly. "I can walk ten, fifteen,
twenty, twenty-five, or even thirty miles, if needs be. Walking does
not hurt me."
As she ran down again she glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to
eleven. There was ample time, although she would have to keep to the
roads, because she did not know any short cut. The idea that she should
be frightened amused her in a way.
"If anybody hits me, I shall hit back," she said to herself, as she
gripped her umbrella and started forth.
It was not a dark night, though there was no moon.
At first the mere physical satisfaction of moving, of walking swiftly,
carried Caroline along pleasurably. The fresh, sweet cold in the air
was like an embrace.
She skirted the village, and ventured across one field which she knew
would cut off a considerable corner. This field was studded with sheep
and lambs.
The foolish creatures got up with a jerk, and ran away, complaining and
fearful, as she passed swiftly beside them. In the faint, misty light
the lambs looked prettier than ever.
Once on the high-road Caroline pushed on vigorously, but by degrees
that unconscious sense of exhilaration which had possessed her when she
had first started fell away, and she felt heart-weary and indescribably
sad as she realized the purport of this solitary excursion.
How far she walked she never knew, but her feet were getting stiff and
tired when at last she saw the lights of the junction in the distance.
Nevertheless, she could not rest when she was in the station. She spent
the time waiting for the train to come in restlessly pacing the
platform.
It was about half-past six when she reached London, and put herself
into a cab. The horse seemed as tired as herself, and the journey from
the station interminable, but at last she had alighted at the familiar
little house.
Her heart was in her throat as she rang the bell.
"Perhaps I shall have to wait a little while," she said to herself.
"They never get up very early."
But, strangely enough, the door was opened to her almost immediately by
the cook, whose face lit up when she saw Caroline.
"Oh, miss, I am glad to see you!" she said. "I've had such a start.
He's upstairs in the drawing-room. If you'll believe me, he's been here
since a quarter to six. Wouldn't be said no! But how tired you look,
miss! Come in and sit down."
Caroline could not get her voice for a moment. Vaguely she remarked a
strapped portmanteau standing on one of the chairs. Then she asked--
"Mrs. Lancing, is she here?"
The servant shook her head.
"No, miss, she's not here. That's what I've been telling Sir Samuel. He
won't believe me. He says she's coming."
"Not here?" said Caroline.
She stepped back, and rested against the hall wall. All her strength
went from her for a moment, but she rallied herself quickly, and turned
into the dining-room.
"Who did you say was upstairs?" she asked.
"Sir Samuel, miss. Come here at a quarter to six, as I told you. Said
as the mistress had fixed him to come. There's only me and Annie
sleeping here. He rang the bell like mad; hardly gave me time to put my
clothes on. Of course, the missus isn't here; she ain't expected,
leastways, not by us. Did you come to meet her?"
"Yes," said Caroline; but her tone was weary, and she closed her eyes.
"Well, I've no news of her, miss. Most like she's coming. She don't
always give us notice. But there, I'll go and get you a cup of tea."
At that very moment they heard the stamp of a heavy foot, and the
drawing-room door was opened with a jerk.
"Now he's coming to swear at me again!"
Caroline got up, stood a moment with her eyes shut, then opened them
with a jerk, and walked out of the room straight up the stairs. She
took off her hat as she went. Sir Samuel Broxbourne was standing on the
top stair; he frowned as he saw her. He was dressed as for travelling,
in a rough tweed suit.
It was the girl who spoke first.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "By what right do you come to the
house at this time? Will you please be so good as to go at once?"
He stared at her, and, as she advanced, he moved mechanically on one
side and let her pass, but he followed her into the drawing-room.
"I am here by appointment," he said; his tone was sullen, his manner
rude. "Mrs. Lancing desires to see me."
"No person would give you an appointment for six o'clock in the
morning," said Caroline.
"Ordinary people might not," he answered with a smile that was a sneer,
"but this is not an ordinary house."
Caroline walked into the dismantled drawing-room.
"As Mrs. Lancing is not here," she said, "it is undesirable that you
should remain."
"I shall go when I choose," was Broxbourne's answer.
Caroline shrugged her shoulders, and turned at once to leave the room,
but he stood in the way.
"No," he said, "since you give orders you must know what is going on
here. If Mrs. Lancing is not here, why are you here?"
"I recognize no right on your part to question me," said Caroline.
She was swayed about by the most extraordinary feelings, prominent
amongst which was a sense of acute relief that almost amounted to joy.
Whatever Camilla had done, wherever she was, this man at least was not
with her. It was impossible for Caroline to try and piece out what
probable step the other woman had taken, but at least the degradation
of close association with this man was not part of her movements.
Sir Samuel eyed her with suspicion, and yet her quietness, her tired
pale face, and that wonderful dignity which sat upon her so naturally,
impressed him.
"I don't want to question you," he said surlily, "I only want to see
her."
"She is not here," said Caroline.
"Then, where is she? You think I'm lying when I tell you that I came
here by appointment; but I tell you that she fixed the hour herself. If
you don't believe me, here's her note."
He held out a crumpled piece of paper. Caroline put it on one side, but
she could not help seeing the writing, and she knew it only too well.
"If Mrs. Lancing has told you to come here to meet her, then I can say
no more."
She moved away to the door, and once again he stood on one side and let
her pass.
At that moment they heard the sound of a cab approaching in the street;
it pulled up; a moment later the bell rang.
Some colour flickered into Caroline's face. She put out her hand and
rested it against the door, and with that support she passed on to the
landing, holding her breath to catch the first sound of the pretty
voice she knew so well.
"Will she be angry with me? How will she look? What will she say?"
Thought chased thought through her brain wildly. The door was opened,
but no one entered. There was a buzzing in her ears; she could not
catch what passed. But as she stood there, trembling now in every limb,
the cook ran up the stairs with a letter.
"For Sir Samuel, miss," she said.
Broxbourne was just behind, and he snatched the letter out of the
woman's hand.
"Won't you come down, miss?" said the servant, in a hurried way. "Do
come. I've made some tea for you."
But Caroline looked backwards at that moment. She had caught the sound
of a muttered exclamation. She hardly knew what prompted her to send
the woman away, but she did so, and she turned and went back into the
drawing-room, shutting the door behind her.
Broxbourne was standing biting his moustache. His red face had turned
white. He looked ugly and alarming.
"You have news from Mrs. Lancing?" Caroline said.
He looked at her, but made no answer.
The tension of her nerves gave. Caroline groped her way to a chair, sat
down, and hid her face in her hands for an instant; then she looked up.
"I _entreat_ you to tell me what has happened," she said brokenly. "I
care for her so much. I came here because I care so much ... because I
thought I could help her." Her voice was husky. "I only heard from her
late last night, but I had to come, and I prayed I might not be too
late. Where is----"
Broxbourne looked at her as her words died away.
"Take my word for it, she isn't worth fretting over. She can take care
of herself."
There was an indescribable amount of bitterness in his voice. Something
about Caroline's look had checked his rage.
"She's all right," he said roughly.
"Yes, but where is she?"
Sir Samuel laughed, and then he scowled.
"You say you heard from her, so I suppose you know all there is to
know."
Caroline brushed back her hair from her tired aching brow.
"I know only this much--that she contemplated something rash and
foolish.... She told me nothing, but I fancied I should find her here.
That was why I came.... I wanted so much to be with her."
"You mean you've just come up from Yelverton; but how did you manage
that?"
She told him, and he frowned almost unbelievingly; then he said, in
that surly, bitter way--
"Well, I tell you she isn't worth it. She wouldn't care if you broke
yourself up into little bits to help her. She----" There was a hard,
ugly word on his lips. He stifled it, but not easily; then he said,
"Mrs. Lancing is married. In this note she informs me she was married
yesterday morning early to Cuthbert Baynhurst."
Caroline cried out sharply.
"It isn't true!... Oh, it isn't true!"
"I think you'll find it is," said Broxbourne shortly.
He avoided looking at Caroline. He was not over sensitive, but
something about this girl made him uncomfortable.
"And if you want to know why she has done this, I am the person to tell
you. She wanted to show me that she's a bit cleverer than I took her to
be, and, by God! she's about done it! She's tricked me fairly; but if
she thinks it ends at this she'll live to know her mistake. No one
scores off me more than once in their life."
His blustering return to anger made no effect on the girl sitting
rigidly in the chair.
"It can't be true," she was saying to herself wildly, over and over
again. "It can't be true!"
A timid knock sounded at the door. It was the cook with a cup of tea.
Sir Samuel took the tea and sent the woman away. She went unwillingly.
"I advise you to drink this," he said, advancing awkwardly enough.
But Caroline refused the tea, whilst thanking him.
"Why should you care so much?" asked Broxbourne; in that sullen way.
"She's tricked you as well as me, and everybody else. I tell you, you
don't know her. She's the sort of woman who looks like an angel, and
has no more heart or conscience than--than my boot has. She's clever,
though; I'll give her that much. By Gad! to think she should have had
me like this! But if she thinks she's settled with me, she's a lot out.
I wish her joy of Mr. Baynhurst. They're a good match. After sponging
all he knew on the other chap, he walks off with the woman and the
money. Well, I'll take pretty good care the beautiful Camilla don't
show her face here again very soon. She may trick me; but she isn't out
of the wood, for all that." He was getting excited now. "If I've held
my tongue all this while, there's nothing to prevent my speakin'
now.... And I think it's on the cards that our dear friends may have
their honeymoon excursion brought to an end a little sooner than they
expect. Forgery is a nasty offence, Miss Graniger.... It means seven
years."
Caroline looked at him with strained, incredulous, and miserable eyes.
"What do you mean?" she whispered.
"I mean that your dear friend Camilla is nothing better than a common
thief; that she robbed me of four hundred pounds a year and a half ago."
Caroline's lips turned white.
"I will not believe you," she said; but the man hardly heard her.
He was wound up; the whole venom of his wrath was let loose. Stamping
to and fro, he laid bare the history of the last few weeks; coarsely,
brutally he told the truth, ending with the part that had brought him
to the house this morning.
Caroline's very soul went out in an agony of pity for the woman who had
been tortured by this man. If only she had known! If only Camilla had
turned for help to her!
Once started, Broxbourne seemed to have no end to his vituperation.
"She thinks I'll never do it, but she might know me a little bit
better. I'll soon show her! I tell you straight, when I leave this
house I go to my lawyer, and give him orders to start proceedings right
away."
Caroline got up; her hat, her gloves rolled to the ground. She was
breathing hardly. Scarcely realizing what she was doing, she moved
awkwardly, almost stiffly, to the door and stood against it. Her
movement, her attitude drew his attention; he turned and looked at her.
His face was swollen now with the force of his increasing rage. He was
almost shouting out his words. As he paused, his chest heaved as though
he had just been through some violent exertion.
Caroline looked at him steadily.
"Please do not make so much noise; the servants will think you are
killing me, and--and I have done nothing to deserve that."
Broxbourne frowned, stood for a moment looking at her in an uncertain
way, and then sat down heavily.
"I beg your pardon," he said. He wiped his brow. "I'll do it," he said,
hardly conscious that he was speaking. "A little prison life will teach
her a lot of things she ought to know."
The girl standing at the door, shaking in every limb, could have cried
aloud her passionate abhorrence for him; but something stronger than
anger and hate dominated her; it was fear. Strung up as he was, he was
ripe for some quick and terrible revenge. Even now she could see his
purpose was strengthening; in a few hours' time the world would be
blazoned with this sorry, this miserable story. Camilla's pathetic
face--Rupert--Agnes Brenton--the children limned themselves in turn
before Caroline's eyes.
Though she would have given her life to have denied his accusation, she
knew it was true. So much was explained now--so much--so much!
As Broxbourne made a move as if to get up, she commenced speaking
indistinctly, half wildly.
"You have said a most terrible thing. You have accused this--my friend
of a great crime, and you mean to have her punished. Why? Not for any
honourable or upright reason, but because you are so angry with her
that you are like a madman, and want to strike at her somehow, you
don't care how. That seems to me to be very paltry."
Broxbourne wiped his brow again.
"Oh, indeed; I never asked for your opinion!" he said.
"I never asked you to go into a frenzy of rage," Caroline answered;
"one good turn deserves another. If you try to frighten me out of my
life, I am at liberty to tell you what I think of you; and what I think
is not pleasant."
Sir Samuel sat down again, and looked at her steadily. She had a
defiant--a picturesque air, standing against the door.
"I don't care what any one thinks," he said. "I'm the best judge of my
own actions."
"Are you?" Caroline laughed. "Well, then, there must be something very
wrong with you, even a schoolboy knows it is only a coward who hits a
woman." She caught her breath. "I should not have taken you to be a
coward, Sir Samuel."
He put his eyeglass into his eye, and looked at her again.
His anger began to subside. As he fixed Caroline with a steady gaze, he
unconsciously settled his collar, and fingered his tie.
"You're an odd sort of girl. Always thought you couldn't say 'Boo' to a
goose, and here you are going at me as if you were made of fire."
Caroline laughed, such a tired, miserable laugh.
"You have never spoken to me before," she said.
"No, by Jove! but I've wanted to, many a time. I'm sure I've looked at
you hard enough. First time I saw you, that night you threw my glove
back at me, do you remember? I took a fancy to you."
"Really!" said Caroline.
Her heart was quaking. She was horribly afraid of him, but this fear
was as nothing compared to that withering, awful one of a few moments
before. She moved away from the door, turning the handle, and pulling
it open as she went.
"Yes, really; but you know it; every pretty woman knows her own power."
He made her change colour; she was very interesting.
He was not sure that her head was not prettier than Camilla's; and her
eyes were glorious. His critical glance travelled over her body; the
lines were perfect; she stood so well. When he arrived at her feet, and
saw her mud-stained boots, he frowned.
"You're not only pretty, but you're a good sort, though you do call me
a coward," he said jerkily. "I tell you what. I like grit, and you've
got plenty of it. It isn't every woman, let me tell you, that would
walk nine miles through the country in the dead of the night, just to
stand by another woman! I didn't take it in at first, but, by Jove! I
do now. I'll shake hands with you, Miss Graniger."
He got up. Caroline seemed to grow suddenly very small.
"I--I cannot shake hands with you, Sir Samuel," she said, hoping her
voice would not desert her altogether.
"Why?"
"Because I am afraid of you."
"Afraid?" he laughed almost good-humouredly. "Oh, come, I won't believe
that, I don't believe you could be afraid of anything or anybody!"
Caroline looked at him, and looked away.
"You are very strong and fierce, and I think you can be cruel."
He laughed again.
"All granted; but I shan't hurt _you_. I give you my word I won't."
Caroline bit her lip.
"If you hurt Camilla, you will hurt me horribly."
He frowned sharply.
"That's another matter," he said.
"No, it is all one; I love her. I love her children." Caroline's voice
broke.
"Don't cry," said Broxbourne, drawing a little nearer.
She shrank away from him, but not visibly. Her heart was beating in her
throat.
The last remnant of anger had gone from his expression, his eyes were
softer, his hands moved restlessly. Her white quivering face had more
significance to him than mere prettiness in this moment. He had
measured her will already in many an abortive attempt to attract her.
There had been an element of contempt in her indifference, in her cold
rejection of his admiration, that had given her a lasting place in his
thoughts. It gratified him strangely now to feel that he could move
her, that he had beaten down that barrier of indifference. To a
considerable degree, this surrender as it were to his power helped to
reinstate him.
He was not likely to forget for many a day that he had been outwitted,
made a fool of by a woman whom he imagined he had under his thumb, but
there was more than a passing sensation of satisfaction and even
pleasure in the realization that he could wring tears from such a girl
as Caroline, that he had broken down such a proud spirit as hers.
He approached her a step nearer, but an interruption came to this
little scene at this moment.
As Caroline had opened the door the cook, who had been hovering outside
on the staircase (really nervous as to what was passing) made her
appearance.
"Don't you think as you ought to have some breakfast, miss, and rest a
bit? There'll be a message perhaps from Mrs. Lancing by-and-by."
Caroline picked up her hat and her gloves.
"Thank you, I will come," she said.
"Look here," said Broxbourne, following her quickly and scowling at the
servant, "I'd like to say something more to you about this. When can I
see you?"
She leaned against the doorway and rested with her eyes shut for half a
moment, then she looked at him.
"I am going back to Yelverton now, directly."
He paused a moment, and then he said, in a dogged sort of way--
"Then I'll go to Yelverton, too. Now I'll take myself off."
As he passed her, Caroline put out her hand and caught his arm feebly.
"Sir Samuel, you will not----" words failed her.
There was a pompous air about him as he answered that broken sentence.
"I will do nothing till I have seen you again. Will that please you?"
She could only bend her head. As he went heavily down the stairs her
eyes closed again.
Like a blind, broken-down creature, she turned into the drawing-room
once more, and as she fell into a chair she lay there inert, too
prostrate to move or even to think consciously for a little while at
least.