A FAITHFUL SERVANT.
For Ralph, in the period of forced inactivity that followed,
existence became a nightmare; the charge against him being one of
murder, bail was not granted, and his innocence, instead of making
his incarceration tolerable, added to its horror. He felt stifled,
and raged at being shut up within the four walls of a cell in this
glorious summer weather, when, but for the crass imbecility of some
over-zealous detective, he might have been luxuriating in the
sunshine with Gwendolen on the Thames. By degrees, too, a morbid
nervousness took possession of him. When brought before the
magistrates he was astounded at the weight of evidence that seemed to
have been piled up against him in the interval; what a clever counsel
for the Crown might make of it all he was afraid to think, and
talking about it to Mr. Tracy afterwards, frankly admitted that he
was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"If I'm committed for trial," he said, when, instead of being
discharged as he expected, he was remanded for a week, "I shall feel
that I am half way to the gallows. These lawyers are the very devil,
and I don't believe a saint would emerge from cross-examination with
a rag of character left."
Mr. Tracy reassured him then, and Gwendolen cheered him up by her
loving sympathy.
"Mother and I have seen Melville," she said, "and we will not leave a
single thing undone to put an end to this horrible blunder with the
enquiry before the magistrates. I can't believe that it will be
possible to twist facts into evidence enough to justify your
committal. It will be all right next time, and I shall insist upon
being married to you by special licence directly you are discharged,
as a sort of vote of confidence in you."
She would not allow him to guess how anxious she was, and spared him
all knowledge of how strongly the tide of public opinion was running
against him; but at the Manor House, when alone with her mother, she
broke out into a storm of indignation against her neighbours.
"It shakes one's faith in human nature," she said passionately, "that
anyone can be found to believe such a preposterous charge. Of course
Ralph knew he would be Sir Geoffrey's heir, and to suggest that he
would commit murder to antedate his possession by a few years is
absurd. And then all this haggling about minutes! Of course any man
would change his clothes before bothering to get himself a whiskey
and soda. If there hadn't been such an awful storm, Ralph would not
have discovered the murder at all; he would have gone straight up to
The Grange without looking into Sir Geoffrey's room."
For it was upon the time spent by Ralph in the boathouse that the
police were at present chiefly relying to substantiate the charge
against him; they showed that the moment suggested by the doctor as
that when the fatal shot took effect must have synchronised with
Ralph's arrival in the boathouse, and there was absolutely no
evidence to show that anyone else had been there at all. Mr. Tracy's
suggestion that the murderer would scarcely be so foolish as to leave
his blood-stained garments lying on the floor was heard politely, but
not accepted as sufficient to warrant a discharge, and the request of
the police for a remand, pending further investigation, was acceded
to without dissent. So for another week they were obliged to possess
their souls in patience.
But while upon Gwendolen Ralph's arrest had only the effect of
increasing her love and developing her mental activity on his behalf,
upon Lavender Sinclair its effect was very different.
When she reached home, after parting from Melville at Waterloo on the
evening of the murder, she broke down physically. During the row
from Fairbridge to St. Martin's Lock she contracted a bad chill,
which compelled her to keep her bed. This, indeed, she was only too
glad to do. In her darkened room she lay with her throbbing head
buried in the pillows, as if to exclude from her sight the daylight
that only served to remind her of the work going on in the world; it
would be someone's work to trace the man who fired the shot, of which
the sound still rang in her ears, and when he was found----. She
fought against her illness, which was real enough. If she became
delirious she might talk, and part of her penance for the future
would be the guard that she must ever keep upon her tongue. She
almost feared to sleep, lest an only partially unconscious brain
should prompt her to babble of that which she had seen. Gently, but
firmly, she insisted upon being left alone, and in her solitude she
struggled to be well.
At first she kept aloof from all news of the world outside; would see
no papers, and checked Lucille's inclination to chatter, but soon
this mood was replaced by one of feverish desire to know what had
happened at Fairbridge; at any rate, she must not be taken unawares,
and every day's delay was a day's respite. In one of the weekly
papers she read an account of the tragedy and of the inquest that
followed, and derived some vague assurance from the frank admission
of the police that they were absolutely without a clue.
This relaxed the tension of her nerves, and when the next morning
dawned, she felt less ill and better able to resume her ordinary
life. She drew up the blinds and threw open the window; presently
she would go for a drive and let rapid motion through the fresh air
banish the last traces of the headache that had tortured her
since--then. If only she dared she would call at Jermyn Street, but
her promise not to write to or call on Melville must be kept. If she
had kept her former promise to remain in the boat how much agony she
would have escaped!
She turned away from the window and looked round her room; she had
means to gratify all reasonable desires, and she was cat-like in her
fondness for warmth and soft rugs and cushions. All down one wall of
her bedroom was a broad settee spread thickly with down pillows and
covered with magnificent opossum rugs. Curtains, draped tent fashion
from the ceiling, screened this divan from every draught, and Moorish
lanterns, filled with scented oil, illumined it by night. An inlaid
Syrian table stood near at hand, and there was a suggestion of
Oriental luxury about the place that seemed to bar anything not
conducive to repose. From a hanging wardrobe Lavender took a
comfortable peignoir, a French creation of billowy chiffon and lace
and ribbons, and leaving the windows open, stretched herself upon the
divan and pulled up the rugs breast high; and while she lay there
waiting for her maid to come to her, her thoughts wandered to what
she stood to lose if any change occurred in her life other than the
one she might voluntarily make by marrying Sir Ross Buchanan.
Except Melville, no one knew she had ever been Sir Geoffrey's wife,
and she might rely upon his respecting her wish for the secret to be
preserved now that she was in possession of this terrible secret of
his. Sir Geoffrey had held his peace about the past in which she had
figured, and it might be buried with him in his grave; the fear of
prosecution for her bigamous marriage with Mr. Sinclair, which
Melville had conjured up so vividly before her, was removed as well,
and she could continue her indolent existence as his widow at The
Vale, or burst forth into a period of splendour as the wife of the
Scotch millionaire. No one knew of the picnic up the river, and the
procrastination, in which she had acquiesced through terror and
physical illness, had proved the safest and wisest policy after all.
Of such an offence as being an accessory after the fact in any crime,
Lavender, in her rather uneducated state, had no idea; if she had
ever heard the phrase, it conveyed no meaning to her. She would
acquiesce in a policy of absolute silence--forget her individuality
as Lady Holt, and resume her ordinary life as the widow of the
estimable Mr. Sinclair, who had provided for her maintenance on a
scale that coincided so accurately with her desires.
Lucille tapped gently at the door and opened it softly in case her
mistress should be still asleep, but when she saw the open window and
the vacant bed she came in briskly, pleased to know that Lavender
must be better.
"I am glad," she said with a smile, "you are better?"
"Much better," said Lavender; "well, and more than ready for some
breakfast."
"That is good," the maid replied, and disappeared to return with an
inviting tray, which she placed on the table by Lavender's side; and
while Lavender, reclining on the divan, enjoyed her breakfast
thoroughly, Lucille busied herself about the room and chatted
pleasantly of trifles.
Presently Lucille removed the tray, and, sitting on a low chair by
Lavender's side, began to brush out her mistress's hair, while
Lavender leant on one arm with her face turned towards the wall.
"I didn't like to mention it to you while you were so ill," Lucille
remarked, "but have you heard the sad news about Mr. Ashley's uncle?
Shot in his own summer house!"
"Yes," Lavender replied; "I read about it yesterday." She spoke
steadily; she had better get accustomed to hearing the crime talked
about, but still she was glad her face was averted.
"There's some more about it in the papers to-day."
"Is there?" said Lavender sharply. "Have they found out who did it?"
"Oh, no," said Lucille; "there doesn't seem to be any clue at all."
Lavender drew a deep sigh of relief; she could not be sufficiently
grateful for the extraordinary presence of mind which Melville had
displayed throughout that awful journey from Fairbridge. If he had
not seen the handkerchief which she dropped by the ha-ha they might
both be under arrest already. But other thoughts were passing
through Lucille's mind.
"There's nothing about the murderer," she said, "but there is an
advertisement saying that if Lady Holt will apply to some solicitors
she will hear of something to her advantage. Did I pull your hair?"
For Lavender started perceptibly.
"Where is the advertisement? I should like to see it."
"I thought it would interest you," Lucille replied, "for the first
time Mr. Ashley called here you told me he might ask for Lady Holt,
and that if he did I was to come and let you know. Is Lady Holt a
friend of yours?"
"Let me see the advertisement," said Lavender again, and Lucille went
to fetch the morning paper. While she was gone, Lavender considered
as rapidly as possible what she had better do. For ten years Lucille
had been with her, a companion rather than a servant, the trusted and
trustworthy recipient of all her confidences; and Lavender, on her
part, had played the friend rather than the mistress to this
otherwise friendless woman, had made her life bright and happy, and
reaped the reward of being served with fidelity and devotion. Never
once had Lucille presumed upon her relations with her employer, and
in believing that she placed her mistress's interests above her own
Lavender judged rightly. Lucille returned and gave the newspaper to
Lavender, who read the paragraph with trembling eagerness; she must
give some explanation to Lucille, and the true explanation was also
the politic one to give. She turned round and looked the other woman
in the eyes.
"It is for me, Lucille," she said in a low voice. "I was once Sir
Geoffrey Holt's wife."
Lucille gasped.
"That is your husband that's been murdered? Oh, you poor dear! What
an awful thing!" But her sympathy was not commensurate with her
curiosity. "And you divorced him, I suppose, and he repented and
left you some of his money, and now they want to know where you are
so that they can hand it over to you. That's the something to your
advantage, I suppose. Will you go and see about it to-day?"
The rapidity with which Lucille invented an entire story to fit in
with her views of probabilities bewildered Lavender.
"Oh, no," she said; "that isn't it at all. They must never know
where I am. They must think I am dead, as I always thought he was
when I--married again."
A glimmer of comprehension dawned in Lucille's face.
"You thought him dead when you married Mr. Sinclair, and he wasn't?"
Lavender nodded assent.
"I ran away from him and heard nothing of him, and thought he must be
dead or he would have found me out and compelled me to go back to him
again. And after seven years I thought I was free to marry again,
and I married Mr. Sinclair. It was only the other day I learned that
I was not free and that my marriage with Mr. Sinclair wasn't really
any marriage. And now if they find out that I am Lady Holt, I may be
prosecuted for bigamy; in any case, there will be a frightful
scandal, and as I was never legally Mr. Sinclair's wife I shall lose
all the money he left me and be ruined as well."
"Oh!" said Lucille slowly. "Of course they must never know."
"You won't betray me, will you?" said Lavender piteously.
"Betray you, my poor dear?" cried Lucille. "Whatever are you
thinking of to suppose that I would betray anything that could do you
harm?" She stroked Lavender's hand with fond tenderness, and
Lavender turned upon her face and cried; the womanly sympathy was
just what she needed at this moment, and scarcely any sympathy is so
generous and full as that bestowed upon us by faithful and loyal
servants. "No," said Lucille, "it's only because you've been run
down and ill that such a thought could get into your head. You are
safe so far as I am concerned. Besides, now both your husbands are
dead, what affair is it of anybody's who or what you are? They'll
never find you out after all these years. They wouldn't advertise if
there were any other way of getting at you, and as for the something
to your advantage, if you don't choose to go after it I don't suppose
this Mr. Tracy will raise any objections; at least, he'll be unlike
most of the lawyers I've ever heard of if he does."
By degrees Lavender was comforted and reassured, and under Lucille's
ministrations recovered much of her former health and cheerfulness.
Attended by Lucille, she spent the next few days driving and idling
in the little garden before her house, and reverted practically to
her mode of life before she first asked Melville to call upon her at
The Vale. The horror of the tragedy was even beginning to fade from
her mind; she could never forget it, but she might hope to hear no
more about it. She was almost beginning to think she never would,
when one day, as her carriage was turning into Hyde Park she caught
sight of the newspaper posters fastened against the railings,
blazoning forth the sensational news of the arrest of Mr. Ashley.