MRS. SINCLAIR GOES AWAY.
The pleasant anticipation of her trip abroad, and the little mild
excitement promised by her prospective dinner at a restaurant, among
well-dressed people and brightened by lights and music, went far to
rouse Lavender from her recent long spell of depression; there was
much of the old sparkle in her eyes, much of the warm colour in her
cheeks, as she finished dressing that evening and looked at her
reflection in the mirrors while waiting for Lucille to bring her
opera cloak.
Some caprice impelled her to desire to look her very best to-night,
and she was magnificently dressed in champagne _crepe-de-chine_, worn
over a foundation the tint of apricots. Regardless of the general
superstition she had chosen opals for her jewels, and they burned in
a myriad fantastic colours upon her splendid neck and bosom, and
crept like a flaming serpent up one of her finely moulded arms. Few
women could wear magnificent gems as easily as Lavender Sinclair,
and, imperial as she looked to-night, there was no suggestion of
ostentation or of bad taste in her appearance. Here was the
splendour that compels homage, not the lavish display that challenges
criticism.
Lucille surveyed her with proud affection ere she dropped the long
opera cloak lightly over her shoulders, screening the glowing opals
and covering the delicate gown. There was no need for Lavender to
ask if she looked well; the least vain woman in the world, the most
vain one as well, would have been satisfied by one glance at the
image reflected from the depths of the full-length mirrors.
Reluctantly Lucille extinguished the candles that stood in branching
candelabra over the mirrors, and went downstairs to unroll the carpet
from the hall door to the gate, where the hansom stood in readiness.
Lavender stood in the doorway and looked at the fair exterior of the
small domain where for the last five years she had led so luxurious
an existence. The sound of the traffic outside was subdued in here,
and The Vale was like a green island in the great river of London
life; all of the houses were creeper-covered, and in the flower-beds
in the lawns were brilliant geraniums and petunias and giant
sunflowers. Lavender's own garden was as pretty as any of them, with
ribbon grass and flaunting lilies, and a gnarled wistaria stretching
brown arms over the porch. It seemed a pity to be leaving home when
it was all so sweet and dainty, and yet August had never before found
her in London.
She got into the cab, and, smiling a farewell to Lucille, told the
man to drive to the Café d'Autriche. It was a lovely evening, and
already, early as it was, the stream of cabs and carriages was
setting in the direction of the great hotels and restaurants.
Lavender leaned back in her seat and watched the familiar scene with
the keen interest of the intelligent Londoner, but as she travelled
along the Brompton Road a wistful look stole over her face. Good as
her lot had been until these later days, it might have been better
still if as a child she had been taught more self-control. If Sir
Geoffrey had been more patient with his impetuous child-wife, and she
herself had been less self-willed and passionate, she might now be
driving through the town, not as a practical adventuress masquerading
under a name to which she had no right, but as the wife of an
honoured and honourable old man--not as a supposititious Mrs.
Sinclair, but in her true guise as Lady Holt.
They had got nearly to the end of the road when suddenly, with a
deafening rattle and clanking of chains and a throbbing pulsation of
machinery, a heavy traction engine, drawing a trolly laden with an
enormous cylindrical boiler, came panting towards them. At the same
moment the horses attached to an omnibus, between which and the
pavement Lavender's cab was passing, shied and swerved, the axle of
the hind wheel forcing the cab against the curb. Startled by the
slight collision, and terrified by the hammering din of the ungainly
locomotive, the animal behind which Lavender was sitting--a wiry
Irish mare--threw back her ears, and, letting fly with her heels at
the splash-board, dashed madly forward, jerking the bit between her
teeth and getting absolutely out of hand.
A spasm of fear gripped Lavender's heart, and then, sitting bolt
upright with hands pressed against the two sides of the cab, she
braced herself to await the catastrophe. Even in the wild rush of
the moment she noted with admiration how the driver managed to keep
some semblance of control over the terrified mare, guiding her, he
certainly knew not how, past cabs and omnibuses. But foolish people
on the pavement began to shout, and only scared the little mare into
a wilder pace. Crossing the top of Sloane Street they avoided by a
hair's breadth a green omnibus full of people, and raced on towards
the huge Hyde Park Hotel; they skidded over the edge of the island in
the road, but already the cab was swaying from side to side with a
rhythmical swing that grew more dangerous every time, and in
Lavender's mind two words kept ringing in rhythm with the swinging of
the cab, Lavender Holt--Lavender Holt--Lavender Holt.
She was kept in no suspense as to what the end would be, but even her
stout heart quailed as she saw in what shape death was coming to her.
Just by the railings of the Park the road was up, and policemen were
diverting the traffic on to the other side of the road; but now the
mare was blind and deaf and mad, only struggling to get faster and
farther away from the hellish clangour of that horrible machine
behind. Lifting herself together she charged full at the barrier of
stout pines, upsetting a brazier full of charcoal and crashing anyhow
into a maze of broken poles and blocks of karri-karri.
The impact threw the driver clear over the cab and forced Lavender
through the window folded up above her. Shivering glass and
splintering wood tore and rent their way into her face and neck and
hands; one sob escaped her as a blaze of red flashed up before her to
die away in utter hopeless blackness, and she was lying crushed and
bleeding in the wreckage of the cab, as motionless as the mare that
lay dead beside her.
There is no city in the world where help is so speedily forthcoming
for the injured as it is in London. Almost before the crowd that ran
shouting after the runaway came up to the spot where the dead mare
lay amid the havoc she had wrought, Lavender and the cabman were
taken to the nearest hospital. Tender hands took the jewels from her
torn neck and shoulders, unclasped the winking serpent from her arm,
and cut the stained gown from her broken frame. Her wounds were
dressed and she was already laid in a spotless little bed ere she
recovered consciousness.
"Who is she?" said the house-surgeon. "Does anybody know?"
"There are only initials on her linen," one of the nurses said;
"perhaps the cabman may be able to tell us by-and-bye."
The house-surgeon shook his head.
"'The poor fellow can never tell us anything now; he was dead before
they brought him in. This poor creature's hours are numbered too."
He went out to the constables who had brought the accident in. "One
of you had better come inside," he said; "the lady is dying, but she
may recover consciousness before the end," and, with an inspector of
police, he resumed his seat by the side of the bed. A quiver moved
the tired eyelids, so faint that only the surgeon saw it. He bent
over Lavender.
"Lavender Holt," she murmured, her dazed brain reverting to what had
been almost her last conscious thought, and rhythmically the words
forced themselves from the white lips again and yet again--"Lavender
Holt--Lavender Holt."
"You are Lavender Holt?" the surgeon asked, and she made a sign of
assent.
"Can that be the woman who has been advertised for from Fairbridge
Manor?" the inspector whispered, an eager light shining in his eyes;
"the missing widow of the murdered man?"
The silence was painfully long drawn out, but again the white lips
tried to frame a name, and this time the inspector's suggestion
helped.
"Try Ashley," he murmured, and with wonderful skill the surgeon
encouraged the wavering brain to act.
"You are Lady Holt," he said, "and you want to see Mr. Ashley, is
that it?"
A look of relief crossed her face. It was enough that her wish was
understood, but too much for her to grasp the fact that there was any
danger for anyone in what the wish involved. Behind her vacant look
the surgeon saw the glimmer of consciousness, and with infinite
patience he extracted from her that it was Melville whom she wished
to see, and that he lived in Jermyn Street.
"That is the brother of the suspect," the inspector whispered. "You
had better send for him at once," and without any delay a messenger
was despatched in a cab to Melville's chambers.
Before the tiny wave of strength had ebbed, Lavender found means to
ask for Lucille too, and said that she lived at The Vale, South
Kensington. That much done, her brain became clouded again, and for
a space the others could only wait and watch.
"She will probably have several periods of consciousness," the
surgeon said to the inspector, "but there is no chance of life for
her. If you think that she really is the widow of Sir Geoffrey Holt,
who has been so sought after of late, perhaps you had better arrange
for her depositions to be taken next time she comes round."
It was half-past eight before Lucille arrived, and later still before
Lavender opened her eyes again and saw her loyal servant kneeling
near her. She smiled, contented, but the worst ordeal was to come.
"Melville?" she whispered.
"He isn't here," they answered. "He said he would come at once, but
something has detained him by the way."
Someone stooped over her: a tall, grey man with kind eyes set in a
stern face, and he was speaking slowly and earnestly, so that each
softly uttered word conveyed its full meaning. He told her that the
end was very near; that if she had anything to say the minutes left
in which to say it were but few, and that if she knew anything about
her husband and his end it was her duty to reveal it all to man
before she faced the judgment seat of God.
"Melville?" she said again, and in this supreme moment it was only
his absence that distressed her. He had promised not to fail her
when she should send for him, and now he was breaking his word
because he could not trust her not to betray him.
"You understand?" the grey man said. "You are going to tell me
everything you know, and I will write it down. The truth, dear lady,
as before the God who is calling you away to-night."
"Ralph Ashley is innocent," she said, and by degrees the broken story
was told; told in faint outline, but with sufficient clearness to
make corroboration easy afterwards. She told of her early marriage
to Sir Geoffrey and of her flight from him; of her marriage to Mr.
Sinclair, made in all good faith, and of his death; of her visit to
Fairbridge Manor on the fatal day from idle curiosity to see what
might have been her home; of Sir Geoffrey's murder by the man with
whom she went, and how she only chanced to be a witness of it because
she was frightened by the storm; of how she saw the weapon dropped
into the river, and was intimidated into silence afterwards; how she
had always believed that an innocent man could not be convicted, and
that Ralph would be set free and the true facts never be known. She
told it all, but never gave a clue as to who her companion on that
momentous occasion was.
On that point she was obdurate. It was her duty to prevent the
innocent man from suffering, but she could not be brought to believe
that it was her duty to bring the guilty one to justice. That was
her code of morals, and while she was true to it in this last hour by
doing what she could to set Ralph free, she would not be false to it
by breaking her solemn promise to Melville.
"I'm very tired," she said, and in sheer compassion they let her be.
She contrived to affix some sort of signature to the statement they
read over to her, and then the others withdrew, leaving her to the
care of the nurses and doctors and the company of Lucille, who loved
her so.
"Everything I have I've given to you," she said once, and later on
sent a farewell message to Sir Ross. Melville she did not mention
any more; she had kept her promise and that sufficed. So she lay,
waiting for the end, with an expression on her face in which fear had
no part. Warm-hearted and impulsive, no one could ever tell how much
she may have repented the part she played in spoiling Sir Geoffrey's
life by her early desertion of him. From that point onwards,
however, within the limitations of her rather crude nature, she had
always been kind, straightforward, and true, and death found her not
afraid. Of many a better woman not so much can be said.
Lucille knelt by her, gently stroking her hair, grudging every second
as it sped. A faint smile flickered over Lavender's face, just
lightening the gravity that was settling on it, and for the last time
the lips that had never spoken an unkind word parted. Lucille bent
her head nearer and caught the whisper.
"Good-bye--dear."