RHODA PEMBURY’S DISCOVERY
The day after this conversation with Bessie, Rhoda was allowed
downstairs for the first time. Sir Robert was kindness itself to her,
though he was rather puzzled by the extreme reserve and timidity of
the girl whose life he had saved, never guessing, in his masculine
obtuseness, at the sentimental cause of her rather perplexing
demeanour.
Jack Rotherfield, who was staying with his guardian, was delighted to
welcome a new and pretty guest, and at once proceeded to exert himself
to amuse and interest the convalescent, so that old Bessie used to
smile demurely when she came into the room where the two young people
would be sitting together, Rhoda gentle and rather listless, Jack
energetically trying to rouse her from the somewhat abstracted state
in which she still remained.
Rhoda laughed at the idea of falling in love with Jack, a possibility
which Bessie plainly foresaw and made no scruple about mentioning.
“He’s very nice,” she said, “and, I suppose, very good-looking. But I
don’t like him as much as I ought to do, considering how kind he is.
He always seems to me to be saying things to me which he must have
said before.”
Bessie looked surprised.
“Lor, miss, that’s not a bad guess, I’m afraid, if it is a guess,” she
admitted. “Mr. Jack is so nice-looking, and so merry and bright, that
the young ladies do make a fuss of him. Even Lady Sarah,” she added in
a rather lower tone.
A deep flush at once overspread Rhoda’s face.
“I should hardly think,” she said quite tartly, “that a girl who had
the good fortune to be liked by Sir Robert would care much for Mr.
Rotherfield.”
Bessie looked askance at her, but said nothing more on the subject,
until she presently remarked in a rather dry tone that Lady Sarah was
coming that afternoon, with her mother and one of her married sisters,
to play tennis and to have tea in the grounds.
Rhoda was excited by the news. She was exceedingly anxious to see the
woman with whom Sir Robert was in love, and Bessie noted the trembling
of her hands and the feverish light in her eyes as she dressed to go
downstairs.
Lady Sarah Speldhurst proved to be a very fascinating and lovely
little person. Not nearly so tall as Rhoda herself, nor with the
advantage of so good a figure as the younger girl, she was, at three
and twenty, mistress of all the arts by which a pretty young woman
makes the best of herself. Dark-eyed, with a brilliant complexion, and
with masses of wavy dark brown hair, she dressed in light colours for
choice, and was wearing, on this occasion, a tight-fitting lace dress
of creamy tint over a slip of lemon colour, and a big black hat with
black and white ostrich feathers.
“Sir Robert don’t know what a lady’s dress bill means--yet,” remarked
Bessie shrewdly, when she looked out and saw Lady Sarah in the garden.
“What an odd dress to play tennis in!” was Rhoda’s matter-of-fact
comment.
Bessie smiled.
“She don’t play tennis much herself. Her ladyship likes the sitting
about with a racquet in her hand, and the cakes and the ices, better
than running in the sun and getting her face red,” she said.
Rhoda frowned a little. Pretty as Lady Sarah was, the younger girl
felt that a better, a more sincere and noble-natured person than Lady
Sarah appeared to be would have been a better match for the generous
and good Sir Robert who was her own idol. She went downstairs slowly,
resented the quick and almost supercilious manner in which Lady Sarah
appeared to sum her up at a glance while shaking hands, and decided
angrily that Sir Robert was throwing himself away.
The baronet himself, however, was evidently by no means of the same
way of thinking. There was adoration in his mild grey eyes as he
watched the brilliant little brunette, there was tenderness in the
tone of his voice as he spoke to her, and it was abundantly clear that
his infatuation was complete.
Jack Rotherfield, meanwhile, was less attentive to Rhoda than he had
been before the appearance of Lady Sarah. Rhoda did not mind this, but
she remarked it, and, sitting silent for the most part, she noticed a
good deal more, as the afternoon wore on, that might have escaped the
notice of a less observant or more talkative person.
For one thing she saw, and felt ashamed of seeing, that something like
a secret understanding existed between Jack Rotherfield and Lady
Sarah; their eyes would meet with a sudden look of sympathy or mutual
amusement from time to time, as, for instance, when Sir Robert
declared that nothing would induce him to replace the old furniture
and fittings of the house for more modern ones.
Rhoda felt ashamed of herself for thinking that it looked as if Lady
Sarah had already discussed that very subject with Sir Robert’s ward,
and in a manner not very sympathetic with the views of her future
husband.
Indeed it was clear to the most careless eyes that there was a great
gulf between the tastes of the Marquis’s lovely daughter, with her
French toilette and her brilliant if scarcely sincere manners, and
steady-going, quiet Sir Robert Hadlow with his grave demeanour and
quiet habits.
Rhoda found herself wondering what sort of a household theirs would
be, and which of the two would finally get the upper hand, as it was
plain that, in such an ill-assorted couple, one or other must
eventually do.
It seemed natural to suppose it would be the little, wilful, spoilt
beauty, as it was easy to see she was not in love with Sir Robert,
who, by keeping her head, would become the arbiter of the household
destinies. The baronet seemed, indeed, to be like wax in her hands;
and he was far too much in love to see that the sweet looks and pretty
smiles, the little words of tenderness, and the gestures of caressing
cajolery, were dictated by anything less than love equal to his own.
The rest of the party soon went into the grounds, and Rhoda, who was
not yet allowed to exert herself much, was left alone in the house.
She sat near the window, watching the pretty figures of the ladies in
their light dresses as they flitted over the tennis-lawn, like gay
butterflies against the background of soft greenery, when she heard a
stealthy footstep behind her, and looking round, saw the Terrors,
George and Minnie Mallory, crouching close to her chair.
“When did you come in?” asked Rhoda quickly. “I didn’t hear you.”
The two children chuckled.
“Nobody never does hear us,” said Minnie, who was a long-legged,
short-frocked imp of six years of age. “We don’t never let ’em hear
us,” she added thoughtfully.
“But that’s not right. It’s like eavesdropping,” said Rhoda solemnly.
George nodded gravely.
“It doesn’t matter for us, ’cos we’re only children,” said he with a
shrewd air. “And we often hear things that we like to hear. We heard
Lady Sarah talking to Jack the other day, and saying how hard it was
for her to have to marry a rich man, ’cos rich men are always what you
don’t like.”
Rhoda uttered a sort of gasp. Then she recovered herself, and scolded
the boy.
“It’s very naughty to listen,” she said. “And very ungentlemanly too.
What would your uncle, who’s always so good and kind to you, say if he
thought his niece and nephew were not behaving like a lady and
gentleman?”
George was not abashed.
“I’ll behave like a gentleman when I grow up,” he said reflectively.
“I don’t see the good of beginning too soon. It’s nicer to do as we
like and hear what we want to.”
The comical gravity with which he spoke suddenly made Rhoda want to
laugh, so she was silent for a moment, and the children took advantage
of this to steal away out of the room, no doubt to follow their
favourite dubious occupations elsewhere.
But Rhoda did not heed them. She was filled with a terrible thought.
Her hero, the man she worshipped as the ideal of all that was noble
and worthy, was being deceived, grossly deceived, by the woman he
passionately loved. She had no doubt at all that the words reported by
the mischievous boy had really been uttered by Lady Sarah, in
confidential talk to Jack Rotherfield, between whom and herself it was
plain that an active flirtation was still going on.
Her heart was torn by the thought that her hero, instead of being
loved as he deserved to be loved, was being married for his money
alone by the woman he worshipped. If only he could learn the truth
before it was too late!
But how?
She could not tell him what she knew or guessed, and even if she
could, he would not believe her.
What could she do?
Staying day by day under the same roof with Sir Robert, she had fallen
more and more completely under the influence of his great kindness and
gentleness, of the nature that was ever self-sacrificing, ever
considerate for others, yet with a certain manliness and firmness that
made Rhoda wonder what he would be like if he should ever find out
that those he loved and trusted had deceived him.
She was still torn with her fears on his account when the baronet came
in, racquet in hand, and sitting down beside her, asked her kindly how
she felt.
The girl, pale and trembling, looked into his gentle, kindly face, and
the words that came to her lips refused to come further.
He smiled at her, and patted her hand.
“You’ve been overtiring yourself. I shan’t let you come downstairs
to-morrow,” he said.
Rhoda struggled to regain her self-command and answered steadily:
“I must come down to-morrow, Sir Robert, for I must go back home.”
“You are tired of us? That you are in such a hurry to get away?”
She shook her head.
“You are the best and the kindest people I’ve ever met,” she said
tremulously. “But I want to go back.”
He looked at her keenly.
“You have something on your mind,” said he.
Rhoda rose suddenly to her feet. Looking down upon him with eyes that
blazed, she said hoarsely:
“Yes. I want to warn you. Find out, Sir Robert, whether you are loved
as you deserve to be loved. That’s all.”
The baronet rose, frowning and displeased. She saw that he looked upon
her words as an impertinence, and she was cut to the heart.
Faltering, she stammered out an incoherent apology. Sir Robert looked
at her coldly.
“There is nothing to apologise for,” he said gravely. “I’m sure you
mean well. I was taken by surprise, that’s all.”
Rhoda felt that the room was spinning round her. She knew his danger,
and she saw that she was helpless to save him. There was only one
thing to be done; she must go away. She could not stay another day now
that she had offended him, nor could she watch the progress of the
harm she could not prevent.
On the pretext of fatigue, she staggered upstairs, assisted by Sir
Robert, as far as the foot of the staircase, where she gently refused
further help.
Rhoda had never seen the kindly Sir Robert angry before, and the
effect his displeasure had upon her was overwhelming. She, however,
was not to be the only person to offend him that day, for Bessie, who
came in with a little tray with the wing of a chicken for the
convalescent, brought with her the news that Sir Robert was gravely
displeased with his old servant, Langton, to whom he had given notice
to leave him.
“I don’t know the rights of it,” went on Bessie, “and I don’t want to
gossip. But it’s thought Langton told Sir Robert something he didn’t
want to hear, and didn’t believe, and this is the consequences!”
Rhoda listened in distressed silence. Had the faithful servant dared
to tell his master something that he had seen? Something that
concerned Lady Sarah and Jack Rotherfield? She would not condescend to
gossip with Bessie about it, but when she was alone, she left her
repast almost untasted, and, attracted by a soft murmur of voices that
came like a distant whisper through the open window, crossed the floor
and looked out, and saw, between the branches of the trees, two
figures sauntering along the avenue that ran inside the outer wall of
the grounds.
She had no difficulty in recognising them, and when, before they had
gone many steps, they stopped and the man put his arm round the girl
and kissed her, Rhoda knew that it was Jack Rotherfield whom she had
seen kissing the betrothed wife of his guardian.
Rhoda could bear no more; turning from the window, giddy and almost
sick with grief and horror, she resolved to leave the house that very
night. She felt that she could not meet the eyes of the baronet, his
_fiancée_, or Jack Rotherfield again.
The evening seemed a long one; she had to go to bed, to avoid exciting
suspicion as to her intention, which was to steal out of the house
when everybody else was asleep. But before retiring she witnessed a
sight that set her thinking. For after dinner Sir Robert walked with
Lady Sarah up and down the terrace close under Rhoda’s window, and the
girl fancied, both by the affectionate manner in which they smiled at
each other, and by the defiant half-glances which the baronet cast
stealthily up towards her window, that he had told his _fiancée_ of
the doubts expressed as to her sincerity, and that Lady Sarah had set
him quite at rest upon that score.
Rhoda did not sleep. At one o’clock, when all was silent in the house,
she rose, dressed herself hastily, and glided softly out of her room
and down the stairs. She had written a letter, directed to Sir Robert,
and left it in her room. She had said in it that, having had the
misfortune to offend him, she could not meet him again, but that she
begged his pardon with all her heart, and hoped that he would forgive
her, as she felt sure he would do, if he could only understand the
pain she felt at having given a moment’s displeasure to one to whom
she owed so much. She added that she would never forget his goodness
to her as long as she lived.
She had reached the hall, with the intention of leaving the house by
the front-door, and had withdrawn the bolts, when she was startled by
the sound of some one rapidly descending the stairs. She thought she
was discovered, and hastily hid herself in the dark corner beside the
tall grandfather’s clock that stood near the door.
But she had scarcely done so when she caught sight of something which
she could dimly discern to be a man, disappearing into the
drawing-room, and the next moment she heard sounds within the room as
of a scuffle and stifled cries.
Trembling and horror-struck, Rhoda was unable to decide whether she
ought to go upstairs and call for help, when, panting and drawing deep
breaths the figure stole out of the room again, shutting the door
softly.
The man was in such deep darkness and Rhoda was so far entrenched in
her corner that she could see but little of him, and that little very
dimly, until he was half-way up the stairs, when, dragging his way up
by the stair-rails, he laid his hand for a moment upon that spot of
the banisters where a single ray of moonlight fell upon them from
between the heavy velvet curtains that draped the staircase window.
And Rhoda saw, with a shudder, that across the hand was the red line
of a cut which was still bleeding.
Before she could even be sure whether the figure was that of Sir
Robert, as she believed, it had disappeared.
Confused, trembling, wondering what it was that had happened, Rhoda
opened the front-door and slipped out, closing it softly behind her.
She thought that she must have made enough noise for the shutting of
the door to have attracted attention, and she hoped, as she went
slowly down the narrow slip of garden which was all that lay between
the front of the house and the road, that the baronet would come out
after her, waylay her, and perhaps insist upon her return.
But nobody came out, nobody followed her; and so, mystified, sick with
terror, and asking herself as she went whether she ought to have come
out without an effort to find out what had happened, she went down the
road towards the harbour.
She put up, for the rest of the night, at an hotel where she had
stayed before with her parents, and where travellers from off the
boats came at all times of the night, so that her late arrival
attracted no particular attention.
On the following morning she took the first train to Deal, and reached
the lodgings where her parents were in such a condition of exhaustion
that she was promptly put to bed. She insisted, however, upon being
allowed to tell her mother the singular circumstances that had
occurred at the moment of her departure from Mill-house, and begged
that they would let her know at once if it should come to her parents’
ears that anything serious had happened that night at Sir Robert’s
residence.
For four days she was kept in bed, and assured that nothing had
happened as far as any one knew.
But when she was well enough to get up again, the truth was gradually
broken to her. The dead body of the butler, Langton, had been found in
the drawing-room, where it was evident that some sort of a scuffle had
taken place. The drawing-room window had been found open, and it was
supposed that a burglar had got in, and that the butler, hearing a
noise, had gone down and had been murdered by the intruder.
The inquest had been held, and the verdict brought in: “Wilful murder
by some person or persons unknown.”
But the rumour about the neighbourhood was that there had been a
serious quarrel between Langford and his master, that he was known to
have been under notice to leave his situation, and that it was in a
scuffle between master and man that Langford came by his death.
Rhoda sprang up with a cry.
“It’s not true!” she cried. “Sir Robert is incapable of such a thing!
Besides, I know! I can prove--Oh let me go and tell what I know!”
But the next moment the light faded out of her eyes and she sank back,
trembling.
What did she know? What could she prove? Nothing, nothing.