SIR ROBERT’S PLANS
Rhoda took care to let Lady Sarah have plenty of time to get inside
the house, and to go upstairs, before she followed.
She desired nothing less than another _tête-à-tête_ with the
enraged and disappointed woman whom she had just saved from disgrace
and guilt. For Lady Sarah was not grateful: the last glance she had
thrown at the girl who saved her was full of a bitterness which
prepared Rhoda for what she had to expect from her.
As Rhoda glided quietly into the hall from the garden, she stopped and
tried to draw back, on seeing Sir Robert was standing at the foot of
the stairs. Above him, going slowly up, was Lady Sarah with her
motor-coat over her arm, and her long veil, which she had untied,
dragging on the stairs behind her. There was a sort of defiance in her
slow tread, but Rhoda knew that, even if she had exchanged a few words
with her husband, she had not had time for a conversation.
The baronet turned on hearing Rhoda, and called to her.
“Miss Pembury!”
Rhoda would fain not have heard, but he repeated her name, and she
came reluctantly forward. She guessed that her very looks must be a
sort of betrayal, for she was shaking from head to foot.
“You are not well,” he said kindly, but still with some sternness in
his tone.
“Oh, yes, I am, thank you.”
He touched her hand.
“You are cold.”
“Yes. I’ve--I’ve been out in the grounds.”
“Come with me to the study. I want to speak to you.”
“Will you excuse me to-night, and speak to me in the morning?” pleaded
she.
He shook his head.
“I won’t keep you long.”
He led the way, and she followed reluctantly enough. When they were
both in the study, he pointed to a chair, and as she fell into it
rather than sat down, he said:
“Don’t be afraid. I have very few questions to ask. I know without
asking what has happened.”
Rhoda, greatly startled, uttered a sort of sob. He looked at her.
“I’ve grown more sharp-sighted of late,” he said gravely. “I can guess
at some things now that I cannot see. I suppose you prevented Lady
Sarah from running away?”
It seemed to Rhoda that his tone was stern rather than grateful. She
hung her head and said nothing.
“What arguments did you use?”
Rhoda hesitated.
“You said you wouldn’t ask me questions,” whispered she.
“Well, well, there is no need. I am convinced that my wife was trying
to leave her home, and that it was something you did or said that
stopped her. But what is the use? You can’t mount guard over her for
ever. Nor can I. If she has made up her mind to go, what can be done?”
Rhoda sat forward in her chair.
“She won’t try again,” said she hoarsely.
“What makes you think that?”
“I can only tell you this, that I have a weapon, and that I’ve used
it.”
“What weapon?”
Rhoda replied cautiously:
“I have knowledge of something with which she had nothing to do, but
which would seriously affect some one else.”
“Won’t you trust me with it?”
“No, Sir Robert.”
“You will make me think it does concern my wife, after all, if you
won’t tell me what it is.”
But Rhoda was firm.
“Oh, no, you can take my word for that. It concerns Mr. Rotherfield,
and it is something which he can’t afford to have known. But it
concerns nobody but him. Now please let me go. I don’t want Lady Sarah
to think that we are talking about her.”
Sir Robert sighed. The discovery of his wife’s intention to run away
from her home seemed to Rhoda to have affected him very little. She
had been prepared for a much stronger display of emotion when he heard
the truth. But the fact was that Lady Sarah’s conduct had given him so
much anxiety of late, and that, in particular, her over-excitement
during the past few days had been so marked, that he could not feel
much astonishment when he learned what the attempt was to which it had
been leading. Nevertheless he was looking very grave, very sad, and
very deeply humiliated as Rhoda briefly bade him good-night and went
out.
She passed Lady Sarah’s door in fear and trembling, dreading that the
lady would come out and upbraid her for “conspiring” with Sir Robert
against her. But she reached her own room in safety, and without
molestation.
Next morning Lady Sarah did not come down to breakfast, and the first
anxious thought in Rhoda’s mind was that she had carried out her plan
of elopement after all.
But before the morning was half over the mistress of the house glided
into the morning-room, looking very cold, hard, and resentful, very
hollow about the eyes and listless of manner, the mere wreck of the
brilliant woman she had been within the past week.
She and Rhoda met with considerable reserve on both sides, as was
inevitable. Gone was all kindness on Lady Sarah’s part; even her boy’s
voice addressing her caused no relaxation of her features. She treated
him as an interruption, and frowned as she crossed the room at his
call. And Rhoda’s heart throbbed painfully when she remembered the
touching way in which the beauty had spoken to the child on the
previous night; when she had shown him a momentary tenderness which
was real. It had only been the flicker of a love which absence would
soon have extinguished altogether.
The boy looked chilled and disappointed. Remembering the sweetness of
her look and touch on the previous night he had been ready with a
smile for her, and her coldness pained him and struck him into
silence.
There was a painful pause, as they all heard the sound of the steps of
Sir Robert in the hall outside. But when he came in, they were all
struck by the change in his manner. Instead of being slow and stately,
he was brisk and alert. He did not smile as he bade them all
good-morning, and even when he stooped to kiss his son, his face was
stern and set.
He spoke with a most unusual tone of command as he turned to his wife
and said:
“Sarah, I have settled some of the details of our journey abroad
already. I want you to go to town with me to-day to buy anything you
may want, and to help me as to any details which I may have
forgotten.”
“I don’t want to go abroad,” she said sullenly.
These were the first words which the two had exchanged since Sir
Robert had become aware of his wife’s attempt to run away from him.
Rhoda held her breath as she listened, without daring to look up.
There was quite a new tone in Sir Robert’s voice, and instead of being
all gentleness and kindness to his wife, consulting her convenience
and yielding to her wishes, he was laying down the law as to his
plans, and quite simply taking her adhesion for granted, just like an
ordinary husband.
Her answer did not disconcert him in the least, neither did it appear
to have any weight with him.
“I have decided for you this time,” he said quietly. “And all that is
left for you to do is to fall in with my plans.”
Lady Sarah looked up. This was a change indeed.
“Where are you going?” she asked in the same sullen tone as before.
“To Paris first. Then on to Lyons, and Marseilles. I don’t think you
know Marseilles?”
“No. I don’t wish to know it.”
“I’ve no doubt you will like it when you are there.”
“I prefer the Riviera.”
“You have been there so often. It will be better for you to have a
thorough change.”
“I don’t want a change. You can go to Marseilles and I’ll go to Monte
Carlo with my mother, as usual.”
Sir Robert looked at her with a new determination in his eyes.
“No. I’ve made my arrangements, and you must fall in with them. You
have had your own way about your holiday for a good many winters; now
you must give way to mine.”
Lady Sarah looked up with hard, mutinous eyes. But there was a look in
those of her husband which she could not meet more than a few moments.
With an impatient shrug of the shoulders she turned away and walked
towards the door.
“The carriage will be round in five minutes,” said he. “Please get
ready quickly, as we haven’t much time to catch the train.”
“I should advise you to go alone. I shall be a most dull companion
to-day, I can assure you.”
“Well, it will be a very proper revenge on your part. For you have
found me a dull companion very often, I believe.”
Rhoda could have sunk into the earth for shame and surprise at this
unpleasant trial of strength between husband and wife, so utterly
different from any scene she had ever witnessed between the two
before.
Sir Robert held the door open for his wife to pass out, and she ran
quickly upstairs. Rhoda wondered whether she would obey the command
given her, and waited with a fast beating heart.
Little Caryl, who had been a silent observer, turned to her and
beckoned.
“Why is papa so different? And mama too?” he asked under his breath.
And Rhoda could find no answer.
Within the five minutes accorded her Lady Sarah came downstairs
hastily and not very carefully dressed, and looking as unlike as
possible the brilliant, laughing creature who had been accustomed to
impose her will upon all around her.
Like an automaton she went out of the house, got into the victoria,
and took her seat in the corner, where she sat without a word to her
husband, staring straight before her.
In the train she sat in the same way, burying herself in an
illustrated paper, and replying as briefly as possible to his remarks.
But he maintained a perfectly equable demeanour, and it was impossible
for her to draw from him a single word either of remonstrance or of
impatience.
When they reached town Sir Robert took her straight to a restaurant,
and asked her what she would like for luncheon.
“I don’t care,” she answered coldly. “I don’t want any luncheon.”
“You will leave me to order it then?” said Sir Robert coolly.
“Oh, yes. Pray don’t consult me. I prefer being a cipher.”
“Certainly,” acquiesced Sir Robert without even a look at her.
And he proceeded to order luncheon for both, taking care to choose
such dishes as she preferred.
Lady Sarah had an excellent appetite, and she was hungry. But even a
dainty and well chosen repast failed to soften her ill-humour.
“And now,” said Sir Robert when they had finished luncheon, “we will
go shopping. What shops shall we visit first?”
Lady Sarah laughed.
“Surely you need not consult me. You appear to have made up your mind
what I am to buy.”
“Very well. If you will leave it to me, I dare say we shall get on
very well.”
He ordered a taxi, and they drove to one of the best furriers in town.
Lady Sarah was passionately fond of furs, and was, he knew, anxious to
have a sable cloak for the winter. He asked to have such a garment
shown to him, and two magnificent cloaks, either of which might have
adorned a princess, were brought and offered to him for inspection.
He turned to his wife.
“Is either of these the sort of thing you had in your mind?”
Ill-tempered as she was, Lady Sarah could scarcely resist the
beautiful furs held out before her.
“Perhaps madam would like to try them on, and see which cloak became
her the best.” For one moment Lady Sarah hesitated, then her ill-temper
got the better of her taste again.
“It is not necessary,” she said. “They are both very handsome. It is
for my husband to choose which he likes best.”
“Try them both on,” said Sir Robert, without appearing to note the
coldness of her tone, which, while it could not be detected by the
saleswoman, was quite evident to himself, knowing her moods as he did.
Lady Sarah took off the long coat of purple faced cloth which she was
wearing, and obediently put on first one and then the other mantle.
Both were beautiful, but the one was much better adapted to her
slender little figure than the other.
But when Sir Robert asked her which of the two she would have, she
persisted in her exaggerated humility and listlessness, and said it
was for him to decide.
Without showing the least impatience, Sir Robert decided for her upon
the right mantle, paid the eight hundred pounds which was the price of
it, and had it put into the taxi-cab. There was no change in Lady
Sarah’s expression as she left the shop and heard her husband give the
address of a fashionable milliner.
“Am I to get out?” she asked when the taxi stopped at the door.
Quite unmoved, Sir Robert said:
“I think so.”
And they entered the shop together.
If there was one place in this world in which Lady Sarah was happier
than in another, it was a hat-shop. But in spite of the temptation of
the latest creations around her, she contrived triumphantly to carry
out of the shop, as she carried it in, her air of listless
indifference to everything around her. She submitted to have one hat
tried on after another, an occupation in which she usually delighted.
Whether they suited her ill or well, not a sign of interest did she
give, and she allowed her husband to choose her headgear for her as he
had chosen the mantle.
Nothing daunted by her malice, Sir Robert took her to the best
boot-shop in London, and finally to a jeweller’s, where he chose a
beautiful pendant of diamonds, pearls and emeralds, her favourite
combination of gems.
Lady Sarah preserved the same stolidity, the same indifference
throughout, and when they took their places in the train to return to
Dourville, she did not even take the trouble to pick up one of her
parcels when it fell on the floor.
It was a trial of strength between them; Sir Robert, on his side,
still hoped against hope that his generosity would conquer her
gratitude in the end, and that she would appreciate the nobility of
his revenge upon a wife who had been caught in the act of attempting
to desert him. Lady Sarah, on her side, determined to show him that
she was not to be bought over by his kindness, fought sullenly for the
maintenance of her stolid ill-temper, and succeeded so far, but failed
in her amiable wish to excite her husband to ill-humour or to
reproach.
When they reached the Mill-house, they got out of the carriage, which
had been sent to meet them, in just the same manner as they had got in
that morning. Lady Sarah cold, listless, languid, almost plain in her
ill-humour; Sir Robert calm, firm, unruffled as ever.
She did not even turn to speak about the parcels which were in the
carriage. As a rule she was too much excited about any new purchase
even to allow the servants to bring it in for her. Seizing it with
both hands, she would run to the nearest sympathiser of her own sex,
Minnie, or Rhoda, or even Mrs. Hawkes, to show her new possession with
the glee of a child.
Now she marched into the house as if such frivolities were altogether
beneath her.
She went upstairs to dress for dinner, and came down looking rather
more contented than she had done all day.
Sir Robert flattered himself that she had at last broken down under
the influence of the sable cloak or the handsome pendant. But he
noted, with a slight uneasiness, that in proportion as she was more
satisfied, the faces of Rhoda and Minnie were graver and more
disturbed.
“Well, Sarah, have you shown the girls your pretty things?” asked Sir
Robert as they all took their seats at the table.
Rhoda and Minnie looked at each other uncomfortably. The baronet
glanced from one to the other, and then turned to his wife, upon whose
face there was a most disagreeable look of gratified malice.
“Oh, yes, they’ve seen the things,” she said coolly. “As I don’t want
another cloak, I offered it to Minnie, but she thought it was too old
for her; and I offered Miss Pembury the pendant, as I hate pendants
myself and I thought she might like it. But she didn’t care to accept
it either. So I sent the cloak and the pendant, and the hats up to the
Priory, in case Aileen or Philippa may like them.”
There was a long silence. Sir Robert went on eating his soup without
gratifying her malice by so much as a look. The other two ladies
followed his example, with scalding tears in their eyes. They all
waited for the explosion which, they all felt sure, must come at last,
after such a shocking exhibition of ingratitude and insolence on the
part of his unworthy wife.
But, while all had their eyes cast down, Sir Robert’s voice, grave,
quiet, apparently wholly unaffected by what had passed, broke the
awkward silence.
“And Miss Pembury,” he said, “I have some news that will interest you,
I think. I saw, in a shop in Piccadilly, the companion print to my
‘Farmer’s Daughter.’”
Rhoda and Minnie looked up, smiling and admiring his courage.
Lady Sarah was defeated. Her lip trembled, and she had the grace to
look ashamed of herself, as she began nervously to play with her
bread.