THE COMPANION’S ORDEAL
It was a relief to them all when Sir Robert made an excuse of urgent
letters to write and bid the ladies good-night immediately after
dinner, but on the other hand, Minnie and Rhoda felt very
uncomfortable at the prospect of spending the evening in the society
of Lady Sarah.
As it turned out, however, things went off better than they had
expected. No sooner was Lady Sarah out of her husband’s sight than her
spirits returned, and she had the effrontery to say to Rhoda, in a low
voice, when Minnie was at the other end of the drawing-room:
“You see how useless it is for you good people to make plots and plans
for bad ones like me, don’t you?”
Rhoda could not restrain her indignation:
“It is shocking, Lady Sarah, that you should treat your husband so,
for no fault but his being too forgiving.”
Lady Sarah looked frankly and boldly into her eyes.
“Forgiving! What has he to forgive?” she asked, as if in all
innocence.
Rhoda was so much astonished at this retort that it was some moments
before she could reply. When she had collected her thoughts, she said
straightforwardly:
“You tried to run away. And he has forgiven that.”
“Well, it was his wish that I should stay, wasn’t it? Then he is right
to be glad. It is I who am sorry, for I wanted to go.”
The coolness with which she spoke frightened Rhoda for a moment. But
then the absurdity of the situation suddenly struck her, after her
realisation of its tragedy, and she could scarcely help laughing.
“It’s of no use to argue with you, Lady Sarah,” she said with a sigh.
“Not the least in the world. You see, too, that I’m in the right. Sir
Robert, for what reason I don’t know, wants to keep me here against my
will, wants to travel with me, when he knows he’ll hate it as much as
I shall. Well, he has succeeded in getting his own way, and I haven’t
got mine. Why am I expected to be grateful then? It is he who ought to
be grateful. But it is silly of him to show his gratitude by insisting
upon buying me a lot of things I don’t want.”
Rhoda said no more, and Lady Sarah, thankful at any rate to be freed
from the society of her husband, condescended to be very charming for
the rest of the evening.
But there was now a new feature in her conduct which filled every one
with dismay. She was civil to every one, lively and bright with Minnie
and even with Rhoda, but towards Sir Robert she now maintained a
demeanour of cold reserve which was disconcerting in the extreme.
It was in vain that he tried every means in his power to please her,
consulted her about their travelling arrangements, asked her whether
she wanted money. Even that last inducement to break down her sullen
resentment failed.
She shrugged her shoulders, and without looking up, told him that,
after the fuss he had made about giving her money, she had resolved
not to trouble him for more than her allowance in future.
Sir Robert, greatly distressed by this new attitude, had recourse,
much against his will, to his wife’s parents for help in the
emergency.
The Marquis was unsympathetic. He was of opinion that every man should
know how to manage his own wife, and that his son-in-law had better
not carry his domestic troubles outside his own door.
But Lady Eridge, who perhaps understood, better than did the Marquis,
the wayward and difficult temper of their child, was greatly
distressed, and did not dare to confess what Lady Sarah had told her
since the frustrated elopement, news of which she had herself brought
to her mother.
Lady Sarah had told her mother frankly that she hated her husband,
that she would never get on any better with him than she was now
doing, and that, if he were to insist upon taking her away with him to
Egypt, she would throw herself into the sea on the way out.
How was Lady Eridge to tell her son-in-law this? Knowing as she did,
that some of the blame for the ill-assorted marriage lay on her
shoulders, she was desperately anxious to make the best of things, and
the advice she at length gave Sir Robert was that he should give up
the idea of Egypt, and let Lady Sarah go to the Riviera as usual
without him.
“She will be with me,” urged the Marchioness. “And you can trust me to
look after her.”
“But will you be able to prevent her seeing Jack Rotherfield?”
“Would it even be wise to do so?” urged Lady Eridge.
“What! After the other night!”
“Yes. I don’t think she would ever have agreed to run away but for the
discovery about the picture. Of course that was shocking, inexcusable,
horrible. But I think it was more out of revenge upon you for
thwarting her that she acted than from any real wish to rob you, and
it’s a great pity she was driven to bay over it.”
“There was no help for it,” said Sir Robert.
“Well, I suppose not. But, as I say, it was a pity. She is a very
difficult person to manage, and of course it puts a great humiliation
upon her.”
“To be found out? Yes, of course. However, I can’t consent to her
going to the Riviera, unless, indeed, she cares to let me accompany
her. My object in coming to you to-day was to find out whether you can
persuade her to behave reasonably. She must not travel again without
me, of that I am determined. But I should wish to leave it to you to
settle with her whether she would rather spend the winter here in
Dourville or abroad. In any case she has to put up with the infliction
of my presence.”
Lady Eridge sighed.
“Robert, I am very sorry for you,” she said. “I don’t quite know what
to advise. But if I were you, I would shorten the period of keeping
Jack away as much as possible. I don’t believe there would have been
any harm done but for that strong action of yours in forbidding her to
speak to him. Of course that made her resentful at once.”
Sir Robert, however, looked dubious.
“I thought, as you do, that there was no harm in their flirtation,” he
said, “and, as you know, I have given her every indulgence. But when
she prefers to run away from her home to refraining from compromising
correspondence, what is one to think?”
“Think anything but the worst, and you will be right. She is fond of
Jack, in her superficial way, but I don’t think it is fondness for
him, so much as resentment against you, that made her want to run
away.”
“But, in Heaven’s name what has she got to resent?”
“Nothing. But she always was unreasonable, and she will be to the end.
Robert, take my advice. Let her go away with me, and I’ll undertake to
look after her.”
“I must think it over,” said the baronet stiffly, as he rose to go.
Hurt as he was by his wife’s hard and unnatural conduct, and by the
barrier she set up between them, he was determined to make one last
effort that night to bring her to a more reasonable frame of mind. He
was conscious that he had been guilty of no one fault in his conduct
towards her except in the weakness which had caused him to be
over-indulgent to her caprices.
Deep as his love for her had been, founded on admiration which had
never grown weaker, the manner in which she had treated him of late
had affected his own feeling for her strongly. He had known and made
allowance for the difference between their temperaments, but he had
always believed, in spite of her caprices and her neglect of her
domestic duties, that what heart she had was sound. Now, however, he
was faced with doubts which it was impossible to dispel, and it was
without so much indulgence in his heart as usual that he prepared for
a final battle with her.
If she were to persist in refusing to treat him with any appearance of
ordinary civility, he would put it to her that some settlement would
have to be arrived at to make life for either of them possible.
He feared that she would welcome the prospect, but he hoped that an
appeal to her feelings might result in softening her.
In the meantime Rhoda was undergoing a painful ordeal. It was now a
week since the night of the frustrated elopement, and things were
going on in the same uncomfortable manner as ever at the Mill-house.
Rhoda gave most of her time to Caryl, and saw as little of either Sir
Robert or Lady Sarah as could be helped, in order that nothing in her
conduct might give the wife an excuse for saying that she stood
between her and her husband.
Rhoda, who always did her own shopping in the evening when Caryl was
in bed, was returning at dusk to the house when a man in a motor-coat
came quickly across the road towards her.
She would have hurried on, for she recognised Jack Rotherfield, but he
was determined to speak to her, and she had to submit. She quailed
under the look of intense mistrust and dislike which shot out of his
handsome dark eyes as he spoke to her.
“Miss Pembury,” he said in a low voice, “I want to speak to you. You
have been poisoning people’s minds against me, and I have a right to
be heard.”
Rhoda was indignant. His manner was threatening and his tone almost
abusive. And yet this was the man who had murdered Langton, who had
deceived his old friend and guardian, and who had done his best to rob
him of his wife.
“I will hear whatever you have to say, Mr. Rotherfield,” said she.
He walked beside her, and went on in the same offended tone:
“What is it you have said against me?”
She stopped. It was now so dark that, in the side road into which they
had turned, they could stand and talk without much fear of being
remarked upon by passers-by.
“I have said nothing against you.”
“You used a threat. You told Lady Sarah that you would tell Sir Robert
something about me unless she gave up her intention of coming outside
the gate to speak to me.”
Rhoda was silent. She was frightened by Jack Rotherfield’s manner, and
would have avoided this interview had she been able to do so. But as
he insisted, she thought she had better hear all that he had to say,
once for all. Perhaps, also, she might be able to say something to him
which would induce him to fall in with Sir Robert’s wishes.
“Well,” he said. “What was it you had to tell Sir Robert?”
She hesitated only a moment longer, and then replied boldly:
“You know what it was.”
“I swear I haven’t the least idea.”
She turned quickly as if to make her escape.
But he stopped her, laying his hand lightly on her arm.
“Don’t go yet, please. I must know what it is you intend to tell Sir
Robert about me.”
She hesitated. Then, perhaps, in the hope that he might, after all, be
able to clear himself of the worst part of the guilt which she
believed to weigh upon him, she said:
“I know that it was you who killed the butler, Langton.”
He stood firm and did not flinch.
“Indeed! And how do you know it?”
“I saw you come out of the drawing-room and go upstairs.”
“Where were you?”
“In the hall, in the corner by the tall clock.”
For a moment he was silent. She stole a glance at him, and was chilled
by the look upon his face. If she had until that moment believed him
incapable of murder, she would have altered her opinion after seeing
that look.
“And you are kind enough to take it for granted, because you imagine
you saw me go upstairs, that it was I who killed the man?”
“Well, it is for others to say that. All I should say is what I saw
and what I know.”
“And that is next to nothing. If you had seen me strike the man you
might have had something to tell. As it is----”
“As it is, I know that you were in the drawing-room with him; I heard
you; and I know you went upstairs afterwards, because I saw you. If
nothing happened while you were in the drawing-room, why have you
never confessed that you were there?”
He hesitated and then spoke quickly:
“I’ll tell you all about it, and you shall judge whether I could
speak. I was in love with Lady Sarah, as you know, of course. I was
rash enough, foolish enough, to leave the Mill-house, where I was
staying with Sir Robert, who was then my guardian, and to go to the
Priory, late at night, to see her for a few minutes, she inside and I
outside the library window. Langton, the butler, knew of this; he had
caught me at it before. He lay in wait for me, and when I let myself
in by the drawing-room window, which I had left unfastened, I found
him inside. He insulted me; I was hot-tempered then, and I knocked him
down. I didn’t mean to hurt him seriously, of course. That’s the
truth.”
“It’s not all the truth,” said Rhoda. “His hand was cut--and so was
yours. You must have used a knife.”
“He struck at me with one, and I had to defend myself,” said Jack.
“Why didn’t you tell the whole story, if you had no intention of
killing him?”
“How could I? I should have had to drag Lady Sarah’s name into the
business, and Sir Robert would not have married her. There was no harm
in our little _tête-à-têtes_, but still it would not have done to
own to them. Now would it?”
“I suppose not,” said Rhoda slowly. “But it was shocking that you
should have begun so soon to deceive Sir Robert. It was dreadful,
terrible.”
“Do you think it would serve any useful purpose to let him know all
the truth now?”
“It may be necessary,” said Rhoda boldly.
“And you really mean to do it?”
“I would only do it if Lady Sarah were to deceive her husband again.”
Jack’s face grew dark with rage; she saw his features twitching.
“What good would it do?”
“An investigation would be made, and justice would be done.”
He knew what she meant. She was trembling as she spoke, but she was
determined that he should know that upon his good behaviour depended
his own safety. If he would keep away from the house, and refrain from
communicating with Lady Sarah, she would keep silence. If he failed to
do so, then she would denounce him, and he would have to stand his
trial.
He understood the position perfectly; she saw this, and that there was
no need to “rub it in.” For a few moments he stood quietly considering
the matter, and then he seemed to pull himself together, and suddenly
bent forward to speak in a low voice:
“You think you are acting for the best, I’ve no doubt,” said he. “But
you are forging a chain which will hold Sir Robert as well as his wife
prisoner for the rest of his life.”
“No, no,” said Rhoda.
She had got away. But he followed her.
“And look here,” said he, as he bent down with a sudden burst of
passion. “You are acting, not from good motives, but from bad ones.
You want to boss the show at the Mill-house. But you won’t. You have
done the worst thing you could for everybody, and you mustn’t expect
to escape punishment. If you betray me--us, you’ll repent it.”
“Very well,” said Rhoda. “That’s my affair.”
“You won’t be warned?”
She would not answer him. Breaking away, she ran out into the high
road, where he did not dare to follow her, and returned with rapid
steps to the Mill-house.
She got back in time to dress hurriedly for dinner, and scrambled
down, very pale and nervous, just as the rest were seated.
Lady Sarah looked curiously at her from time to time across the table,
and Rhoda, anxious to escape an interview, ran upstairs as soon as
dinner was over.
Ten minutes later, the report of a firearm, and then the agonised
shriek of a woman, rang through the house.
Sir Robert rushed from his study into the hall, where he met a
frightened housekeeper on the stairs.
“What was that noise?” asked he quickly. “And where did it come from?”
Mrs. Hawkes replied in a trembling voice, as she hurried upstairs,
“It sounds like a shot, sir, and it comes from Miss Pembury’s room.”