From sheer exhaustion she slept at last, but her sleep was broken and
unrefreshing. She turned and tossed, dozing and waking in utter
weariness of mind and body till the day was far advanced. Finally, too
restless to lie any longer, she arose and dressed.
The sound of voices took her to her window before she left her room, and
she saw her husband on horseback with Curtis standing by his side. A
sense of relief shot through her at sight of the latter. She had come to
rely upon him more than she knew. While she watched, Mercer raised his
bridle and rode slowly away without a backward glance. And again she was
conscious of relief.
Curtis stood looking after him for a few seconds, then turned and
entered the house.
She met him in the passage outside her room. He greeted her gravely.
"I was just coming to see if I could do anything for you," he said.
"Thank you," she answered nervously. "I am better now. Where has my
husband gone?"
He did not answer her immediately. He turned aside to the room in which
she generally sat, standing back for her to pass him. "I have something
to say to you," he said.
She glanced at him anxiously as she took the chair he offered her.
"In the first place," he said, "you will be wise if you keep absolutely
quiet for the next few days. There will be nothing to disturb you.
Mercer is not returning at present. He has left you in my charge."
"Oh, why?" she said.
Her hands were locked together. She had begun to tremble from head to
foot.
Curtis was watching her quietly.
"I think," he said, "that he is better away from you for a time, and he
agrees with me."
"Why?" she said again, lifting her piteous eyes. "Is he so angry with
me?"
"With you? No. He has come to his senses in that respect. But he is not
in a particularly safe mood, and he knows it. He has gone to fight it
out by himself."
Curtis paused, but Sybil did not speak. Her attitude had relaxed. He
read unmistakble relief in every line.
"Well, now," he said deliberately, "I am going to tell you the exact
truth of this business, as Mercer himself has told it to me."
"He wishes me to know it?" she asked quickly.
"He is willing that I should tell you," Curtis answered. "In fact, until
he saw me to-day he believed that you knew it already. That was the
primary cause of his savagery last night. You have probably formed a
very shrewd suspicion of what happened, but it is better for you to know
things as they actually stand. If it makes you hate him--well, it's no
more than he deserves."
"Ah, but I have to live with him," she broke in, with sudden passion.
"It is easy for you to talk of hating him, but I--I am his wife. I must
go on living by his side, whatever I may feel."
"Yes, I know," Curtis said. "But it won't make it any easier for either
of you to feel that there is this thing between you. Even he sees that.
You can't forgive him if you don't know what he has done."
"Then why doesn't he tell me himself?" she said.
"Because," Curtis answered, looking at her steadily, "it will be easier
for you to hear it from me. He saw that, too."
She could not deny it, but for some reason it hurt her to hear him say
so. She had a feeling that it was to Curtis's insistence, rather than to
her husband's consideration, that she owed this present respite.
"I will listen to you, then," she said.
Curtis began to walk up and down the room.
"First, with regard to Wentworth," he said. "There was a time once when
he occupied very much the position that I now hold. He was Mercer's
right-hand man. But he took to drink, and that did for him. I am afraid
he was never very sound. Anyhow, Mercer gave him up, and he disappeared.
"After he had gone, after I took his place, we found out one or two
things he had done which might have landed him in prison if Mercer had
followed them up. However, the man was gone, and it didn't seem worth
while to track him. It was not till afterwards that we heard he was at
Bowker Creek, and Mercer was then on the point of starting for England,
and decided to leave him alone.
"It's a poor place--Bowker Creek. He had got a job there as boundary
rider. I suppose he counted on the shearing season to set him up. But he
wasn't the sort of chap who ever gets on. And when Mercer met you on his
way out from the old country it was something of a shock to him to hear
that you were on your way to marry Robin Wentworth.
"Of course, he ought to have told you the truth, but instead of that he
made up his mind to take the business into his own hands and marry you
himself. He cabled from Colombo to Wentworth to wait for him at Bowker
Creek, hinted that if he went to the coast he would have him arrested,
and said something vague about coming to an understanding which induced
Wentworth to obey orders.
"Then he came straight here and pressed on to Rollandstown, taking
Beelzebub with him to show him the short cuts. It's a hard day's ride in
any case. He reached Bowker Creek the day after, and had it out with
Wentworth. The man had been drinking, was unreasonable, furious, finally
tried to shoot him.
"Well, you know Mercer. He won't stand that sort of thing. He thrashed
him within an inch of his life, and then made him write and give you up.
It was a despicable affair from start to finish. Mercer's only excuse
was that Wentworth was not the sort of man to make any woman happy.
Finally, when he had got what he wanted, Mercer left him, after swearing
eternal vengeance on him if he ever came within reach of you. The rest
you know."
Yes, Sybil knew the rest. She understood the whole story from beginning
to end, realized with what unscrupulous ingenuity she had been trapped
and wondered bitterly if she would ever endure her husband's presence
again without the shuddering sense of nausea which now overcame her at
the bare thought of him.
She sat in stony silence, till at last Curtis paused beside her.
"I want you to rest," he said. "I think, if you don't, the consequences
may be serious."
She looked up at him uncomprehendingly.
"Come, Mrs. Mercer!" he said.
She shrank at the name.
"Don't call me that!" she said, and stumbled uncertainly to her feet.
"I--I am going away."
He put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"You can't," he said quietly. "You are not fit for it. Besides, there is
nowhere for you to go to. But I will get Mrs. Stevens, the innkeeper's
wife at Wallarroo, to come to you for a time. She is a good sort, you
can count on her. As for Mercer, he will not return unless you--or
I--send for him."
She shivered violently, uncontrollably.
"You will never send for him?"
"Never," he answered, "unless you need him."
She glanced around her wildly. Her eyes were hunted.
"Why do you say that?" she gasped.
"I think you know why I say it," said Curtis very steadily.
Her hands were clenched.
"No!" she cried back sharply. "No!"
Curtis was silent. There was deep compassion in his eyes.
She glanced around her wildly. Her eyes were on his eyes.
She shuddered again, shuddered from head to foot.
"If I thought that," she whispered, "if I thought that, I would----"
"Hush!" he interposed gently. "Don't say it! Go and lie down! You will
see things differently by and bye."
She knew that he was right, and worn out, broken as she was, she moved
to obey him. But before she reached the door her little strength was
gone. She felt herself sinking swiftly into a silence that she hoped and
even prayed was death. She did not know when Curtis lifted her.