"There's not a crime
But takes its proper change still out in crime
If once rung on the counter of this world."
All that night Athena lay awake. Her brain was extraordinarily alive.
She had not had so bad a bout of wakefulness for years.
If only she were free!
She lay wondering what Lingard had meant by those words--words which she
had put into his mouth, and which he had uttered in the thick tones of a
man who has lost control of himself, and who speaks scarce knowing what
he says.
In the world in which Mrs. Maule lived when she was not at Rede Place,
it was a firmly-established belief that those unhappily or unsuitably
married could, by making a determined effort, strike off their fetters.
And in this connection it had been gradually borne in upon her that the
good old proverb which declares that where there's a will there's a way
is, in the England of to-day, peculiarly true of everything that
pertains to the marital relations of men and women.
The question had never before touched her nearly, and Athena as a rule
only concerned herself with what did touch her nearly.
However much she chafed against the bonds which bound her to Richard
Maule, the thought that she, Mrs. Maule of Rede Place, should join the
crowd of ambiguous women who are neither maids, nor wives, nor widows,
was unthinkable. Her day, so she often secretly reasoned with herself,
would come later--after Richard's death. At the time of their marriage
he had made magnificent, absurdly magnificent settlements. He could do
nothing to alter that fact; so much she had been at some pains to
ascertain. Meanwhile, she made the best she could of life.
But now, with a dramatic suddenness which strongly appealed to her
calculating and yet undisciplined nature--an unlooked for piece of good
fortune had come her way. Were she free, or within reasonable sight of
freedom, the kind of life for which she now longed passionately was
almost certainly within her grasp.
Lingard the man roused in Athena Maule none of that indescribable
sensation, part physical, part mental, which she had at first thought,
nay hoped, he would do. But that, so she told herself with unconscious
cynicism, was a fortunate thing. She had now set her whole heart on
being Lingard's wife,--only to secure that end would she be Lingard's
lover. Her wild oats were sown. Never more would she allow herself to
become the prey of passion,--that "creature of poignant thirst and
exquisite hunger...."
She gave but a very fleeting thought to Lingard's engagement to Jane
Oglander. Engagements are perpetually made and broken, and fortunately
this particular engagement had not even been publicly announced.
No; what deeply troubled her, what stood in the way of the fruition of
her desire was--Richard, the man who had so slight a hold on life, and
yet who seemed so tenacious of that which had surely lost all savour.
In the darkness of the night, the pallid face of Athena's husband rose
before her,--cruel, watchful, streaked, as it so often was when Richard
looked her way, with contempt as well as hatred.
How amazingly Richard had altered in the ten years she had known him,
and in nothing more than in the expression of his face, which she now
visioned with such horrible vividness!
In old days Richard Maule had had a handsome, dreamy, placid face,--the
kind of profile which looks to great advantage on a cameo or medal. Now,
as Athena often told herself, it was the face of a suffering devil, and
of a devil, alas! who looked as if he would never die.
But the days when she had measured anxiously the span of Richard's life
were past. Athena, now, could not afford to wait for her husband's
death; she must find some other way to freedom.
There was a story which had remained imprinted for two years--or was it
three?--on the tablets of Mrs. Maule's memory, and this was the more
strange, the more significant, because she had not come across the case
in any direct way.
All she could remember of the affair--luckily she had a very good memory
for such things--had been told her by a certain Mrs. Stanwood, who was
noted for her extraordinary knowledge of other people's business, and
for whom Athena had never had any particular liking.
But now the idle words of this casual acquaintance became tremendously
significant, pregnant with vital issues.
She sat up in the darkness and pressed her hands against her face in her
effort to recapture every word of what had been at the time so
unimportant a piece of gossip.
The story had been told her at Ranelagh. She could still see the
low-ceilinged entrance hall where the eagerly whispered words had been
uttered.
They were standing together, Athena and Maud Stanwood, waiting for the
rest of their party, when there had swept by them a pretty,
well-dressed, tired-looking woman. Suddenly, a man had come forward and
the two for a moment met face to face. Then, with a muttered word of
apology, the man passed on.
Mrs. Stanwood clutched Athena's arm. "Do look at them!" she whispered.
"How very dramatic! I wonder if this is the first time they have met
since the case!" And Athena obediently stared at the pretty,
tired-looking woman; the man had disappeared.
"Who is she? Who are they? What case do you mean?" she asked.
And the other answered provokingly, "Surely you remember all about it?"
"But I don't remember. Please tell me? Was it a divorce case?" Athena
spoke a little pettishly.
"Divorce? Oh, _no_! Something quite different. Why, if she had been
divorced she would not be here. No, no; their marriage was annulled. The
case made quite a talk because they had been married so long--I believe
fourteen years. I was at the wedding. She was such a pretty bride. Of
course she married again--the other man. But it's rather bad taste of
her to come here now, for she used to be here a good deal with him--I
mean with her first husband."
Athena, amused with the tale, had pressed the other to tell her all
about it, and Mrs. Stanwood, nothing loth, had proceeded to do so,
quoting similar cases, and intimating, with the shrewdness which always
distinguished her, how odd it was that more childless women didn't have
recourse to so easy, so reputable a way of ridding themselves of dull
and undesirable husbands!
A sensation of intense relief, nay more, of triumphant satisfaction,
stole into Athena's heart. What that woman, that nervous, pretty,
faded-looking woman, had done after fourteen years of marriage, Athena
could certainly do now. No one looking at Richard--at that poor,
miserable wreck of a man--could doubt that Mrs. Maule had a right to her
freedom.
"If only you were free!" She was not quite sure in what sense Lingard
had uttered those memorable words, but it was enough for her that he
could, if necessary, be reminded of having said them. Once she were
indeed free, Lingard, so Athena felt comfortably sure, would not need to
be so reminded.
Nature, so unkind to woman, has given her one great advantage over man.
She can, while herself remaining calm, rouse in him a whirlwind of
tempestuous emotion.
Many a time in the last few years Mrs. Maule had heard the cry, "If only
you were free!" but, while listening with downcast eyes to the hopeless
wish, she had known well that the speaker did not really mean what he
said, or if he meant it--poor Bayworth Kaye had meant it--then he was,
like Bayworth, ineligible, or if eligible as a lover, absurdly
ineligible as a husband.
Her acute, subtle mind, trained from childhood only to concentrate
itself on those problems which affected, or might affect, herself,
turned to the lesser problem of Jane Oglander.
Jane Oglander was an obstacle. Far less an one than Richard, but still
likely to be a formidable obstacle owing to Lingard's strained sense of
honour.
So much must be frankly admitted. But it would be a mistake to make too
much of Jane. Once Jane realised how unsuited she was to become Hew
Lingard's wife, she would draw back--of that Athena felt assured.
But how could Jane be brought to understand? Would Lingard himself ever
allow her to see the truth, or would the task fall to her--to Athena?
If what the world now thought were true, Hew Lingard might hope to rise
to almost any eminence in the delightful, the glorious career of arms.
But for that, and again Athena was quite sincere with herself, he would
need to have by his side a clever and brilliant woman, without whose
help he might find himself shelved as many another man of action has
been. It was this fact that someone ought to convey to poor Jane
Oglander.
Within the last few months, by merely saying a word to a distinguished
personage at the War Office, Mrs. Maule had been able, so she quite
believed, to advance Bayworth Kaye materially--to procure him, that is,
a post on which he had set his heart, and for which he was eminently
fitted.
The official in question had been extremely cautious, not to say cold,
during their little conversation, but a week or two later Athena had
been gratified to receive from the great man a pretty little note in
which he had informed her that her protégé--as he called poor
Bayworth--was going, after all, to be given the post for which he was so
admirably qualified.
Athena had no reason to under-estimate her powers. The average man
always, and the exceptional man generally, capitulated at once. Even
politicians were indulgent to her ignorance, nay more, amused by her
lack of knowledge of British public affairs. But Athena was now coming
to see the value of such knowledge.
Since the arrival of General Lingard, she had realised that there were
all sorts of things which ordinary women--such women as Jane Oglander
and Mabel Digby--know, but which she had never taken the trouble to
learn. Lingard had already taught her a good deal. She had early adopted
the excellent principle, when with a man, of allowing him to talk,
especially when the subject was one about which she knew little or
nothing.
Lingard would have been amazed indeed had he known that a fortnight ago
Athena Maule had scarcely heard of these subjects--so vitally
interesting to those concerned with the expansion of our Empire in
Africa--about which she now questioned him so intelligently.
* * * * *
The next day opened with very ill news--the news that Bayworth Kaye was
dead.
As is the way in the country, the servants heard the bare fact some time
before it reached their betters. It formed the subject of discussion in
the servants' hall on the previous evening, for the fatal telegram had
reached the rectory at seven o'clock, and its contents had made their
way, first to the stables of Rede Place, and from thence to the house
half an hour later, at the very time Lingard was echoing Athena's words,
"If only you were free!"
"You'll 'ave to tell her when you go in with the cup of tea," observed
Mr. Maule's valet to Mrs. Maule's French maid, Félicie. But the woman
shrugged her shoulders, with a "Ma foi, non!"
They had all wondered, with sighs and mysterious winks, how Mrs. Maule
would take the news. The Corsican chef expressed great concern. "Ce
pauvre jeune homme est mort d'amour!" he exclaimed to Félicie, and she
nodded solemnly, explaining and expanding his remark to the others.
"Gammon! An Englishman--an officer and a gentleman--don't die of such a
thing as love," the butler said scornfully, and Félicie again had
shrugged her shoulders. What did these unimaginative barbarians know of
the tender passion?--nothing, save when it touched their own sluggish
souls and bodies. Poor Monsieur Bayworth--so young, so gallant, always
kindly and civil to Félicie herself. So unlike that prude, his mamma!
Félicie had but one regret--that she had never seen Monsieur Bayworth in
uniform.
Wantele was told the next morning. Bayworth Kaye--Bayworth, whom he had
known with an affectionate, kindly knowledge from his birth
upwards--dead? He felt a sharp pang remembering how coldly he and the
young man had said good-bye less than a month ago. After all, it was
not Bayworth who had been to blame for all that had happened during the
last year....
He came down to breakfast hoping that the news which he had himself
learnt but a few moments before was already known to Athena. If that
were the case, she would probably stay upstairs. Breakfast in bed is one
of the many agreeable privileges civilised life offers woman.
Only since General Lingard had been staying at Rede Place had Mrs. Maule
come down each morning. She had evidently begun doing so during those
three days which had laid so solid a foundation to her friendship with
Lingard.
But if Athena were still in ignorance of young Kaye's death, then to
him, Wantele, must fall the painful, the odious, task of telling her. He
could not be so cruel as to allow her to discover the fact from the
morning papers. Of late--and again Dick traced a connection between the
fact and Lingard's presence at Rede Place--Mrs. Maule generally glanced
over one of the papers before opening her letters.
Lingard came into the dining-room, and then, a moment after, Mrs. Maule
and Jane Oglander together.
Wantele glanced quickly at his cousin's wife. With relief he told
himself that Athena had heard the melancholy news. She looked ill and
tired, her eyelids were red, her beauty curiously obscured.
She came up languidly to the breakfast table, and Lingard looked at her
solicitously. She put out her hand and let it rest for a moment in his
grasp. Her hand was cold, and he muttered a word of concern.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I shall have to take chloral again--it's
the only vice Richard and I ever had in common!"
Lingard turned abruptly away. It had become disagreeable to him to hear
her utter Richard Maule's name. And Athena felt suddenly discomfited.
The plans she had made in the night became remote from reality.
She sat down and her eyes began following Lingard. He was waiting on
Jane, taking trouble to get Jane what he supposed she liked to eat--and
leaving her, Athena, his hostess, to Dick Wantele's care.
So far, she had never had the power to make Lingard neglect Jane in
those small material things which mean so much to some women and so
little to others. Personal service meant a great deal to Athena Maule.
The sight of Lingard and Jane Oglander together was becoming unendurable
to her.
"D'ye know, Dick, if there's any more news of Bayworth Kaye?"
It was Jane who spoke. She also felt ill and tired; she also had not
slept that night; but Lingard's anxious look and muttered word of
concern had not been for her. True, he was "looking after her" now,
bringing her food she had no wish to eat, making her--and what a mockery
it was--his special care.
But what was this that Dick was saying in so hushed a voice, in answer
to her idle question?
"Yes, I'm sorry to say there is news--bad news."
The speaker was intensely conscious of Athena's presence. Did she know,
or did she not know, what he was about to say? He added slowly, "Poor
Bayworth Kaye is dead."
Jane uttered an exclamation of horror and concern. Athena said nothing;
but she took a piece of toast out of the tiny rack in front of her
plate, and began crumbling it in her hand.
"Yes, it's a terrible thing"--Wantele was now speaking to Lingard. "The
poor fellow was an only son--indeed, an only child. We've known him all
his life. It will be a shock to Richard----" He talked on, and still
Athena remained silent.
But when at last Jane turned to her with, "I suppose you will be going
down to the rectory this morning?" Mrs. Maule threw back her head and
spoke with a touch of angry excitement in her voice:--
"Why did you tell me now, Dick, before breakfast? You've made me
miserable--miserable! You know I hate being told of anyone's death. I
hate death! No, I shan't go to the rectory--you can go, Jane, and say
all that should be said from Richard and from me."
Lingard looked severely at Wantele. How stupid, how heartless, the young
man was always showing himself! Why had he hastened to tell sad news
which he must have known would so much distress Athena and Jane
Oglander?
"I'm so sorry! I was afraid you would see it in one of the papers,"
Wantele spoke as if he did indeed repent of his cruel lack of thought.
Athena accepted his apology in silence. After a while she turned to her
guest:--
"I wish you had met poor Bayworth Kaye," she said musingly, "he was just
the sort of man you would have liked. He was tremendously keen----" Then
she stopped short; looking up she had met Dick Wantele's light-coloured
eyes fixed on her face with an expression of--was it extreme surprise or
angry disgust?
She looked straight at him: "Don't you agree, Dick?"
"Yes, yes," he said hastily, "I certainly agree," and his eyes wavered
and fell before her frank, questioning gaze.