She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
She hears:
Nor does she mind
Or think on't now
That ever thou
Wast kind.
--HERRICK.
It quickly became plain to Magdalen that Fay's peace of mind had been
shaken by her interview with Michael. She had vouchsafed no word
concerning it on her way home. But in the days that followed she
appeared ill at ease, and a vague and increasing unrest seemed to
possess her. Magdalen doubted whether she had as yet asked herself what
it was that was disturbing her tranquillity. But it was at any rate
obvious that she shrank from seeing Michael again, and that she was at
times dejected in Wentworth's presence.
Wentworth perceived the change in her, and attributed it to a most
natural and pardonable jealousy of Michael to which, while he made the
fullest allowance for it, he had no inclination to yield.
Michael had for a moment seemed to take more interest in life after
Fay's visit, and although he had quickly relapsed into apathy Wentworth
told himself that he was anxious to foster this nascent interest by
another meeting between him and Fay. At the same time he desired to
rehearse the part of central figure poised between two great devotions
which was to be his agreeable _role_ in the future. For Michael would of
course live with them after his marriage with Fay. And if there were any
ebullitions of jealousy between Fay and Michael--Wentworth dwelt with
complacency on the possibility--he felt competent to deal with them with
tact and magnanimity, reassuring each in turn as to their equal share in
his affections.
Michael at any rate showed no disinclination to meet Fay again, and even
evinced something verging on a desire to see Magdalen. And presently
Wentworth arranged to drive him over to luncheon at Priesthope.
Throughout life he had always liked to settle, even in the most trivial
matters, what Michael should do, with whom he should associate. The
situation was not new, nor was there any novelty in Michael's
pliability.
But when the day came Wentworth arrived without his brother, and
evidently out of temper. Magdalen asked if Michael were less well, and
was curtly assured that he was steadily improving. The luncheon dragged
through somehow as under a cloud. Colonel Bellairs was fortunately
absent on a visit to Miss Barnett at Saundersfoot. His absence was the
only silver lining to the cloud. Fay hardly spoke. Magdalen was thankful
that her prickly Lord Lossiemouth had departed the day before.
After luncheon, when they were sitting on the terrace over their coffee,
Bessie left them, and Magdalen was about to do the same, when Wentworth
said suddenly:
"I left Michael with the Bishop of Lostford. That is why he is not here
now. The Bishop is inducting the new Rector of Wrigley this afternoon,
and he sent a wire this morning--he is always doing things at the last
moment--he never considers others--to say that he would call at Barford
on his way to see Michael. Michael is his godson, and he has always been
fond of him. I left them together."
Magdalen and Fay sipped their coffee in silence.
"Michael had been as inert and apathetic as usual," continued Wentworth
sullenly, "until the Bishop appeared. The Bishop took him off into the
garden, though I said I did not like his going out so soon after
dressing--he was only just up--and it was perfectly plain they did not
want me. I believe that was why they went out. I was of no account. The
Bishop has always been like that, your friend one day, and oblivious of
you the next. But he and Michael seemed to have a great deal to say to
each other. I watched them from the library walking up and down. Michael
can walk quite well when he wants to. Then when the victoria came
round--I thought he would find that less fatiguing than the dogcart--I
went to tell him that it was time to start, but he only stared vaguely
at me, and the Bishop took his arm and said that you must excuse him for
this once, as he did not mean to let him go at that moment. So I came
away without him."
"There will be many more opportunities of seeing us, and one must clutch
what few chances one can of seeing the Bishop," said Magdalen.
"When I went to warn Michael that the carriage was there," continued
Wentworth, "he did not see me till I was quite near--there was a bush
between--and I could not help hearing him say, 'That was half an hour
before I was arrested.'"
There was an uneasy silence.
"It seems," said Wentworth with exceeding bitterness, "that I have not
Michael's confidence. The Bishop has it, but I, his only brother. Oh,
no. He can talk to the Bishop about his imprisonment, but to me--not a
word, not a single word. At first when we were together at Venice I
asked him quietly about it once or twice. I asked him why he had never
said a word to _me_ about it at the time, why he had not confided to me
at any rate that he was shielding the Marchesa, but I soon saw that the
subject distressed him. He always became confused, and he never would
reply. Once, since we were back at Barford, when he seemed clearer, I
asked him most earnestly to tell me one thing, whether he actually
witnessed the murder of the Marchese by his wife, as she supposed, and
what had first put it into his head to take the blame on himself. But it
seemed that any allusion to the subject exhausted and worried him. I
said to him at last: 'Do you still hate talking of it as much as ever?'
And he said 'yes.' I could understand that, and from that day to this I
never alluded to it again. But though he won't say a word to me, it
seems he can to others."
The miserable jealousy in Wentworth's face touched Magdalen.
"He knew you had strained every nerve to save him," said Wentworth,
turning to Fay. "Has he ever shown his gratitude for what you tried to
do for him?"
"N-no," stammered Fay.
"His imprisonment has changed his nature, that is what it is. He went in
alive, and he has come out dead. He has ceased to care for anything or
anyone. He has been killed by inches. He was so affectionate as a boy. I
was father and mother to him. He used to trot after me like a little
dog. And if anyone had his whole confidence I had. I was everything to
him. My one fear of marrying has always been that he might feel pained
at seeing another person first with me." (Wentworth had never had this
altruistic misgiving, but he stated it with conviction.) "But now he is
not the same. I suppose he still has some affection for me. He shows it
sometimes by a kind of effort. He seemed to wake up a bit after you came
over, Fay. I think he had a sort of glimpse from things I said to him of
what love can be, and just for a moment he was more like his old self,
and appeared to enter into my feelings. But he soon sank back again. As
often as not he seems to shrink from any real conversation. We sometimes
sit whole evenings together without speaking. He does not really want me
any more, or anyone. He talked at first a little about the Italian
doctor, but he never mentions him now. And as for my marriage, as for
being distressed by my caring for someone else," resentfully, "he is
absolutely indifferent. You would think that Fay and I, the two people
of all others who have done most for him, who have grieved most over
him, who have shown him most affection, were nothing to him."
There was a ghastly silence.
"I don't blame him," said Wentworth with something nearer passion than
he had ever experienced before, in which even his petty jealousy was
momentarily extinguished. "At least, I can't look at him and remain
angry with him. It breaks my heart to see him like this, so callous, so
regardless of all I have suffered on his account. I don't blame him. He
is not himself. His brain is weakened by his poor body. No. The person I
do blame is that accursed woman who allowed him to suffer for her, who
skulked behind him for two endless years, who let him sacrifice his life
for hers, who never had the courage to say the word, and take her crime
upon herself, and get him out of his living grave."
Fay became cold as death in the May sunshine. What ghost was this which
was taking form before her? What voice was this, how could it be
Wentworth's voice, which was saying at last aloud with passion what that
other accusing voice within had so hoarsely, so persistently whispered
from its cell, during the long years? Her brain reeled.
"The Marchesa did repent," said Magdalen.
Wentworth laughed harshly.
"Oh, yes. On her deathbed, in order to save her soul. She wanted to be
right with the next world. But how could she go on, year in year out,
letting him burn and freeze alternately in that vile cell? She must have
known, someone must have told her, what his life was like. How well I
remember, Fay, your saying: 'Why does not the real murderer confess? How
can he go on letting an innocent man wear out his life in prison,
bearing the punishment of his horrible crime?' How little we both knew.
I always supposed the assassin was a man, a common criminal of the
lowest order. Yet it seems there are women in the world, educated,
refined women, who can remorselessly pinch a man's life out of him with
their white hands. The Marchesa has murdered two people, first her
husband, and then my boy, my foolish, quixotic, generous Michael. May
God forgive her! I never will!"