'I knew Mr. Redgrave,' said Alma, 'but I was no friend of his.'

Dymes peered at her.

'Didn't he interest himself a good deal in your business?'

'Not more than many other people.'

'Well, I'm very glad to hear that,' said Dymes, looking about the room.

'I tell you, honestly, that whenever I have a chance of speaking up for

you, I shall do it.'

'I am very much obliged, but I really don't think it matters what is

said of me. I am not likely ever to meet the people who talk about such

things.'

She said it in so convincing a tone that Dymes looked at her gravely.

'I never know any one change so much,' he observed. 'Is it really your

health? No other reason for giving up such magnificent chances?'

'Of course, I have my reasons. They concern nobody but myself.'

'I might give a guess, I dare say. Well, you're the best judge, and we

won't say any more about that. But look here--about Mrs. S. and her

scandal. I feel sure, as I said, that she's toadying to Mrs. Carnaby,

and expects to make her gain out of it somehow. Her husband's a

loafing, gambling fellow, and I shouldn't wonder if he gave her the

skip. Most likely she'll have to live by her wits, and we know what

that means in a woman of her kind. She'll be more or less dangerous to

everybody that's worth blackmailing.'

'You think she had--she was dependent in some way upon Mr. Redgrave?'

asked Alma, in an undertone.

'I've heard so. Shall I tell you what a woman said who is very likely

to know? Long ago, in the time of her first marriage, she got hold of

something about him that would have made a furious scandal, and he had

to pay for her silence. All gossip; but there's generally a foundation

for that kind of thing. If it's true, no doubt she has been at his

relatives since his death. It doesn't look as if they were disposed to

be bled. Perhaps they turned the tables on her. She has looked sour and

disappointed enough for a long time.'

'I was just thinking,' said Alma, with an air of serious deliberation,

'whether it would be worth while for _me_ to turn the tables on her,

and prosecute her for slander.'

'If you take my advice, you'll keep out of that,' replied the other,

with emphasis. 'But another thing has occurred to me. I see your

opinion of Mrs. Carnaby, and no doubt you have good reason for it. Now,

would it be possible to frighten her? Have you'--he peered more

keenly--'any evidence that would make things awkward for Mrs. Carnaby?'

Alma kept close lips, breathing rapidly.

'If you _have_,' pursued the other, 'just give her a hint that Mrs

Strangeways had better stop talking. You'll find it effectual, no

doubt.'

He watched her, and tried to interpret the passion in her eyes.

'If I think it necessary,' said Alma, and seemed to check herself.

'No need to say any more. I wished to put you on your guard, that's

all. We've known each other for a longish time, and I've often enough

felt sorry that something didn't come off--you remember when. No good

talking about that; but I shall always be glad if I can be a friend to

you. And, I say, don't think any more about that cheque, there's a good

girl.'

The note of familiar patronage was more than distasteful to Alma.

'I shall, of course, send it,' she replied curtly.

'As you please. Would you like to hear a bit from my new opera? It

isn't every one gets the chance, you know.'

Quite in his old way, he seated himself at the piano, and ran lightly

through a few choice _morceaux_, exacting praise, and showing himself

vexed because it was not fervent. In spite of her wandering thoughts,

Alma felt the seductiveness of these melodies--their originality, their

grace--and once more she wondered at their coming from the mind of such

a man.

'Very pretty.'

'Pretty!' exclaimed the composer scornfully. 'It's a good deal more

than that, and you know it. I don't care--there's somebody else feels

deuced proud of me, and good reason too. Well, ta-ta!'

There are disadvantages in associating with people whose every word, as

likely as not, may be an insidious falsehood. Thinking over what she

had heard from Dymes, Alma was inclined to believe him; on the other

hand, she knew it to be quite possible that he sought her with some

interested motive. The wise thing, she knew, would be to disregard his

reports, and hold aloof from the world in which they originated. But

she had a strong desire to see Mrs. Strangeways. There might be someone

at the house in Porchester Terrace who could help her to discover its

late tenant. However dangerous the woman's wiles and slanders, an

interview with her could do no harm, and might set at rest a curiosity

long lurking, now feverishly stimulated. With regard to Sibyl, there

could be little doubt that Dymes had heard, or conjectured, the truth.

Sibyl was clever enough to make her perilous reverse a starting-point

for new social conquests. Were there but a hope of confronting her with

some fatal disclosure, and dragging her down, down!

That cheque must be sent. She would show Harvey the account this

evening, and have done with the unpleasantness of it. Probably he

remembered from time to time that she had never told him how her

business with Dymes was settled. No more duplicity. The money would be

paid, and therewith finis to that dragging chapter of her life.

Harvey came home at five o'clock, and, as usual, had tea with her. Of

late he had been uneasy about Cecil Morphew, whose story Alma knew;

today he spoke more hopefully.

'Shall I bring him here tomorrow, and make him stay over Sunday? Sunday

is his bad day, and no wonder. If there were a licensed poison-shop in

London, they'd do a very fair trade on Sundays.'

'There are the public-houses,' said Alma.

'Yes; but Morphew doesn't incline that way. The fellow has delicate

instincts, and suffers all the more; so the world is made. I can't help

hoping it may come right for him yet. I have a suspicion that Mrs.

Winter may be on his side; if so, it's only a question of time. I keep

at him like a slave-driver; he _has_ to work whilst I'm there; and he

takes it very good-humouredly. But you mustn't give him music, Alma; he

says he can't stand it.'

'I'm much obliged to him,' she answered, laughing.

'You understand well enough.'

After dinner Alma found her courage and the fitting moment.

'I have something disagreeable to talk about. Mr. Dymes called this

afternoon, and handed in his _bill_.'

'His bill? Yes, yes, I remember.--What's all this? Surely you haven't

obliged him to come looking after his money?'

'It's the first account I have received.'

Rolfe puckered his face a little as he perused the document, but ended,

as he began, with a smile. In silence he turned to the writing-table,

took out his cheque-book, and wrote.

'You don't mind its being in my name?'

'Not at all. Indeed, I prefer it. But I am sorry and ashamed,' she

added in a murmur.

'Let it be taken to the post at once,' said Rolfe quietly.

When this was done, Alma made known what Dymes had told her about

Sibyl, speaking in an unconcerned voice, and refraining from any hint

of suspicion or censure.

'I had heard of it,' said Harvey, with troubled brow, and evidently

wished to say no more.

'What do you suppose Mr. Carnaby will do?' Alma inquired.

'Impossible to say. I'm told that the business at Coventry is

flourishing, and no doubt his interest in it remains. I hear, too, that

those Queensland mines are profitable at last. So there'll be no money

troubles. But what he will do----'

The subject was dropped.

Harvey had succeeded in hiding his annoyance at the large debt to

Dymes, a sum he could ill afford; but he was glad to have paid it, and

pleased with Alma's way of dismissing it to oblivion. The talk that

followed had turned his mind upon a graver trouble: he sat thinking of

Hugh Carnaby. Dear old Hugh! Not long ago the report ran that his

health was in a bad state. To one who knew him the wonder was that he

kept alive. But the second year drew on.

CHAPTER 9

On Monday morning, when Harvey and his friend had started for town, and

Hughie was at school, Alma made ready to go out. In many months she had

been to London only two or three times. Thus alone could she subdue

herself. She tried to forget all that lay eastward from Gunnersbury,

rejecting every kind of town amusement, and finding society in a very

small circle of acquaintances who lived almost as quietly as herself.

But this morning she yielded to the impulse made irresistible by

Dymes's visit. In leaving the house, she seemed to escape from an

atmosphere so still and heavy that it threatened her blood with

stagnation; she breathed deeply of the free air, and hastened towards

the railway as if she had some great pleasure before her.

But this mood had passed long before the end of her journey. Alighting

at Queen's Road, she walked hurriedly to Porchester Terrace, and from

the opposite side of the way had a view of Mrs. Strangeways' house. It

was empty, to let. She crossed, and rang the bell, on the chance that

some caretaker might be within; but no one answered. Her heart

throbbing painfully, she went on a little distance, then stood

irresolute. A cab crawled by; she raised her hand, and gave the

direction, 'Oxford and Cambridge Mansions'. Once here, she had no

difficulty in carrying out her purpose. Passion came to her aid; and

when Sibyl's door opened she could hardly wait for an invitation before

stepping in.

The drawing-room was changed; it had been refurnished, and looked even

more luxurious than formerly. For nearly ten minutes she had to stand

waiting; seat herself she could not. Then entered Sibyl.

'Good morning, Mrs. Rolfe. I am glad to see you.'

The latter sentence was spoken not as a mere phrase of courtesy, but

with intention, with quiet yet unmistakable significance. Sibyl did not

offer her hand; she moved a chair so that its back was to the light,

and sat down very much as she might have done if receiving an applicant

for a 'situation'.

'You had some reason for coming so early?'

Alma, who had felt uncertain how this interview would begin, was glad

that she had to meet no pretences of friendship. Her heart burned

within her; she was pallid, and her eyes shone fiercely.

'I came to ask if you could tell me where Mrs. Strangeways is to be

found?'

'Mrs. Strangeways?' Sibyl repeated, with cold surprise. 'I know nothing

about her.'

Feeling in every way at a disadvantage--contrast of costume told in

Sibyl's favour, and it was enhanced by the perfection of her

self-command--Alma could not maintain the mockery of politeness.

'Of course, you say that,' she rejoined haughtily; 'and, of course, I

don't believe it.'

'That is nothing to me, Mrs. Rolfe,' remarked the other, smiling.

'Doubtless you have your own reasons for declining to believe me; just

as you have your own reasons for--other things. Your next inquiry?'

'Hasn't it been rather unwise of you, keeping away from me all this

time?'

'Unwise? I hardly see your meaning.'

'It looked rather as if you felt afraid to meet me.'

'I see; that is your point of view.' Sibyl seemed to reflect upon it

calmly. 'To me, on the other hand, it appeared rather strange that I

neither saw nor heard from you at a time when other friends were

showing their sympathy. I heard that you were ill for a short time, and

felt sorry I was unable to call. Later, you still kept silence. I

didn't know the reason, and could hardly be expected to ask for it. As

for being afraid to meet you--that, I suppose, is a suspicion natural

to your mind. We won't discuss it. Is there any other question you

would like to ask?'

Humiliated by her inability to reply with anything but a charge she

could not support, and fearing the violence of her emotions if she were

longer subjected to this frigid insult, Alma rose.

'One moment, if you please,' continued Mrs. Carnaby. 'I was glad that

you had come, as I had half wished for an opportunity of speaking a few

words to you. It isn't a matter of much importance, but I may as well

say, perhaps, that you are indiscreet in your way of talking about me

to your friends. Of course, we haven't many acquaintances in common,

but I happen to have heard the opinion of me which you expressed

to--let me see, some ladies named Leach, whom I once knew slightly. It

seems hardly worth while to take serious steps in the matter--though I

might find it necessary. I only wish, in your own interest, to say a

word of warning. You have behaved, all things considered'--she dwelt on

the phrase--'rather indiscreetly.'

'I said what I knew to be the truth,' replied Alma, meeting her look

with the satisfaction of defiance.

Sibyl approached one step.

'You knew it?' she asked, very softly and deliberately, searching the

passionate face with eyes as piercing as they were beautiful.

'With certainty.'

'I used to think you intelligent,' said Sibyl, 'but I fancy you don't

perceive what this "certainty" of yours suggests.' She paused, with a

curling lip. 'Let me put you on your guard. You have very little

command of your primitive feelings, and they bring you into danger. I

should be sorry to think that an unpleasant story I have heard

whispered was anything more than ill-natured scandal, but it's as well

to warn you that _other_ people have a taste for that kind of gossip.'

'I'm well aware of it,' flashed the listener. 'And that was the very

reason why I came to ask you where Mrs. Strangeways is hiding.'

'Mrs. Rolfe, you are aware of too many things. In your position I

should be uneasy.'

'I will leave you to enjoy your _own_ uneasiness,' returned Alma, with

a contemptuous laugh. 'You must have enough of it, without imagining

that of others.'

She half turned. Sibyl again took one step forward, and spoke with ever

so little tremor in the even voice.

'You have understood me, I hope?'

'Oh, quite. You have shown plainly how--afraid you are. Good morning,

Mrs. Carnaby.'

Baker Street station being so near, Alma was tempted to go straightway

and demand from the Leach sisters an explanation of what she had heard;

they, too, seemed to be behaving treacherously. But she was unwilling

to miss the luncheon hour at home, for Hughie would speak of it to his

father, and so oblige her to make false excuses. Besides, she had

suffered more than enough indignity (though not unavenged!), and it was

better to summon the sisters to her presence.

On reaching home, she at once sent them an ordinary invitation, but of

the briefest. In the evening she received Dymes's acknowledgment of the

cheque. Next day she wrote to him, a few formal lines, requesting that

he would let her know Mrs. Strangeways' address as soon as he had

discovered it.

Dora Leach came to Gunnersbury alone. She was in distress and worry,

for her father had fallen ill again, and the doctors doubted whether he

would ever be fit to resume work; it had just dawned upon Dora that the

breadwinner of the family deserved rather more consideration than he

had been wont to receive, and that his death might involve unpleasant

consequences for those dependent upon him. To Alma's questioning she

replied frankly and with self-reproach. It was true that she had

whispered her friend's suspicions of Mrs. Carnaby, but only to one

person, and in strictest confidence. Neither she nor Gerda had met Mrs

Carnaby, and how the whisper could have reached Sibyl's ears was

inconceivable to her.

'It doesn't matter in the least,' said Alma, finally. 'To tell you the

truth, I'm not sorry.'

'Why, that's just what I thought!' exclaimed Dora, with sudden clearing

of her countenance.

In a fortnight or so there came a note from Dymes, written at Brussels.

He had ascertained that Mrs. Strangeways was somewhere on the

Continent, but as yet he could not succeed in 'running her down'. Let

Mrs. Rolfe depend upon his zeal in this search, as in any other matter

in which he could be of use to her. Unfortunately, this envelope came

under Harvey's eyes, and Alma, knowing he had seen it, felt obliged to

speak.

'Mr. Dymes refuses to believe that I shall never play again in public,'

she remarked, putting down his letter, as carelessly as possible, by

her plate at breakfast.

'Does he pester you? If so, it might be better for me to----'

'Oh dear, no! I can manage my own correspondence, Harvey, thank you.'

Her tone of slight petulance was due to fear that he might ask to see

the letter, and it had its effect. But Alma's heart sank at the

deception, and her skill in practising it. Was it impossible to become

what she desired to be, an honest woman! Only yesterday Harvey had

spoken to her with vexation of a piece of untruthfulness in Hughie, and

had begged her to keep a watch upon the child's habit in this respect.

And she had promised, with much earnestness, much concern.

There are women who can breathe only in the air of lies and of

treachery. Alma rebelled against the fate which made her life

dishonourable. Fate--she declared--not the depravity of her own heart.

From the dark day that saw her father's ruin, she had been condemned to

a struggle with circumstances. She meant honestly; she asked no more

than the free exercise of instincts nature had given her; but destiny

was adverse, and step by step had brought her into a position so false,

so hopeless, that she wondered at her strength in living on.

Hughie had begun to learn the maps of countries, and prided himself on

naming them as he turned over an atlas. One day, about this time, she

looked over his shoulder and saw the map of Italy.

'Those are lakes,' said the child, pointing north. 'Tell me their

names, Mother.'

But she was silent. Her eye had fallen upon Garda, and at the head of

the lake was a name which thrilled her memory. What if she had gone to

Riva? Suddenly, and for the first time, she saw it as a thing that

might have happened; not as a mere dark suggestion abhorrent to her

thought. Had she known the world a little better, it might have been.

Then, how different her life! Pleasure, luxury, triumph; for she had

proved herself capable of triumphing. He, the man of money and

influence, would have made it his pride to smooth the way for her. And

perhaps never a word against her reputation; or, if whispers, did she

not know by this time how indulgent society can be to its brilliant

favourites?

As it was: a small house at Gunnersbury, a baffled ambition, a life of

envy, hatred, fear, suffered in secret, hidden by base or paltry

subterfuge. A husband whom she respected, whose love she had never

ceased to desire, though, strange to say, she knew not whether she

loved him. Only death could part them; but how much better for him and

for her if they had never met! Their thoughts and purposes so unlike;

he, with his heart and mind set on grave, quiet, restful things, hating

the world's tumult, ever hoping to retire beyond its echo; she, her

senses crying for the delight of an existence that loses itself in

whirl and glare.

In a crowded drawing-room she had heard someone draw attention to

her--'the daughter of Bennet Frothingham'. That was how people thought

of her, and would it not have been wiser if she had so thought of

herself? Daughter of a man who had set all on a great hazard; who had

played for the world's reward, and, losing, flung away his life. What

had _she_ to do with domestic virtues, and the pleasures of a dull,

decorous circle? Could it but come over again, she would accept the

challenge of circumstance, which she had failed to understand; accept

the scandal and the hereditary shame; welcome the lot cast for her,

and, like her father, play boldly for the great stakes. His widow might

continue to hold her pious faith in him, and refuse to believe that his

name merited obloquy; his child knew better. She had mistaken her path,

lost the promise of her beauty and her talent, led astray by the feeble

prejudice of those who have neither one nor the other. Too late, and

worse than idle now, to recognise it. She would be a good woman, rule

her little house, bring up her child, and have no will but her

husband's.

House-ruling was no easy matter. Things did not go as she wished; the

servants were inefficient, sometimes refractory, and she loathed the

task of keeping them up to their duties. Insomnia began to trouble her

again, and presently she had recourse to the forbidden

sleeping-draught. Not regularly, but once a week or so, when the long

night harried her beyond endurance. Rolfe did not suspect it, for she

never complained to him. Winter was her bad time. In the spring her

health would improve, as usual, and then she would give up the habit.

At Christmas the Langlands had the customary visit from their relative,

Mr. Thistlewood, who renewed his acquaintance with Alma. At their first

meeting she was struck by his buoyant air, his animated talk. A week

later, he called in the afternoon. Two ladies happened to be with Alma,

and they stayed a long time; but Thistlewood, who comported himself

rather oddly, saying little and sometimes neglecting a remark addressed

to him, stayed yet longer. When he was alone with his hostess, he took

a chair near to her, bent forward, and said, smiling----

'You remember our talk about marriage on a minute income?'

'I do, very well.'

'I have found someone who isn't afraid of it.'

'You have? The same person who formerly _was_?'

'No; she was not afraid of the income, but of me. I couldn't be

surprised, though it hit me hard. Time has spoken for me.'

Harvey was dining in town. He came back with vexatious news about Cecil

Morphew, who neglected business, looked ill, and altogether seemed in a

bad way. As he talked, he began to notice that Alma regarded him with

brighter and happier eyes than for many a day.

'Why does it amuse you?' he asked, stopping in his narrative.

'It doesn't; I'm as sorry as you are. But I have a surprise for you.'

'A pleasant one, this time, I see.'

'Mrs. Abbott is going to marry Mr. Thistlewood.'

She watched the effect of her words, and for an instant felt the old

pang, the old bitterness. But Harvey's confusion of feeling soon

passed, giving way to a satisfaction that could not be mistaken.

'Who has told you?'

'The happy man himself.'

'I am glad--heartily glad! But I didn't think it would interest you so

much.'

'Oh, women--marriages----!'

She threw a pretty scorn upon herself.

'Yes, that's good news. They will suit each other. But she'll give up

her school, and that's a nuisance.'

'There are others as good.'

'But not here. Another removal, I suppose.--When is it to be?'

'Not till the Easter holidays.'

They were in the library. Harvey began to fill his pipe, and nothing

more was said until he had drawn a few meditative puffs.

'Another removal,' then escaped him, with half a groan.

'Why should you care?' asked Alma thoughtfully. 'You don't like this

place.'

'As well as any other. It's convenient for town.'

'Do you really think of going on in that business, which you detest?'

'It has brought in a little money, and may--ought to--bring more. But

if Morphew goes down----'

Alma glanced at him, and said timidly----

'You are going to Greystone at Easter.'

'We shall all go. What of that?'

'Haven't you'--she spoke with an effort--'sometimes thought you would

like to live there?'

'Great heavens--Alma!'

He stared at her in humorous astonishment, then slowly shook his head.

How could _she_ live in such a place as Greystone? And what on earth

did she mean by disturbing him with such a suggestion? But Alma,

gravely and repeatedly, assured him that she could live there very

well; that in all likelihood she would be much more contented there

than here.

'I should bring out my violin again, and the Greystone people would

admire me. There's a confession--to prove that I am in earnest. I can't

conquer the world; I don't wish it; that's all over. But I should find

it pleasant to have a reputation in Greystone--I should indeed.'

Harvey sighed, and could not look at her.

'And Hughie,' she continued, 'would go to the Grammar-School. You know

how you would like that. And living there is cheap; we might keep our

horse again.--Don't say anything now, but think about it.'

He raised his eyes, and fixed them upon her with a look of infinite

tenderness and gratitude. It was Alma now who sighed, but not audibly.

Before Thistlewood went north again, Harvey enjoyed long talks with

him. Mary Abbott he saw only in the presence of other people. But on an

evening in February, when Alma was at the Langlands' and he had

promised to call for her at ten o'clock, he left home an hour earlier

and walked past Mrs. Abbott's house. A light in the window of her

sitting-room showed that Mary was at home. After a turn or two

backwards and forwards, he went up to the door and knocked. A very

young servant took his name to her mistress, and then admitted him.

'Will you let me answer your letter personally?' he said, as Mrs.

Abbott welcomed him in the room where she sat alone.

She had written about Minnie Wager, begging that he would in future

cease to contribute to the girl's support, and be responsible only for

the boy. In her new home there would be no need of a servant; she and

Minnie would do the housework together. Impossible, she wrote, to speak

of his kindness both to her and the children. For Minnie, who might

henceforth be looked upon as self-supporting, he must no longer be

taxed. The child owed him every hope in her life; let him be satisfied

with what he had done so generously.

Of these things they talked for a few minutes. It was easy to see how

great a change had befallen Mary Abbott's outlook upon life. She was

younger by several years, yet not like herself of that earlier time;

much gentler, much sweeter in face and word. Harvey observed her with

keen pleasure, and, becoming aware of his gaze, his smile, she blushed

like a girl.

'Mr. Rolfe--I am sure you feel that I am deserting my post.'

'To be sure you are. I shall always owe you a grudge for it.'

'I thought of it all--of Hughie and the others. I didn't know how I

should ever face you.'

''Twas a shameless thing. And yet I can find it in my heart to forgive

you. You are so ingenuous about it.'

Mary looked up again.

'What shall you do--about Hughie?'

'Oh, there's a great scheme on foot. Alma suggests that we shall go and

live at Greystone. It tempts me.'

'That it must, indeed! I know how you would like it.'

'We shouldn't be so very far apart then--an hour's journey or so. You

would come to us, and we to you.'

'Delightful!'

They had not much more to say, but each was conscious of thought in the

other's mind that supplemented their insufficient phrases. As they

shook hands, Mary seemed trying to speak. The lamplight made a glimmer

in her eyes, and their lids drooped as she said at length----

'I am so glad that you like each other.'

'He's a splendid fellow,' replied Rolfe joyously. 'I think no end of

him.'

'And he of you--for I have told him everything.'

Then Harvey quitted the house, and walked about under the starry sky

until it was time to call for Alma.

CHAPTER 10

Yet once again did Alma hypnotise her imagination with a new ideal of

life. Her talk was constantly of Greystone. She began a correspondence

with Mrs. Morton, who did her best to encourage all pleasant

anticipations--careful the while, at her husband's bidding and Harvey's

too, not to exaggerate the resources of Greystone for a mind and temper

such as Alma's. Of course the little town had its musical circle, in

which Mrs. Rolfe's talent would find an appreciative reception.

Touching on this point to her correspondent, Alma remarked, with

emphasised modesty, that she must _not_ be regarded as a professional

violinist; it would be better, perhaps, if nothing were said about her

'rather audacious experiment' in London. Meanwhile, a suitable house

was being looked for. There need be no hurry; Midsummer was the

earliest possible date for removal, and a few months later might prove

more convenient.

At Easter came Mary Abbott's wedding, which was celebrated as quietly

as might be. Alma had done her utmost to atone for bygone slights and

coldness; she and Mary did not love each other, nor ever could, and for

that reason they were all the more affectionate at this agitating time.

When all was over, the Rolfes set forth on their visit to Greystone.

Harvey could not look forward to complete enjoyment of the holiday, for

by this time Cecil Morphew had succumbed to his old habits of tossing

indolence, and only pretended to look after his business. If Harvey

withdrew, the shop must either be closed or pass into other hands.

Pecuniary loss was the least vexatious part of the affair. Morphew,

reckless in the ruin of his dearest hope, would seek excitement, try

once more to enrich himself by gambling, and so go down to the depths

whence there is no rescue. As a last hope, Harvey had written to

Henrietta Winter a long letter of all but passionate appeal; for answer

he received a few lines, infinitely sorrowful, but of inflexible

resolve. 'In the sight of God, Mr. Morphew already has a wife. I should

be guilty of a crime if I married him.' With a desperate ejaculation,

Rolfe crushed up the sheet of paper, and turned to other things.

Whilst she was at Greystone, Alma heard again from Felix Dymes, his

letter having been forwarded. He wrote that Mrs. Strangeways was about

to return to England, and that before long she might be heard of at a

certain hotel in London. As this letter had escaped Harvey's notice,

Alma was spared the necessity of shaping a fiction about it. Glad of

this, and all but decided to put Mrs. Strangeways utterly out of her

life and mind, she sent no answer.

But when she had been back again for some weeks at Gunnersbury; when a

house at Greystone was taken (though it would not be ready for them

till Michaelmas); when she was endeavouring, day after day, to teach

Hughie, and to manage her servants, and to support a wavering hope,

there arrived one morning a letter from Mrs. Strangeways. It was dated

from the hotel which Dymes had mentioned, and it asked Alma to call

there. A simple, friendly invitation, suggestive of tea and chat. Alma

did not speak of it, and for an hour or two thought she could disregard

it altogether. But that evening she talked to Harvey of shopping she

had to do in town, and the following afternoon she called upon Mrs.

Strangeways.

A lift carried her to the topmost, or all but topmost, storey of the

vast hotel, swarming, murmurous. She entered a small sitting-room,

pretentiously comfortless, and from a chair by the open window--for it

was a day of hot sunshine--Mrs. Strangeways rose to greet her; quite in

the old way, smiling with head aside, cooing rapidly an effusive

welcome. Alma looked round to see that the door was shut; then,

declining the offered hand, she said coldly----

'You are mistaken if you think I have come as a friend.'

'Oh! I am so sorry to hear you say that. Do sit down, and let me hear

all about it. I have so looked forward to seeing you.'

'I am only here to ask what good it can do you to talk ill of me.'

'I really don't understand. I am quite at a loss.'

'But I know for certain that you have tried to injure me by telling

extraordinary falsehoods.'

Mrs. Strangeways regarded her with an air of gently troubled

deprecation.

'Oh, you have been grievously misled. Who can have told you this?'

'The name doesn't matter. I have no doubt of the fact.'

'But at least you will tell me what I am supposed to have said.'

Alma hesitated, and only after several interchanges of question and

answer did the full extent of her accusation appear. Thereupon Mrs

Strangeways smiled, as if with forbearance.

'Now I understand. But I have been cruelly misrepresented. I heard such

a rumour, and I did my best to contradict it. I heard it,

unfortunately, more than once.'

Again Alma found herself in conflict with an adroitness, a

self-possession, so much beyond her own, that the sense of being

maliciously played with goaded her into rage.

'No one but yourself could ever have started such a story!'

'You mean,' sounded the other voice, still soft, though not quite so

amiable, 'that I was the only person who knew----'

And there Mrs. Strangeways paused, as if discreetly.

'Knew? Knew what?'

'Only that you had reason for a little spite against your dear friend.'

'Suppose it was so,' exclaimed Alma, remembering too well her last

conversation with this woman. 'Whatever you knew, or thought you knew,

about me--and it was little enough--you have been making use of it

disgracefully.'

'You say I knew very little,' put in the other, turning a ring upon her

hand; 'but you will admit that it was enough to excite my curiosity.

May I not have taken trouble to learn more?'

'Any amount of trouble would have taught you nothing; there was nothing

to discover. And that you know as well as I do.'

Mrs. Strangeways moved her head, as if in good-natured acquiescence.

'Don't let us be harsh with each other, my dear. We have both had our

worries and trials in consequence of that unfortunate affair. You, I

can see, have gone through a good deal; I assure you, so have I. But

oughtn't you to remember that our misfortunes were caused by the same

person? If I----'

'Your misfortunes are nothing to me. And I shouldn't think you would

care to talk about them.'

'Surely I might say the same to you, my dear Alma? Is there very much

to choose between us?'

Alma flushed with resentment, but had no word ready on her parched

tongue. The other went on in an unbroken flow of mocking good humour.

'We ought to be the best of friends. I haven't the least wish to do you

harm, and nothing would please me better than to gratify your little

feeling against a certain person. I may be able to manage that. Let me

tell you something--of course in the strictest confidence.' Her voice

was playful for a moment. 'I have been trying to find someone--you know

who I mean--who mysteriously disappeared. That interests you, I see.

It's very difficult; such people don't let themselves be dropped upon

by chance a second time. But, do you know, I have something very like a

clue, at last. Yes'--she nodded familiarly--'I have.'

In vain Alma tried to lock her lips.

'What if you find her?'

'Do you forget that someone will very soon be at large again, and that

someone's wife, a very clever woman, counts on deceiving the world as

she deceived _him_?'

'You are sure she _did_ deceive him?'

Mrs. Strangeways laughed.

'You are acute, my dear. You see the puzzle from all sides. But I won't

go into that just now. What I want to show you is, that our interests

are the same. We should both dearly like to see a certain person shown

up. I begin to see my way to do it very thoroughly. It would delight

you if I were at liberty to tell what I actually _have_ got hold of,

but you must wait a little. My worst difficulty, now, is want of money.

People have to be bought, you know, and I am not rich----. Don't you

think you could help a little?'

The question came out with smooth abruptness, accompanied by a look

which startled the hearer.

'I? I have no money.'

'What an idea!'

'I tell you I haven't a penny of my own!'

'My dear Alma, you have obliging bankers. One of them is doing very

well indeed. You didn't go to his wedding?'

Alma felt a chill of fear. The woman's eyes seemed to cast a net about

her, and to watch her struggle as it tightened.

'I don't understand you. I have nothing to do with your plots.'

She strung her muscles and stood up; but Mrs. Strangeways, scarcely

moving, still looked at her with baleful directness.

'It would be a shame to lose our sport for want of a little money. I

must ask you to help, really.'

'I can't--and won't.'

'I feel sure you will--rather than have anything happen. You are

leading, I hear, a most exemplary life; I should be so sorry to disturb

it. But really, you _must_ help in our undertaking.'

There was a very short silence.

'A week, even a fortnight hence, will do. No great sum; two or three

hundred pounds. We won't say any more about it; I depend upon you. In a

fortnight's time will do.'

'Do you imagine,' exclaimed Alma, on a high, quivering note, 'that I am

in your power?'

'Hush! It is very dangerous to talk like that in a hotel.--Think over

what I have said. You will find me here. Think, and remember. You will

be quite satisfied with the results, but your help is indispensable.'

Therewith Mrs. Strangeways turned to the open window. Looking at her

elaborately plaited yellow hair, her thin neck, her delicate fingers

just touching the long throat, Alma felt instinct of savagery; in a

flash of the primitive mind, she saw herself spring upon her enemy,

tear, bite, destroy. The desire still shook her as she stood outside in

the corridor, waiting to descend. And in the street she walked like a

somnambulist, with wide eyes, straight on. Curious glances at length

recalled her to herself; she turned hurriedly from the crowded highway.

Before reaching home, she had surveyed her position, searched her

memory. 'The wretch is counting on my weakness. Knowing she can do

nothing, she thinks I shall be frightened by the threat. Money? And

perhaps all she said only a lie to tempt me! Let her do her worst--and

that will be nothing.'

And by this she held, letting the days go by. The fortnight passed. She

was ill with apprehension, with suspense; but nothing happened. Three

weeks, and nothing happened. Then Alma laughed, and went about the

house singing her deliverance.

On that day, Mrs. Strangeways sat talking with Mrs. Carnaby, in the

latter's drawing-room. Her manner was deferential, but that of a

friend. Sibyl, queening it at some distance, had the air of conferring

a favour as she listened.

'I haven't the least doubt that I shall soon lay my hand upon her. I

have had an answer to my last advertisement.'

'Then let me see it,' replied Sibyl coldly.

'Impossible. I put myself in a position of much danger. I dare not

trust even you, Mrs. Carnaby.'

'Very well. You know my promise. Get her into the hands of the police,

and your reward is waiting.'

'But I may lose my opportunity, for want of money. If you would trust

me with only--say a hundred pounds.'

'Not a farthing. I didn't ask you to undertake this. If you do it, well

and good, I will pay you. But nothing till then.'

Mrs. Strangeways perused the carpet.

'Anyone else,' she murmured, 'might be tempted to think that you didn't

really care to have her caught.'

'You may be tempted to think exactly what you like,' answered Sibyl,

with fine scorn.

The other scrutinised her, with an eye of anxious uncertainty.

'Have you thought, again, of taking any steps in the other matter?'

'Have you anything to show?'

'No. But it can be obtained. A charge of slander could be brought

against her at any moment. If you prefer libel, it is merely taking a

little trouble.'

Sibyl reflected.

'There is no hurry. I will pay you, as I said, for any trustworthy

evidence--of any kind. You bring me none.--Does she come to see you?'

'Occasionally.'

'And--have you succeeded in making _her_ pay?' asked Sibyl, with a curl

of the lips.

Mrs. Strangeways merely smiled. After a brief pause, Sibyl looked at

her watch, and rose.

'I have an engagement. And--pray don't trouble to come again unless you

have really something to come for. I can't pretend to have any taste

for this kind of conversation. It really matters very little; we know

that woman will be caught some day, and I shall have the pleasure of

prosecuting her for stealing my jewellery and things. The other

person--perhaps she is a little beneath my notice.'

She rang the bell, and Mrs. Strangeways, having no alternative,

slightly bent her head and withdrew.

Mrs. Carnaby had no engagement; she was quite at leisure, and, as usual

nowadays, spent her leisure in thought. She did not read much, and not

at all in the solid books which were to be seen lying about her rooms;

but Lady Isobel Barker, and a few other people, admired her devotion to

study. Certainly one or two lines had begun to reveal themselves on

Sibyl's forehead, which might possibly have come of late reading and

memory overstrained; they might also be the record of other

experiences. Her beauty was more than ever of the austere type; in

regarding her, one could have murmured--

Chaste a' the icicle

That's curded by the frost from purest snow,

And hangs on Dian's temple.

But in privacy Sibyl did not look her best. Assuredly not after the

withdrawal of Mrs. Strangeways, when her lips, sneering away their fine

contour, grew to an ugly hardness, and her eyes smalled themselves in a

vicious intensity of mental vision.

CHAPTER 11

Major Carnaby, Hugh's brother, was now in England. A stranger to the

society in which Mrs. Carnaby had lived, he knew nothing of the gossip

at one time threatening her with banishment from polite circles. An

honest man, and taking for granted the honesty of his kinsfolk, he put

entire faith in Hugh's story, despatched to him by letter a few days

after the calamitous event at Wimbledon. On arriving in London, the

good Major was pleased, touched, flattered by the very warm welcome

with which his sister-in-law received him. Hitherto they had seen

hardly anything of each other; but since the disaster their

correspondence had been frequent, and Sibyl's letters were so brave,

yet so pathetic, that Major Carnaby formed the highest opinion of her.

She did not pose as an injured woman; she never so much as hinted at

the activity of slanderous tongues; she spoke only of Hugh, the dear,

kind, noble fellow, whom fate had so cruelly visited The favourable

impression was confirmed as soon as they met. The Major found that this

beautiful, high-hearted creature had, among her many virtues, a sound

capacity for business; no one could have looked after her husband's

worldly interests with more assiduity and circumspection. He saw that

Hugh had been quite right in assuring him (at Sibyl's instance) that

there was no need whatever for him to neglect his military duties and

come home at an inconvenient time. Hugh's affairs were in perfect

order; all he would have to think about was the recovery of health and

mental tranquillity.

To this end, they must decide upon some retreat in which he might pass

a quiet month or two. That dear and invaluable friend, to whom Sibyl

owed 'more than she could tell' (much more than she could tell to Major

Carnaby), was ready with a delightful suggestion. Lady Isobel (that is

to say, her auriferous husband, plain Mr. Barker) had a little house in

the north, cosy amid moor and mountain, and she freely offered it.

There Hugh and his wife might abide in solitude until the sacred

Twelfth, when religious observance would call thither a small company

of select pilgrims. The offer was gratefully accepted. Major Carnaby

saw no reason for hesitating, and agreed with Sibyl that the plan

should be withheld from Hugh until the last moment, as a gratifying

surprise. By some means, however, on the day before Hugh's release,

there appeared in certain newspapers a little paragraph making known to

the public this proof of Lady Isabel's friendship for Sibyl and her

husband.

'It's just as well,' said Mrs. Carnaby, after appearing vexed for a

moment. 'People will be saved the trouble of calling here. But it

really is mysterious how the papers get hold of things.'

She was not quite sure that Hugh would approve her arrangement, and the

event justified this misgiving. Major Carnaby was to bring his brother

to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, and, if possible, all were to travel

northward that same day. But Hugh, on hearing what was proposed, made

strong objection: he refused to accept the hospitality of people quite

unknown to him; why, with abundant resources of their own, should they

become indebted to strangers? So vehement was his resistance, and so

pitiful the state of body and mind which showed itself in his all but

hysterical excitement, that Sibyl pretended to abandon the scheme.

Today they would remain here, talking quietly; by tomorrow they might

have decided what to do.

At ten o'clock next morning, when Sibyl had been up for an hour, Hugh

still lay asleep. She went softly into the room, lighted by the sun's

yellow glimmer through blind and lace curtains, and stood looking at

him, her husband. To him she had given all the love of which she was

capable; she had admired him for his strength and his spirit, had liked

him as a companion, had prized the flattery of his ardent devotion, his

staunch fidelity. To have married him was, of course, a mistake, not

easy of explanation in her present mind; she regretted it, but with no

bitterness, with no cruel or even unkind thought. His haggard features,

branded with the long rage of captivity; his great limbs, wasted to

mere bone and muscle, moved her indignant pity. Poor dear old boy!

He believed her; he still believed her. She saw that these two years of

misery had made his faith in her something like a religion; he found it

his one refuge from despair. 'But for that, Sibyl, I shouldn't be alive

now!' She had known self-reproach; now again it touched her slightly,

passingly--poor old boy! But unfaithful to him? To call _that_

unfaithfulness? The idea was too foolish.

Her fears were all outlived. She had dared the worst, and daring was

grown an easy habit. But in the life that lay before them, _her_

judgment, _her_ ambitions, must prevail and direct. Yesterday she had

no course save yielding; today her rule must begin.

Hugh was stirring. He groaned, and threw out one of his arms; muttered,

as if angrily. She touched him, and on the instant he awoke.

'Sibyl? Good God! that's a queer thing--I dreamt that yesterday was a

dream, and that I had woke up to find myself---- Did you ever do

that--dream you were dreaming?'

She stroked his head, laughing playfully.

'You've had a good long night. Don't you feel better? Shall I bring you

some breakfast here?'

'No; I must get up. What's the time? Miles will be coming.'

Sibyl knew that the Major would not be here until two o'clock; but she

said nothing, and left him to dress.

On the breakfast-table were delicacies to tempt his palate, but Hugh

turned from them. He ate for a few minutes only, without appetite, and,

as on the day before, Sibyl was annoyed by the strange rudeness with

which he fed himself; he seemed to have forgotten the habits of

refinement at table. Afterwards he lighted a cigar, but soon threw it

aside; tobacco made him sick. In the drawing-room he moved aimlessly

about, blundering now and then against a piece of furniture, and

muttering a curse. The clothes he wore, out of his old wardrobe, hung

loose about him; he had a stoop in the shoulders.

'Sibyl, what are we going to do?'

For this she had waited. She sat looking at him with a compassionate

smile. It was an odd thing if this poor broken-down man could not be

made subservient to her will.

'I still think, dear boy, that we ought to accept Lady Isobel's

invitation.'

A nervous paroxysm shook him.

'Damn Lady Isobel! I thought that was done with.'

'I don't think you would speak of her like that, Hugh, if you knew all

her kindness to me. I couldn't tell you all yesterday. May I now? Or

shall I only irritate you?'

'What is it? Of course, I don't want you to offend her. But I suppose

she has common-sense?'

'More than most women. There's no fear of offending her. I have another

reason. Come and sit quietly by me, and let us talk as we used to do.

Do you know, dear, it's a good thing for me that I had powerful

friends; I needed all their help against my enemies.'

'What enemies?'

'Have you forgotten what you yourself said, and felt so strongly, at

that time--what a danger I was exposed to when we determined to tell

the whole truth? You knew what some people would say.'

'They've said it, no doubt; and what harm has it done you? Tell me a

name, and if it's a man----'

'Don't! I can't bear to see that look on your face, Hugh. You could do

nothing but endless harm, trying to defend me that way. I have lived it

down, thinking of you even more than of myself. There was a time when I

almost despaired; people are so glad to think evil. If I had been a

weak woman, I should have run away and hidden myself; and then

everybody would have said, "I told you so." But I had to think of you,

and that gave me strength. What could I do? Truth alone is no good

against the world; but truth with a handle to its name and with a

million of money--that's a different thing. It was life or death, dear

boy, and I had to fight for it. So I went to Lady Isobel Barker. I only

knew her by name. She, of course, knew _me_ by name, and cold enough

she was when I got admitted to her. But half an hour's talk--and I had

won! She was my friend; she would stand by me, and all the world should

know it. Stay! The worst is over, but there's still a good deal to be

done. It has to be known that my friends are your friends also. There

was a paragraph in the papers yesterday, saying that you and your wife

were going as Lady Isobel's guests to that house of hers. She did that

for me. And now, do you think we ought to seem even seem--to slight her

kindness?' Hugh was turning about, chafing impotently.

'Then you mean to go on here?' he asked, with half-appealing,

half-resentful eyes.

Sibyl made a gesture of entreaty.

'What other life is there for me? What would you have me do?'

His arms fell; for a minute he sat with head hanging, his eyes fixed

and blank like those of a drunken man. Then, as if goaded suddenly----

'Who are these enemies you talk about?'

Sibyl's look wandered; her lips moved in hesitancy.

'Name one of them.'

'Isn't it better to try to forget them?'

'Women, I suppose?--You say you haven't seen Rolfe. Has _he_ heard this

talk about you, do you think?'

'No doubt,' she answered distantly. 'Isn't he coming to see you?'

'If he saw that in the papers, he won't think I am here. But I should

like to see him. I've a good mind to telegraph--but I don't know his

address. Yes--I forgot--there's a letter from him somewhere.'

'I know the address,' said Sibyl, in the same tone of reserve.

'I should like to see old Rolfe--poor old Rolfe.'

'Why do you pity him?'

'Oh--only a way of speaking. You know the address, you say? Has he

written? Has _she_ written?'

'Oh no!'

'You haven't seen her?'

Sibyl evaded the question.

'Doesn't it seem to you rather strange,' she said, 'that the Rolfes

should keep away from me--never call or write?'

Hugh's lips were set. When she repeated her inquiry more urgently, he

gave a peevish answer.

'You cared very little about her at the last. And Rolfe--when a man

marries--No, I won't see him just yet. I'll write to him when we're

away.'

'It wouldn't astonish you'--Sibyl spoke in a thin voice, not quite

under her control--'if you heard that Mrs. Rolfe had done her best and

her worst against me?'

'She? Against you?'

'I don't know that it matters. You said "poor Rolfe". I should fancy he

is poor, in every sense. As I have said so much, it's better to let you

know all; it will show you that I am not exaggerating what I have gone

through. People knew, of course, that she had called herself a friend

of mine; and just then she came into notice--just enough to give her

opportunities of being dangerous. Well, I heard before long that she

was slandering me to all her acquaintances. Oh, _she_ knew all about

me! It was lucky for me I had a credulous husband. And it still goes

on. She came here not long ago; yes, she came. She told me that she

knew I was afraid of her, and she threatened me.'

Hugh sat staring like a paralytic.

'_She_? Rolfe's wife did this?'

'Her motive, I don't know. Pure hatred, it seemed. But I've had a

strange fancy. She talked about a woman I used to know very slightly, a

Mrs. Strangeways, and seemed to be in fear of her; she said that woman

and I were circulating stories about her. And I have wondered--Why are

you looking like that?'

'She must be mad.--I'll tell you. I only wish I had told you before.

She was _there_ that night--at Redgrave's. But for _her_ it would never

have happened. I saw him standing with her, by the window of his

room--that is, I saw a woman, but it wasn't light enough to know her;

and all at once she ran back, through the open French windows into the

house; and then I rushed in and found her there--it was Rolfe's wife.'

'Why did you keep this from me?'

'She implored me--vowed there was nothing wrong--cried and begged. And

I thought of Rolfe. I see now that I ought to have told him. The woman

must be crazy to have behaved like this to you.'

Sibyl's face shone.

'Now I understand. This explains her. Oh, my dear, foolish husband!

After all, you did _not_ tell the whole truth. To spare your friend's

feelings, you risked your wife's reputation. And I have been at the

mercy of that woman's malice! Don't you think, Hugh, that I have had to

bear a little more than I deserved? Your distrust and what came of

it--I have long forgiven you all that. But this--wasn't it rather too

hard upon me?'

He flinched under her soft reproach.

'I couldn't be sure, Sibyl. Perhaps it was true--perhaps she was only

there----'

A flash of scorn from her eyes struck him into silence.

'Perhaps? And perhaps she meant no harm in lying about me! You will

send at once for Rolfe and tell him.'

Hugh moved from her, and stood with his face averted.

'Can you hesitate for a moment?' she asked severely

'Why need I tell Rolfe? Send for _her_, and say what you like. Won't

that be enough? It's awful to think of telling Rolfe. Don't ask me do

to that, Sibyl.'

He approached her, voice and attitude broken to humility. Sibyl grew

only more resolute.

'You must tell him. Don't you owe it me?'

'By God, I can't do that!--I can't do that! Have her here, before us

both. Shame her and threaten her as much as you like; but don't tell

Rolfe. It's like you and me, Sibyl. Suppose she has really done no

wrong, and we put that thought into his mind?'

'Have you lost all your senses?' she exclaimed passionately. 'Must I

keep reminding you what she has done to _me_? Is a woman that will

behave in that way likely to be innocent? Is her husband to be kept in

the dark about her, deceived, cheated? I can't understand you. If you

are too cowardly to do your plain duty--Hugh, how am I talking? You

make me forget myself. But you know that it's impossible to spare your

friend. It wouldn't be just to him. Here's a form; write the telegram

at once.'

'Write it yourself,' he answered, in a low, nerveless voice, moving

away again.

It was quickly done, though Sibyl paused to reflect after the first

word or two. The message ran thus----

'I want to see you and Mrs. Rolfe before going away. Please both come

this evening if possible. If you cannot, reply when.'

Without showing what she had written, she left the room, and despatched

a servant to the post-office.

CHAPTER 12

As a last resource against Cecil Morphew's degeneration, Harvey had

given up his daily work in Westminster Bridge Road. 'I shall go no

more,' he wrote. 'I am quite unable to manage the business alone, and

if you won't attend to it, it must smash. But please to remember that I

took a share on certain conditions.' For a week he had stayed at home.

Morphew did not reply, but the fact that no appeals arrived from the

trusty shopman seemed to prove that this last step had been effectual.

This morning Rolfe was half-minded to go up to town, but decided that

he had better not. Thus the telegram from Oxford and Cambridge Mansions

came into his hands at about twelve o'clock.

Alma, after giving Hughie his morning's lesson, had gone out with him

for an hour. As soon as she returned, Harvey showed her the message.

'Why does he want both of us to go?' he asked uneasily.

Alma merely shook her head, as if the matter interested her very

little, and turned to leave the room again.

'I think I had better go alone,' said Harvey, his eyes on the telegram.

'Just as you like,' answered Alma, and withdrew.

She spent the afternoon much as usual. Rolfe had said at lunch that he

would go to Carnaby's immediately after dinner. Mrs. Langland and one

of her daughters called; they thought Mrs. Rolfe rather absent-minded,

but noticed nothing else. At dinner-time she said carelessly to her

husband----

'I think I had better go with you, as I was asked.'

'No, no; I think not.'

'I had rather, Harvey, if you don't mind. I am quite ready; shall only

have to put my hat on.'

He made no further objection, but looked a little displeased, and was

silent through the meal.

They travelled by rail to Edgware Road, exchanging scarce a word on the

way. On the stairs of the Mansions, Alma found the ascent too much for

her; she stopped, and put out a hand to support herself. Rolfe looked

round.

'Nothing. You have made me walk rather quickly.'

'I'm sorry. Rest a moment.'

But Alma hastened upwards.

They were shown at once into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Carnaby, who

was sitting alone, rose at the announcement of their names. Alma

stepped forwards, and seemed about to offer her hand, but she was

disregarded. Their hostess stood with her eyes on Rolfe, who, observing

the strangeness of this reception, bowed and said nothing.

'It was I who sent the telegram, Mr. Rolfe.' Sibyl's voice had its

wonted refinement, and hardly disturbed the silence. 'My husband would

have postponed the pleasure of seeing you, but I thought it better you

should meet him at once.' Her finger touched an electric bell. 'And I

particularly wished Mrs. Rolfe to be with you; I am so glad she was

able to come. Pray sit down.'

Harvey, with no thought of accepting this invitation, cast stern

glances at the speaker and at his wife.

'What does all this mean, Mrs. Carnaby?'

'Your old friend will tell you.'

The door had opened, and Hugh Carnaby slouched in. At the sight of Alma

he stood still. Then meeting Harvey's eyes, he exclaimed, with hoarse

indistinctness, 'Rolfe!' Each advanced, and their hands clasped.

'Rolfe!--old fellow!--I'm the most miserable devil on earth.'

Tears were in his eyes and in his voice. He held Harvey's hand tight

prisoned in both his own, and stood tottering like a feeble old man.

'Old friend, I can't help myself--don't feel hard against me--I have to

tell you something.'

He looked towards Alma, who was motionless. Sibyl had sat down, and

watched as at a play, but with no smile.

'Come into the next room with me,' added the choking voice.

'No. Here, if you please, Hugh,' sounded with gentle firmness.

'Sibyl--then tell it. I can't.'

'It's a simple story, Mr. Rolfe,' began Sibyl. 'I am sure you are not

aware that Mrs. Rolfe, ever since our great misfortune, has lost no

opportunity of slandering me. She has told people, in plain words, that

she knew me to be guilty of what my husband was for a moment trapped

into suspecting. Among others, she told it to her friend Miss Leach.

Not long ago, she went so far as to call upon me here and accuse me to

my face, telling me I was afraid of what she knew against me. I have

thought of taking legal measures to protect myself; perhaps I shall

still do so. Today something has come to my knowledge which possibly

explains Mrs. Rolfe's singular malice. My husband tells me--and it's a

sad pity he kept it a secret so long--that there was a third person

present that evening when he came upon Mr. Redgrave. I dare say you

remember the details of the story told in court. All was perfectly

true; but my husband should have added that a woman was with Mr.

Redgrave, talking alone with him in the dark; and when the blow had

been struck, this woman, who had quickly disappeared from the veranda

into the house, was found to be Mrs. Rolfe.'

Hugh's hand had fallen on to his friend's shoulder. He spoke as soon as

Sibyl ceased.

'She said she had done no wrong. I had no proof of any--no proof

whatever.'

Rolfe was looking at Alma. She, through the unimpassioned arraignment,

stood with eyes fixed upon her enemy, rather as if lost in thought than

listening; her mouth was tortured into a smile, her forehead had the

lines of age and misery. At the sound of Hugh's voice, she turned to

him, and spoke like one recovering consciousness.

'You have told the truth.'

'Why did you compel me to make this known, Mrs. Rolfe?'

'Oh, that's quite a mistake. It was she who made you tell it--as she

will make you do anything, and believe anything, she likes. I can

imagine how delighted she was. But it doesn't matter. If you care to

know it, either of you'--she included Carnaby and her husband in one

glance, as equally remote from her--'I haven't gone about seeking to

injure her. Perhaps I let one or two people know what I thought; but

they had heard the truth already. It wasn't prudent; and it wasn't a

right return for the kindness you had shown me, Mr. Carnaby. But I'm

not sure that I should have done better in helping to deceive you. Has

she anything more to say? If not, I will leave you to talk about it.'

The tone of this speech, so indifferent that it seemed light-headed,

struck the hearers mute. Rolfe, speaking for the first time since

Hugh's entrance, said at length, with troubled sternness----

'Alma, you have repeated your charge against Mrs. Carnaby; what grounds

have you for it?'

She looked at him with a vague smile, but did not answer.

'Surely you don't make an accusation of this kind without some proof?'

'Harvey!' The cry quivered on a laugh. 'O Harvey! who would know you

with that face?'

Sibyl rose. The men exchanged a quick glance. Rolfe moved to his wife's

side, and touched her.

'Yes, yes, I _know_,' she went on, drawing away--'I know what you asked

me. Keep quiet, just a little. There are three of you, and it's hard

for me alone. It isn't so easy to make _you_ believe things, Harvey. Of

course, I knew how it would be if this came out. I can tell you, but

not now; some other time, when we are alone. You won't believe me; I

always knew _I_ shouldn't be believed. I ought to have been cautious,

and have kept friends with her. But it wasn't as if I had anything to

hide--anything that mattered. Let me go, and leave you three to talk.

And when you come home----'

Turning, looking for the door, she fell softly on to her knees. In a

moment Harvey had raised her, and seated her in the chair which Hugh

pushed forward. Sibyl, motionless, looked on. Seeing that Alma had not

lost consciousness, she awaited her next word.

'We will go away,' said Hugh, under his breath; and he beckoned to

Sibyl. Reluctantly she took a step towards him, but was stopped by

Alma's voice.

'Don't go on my account. Haven't _you_ any question to ask me? When I

go, I shan't be anxious to see you again. Don't look frightened; I know

what I am talking about. My head went round for a moment--and no

wonder. Stand there, face to face.--Leave me alone, Harvey; I can stand

very well. I want her to ask me anything she has to ask. It's her only

chance, now. I won't see her again--never after this.'

'Mrs. Carnaby,' said Rolfe, 'there must be an end of it. You had better

ask Alma what she has against you.'

Sibyl, summoning all her cold dignity, stood before the half-distraught

woman, and looked her in the eyes.

'What harm or wrong have I done you, Mrs. Rolfe, that you hate me so?'

'None that I know of, until you brought me here today.'

'But you have said that you think me no better than a guilty hypocrite,

and isn't it natural that I should defend myself?'

'Quite natural. You have done it very cleverly till now, and perhaps

you will to the end. I feel sure there is no evidence against you,

except the word of the woman who told your husband; and even if she

comes forward, you have only to deny, and keep on denying.'

'Then why do you believe that woman rather than me?'

Alma answered only with a frivolous laugh. Sibyl, turning her head,

looked an appeal to the listeners.

'Mrs. Rolfe,' said Hugh, in a rough, imploring voice, 'have you no

other answer? You can't ruin people's lives like this, as if it were

sport to you.'

Alma gazed at him, as if she had but just observed his face.

'You have gone through dreadful things,' she said earnestly. 'I'm sorry

to cause you more trouble, but the fault is hers. She got that secret

from you, and it delighted her. Go on believing what she says; it's the

best way when all's over and done with. You can never know as _I_ do.'

She laughed again, a little spurt of joyless merriment. Upon that, in

the same moment, followed a loud hysterical cry; then sobs and wailing,

with movements as if to tear open the clothing that choked her. Sibyl

hastened away, and returned with her vinaigrette, which she handed to

Rolfe. But already the crisis was over. Alma lay back in a chair,

sobbing quietly, with head bent aside.

Carnaby and his wife, after an exchange of signals, silently left the

room. Rolfe paced backwards and forwards for a minute or two, until he

heard his name spoken; then he drew near, and Alma looked at him with

her own eyes once more.

'I won't go back home unless you wish, Harvey.'

'Do you feel able to go?'

'If you wish me. If not, I'll go somewhere else.'

He sat down by her.

'Are you yourself, Alma? Do you know what you are saying?'

'Yes--indeed I do. I know I lost myself; my head went round; but I am

well again now.'

'Then tell me in a word--is there any reason why you should _not_ go

home with me?'

'What's the use? You won't believe me. You can't believe me!'

He grasped her hand, and spoke imperatively, but not unkindly.

'Stop that! Answer me, and I will believe what you say.'

'There is no reason. I have done no wrong.'

'Then come, if you feel able to.'

She rose without help, and walked to a mirror, at which she arranged

her dress. Harvey opened the door, and found all quiet. He led her

through the passage, out into the common staircase, and down into the

street. Here she whispered to him that a faintness was upon her; it

would pass if she could have some restorative. They found a

four-wheeled cab, and drove to a public-house, where Rolfe obtained

brandy and brought it out to her. Then, wishing to avoid the railway

station until Alma had recovered her strength, he bade the cabman drive

on to Notting Hill Gate.

'May I sit at your side?' she asked, bending towards him in the

darkness, when they had been silent for a few minutes.

Harvey replied by changing his own place.

'I want to tell you,' she resumed, her face near to his. 'I can't wait,

and know you are thinking about me. There isn't much to tell. Are you

sure you can believe me?'

'I have promised that I will.'

'I don't ask you to be kind or to love me. You will never love me

again. Only believe that I tell the truth, that's all. I am not like

that woman.'

'Tell me,' he urged impatiently.

'I wanted to make use of Mr. Redgrave to use his influence with people

in society, so that I could have a great success. I knew he wasn't to

be trusted, but I had no fear; I could trust myself. I never said or

did anything--it was only meeting him at people's houses and at

concerts, and telling him what I hoped for. You couldn't take any

interest in my music, and you had no faith in my power to make a

success. I wanted to show you that you were wrong.'

'I was wrong in more ways than one,' said Harvey.

'You couldn't help it. If you had tried to make me go another way, it

would only have led to unhappiness. At that time I was mad to make my

name known, and, though I loved you, I believe I could have left you

rather than give up my ambition. Mr. Redgrave used to invite people to

his house in the summer to afternoon tea, and I went there once with a

lady. Other people as well--a lot of other people. That's how I knew

the house. I was never there alone until that last evening.--Don't

shrink away from me!'

'I didn't. Go on, and be quick.'

'I suspected Sibyl from the moment you told me about her husband and Mr

Redgrave. You did, too, Harvey.'

'Leave her aside.'

'But it was because of her. I saw she was getting to dislike me, and I

thought she knew Mr. Redgrave was doing his best for me, and that she

was jealous, and would prevent him--do you understand? He was my

friend, nothing else; but _she_ would never believe that. And a few

days before my recital he seemed to lose interest, and I thought it was

her doing. Can you understand how I felt? Not jealousy, for I never

even liked him. I was living only for the hope of a success. Do you

believe me, Harvey?' 'Easily enough.'

Thereupon she related truly, without omission, the train of

circumstances that brought her to Wimbledon on the fatal night, and all

that happened until she fled away into the darkness.

'It would be silly to say I oughtn't to have gone there. Of course, I

knew all I was risking; but I felt I could give my life to detect that

woman and have her in my power.

'It's just that I don't understand. If it had been ordinary

jealousy--why, of course----'

'Men never can understand why women hate each other. She thought

herself so superior to me, and showed it in every look and word; and

all the time I knew she was a wicked hypocrite.'

'_How_ did you know that?' Rolfe broke in vehemently, staring into her

white face as a ray from the street illumined it.

'Oh, I can't tell you!' she replied, in a moaning, quivering voice. 'I

knew it--I knew it--something told me. But I don't ask you to believe

that. Only about myself--can you believe about myself?'

He replied mechanically, 'Yes.' Alma, with a sigh as much of

hopelessness as of relief, lay back and said no more.

At Notting Hill Gate they waited for a train. Alma wandered about the

platform, her head bent, silent and heeding nothing. In the railway

carriage she closed her eyes, and Harvey had to draw her attention when

it was time to alight. On entering the house she went at once upstairs.

Harvey loitered about below, and presently sat down in the study,

leaving the door ajar.

He was trying to persuade himself that nothing of much moment had come

to pass. A doubt troubled him; most likely it would trouble him for the

rest of his life; but he must heed it as little as possible. What other

course was open to a sensible man? To rave and swear in the high tragic

style would avail nothing, one way or the other; and the fact

was--whatever its explanation--that he felt no prompting to such

violence. Two years had passed; the man was dead; Alma had changed

greatly, and was looking to new life in new conditions. His worst

uneasiness arose from the hysteria which had so alarmingly declared

itself this evening. He thought of Bennet Frothingham, and at length

rose from his chair, meaning to go upstairs. But just then a step

sounded in the hall; his door was pushed open, and Alma showed herself.

'May I come?' she asked, looking at him steadily

He beckoned with his head. She closed the door, and came slowly

forward, stopping at a few paces from him.

'Harvey----'

'Well?'

'I want you to decide tonight. If you think it would be better for both

of us, let me go. I shouldn't part from you unkindly; I don't mean

that. I should ask you to let me have money as long as I needed it. But

you know that I could support myself very soon. If you think it better,

do say so, and we'll talk about it as friends.'

'I don't think anything of the kind. I shouldn't let you go, say what

you might.'

'You wouldn't? But if you find that you _can't_ believe me----'

'It would make no difference, even that. But I do believe you.'

She drew nearer, looking wistfully into his face.

'But _she_ has made her husband believe her. You will always think of

that--always.'

'You must remember, Alma, that I have no serious reason for doubting

her word.'

She uttered a cry of distress.

'Then you doubt mine!--you doubt mine!'

'Nonsense, dear. Do try to think and talk more reasonably. What is it

to you and me whether she was guilty or not? I may doubt your judgment

about her, and yet believe perfectly all you tell me about yourself.'

'Then you think I have slandered her?'

'There's no earthly use in talking about it. You can give no reasons;

you _have_ no reasons. Your suspicion may be right or wrong; I don't

care the toss of a button. All I know is, that we mustn't talk of it.

Sit down and be quiet for a little. Oughtn't you to eat something

before you go up?'

Alma put her hands upon his shoulders, bending her face so as to hide

it from him.

'Dear--if you could just say that you believe me; not about myself--I

know you do--but about _her_. Could you say that?'

He hesitated, all a man's common-sense in revolt against the entreaty;

but he saw her quiver with a sob, and yielded.

'Very well, I will believe that too.'

Her touch became an embrace, gentle and timid; she threw her head back,

gazing at him in rapture.

'You will never again doubt it?'

'Never again.'

'Oh, you are good!--you are kind to me, dear! And will you love me a

little? Do you think you can, just a little?'

His answer satisfied her, and she lay in his arms, shedding tears of

contentment. Then, for a long time, she talked of the new life before

them. She would be everything he wished; no moment's trouble should

ever again come between him and her. Nothing now had any charm for her

but the still, happy life of home; her ambitions were all dead and

buried. And Harvey answered her with tenderness; forgetting the doubt,

refusing to look forward, knowing only that Alma had a place for ever

in his heart.

Tonight she must sleep. Whilst undressing she measured the familiar

draught of oblivion, and said to herself: 'The last time.' She lay down

in darkness, closed her eyes, and tried to think only of happy things.

But sleep would not come, and quiet thoughts would not linger with her.

More than an hour must have passed, when she heard Harvey come

upstairs. His step paused near her door, and she raised herself,

listening. He went on, and his own door closed.

Then, for a short time, she lost herself, but in no placid slumber.

Startled to wakefulness, she found that she had left her bed and was

sitting on the chair beside it. She felt for the matches, and lit a

candle. A great anguish of mind came upon her, but she could not shed

tears; she wished to escape from her room to Harvey's, but durst not

look out into the dark passage.

When her heart grew quieter, she went again to the drawer in which she

kept her remedy for insomnia. Saying to herself, 'The last time--I

shall be well again after tomorrow,' she measured another dose, a

larger, and drank it off. Trembling now with cold, she crept into bed

again, and lay watching the candle-flame.

Half an hour after this--it was about two o'clock--the handle of her

door was turned, and Rolfe quietly looked in. He had awoke with an

anxious feeling; it seemed to him that he heard Alma's voice, on the

borderland of dream, calling his name. But Alma lay asleep, breathing

steadily, her face turned from the light. As the candle had nearly

burnt down, he blew it out, and went back to his bed.

At breakfast time Alma did not appear. The housemaid said that, half an

hour ago, she was still sleeping. When he had had his meal with Hughie,

Rolfe went up and entered his wife's room. Alma lay just as he had seen

her in the night. He looked close--laid his hand upon her----

A violent ringing of the bedroom bell brought up the servant. Harvey

met her at the door, and bade her run instantly to the doctor's house,

which was quite near.

The doctor could only say, 'We warned her.'

CHAPTER 13

_Sicut umbra praeterit dies_.

The dial on the front of the old house was just shadowing four o'clock.

Harvey Rolfe and his friend Morton sat on the lawn, Harvey reading

aloud from a small volume which he had slipped into his pocket before

walking over this afternoon. From another part of the garden sounded

young voices, musical in their merriment.

It was a little book called 'Barrack-Room Ballads'. Harvey read in it

here and there, with no stinted expression of delight, occasionally

shouting his appreciation. Morton, pipe in mouth, listened with a

smile, and joined more moderately in the reader's bursts of enthusiasm.

'Here's the strong man made articulate,' cried Rolfe at length. 'It's

no use; he stamps down one's prejudice--what? It's the voice of the

reaction. Millions of men, natural men, revolting against the softness

and sweetness of civilisation; men all over the world; hardly knowing

what they want and what they don't want; and here comes one who speaks

for them--speaks with a vengeance.'

'Undeniable.'

'_But_----'

'I was waiting for the _but_,' said Morton, with a smile and a nod.

'The brute savagery of it! The very lingo--how appropriate it is! The

tongue of Whitechapel blaring lust of life in the track of English

guns!-- He knows it; the man is a great artist; he smiles at the voice

of his genius.--It's a long time since the end of the Napoleonic wars.

Since then Europe has seen only sputterings of temper. Mankind won't

stand it much longer, this encroachment of the humane spirit. See the

spread of athletics. We must look to our physique, and make ourselves

ready. Those Lancashire operatives, laming and killing each other at

football, turning a game into a battle. For the milder of us there's

golf--an epidemic. Women turn to cricket--tennis is too soft--and

tomorrow they'll be bicycling by the thousand;--they must breed a

stouter race. We may reasonably hope, old man, to see our boys blown

into small bits by the explosive that hasn't got its name yet.'

'Perhaps,' replied Morton meditatively. 'And yet there are considerable

forces on the other side.'

'Pooh! The philosopher sitting on the safety-valve. He has breadth of

beam, good sedentary man, but when the moment comes--The Empire; that's

beginning to mean something. The average Englander has never grasped

the fact that there was such a thing as a British Empire. He's

beginning to learn it, and itches to kick somebody, to prove his

Imperialism. The bully of the music-hall shouting "Jingo" had his

special audience. Now comes a man of genius, and decent folk don't feel

ashamed to listen this time. We begin to feel our position. We can't

make money quite so easily as we used to; scoundrels in Germany and

elsewhere have dared to learn the trick of commerce. We feel sore, and

it's a great relief to have our advantages pointed out to us. By God!

we are the British Empire, and we'll just show 'em what _that_ means!'

'I'm reading the campaigns of Belisarius,' said Morton, after a pause.

'What has that to do with it?'

'Thank Heaven, nothing whatever.'

'I bore you,' said Harvey, laughing. 'Well, I read little or nothing,

except what I can use for Hughie. We're doing the geography of Asia,

and I try to give him a few clear notions. Do you remember the idiotic

way in which they used to teach us geography? I loathed the

lesson.--That reminds me; Henrietta Winter is dead.'

'Is she? How did it remind you?'

'Why, because Morphew is going to New Zealand. I had a letter from him

this morning. Here it is. "I heard yesterday that H. W. is dead. She

died a fortnight ago, and a letter from her mother has only just

reached me in a roundabout way. She had been ailing for some time. They

suspected drains, and had workmen in, with assurance that all had been

put right. Since H.'s death the drains have again been examined, and it

was found that the men who came before so bungled and scamped their

work that an abominable state of things was made much worse."--Those

fellows will shout nobly for the Empire one of these days!--"I never

saw her, but she spoke of me just before the end; spoke very kindly,

says her mother. Damnation! I can write no more about it. I know you

don't care to hear from me, but I'll just say that I'm going out to New

Zealand. I don't know what I shall do there, but a fellow has asked me

to go with him, and it's better than rotting here. It may help me to

escape the devil yet; if so, you shall hear. Goodbye!"'

He thrust the letter back into his pocket.

'I rather thought the end would be pyrogallic acid.'

'He has the good sense to prefer ozone,' said Morton.

'For a time, at all events.--Look behind you. The young rascal is

creeping this way. He'd rather sit and listen to our talk than be with

the other youngsters. That's wrong, you know.'

Morton look round, and saw Hugh Rolfe. Seven years old now; slight, and

with little or no colour in his cheeks; a wistful, timid smile on the

too intelligent face. He was gazing towards his father, and evidently

wished to draw near, yet feared that his presence might not be welcome.

Morton beckoned him, and at once he ran and threw himself upon the

grass by his father's side.

'Tired of playing?' asked Harvey, with voice and look which betrayed a

tenderness he was always trying to conceal.

'A little tired. We are going to have tea soon.--May I look at this

book, Father?'

'No pictures.'

'I don't mind.--Yes, there's a picture; a soldier!'

Interest quickened in the boy's eyes, and he turned eagerly from

title-page to text. But just then there came a loud calling of his name

from the other end of the garden.

'They want you,' said Harvey. 'Off you go. You can have the book

another time.'

Hughie obeyed without hesitation, but his face had a weary look as he

walked away to join the other children.

'I must send him to the Grammar-School next year,' said Rolfe. 'It

won't do; he must be among boys, and learn to be noisy. Perhaps I have

been altogether wrong in teaching him myself. What right has a man to

teach, who can't make up his mind on any subject of thought? Of course

I don't talk to _him_ about my waverings and doubtings, but probably

they affect him.'

'Don't bother your head so much about it,' replied Morton. 'He'll be

all right as he grows stronger.'

A servant had brought out two little tables; tea was going to be served

in the garden. When it was ready, Mrs. Morton appeared; the men rose as

she came towards them, a newspaper in her hand.

'Have you noticed this?' she asked of Rolfe, with a smile, pointing out

a paragraph to him.

He read it; first to himself, then aloud.

'Yesterday, at Lady Isobel Barker's house in Pont Street, a meeting was

held of ladies interested in a project for the benefit of working-class

women in the West End. It is proposed to arrange for a series of

lectures, specially adapted to such an audience, on subjects of

literary and artistic interest. Unfortunately, Lady Isobel herself was

unable to take part in the proceedings, owing to sudden indisposition;

but her views were most suggestively set forth by Mrs. Hugh Carnaby,

who dwelt on the monotony of the lives of decent working-class women,

and showed how much they would be benefited by being brought into touch

with the intellectual movements of the day. Practical details of the

scheme will shortly be made public.'

Morton chuckled quietly.

'Splendid idea,' said Rolfe. 'Anyone who knows anything of the West End

working-class woman will be sure to give it warm support.'

The tea-bell rang; the children came running. Morton's eldest boy, who

had been busy in his workshop, exhibited a fine model schooner, just

finished. Presently, the hostess asked Rolfe whether he had heard of

late from Mr. Carnaby.

'A week ago; the first time for a year. The demand for shares in their

company was tremendous, and they are turning out the new bicycle at the

rate of hundreds a week.'

'Has he quite got over that illness?'

'Says he suffers much from dyspepsia; otherwise, fairly well. The

prospect of money-making on a great scale seems pleasant to him.'

'To Mrs. Carnaby, also, I dare say.'

'No doubt,' replied Rolfe absently.

After tea, a trio of little singers, one of whom was Hughie, gave the

songs they had newly learnt with Mrs. Morton, she accompanying them on

the piano. Rolfe sat in a corner of the room and listened, as always,

with keen pleasure.

'One more,' he asked, when they were about to cease.

They sang that which he liked best----

Fear no more the heat o' the sun

After it there came a minute's silence; then Harvey rose.

'Say goodbye, Hughie; we must be going home.'

Hand in hand, each thinking his own thoughts, they walked homeward

through the evening sunshine.