Vera insisted on going back to the house of death, although her aunt
and Susan Amphlett were equally urgent in trying to take her home with
them.
"Why should you make a martyr of yourself?" Susie urged in her vehement
way. "You can do him no good. He will not know. All the dead want is
silence and darkness, and to be mourned by those they love. You will
mourn for him just as sincerely in my dainty spare room in Green Street
as in that wilderness of empty rooms where he lies."
"Yes, I shall mourn for him," said Vera in low, measured tones. "I
shall mourn for him all my life."
"No, no, _chérie_," murmured Susan confidentially, as they moved
towards the door. "You will always be sorry for his quite too dreadful
death, and you will remember all his goodness and absolute devotion to
you. But you have your own life before you. You are not like some poor
old thing, who feels that life is done with when she is left a widow;
nothing to look forward to but charity bazaars and pug dogs. Remember
how young you are, child! Almost on the threshold of life. You don't
know how I envy you when I think I am such ages older. You are going to
be immensely rich; and by and by you will marry someone you can adore,
as poor Provana adored you: and whatever you do, Vera, don't wait till
you are fat and elderly, and then marry a boy, as I've known a widow
do--out of respect for a first husband."
Susan felt that she had now hit upon the right note, and was really a
consoler; but nothing she could say had any effect upon her friend.
"I am going home," she said. "The house is dreadful; but I would rather
be there than anywhere else."
She had only the same answer for her aunt, when urged to stay at
Berkeley Square, "at least until all this troublesome business of the
inquest is over."
"I can't think why the coroner could not have finished to-day," Lady
Okehampton said to her husband at dinner that evening. "They had
the doctor's evidence, and the servants', and the clerk's; all the
circumstances were made clear, every detail of the poor thing's death
was gone into. What more could be wanted?"
"Only one detail. To find the murderer. If ever I were to be murdered
I hope the inquiry would address itself more to the man who did it
than to the way in which it was done; and that the coroner would stick
to his work till he found the fellow who killed me. If he didn't, I
believe I should walk at midnight, like Hamlet's father."
* * * * *
Claude Rutherford was among the friends who surrounded Vera as she
left the court. His mother was with him, an unexpected figure in such
a scene; and while her son said no word, Mrs. Rutherford murmured the
gentle assurance of her sympathy. She had held herself aloof from Vera
for a long time, disapproving of an intimacy in which she saw danger
for her son, and discredit for Mario Provana's wife; but she came to
this dismal court to-day moved by divine compassion for the fragile
creature who had become the central figure in so awful a tragedy.
For the first time since she had entered the court, Vera's strained
eyeballs clouded with tears, and the hand which Mrs. Rutherford held
with a friendly pressure trembled violently. That unnatural calm of
the last two hours had given way in the surprise of this meeting. Her
carriage was waiting for her, and she stepped into it too quickly for
Claude to help her; he could only stand among the others to see her
driven away.
"It was more than good of you to come to this dreadful place," he told
his mother, as they walked towards Piccadilly.
"I would do anything to help her, if it were possible. She has not made
the best use of her life, so far. Perhaps she has only gone with the
stream, like the herd of modern women, who seem to have neither heart
nor conscience. But this tragedy was a terrible awakening, and no one
can help being sorry for her."
"The ruck of her friends will not be sorry. They will only chatter
about her husband's death, and discuss the amount of her fortune
as his widow. You are right, mother. They have neither heart nor
conscience. They care for nothing, hope for nothing, except to be
better dressed and dine out oftener than other women."
He spoke with unusual bitterness, and his mother looked at him
anxiously. All the marks of a too feverish life showed upon his
delicate countenance in the clear light of summer. He had never counted
among handsome men; but a face so sensitive was more interesting than
the beauty of line and colour, and people who knew Claude Rutherford
knew that the sensitive face was the outward evidence of a highly
emotional nature.
"You are looking so tired and worn, Claude," his mother said anxiously.
"Oh, this ghastly business has been a shock for me as well as for her.
I was with her at the Fulham House ball the night before. We were
waltzing in a mob of dancers, sitting out among tropical flowers,
laughing together in the noise and laughter and foolish talk in the
supper-room. Such diamonds; such bare shoulders and enamelled faces.
It was half-past two when I took her to her carriage, and a blackbird
was whistling in the avenue. Everybody was pretending to be happy; and
she went alone to that great, gloomy house, to be awakened a few hours
later to be told that her husband had been murdered."
"What could have been the motive for such a murder?"
"Plunder. What else? Of course, it was known that he kept valuables in
that safe."
"How was it that he came home so unexpectedly?"
"Heaven knows. Perhaps he wanted to give his wife a surprise--a grim
joke in such a husband; and the result was grimmer than he could have
anticipated." There was a savage bitterness in his tone that shocked
the tender-hearted woman.
"Don't speak of it like that, Claude. It is too dreadful to think of.
He was a devoted husband, from all that I have heard; only too blindly
indulgent, letting his wife lead the wretched, empty-headed existence
that can spoil even a good woman."
They were at Mrs. Rutherford's door by this time, and she asked her son
to give her a few minutes more before he went away.
"As long as you like," he said. "I am at a loose end. My usual
diversions are out of the question; and all manner of work is
impossible."
"You must go away, Claude. You are too sensitive, too warm-hearted to
get over this business easily. You ought to leave London for a long
time."
And then, with her hand on his shoulder, looking up at him with tearful
solicitude, she enlarged upon that source of consolation to which a
woman of deep religious convictions turns instinctively in the time
of trouble. She reminded him of his happy and innocent boyhood, the
unquestioning faith of those early years, before the leaven of doubt
had entered his mind, before the Christian youth had become the trifler
and cynic.
He listened in silence, with downcast eyes, and then, tenderly kissing
her, he said gently:
"Yes, perhaps there lies the cure. I must go back to those tranquil
days. I must leave this hateful town. Yes, mother, I mean to go
away--for a long time. I shall take your advice. If you see Father
Hammond I should like you to tell him about this talk of ours."
"Why not go to him at once and make your confession? You would feel
happier afterwards."
"I have not come to that yet. I mean to have a talk with him later. _A
riverdervi, Madre mia._"
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know. To my rooms, most likely. I have letters to write."
He was gone before she could question him further. That business
of letter-writing was the most arduous work he knew. Since he had
"chucked" art, his days had no more strenuous employment; his life was
the over-occupied existence of a man of pleasure.