AFTERWARDS
At the foot of the broad flight of steps leading up to her own hall
door she stopped for the first time. It was late. What was the exact
hour she had no notion. She only knew that, in that part of the world,
it would be regarded as abnormal. The hall door was closed, that little
fact in itself was eloquent. There were outer and inner doors. It was
the custom to leave the outer door wide open until all the household
had retired to rest. She would have to knock to gain admission. Her
late return could hardly fail to attract attention. She was breathless
with the haste she had made, heated, dishevelled. Whoever admitted her
would be sure to notice the condition she was in.
It could not be helped. Let them notice. She was certainly not going to
fear the scrutiny of her own servants. So she told herself. She
declined to admit that they were sufficiently human to dare to
criticise her movements. Besides, what did it matter?
She knocked with difficulty, the knocker was so heavy. Instantly the
door was opened by old Day, the butler. Day was a person of much
importance. He was a survival of her uncle's time, being in occupation
of the house while the next owner was being sought for. An excellent
servant, with a very clear idea of his own dignity and the
responsibility of his position. That he should have opened the door to
her with his own hands at that hour, seemed to her to convey a reproof.
She marched straight past him, however, without even a word of thanks.
He addressed to her an inquiry as she went, in his even, level tones,
as if there were nothing strange in her entering in such a condition,
immediately after her return from a prolonged absence, at the dead of
the night. Again her ardent imagination seemed to scent an unspoken
criticism, which she ignored.
"Will anything else be required?"
"Nothing. I am going to bed."
In her bedroom she found Evans dozing in an easy-chair. The woman
started up as she entered.
"I beg your pardon, miss, for slipping off, but I was beginning to be
afraid that something might be wrong." She stared as she began to
realise the peculiarity of her young mistress's appearance. "Why, miss,
whatever--I hope that nothing's happened."
"What should have happened? Why haven't you gone to bed?"
"Well, miss, I thought that you might want me as this was the first
night of your coming home."
"What nonsense! Haven't I told you that I won't have you sit up for me
when I'm unusually late? I dislike to feel that my movements are being
overlooked by my servants, that they are too intimately acquainted with
my goings out and comings in. Go to bed at once."
"Is there nothing I can do for you, miss? Are you--I beg your
pardon--but are you sure there's nothing wrong? You look so strange!"
"Wrong? What do you mean--wrong? Go!"
Evans went, the imperturbable demeanour of the well-trained servant
not being sufficient to conceal the fact that she went unwillingly.
When she was gone Miss Arnott looked at the silver clock on the
mantel-shelf. It was past two. She had been out more than four hours.
Into those four hours had been crowded the events of a lifetime; the
girl who had gone out was not the woman who had returned.
For the first time she began to suspect herself of being physically
weary. She moved her hand up towards her forehead. As she did so her
glance fell on it; it was all smirched with blood. Simultaneously she
became aware that stains of the same sort were on the light blue linen
costume she was wearing, particularly on the front of the bodice. She
moved to a cheval glass. Was it possible? were her eyes playing her a
trick? was there something the matter with the light? Not a bit of it,
the thing was clear enough, her face was all smeared with blood,
probably where it had been touched by her fingers. Why, now that she
could see herself plainly, she saw that she looked as if she had come
fresh from a butcher's shambles. No wonder Evans had stared at her in
such evident perturbation, demanding if she was sure that there was
nothing wrong. Old Day must have been an automaton, not a man, to have
betrayed no surprise at the spectacle she presented.
She tore open her bodice, took out from it the knife--his knife, Hugh
Morice's. It was drier, but still damp. It was covered with blood all
over. It must have been thrust in up to the hilt--even the handle was
mired. It had come off on to all her clothes, had penetrated even to
her corsets. Seemingly it resembled ink in its capacity to communicate
its presence. She stripped herself almost to the skin in the sudden
frenzy of her desire to free herself from the contamination of his
blood. When she had washed herself she was amazed to see what a
sanguine complexion the water had assumed. It seemed to her that she
was in an atmosphere of blood--his blood. What was to be done? She sat
down on a chair and tried to think.
It was not surprising that she found it hard to bring herself to a
condition in which anything like clarity of thought was possible. But,
during the last four hours, she had matured unconsciously, had attained
to the possession of will power of strength of which she herself was
unsuspicious. She had made up her mind that she would think this thing
out, and by degrees she did, after a fashion.
Three leading facts became gradually present to her mind to the
exclusion of almost all beside. One was that Robert Champion was
dead--dead. And so she had obtained release by the only means to which,
as it seemed to her, Mr Whitcomb, that eminent authority on the law of
marriage, had pointed. But at what a price! The price exceeded the
value of the purchase inconceivably. There was the knife--his knife--to
show it. When she shut her eyes she could still see him rushing in the
moonlight through the brushwood, like some wild creature, mad with the
desire to escape. Beyond all doubt the price was excessive. And it had
still to be paid. That was the worst of it, very much the worst. The
payment--what form would it take?
As that aspect of the position began to penetrate her consciousness, it
was all she could do to keep herself from playing the girl. After all,
in years, she was only a girl. In simplicity, in ignorance of evil, in
essential purity--a child. When she found herself confronted by the
inquiry, what form would the payment take? girl-like, her courage
began, as it were, to slip through her finger ends. Then there was that
other side to the question, from whom would payment be demanded?
Suddenly required to furnish an answer to this, for some moments her
heart stood still. She looked about her, at the ruddy-hued water in the
wash basin, at the clothing torn off because it was stained. Recalled
her tell-tale entry, her admission by Day who, in spite of his
unnaturally non-committal attitude, must have noticed the state that
she was in; Evans's startled face when, attempting no concealment, she
blurted out her confession of what she saw. Here, plainly, were all the
essentials for a comedy or tragedy of misunderstanding.
If Hugh Morice chose to be silent all the visible evidences pointed at
her. They all seemed to cry aloud that it was she who had done this
thing. From the ignorant spectator's point of view there could hardly
be a stronger example of perfect circumstantial proof.
For some occult reason her lips were wrinkled by a smile at the thought
of Hugh Morice keeping silent. As if he would when danger threatened
her, for whom he had done this thing. And yet, if he did not keep
silent, who would have to pay? Would--? Yes, he would; certainly. At
that thought her poor, weak, childish heart seemed to drop in her bosom
like a lump of lead. The tears stood in her eyes. She went hot and
cold. No--not that. Rather than that, it would be better that he should
keep silent. Better--better anything than that. He had done this for
her; but, he must not be allowed to do more. He had done enough for her
already--more than enough--much more. She must make it her business to
see that he did nothing else. Nothing.
Just as she was, all unclothed, she knelt down and prayed. The
strangest prayer, a child's prayer, the kind of prayer which,
sometimes, coming from the very heart of the child, is uttered in all
simplicity. Many strange petitions have been addressed to God; but few
stranger than that. She prayed that whoever might have to suffer for
what had been done, he might escape scot-free; not only here but also
hereafter; in heaven as well as on earth. Although the supplication
invoked such an odd confusion of ideas, it was offered up with such
intense earnestness and simplicity of purpose, that it had, at anyrate,
one unlooked for effect. It calmed her mind. She rose up from her knees
feeling more at ease than she had done since ten o'clock. In some vague
way, which was incomprehensible to herself, her prayer seemed already
to have been answered. Therefore, the future had no perils in store for
her; she was at peace with the world.
She collected the garments which she had taken off, arranged them in a
neat bundle and placed them in an almost empty drawer which she found
at the bottom of a wardrobe. The knife she put under the bundle. Then,
locking the drawer, she disposited the key beneath her pillows. In the
morning her brain would be clearer. She would be able to decide what to
do with the things which, although speechless, were yet so full of
eloquence. The water in which she had washed she carried into the
apartment which opened out of her bedroom, and, emptying it into the
bath, watched it disappear down the waste water pipe. She flushed the
bath so as to remove any traces which it might have left behind. Then,
arraying herself in her night attire, she put out the lights and got
into bed.
She awoke with that sense of pleasant refreshment which comes after
calm, uninterrupted slumber. She lay, for some seconds, in a state of
blissful indolence. Then, memory beginning to play its part, she raised
herself upon her elbow with a sudden start. She looked about the room.
All was as she had left it. Although the curtains and the blinds were
drawn the presence of the sun was obvious. Through one window a long
pencil of sunshine gleamed across the carpet. Evidently a fine night
was to be followed by a delightful day. She touched the ivory push
piece just above her head. Instantly Evans appeared.
"Get my bath ready. I'm going to get up at once."
She eyed the woman curiously, looking for news upon her face. There
were none. Her countenance was again the servant's expressionless mask.
When the curtains and blinds were drawn the room was filled with golden
light. She had the windows opened wide. The glory of a summer's day
came streaming in. The events of the night seemed to have become the
phantasmagoria of some transient dream. It was difficult to believe
that they were real, that she had not dreamed them. Her spirits were
higher than they had been for some time. She sang to herself while she
was having her bath. Evans, putting out her clothes in the next room,
heard her.
"She seems to be all right now. That's the first time I've heard her
singing, and she looks better. Slept well, I suppose. When you're young
and healthy a good sleep works wonders. A nice sight she looked when
she came in this morning; I never saw anything like it--never! All
covered with blood, my gracious! A queer one she is, the queerest I've
ever had to do with, and I've had to do with a few. Seems to me that
the more money a woman's got the queerer she is, unless she's got a man
to look after her. However, it's no business of mine; I don't want to
know what games she's up to. I have found knowing too much brings
trouble. But whatever has become of the clothes that she had on?
They've vanished, every single thing except the stockings. What can she
have done with them? It's queer. I suppose, as she hasn't left them
about it's a hint that I'm not to ask questions. I don't want to; I'm
sure the less I know the better I'm pleased. Still, I do hope there's
nothing wrong. She's a good sort; in spite of all her queernesses, I
never want to meet a better. That generous! and simple as a child!
Sooner than anything should happen to her I'd--well, I'd do a good
deal. If she'd left those clothes of hers about I'd have washed 'em and
got 'em up myself, so that no one need have known about the state that
they were in. I don't want to speak to her about it. With her ideas
about not liking to be overlooked she might think that I was
interfering; but, I wish she had."
Somewhat to her surprise Miss Arnott found Mrs Plummer waiting for her
at the breakfast-table.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I thought you would have finished long ago--ever
so long ago."
"I was a little late myself; so I thought I'd wait for you. What time
did you come in?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. I only wondered. Directly I had finished dinner I went to
bed--straight from the table. I was tired; I thought you wouldn't care
for me to sit up for you."
"Of course not; what an idea! You never have sat up for me, and I
shouldn't advise you to begin. But--you still look tired. Haven't you
slept away your fatigue?"
"I don't fancy I have quite. As you say, I'm still a little tired. Yet
I slept well, fell asleep as soon as I got into bed directly, and never
woke."
"Didn't you dream?"
"Dream? Why should I dream?"
"There's no particular reason that I know of, only when people march
straight from dinner to bed dreams do sometimes follow--at least, so
I've been told."
"They don't with me; I never dream, never. I don't suppose I've dreamt
half-a-dozen times in my life."
"You're lucky."
"I've a clear conscience, my dear; a perfectly clear conscience. People
with clear consciences don't dream. Where did you go to?"
"Oh--I strolled about, enjoying the fresh air."
"An odd hour to enjoy it, especially after the quantity of fresh air
that you've been enjoying lately. What time did you say it was that you
came in?"
"I didn't say. Day will be able to tell you, if you are anxious to
know--you appear to be. He let me in." The elder lady was silent,
possibly not caring to lay herself open to the charge of being curious.
Presently Miss Arnott put the inquiry to the butler on her own account.
"Probably, Day, you will be able to supply Mrs Plummer with the
information she desires. What time was it when I came in?"
"I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't look at my watch. I've no idea."
The butler kept his eyes turned away as he answered. Something in his
tone caused her to look at him--something which told her that if the
man had not been guilty of a positive falsehood, he had at least been a
party to the suppression of the truth. She became instantly convinced
that his intention was to screen her. She did not like the notion, it
gave her an uncomfortable qualm.