Anstice was destined to renew his acquaintance with Iris Wayne sooner
than he had anticipated.
On the Sunday afternoon following the little luncheon party at Cherry
Orchard, he was tramping, pipe in mouth, over the golf-links when he saw
her ahead of him, in company with an elderly gentleman whom he guessed
must be her father.
She had just holed her ball by a deft stroke, and as he approached
Anstice heard her utter an exultant exclamation.
"Very good, my dear." Her companion patted her arm. "A little more care
and you will make quite a fair player."
"Fair player indeed!" Iris tossed her curly head disdainfully. "I'd have
you know I can beat _you_ anyway, Daddy!"
As she spoke she recognized the approaching figure and her frank smile
flashed out.
"Dr. Anstice--are you playing too?"
"No, Miss Wayne." He advanced and shook hands. "I'm taking my Sunday
afternoon tramp. It's the only chance I get of walking in the week."
"Daddy, this is Dr. Anstice." Iris turned to the elderly man. "My
father," she explained casually to Anstice, and Sir Richard Wayne held
out his hand with a smile.
"You're not a golfer, Dr. Anstice?" Sir Richard was keen on the game.
"No, sir. I used to be a footballer in my hospital days, but"--for a
second he hesitated--"I have had no time lately for any kind of
game----"
"Well, golf's a grand game for an old buffer like me"--Sir Richard was a
hale and well-set-up man who could afford to make such speeches--"but I
daresay you younger men like something a bit more strenuous. My daughter
here only plays with me now and then as a concession--she prefers
tennis, or flying about on that precious motor-cycle of hers."
"Well, judging from what I have seen of Miss Wayne's riding I should say
she is a very expert motor-cyclist," said Anstice; and Sir Richard
nodded.
"Oh, she rides all right," he owned, "and she bothered me to such an
extent that I simply had to give in to her. But it wasn't until she had
been 'run in' for exceeding the speed limit in one of my cars and I'd
had to sentence her from the Bench in my magisterial capacity that I did
give in and buy her a Douglas."
"He fined me twenty shillings and costs!" Iris spoke with mock
indignation. "How's that for meanness to your only daughter?"
"And paid the fine out of my own pocket--don't forget that!" Sir Richard
chuckled. "Well, Dr. Anstice, if you're not in a hurry, walk round with
us, will you? You aren't busy on a Sunday afternoon, I suppose?"
"Well, not very." In spite of himself Anstice felt a strange reluctance
to part from his new friends. "I was going for a walk, as you see, and
if I may come with you----"
So it fell out that for the first Sunday since he had arrived in
Littlefield Anstice's walk was no solitary stroll, companioned only by
his own moody or rebellious thoughts, but a pleasant interlude in a life
which in spite of incessant and often engrossing work, was on the whole
a joyless one.
This afternoon Iris Wayne looked little more than a schoolgirl in her
short skirt and brightly coloured jersey, a cap pulled well down over
her curls, which nevertheless rioted over her forehead in entrancing
confusion. It was very evident that she and her father were on the best
of terms; and if, as seemed probable, Sir Richard was proud of his
pretty daughter, it was no less certain that she, on her side, thought
her father the most wonderful of men.
The trio chatted pleasantly as they crossed the sunny golf links, and
Sir Richard told himself that his impressions of this man, gathered from
hasty visions of him about the village, or from the chatter of the
countryside, impressions which had labelled him as a morose, sullen kind
of fellow, had certainly been fallacious.
Reserved he might be; but although his manner was quiet and his smile a
trifle sad, there was nothing morose about him to-day; and if his
conversation was not particularly brilliant Sir Richard thought none the
worse of him for that.
So pleased, indeed, was he with his new acquaintance that when they
reached the Club House on the return journey he pressed the young man to
accompany them home for a cup of tea.
"I'm sure your patients must cease from troubling on a Sunday afternoon
at any rate," he said genially, "and you haven't anyone waiting for you
at home, have you?"
With a rather melancholy smile Anstice admitted that there was no one
waiting for him at home; and since Iris seconded her father's invitation
with a kind little entreaty on her own account, he accepted their joint
hospitality without further demur.
Greengates, the home of the Waynes, was a stately old house, more
dignified, though perhaps less charming, than the fascinating Cherry
Orchard; but its very dignity gave charm; and it formed a by no means
incongruous background for this youngest and prettiest of its daughters.
For all her youth and high spirits, Iris seemed to fit into the place as
one born to it; and when she tossed aside her cap and sat down behind
the massive silver tea-tray, her gold-brown curls shone against the oak
panelling of the walls as the wild daffodils gleam golden against the
massive brown trunks of the trees in whose shade they grow.
Lady Wayne had been dead for many years; and although Anstice gathered,
from casual conversation between father and daughter, that a certain
Aunt Laura made her home with them as a rule, it appeared that she was
at present travelling in Switzerland, leaving Iris mistress of
Greengates in her absence.
"I confess Iris and I rather enjoy a week or two to ourselves!" Sir
Richard's eyes twinkled. "My sister is a thoroughly good sort, but she
loves to manage people; and Iris and I are both of us constitutionally
averse to being managed!"
"I manage Daddy without him knowing it," said Iris loftily; and Anstice
could not refrain from an impulse to tease her a little.
"That is very clever of you, Miss Wayne," he said gravely, "and I'm sure
your management must be most tactful. But--if you'll excuse me
suggesting it--wouldn't it be cleverer still of you if you refrained
from hinting as much to your father?"
"You mean the really clever women never let the men know they're doing
it?" Her grey eyes laughed into his. "You are quite right, of
course--but then I don't pretend to be clever. I don't think clever
people--clever women, anyway--are ever happy."
"Don't you?" Somehow Anstice felt extraordinarily interested in the
views of this very youthful woman. "May I be allowed to know what has
driven you to that conclusion?"
"Oh, it's not exactly my own." Iris' eyes were honest as well as gay.
"It was something Mrs. Carstairs said to me one day. _She_ is clever,
you know--but her life has been made very unhappy."
Anstice, who had already wondered how much of Chloe Carstairs' history
was known to the Waynes, glanced involuntarily at Sir Richard as Iris
spoke the last words; and in the elder man's eyes he thought he saw a
hint of trouble.
"I should judge Mrs. Carstairs to be a well-read woman," he said,
endeavouring to change the subject while ostensibly pursuing it. "She
has a good many books about her, though of course nothing like your
collection here."
He glanced at the walls as he spoke, and Sir Richard took up the new
topic easily.
"I don't know whether you are a reader, Dr. Anstice," he said, "but if
so, and you're short of reading matter, don't hesitate to borrow some of
our books. We've all sorts, eh, Iris?"
"Thanks very much. I'm not a great reader--haven't time; but your books
look rather alluring," said Anstice, with a smile.
"We'll have a look round after tea," returned his host. "In the meantime
pass your cup--this weather makes one thirsty."
After tea he rose and invited the younger man to scrutinize the shelves.
Somewhat to his surprise Anstice found that the Greengates collection of
books was a most comprehensive one, whole sections being devoted to
science, biography, travel and so on; and he was fortunate enough to
discover two recent biological works, which, owing to their somewhat
prohibitive price, he had hitherto been unable to obtain.
"Like to borrow those tomes?" Sir Richard had noted the expression in
his guest's face as he handled the volumes. "Well, take them, and
anything else you like. No, I confess I don't care much about books
myself. Most of these were my father's choice--he was a bit of a student
in his later years, and my sister likes to keep up with the times and
lets the booksellers send down books as they used to do. But you're
welcome to any of 'em, I assure you."
He led his guest round the room, pointing out one or two favourites of
his own; and while they were thus engaged, Iris, who had been feeding
three lively Airedales with scraps of cake, came up to Anstice with
outstretched hand.
"Will you excuse me, Dr. Anstice? I must go and get ready for church--we
have service early here, you know."
Immediately Anstice attempted to take his own departure, fearing he had
outstayed his welcome; but Sir Richard positively refused to let him go.
"No, no, don't hurry away. Stay and keep me company for a little
while--my man can easily run you over in the car presently."
So it came about that after watching Iris' departure the two men turned
back into the house, where Sir Richard led his visitor to his own cosy
smoking-room and handed him a cigar.
"Light up," he said genially, "and try that chair. Dr. Anstice, now that
my little girl has left us, I want to say something to you--to ask you a
question, in fact."
Rather taken aback, Anstice expressed his willingness to answer any
questions his host thought fit to ask; and Sir Richard plunged at once
into the heart of the matter.
"I understand from Iris that you have been attending the lady living at
Cherry Orchard. Oh!"--as Anstice's eyebrows rose--"I'm not asking you to
violate professional secrecy. I only wished to be sure that you knew the
true position of Mrs. Carstairs in this neighbourhood."
A moment's reflection showed Anstice that this man would hardly be
likely to permit his young daughter to visit Cherry Orchard unless his
opinion of Mrs. Carstairs were favourable; and his voice was
non-committal as he answered.
"I have heard Mrs. Carstairs' story from her own lips, Sir Richard. She
was good enough to relate it to me at an early stage of our
acquaintance," he said; and this time it was the other man's eyebrows
which betokened surprise.
"Indeed! I didn't expect that, or I would not have spoken. I thought you
had probably heard a garbled account of the whole horrible affair from
some of the Pharisees down here; and since I and my daughter are
honoured by Mrs. Carstairs' friendship I wanted to be sure you didn't
allow the weight of local opinion to prejudice you in any way."
"It's awfully good of you." For once Anstice spoke spontaneously, as he
might have spoken before that fatal day which had changed him into
another and a less impulsive person. "I may take it, then, that you and
Miss Wayne believe in Mrs. Carstairs?"
"I believe in her as I'd believe in my own girl," returned Sir Richard
emphatically. "Mind you, Chloe Carstairs isn't perfect--we none of us
are. She has her faults--now. She's cynical and cold, a bit of a
_poseuse_--that marble manner of hers is artificial, I verily
believe--but I'm prepared to swear she had nothing to do with those vile
letters."
"You have known her long?"
"Since she was a child. Her father was one of my best friends, and I
knew Chloe when she was a tiny baby girl all tied up with blue ribbons.
Carstairs met her first at my people's place in Surrey, and I was really
pleased when he married the girl and brought her here."
"They lived here after their marriage?"
"Yes, for a short time only. Then they were off to India, and there they
remained till her child was born, and she was faced with the old problem
of the woman who marries a soldier."
"You mean--wife _versus_ mother?"
"Yes. Upon my soul, Anstice, I can't understand how a woman ever decides
between the two claims. To hand over her baby to relations, or even
strangers, must be like tearing the heart out of her bosom, and yet a
woman wants her husband too--wants him especially when she is young--as
Chloe was."
"Mrs. Carstairs decided for her child?"
"Yes. They kept her in India as long as they dared--longer than some
people thought prudent--and then Chloe brought her home to the old
place. Iris was at school then, but Chloe used to come in to see my
sister and me frequently, and we congratulated ourselves that we'd got
such a pleasant neighbour. You know Cherry Orchard is really the nearest
house as the crow flies."
"I suppose it is; though I hadn't realized it. And then--the crash
came?"
"Yes. When first those horrible letters began to fly about the parish
they were put down as the work of some spiteful servant, dismissed for
dishonesty, perhaps. But little by little Mrs. Carstairs' name began to
be whispered in connection with them--no one knew how the rumour
started, though I have always held the belief that the Vicar's wife
herself was the first to suggest it."
"But Mrs. Carstairs and the woman were friends?"
"They had been--and in the first burst of friendship the foolish woman
had poured out all her silly, sordid secrets to Chloe Carstairs, and
then, possibly, repented having done so. They fell out, you see, and I
suppose Mrs. Ogden, being a woman of a small and petty character
herself, was only too ready to suspect her former friend. She swore, you
know, that no one but Chloe could have known some of the details which
were mentioned in the letters. I can't tell you how vile the whole thing
was--and it was quite evidently the intention of the anonymous writer to
drive Mrs. Ogden out of the parish by those libellous documents."
"But the matter was thoroughly sifted? And there could be no evidence
against Mrs. Carstairs?"
"Well, when things had gone on for some time in a desultory kind of
fashion--a letter here, another there, and then an interval of a few
weeks--there came a perfect avalanche of the things, and the Vicar,
although he had really wished to hush the matter up, was advised to take
steps to find out the culprit."
"Even then I don't see how Mrs. Carstairs could be suspected----"
"Well, in a matter of this kind, when once a woman's name has been
mentioned, it is very hard for her to clear herself. At first, guided, I
confess, by me, she refused to take any notice of the affair. In the
end, of course, she had to come forward to clear herself of a specific
charge."
"But what weight had the evidence against her?"
"Well, certain curious things happened. It was found that the letters
were all written on a particular kind of paper affected by Mrs.
Carstairs for scribbling unimportant notes--household orders and so
on--not by any means an uncommon paper, but still she was the only
person in the village who bought it regularly. Then the handwriting,
though it was scratchy and common-looking, did bear, in some words, a
faint, very faint resemblance to hers; and once, when Chloe was away on
a visit to Brighton, a letter came to the owner of Carr Hall, in the
valley yonder, which had been posted at Hove. Then, as she may have told
you, a trap was laid for her by some of the damned authorities"--he
spoke heatedly--"she was supplied with marked paper; and sure enough the
next letter which arrived was written on one of those identical sheets."
"But the servants--her servants would have had access to her paper?"
"Quite so; and that point was made much of by the defence. But when all
the household was examined, it didn't seem a feasible theory that any of
them was to blame."
"How many servants were there in the house?" Unconsciously Anstice's
manner was that of a doctor interrogating a patient, and Sir Richard
noted the fact with a quickly suppressed flicker of amusement.
"Four only. During Major Carstairs' absence Mrs. Carstairs wished to
live quietly; and her staff consisted of a cook--a young Frenchman whose
life Major Carstairs had once saved in a drunken brawl in Soho----"
"A Frenchman, eh?" Anstice habitually distrusted foreigners. "Mightn't
he have been the guilty person?"
"He only knew enough English to discuss the _menu_ with his mistress,"
answered Sir Richard. "Chloe used to make us laugh by relating his
mistakes; and even if he had wished to write the letters he could not
possibly have done it. Besides, he returned to France for his military
training in the very middle of all this, so he really can't be
suspected."
"Well." In fairness Anstice could not condemn the Frenchman. "Who else
was in the house?"
"A middle-aged housemaid who had lived with the Carstairs' all her life,
and whose character was quite above suspicion. As a matter of course her
writing was compared with that of the letters and was proved to have
none of the characteristics of the anonymous handwriting. For another
thing her sight was bad, and she couldn't write straight to save her
life."
"I see. And what of the other two?"
"One was a pretty young girl who acted as maid to Mrs. Carstairs
herself; and I admit at first it seemed that she was the most likely
person to have been mixed up in the affair; for she was a flighty minx
who wasn't too particular about her behaviour, and was generally engaged
to two or three young men at once."
"Well?" From Sir Richard's manner Anstice gathered that there was no
case against the pretty young minx; and the next words confirmed his
supposition.
"Sad to say the poor girl caught a chill and died of pneumonia after
only five days' illness, during which time the letter-writer was
particularly active; and as the communications continued after her
death, she must be counted out."
"Well," said Anstice, "that accounts for three of them. What about the
fourth?"
"The fourth was an old servant of the other side of the family--Chloe's
family--the woman they call Tochatti, who lives there still. She's half
Italian, though she's lived the greater part of her life in England.
Chloe's mother picked her up on her honeymoon, and she was Chloe's
nurse. She has been a most devoted servant all the time, and I would
almost as soon suspect Chloe herself as suspect the poor woman of
working any harm to her adored young mistress."
Remembering the woman's solicitude on the occasion of his first visit to
Cherry Orchard, Anstice was compelled to admit it was unlikely she was
the culprit; and his impression was deepened by Sir Richard's next
speech.
"As a matter of fact, it came out that the poor old thing couldn't even
write her name. The other woman, Janet, was what she called a 'poor
scollard', but Tochatti went one better, for she could neither write nor
read. It appeared they had often teased her about it, and she had
frequently flown into a rage when the other servants poked fun at her;
but she certainly scored in the end!"
"Well, that disposes of the household," said Anstice rather regretfully.
"But what about outdoor workers--gardeners and so forth?"
"There was only one gardener--and a boy--and neither could possibly have
had access to Chloe's writing-table; added to which they both left
Cherry Orchard during the critical time and took situations in different
parts of the county. So they too had to be counted out."
"All this came out in court?"
"Yes. You see, had the matter rested between the party libelled and the
libeller--if there is such a term--an action in the Civil Courts to
recover damages would have met the case. But owing to the fact that
practically everyone in the neighbourhood was victimized, and warnings,
almost amounting to threats, issued to the Ogden woman's friends to have
nothing more to do with her, the public were, so to speak, directly
affected; and it was in the interests of the public that, finally,
criminal proceedings were instituted."
"And in the end an intelligent jury brought in a verdict of guilty?"
"Yes. The case came on at Ripstone, five miles away, and of course
excited no end of interest locally. To give them their due, the jury
were very reluctant to bring in that verdict--but I assure you"--he
spoke weightily--"when I heard the other side marshalling their facts,
each one making the case look still blacker and more damning, I began to
be afraid. Yes, I confess it, I began to feel very much afraid."
"And they brought her in guilty?"
"Yes, and the Judge sentenced her. I don't like to accuse one of His
Majesty's judges of allowing his judgment to be prejudiced by personal
feeling," said Sir Richard slowly; "but it has always seemed to me that
Chloe's manner--her peculiarly detached, indifferent manner, as though
the case did not interest her vitally--was in some subtle fashion an
affront to the man. His remarks to her seemed to me unnecessarily
severe, and he certainly did not err on the side of leniency."
"I should think not! Twelve months--why, it's an Eternity!"
"What must it have seemed to that poor girl!" Sir Richard spoke
pitifully. "I used to fancy she would die in prison--I could not imagine
how she could support the life in there, in those degrading
surroundings. You know, not only had she been lapped in luxury, as they
say, all her life, but, more important still, she had been used to
boundless love and affection from all around her."
"You find her much altered?"
"Yes. I can't say exactly in what the alteration consists," returned Sir
Richard thoughtfully. "It's not merely a surface thing--the change goes
deeper than that. I called her _posée_ just now. Well, I don't know if
that's the right word. Sometimes I think that frozen manner of hers
isn't a pose after all, it's natural to her nowadays. She seems to be
literally turned to stone by all she's gone through. Where she used to
be all sympathy, all ardour, all life, now she's cold, frigid,
passionless. The girl's barely twenty-five, but upon my soul she might
be a woman of fifty for all the youth there is about her--except in her
looks, and there I believe she's handsomer than ever!"
Anstice's cigar was smoked out; but there was one question he must ask
before he took his leave.
"And her husband--Major Carstairs? He--I gather he was inclined to agree
with the verdict?"
Sir Richard hesitated, and when he spoke there was a note of pain in his
voice.
"I am sorry to say Carstairs could not bring himself to believe in his
wife's innocence. He was in India at the time, you know, and only got
home--on special leave--when the case was coming on. Heaven knows on
what grounds he bases his doubts of her. One would have thought it
impossible for a man to live with a woman like Chloe and not know her
incapable of the deed. But human nature is a strange thing----" He broke
off.
"I understand they do not contemplate keeping house together for the
future?" Anstice hoped he was not appearing unduly curious, but Sir
Richard's manner invited interest.
"No--though mind you, Carstairs has not left his wife because she was
unfortunate enough to be convicted and sent to prison. He's not that
sort. If he could have believed her innocent he would have stuck to her
through thick and thin. As it is he gives her the house, a large
allowance, which permits motor-cars and things of that kind, and since
he is known to be in India a good many people don't know they are really
living apart in a double sense."
"Yet he can't believe in her?"
"No--and that's why he will not live with her. In his own rather
peculiar way he has a remarkably high code of honour, and since he
genuinely believes her to be guilty it would doubtless be quite
impossible for him to live with her again."
"I am rather surprised--seeing she must know his opinion of her--that
she condescends to live in his house and take his money," said Anstice,
voicing a question which had caused him a very real and acute wonder.
"I'm glad you have raised that point," said Sir Richard quickly. "She
does it for the sake of the child, so that Cherry may have all the
advantages of wealth. Chloe herself has nothing and Carstairs is a rich
man; so it is an eminently proper arrangement, and in my opinion Chloe
behaved like a sensible woman in agreeing to it."
He threw away his cigar, which had gone out as he talked.
"No--what I wonder at is that Chloe should deliberately choose to come
back here where the whole story is known. It's not bravado, of that I'm
certain, but it beats me altogether how she can do it, for as you know
women can be uncommonly cruel sometimes, and these creatures here aren't
by any means charitably disposed towards her."
"You allow Miss Wayne to visit her?"
"Yes--and I welcome her to my house on the rare occasions she honours me
by entering it," said Sir Richard with evident sincerity; and Anstice
felt oddly gratified by the other man's speech.
A clock striking seven brought him to his feet in genuine dismay.
"Seven o'clock! I'd no idea it was so late! Pray excuse me inflicting
myself on you all this time."
"Must you go?" Sir Richard rose too, and stood regarding the tall,
loosely built figure with something like admiration. "Well, you're a
busy man, I know; and if you really must go I'll not detain you. But
you'll come in again, won't you? Come to dinner--Iris shall send you a
note--and drop in for a smoke any evening you're at liberty."
The invitation so heartily given was accepted with a pleasure to which
Anstice had long been a stranger; and then he said good-bye to his kind
host and left Greengates feeling that he had found two unexpectedly
congenial friends in Iris Wayne and her father.
He had been deeply, genuinely interested in Sir Richard's story, that
unhappy story in which Chloe Carstairs figured so tragically; yet as he
made his way homewards between the blossoming hedgerows his mind dwelt
upon another woman, a younger, happier woman than the pale mistress of
Cherry Orchard. And the face which floated before his eyes in the
starlit spring dusk was the laughing, grey-eyed face of Iris Wayne.