That evening, as I changed for dinner in the quaint old tapestried room,
with its ancient carved four-poster and green silk hangings, I reflected
deeply.
What, I wondered, was Tibbie's secret?
That it was something she feared to reveal to me was quite plain, and
yet were we not firm, confidential friends? It had been on the tip of
her tongue to tell me, and to ask my help, yet on reflection she
realised that her confession would estrange us. What could its nature
possibly be?
Her manner had so entirely and quickly changed, that more than once I
had wondered whether she had witnessed something, or seen some person
from the window, and that the sight had struck terror into her heart.
Was she conscience-stricken? I recollected how she had suddenly turned
from the window, and how ashen her face had gone in a single instant.
What was her secret?
I, Wilfrid Hughes, confess that I admired her, though I was in no way a
lady's man. I was comparatively poor. I preferred to lead a wandering
life as an independent bachelor, pursuing my favourite antiquarian
studies, than to settling down to the humdrum existence of a country
gentleman with the appended J.P. and D.L. after one's name. I had just
enough to make both ends meet, and while Netherdene was let I occupied,
when not travelling on the Continent, a decently comfortable set of
chambers in Bolton Street. My friend Tibbie Burnet was, without a
doubt, one of the smartest unmarried girls in London, a woman whose
utter disregard of all the laws of conventionality would ten years ago
have shocked, but which, alas! now was regarded as the height of _chic_
and smartness. Half-a-dozen times report had engaged her, but all
rumours had proved false, while one could scarcely take up an
illustrated paper without finding a photograph or paragraph concerning
her. Hundreds of girls envied her, of course, therefore it was not
after all surprising that evil tongues were ready to say bitter things
of her. Every woman who is popular, be it in merry Mayfair or tattling
Tooting, _blase_ Belgravia or busy Brixton, is sure to make a host of
enemies. There is no more bitter enmity in this world of ours than the
jealousy between woman and woman.
So I had always dismissed the stories I had heard in various quarters
concerning Tibbie as unjust and untrue. One rumour, however, a strange,
faint echo, had reached me in a curious roundabout way while staying at
a country house up in Yorkshire, and of late it had caused me to pause
and wonder--as I still paused and wondered that night. Could it be
true? Could it really be true?
I stood looking in the long old-fashioned mirror, gazing unconsciously
at my own reflection.
No. What was said was a foul lie. I was quite sure of it. Country
yokels are always inventing some story or other concerning the
gentlefolk. It was a fable, and I refused to believe it. Tibbie was my
friend, and if she was in distress I would help her.
And with that resolve I went down to dinner. I found her in the great
oak-panelled hall, where hung the faded and tattered banners of the
Scarcliffs, a brilliant figure in pale rose, laughing gaily with her
brother-in-law, Lord Wydcombe, her sweet face betraying no sign of
either terror or of tears.
She glanced at me, waving her hand merrily as I lounged across the big
vaulted apartment to join the tall, distinguished-looking man of
thirty-eight, whom she had told me in secret she intended was to be her
husband, Ellice Winsloe.
"Why didn't you come with us this afternoon, old chap?" he asked. "We
had excellent sport across at Whitewater."
"I had letters to write," I pleaded. "I'll go with you to-morrow."
"Tibbie promised to come out to lunch, but didn't turn up," he remarked,
folding his arms, a habit of his when conversing.
"No. She went out to make a call, I think. She said she had some old
people to visit down in the village. She came in half-an-hour before
you did," and then at that moment Adams, the white-headed old butler,
announced that dinner was served.
It was a gay party who assembled in the fine old dining-room panelled
from floor to ceiling, with the great hearth, the high old Tudor
mantelpiece and the white ornamented ceiling with the gilded armorial
bearings of the Scarcliffs in the centre. In all we were eleven,
including old Lady Scarcliff herself, who, seated at the head of her
son's table, had Eric and Ellice on either hand. My seat was between
Lady Wydcombe and a fair-haired, rather pretty young girl named Hilda
Tracey, and although the meal was a pleasant one, I noticed that never
once did Tibbie address the man who had proposed to her. Indeed, she
rather avoided us both. Once or twice I addressed a question directly
to her, but she replied briefly, and I saw that she regretted that
involuntary outburst of a couple of hours before.
The conversation of the men, keen sportsmen all, was mostly regarding
the bag of the day, while the women discussed the forthcoming fancy ball
over at Arundel, and made plans for it. Cynthia was a tall, striking
brunette, a go-ahead woman who entertained lavishly, and whose husband,
a thin, fair-haired, fair-moustached man, disapproved of his wife's
gaiety, but said nothing. He was a keen sportsman, who had shot big
game in the Andes and in Somaliland, and who each year gave a good time
to his friends up at his fine grouse-moor in the Highlands. Jack,
otherwise the tenth Viscount Scarcliff, was a slim, dark-haired young
fellow of twenty-five, with a small black moustache, of a rather
indolent, easy-going type, who hated town, and whose chief hobbies were
speculating on the Stock Exchange and driving his motor.
Three years ago he had been in London, reading for the Bar, or rather
making a pretence of reading, when suddenly he found himself possessor
of the title and estates with a substantial rent-roll and the
wherewithal to lead an easy existence. Therefore he at once cast aside
all ideas of the Law and settled down to a country life, which he now
thoroughly enjoyed.
Eric Domville was, however, my intimate friend. Although young--for he
was not more than thirty-five--"Who's Who" recorded to him a long record
of distinguished services as traveller, explorer, Government agent and
soldier, a man who during the past ten years or so had lived a charmed
life in the African forests and in the great burning Sahara. A big,
broad-shouldered fellow of that manly, muscular type of Englishman with
a hand-grip like iron, a dark, clean-shaven face, bronzed by the
Southern suns, and a long swinging stride, he was essentially a leader
of men, and yet at the same time a most charming companion. We had been
Etonians together, and afterwards at Oxford, but even when he had gone
to Africa we had never lost sight of each other, and often on his brief
sojourn at home he had been my guest at Bolton Street. To his intrepid
courage the Government were indebted for much geographical knowledge,
and considerable prestige in those dark, unknown forest lands beyond the
Aruwimi, and to his tact with the native tribes the Colonial Office owed
certain important treaties, much to the chagrin of the Belgians. He had
fought and conquered savages, he had been bitten by venomous snakes, and
had been shot in the back by a treacherous slave-trader, yet he still
survived, ever and anon turning up in England recounting his thrilling
adventures and difficulties, and laughing over them.
And with all he was one of the most modest of men, and never talked of
himself before strangers.
The evening passed as the evenings at Ryhall usually passed, with music
in the red drawing-room, afterwards a hand at bridge, and billiards and
cigars when the ladies had retired. Yet, watching Tibbie as I did all
the evening, I did not fail to notice that her spirits were not nearly
so high as usual. Though she very cleverly sought to conceal it, I saw
that she was nervous and anxious, and that each time Ellice addressed
her she shrank from him as though she held him in abhorrence, instead of
having decided to accept him as her husband.
She possessed some secret, the knowledge of which held her in fear. Of
that I became convinced.
We usually retired rather late at Ryhall. With the other men I had been
smoking and gossiping in one of the smaller rooms leading from the
billiard-room, a panelled apartment known as Dame Grace's Room, and at
two o'clock in the morning, Jack and his guests having taken their
candles, I found myself alone with Eric.
I had just stretched myself yawning in my chair, and remarked that it
was quite time we turned in, when my friend rose, closed the door, and
returned to me, saying in a very low, mysterious voice,--"Wilfrid, I've
been waiting all the evening to speak to you, only I couldn't get you
alone. They've all gone at last, so we can talk."
"Well," I said, throwing away my cigar, and bending towards him eagerly.
"What is it, old fellow? Something serious, I know, from your manner."
For I saw that his good-humoured face was now pale and troubled.
"Yes. It is serious--very serious," he said in a hard, low voice. "It
concerns Sybil--your friend."
"What about her?" I exclaimed, in quick surprise.
"I've learnt something to-day--something that utterly amazes me. I feel
that it can't be true. Therefore, I'm bound to confide in you, as you
are her friend as well as mine. We must act together."
"Tell me," I said anxiously, "what have you heard? Some foolish story
concerning her, of course."
"Well. I know that I may rely on your secrecy, so I'll relate the whole
facts. About three o'clock this afternoon I left the others to try the
turnips around Charlton Wood, and while walking on the edge of the
thickets that fringe the forest I thought I heard voices. I have a
quick ear for sound, you know. Well, wondering who might be there, I
resorted to an old trick taught me by the African natives, and leaving
my gun, crept in through the undergrowth without stirring a leaf until I
was close to the strangers. Then parting the branches I saw to my utter
amazement, Tibbie standing there with a man--a tallish fellow in a dark
suit."
"Tibbie!" I gasped. "With a man--in the wood?"
"Yes," said my friend. "And mere. I overheard some of their
conversation. The fellow looked to me like some farmer's lout, yet he
spoke with an air of refinement--he spoke to her, Wilfrid--as her
lover!"
"Her lover!" I echoed, bewildered. Then the strange rumour I had heard
had actually some foundation! The Honourable Sybil Burnet, one of the
smartest women in London, was in the habit of meeting a lover in secret.
I held my breath, utterly confounded.
"Well," I asked, stunned by the revelation, "and what else--what else
did you see?"
"Imagine my utter surprise, my dear old chap, to witness Tibbie--our own
Tibbie--allowing the fellow to kiss her! And yet she did, without
repelling him. She stood and heard him to the end. He told her that he
loved her and that he intended to marry her, whatever the world might
say. `You are mine, Miss Sybil--mine--mine!' he kept on repeating,
while she stood, allowing him to take her in his arms, and kiss her
passionately. Who the fellow is I don't know. I'm only certain that
for some reason she's in deadly fear of him."
"Why?" I asked, eagerly.
"Because a lady would surely never allow herself to be caressed by such
a rank outsider. Why, my dear old chap, he seemed to be a mere shabby
wayfarer with down-at-heel boots, and an old dusty suit. At last, after
a quarter of an hour, during which time I learned that he had loved her
in secret for two years, she suddenly pushed him from her, and spoke
quite seriously, saying, `All this is entirely useless, my dear Charles.
I may as well tell you the truth at once, and end this folly for ever.
I am engaged to Mr Winsloe!' In an instant the fellow's affection
turned to an ungovernable fury. He raved and threatened, declaring that
she was his, and no one else's, and that she should never marry Winsloe.
At all this, however, Tibbie only laughed defiantly, apparently
treating his words as mere empty threats, until of a sudden he took her
roughly by the shoulders, and glaring into her face said, `Sybil! You
will marry me, or I will tell the world the truth! You know what I
mean. I'm not to be trifled with. Decide.' Then occurred a terrible
scene between them. She openly accused him of attempting to blackmail
her, while he, on his part, reiterated his love, declaring that while he
lived she should never marry another. I would have gone forward to
protect her, but how could I? By so doing I should only have
acknowledged myself as a mean eavesdropper. Therefore, overhearing that
which I had no desire to hear, I turned and crept back into the field as
noiselessly as I came. Then," and he lowered his voice, and speaking
slowly, "then five minutes later, as I was making my way back to the
party I heard a shot from the wood--a revolver shot I knew by the sound.
But I went on in wonder and fear. I looked at my watch, and saw that
it was just four o'clock."
"And at a little after half-past she was with me in the Long Gallery.
Perhaps the fellow fired at her?" I suggested, staring at him.
"Or she at him?" Eric said in a low, very hard tone. "Recollect this
ruffian is a lover, and moreover is in possession of some secret which
she fears may be revealed. I saw a revolver in her hand, Wilfrid," he
added hoarsely. "She threatened him with it. And she shot him! What
can we do to save her?"
Scarcely had he whispered this serious question when Rainer, the
under-butler, entered to inquire if we desired anything further, and on
my replying in the negative, the man said,--
"There's been a terrible affair up in Charlton Wood, sir, John Harris,
the keeper, on going his round to-night found a man shot dead. They
sent down to the house to telephone to the doctor half-an-hour ago."
"Who's the man?" I gasped, springing up at the servant's startling
declaration, while Eric stood rigid.
"Nobody knows. They haven't brought him down to the village yet."
Eric and I exchanged glances. But we were silent--and our silence was
surely more expressive than words.