The open declaration of the Countess held me in weak indecision. No
doubt she was well aware of the motive of the crime, and therefore
guessed who had struck the fatal blow. Yet she boldly expressed her
intention of concealing her knowledge, which seemed strange on the face
of it. A murder had been committed, therefore if she really had no
reason to defeat the ends of justice she might surely reveal the dead
man's identity and explain all she knew concerning him. I argued this
with her, but she shook her head and remained firm in her decision of
silence.
Did she entertain, as I did, a grave suspicion of Lady Lolita?
This vague suggestion occurred to me as I sat staring straight up into
the grey eyes of that brilliant woman before me. She knew the truth.
She had told me so, yet next instant she seemed to regret the words had
escaped her and sought lamely to modify her assertion.
She appeared to regard her statement as an error of judgment, and with
all the tact of a clever woman ingeniously endeavoured to mislead me.
"One person could, I believe, tell us something," I remarked presently,
in order to show her that I was in possession of other facts that I had
not revealed.
"Who's that, pray?"
"A certain man named Richard Keene." It was quite a haphazard shot,
only made in order to ascertain whether the name really conveyed
anything to her.
"Richard Keene!" she echoed, her brows knit in quick apprehension. "Did
you know him?"
"I do know him," was my calm response. "I have seen him down in
Sibberton, if I am not very much mistaken."
"Seen him!" she cried hoarsely. "Why, if you've seen him you've met an
apparition. He died long ago."
"No," I declared. "I have seen Richard Keene in the flesh. He is not
dead."
"Impossible! You're deceiving me," she exclaimed. "The man cannot
possibly be alive."
"How do you know?"
She hesitated, for she saw that to reply to my question was to expose
her own knowledge. Her face was ashen grey. My announcement, I saw,
held her rigid in terror and surprise.
"Because his death is common knowledge to those who--well, those who
knew him," she replied lamely.
"I tell you that Richard Keene has eaten cold meat and drunk beer in the
tap-room at the _Stanchester Arms_. He came to Sibberton to make
inquiries regarding the Earl and the occupants of this house."
"He did!" she gasped aghast. "Are you quite certain of that?"
"I heard him with my own ears. He questioned Warr, who is not, however,
very communicative to strangers, especially if they are not very
well-dressed."
"How long ago?"
"On the evening of the tragedy."
"Ah!" she sighed, and the light died out of her countenance again. "But
are you really certain that it was Richard Keene?--does Lolita know
this?"
"Yes. He wrote to her."
"Wrote to her! Then there is no mistake that the fellow is still
alive?" she cried, dismayed.
"None. He told Warr that he had only just arrived home from abroad.
And he looked very travel-stained and weary. He seemed to be on tramp."
"Without money?"
"On the contrary, he appeared to have plenty. It struck me that his
penurious exterior was assumed for some purpose of his own."
"Then if he really has returned, he means mischief--serious mischief,"
exclaimed the Countess, still very pale. "The fact that he is not dead,
as we had all supposed, alters entirely my theory regarding the crime
and its motive."
"You believe then that he is the guilty one?"
"No. That could not be," was her quick reply.
"There are strong reasons--very strong reasons--why there can be no
suspicion against him."
"Is he such a very estimable person, then?" I inquired, hoping to
obtain some further facts from her.
"Estimable!" she ejaculated. "Why, he is the one person in all the
world who--but no!" she added, suddenly breaking off. "You are George's
friend!"
"And therefore I must not be told the truth," I remarked disappointedly.
"You must not know the secret of his sister Lolita," she answered quite
calmly. "I cannot betray her confidence."
I felt assured that the real reason of her refusal to tell me was
because she feared lest I might betray her to her husband, and not on
account of Lolita at all. She and I had somehow never been very close
friends. I distrusted all women of her stamp, and treated them with
that same light airy irresponsibility with which they treated me. The
Countess of Stanchester could not be taken seriously. She was one of
those women who, though married, live for the admiration and flattery of
the opposite sex, and who indeed, according to her enemies, would court
the admiration of her footman, provided no other male of higher status
were available. Often she had set herself to win from me some
complimentary speech, but had, probably to her chagrin, always found me
blind to all her feminine blandishments. That she was amazingly
handsome could not for a moment be denied, but the open manner in which
she coquetted under her husband's nose filled me with anger and
contempt.
How different she was from Lolita. The latter possessed all that calm,
well-bred dignity, that inflexible moral principle which had ever been
characteristic of the noble Catholic line of Stanchester. Her early
years had been passed with the good nuns of the Sacred Heart at Provins,
in France, and even now she gave the impression of one who had passed
under the ennobling discipline of suffering and self-denial; a
melancholy charm tempered the natural vigour of her mind; her spirit
seemed to stand upon an eminence and look down upon the world as though
it were not of it; and yet when brought into contact with that world
which she inwardly despised, she shrank back with all the timidity
natural to her convent education.
Marigold, on the other hand, possessed all the worst traits of the
Gordons of Glenloch, that ill-fated house whose men were gamesters and
whose women had for two centuries been noted only for their personal
beauty. Successions of Gordons had ruined the estates, now mostly in
the hands of Jew mortgagees, and the present generation, still reckless
and improvident, were consequently very poor. Lady Gordon had
successfully schemed to marry her three dashing daughters to wealthy men
as a means of saving the last remnant of the estate from passing out of
her husband's hands and of the trio of girls who, for two seasons in
London, were the most admired and most courted, Marigold, now Countess
of Stanchester, was perhaps the most confirmed flirt. She had set all
the _convenances_ at naught then, just as she did now. The golden bond
of matrimony never for a moment, galled her. She found the world most
amusing, she declared, pouting if her husband reproved her, and surely
she might be allowed to amuse herself!
She differed very little from thousands of other wives--women of our
latter-day degenerate stock which has neither code of honour to husband
nor to tradesmen. Debts trouble them not, they fear neither man nor
God, but skip arm-in-arm with the devil down to ruin and disgrace. If,
however, the husband chances to be wealthy and their extravagance makes
no difference to his income, they will, strangely enough, instead of
descending to destruction, rise to a pinnacle of notoriety, become
popular leaders of Society, and have their daily doings chronicled by
the papers as assiduously as those of the princes of the earth. But,
after all, conscience is the padlock that we try to put on our
inclinations.
I tried to ascertain the reason why the announcement of the man Keene's
return should concern her so deeply, but she was far too clever to
betray herself. From her manner, as soon as she grew calmer again after
the first startling shock which the truth had given her, I saw that she
was trying to exercise her blandishments upon me. She had some motive
in this, I felt convinced. Was it that she was trying to win me over to
her side as her friend?
"I really think the less we discuss the unfortunate affair, Mr
Woodhouse, the better," she exclaimed at last, standing upon the
hearthrug and facing me with her hands clasped behind her back. The
lamplight caught the magnificent ornaments on her throat and bodice,
causing them to dance with a thousand flashing fires.
"You yourself approached the subject," was my cool response. "I quite
agree that we may well leave the matter in the hands of the police."
"But there is one thing I would implore you, as Lolita's friend--for she
is very fond of you, I know--and as my own friend also--and that is to
keep this man Keene's return a profound secret from every one--more
especially from George. Do you understand?"
"No, I don't," I answered. "At least I don't understand your reason for
endeavouring to conceal the fact."
"Of course not," she exclaimed in quick earnestness. "Because you don't
know the truth--you don't know what exposure means to me--or to Lolita."
"To you? Then you wish me to assist you in preserving the secret?"
"You have guessed aright, Mr Woodhouse. I confess that I am in fear
lest George shall learn that this man Keene has been to Sibberton. He
must be kept in ignorance of it at all hazards. Besides yourself, who
knows of his return?"
"The innkeeper, Warr."
"Ah!" she gasped quickly. "Then you must see him and make him promise
to say nothing--either to the police or to any person Whatsoever."
"I will act as you wish," I responded. "But Lolita has already told me
of her own peril."
"Yes, she no doubt foresaw it, just as I do. If you will assist me in
this matter, which is purely confidential between us, you will earn my
everlasting gratitude," she declared.
Then after a brief pause she turned from me, as though to hide her face,
and said--
"I know quite well, Mr Woodhouse, that you hold me in little esteem. I
daresay that if I dared I should be your open enemy, but knowing the
friendship my husband has for you, I am prevented from acting as I would
perhaps otherwise act. I confess to you, however, that no one is better
aware of my own failings than I am myself. People believe that because
I like to amuse myself, I am a woman without a heart. But I tell you
that George is the only man I care for, even though I may laugh and
allow others to pay court to me. George will not believe me when I say
this, but some day I will show you, as I will show him, the strength of
my love for him. I will, in a word, redeem my character as a woman
worthy to bear his honourable name."
I was utterly dumbfounded at this sudden outburst of confidence. There
was a strange catch of emotion in her voice by which I knew that the
words came direct from her heart, that remorse had at last seized her,
and she intended to make atonement for all the grief and pain she had
caused the devoted man who was her husband.
"If I can assist you in any way in this, Lady Stanchester, I will
willingly do so," I replied, deeply in earnest.
She turned her handsome countenance to me, and I saw that her grey eyes
were dimmed by tears.
"I ought not, I suppose, to make you my confidant," she went on, "yet if
you will really take pity upon me, a helpless woman, you can at least
prevent the one thing I dread from becoming known--you can help me to
show George that I love him fondly after all--that I will try to make
him as happy as is my duty. You have no belief in me, that I know full
well. You believe that if it suited my purpose I would betray any
confidence of yours to-morrow, and laugh in your face for being such a
fool as to trust me. That is my exact character, I admit; but if you
will preserve the secret of Richard Keene's return and promise to act as
my friend as well as Lolita's, I swear to you that I will keep faith
with you and endeavour when the day comes--as it certainly must ere
long--to show George my heart is his, and his alone."
I could scarcely follow her true meaning, except that she was in deadly
fear that the Earl should learn of the stranger's presence at the
_Stanchester Arms_.
I promised to remain secret and, if possible, to secure Warr's silence,
yet in her words there was some hidden meaning that even then I could
not fathom. She seemed to anticipate an event in the near future by
which her love for her husband would be sorely tried. How strange it
was that she, gay and giddy woman that she was, had been seized by a
genuine remorse on learning of the return of that dusty, down-at-heel
stranger!
I looked at her and became convinced that the words she had spoken were
by no means idle ones. Her slim white hand, laid upon the edge of my
table, trembled, her pale lips were set, and in her grey eyes was a
strange hard light as she said--
"Then I trust you, as you will trust me. In future, Mr Woodhouse, we
will be friends, and I assure you that you will find your friendship has
not been misplaced."
"Remember," I pointed out, "that I do not unite with you against the
Earl."
"No, of course not," she cried in a low intense voice. "But by your
silence you can give me a chance to atone for all the past--you--you can
save me!"