The Drawing-Room.
"Amelia!"
"Say something."
"Ask him to sit down."
Thus addressing one another in whispers, the three stepdaughters of
Lady Winwood stood bewildered in their own drawing-room, helplessly
confronting an object which appeared before them on the threshold of the
door.
The date was the 23d of December. The time was between two and three in
the afternoon. The occasion was the return of the three sisters from the
Committee meeting of the Sacred Concerts' Society. And the object was
Richard Turlington.
He stood hat in hand at the door, amazed by his reception. "I have come
up this morning from Somersetshire," he said. "Haven't you heard? A
matter of business at the office has forced me to leave my guests at my
house in the country. I return to them to-morrow. When I say my guests,
I mean the Graybrookes. Don't you know they are staying with me? Sir
Joseph and Miss Lavinia and Natalie?" On the utterance of Natalie's
name, the sisters roused themselves. They turned about and regarded each
other with looks of dismay. Turlington's patience began to fail him.
"Will you be so good as to tell me what all this means?" he said, a
little sharply. "Miss Lavinia asked me to call here when she heard I was
coming to town. I was to take charge of a pattern for a dress, which she
said you would give me. You ought to have received a telegram explaining
it all, hours since. Has the message not reached you?"
The leading spirit of the three sisters was Miss Amelia. She was the
first who summoned presence of mind enough to give a plain answer to
Turlington's plain question.
"We received the telegram this morning," she said. "Something has
happened since which has shocked and surprised us. We beg your pardon."
She turned to one of her sisters. "Sophia, the pattern is ready in the
drawer of that table behind you. Give it to Mr. Turlington."
Sophia produced the packet. Before she handed it to the visitor, she
looked at her sister. "Ought we to let Mr. Turlington go," she asked,
"as if nothing had happened?"
Amelia considered silently with herself. Dorothea, the third sister
(who had not spoken yet), came forward with a suggestion. She proposed,
before proceeding further, to inquire whether Lady Winwood was in the
house. The idea was instantly adopted. Sophia rang the bell. Amelia put
the questions when the servant appeared.
Lady Winwood had left the house for a drive immediately after luncheon.
Lord Winwood--inquired for next--had accompanied her ladyship. No
message had been left indicating the hour of their return.
The sisters looked at Turlington, uncertain what to say or do next. Miss
Amelia addressed him as soon as the servant had left the room.
"Is it possible for you to remain here until either my father or Lady
Winwood return?" she asked.
"It is quite impossible. Minutes are of importance to me to-day."
"Will you give us one of your minutes? We want to consider something
which we may have to say to you before you go."
Turlington, wondering, took a chair. Miss Amelia put the case before her
sisters from the sternly conscientious point of view, at the opposite
end of the room.
"We have not found out this abominable deception by any underhand
means," she said. "The discovery has been forced upon us, and we stand
pledged to nobody to keep the secret. Knowing as we do how cruelly this
gentleman has been used, it seems to me that we are bound in honor to
open his eyes to the truth. If we remain silent we make ourselves
Lady Winwood's accomplices. I, for one--I don't care what may come of
it--refuse to do that."
Her sisters agreed with her. The first chance their clever stepmother
had given them of asserting their importance against hers was now in
their hands. Their jealous hatred of Lady Winwood assumed the mask of
Duty--duty toward an outraged and deceived fellow-creature. Could any
earthly motive be purer than that? "Tell him, Amelia!" cried the two
young ladies, with the headlong recklessness of the sex which only stops
to think when the time for reflection has gone by.
A vague sense of something wrong began to stir uneasily in Turlington's
mind.
"Don't let me hurry you," he said, "but if you really have anything to
tell me--"
Miss Amelia summoned her courage, and began.
"We have something very dreadful to tell you," she said, interrupting
him. "You have been presented in this house, Mr. Turlington, as
a gentleman engaged to marry Lady Winwood's cousin. Miss Natalie
Graybrooke." She paused there--at the outset of the disclosure. A sudden
change of expression passed over Turlington's face, which daunted her
for the moment. "We have hitherto understood," she went on, "that you
were to be married to that young lady early in next month."
"Well?"
He could say that one word. Looking at their pale faces, and their eager
eyes, he could say no more.
"Take care!" whispered Dorothea, in her sister's ear. "Look at him,
Amelia! Not too soon."
Amelia went on more carefully.
"We have just returned from a musical meeting," she said. "One of the
ladies there was an acquaintance, a former school-fellow of ours. She
is the wife of the rector of St. Columb Major--a large church, far from
this--at the East End of London."
"I know nothing about the woman or the church," interposed Turlington,
sternly.
"I must beg you to wait a little. I can't tell you what I want to tell
you unless I refer to the rector's wife. She knows Lady Winwood by
name. And she heard of Lady Winwood recently under very strange
circumstances--circumstances connected with a signature in one of the
books of the church."
Turlington lost his self-control. "You have got something against my
Natalie," he burst out; "I know it by your whispering, I see it in your
looks! Say it at once in plain words."
There was no trifling with him now. In plain words Amelia said it.
* * * * * * * * *
There was silence in the room. They could hear the sound of passing
footsteps in the street. He stood perfectly still on the spot where they
had struck him dumb by the disclosure, supporting himself with his
right hand laid on the head of a sofa near him. The sisters drew back
horror-struck into the furthest corner of the room. His face turned them
cold. Through the mute misery which it had expressed at first, there
appeared, slowly forcing its way to view, a look of deadly vengeance
which froze them to the soul. They whispered feverishly one to the
other, without knowing what they were talking of, without hearing their
own voices. One of them said, "Ring the bell!" Another said, "Offer him
something, he will faint." The third shuddered, and repeated, over and
over again, "Why did we do it? Why did we do it?"
He silenced them on the instant by speaking on his side. He came on
slowly, by a step at a time, with the big drops of agony falling slowly
over his rugged face. He said, in a hoarse whisper, "Write me down the
name of the church--there." He held out his open pocketbook to Amelia
while he spoke. She steadied herself, and wrote the address. She tried
to say a word to soften him. The word died on her lips. There was a
light in his eyes as they looked at her which transfigured his face to
something superhuman and devilish. She turned away from him, shuddering.
He put the book back in his pocket, and passed his handkerchief over his
face. After a moment of indecision, he suddenly and swiftly stole out of
the room, as if he was afraid of their calling somebody in, and stopping
him. At the door he turned round for a moment, and said, "You will hear
how this ends. I wish you good-morning."
The door closed on him. Left by themselves, they began to realize it.
They thought of the consequences when his back was turned and it was too
late.
The Graybrookes! Now he knew it, what would become of the Graybrookes?
What would he do when he got back? Even at ordinary times--when he was
on his best behavior--he was a rough man. What would happen? Oh, good
God! what would happen when he and Natalie next stood face to face? It
was a lonely house--Natalie had told them about it--no neighbors near;
nobody by to interfere but the weak old father and the maiden aunt.
Something ought to be done. Some steps ought to be taken to warn them.
Advice--who could give advice? Who was the first person who ought to
be told of what had happened? Lady Winwood? No! even at that crisis the
sisters still shrank from their stepmother--still hated her with the old
hatred! Not a word to _her!_ They owed no duty to _her!_ Who else could
they appeal to? To their father? Yes! There was the person to advise
them. In the meanwhile, silence toward their stepmother--silence toward
every one till their father came back!
They waited and waited. One after another the precious hours, pregnant
with the issues of life and death, followed each other on the dial. Lady
Winwood returned alone. She had left her husband at the House of Lords.
Dinner-time came, and brought with it a note from his lordship. There
was a debate at the House. Lady Winwood and his daughters were not to
wait dinner for him.