law, that you may kill or destroy the property of any man who annoys
you; but if you have once eaten salt with him, you must hold your hand,
whatever provocation you may receive. All these things are a sign of a
bond that exists between certain members of the community. Cards are to
the European what salt is to the Arabian. They are the sacred symbol of
fidelity; and any man who does not feel this must be cast out.’
‘But why? it seems such an arbitrary thing.’
‘I can’t help that. We have all been brought up to believe that it is
a beastly thing to betray our friends; and a man must be regarded as a
friend from the moment you sit down to a game of chance with him.’
‘Well, I don’t believe I shall ever understand; but perhaps women have
no moral sense.’
‘Exactly what I have always said, Lady Geraldine. The only safe place
for a woman is under lock and key, and even then you ought to stop up
the keyhole with sealing-wax.’
‘It is because we are kept under lock and key that we don’t care what
we do. We feel we are unjustly treated, and that we have a perfect
right to cheat, and lie, and prevaricate. It is the only means of
retaliation we have. Oh, I wonder if the time will ever come when we
shall get fair play.’
‘No, it will not; I can tell you that much. No man or woman, from the
Queen down to the beggar who spends the night on a doorstep, gets fair
play. There isn’t a single human being in all the world who hasn’t been
kept back from doing all he might by other people, or by circumstances
of one sort or another. This place is meant for a struggle; and the
only way to get through it comfortably is to cultivate a taste for
struggling.’
‘I’m sure you know you needn’t say that to me, Mr. Clausen.’
‘Yes, you struggle a little--too much, in fact; for the secret of all
success is to discern the difference between the possible and the
impossible. Turn your back on the impossible, and make steadily for the
possible.’
‘O Mr. Clausen, how wise you sound now! I wish I had been there to see
when you were young.’
‘I wish you had. You would no doubt have found me quite foolish enough
to please you then.’
‘And did you turn your back on the impossible?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you glad you did?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, I knew that.’
‘It is perfectly true, a temptation resisted gives you no pleasure; but
that does not prevent a temptation yielded to giving you an inevitable
retribution.’
‘Oh, that sounds so like a copy-book, I am sure it can’t be true.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr. Clausen, can’t you understand what it is when a girl grows up and
finds out bit by bit everything she has been taught and told is a pack
of lies.’
‘But surely your mother----’
‘No, no, it isn’t my mother; it’s the governesses, it’s the nurses,
it’s the silly novels, it’s other girls. It makes me shudder when I
think what a world of shams I’m living in, and what a sham I am myself.’
‘My dear child, I fear I have only one consolation to offer you, and
that is, that you would shudder a good deal more if you for one moment
saw the truths which underlie these shams.’
‘You talk as if the world was a pest-house. Surely we are some of us
beautiful; we are not all diseased and horrible.’
‘One hears a good deal about the beauty of life; but I am very much
afraid you will find in the long run that the beauty of life is like
the beauty of a lady’s complexion--very fleeting, or else sham.’
‘There I have cornered you, Mr. Clausen. There’s a beauty about a
gypsy’s skin which isn’t fleeting, and which is very real; and it is
beautiful, just because it is exposed to the sun and the rain. In a
word, freedom is beauty, and gives beauty.’
‘Well, perhaps there’s something in what you say; but I don’t think
you’d find gypsies very satisfactory companions at close quarters.’
‘I should like to get a chance of seeing for myself.’
‘Take my advice, and don’t. I am sure your tastes are too fastidious
for such realities as that,’ said Mr. Clausen, laughing. Here the rest
of the party came up, conversation ceased, and chatter reigned in its
stead.
* * * * *
Lady Geraldine’s mind was much perturbed by her conversation with
Clausen. She doubted Travers, but felt she must see him, she must
get some sort of proof herself. Poor girl! after all her outcry, she
was only a very ordinary woman, wrapped up in her own little chaos
of emotions and foolish little thoughts. She thought it would be
a splendid thing to sacrifice herself for love. Mediocrity was her
bugbear, just as it has been the bugbear of thousands of other mediocre
people, and she was ready to take the most desperate measures to escape
from it. The only way she could think of to show how different she was
from the rest of her sex was to cultivate her instincts and let them
lead her whither they would. To overcome the world and remain a slave
to your own passions has been the ideal of all the splendid failures of
history, but she only recognised their splendour, and did not stop to
consider their defeat. So, with her mind strung up to a high pitch of
romantic passion, Lady Geraldine went to meet Travers in the Kirkdale
woods.
She found him leaning against a tree cleaning a horseshoe he had just
picked up. His little fox-terrier was running about smelling the
rabbit-holes and following trails with a suspicious and preoccupied
air, as if he was not quite sure whether these joys were permitted to
him or not. He ran forward to see who Geraldine was, and licked her
hand; then he hung his head and ran back to his master and sat down by
his side. Travers looked up; he had not seen Geraldine approach, and he
said, ‘So you have actually come to see the last of the poor outcast.’
‘Is it the last? Is it true that you are going to America to act?’
He started a little, wondering how this could have come to her
knowledge, but recovered himself quickly. ‘There seems nothing else
left for me to do.’
‘But if there was?’
‘I would gladly take the alternative.’
‘I thought so; I didn’t believe you could willingly take up that sort
of life.’
‘Indeed you are right there. What an angel you are to come here like
this! I can’t think how I deserved such a thing.’
‘I don’t know whether you deserve it or not, and I don’t care much: I
have come because I love you, and because--’
He took the hand she held out to him and kissed it; she put her other
hand round his neck, and he kissed her lips. Then feeling he had done
all that was expected of him, he was about to gallantly release her,
when he found she was almost fainting in his arms.
‘By George, this is serious,’ he murmured, and he led her to a felled
tree, sat her down on it, and went to look for some water. When he
returned he found she was calmer.
He had a little pocket flask with him and had filled the cup with
water. She refused to drink, but dipped her finger in it and wiped her
forehead. Then he sat down by her side, and she leant on his shoulder
and said--
‘What shall we do? Will you come away from England with me, or shall we
stay here?’
‘Whichever you think best; your wishes are my law.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you exactly how I stand. I have eight hundred pounds
a year now, and shall have four hundred pounds a year more when mamma
dies. It is settled on me, and they cannot take it from me whatever I
do.’
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘in the hands of trustees, I suppose.’
‘Yes, that is the worst of it: I cannot touch the capital.’
‘But, dear Lady Geraldine, have you ever considered what it would be
for two people to try and live on eight hundred pounds a year?’
‘I know it would be very difficult, but I am willing to try anything
if it will save you from that dreadful life. We could take a flat in
Venice or Florence, and you would have to be divorced; then we could be
married, and no one would mind in a few years.’
‘I am sure you would regret it, if you took such a step.’
‘I should never regret it. I hate this life in England. We would have
a beautiful home, and then we could come to your place at Old Windsor
sometimes.’
‘That is not my house.’
‘Not your house! what do you mean?’
‘It belongs to a friend of mine; he asked me to take it.’ Travers
stopped himself, and for once in his life, by a supreme effort, told
the truth. ‘I mean he offered to lend it me because he was going away.
You don’t know what a poor devil I am, Lady Geraldine.’
‘Don’t call me by that hateful title. And so you have been very, very
poor. Why, my wretched little eight hundred pounds a year will seem
quite a lot of money to you. I am so glad you know what it is to be
poor.’
‘I can’t deny that poverty and I are old bed-fellows, Lady Geraldine;
but all the same----’
‘Why are you hesitating?’
‘Well, it sounds rather ungrateful; but I think I ought to tell you
that if my wife and I went to America to-morrow, the very smallest
salary I would accept would be one hundred pounds a week between us.’
‘But your wife is not a great actress.’
‘No. If she were a great actress she would get that sum without having
me thrown in; but during my last engagement at Mallock’s Theatre I had
seventy pounds a week myself.’
‘I see; I cannot bribe you high enough. I am sorry to have troubled you
to come here to-night.’
‘I am terribly distressed about the whole business; but I am sure you
would be miserable living abroad like that yourself. Think of what it
would mean. I have been disgraced publicly; you would be disgraced; we
should both be shunned as if we were plague-stricken. I am sure you see
things as I do.’
Lady Geraldine got up to walk away. Suddenly she turned and flung
herself at Travers’s feet, saying: ‘Oh, don’t let us talk or think
about the hateful money! Act if you like, if you find it so profitable,
but don’t, don’t leave England. Cut yourself free from that woman. I
will do anything you like. I love you wildly, desperately. I cannot,
cannot leave you.’
He gently disengaged her fingers. She rose on her knees and looked him
straight in the eyes. Then she cried out--
‘You don’t love me the least little bit in the world. Why is it? Am
I not beautiful enough? Haven’t you told me a hundred times I was? O
George, George, tell me what is the meaning of it all!’
‘It means I love you too well to wish to injure you.’
‘Then you do not love me at all. Is it that you love this other woman,
this wife of yours?’
‘Perhaps; I can’t tell what it is.’
‘I will sit down quietly by your side now; I won’t rave at you any
more, don’t be afraid. Tell me exactly what you feel.’ She stood for
a moment, then put her hand in her pocket, took out her handkerchief,
then sat down, holding it in her lap.
‘Now tell me, dear one,’ and she laid her hand on his arm. He shuddered
a little. She noticed it and removed her hand. ‘What do you feel about
her and me?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think it must be this. When I fell in love with
her, I did so in the terrible blind, reckless way that only comes over
one once in a lifetime. It is more a nightmare than anything else. I
couldn’t understand myself at the time, and I can’t understand myself
now.’
‘Oh, you have got over it, then?’ she said, leaning towards him.
‘Yes, I have got over it. I am sickened of love. But my wife is a
clever woman. I believe I can do something with her. She has a most
extraordinary talent for acting, and that interests me. I don’t
suppose there is a man alive, take it all in all, who knows more about
the tricks of the trade than I do. These are just what she wants to
be taught, and it is interesting to me to see what she’ll turn out.
This feeling has taken the place of love. She is about as tired of
love-making as I am, and now we are going to set seriously to work
together.’
‘But if you are so tired of love, why are you here to-night? Did you
think you would get money out of me to go to America with her?’
He laughed a little. ‘Well, it does sound absurd now you put it like
that, but I suppose I did.’
She was sitting to his right. Her fingers closed on something that had
been hidden in her handkerchief; then came the loud report of a pistol,
a puff of smoke, a groan from Travers as he fell sideways with a crash
in a heap among the brackens.
Lady Geraldine sat perfectly motionless for a moment; then she saw the
blood beginning ooze from the wound just over his heart, and she drew
her dress carefully on one side. She did not look at his face for about
five minutes. She turned round then, and saw his eyes fixed on her with
a terrible stare.
‘No, I will not suffer for you,’ she whispered, as if replying to
their silent menace, and she put the pistol into his hand and closed
the fingers round it. They would not keep as she placed them. At last
she left the thing on the ground by his side, then she walked rapidly
away. Before she had got far she remembered the compromising letters
she had written: she must go back and get them at any price. She found
his pocket-book; she found her three letters in it; she took them, and
replaced the pocket-book. Then she went. Just as she was leaving the
wood, the fox-terrier, which had been off on a hunting expedition, ran
up to her, smelling her dress. She put down her hand to pat its head.
It licked off a little spot of blood that soiled her first finger. She
tried to speak to it, to tell it to go to its master, but she found her
mouth was parched and dry. She could not utter a word. But it went all
the same, following the track of her footsteps into the wood.
She went through what would probably occur. He would be found alone
with a pistol. She thought of what would happen if the pistol was
identified. She had taken it from the gun-room at home; she had thought
it would add to the romance of the situation. Two of them had been
hanging on the wall; she remembered them all her life. Sometimes her
father had allowed her and her sisters to practise with them on Sunday
afternoons, much to the scandal of the neighbourhood. Kirkdale would
go to look at the body; he would be sure to recognise the pistol. She
got into the house unobserved just as the clock struck eleven. First
she went up to her bedroom and dusted her shoes; her feet were covered
with dust. She took off her stockings and wiped them clean as well as
she could without making a mess. Then she went downstairs. She had sent
her maid to bed. Nobody seemed to be up except Kirkdale and Clausen,
whom she could hear playing billiards as she passed the door. She went
down the passage, entered the gun-room, and examined the window. She
saw it was accessible from the outside. It was one of the old-fashioned
hasp bolts, so she took a rusty pocket-knife she found lying in a
forgotten heap of odds and ends and passed it between the crack of the
window. She scratched the bolt as best she could to make it appear as
if it had been opened from the outside; then she dropped the knife
outside the window, closed the door, and went to bed. She lay awake
wondering if there was any precaution she had forgotten to take; and
when at last she slept, she dreamed that she was a child again, and
that her father was alive. He was in one of his rarely affectionate
moods, dancing her on his knee and calling her his own dear little
girl. He called her mother and sisters and little Stephen to look at
her as he stood her upon the table--Mr. Clausen was there too,--and
then her father laughed and clapped his hands, and said, ‘She’s the
flower of the flock, she’s my very own daughter,’ and he rushed at the
others and chased them out of the room. Then it seemed to her they were
afraid of her as they had been of him. She saw their faces peeping in
at the window at her, as if she was a terror to them. She looked at
her father for explanation, but he no longer spoke or moved; his face
was cold and lifeless, as if formed from damp yellow clay; and she
went and touched his fingers, which closed on hers, and she felt she
was becoming clay too. The cold crept up her arm; she could not stir
hand or foot. Just as the cold reached her heart she woke and tried
to scream, but once again she could utter no sound, and lay there
motionless. At last the morning came. The horror of the dream had taken
all her attention: she thought of nothing else; she felt she must speak
of it, yet feared that in some vague way it might betray her. She could
not bear to stay in the house waiting. She ordered the pony-carriage,
and drove herself over to Lyndhurst, where she found some friends at
home. They got her to put up there, and she did not return to Ringwood
until dinner-time. Driving home she went over in her mind every
possible thing that could happen: they would know the pistol; they
would find it was impossible for the gun-room to have been entered
from the outside; he would have boasted that he was going to meet
her; somebody had seen her in the wood with him. She had gone to her
room with a headache at nine o’clock, and asked not to be disturbed;
perhaps Elizabeth had brought her something just before going to bed,
and had discovered her absence. She imagined herself being driven away
handcuffed between two policemen. She went through all the horrors of
the last scene of all, when she would go blindfold into eternity. She
shuddered terribly, then suddenly remembered the groom was sitting
behind her, and was probably taking notes of her behaviour, and that he
would be able to give his evidence too. As she drove over the bridge a
train was arriving at the station. She pulled up a moment and watched
the passengers alight. She saw a girl get out of a carriage and a tall
man meeting her, and, leading her tenderly through the station, put
her into a closed carriage. She saw that it was Kirkdale. Then she
understood everything had been found out, and they had sent for the
wife.
She drove into the village, sending the groom into the draper’s to
get her some riding gloves. The man came out to deliver them to her
himself. He looked very serious, and said, ‘Terrible news, isn’t it, my
lady?’
‘What is terrible?’ she asked. ‘I have been away all day.’
‘A gentleman found murdered in the woods close to Kirkdale Castle.’
‘Murdered!’ she cried.
‘Well, the police are very reticent; I can’t say how it was done, but I
know he was shot through the heart.’
‘Dear, dear! I must try and find out as quickly as possible,’ and she
drove off without noticing the man’s parting salutation.
‘Murdered,’ she said over and over to herself. ‘After all, they know,
they know everything.’
Mr. Clausen met her as she drove up to the principal entrance, and
solemnly led her into the library. ‘You have heard?’ he said.
‘Yes. Weyman told me that he had been found dead.’
‘George Travers?’
‘Yes.’
‘He has not been publicly identified yet. How did Weyman know who he
was?’
‘I don’t know, I suppose he heard it somehow.’ She looked up nervously.
She met Mr. Clausen’s eyes looking steadily at hers, and she knew he
guessed. After a pause she said, ‘Tell me what is known.’
‘I will. This morning the footman spoke to Kirkdale after breakfast,
and informed him the gun-room had apparently been broken into.’ Mr.
Clausen laid ever so slight a stress on the word ‘apparently.’ He
continued, ‘A careful search was made and nothing was missing but
one of a brace of pistols, that had been hanging together over the
mantelpiece. I formed my own theory on the matter, and was just
about to demonstrate to Kirkdale that it was impossible that the
window should have been entered from the outside, when the news of
the dead body being found reached us. I therefore refrained from
making any remarks, and later in the day, when every one was agog
over the conveyance of the body to the parish room, I went outside
the gun-room window and tried myself to get into it from the outside.
I found it was possible, but very difficult, and I knocked down some
plaster, besides disturbing a good deal of dust which I had noticed
was quite undisturbed in the morning. I may have done away with some
circumstantial evidence, but it is always a satisfaction to try
things for one’s-self.’ Again their eyes met, this time with a fuller
understanding than before.
‘At the moment Kirkdale and I went at once to the scene of the tragedy,
and found poor Travers dead, with his little terrier by his side,
shivering and trembling, and refusing to stir; indeed, we had the
greatest difficulty to coax it away. While the constable was taking
notes, I saw the revolver lying among the ferns close to his hand, but
the constable did not; I thought it better not to attract Kirkdale’s
attention to it at the time, so I let them remove the body without
saying a word. I then went back to the gun-room and did what I have
told you; and having satisfied myself that the chain of evidence was
complete, I went down to the village, and advised the constable to come
up and search the scene of the fatality more thoroughly. Kirkdale came
too, and it was not long before we found the revolver this time. The
sight of the pistol at once reminded Kirkdale of the open window, and
without a moment’s hesitation he told the constable all he knew. The
constable came along, and having pointed out to him the marks of feet
outside, the footman having given his evidence, and having wired for
Mrs. Travers, whom by the way Lady Kirkdale has most kindly consented
to put up, and who arrived about half an hour ago, I watched for you,
so as to put you in full possession of the facts of the case.’ For the
third time their eyes met.
‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘Good God, woman, don’t thank me! You owe me nothing. It is for your
mother’s sake that I have become your accomplice, and that I have
taken this burden on myself.’ She bent her head. He continued, ‘People
who sin against human life in this way cannot expect sympathy. Your
punishment is that you are cut off from fellowship with your race; the
memory of that murdered man will rise between you and those who guess,
and those who do not guess, your guilt.’
‘Supposing, after all, others discover that I did it?’ she whispered.
‘They shall not, they must not! I command you not to betray yourself;
it is the least you can do.’
‘You needn’t be afraid. I dare say you think I am sorry that I did it,
but I am not; I am glad. I should be miserable if it had not been done.’
‘He would never have done anything so criminal as this.’
‘No, he hadn’t the courage, but he would have sneaked and lied and
shivered through life, taking men’s and women’s souls and bodies and
tearing them to shreds, dragging them down until they could see nothing
in life but a struggle for amusement, nothing beyond but a rest from
torment. I know I did it from a horrible motive, just to gratify my mad
injured pride, to revenge myself on the cur that had turned on me; but
all the same it is a good deed done, and I am glad I did it.’
‘I do not understand you, Lady Geraldine.’
She got up and walked past him to the door; then she turned and said,
‘I am my father’s daughter. People like him and me belong to a race
apart; we are only mortal clay, while you and mamma, and Maisy and all
the rest of you have immortal souls.’
She came towards him once more. ‘Oh, don’t be afraid, I won’t touch
you, I won’t contaminate you. Yes, I see it plainly now: you all of you
have immortal souls, you show it in your lives, don’t you?’
* * * * *
It was the day of the funeral. ‘_Suicide while of unsound mind_’ was
the verdict brought in by the jury. Lady Geraldine was alone with Mrs.
Travers for the first time. They were sitting with books in their hands
pretending to read. Both were dressed in black. Both were somewhat
restless. Lady Kirkdale had left them in the drawing-room. The funeral
had taken place in the little village churchyard early in the morning.
There was nothing more to be done. Mrs. Travers was going to London
the following day to commence rehearsing for a new piece at Horsham’s
Theatre. Lady Kirkdale had suggested she must stay with them and rest,
but she only thanked her very much, and said she should prefer to set
to work at once.
Lady Geraldine sat eyeing her surreptitiously. At last she said--
‘You are very fond of your profession, are you not, Mrs. Travers?’
‘Indeed I am. I don’t know how I should have lived during the last few
months if it had not been for the thought of it.’
‘You were going to America, I heard?’
‘Yes; George spoke of doing so.’
‘Will you tell me what your real feeling about this is; you seem very
calm, and yet----’
‘And yet I loved him, you mean.’ Lady Geraldine nodded. ‘Yes, I loved
him; and I suppose if this had happened two months ago I should have
gone nearly mad with grief. But a curious change has been taking
place during that time. It used to seem as if great floods of emotion
came over me, enfolded me, and took possession of me. I had no power
to resist them. One day I suddenly found I could, as it were, swim
through; I knew what I was doing; I could guide and control myself; I
could use the emotion as I pleased.’
‘Yes, yes; I believe I know what you mean; go on telling me.’