The Countess and Violet
Miss Forster's bedroom door was gently opened, and the Countess of
Cantyre went softly in. She closed the door as gently as she had opened
it, and, remaining motionless, looked inquiringly about her. All was
still. The curtains had not yet been drawn. In the apartment, despite
its size, was the stuffy smell which comes to a bedroom when the
windows have not been opened through the night. Her ladyship, crossing
the room, drew the curtains and threw the windows wide open. It was a
lovely day; the clean, fresh air came pouring in. The room looked on to
the park, over a waving expanse of green which stretched as far as the
eye could reach. She stood for a moment to enjoy the glory of the
morning.
"That's better," she said out loud. Then she turned to the bed.
Miss Forster's form was dimly outlined beneath the clothes. She had not
moved when her visitor entered, or even when the windows were thrown
open. She was either sleeping very soundly or she refused to allow
herself to notice what was going on.
The countess, going to the side of the bed towards which her face was
turned, stood waiting for her to show some signs of life. Presently
there was a slight movement beneath the clothes, and a faint voice
inquired:
"Who's that?"
"You know very well who it is."
"Margaret, is that you?"
"You know very well it's me. Who but me would take the liberty of
coming into your room, drawing the curtains and opening the windows and
letting in the air? If you only knew what an atmosphere you've been
living in! Do you always sleep with your windows closed?"
The only answer was a sound which might have meant anything, followed
by a movement beneath the clothes.
"How's the foot?"
"It seems better." The words were whispered rather than spoken.
"How are you?"
"I'm all right."
"You don't sound as if you were all right. What's become of your voice?
And, if you are all right, what are you doing in bed at this hour of
the day?"
"I was just going to get up."
"Were you? That's good news. There were no immediate signs of it that I
could see. Vi, you and I are going yachting."
"Going what?"
"Yachting. I said yachting. Do you want me to shout? We are leaving
here to-day; we are starting on the _Sea Bird_ to-morrow for wherever
Captain Slocock likes to take us; you and I alone together."
"Are we?"
"Yes, we are. Is that the dying-duck-in-a-thunderstorm sort of fashion
in which you take my surprising piece of information? Move some of
those bedclothes and let me see your face, or, if you won't, I will."
Her ladyship did. It was a white, wan face which looked out at her from
between the sheets, so white and so wan that her ladyship was quite
startled.
"Vi, what do you mean by telling me you're all right? You look like a
ghost."
"I wish I were."
"What does the child mean! Whatever for?"
"If I were a ghost I should be dead."
"I see, that's it; and a good, sound, healthy idea, especially for a
young woman who is scarcely more than a child."
Her ladyship, drawing forward a big arm-chair, placed herself, not on
the seat, but on the back; her feet she placed on the seat. She was
such a small person that if she had occupied the position which people
usually do upon a chair, Violet, on her high spring mattress, would
have been above the level of her head, and she, for the purpose she had
in view, at a disadvantage. Balanced on the top of the back of the
chair, she was at least on a level with the girl in the bed.
"Vi, I am going to talk to you. I wish I'd been made a foot longer;
then I shouldn't be forced to take positions on furniture which people
were never meant to take. You're going to tell me all about it. You and
I have had our share of troubles in our time, and we've always made a
clean breast of them to each other. Now start confessing to me."
"It's easy for you to talk."
"Of course it is; and it will be easy for you when you've once got
going."
"You don't understand."
"Oh, yes, I do. Sydney Beaton was here last night."
"Margaret! How do you know?" The girl threw the bedclothes off for
herself, starting up from her pillow. "Has that wretch told you?"
Her ladyship regarded the girl attentively; then shook her dainty head.
"No one has told me anything. I just guessed, though perhaps you've
told me as much as you very well could."
"I told you? What do you mean?"
"My dear Vi, consider. Could your conduct have been more suggestive?
Don't I know you? Aren't I aware that you're the coolest, calmest, most
levelheaded of young women? Do you suppose that you acted up to that
character last night? My dear Vi, something was wrong with you, so
wrong that it had turned the girl I knew into one I didn't. What could
it be? We know all about each other that there is to know, so that I
knew that there was only one thing which could have on you such a dire
effect. How did you know that leather bag was in that chest? Mind you,
I'm not asking a question; I'm not trying to force your confidence; I'm
only putting it to you if it isn't obvious that there was only one
conclusion I could draw?"
The girl was sitting up in bed, white-faced, wild-eyed.
"Then, now you know why I wished that I was a ghost."
Again her ladyship observed her closely, her head a little on one side.
"Aren't you--doesn't it occur to you as being just barely possible that
you're a goose?"
"Why am I a goose?"
"May I speak?"
"I can't stop you. You've evidently come here for that express
purpose."
"I know you will misunderstand me, and fly at me, and scratch me, and
do all sorts of pretty things."
Her ladyship sighed; her tone breathed resignation.
"You needn't be afraid."
"I'm not; only--Vi, if you only knew how sorry I am for you."
"I don't want your sorrow."
"Vi, I am afraid that your Sydney Beaton is a bad lot."
"Don't you dare to say it--you!"
"You can't believe that he isn't."
"I can, and I do."
"Was he Jane Simmons's catspaw, or was Jane Simmons his? I presume they
were confederates. Only that could explain the little talk you had with
her."
The girl clenched her fists; she drew a great breath.
"Margaret, I want to tell you just how it is with me."
"Tell on."
"I'd give--I'd jump at the chance of marrying him to-morrow."
"I'll do you the justice to say that I don't believe you. Even if
you're a lunatic, you can't be absolutely raving."
"Let me explain."
"With pleasure. Your remark will need all the explanation you can lay
your hands on."
"Do you know what it is--to love a man?"
"I'm rather fond of mine."
"Fond!" Nothing could have exceeded the scorn which the girl's manner
was meant to convey. "Do you know what it is for your love for a man to
have become so part and parcel of your being that life means nothing
without him?"
"I'm glad to say I don't."
"Then, I do. So that, you see, is where we differ."
"Poor Vi!"
"Don't talk nonsense, Margaret; there's no poverty in such a state as
mine. I'm far richer than you, because I have the only thing which life
has to offer worth having. Don't speak; let me continue. You've read
the fairy tale in which the heroine gets the gift of sight--it's an
allegory. She meets one person in whose nature there is nothing hidden
from her; she can see into his very heart. Now start laughing: I can
see into Sydney Beaton's very heart."
"My dear, I'm very far from laughing. You're not the only girl who has
thought she had that gift where a particular man was concerned. What
would the police have said if they had caught the gentleman you name in
the very act? You know, they don't consider motives, or peer into
hearts; they only deal with facts."
"You don't understand."
"Well, make me."
"Aren't I trying to? But you will keep interrupting. Sydney has never
been exactly wise----"
"So you've told me."
The girl took no heed of the interruption; she only glared.
"But I will answer for his standard of honour, and honesty, as I would
for my own."
"I wouldn't."
"That's because you don't know him, as I do. They lied when they said
he cheated. I spoke to some of them last night. Mr. Tickell, who was
playing against him, admitted that he knew nothing about it, that he
saw no wrong in anything that Sydney did, nothing in the least
suspicious in his behaviour. Captain Draycott as good as owned that, in
supporting Anthony Dodwell's accusation, he might have been in error; I
could see for myself that that consciousness was weighing on his mind.
Major Reith tells me that it was all done in the hurry and whirl of a
few mad moments. They talked it over after Sydney had gone; they were
all agreed that they would have liked to have him back, to have
questioned him when he was cooler and they also. I haven't seen Colonel
Sandys, who, you know, was in command of the regiment. I haven't had a
chance. He's been abroad ever since. But I've been given to understand
that, although he wasn't present, he expressed himself on the matter in
terms which were unflattering to all concerned; and I've a suspicion
that his feeling on the subject had something to do with his retiring.
Anthony Dodwell has not become more popular since; I believe, that if
the mess was polled, they'd exchange him for Sydney to-morrow."
"Not after last night, my dear."
"I'm coming to that. Until now I've not felt that it became me to
interfere. I felt that Sydney might resent my interfering; that he
would prefer to take the matter up in his own way, at his own time. But
after last night I see how mistaken I may have been. Margaret, if you
were a man of honour, consider what your feelings would be if those
whom you had esteemed your friends treated you as those men did
Sydney."
"It's not easy for me to put myself into such a position; but if I had
been in his place, and been innocent, I think I should have recognised
the danger of my position, have kept calm, and have had the matter
thrashed right out."
"My dear Margaret, you don't seem to realise that all these men were
half beside themselves. I can quite fancy what men can be in such a
moment. Sydney wanted to fly at Dodwell's throat. I'm sure that I can't
blame him; I should have wanted to do the same, wouldn't you?"
"Well, that depends. I can't say that the little I have known of
Captain Dodwell has moved me to affection. But, that apart, how do you
explain last night?"
"Don't I tell you that I'm coming to that? Margaret, have patience.
Sydney left the barracks that night with, it is nearly certain, very
little money, and half mad with rage and shame and grief. Then the
curtain falls; we know nothing of what happened to him afterwards. But,
in the light of last night, can't you imagine?"
"That's the pity of it--I can."
"Yes; but from one point of view only. Can't you conceive of there
being another? Can't you imagine what he may have suffered in what, to
him, was a new and hideous world--hopeless, helpless, friendless,
penniless, alone? I can't think of any way in which Sydney could have
earned a farthing, circumstanced as he was. When his money was gone,
which probably lasted only a very little time, he perhaps went hungry.
Oh, you don't believe that men do go hungry! My dear, since Sydney
went, I've seen crowds of men, in London streets and parks and
public places, who, I am convinced, go hungry nearly all the time.
Margaret--again I give you permission to laugh--as I've been lying here
between the sheets I've seen Sydney starving in rags. I'm sure it has
been like that. When a man of his position gets down to that, what is
there for him to do?"
"That sort of thing would be pretty rough on him, I grant. But, you
know, Vi, you're taking a very great deal for granted."
"I've admitted that Sydney was never the wisest or the strongest of
men. It is quite possible that in those depths he met those who were
even more desperate than himself, who pointed out to him a way of at
least getting something to eat. There's something about that woman
Simmons which convinces me that she has known something of the sort of
thing of which I speak."
"Do you mean that she has known what it is to starve?"
"I shouldn't wonder. There was something about her when she came into
this room last night which struck me. When I was talking to her this
morning in the hall I saw what it was; it kept peeping out. Margaret,
that woman has stood at despair's very gate; she has never forgotten
it, and never will. It's taken from her something which you and I have,
but which she will never have again; she is not a woman in the sense we
are. Although she may not know it, she is as some wild creature which
has its back against the wall, and which fights, straining every nerve
and every faculty it has, against what must prevail."
The countess was regarding her with her eyes wide open.
"I always have credited you with imagination, but I certainly never
guessed that it amounted to this. I must take a look at Simmons myself,
and see what my imagination does for me. I don't want to be beaten in a
game of that kind."
"I told you you could laugh, and so you can. If I had had my wits about
me, I should have stopped Sydney last night; I should have stuck to him
tight; I should have made him understand that, whether he would or
wouldn't, I would stay by his side, lest worse befell him. I am going
to do that now; I am going to leave no stone unturned to find him. When
I have found him I'll not lose sight of him again. He has not been very
wise; but the world has used him ill. I will stand by his side against
the world."
"My dear, you talk as I've always fancied young women talk in plays
I've never seen, the sort of plays which I have been given to
understand were popular at the Adelphi once upon a time. It may be very
beautiful, but it's frightfully silly. Suppose it gets generally
known--and these things do get out--that the gentleman in question
committed what was really an act of burglary last night, do you imagine
that even the most catholic-minded people will want to cultivate his
acquaintance, even with you at his side? And, Vi, you know there may be
worse than burglary."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Hasn't it occurred to you as just possible that he may have had
something to do with what happened to Captain Draycott, who, by the
way, is still nowhere to be found? Rupert tries to pretend that he
thinks everything is all right, but I can see that he is oppressed by a
feeling that he is lying at the bottom of the lake."
"I'm not going to talk to you, Margaret; I can see that it's no use.
I'm sure that if Sydney had anything to do with Captain Draycott, that
gentleman brought it on himself."
"My dear girl! But will the police think that?"
"Margaret, I'm going to get up. It's no use our continuing the
discussion. We not only look out of two different pairs of eyes; we
look on two entirely different worlds. In yours it's roses, roses all
the way; in mine it's thorns, thorns, thorns. Are you going, or must I
dress while you're here?"
The girl, slipping out of the bed, stood before her in her night
attire.
"My dear, you often have, but I'll go if you'd rather. Shall I send
your maid?"
"Send no one. I'll dress myself; I will do all things for myself in
future. And, while you're here, I'll say good-bye. While I've been
lying there I've been planning what to do to find Sydney. We're not to
see much of each other while I'm doing that, and when I've found him
we're likely to see still less. As you put it, he and I are not the
sort of persons with whom you and your friends might care to claim
acquaintance."
"Then you won't come yachting?"
"Thank you, I will not."
"Vi, don't be a pig! I'm on your side."
"I doubt it, nor, under the circumstances, do I see how you could be."
"But I am, you idiot! I've something of the sort of feeling for you
which it seems you have for him, and though I've no doubt whatever
that you're more foolish than a goose--because a goose is quite a wise
bird--all the same, I'm going to stick as close to you as you talk of
sticking to him. So perhaps, before I quit this room, you'll promise
that you won't leave the house till you've had another talk with me."
"What will be the use of that?"
"Never mind; you promise."
"Oh, I'll promise; but I shall leave the house this morning all the
same."
"You can, and my prayers will go with you; but you're not going in your
present frame of mind towards me--that I tell you straight. You've had
no breakfast, and it's lunch time. When you're dressed, suppose you
come to my room and have something with me; I'll see that we're alone."
"If you like, I'll come, but it will be on the understanding that you
will not even try to persuade me not to do what I am going to do."
"I won't try to persuade or dissuade you--only you come."
When the countess was again in the pretty sitting-room which she called
her very own she took a sheet of paper from between the buttons of her
blouse: it was the sheet of paper which had been contained in the
envelope which had been presented to the earl by the bronze figure on
the pedestal. The little lady read it carefully through; then she
struck a match, and lit it at the corner, holding it in her fingers
while it flamed, and she asked herself:
"I wonder who wrote it--could it have been Jane Simmons?"
When the paper had been utterly consumed, dropping the ash on to the
floor, she pressed it into the carpet with her shoe, so that none of it
remained. Then she rang the bell. To the man who answered it she said:
"There's a maid in the house named Simmons--Jane Simmons. Tell them to
send her to me here at once."
Some minutes elapsed, during which the countess, taking her ease on a
couch covered with pink satin, opened, one after the other, a number of
envelopes which were in a tray upon a table. For the most part just
glancing at their enclosures, she dropped them from her on to the
floor, and was still engaged in doing this when the man returned.
"It appears, my lady, that Simmons has left the house."
"Indeed?" The countess just glanced up from still another enclosure she
was dropping to put the question; no one would have supposed she was
interested in the least.
"Yes, my lady. She was missed some time ago. Mrs. Ellis sent to her
room, and it was found she was gone. It seems that one of the gardeners
saw her walking towards the lake with a bag in her hand."
"Is that so? Tell them to serve lunch in my room--lunch for two--in,
say, half an hour."
The man went. The lady continued to treat her correspondence with the
same scant courtesy.
"So she has gone. I thought it would be found that she had gone. She
was seen walking towards the lake, with a bag. I wonder why the lake,
and what was in the bag. Poor Vi!"