CONSCIENCE TROUBLES
Lenise Elroy sat in her bedroom long after Fletcher Denyer left the
house. She dismissed her maid before undressing, who, accustomed to
her mistress's moods, thought nothing of it.
"I hate being alone," she said to herself, "and yet it is only then I
can throw off the mask. I am a wicked woman; at least I have been told
so, long ago. Perhaps I am, or was at that time. I wonder if Hector
Woodridge is dead, or if he escaped? It is hardly likely he got away.
I could wish he had, if he were out of the country and I were safe.
It was not my fault altogether; he has suffered, so have I, and suffer
still. I loved him in those days, whatever he may have thought to the
contrary, but I don't think he loved me. Had Raoul been a man it would
never have happened, but he was a weak, feeble-minded mortal and bored
me intensely. I ought not to have married him; it was folly--money
is not everything. I could have been a happy woman with such a man
as Hector. How he must have suffered! But so have I. There is such a
thing as conscience; I discovered it long ago, and it has tormented
me, made my life at times a hell. I have tried to stifle it and
cannot. Ever since that night at Torquay I have been haunted by a
horrible dread that he got away on his brother's yacht, the _Sea-mew_.
Captain Bruce is devoted to them, he would do anything to help them.
Perhaps it was part of the plan that the _Sea-mew_ should lie in
Torbay waiting for his escape. Money will do a great deal, and bribery
may have been at work. It seems hardly possible, but there is no
telling. The boatman said he was dead, Hackler said the same; they may
be wrong--who knows--and at this moment he may be free and plotting
against me. I can expect no mercy from him; I have wronged him too
deeply; it is not in human nature to forgive what I have done."
She shuddered, her face was drawn and haggard, she looked ten years
older than she did an hour ago.
"Do I regret what happened?" she asked herself. She could not honestly
say she did; given the same situation over again she felt everything
would happen as it did then. It was a blunder, a crime, and the
consequences were terrible, but it freed her, she was left to live her
life as she wished, and it was an intense relief to be rid of Raoul.
She knew it was callous, wicked, to think like this, but she could not
help it. She had not been a bad woman since her husband's death, not
as bad women go. She had had one or two love affairs, but she had
been circumspect, there was no more scandal, and she did no harm.
She prided herself on this, as she thought of the opportunities and
temptations that were thrown in her way and had been resisted.
"I'm not naturally a bad woman," she reasoned. "I do not lure men to
destruction, fleece them of their money, then cast them aside. I have
been merciful to young fellows who have become infatuated with
me, chilled their ardor, made them cool toward me, saved them from
themselves." She recalled two or three instances where she had done
this and it gave her satisfaction.
Her conscience, however, troubled her, and never more than to-night.
She could not account for it. Why on this particular night should
she be so vilely tormented? It was no use going to bed; she could
not sleep; at least not without a drug, and she had taken too many of
late. Sleep under such circumstances failed to soothe her; she awoke
with a heavy head and tired eyes, her body hardly rested.
She got up and walked to and fro in the room. She was debating what to
do, how to act. Never since her love affair with Hector Woodridge had
she met a man who appealed to her as William Rolfe did. The moment she
was introduced to him at the races she knew he was bound to influence
her life for good, or evil. She recognized the strong man in him, the
man who could bend her to his will; she knew in his hands she would be
as weak as the weakest of her sex, that she would yield to him. More,
she wished him to dominate her, to place herself in his power, to say
to him, "I am yours; do what you will with me." All this swept over
her as she looked into his eyes and caught, she fancied, an answering
response. She had felt much of this with Hector Woodridge, but not
all; William Rolfe had a surer hold of her, if he wished to exercise
his power, she knew it.
Did she wish him to exercise the power?
She thought no, and meant yes. Fletcher Denyer was useful to her, but
in her heart she despised him; he took her money without scruple when
she offered it. She was quite certain Rolfe would not do so, even if
he wanted it ever so badly. She had no fear of Denyer, or his
jealous moods. She smiled as she thought of him in his fits of anger,
spluttering like a big child. Rolfe was a man in every respect, so she
thought; she was a woman who liked to be subdued by a strong hand. The
tragedy in her life had not killed her love of pleasure, although the
result of it, as regards Hector Woodridge, had caused her much pain.
Still she was a woman who cast aside trouble and steeled herself
against it. She had not met a man who could make her forget the past
and live only in the present, but now she believed William Rolfe could
do it.
Would he try, would he come to her? She thought it possible, probable;
and if he did, how would she act? Would she confess what had happened
in her life? She must, it would be necessary, there would be no
deception with such a man. What would be the consequences--would he
pity, or blame her?
At last she went to bed, and toward morning fell asleep, a restless
slumber, accompanied by unpleasant dreams. It was eleven o'clock when
she dressed; she remembered she had to meet Fletcher and William Rolfe
at luncheon. She took a taxi to the hotel, and found Rolfe waiting for
her. He handed her a note; it was from Denyer, stating he was detained
in the city on urgent business, apologizing for his unavoidable
absence, asking Rolfe to meet him later on, naming the place.
He watched her as she read it, and saw she was pleased; it gave him
savage satisfaction. He had not thought his task would be so easy;
everything worked toward the end he had in view.
"I hope you will keep your appointment, at any rate," he said.
"I have done so, I am here," she answered, smiling.
"I mean that you will lunch with me."
"Would it be quite proper?" she asked with a challenging glance.
"Quite," he said. "I will take every care of you."
She wondered how old he was. It was difficult to guess. He might be
younger than herself--not more than a year or two at the most. What
caused that look on his face? It certainly was not fear; he was
fearless, she thought. It was a sort of hunted look, as though he were
always expecting something to happen and was on his guard. She would
like to know the cause of it.
"You cannot imagine how difficult I am to take care of," she said.
"I am not afraid of the task," he said. "Will you lunch with me?"
"With pleasure," she replied, and they went inside.
The room was well filled, a fashionable crowd; several people knew
Mrs. Elroy and acknowledged her. To a certain extent she had
lived down the past, but the recollection of it made her the more
interesting. Women were afraid of her attractions, especially those
who had somewhat fickle husbands; their alarm was groundless, had they
known it.
"Wonder who that is with her? He's a fine looking man, but there's
something peculiar about him," said a lady.
"What do you see peculiar in him? Seems an ordinary individual to me,"
drawled her husband.
"He is not ordinary by any means; his complexion is peculiar, a
curious yellowy brown," she said.
"Perhaps he's a West Indian, or something of that sort."
They sat at a small table alone; she thoroughly enjoyed the lunch. She
drank a couple of glasses of champagne and the sparkling wine revived
her.
"Shall we go for a motor ride after?" he asked.
"Yes, if you wish, and will not be tired of my company," she said.
"You do yourself an injustice," he said. "I do not think you could
tire any one."
She laughed as she said: "You don't know much of me, I am dull at
times, rather depressed." She sighed, and for a moment the haggard
look came into her face. Hector wondered if remorse were accountable
for it; if she ever repented the injury she had done; no, it was not
possible or she would have stretched out her hand to save him.
He steeled his heart against her; he hated her; he would have his
revenge, cost her what it might.
They entered a taxi and were driven in the direction of Staines and
Windsor. She felt a strange thrill of pleasure as she sat close beside
him.