"WHAT WOULD YOU DO?"
They went along the Staines Road, then by the banks of the Thames
past Runnymede, came to Old Windsor, and from there to the White Hart
Hotel. She thoroughly enjoyed it; the drive nerved her; she forgot
the painful reflections of the previous night. He talked freely. She
noticed with satisfaction he seemed attracted by her, looked at her
searchingly as though interested. They went on the river and were
rowed past the racecourse. It was warm and fine, the flow of the water
past the boat soothed her. They had tea at the hotel, then returned to
town.
"Where to?" he asked when they were nearing Kensington. She gave the
name of her flat and they alighted there.
"I have been here some time," she said. "I find it comfortable and
quiet. Will you come in?"
He followed her. He noticed her room was furnished expensively and in
excellent taste; there was nothing grand or gaudy about it.
"I am alone here, with my maid," she said. "They have an excellent
system: all meals are prepared downstairs and sent up; there is a very
good chef."
"The least possible trouble," he said. "How long have you been here?"
"Three years. It suits me; I do not care to be away from London. In my
married days I lived in the country, but it bored me to death. Do you
like the country?"
"Yes, I love it; but then much of my life has been spent in solitude."
"You have traveled?"
"Yes."
"I thought so."
"Why?"
"Your complexion denotes it. I like it, there is a healthy brown about
it."
"I have done much hard work in my time," he said.
"Mining?" she asked.
"Yes, I suppose you would call it that."
"Where?"
"On Dartmoor," he said.
She was so astonished she could not speak. She looked at him with fear
in her eyes.
"Dartmoor?" she whispered. "I did not know there were mines on
Dartmoor."
"Oh, yes, there are--copper mines. I was fool enough to believe there
was money in them, but I was mistaken; there is copper there, no
doubt, but I did not find it," he said.
She felt as though a snake fascinated her, that she must ask questions
about it.
"I have been to Torquay, but I did not go to Dartmoor," she said.
"You ought to have done so; it is a wonderful place. I was there a
long time. When were you in Torquay?"
She told him.
"Strange," he said; "I was there at that time."
She felt a curious dread, not of him, but of something unknown.
"I went to the races--a friend of mine was riding there. He won four
events. Lucky, was it not?"
"Yes," she said faintly. "Who was he?"
"Picton Woodridge. His yacht the _Sea-mew_ was in the bay. I was on
it."
"You!" she exclaimed, and he saw the fear in her eyes.
"Yes, why not? Is there anything strange about it?" he asked, smiling.
"He lives at Haverton. He is rich, but he is not quite happy."
"Why not, if he has everything he wants?"
"He has not everything he wants; no one has, as a matter of fact. It
would not be good for us. You have not all you want."
"No, I have not; but I get along very well."
"What is missing out of your life?" he asked.
"I can hardly tell you."
"My friend's life is overcast by a great calamity that befell his
family some years ago."
"What was it?" she asked, and a slight shiver passed through her.
"His brother was accused of murder, of shooting the husband of the
woman he had fallen in love with. He was condemned and reprieved; he
is at Dartmoor now. That is enough to make his brother's life unhappy;
it killed the Admiral, their father."
"How shocking!" she said.
"I never thought of it before, but, strange to say, the man's name was
Elroy. It is your name," he said.
She laughed uneasily; she could not tell him now.
"I hope you do not connect me with the lady in question?"
"No, of course not. How absurd! But still it is strange--the name is
uncommon," he said.
"I suppose you never saw his brother at the prison?"
"I did--I wish I had not."
"Did he look very ill, broken down?"
"He was a terrible wreck. He suffered awful agony, of mind more than
body. I never saw such a change in a man in my life. When I knew
Hector Woodridge he was a fine, well set up, handsome man, in the
army, a soldier's career before him. The breakdown was complete; it
made me suffer to look at him. I never went again and I do not think
he wanted it. If ever a man was living in hell upon earth he was; the
wonder is it did not kill him."
"How terrible!" she said.
"I wonder if the woman suffers? He did it on her account. I do not
believe he is guilty--I am certain he is not. His brother believes in
his innocence, so does Captain Bruce, and all his friends. I believe
it is the knowledge that he is innocent sustains him in his awful
life; he told me he hoped one day to prove his innocence, but that
his lips were sealed, he could not speak. I told him that was foolish,
that it was due to himself to speak, but he shook his head and said,
'Impossible!'"
"Is it a very terrible place at Dartmoor?"
"I suppose it is like all such prisons; but think what it must be for
an innocent man to be caged there with a lot of desperate criminals,
the scum of the earth. What must it be for such a man as Hector
Woodridge, cultured, refined, an army man, well-bred--and on the top
of it all the knowledge that the disgrace killed his father. It would
drive me mad."
"And me too," she said. "You say he is there still?"
"Yes; there is no chance of his escaping. I wish he could."
"A prisoner escaped when I was at Torquay. I saw it in the local
paper," she said.
"So did I; the fellow had a terrible fight with a bloodhound and
strangled it. A desperate man has desperate strength," he said.
"I met an old boatman named Brack there; he told me the man must be
dead."
"No doubt; fell down a disused mine, or drowned himself, poor devil. I
don't wonder at it," he said.
"I wonder how the woman feels about it?" she said in a low voice. "She
must suffer, her conscience must trouble her, in a way her life must
be as hard to bear as his."
"That depends on the woman," he said. "I believe she can prove his
innocence; something tells me she can; his brother believes it too. If
this be so, she ought to speak and save him, no matter at what cost to
herself."
"Do you think she will?"
"No; or she would have spoken before. She must be callous,
hard-hearted, dead to all sense of human feeling. Such a woman would
make me shudder to come in contact with her," he said.
She smiled as she thought: "He little knows I am that woman. I must
wait. If he loves me later on I can tell him."
"Perhaps the woman cannot prove his innocence. She may believe him
guilty."
"Impossible. There were only three persons present: the husband, the
wife, and Hector Woodridge."
"It seems very strange that if he is innocent she has not declared the
truth."
"Steeped in wickedness and sin as she is, I do not wonder at it; she
is probably living in the world, leading a fast life, ruining men as
she ruined him."
"Or she may be suffering agonies and be too much of a coward to speak;
she may be an object of pity; perhaps if you saw her you would be
sorry for her, as sorry as you are for him," she said.
"He is in prison, she is free; she has the world to distract her, he
has nothing."
"You spoke of torture of the mind. Perhaps she is a sensitive woman;
if so, her sufferings are as terrible as his."
"If you were the woman, what would you do?" he asked.
The question was put with an abruptness that startled her; again a
feeling of fear was uppermost. It was strange he should know Hector
Woodridge; still more curious that he was on the _Sea-mew_ in Torbay.
He must know if Hector Woodridge boarded the yacht; was he concealing
something?
"I do not know what I should do. It would depend upon circumstances."
"What circumstances?" he asked.
"If I knew he was innocent, I should speak, I think--that is, if I
could prove it."
"She must be able to prove it," he said. "I believe he is suffering,
keeping silent, to save her."
"If he is, his conduct is heroic," she said.
"Foolish--a sin and a shame that he should waste his life for such a
woman."
"You think her a very bad woman?"
"I do, one of the worst," he said.
She sighed.
"I am glad I have never been placed in such an unfortunate position,"
she said.
"So am I, but I am sure if you had been, Hector Woodridge would be a
free man," he said.
"I wonder if he loved her?" she asked quickly.
"Loved her? He must have done so. Think how he is suffering for her;
he must love her still," he said.
"Perhaps she does not know this."
"She ought to know; all his actions speak of love for her. No man ever
made a greater sacrifice for a woman," he said. Then, looking at his
watch, he added, "It is time for me to go, to meet Mr. Denyer. He is a
great friend of yours, is he not?"
"I should not call him a friend exactly, although I have known him a
long time; he is useful to me in business matters," she said.
"Can I be of any use in that way?" he asked.
"You might; I will ask you if I require anything."
"And then I shall be an acquaintance," he said, smiling.
"Would you rather be my friend?"
"Yes."
She held out her hand.
"I do not think that will be difficult," she said, her eyes flashing
into his.