THE TRIBULATIONS OF A LIAR
While Crichton was dressing he glanced from time to time at his valet.
Peter had evidently been deeply shocked by the incident at the railway
station, for the blunt profile, so persistently presented to him, was
austerely remote as well as subtly disapproving. Cyril was fond of the
old man, who had been his father's servant and had known him almost from
his infancy. He felt that he owed him some explanation, particularly as
he had without consulting him made use of his name.
But what should he say to him? Never before had he so fully realised the
joy, the comfort, the dignity of truth. It was not a virtue he decided;
it was a privilege. If he ever got out of the hole he was in, he meant
to wallow in it for the future. That happy time seemed, however, still
far distant.
Believing the girl to be innocent, he wanted as few people as possible
to know the nature of the cloud which hung over her. Peter's loyalty, he
knew, he could count on, that had been often and fully proved; but his
discretion was another matter. Peter was no actor. If he had anything to
conceal, even his silence became so portentous of mystery that it could
not fail to arouse the curiosity of the most unsuspicious. No, he must
think of some simple story which would satisfy Peter as to the propriety
of his conduct and yet which, if it leaked out, would not be to the
girl's discredit.
"You must have been surprised to hear me give my name to the young lady
you saw at the station," he began tentatively.
"Yes, sir." Peter's expression relaxed.
"Her story is a very sad one." So much at any rate must be true, thought
poor Cyril with some satisfaction.
"Yes, sir." Peter was waiting breathlessly for the sequel.
"I don't feel at liberty to repeat what she told me. You understand
that, don't you?"
"Certainly, sir," agreed Peter, but his face fell.
"So all I can tell you is that she was escaping from a brute who
horribly ill-treated her. Of course I offered to help her."
"Of course," echoed Peter.
"Unfortunately she was taken ill before she had told me her name or who
the friends were with whom she was seeking refuge. What was I to do? If
the police heard that a young girl had been found unconscious on the
train, the fact would have been advertised far and wide so as to enable
them to establish her identity, in which case the person from whom she
was hiding would have taken possession of her, which he has a legal
right to do--so she gave me to understand." Crichton paused quite out of
breath. He was doing beautifully. Peter was swallowing his tale
unquestionably--and really, you know, for an inexperienced liar that was
a reasonably probable story. "So you see," he continued, "it was
necessary for her to have a name and mine was the only one which would
not provoke further inquiry."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I should 'ave thought that Smith or Jones
would 'ave done just as well."
"Certainly not. The authorities would have wanted further particulars
and would at once have detected the fraud. No one will ever know that I
lent an unfortunate woman for a few hours the protection of my name, and
there is no one who has the right to object to my having done so--except
the young lady herself."
"Yes, sir, quite so."
"On the other hand, on account of the position I am in at present, it is
most important that I should do nothing which could by any possibility
be misconstrued."
"Yes, sir, certainly, sir."
"And so I told the doctor that the young lady had better not be called
by my name while she is at the home and so--and so--well--in fact--I
gave her yours. I hope you don't mind?"
"My name?" gasped Peter in a horrified voice.
"Yes, you see you haven't got a wife, have you?"
"Certainly not, sir!"
"So there couldn't be any possible complications in your case."
"One never can tell, sir--a name's a name and females are sometimes not
over-particular."
"Don't be an ass! Why, you ought to feel proud to be able to be of use
to a charming lady. Where's your chivalry, Peter?"
"I don't know, sir, but I do 'ope she's respectable," he answered
miserably.
"Of course she is. Don't you know a lady when you see one?"
Peter shook his head tragically.
"I'm sorry you feel like that about it," said Crichton. "It never
occurred to me you would mind, and I haven't yet told you all. I not
only gave the young lady your name but took it myself."
"Took my name!"
"Yes. At the nursing home I am known as Mr. Peter Thompkins. Pray that I
don't disgrace you, Peter."
"Oh, sir, a false name! If you get found out, they'll never believe you
are hinnocent when you've done a thing like that. Of course, a gentleman
like you hought to know his own business best, but it do seem to me most
awful risky."
"Well, it's a risk that had to be taken. It was a choice of evils, I
grant you. Hah! I sniff breakfast; the bacon and eggs of my country
await me. I am famishing, and I say, Peter, do try to take a more
cheerful view of this business."
"I'll try, sir."
Crichton was still at breakfast when a short, red-haired young man
fairly burst into the room.
"Guy Campbell!" exclaimed Cyril joyfully.
"Hullo, old chap, glad to see you," cried the newcomer, pounding Cyril
affectionately on the back. "How goes it? I say, your telephone message
gave me quite a turn. What's up? Have you got into a scrape? You look as
calm as possible."
"If I look calm, my looks belie me. I assure you I never felt less calm
in my life."
"What on earth is the matter?"
"You won't have some breakfast?"
"Breakfast at half-past eleven! No thank you."
"Well, then, take a cigarette, pull up that chair to the fire, and
listen--and don't play the fool; this is serious."
"Fire away."
"I want your legal advice, Guy, though I suppose you'll tell me I need a
solicitor, not a barrister. I wish to get a divorce."
"A divorce? Why, Cyril, I am awfully sorry. I had heard that your
marriage hadn't turned out any too well, but I had no idea it was as bad
as that. You have proof, I suppose."
"Ample."
"Tell me the particulars. I never have heard anything against your
wife's character."
"You mean that you have never heard that she was unfaithful to me. Bah,
it makes me sick the way people talk, as if infidelity were the only
vice that damned a woman's character. Guy, her character was rotten
through and through. Her infidelity was simply a minor, though
culminating, expression of it."
"But how did you come to marry such a person?"
"You know she was the Chalmerses' governess?"
"Yes."
"I had been spending a few weeks with them. Jack, the oldest son, was a
friend of mine and she was the daughter of a brother officer of old
Chalmers's who had died in India, and consequently her position in the
household was different from that of an ordinary governess. I soon got
quite friendly with Amy and her two charges, and we used to rag about
together a good deal. I liked her, but upon my honour I hadn't a thought
of making love to her. Then one day there was an awful row. They accused
her of carrying on a clandestine love affair with Freddy, the second
son, and with drinking on the sly. They had found empty bottles hidden
in her bedroom. She posed as injured innocence--the victim of a vile
plot to get her out of the house--had no money, no friends, no hope of
another situation. I was young; she was pretty. I was dreadfully sorry
for her and so--well, I married her. As the regiment had just been
ordered to South Africa, we went there immediately. We had not been
married a year, however, when I discovered that she was a confirmed
drunkard. I think only the fear of losing her position had kept her
within certain bounds. That necessity removed, she seemed unable to put
any restraint on herself. I doubt if she even tried to do so."
"Poor Cyril!"
"Later on I found out that she was taking drugs as well as stimulants.
She would drink herself into a frenzy and then stupefy herself with
opiates. But it is not only weakness I am accusing her of. She was
inherently deceitful and cruel--ah, what is the use of talking about it!
I have been through Hell."
"You haven't been living together lately, have you?"
"Well, you see, she was disgracing not only herself but the regiment,
and so it became a question of either leaving the army or getting her to
live somewhere else. So I brought her back to Europe, took a small villa
near Pau, and engaged an efficient nurse-companion to look after her. I
spent my leave with her, but that was all. Last spring, however, she got
so bad that her companion cabled for me. For a few weeks she was
desperately ill, and when she partially recovered, the doctor persuaded
me to send her to a sanitarium for treatment. Charleroi was recommended
to me. It was chiefly celebrated as a lunatic asylum, but it has an
annex where dipsomaniacs and drug fiends are cared for. At first, the
doctor's reports were very discouraging, but lately her improvement is
said to have been quite astonishing, so much so that it was decided that
I should take her away for a little trip. I was on my way to Charleroi,
when the news reached me that Amy had escaped. We soon discovered that
she had fled with a M. de Brissac, who had been discharged as cured the
day before my wife's disappearance. We traced them to within a few miles
of Paris, but there lost track of them. I have, however, engaged a
detective to furnish me with further particulars. I fancy the Frenchman
is keeping out of the way for fear I shall kill him. Bah! Why, I pity
him, that is all! He'll soon find out what that woman is like. He has
given me freedom! Oh, you can't realise what that means to me. I only
wish my father were alive to know that I have this chance of beginning
life over again."
"I was so sorry to hear of his death. He was always so kind to us boys
when we stayed at Lingwood. I wrote you when I heard the sad news, but
you never answered any of my letters."
"I know, old chap, but you must forgive me. I have been too
miserable--too ashamed. I only wanted to creep away and to be
forgotten."
"Your father died in Paris, didn't he?"
"Yes, luckily I was with him. It was just after I had taken Amy to
Charleroi. He was a broken-hearted man. He never got over the mess I had
made of my life and Wilmersley's marriage was the last straw. He brooded
over it continually."
"Why had your father been so sure that Lord Wilmersley would never
marry? He was an old bachelor, but not so very old after all. He can't
be more than fifty now."
"Well, you see, Wilmersley has a bee in his bonnet. His mother was a
Spanish ballet dancer whom my uncle married when he was a mere boy. She
was a dreadful old creature. I remember her distinctly, a great, fat
woman with a big, white face and enormous, glassy, black eyes. I was
awfully afraid of her. She died when Wilmersley was about twenty and my
uncle followed her a few months later. His funeral was hardly over when
my cousin left Geralton and nothing definite was heard of him for almost
twenty-five years. He was supposed to be travelling in the far East, and
from time to time some pretty queer rumours drifted back about him.
Whether they were true or not, I have never known. One day he returned
to Geralton as unexpectedly as he had left it. He sent for me at once.
He has immense family pride--the ballet dancer, I fancy, rankles--and
having decided for some reason or other not to marry, he wished his heir
to cut a dash. He offered me an allowance of L4000 a year, told me to
marry as soon as possible, and sent me home."
"Well, that was pretty decent of him. You don't seem very grateful."
"I can't bear him. He's a most repulsive-looking chap, a thorough
Spaniard, with no trace of his father's blood that I can see. And as I
married soon afterwards and my marriage was not to his liking, he
stopped my allowance and swore I should never succeed him if he could
help it. So you see I haven't much reason to be grateful to him."
"Beastly shame! He married Miss Mannering, Lady Upton's granddaughter,
didn't he?"
"Yes."
"She is a little queer, I believe."
"Really? I didn't know that. I have never seen her, but I hear she is
very pretty. Well, I'm sorry for her, brought up by that old curmudgeon
of a grandmother and married out of the schoolroom to Wilmersley. She
has never had much of a chance, has she?"
"There are no children as yet?"
"No."
"So that now that your father is dead, you are the immediate heir."
The door was flung open and Peter rushed into the room brandishing a
paper.
"Oh, sir, it's come at last! I always felt it would!" He stuttered with
excitement.
"What on earth is the matter with you?"
"I beg pardon, sir, but I am that hovercome! I heard them crying
'hextras,' so I went out and gets one--just casual-like. Little did I
think what would be in it--and there it was."
"There was what?" Both men spoke at once, leaning eagerly forward.
"That Lord Wilmersley is dead; and so, my lord, I wish you much joy and
a long life."
"This is very sudden," gasped Crichton. "I hadn't heard he was ill. What
did he die of?"
"'E was murdered, my lord."