Although Sibella had more or less accustomed herself to the idea of my
marriage, the nearness of its approach gave her somewhat of a shock.
Woman-like, she wanted to meet Miss Gascoyne, but on this point I was
firm. After we had been married some time such a thing might be
possible, but not till then. Personally, I had no intention of
bringing about the introduction. The women with whom one has relations
are best kept apart. A chance word or look, unsuspected even by
ourselves, might give a clue to the truth. The whole thing would make
me too nervous. She asked me whether if Lionel died I would break off
my engagement and marry her. I replied that of course I would do so,
and though I do not suppose she believed it any more than I meant it,
the statement seemed to comfort her mightily.
Mr. Gascoyne and I went down to Lord Hammerton’s funeral.
We only saw Lady Gascoyne for a moment. She was too overwhelmed to
hold conversation with anyone for long. Lord Gascoyne was wonderfully
self-controlled, but he looked very careworn. I had begun to
understand him, and I could see that he was much touched by Mr.
Gascoyne’s solicitude. He mentioned Miss Lane in the course of the
morning.
“She is utterly broken down. She seems to have some idea that
carelessness on her part is responsible. Of course, it is nobody’s
fault, although I think we ought to have gone away directly Walter
fell ill. However, it is no use saying what ought to have been done.”
“What is the doctor’s opinion as to how the infection was carried?”
ventured Mr. Gascoyne.
“He seems utterly perplexed. From what I can gather from the other
doctors he is not to blame. He blames himself, of course. Well, it is
a great grief to us, but we shall get over it; and, after all, we are
young.”
I knew what he meant, and I could only sincerely hope that my chance
might come soon.
The funeral was extremely stately for so small a corpse. The tiny
coffin was borne into the castle church on a bier that had evidently
been accustomed to heavier burdens. The church was full. It was quite
evident that as regards that part of the country the heir of the
Gascoynes was considered an almost royal personage.
Esther Lane was in the church, looking terribly worn and ill. Once I
thought she glanced at me almost fiercely, but she wore a crape veil,
and I could not be sure. I did not see her, for Mr. Gascoyne and I
returned to town in the evening. Two days later, however, when I was
dressing for dinner, a note was brought up to me in her handwriting.
The lady, the man said, would wait for an answer. I opened it in
almost a fever of excitement, fully expecting to read that conscience
had won the day, and that she had confessed all, but the note only
asked me to see her. Two minutes later she was in my room and in my
arms sobbing wildly, but declaring that, however much she was prepared
to sacrifice herself, she would not betray me.
She was thirsting for some little display of love. Her loneliness had
been more than she could bear, and her guilt had added to its terrors.
Poor little soul! my love meant so much to her that in a few minutes
she was smiling almost cheerfully.
She had told them at Hammerton that her nerves were on the point of
breaking down, and that she must have change; and she was now on her
way to spend a few weeks with some friends in the North.
I showed her how we might steal two days on her return and spend them
together at a small seaside village that I knew of on the Yorkshire
coast. It would be very near my marriage-day, and it was the sort of
thing which always held vague possibilities of discovery, but still I
am glad I risked it.
Esther interested me enormously. I had never come across quite her
type before. That, with her high moral stamina, she should so
completely accept any scheme of deception which I chose to propose was
extraordinary, but so it was. With me she seemed to have no will but
mine.
It was curious that she did not reproach me with the death of Lord
Hammerton, but hers was not the nature to blame others for any guilt
of which she had to admit a share.
She must have concluded that my visiting Lord Hammerton’s nursery the
morning after I had been in Walter Chard’s sick-room was responsible
for the tragedy.
I had expected a torrent of reproaches on this score, and was very
pleased that she said nothing. The curious moral numbness from which
she suffered when with me seemed to have put the memory of it out of
her mind.