Desolate splendour

QUITE early in the afternoon old Mrs. Plethern had begun preparations for an evening that should at once pander to her taste for macabre cruelty and mark the achievement of her heart’s ambition. She had interviewed the Morvane housekeeper before luncheon on the subject of the Church Meldon fair (the week of its duration had at the outset seemed an ideal week for Viola’s extinction), and by three o’clock was free to consider the arrangement of her tower rooms. She explained her programme carefully to Bathsheba.

“His lordship will be here at eight o’clock. We will dine in the room below my sitting-room. After dinner we will come up to my room, and Miss Marvell”—even thus early her tongue rolled unctuously those fated syllables—“Miss Marvell will join us. She will be a little surprised to find a visitor, but surprise is nothing to what she will feel later on.... Nothing ... nothing at all....” The old woman rubbed gleeful hands. “While we are taking our coffee you will remove dinner, push the table to one side and arrange the couches as I will show you in a moment. Also the mirrors—those from here and from my bedroom must go down—will need careful placing. Mirrors are a great adjunct, Bathsheba. They multiply, and one cannot have too much of a good thing! Then you will see that the guest-bedroom is ready in the unlikely case of his lordship needing it. Then you will go to bed. Do you understand? To bed and to sleep. See nothing; hear nothing; come out of your room on no pretext whatsoever. In the morning come to me at seven o’clock. I will then give more instructions if any are needed, but I think”—with a final chuckle—“that the love-birds will have flown.”

As the time wore on the old woman became feverish in her anxiety. Up and down stairs lumberingly she went, carrying cushions, carrying silks, hanging the walls with pictures suitable to the scene they shortly must adorn. The mirrors were sloped and fixed and unfixed and sloped again. Her strength was as the strength of a girl; she toiled deliciously, mumbling to herself. At five o’clock she sent the maid over to the house.

“I think the sacrificial lamb shall dine on the altar steps. Go and find her, Bathsheba. It is far better to set free still more of the servants yonder. Also I have a fancy to prolong the jest. She shall sit through her dinner wondering—wondering and trembling. She shall dine here, with the old woman who has planned her ruin, with the old man who has bought her, as one buys three hours’ amusement at a theatre. She shall sit between us and at her back the negro will stand, and she will wonder and chatter bravely, but behind her gaiety will be fear, and behind her fear—well, good cause for it! Go over. Tell her I want her here to dinner. Make sure she comes. Tell her——” Mrs. Plethern paused. “I know! Tell her that I have news from Mr. Plethern! That will bring her, the scheming chit! She mopes and snivels for her dearest Charles, and we will bait the trap with him! But remember, Bathsheba,”—as the maid moved silently toward the door—“be polite! Be humble to her, Bathsheba. I have a headache, say, or would have come myself. Ask her to set the servants free. Be any kind of sentimentalist you like, so that she comes. It will be the last time you need cringe to her, Bathsheba. Maybe the last time you set eyes on her. In any case, one does not stand on ceremony with things such as Miss Viola will be to-morrow!”

Back from her errand, the woman found her mistress ardently at work again. Excitement had earlier given place to fever; fever was now giving place to madness. Upstairs and downstairs, heavily toiling, she chuckled and muttered. Upstairs and downstairs, now laughing suddenly, now hissing an incoherent hatred, the old woman bundled tirelessly. Hers was a strange frenzy. Elaborations and precautions elbowed their way about her brain.

“The lights!” she shouted suddenly. “Bathsheba, the lights!”

“What lights, ma’am?” asked the maid stolidly.

“Fool! What lights! Don’t you know the legend, blockhead?”

Bathsheba glowered sullenly, but only growled:

“What legend, ma’am?”

“The woman’s raving!” screamed Mrs. Plethern. “Are you witless, girl? The legend of my tower, the legend of the Morvane campanile, the legend of the Devil’s Candle?” But before Bathsheba could answer, the other’s anger sank into pulpy condescension. “How could she know, wretched creature? They are not taught their letters even, the bastards of the poor; how should they read history? I will tell you, girl. The dome——”

“If you mean the light in the dome, you spoke of it earlier, ma’am, and it is ready when you want it.”

The sulky interruption seemed to sober Mrs. Plethern. She regained her former mood of gloating quietness. Her smooth, white hands twisted stealthily in her lap.

“It is ready, is it? Good girl, Bathsheba. Good girl! Beautifully it will shine across the garden, safely it will guide a soul to hell! The Devil’s Candle shall be lighted, Bathsheba, and I, Rowena Walsingham, will light it!—and I will light it, I will light it....”

Still muttering, she moved to the stairway leading to her bedroom.

“Not long to wait,” she said in a low voice. “I am going to rest a little and get ready. Is all prepared below? You must go to your cooking, Bathsheba. Nothing must fail me now.”

The clock on the mantlepiece struck eight. “He is a little late,” the hostess told herself. “Cars are so unreliable.” The clock struck eight-fifteen. “The girl is behind time. She dares to be unpunctual. Dare while you may, my pretty maid. There is no daring where you are bound for!” The clock struck half-past eight; another quarter; nine o’clock. Ten minutes more and the maid tapped at the door.

“What shall I do, ma’am? The dinner is spoilt.”

“Let it spoil! You can cook another. Why is the girl not here? Go and find her again, Bathsheba. No!—Stop!—Stay where you are!—The lights are lighted? I must see my rooms all lighted.” Savagely she turned on the waiting servant. “What are you gaping there for, idiot? Go to bed! Go to bed, I say!”

The clock struck nine-fifteen. Mrs. Plethern rose and walked quickly across the room. Bathsheba quailed before the pale fury in her eyes.

“You have tricked me, you——!” snarled the old woman. “You never asked her to come! You warned her!”

“’Fore God ma’am,” gasped the frightened servant, “I asked her and she said she’d come! They’ve gone, the servants yonder. I saw no light there just now from the kitchen. I haven’t deceived you, ma’am; sacred truth, I haven’t!”

Almost before the protests were completed, the old woman had switched along a different pathway of hysterical foreboding.

“Maybe she guessed?” she muttered to herself. “She couldn’t have guessed. Maybe he’s ratted? He wouldn’t dare! If he has, I’ll do for him.”

Once more her eye fell on the unhappy Bathsheba, once more her fierce anxiety flamed into rage against her serving woman.

“Get out, you vixen! Leave your dinner to burn itself to hell and go after it! Get out before I murder you! Get out, I tell you. Go!”

While the old woman paced her room—bitterness, thwarted revenge and the first tremblings of fear making a chaos of her darkly brooding mind—Bathsheba hurried down spiral stairs to her own room, thrust a few clothes into a bundle, and, quietly tiptoeing, let herself out into the quiet night. Terror shook her. She had one thought—to escape the evil maniac she had served. Across the garden and along the carriage drive, over the park wall where no lodge-keeper should see, down lonely roads sped Bathsheba and away. The rat had left. Time for the ship to sink.

At ten o’clock Rowena Plethern had made a complete tour of her tower. She had left lights to blaze in every room. They shone on the glitter of the dinner-table, on glass and silver, on flowers and fruit and bottle-laden sideboard, on the bleak taunt of three empty chairs. They shone on the silk cushions of the divan ranged against the wall. They shone on the hideous prints of her own sitting-room, on other cushions, on more glasses and more wine. They shone on the white emptiness of the guest-room bed in which (if he had need of it) the noble visitor might have slept. Finally, from the bulbous crown of Mrs. Plethern’s tower shone lights cunningly disposed, throwing a level ray through the one circular window of the dome, a ray that cut the darkness, singed the high fronds of a cedar, and then lost itself in the far blackness of the night.

Old Mrs. Plethern stood and, listening desperately, held her breath. She broke into a sluggish sweat. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Her fingers twitched and caught each other jerkily. Monotonous questions hammered at her brain. “What has happened? What can have happened? Where is he? Where is she?” On Viola the crazed intelligence fastened hungrily. She at least should come. She at least should know the power and rancour of Rowena Walsingham. With her own hands to tear that fair young face, with every fancy of her foul mind to smirch that innocence became the sudden purpose of the maniac’s brain. At a stumbling run she crossed the floor of her high parlour. Through the door she swayed toward the tiny landing at the head of the stair and lift-shaft. A cushion, dropped in her last demented rearrangement, lay gaudily askew across the threshold of her room. Her foot tripped badly; she tottered; then with her great bulk fell crashing into the open lift. The frayed rope snapped. The lift fell like a stone.

§ 2

At half-past midnight, in the dark silence of the shattered lift, Charles Plethern found the crumpled heap of satin, blood and hair that was his mother. Still from the chinks between the blinds lights gleamed above, still from the dome shone the long ray of the Devil’s Candle.

“My God, Wilkinson!”

The agent swayed and nearly fell, so fiercely did Charles swerve and grip his arm.

They fetched a cloak and covered what remained of Mrs. Plethern. Then, lights in hand, they climbed the stairs. A door yawned blackly open; the lanterns showed a litter of tumbled clothes, shoes scattered and a fallen chair; Bathsheba’s flight had left its panic mark upon her bedroom. Higher they climbed, toward the light that crept round the corner of the staircase newel. They saw the guest-room and its white expectancy; they saw the dinner-table and the empty chairs and all the promise of festivity; they saw the divans, and the sinister brilliance of piled cushions; they saw the pictures on the walls; they saw, hidden behind a screen, things that they hardly dared avow they saw. One by one they quenched the lights. “Let us go down,” said Charles. Back on the lawn (was it their hurried passage by the dark heap near the door that left them breathless?) they stood uneasily. The agent, respecting his employer’s agony, dropped his eyes and moved away. At last Charles spoke:

“I want a drink. Lock that door. The place must be set straight before morning, but I haven’t the nerve to go back just yet. Also, I want five minutes with Rockarvon. We will leave the—the body. The authorities will require evidence of the accident.”

“I will go back and do it,” said Wilkinson quietly. “You had best go to bed, Mr. Plethern. Trust me to leave everything—as you would wish it to be seen.”

“You’re a brick, Wilkinson! It’s damned good of you and I’m grateful. I shan’t be in bed. You’ll find me in the library.”

The night was sweetly cool to their heads racked with tragedy. They walked together slowly round the corner of the terrace and, almost unconsciously, round a farther corner to the carriage-drive. The front door was open and light streamed over the gravel.

“Hallo!” Then in a flash remembering, “Where’s the car? We left it here——”

A figure loomed on the top step, dark against the lighted hall. It was the butler, and he seemed to peer into the night.

“Hopton!” called Charles.

The man came running eagerly.

“Oh, Mr. Plethern! I was hunting for you, sir. The gentleman that was in the library—the invalid gentleman, sir—he’s gone!”

“Gone?”

“Yes, sir. He must have come quietly downstairs and through the hall, for I heard nothing till the car started up, and though I ran, I had time only to see it a hundred yards off, down the drive.”

Charles glanced at Wilkinson.

“Nothing like funk for curing cripples,” he observed. “All right, Hopton. You can go to bed now. I’ll lock up.”

Then, with a wry smile, he rubbed his head:

“He’s bested us. We shan’t see him again.” With a shrug he swung on his heel. “Well, well, perhaps it’s a lucky thing. I’d have strangled the reptile, if he’d been within reach!——”

But when the agent had left him, Charles Plethern did not seek the library nor mix his needed drink. He stood, frowningly, while around him shone the cold emptiness of his exaggerated hall. The experiences of the evening swayed bewilderingly about his brain. Slowly they steadied; gradually from the vague mists of them emerged a faint coherence of idea. Rockarvon had been on his way—whither? Not to Wellborough, that at least was certain; whither, then? Old Mrs. Plethern had expected guests. What guests? At all events they had not come. One was to have been Viola. The other?

He scowled and his foot beat impatiently upon the squared paving of his hall. The blackguard had tricked him nicely! As for the old lady—she was dead. Thank God that she was dead! She was his mother, but he thanked God that she was dead. And James? His turn would come. He had had a share in this conspiracy. No matter how small the share, he should pay a long price for it.

There remained for the distracted man one guilt to gauge, one guilt (if expiable) to expiate. Almost he groaned aloud to know himself dishonoured. “She trusted me.... I failed her.... Marvell trusted me.... I betrayed his trust....”

He bit his lip and moved miserably toward the stairway. What now? Behind the darkness of self-hatred glowed a strengthening light; through the despair of his abasement struggled a faint, sweet memory. He saw again, first dimly then with growing clarity, the eyes of the girl he had so heedlessly abandoned; he saw her eyes as they had met his in the library, not an hour ago. He stayed his feet upon the stairs and, face in hands, fought down the rising tears. Charles Plethern not because he had yet read in full the message of those weary eyes, but because now he understood the longing of his own unhappy heart, paused on his splendid staircase to choke back his tears.

A moment longer and, with the gravity of a sudden determination, he was walking quickly upstairs to his ward’s rooms. The corridor was shadowy and at the darker shadow of her bedroom door he paused, noting a pencil line of light beneath the polished boarding and the door. At last he knocked. The door was snatched open and the girl in her white nightdress stood before him.

“I thought you’d come,” she said.

“But, my dear, you should be sleeping——”

“Sleeping!—I can sleep any night. Are you coming to talk to me?”

“If you get into bed,” he stipulated.

She obeyed, and, propped against pillows, waited silently.

He stood beside her and looked down on her.

“Can you forgive, child?” he asked.

She started up:

“Forgive?”

“Yes, Viola,” he said gravely, “forgive. I should by rights go straight from here and shoot myself. May you never learn all I have learnt to-night, but this I want you to know, that the man whose duty it was to guard you, failed.”

“What do you mean, Charles?” She took his hand and fondled it. “What do you mean? Don’t say these dreadful things! I hate to hear them!”

Her wide eyes raised to his broke the frail crust of his control. Dropping to his knees, he crouched against the bed. His face was hidden, and she saw his shoulders quiver.

“What have I done?” he moaned. “What have I done?”

She was out of bed and beside him in a flash. Bending over him, she gathered him in her arms.

“Charles!” she cried softly. “Dear, dear Charles! Look at me, Charles! Whatever you think you have done wrong, is right for me. If you are unhappy for my sake, Charles, be happy now, for you have come back, and that is happiness.”

He stayed a moment in the warm fragrance of her tenderness, then, gently untwining her embrace, rose and faced her.

“You are an angel,” he breathed, laid his hands softly on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Good night, Viola. Go to sleep now. We will talk to-morrow.”

§ 3

From the shadowy spaces of the garden the scent beat up from the roses. Viola and her guardian talked of what had been.

“Have they—taken her away?” she asked.

He nodded.

“What now?”

(The question slipped so gently from her lips.)

“Nothing now,” he answered. “It is over now.”

She sighed, and the soft wind caught her sigh and, carrying it to heaven, cherished it.

He gave her a sidelong glance. Embarrassment crimsoned his lean cheeks.

“It is over now,” he repeated a little sullenly. Then, with an effort: “Save for one thing. There is one thing I have to say—not to reproach you, child; I have forfeited all right to that—but so that this miserable business may be done with——”

It seemed the words caught chokingly in his throat. How, guiltily conscious of his own neglect, should he question her right to any recklessness? And yet—Rockarvon! Why had she done what she admitted to have done? From what strange, sudden greed had she thus trifled with her honour? Last night his own shame had overwhelmed him; but as another day (the day now drawing to its close) wore on, her shame, her asked-for shame, ever more vilely tortured him.

“Come, Charles; say what you have to say.”

Her clear, low voice forced an end to his hesitation.

“Only,” he blurted out, “that you are free to go your way, if you desire. The man is hateful; but, as I say, I have no right——Make your bargain, child, as you wish——”

Almost without seeing her was he conscious of the flaming colour in her face, of the sudden stiffening of her body, of the small hands fiercely clenched. Then she began to sob, staring in front of her, motionless, too miserable to feel abashed. He rose with panic swiftness, stood and looked down on her, as she sat rigid, shaken by the dry, dreadful sobs that brought no tears to soften them.

“Viola!——” he pleaded stupidly. “Viola—don’t cry like that!”

She fought down her wretchedness, won to a semblance of composure.

“You do not understand,” she said with an indifferent weariness that frightened him. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Understand? Understand what?”

“I shan’t trouble you much longer,” she went on, ignoring his interruption. “I’ll go away—(her voice trembled)—in a day or two.”

He spoke with a sudden authority.

“Tell me, Viola, why you made that proposal to—to that man! What use is his cursed valley to you?”

She rose slowly to her feet.

“I could have found use for it,” she said.

Not her words nor the new softness in her voice, but a sudden uprush of his own unavowed desire made clear the mystery. Her look of love ... his starved, bewildered heart ... and now this sacrifice, this proud, despairing sacrifice....

“Your eyes last night——,” he stammered. “Your eyes and the tale they told last night——” His head dropped. Almost to himself he muttered, “That was before they knew the creature that I am. They have forgotten it now, the tale they told....”

“Ask them,” she murmured. “They may remember it.”

Slowly he turned and looked at her. She smiled and swayed and, as he stretched astounded arms to greet the miracle, clung with a low cry of happiness about his neck.

The little wind, heavy with fragrance stolen from the roses, hung for a space compassionately above their heads. Then, after the restless manner of its kind, it stirred, breathed softly, flickered beyond the house-top and was gone.