Chapter IV.
The Divorce and After
Wheatland got his divorce. There was no defence, for when Reckavile considered the matter with his family lawyer, he decided not to have certain letters read in court, and all the details published in the papers.
He wandered restlessly between London and his castle at Portham, not able to leave for Italy till the case was over. He wrote Carlotta, passionate love letters, but gave no address, for to her he was Hugh Desmond, and no other.
In spite of all the appeals made to him by Winnie in tearful and illiterate letters, he made no answer, nor would he see her. He told his lawyer to look to it that she wanted for nothing, and there the matter rested.
It was the day after the decree nisi had been pronounced when Reckavile went to his lawyer, Mr. Curtis, head of Curtis, Figgis and Brice, for a final interview as he was leaving for Italy the next day.
The thought thrilled him, as he pictured her whose whole longing was bound up in him, with no aspiration after title, or social position, and trust—absolute trust—that was the very devil.
Curtis was speaking.
“Of course, I don’t know what you propose to do, Lord Reckavile, when the decree is made absolute—it is hardly my affair, except—ahem—as the old family lawyer who knew your father, perhaps …” he stopped confused.
“Well?”
“What I meant to convey was, that if you made the lady an allowance as you are doing, it would appear sufficient. In your position I do not think an alliance would be desirable or even necessary.”
Reckavile’s face hardened.
“You mean as I have compromised the lady, I should now desert her—of course, with an allowance,” he added bitingly.
Curtis was uneasy, for he knew the Reckaviles; but the marriage must be stopped. He tried once more.
“It would never do. You know that the estate is heavily mortgaged, and you are well—rather careless in money matters. I had hoped that you would marry some desirable lady of your class, with sufficient funds to put the family in a satisfactory position. I think that is very necessary.”
He paused at the look on Reckavile’s face. His eyes were dull black, like a snake’s, and his mouth was twisted in a fiendish smile.
Curtis knew that look only too well.
“Thank you, Curtis,” he said “I was undecided, and thought of tossing for it, but you have made up my mind for me. I shall certainly marry the woman—or at least give her my name for what it is worth, and that should be sufficient punishment for anyone.”
“But, my Lord …”
Reckavile held up his hand. “There is no need for further discussion.”
A knock sounded at the door, and the clerk came in.
“A lady wishes to see Lord Reckavile,” he said to Curtis “she would not wait, sir, and seemed very impatient.”
He was brushed aside, and Winnie swept into the office. Her colour was high, and she certainly looked a beauty at that moment.
The worry of the last few months instead of marring her looks, had softened the lines of her face, and her fine eyes were appealing. She came straight to Reckavile, ignoring the lawyer altogether, but something in the sternness of his face made her pause.
“Oh Hugh!” she said, not venturing to go to him, “why have you treated me like this? You have taken no notice of my letters, and refused to see me. Are you going to desert me after you have ruined me?” Her voice broke, and there were signs of coming tears.
“You need have no apprehension on that score,” he answered coldly. “I have already discussed the matter with Mr. Curtis here. When the time comes, you shall become Lady Reckavile, and have my honoured name. You have a witness here,” and he smiled like Satan at Curtis.
“But Hugh, you are so hard, so cold. It is your love I want as well as to be your wife,” she added hastily.
He was unmoved.
“I have said, Winnie, that you shall become my wife. Anything else I do not care to discuss, especially before another.” Curtis had remained in the hope that he could dissuade Reckavile from his purpose, but he now hastily made to go, when the other stopped him.
“No, Curtis, don’t go. There is nothing to add. I am leaving England, and you know where to find me. This lady can communicate with you, and you will continue her allowance. When my presence is necessary I will come. You can arrange the details at a registry office, as quietly as possible. No fuss, please, and above all keep it out of the papers.”
Winnie turned red with anger and shame. How brutal he was and callous, it was worse than anything that had gone before. Before she could collect her thoughts Reckavile had turned on his heel, and strode from the room.
She would have tried tears, or a passionate appeal, but what was the good of that with a dry old lawyer, whose face was impassive.
“What a way to treat me after all I have been through for him,” she blazed out, but Curtis remained silent.
“He said he loved me, and that he would remain true to me,” she went on.
“I am afraid Lord Reckavile has said that to many,” said Curtis dryly, drawing a paper towards him, “and as for standing by you, you are the first who has had the honour of becoming Lady Reckavile.”
His tone was final, and she felt the futility of talking to a parchment faced lawyer, whose sympathies were obviously with Lord Reckavile, and who considered she was getting out of it very well. With a toss of her head she went, vowing she would never enter the place again.
And Reckavile paced the deck of the Channel boat, deep in thought. His mind ran on suicide, which was the common weakness in his family, and generally the solution of impossible positions.
Then another thought came to him, and the more he turned it over, the better he liked it. Why not end the Line without violent means. He would give Winnie his name and the Estate for what it was worth. As Lord Reckavile he would cease to exist, but in sunny Italy, Hugh Desmond would bury himself with his little wife, and he would earn a living by his painting, for he was no mean artist.
The idea pleased him. Flowers and kisses, and lying in the sun, with not too much work, and perhaps a minor war or so to chase away boredom. By the time he had reached Italy he had made up his mind. There was only one more hurdle, the ceremony in London, and then happiness awaited him. The bigamy did not worry him in the least, such trifles were nothing to a Reckavile.
At Venice he waited all day, and a strange feeling of apprehension came to him. Suppose something had happened to Carlotta in his absence; he had left her, a mere girl—alone, with only servants of whom he knew nothing. Suppose she were ill, or even dead. A nervousness never felt before beset him. Impatiently he drove out to Murano, and came to the Villa San Rocco. Night was falling as he passed through the lovely garden, and approached the windows from which a soft light shone. She was sitting inside, a piece of work had dropped from her hands to the floor, and her great eyes were gazing at nothing. How sweet she looked and how dainty, but so sad. He had never seen her thus, and pity filled his heart, and reproach.
He entered through the open window, and with a great cry she came to him, holding out both arms. He took her to himself in a passionate embrace, and with a feeling deeper than the old stirring of desire. She raised her radiant face to his in perfect happiness.
“Oh, Hugh, I am so happy. You’ve come back to me.”
There was no word of reproach, no shadow of fretfulness at his long absence.
The past and future were gone, and for the moment the pure bliss of being together absorbed their beings.
She roused herself with a happy laugh, and kissed him, her face rosy with delight.
“I must tell the servants about dinner, and you will want to dress won’t you?”
She looked older, more self assured, but more beautiful than ever, he thought.
He had left his bag in the carriage, and went for it, and to pay the driver.
When he returned, she was waiting for him, and led him shyly to their room, fragrant with flowers, and the odours of the night.
She showed him everything with childish pleasure, all arranged for his return, and his dressing room on which she had lavished such care, overlooking the rose garden.
Dinner was laid in the loggia, and he seated himself with a sigh of contentment. The spotless linen and sparkling glass and silver added to his sense of happiness. She rose and filled his glass, and he made her sip from it first, the scent of her hair and the nearness of her warm body intoxicating him. He would have taken her into his arms, but that the servants were hovering near.
She was dressed in a soft evening gown, which showed the perfect lines of her young body, and he wondered at her beauty.
Never once did she ask him where he had been, or what he had been doing, but listened as he told her of England, and then recounted the little trifles of her life, so pathetically filled with the sorrow at his absence though she did not speak of it.
They sat over their coffee while he smoked a cigar from his Club, which had never seemed so fragrant before.
At last he rose.
“It is getting chilly, darling,” he said in a voice he tried to steady. “Let’s go to bed.”
A deep blush dyed her neck and face, as she rose and took his hand.