SOME minutes had passed before Harold had sufficiently recovered to be able to get upon his feet. He could now account for everything that had happened. His father must have been found dead under suspicious circumstances the previous day, and information had been conveyed to the county constabulary. The instinct of the constabulary being to connect all crime with tramps, and his own appearance, after his night of wandering, as well as the conditions under which he had been found, suggesting the tramp, he had naturally been arrested.
He knew that he could only suffer some inconvenience for an hour or so. But what would be the sufferings of Beatrice?
“The circumstances under which I am found are suspicious enough to justify my arrest,” he said to the mounted man. “I am Lord Fotheringay’s son.”
“Gammon! but it’ll be took down,” said the constable with the truncheon.
“Hold your tongue, you fool!” cried the sergeant to his subordinate.
“I can, of course, account for every movement of mine, yesterday and the day before,” said Harold. “What hour is the crime supposed to have taken place? It must have been after four o’clock, or I should have received a telegram from my sister, Mrs. Lampson. I left London shortly before five last evening.”
“If you can prove that, you’re all right,” said the sergeant. “But you’ll have to give us your right name.”
“You’ll find it on the inside of my watch,” said Harold.
He slipped the watch from the swivel clasp and handed it to the sergeant.
“You’re a fool!” said the sergeant, looking at the hack of the watch. “This is a watch that belonged to the murdered man. It has a crown over a crest, and arms with supporters.”
“Of course,” said Harold. “I forgot that it was my father’s watch before he gave it to me.” The sergeant smiled. The constable and the two bill-hook men guffawed.
“Give me the watch,” said Harold.
The sergeant slipped it into his own pocket.
“You’ve put a rope round your neck this minute,” said he. “Handcuffs, Jonas.”
The constable opened the small leathern pouch on his belt. Harold’s hands instinctively clenched. The sergeant once more whipped his revolver out of its case.
“It has never occurred before this minute,” said the constable.
“What do you mean? Where’s the handcuffs?” cried the sergeant.
“Never before,” said the constable, “I took them out to clean them with sandpaper, sergeant—emery and oil’s recommended, but give me sandpaper—not too fine but just fine enough. Is there any man in the county that can show as bright a pair of handcuffs as myself, sergeant? You know.”
“Show them now,” said the sergeant.
“You’ll have to come to the house with me, for there they be to be,” replied the constable. “Ay, but I’ve my truncheon.”
“Which way am I to go with you?” said Harold. “You don’t think that I’m such a fool as to make the attempt to resist you? I can’t remain here all day. Every moment is precious.”
“You’ll be off soon enough, my good man,” said the sergeant. “Keep alongside my horse, and if you try any game on with me, I’ll be equal to you.” He wheeled his horse and walked it in the direction whence he had come. Harold kept up with it, thinking his thoughts. The man with the truncheon and the two men who had wielded the billhooks marched in file beside him. Marching in file had something official about it.
It was a strange procession that appeared on the shining wet road, with the dripping autumn trees on each side, and the gray sodden clouds crawling up in the distance.
How was he to communicate with her? How was he to let Beatrice know that she was to return to London immediately?
That was the question which occupied all his thoughts as he walked with bowed head along the road. The thought of the position which he occupied—the thought of the tragic incident which had aroused the vigilance of the constable—the desire to learn the details of the terrible thing that had occurred—every thought was lost in that question:
“How am I to prevent her from going on to Abbeylands?”
Was it possible that she might learn at the hotel early in the morning, that Lord Fotheringay had been murdered? When the news of the murder had spread round the country—and it seemed to have done so from the course that the woodcutters had adopted on coming upon him asleep—it would certainly be known at the hotel. If so, what would Beatrice do?
Surely she would take the earliest train back to London.
But if she did not hear anything of the matter, would she then remain at the hotel awaiting his return?
What would she think of him? What would she think of his desertion of her at that supreme moment?
Can a woman ever forgive such an act of desertion? Could Beatrice ever forgive his turning away from her love?
Was he beginning to regret that he had fled away from the loveliest vision that had ever come before his eyes?
Did Saint Anthony ever wish that he had had another chance?
If for a single moment Harold Wynne had an unworthy thought, assuredly it did not last longer than a single moment.
“Whatever may happen now—whether she forgives me or forsakes me—thank God—thank God!”
This was what his heart was crying out all the time that he walked along the road with bowed head. He felt that he had been strong enough to save her—to save himself.
The procession had scarcely passed over more than a quarter of a mile of the road, when a vehicle appeared some distance ahead.
“Steady,” said the sergeant. “It’s the Major in his trap. I sent a mounted man for him. You’ll be in trouble about the handcuffs, Jonas, my man.”
“Maybe the murderer would keep his hands together to oblige us,” suggested the constable.
“I’ll not be a party to deception,” said his superior. “Halt!”
Harold looked up and saw a dog-cart just at hand. It was driven by a middle-aged gentleman, and a groom was seated behind. Harold had an impression that he had seen the driver previously, though he could not remember when or where he had done so. He rather thought he was an officer whom he had met at some place abroad.
The dog-cart was pulled up, and the officials saluted in their own way, as the gentleman gave the reins to his groom and dismounted.
“An arrest, sir,” said the sergeant. “The two woodcutters came upon him hiding in their shed at dawn, and sent for the constable. Jonas, very properly, sent for me, and I despatched a man for you, sir. When arrested, he made up a cock-and-bull story, and a watch, supposed to be his murdered lordship’s, was found concealed about his person. It’s now in my possession.”
“Good,” said the stranger. Then he subjected Harold to a close scrutiny.
“I know now where I met you,” said Harold. “You are Major Wilson, the Chief Constable of the County, and you lunched with us at Abbeylands two years ago.”
“What! Mr. Wynne!” cried the man. “What on earth can be the meaning of this? Your poor father—”
“That is what I want to learn,” said Harold eagerly. “Is it more than a report—that terrible thing?”
“A report? He was found at six o’clock last evening by a keeper on the outskirts of one of the preserves.”
“A bullet—an accident? he may have been out shooting,” said Harold.
“A knife—a dagger.”
Harold turned away.
“Remain where you are, sergeant,” said Major Wilson. “Let me have a word with you, Mr. Wynne,” he added to Harold.
“Certainly,” said Harold. His voice was shaky. “I wonder if you chance to have a flask of brandy in your cart. You can understand that I’m not quite—”
“I’m sorry that I have no brandy,” said Major Wilson. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sitting on the bank with me while you explain—if you wish—I do not suggest that you should—I suppose the constables cautioned you.”
“Amply,” said Harold. “I find that I can stand. I don’t suppose that any blame attaches to them for arresting me. I am, I fear, very disreputable looking. The fact is that I was stupid enough to miss the train from Mowern junction last night, and I went to the Priory Hotel. I came out when the night was fine, without my hat, and I—— had reasons of my own for not wishing to return to the hotel. I got into the wood and wandered for several hours along a track I found. I got drenched, and taking shelter in the woodcutters’ shed, I fell asleep. That is all I have to say. I have not the least idea what part of the country this is: I must have walked at least twenty miles through the night.”
“You are not a mile from the Priory Hotel,” said Major Wilson.
“That is impossible,” cried Harold. “I walked pretty hard for five hours.”
“Through the wood?”
“I practically never left the track.”
“You walked close upon twenty miles, but you walked round the wood instead of through it. That track goes pretty nearly round Garstone Woods. Mr. Wynne, this is the most unfortunate occurrence I ever heard of or saw in my life.”
“Pray do not fancy for a moment that, so far as I am concerned, I shall be inconvenienced for long,” said Harold. “It is a shocking thing for a son to be suspected even for a moment of the murder of his own father; but sometimes a curious combination of circumstances——”
“Of course—of course, that is just it. Do not blame me, I beg of you. Did you leave London yesterday?”
“Yes, by the four-fifty-five train.”
“Have you a portion of your ticket to Abbeylands?”
“I took a return ticket to Mowern. I gave one portion of it to the collector, the return portion is in my pocket.”
He produced the half of his ticket. Major Wilson examined the date, and took a memorandum of the number stamped upon it.
“Did you speak to anyone at the junction on your arrival?” he then inquired.
“I’m afraid that I abused the station-master for allowing the train to go to Abbeylands without me,” said Harold. “That was at ten minutes past seven o’clock. Oh, you need not fear for me. I made elaborate inquiries from the railway officials in London between half past four and the hour of the train’s starting. I also spoke to the station-master at Mindon, asking him if he was certain that the train would arrive at the junction in time.” Major Wilson’s face brightened. Before it had been somewhat overcast.
“A telegram, as a matter of form, will be sufficient to clear up everything,” said Major Wilson. “Yes, everything except—wasn’t that midnight walk of yours a very odd thing, Mr. Wynne?”
“Yes,” said Harold, after a pause. “It was extremely odd. So odd that I know that you will pardon my attempting to explain it—at least just now. You will, I think, be satisfied if you have evidence that I was in London yesterday afternoon. I am anxious to go to my sister without delay. Surely some clue must be forthcoming as to the ruffian who did the deed.”
“The only clue—if it could be termed a clue—is the sheath of the dagger,” replied Major Wilson. “It is the sheath of an ordinary belt dagger, such as is commonly worn by the peasantry in Southern Italy and Sicily. Lord Fotheringay lived a good deal abroad. Do you happen to know if he became involved in any quarrel in Italy—if there was any reason to think that his life had been threatened?”
Harold shook his head.
“My poor father returned from abroad a couple of months ago, and joined Lady Innisfail’s party in Ireland. I have only seen him once in London since then. He must have been followed by some one who fancied that—that—”
“That he had been injured by your father?”
“That is what I fear. But my father never confided his suspicions—if he had any on this matter—to me.”
They had walked some little way up the road. They now returned slowly and silently.
A one-horse-fly appeared in the distance. When it came near, Harold recognized it as the one in which he had driven with Beatrice from the station to the hotel.
“If you will allow me,” said Harold to Major Wilson, “I will send to the hotel for my overcoat and hat.”
“Do so by all means,” said Major Wilson. “There is a decent little inn some distance on the road, where you will be able to get a brush down—you certainly need one. I’ll give my sergeant instructions to send some telegrams at the junction.”
“Perhaps you will kindly ask him to return to me my watch,” said Harold. “I don’t suppose that he will need it now.”
Harold stopped the fly, and wrote upon a card of his own the following words, “A shocking thing has happened that keeps me from you. My poor father is dead. Return to town by first train.”
He instructed the driver to go to the Priory Hotel and deliver the card into the hand of the lady whom he had driven there the previous evening, and then to pay Harold’s bill, drive the lady to the junction, and return with the overcoat and hat to the inn on the road.
Harold gave the man a couple of sovereigns, and the driver said that he would be able easily to convey the lady to the junction in time for the first train.
While the sergeant went away to send the Chief Constable’s telegrams, Major Wilson and Harold drove off together in the dog-cart—the man with the truncheon and the men who had carried the bill-hooks respectfully saluted as the vehicle passed.
In the course of another half hour, Harold was in the centre of a cloud of dust, produced by the vigorous action of an athlete at the little inn, who had been engaged to brush him down. When he caught sight of himself in a looking-glass on entering the inn, Harold was as much amazed as he had been when he heard from the Chief Constable that he had been wandering round the wood all night. He felt that he could not blame the woodcutters for taking him for a tramp.
He managed to eat some breakfast, and then he fly came up with his overcoat and hat. He spoke only one sentence to the driver.
“You brought her to the train?”
“Yes, sir. She only waited to write a line. Here it is, sir.”
He handed Harold an envelope.
Inside was a sheet of paper.
“Dearest—dearest—You have all my sympathy—all my love. Come to me soon.”
These were the words that he read in the handwriting of Beatrice.
He was in a bedroom when he read them. He sat down on the side of the bed and burst into tears.
It was ten years since he had wept.
Then he buried his face in his hands and said a prayer.
It was ten years since he had prayed.
THIS is not the story of a murder. However profitable as well as entertaining it would be to trace through various mysteries, false alarms, and intricacies the following up of a clue by the subtle intelligence of a detective, until the rope is around the neck of the criminal, such profit and entertainment must be absent from this story of a man’s conquest of the Devil within himself. Regarding the incident of the murder of Lord Fotheringay much need not be said.
The sergeant appeared at the inn with replies to the telegrams that he had been instructed to send to the railway officials, and they were found to corroborate all the statements made by Harold. A ticket of the number of that upon the one which Harold still retained, had been issued previous to the departure of the four-fifty-five train from London.
“Of course, I knew what the replies would be,” said Major Wilson. “But you can understand my position.”
“Certainly I can,” said Harold. “It needs no apology.”
They drove to the junction together to catch the train to Abbeylands station. An astute officer from Scotland Yard had been telegraphed for, to augment the intelligence of the County Constabulary Force in the endeavour to follow up the only clue that was available, and Major Wilson was to travel with the London officer to the scene of the crime.
In a few minutes the London train came up, and the passengers for the Abbeylands line crossed to the side platform. Among them Harold perceived his own servant. The man was dressed in black, and carried a portmanteau and hat-box. He did not see his master until he had reached the platform. Then he walked up to Harold, laid down the portmanteau and endeavoured—by no means unsuccessfully—to impart some emotion—respectful emotion, and very respectful sympathy, into the act of touching his hat.
“I heard the sad news, my lord,” said the man, “and I took the liberty of packing your lordship’s portmanteau and taking the first train to Abbeylands. I took it for granted that you would be there, my lord.”
“You acted wisely, Martin,” said Harold. “I will ask you not to make any change in addressing me for some days, at least.”
“Very good, my lord—I mean, sir,” said the man.
He had not acquired for more than a minute the new mode of address, and yet he had difficulty in relinquishing it.
Abbeylands was empty of the guests who, up to the previous evening, had been within its walls. From the mouth of the gamekeeper, who had found the body of Lord Fotheringay, Harold learned a few more particulars regarding his ghastly discovery, but they were of no importance, though the astute Scotland Yard officer considered them—or pretended to consider them—to be extremely valuable.
For a week the detectives were very active, and the newspapers announced daily that they had discovered a clue, and that an arrest might be looked for almost immediately.
No arrest took place, however; the detectives returned to their head-quarters, and the mild sensation produced by the heading of a newspaper column, “The Murder of Lord Fotheringay” was completely obliterated by the toothsome scandal produced by the appearance of a music-hall artist as the co-respondent in a Duchess’s divorce case. It was eminently a case for sandwiches and plovers’ eggs; and the costumes which the eaters of these portable comestibles wore, were described in detail by those newspapers which everyone abuses and—reads. The middle-aged rheumatic butterfly was dead and buried; and though many theories were started—not by Scotland Yard, however—to account for his death, no arrests were made. Whoever the murderer was, he remained undetected. (A couple of years had passed before Harold heard a highly circumstantial story about the appearance of a foreign gentleman with extremely dark eyes and hair, in the neighbourhood of Castle Innisfail, inquiring for Lord Fotheringay a few days after Lord Fotheringay had left the Castle).
Mrs. Lampson, the only daughter of the deceased peer, had received so severe a shock through the tragic circumstances of her father’s death, that she found it necessary to take a long voyage. She started for Samoa with her husband in his steam yacht. It may be mentioned incidentally, however, that, as the surface of the Bay of Biscay was somewhat ruffled when the yacht was going southward, it was thought advisable to change the cruise to one in the Mediterranean. Mrs. Lampson turned up on the Riviera in the spring, and, after entertaining freely there for some time, an article appeared above her signature in a leading magazine deploring the low tone of society at Monte Carlo and on the Riviera generally.
It was in the railway carriage on their way to London from Abbeylands—the exact time was when Harold was in the act of repeating the stanzas from Shelley—that Helen Craven and Edmund Airey conversed together, sitting side by side for the purpose.
“He is Lord Fotheringay now,” remarked Miss Craven, thoughtfully.
Edmund looked at her with something of admiration in his eyes. The young woman who, an hour or two after being shocked at the news of a tragedy enacted at the very door of the house where she had been a guest, could begin to discuss its social bearing, was certainly a young woman to be wondered at—that is, to be admired.
“Yes,” said Edmund, “he is now Lord Fotheringay, whatever that means.”
“It means a title and an income, does it not?” said she.
“Yes, a sort of title and, yes, a sort of income,” said he.
“Either would be quite enough to marry and live on,” said Helen.
“He contrived to live without either up to the present.”
“Yes, poorly.”
“Not palatially, certainly, but still pleasantly.”
“Will he ask her to marry him now, do you think?”
“Her?”
“Yes, you know—Beatrice Avon.”
“Oh—I think that—that I should like to know what you think about it.”
“I think he will ask her.”
“And that she will accept him?”
She did not know how much thought he had been giving to this question during some hours—how eagerly he was waiting her reply.
“No.” she said; “I believe that she will not accept him, because she means to accept you—if you give her a chance.”
The start that he gave was very well simulated. Scarcely so admirable from a standpoint of art was the opening of his eyes accompanied by a little exclamation of astonishment.
“Why are you surprised?” she said, as if she was surprised at his surprise—so subtly can a clever young woman flatter the cleverest of men.
He shook his head.
“I am surprised because I have just heard the most surprising sentence that ever came upon my ears. That is saying a good deal—yes, considering how much we have talked together.”
“Why should it be surprising?” she said. “Did you not call upon her in town?”
“Yes, I called upon her,” he replied, wondering how she had come to know it. (She had merely guessed it.)
“That would give her hope.”
“Hope?”
“Hope. And it was this hope that induced her to accept Mrs. Lampson’s invitation, although she must have known that Mrs. Lampson’s brother was not to be of the party. I have often wondered if it was you or Lord Fotheringay who asked Mrs. Lampson to invite her?”
“It was I,” said Edmund.
Her eyes brightened—so far as it was possible for them to brighten.
“I wonder if she came to know that,” said Helen musingly. “It would be something of a pity if she did not know it.”
“For that matter, nearly everything that happens is a pity,” said he.
“Not everything,” said she. “But it is certainly a pity that the person who had the bad taste to stab poor Lord Fotheringay did not postpone his crime for at least one day. You would in that case have had a chance of returning by the side of Beatrice Avon instead of by the side of some one else.”
“Who is infinitely cleverer,” said Edmund.
At this point their conversation ended—at least so far as Harold and Beatrice were concerned.
Helen felt, however, that even that brief exchange of opinions had been profitable. Her first thought on hearing of the ghastly discovery of the gamekeeper, was that all her striving to win Harold had been in vain—that all her contriving, by the help of Edmund Airey, had been to no purpose. Harold would now be free to marry Beatrice Avon—or to ask her to marry him; which she believed was much the same thing.
But in the course of a short time she did not feel so hopeless. She believed that Edmund Airey only needed a little further flattery to induce him to resume his old attitude in regard to Beatrice; and the result of her little chat with him in the train showed her not merely that, in regard to flattery, he was pretty much as other men, only, of course, he required it to be subtly administered—but also that he had no intention of allowing his compact in regard to Beatrice to expire with their departure from Castle Innisfail. He admitted having called upon her in London, and this showed Helen very plainly that his attitude in respect of Beatrice was the result of a rather stronger impulse than the desire to be of service to her, Helen, in accordance with the suggestions which she had ventured to make during her first frank interview with him.
She made up her mind that he would not require in future to be frequently reminded of that frank interview. She knew that there exists a more powerful motive for some men’s actions than a desire to forward the happiness of their fellow-men.
This was her reflection at the precise moment that Harold’s face was bent down to the face of Beatrice, while he whispered the words that thrilled her.
As for Edmund Airey, he, too, had his thoughts, and, like Helen, he considered himself quite capable of estimating the amount of importance to be attached to such an incident as the murder of Lord Fotheringay, as a factor in the solution of any problem that might suggest itself. A murder is, of course, susceptible of being regarded from a social standpoint. The murder of Lord Fotheringay, for instance, had broken up what promised to be an exceedingly interesting party at Abbeylands. A murder is very provoking sometimes; and when Edmund Airey heard Lady Innisfail complain to Archie Brown—Archie had become a great friend of hers—of the irritating features of that incident—when he heard an uncharitable man declare that it was most thoughtless of Lord Fotheringay to get a knife stuck into his ribs just when the pheasants were at their best, he could not but feel that his own reflections were very plainly expressed.
He had not been certain of himself during the previous two months. For the first time in his life he did not see his way clearly. It was in order to improve his vision that he had begged Mrs. Lampson—with infinite tact, she admitted to her brother—to invite Beatrice to Abbeylands. He rather thought that, before the visit of Beatrice should terminate, he would be able to see his way clearly in certain directions.
But now, owing to the annoying incident that had occurred, the opportunity was denied him of improving his vision in accordance with the prescription which he had prepared to effect this purpose; therefore——
He had reached this point in his reflections when the special train, which Mr. Lampson had chartered to take his guests back to town, ran alongside the platform at the London terminus.
This was just the moment when Harold looked up to the window from the Priory grounds and saw that vision of white glowing beauty.
HE stood silent, without taking a step into the room, when the door had been closed behind him.
With a cry she sprang from her seat in front of the fire and put out her hands to him.
Still he did not move a step toward her. He remained at the door.
Something of fear was upon her face as she stood looking at him. He was pale and haggard and ghostlike. She could not but perceive how strongly the likeness to his father, who had been buried the previous day, appeared upon his face now that it was so worn and haggard—much more so than she had ever seen his father’s face.
“Harold—Harold—my beloved!” she cried, and there was something of fear in her voice. “Harold—husband—”
“For God’s sake, do not say that, Beatrice!”
His voice was hoarse and quite unlike the voice that had whispered the lines of Shelley, with his face within the halo of moonlight that had clung about her hair.
She was more frightened still. Her hands were clasped over her heart—the lamplight gleamed upon the blood-red circle of rubies on the one ring that she wore—it had never left her finger.
He came into the room. She only retreated one step.
“For God’s sake, Beatrice, do not call me husband! I am not your husband!”
She came toward him; and now the look of fear that she had worn, became one of sympathy. Her eyes were full of tears as she said, “My poor Harold, you have all the sympathy—the compassion—the love of my heart. You know it.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know it. I know what is in your heart. I know its purity—its truth—its sweetness—that is why I should never have come here, knowing also that I am unworthy to stand in your presence.”
“You are worthy of all—all—that I can give you.”
“Worthy of contempt—contempt—worthy of that for which there is no forgiveness. Beatrice, we have not been married. The form through which we went in this room was a mockery. The man whom I brought here was not a priest. He was guilty of a crime in coming here. I was guilty of a crime in bringing him.”
She looked at him for a few moments, and then turned away from him.
She went without faltering in the least toward the chair that still remained in front of the fire. But before she had taken more than a few steps toward it, she looked back at him—only for a second or two, however; then she reached the chair and seated herself in it with her back to him. She looked into the fire.
There was a long silence before he spoke again.
“I think I must have been mad,” he said. “Mad to distrust you. It was only when I was away from you that madness came upon me. The utter hopelessness of ever being able to call you mine took possession of me, body and soul, and I felt that I must bind you to me by some means. An accident suggested the means to me. God knows, Beatrice, that I meant never to take advantage of your belief that we were married. But when I felt myself by your side in the train—when I felt your heart beating against mine that night—I found myself powerless to resist. I was overcome. I had cast honour, and truth, yes, and love—the love that exists for ever without hope of reward—to the winds. Thank God—thank God that I awoke from my madness. The sight which should have made me even more powerless to resist, awoke me to a true sense of the life which I had been living for some hours, and by God’s grace I was strong enough to fly.”
Again there was a long silence. He could see her finely-cut profile as she sat upright, looking into the fire. He saw that her features had undergone no change whatever while he was speaking. It seemed as if his recital had in no respect interested her.
The silence was appalling.
She put out her hand and took from a small table beside her, the hook which apparently she had been reading when he had entered. She turned over the leaves as if searching for the place at which she had been interrupted.
He came beside her.
“Have you no word for me—no word of pity—of forgiveness—of farewell?” he said.
She had apparently found her place. She seemed to be reading.
“Beatrice, Beatrice, I implore of you—one word—one word—any word!”
He had clutched her arm as he fell on his knees passionately beside her. The book dropped to the floor. She was on her feet at the same instant.
“Oh God—oh God, what have I done that I should be the victim of these men?” she cried, not in a strident voice, but in a low tone, tremulous with passion. “One man thinks it a good thing to amuse himself by pretending that I interest him, and another whom I trusted as I would have trusted my God, endeavours to ruin my life—and he has done it—he has done it! My life is ruined!”
She had never looked at him while he was speaking to her. She had not been able for some time to comprehend the full force of the revelation he had made to her; but so soon as she had felt his hand upon her arm, she seemed in a moment to understand all.
Now she looked at him as he knelt at her feet with his head bowed down to the arm of the chair in which she had been sitting—she looked down upon him; and then with a cry as of physical pain, she flung herself wildly upon a sofa, sobbing hysterically.
He was beside her in a moment.
“Oh, Beatrice, my love, my love, tell me what reparation I can make,” he cried. “Beatrice, have pity upon me! Do not say that I have ruined your life. It was only because I could not bear the thought that there was a chance of losing you, that I did what I did. I could not face that, Beatrice!”
She still lay there, shaken with sobs. He dared not put his hand upon her. He dared not touch one of her hands with his. He could only stand there by her side. Every sob that she gave was like a dagger’s thrust to him. He suffered more during those moments than his father had done while the hand of the assassin was upon him.
The long silence was broken only by her sobs.
“Beatrice—Beatrice, you will say one word to me—one word, Beatrice, for God’s sake!”
Some moments had passed while she struggled hard to control herself.
It was long before she was successful.
“Go—go—go!” she cried, without raising her head from the satin cushion of the sofa. “Oh, Harold, Harold, go!”
“I will go,” he said, after another long pause. “I will go. But I leave here all that I love in the world—all that I shall ever love. I was false to myself once—only once; I shall never be so again. I shall never cease loving you while I live, Beatrice. I never loved you as I do now.”
She made no sign.
Even when she heard the door of the room open and close, she did not rise.
And the fire burnt itself out, and the lamp burnt itself out, but still she lay there in her tears.
HIS worst forebodings had come to pass. That was the one feeling which Harold had on leaving her.
He had scarcely ventured to entertain a hope that the result of his interview with her and of his confession to her would be different.
He knew her.
That was why he had gone to her without hope. He knew that her nature was such as made it impossible for her to understand how he could have practised a fraud upon her; and he knew that understanding is the first step toward forgiving.
Still, there ever pervades the masculine mind an idea that there is no limit to a woman’s forgiveness.
The masculine mind has the best of reasons for holding fast to this idea. It is the result of many centuries of experience of woman—of many centuries of testing the limits of woman’s forgiveness. The belief that there is nothing that a woman will not forgive in a man whom she loves, is the heritage of man—just as the heritage of woman is to believe that nothing that is done by a man whom she loves, stands in need of forgiveness.
Thus it is that men and women make (occasionally) excellent companions for one another, and live together (frequently) in harmony.
Thus it was that, in spite of the fact that his reason and his knowledge of the nature of Beatrice assured him that his confession of the fraud in which he had participated against her would not be forgiven by her, there still remained in the mind of Harold Wynne a shadowy hope that she might yet be as other women, who, understanding much, forgive much.
He left her presence, feeling that she was no as other women are.
That was the only grain of comfort that remained with him. He loved her more than he had ever done before, because she was not as other women are.
She could not understand how that cold distrust had taken possession of him.
She knew nothing of that world in which he had lived all his life—a world quite full of worldliness—and therefore she could not understand how it was that he had sought to bind her to him beyond the possibility (as he meant her to think) of ever being separated from him. She had laid all her trust in him. She had not even claimed from him the privilege of consulting with someone—her father or someone with whom she might be on more confidential terms—regarding the proposition which he had made to her. No, she had trusted him implicitly, and yet he had persevered in regarding her as belonging to the worldly ones among whom he had lived all his life.
He had lost her.
He had lost her, and he deserved to lose her. This was his thought as he walked westward. He had not the satisfaction of feeling that he was badly treated.
The feeling on the part of a man that he has been badly treated by a woman, usually gives him much greater satisfaction than would result from his being extremely well treated by the same, or, indeed, by any other woman.
But this blessed consciousness of being badly treated was denied to Harold Wynne. He had been the ill-treater, not the ill-treated. He reflected how he had taken advantage of the peculiar circumstances of the girl’s life—upon the absence of her father—upon her own trustful innocence—to carry out the fraud which he had perpetrated upon her. Under ordinary circumstances and with a girl of an ordinary stamp, such a fraud would have been impossible. He was well aware that a girl living under the conditions to which most girls are subjected, would have laughed in his face had he suggested the advisability of marrying him privately.
Yes, he had taken a cruel advantage of her and of the freedom which she enjoyed, to betray her; and the feeling that he had lost her did not cause him more bitterness than deserved to fall to his lot.
One bitterness of reflection was, however, spared to him, and this was why he cried again, as he threw himself into a chair, “Thank God—thank God!”
He had not been seated for long, before his servant entered with a card.
“I told the lady that you were not seeing any one, my lord,” said Martin.
“The lady?”
Not for a single instant did it occur to his mind that Beatrice had come to him.
“Yes, my lord; Miss Craven,” said Martin, handing him the card. “But she said that perhaps you would see her.”
“Only for a minute,” were the words written in pencil on Miss Craven’s card.
“Yes, I will certainly see Miss Craven,” said Harold.
“Very good, my lord.”
She stood at the door. The light outside was very low; so was the light in the room.
Between two dim lights was where Helen looked her best. A fact of which she was well aware.
She seemed almost pretty as she stood there.
She had made up pale, which she considered appropriately sympathetic on her part. And, indeed, there can scarcely be a difference of opinion on this point.
In delicate matters of taste like this she rarely-made a mistake.
“It was so good of you to come,” said he, taking her hand.
“I could not help it, Harold,” said she.
“Mamma is in the brougham; she desired me to convey to you her deepest sympathy.”
“I am indeed touched by her thoughtfulness,” said Harold. “You will tell her so.”
“Mamma is not very strong,” said Helen. “She would not come in with me. She, too, has suffered deeply. But I felt that I must tell you face to face how terribly shocked we were—how I feel for you with all my heart. We have always been good friends—the best of friends, Harold—at least, I do not know where I should look in the world for another such friend as you.”
“Yes, we were always good friends, Helen,” said he; “and I hope that we shall always remain so.”
“We shall—I feel that we shall, Harold,” said she.
Her eyes were overflowing with tears, as she put out a hand to him—a hand which he took and held between both his own, but without speaking a word. “I felt that I must go to you if only for a moment—if only to say to you as I do now, ‘I feel for you with all my heart. You have all my sympathy.’ That is all I have to say. I knew you would allow me to see you, and to give you my message. Good-bye.”
“You are so good—so kind—so thoughtful,” said he. “I shall always feel that you are my friend—my best friend, Helen.”
“And you may always trust in my friendship—my—my—friendship,” said she. “You will come and see us soon—mamma and me. We should be so glad. Lady Innisfail wanted me to go with her to Netherford Hall—several of your sister’s party are going with Lady Innisfail; but of course I could not think of going. I shall go nowhere for some time—a long time, I think. We shall be at home whenever you call, Harold.”
“And you may be certain that I shall call soon,” said he. “Pray tell Mrs. Craven how deeply touched—how deeply grateful I am for her kindness. And you—you know that I shall never forget your thoughtfulness, Helen.”
Her eyes were still glistening as he took her hand and pressed it. She looked at him through her tears; her lips moved, but no words came. She turned and went down the stairs. He followed her for a few steps, and then Martin met her, opened the hall-door, and saw her put into the brougham by her footman.
“Well,” said her mother, when the brougham got upon the wood pavement. “Well, did you find the poor orphan in tears and comfort him?” Mrs. Craven was not devoid of an appreciation of humour of a certain form. She had lived in Birmingham for several years of her life.
“Dear mamma,” said Helen, “I think you may always trust to me to know what is right to do upon all occasions. My visit was a success. I knew that it would be a success. I know Harold Wynne.”
“I know one thing,” said Mrs. Craven, “and that is, that he will never marry you. Whatever Harold Wynne might have done, Lord Fotheringay will never marry you, my dear. Make up your mind to that.”
Her daughter laughed in the way that a daughter laughs at a prophetic mother clad in sables, with a suspicion of black velvet and beads underneath.