Ричард Марш
Violet Forster's Lover
"I'm not going to talk to you, Margaret; I can see that it's no use. I'm sure that if Sydney had anything to do with Captain Draycott, that gentleman brought it on himself."
"My dear girl! But will the police think that?"
"Margaret, I'm going to get up. It's no use our continuing the discussion. We not only look out of two different pairs of eyes; we look on two entirely different worlds. In yours it's roses, roses all the way; in mine it's thorns, thorns, thorns. Are you going, or must I dress while you're here?"
The girl, slipping out of the bed, stood before her in her night attire.
"My dear, you often have, but I'll go if you'd rather. Shall I send your maid?"
"Send no one. I'll dress myself; I will do all things for myself in future. And, while you're here, I'll say good-bye. While I've been lying there I've been planning what to do to find Sydney. We're not to see much of each other while I'm doing that, and when I've found him we're likely to see still less. As you put it, he and I are not the sort of persons with whom you and your friends might care to claim acquaintance."
"Then you won't come yachting?"
"Thank you, I will not."
"Vi, don't be a pig! I'm on your side."
"I doubt it, nor, under the circumstances, do I see how you could be."
"But I am, you idiot! I've something of the sort of feeling for you which it seems you have for him, and though I've no doubt whatever that you're more foolish than a goose-because a goose is quite a wise bird-all the same, I'm going to stick as close to you as you talk of sticking to him. So perhaps, before I quit this room, you'll promise that you won't leave the house till you've had another talk with me."
"What will be the use of that?"
"Never mind; you promise."
"Oh, I'll promise; but I shall leave the house this morning all the same."
"You can, and my prayers will go with you; but you're not going in your present frame of mind towards me-that I tell you straight. You've had no breakfast, and it's lunch time. When you're dressed, suppose you come to my room and have something with me; I'll see that we're alone."
"If you like, I'll come, but it will be on the understanding that you will not even try to persuade me not to do what I am going to do."
"I won't try to persuade or dissuade you-only you come."
When the countess was again in the pretty sitting-room which she called her very own she took a sheet of paper from between the buttons of her blouse: it was the sheet of paper which had been contained in the envelope which had been presented to the earl by the bronze figure on the pedestal. The little lady read it carefully through; then she struck a match, and lit it at the corner, holding it in her fingers while it flamed, and she asked herself:
"I wonder who wrote it-could it have been Jane Simmons?"
When the paper had been utterly consumed, dropping the ash on to the floor, she pressed it into the carpet with her shoe, so that none of it remained. Then she rang the bell. To the man who answered it she said:
"There's a maid in the house named Simmons-Jane Simmons. Tell them to send her to me here at once."
Some minutes elapsed, during which the countess, taking her ease on a couch covered with pink satin, opened, one after the other, a number of envelopes which were in a tray upon a table. For the most part just glancing at their enclosures, she dropped them from her on to the floor, and was still engaged in doing this when the man returned.
"It appears, my lady, that Simmons has left the house."
"Indeed?" The countess just glanced up from still another enclosure she was dropping to put the question; no one would have supposed she was interested in the least.
"Yes, my lady. She was missed some time ago. Mrs. Ellis sent to her room, and it was found she was gone. It seems that one of the gardeners saw her walking towards the lake with a bag in her hand."
"Is that so? Tell them to serve lunch in my room-lunch for two-in, say, half an hour."
The man went. The lady continued to treat her correspondence with the same scant courtesy.
"So she has gone. I thought it would be found that she had gone. She was seen walking towards the lake, with a bag. I wonder why the lake, and what was in the bag. Poor Vi!"
CHAPTER XXIII
The Latest Story
Days became weeks, and the mystery of what had become of Noel Draycott was a mystery still. It had got into the papers; to the disgust of the Earl of Cantyre, it had become, in a sense, the topic of the hour. "Where is Noel Draycott?" was the question, set in staring capitals, which faced newspaper readers day after day. The usual things were said about the incapacity of Scotland Yard; and people were assured by the morning and evening Press that the whole affair was but another illustration of how ineffective our detective service really is.
The official methods of dealing with his house and grounds were bad enough, but when it came to the amateur detective, his lordship drew the line. It was a subject on which he expressed himself very freely.
"Think the professional is no good, do they? I can't say that I'm struck with him myself. But compared to these male and female creatures who are aping him-! There's a woman who has taken on the job of what she calls 'solving' the mystery for the Daily Screecher; they tell me they've had the greatest difficulty in keeping her out of the servants' hall, to say nothing of the butler's pantry; and the other day they found her under the dining-room table just as they were starting to lay the dinner. I've given instructions that all such persons are to be warned gently off the premises, and kept off. Of course, if any of them should stray by any unhappy accident into the lake, it will be a misfortune. Privacy is getting a thing of the past. From the tone some of these fellows take, you'd think it was their house, their grounds-not mine."
Miss Forster had gone her own way-her uncle and many of her friends put it, her own bad way. She had gone straight from Avonham to Nuthurst, her uncle's house, which had been her home for so many years. In an interview she had insisted on having with him a very few minutes after her arrival, she had given her uncle one of the surprises of his life.
"You wish me to marry Sir George Beaton?" she had informed him.
"I'm not particular about your marrying George Beaton," the distracted old man declared. "There are hundreds and thousands of men in the world besides. What's the matter with Harold Reith? I thought you liked him."
"I like him too much to marry him."
"Of course, there's that point of view. I said to him: 'If the girl does marry you, you'll want to drown her and yourself inside six weeks.' Well, that didn't seem to cheer him."
Miss Forster looked at the old gentleman with doubtful glance, as if she suspected him of malign intention.
"Such a remark on your part was quite unnecessary. Major Reith is not likely to find himself in such a situation. I am going to marry Sydney Beaton."
Had she actually dropped a live bomb at his feet, Mr. Hovenden could not have seemed more disturbed.
"That pestilent young scoundrel! Was there ever anything like a woman for sheer impossibility?"
"It is because I am conscious of what your sentiments are on the subject that I am going to leave Nuthurst."
"You're going to do-what?"
"I have an income of my own-"
"Five hundred a year."
"It's more than five hundred a year."
"How much more?"
"I'm going to take a small furnished flat in London, and I'm going to live in it. For that my income will be more than ample."
"Is the girl raving? What's the matter with my house-or with me? If it comes to that, can't I take a flat for you?"
She crossed the room, and she kissed him. Educated in the school of experience, he did not show himself so grateful as he might have done.
"What does that mean?"
"It means, my dear uncle, that it can't be done."
"What can't be done?"
"I'd better be candid with you."
"I'd sooner you weren't. Candour with you means saying something disagreeable."
"Circumstances have arisen which make me think that things are in a very bad way with Sydney."
"I shouldn't be surprised."
"You would be surprised if you knew how bad they are."
"Oh, no, I shouldn't. A young scamp like that must expect to feed on the husks which the swine have rejected. I know. Rogues sometimes do get punished even in this world."
"Does it not occur to you how impossible it is that I should remain in your house while you speak like that of my future husband?"
"Your future husband?"
"My future husband." She said it with an air of calmness which irritated the old gentleman more than any show of heat would have done.
"Violet, if ever you marry that young blackguard-"
"Stop, uncle, before you say something which I may find it hard to forgive." She spoke as if she wished him to understand that the discussion was closed; that all she had to do was to make an announcement. "I am leaving Nuthurst this afternoon; I am going up to town by the three-twenty-three. I have told Cleaver to send my things on after me and what things to send. I shan't want her. You may dismiss her or keep her on, as you please. I dare say she may be found useful in the house."
"Dismiss Cleaver! At a moment's notice! I catch myself at it. And she has waited upon you hand and foot since you wore your first pair of long stockings!"
As Geoffrey Hovenden growled the words out he surveyed her as a clean-bred old mastiff might an impertinent young lap-dog. She went calmly on, holding out to him a sheet of paper:
"My address in town will be 2A Cobden Mansions, York Place. I've written it on this piece of paper in case you should forget it. It is quite respectable; you need be under no apprehension. All the occupants of Cobden Mansions are women, who have to supply satisfactory references before they are accepted as tenants. Good-bye."
Ignoring the hand which she advanced, he glared at her as if he would like to treat her to a good shaking.
"Are you in earnest?"
"I am. I know, uncle, how much I have to thank you for; please don't think I'm ungrateful because I am leaving Nuthurst. If I had married any of those hundred thousand gentlemen you just spoke of, I should have had to leave your house for his, so it comes to the same thing, because I hope that my husband will soon have a home for me. I don't suppose we shall see much of each other in future-"
"Don't talk balderdash! I'm disappointed in you, Violet, disappointed."
"I'm sorry, uncle; but I shan't cease to love you, and I hope you won't cease to love me."
"Why should I? Though your whole conduct shows you don't care a snap of your fingers for me. I don't believe you're really quite right in your head; I've half a mind to have you certified as a lunatic."
"You might find that harder than you suppose. But don't let us talk about that. You'll think better of me when I've gone. If you won't shake hands, once more good-bye. Remember, 2A Cobden Mansions. I shall be always glad to have a visit from you."
She was gone from the room, and very shortly afterwards from the house. His inclination was to stop her by strong measures, but second thoughts prevailed. He chose what he flattered himself was the wisdom of the serpent.
"If I let her think that it is a matter of complete indifference to me whether she goes or stays, she'll soon be back again. When a woman thinks that you don't care if she does make a fool of herself, she'll soon give up trying. I never thought that the girl would be such an imbecile."
When, a few days later, Sir George Beaton called, and placed him in possession of certain information, he formed a still lower estimate of his niece's mental capacity. The young man burst in on the old one just as he had finished his usual daily interview with his steward.
"Hovenden," he began, without any preliminary greeting, "what's this idea about Violet having left Nuthurst and gone to live in town?"
The old gentleman looked up from a bundle of papers which the steward had left behind.
"I don't know what you hear, but she's gone." His glance returned to the papers. "So far as I can understand, she's gone to look for your brother Sydney."
Sir George displayed signs of acute perturbation.
"Good heavens! Do you know what's the latest tale they're telling?"
"How should I? How long is it since I saw you? The worst tales about your brother I've always heard from you."
"Is that meant for- What do you mean by that?"
"It's the truth, any way. Ever since Sydney was a small boy you've been telling tales to his discredit."
"Have I? I'm going to cap them with another: he's been committing burglary-that's his latest performance."
"Tell that to the marines. You know, George, you overdo it where Sydney is concerned; you make of him 'an 'orrible tale'; the colours with which you paint him are invariably sanguinary."
Sir George Beaton punctuated his words by striking his hand on the table at which the old gentleman was sitting.
"On the night of the Easter ball at Avonham all the women's jewellery was taken from their rooms-by Sydney."
"Who told you that?"
"Never mind who told me; it's a fact. It's the topic among the people we know."
"He did it for a lark; he has a peculiar sense of humour."
"That's how you look at it; you may well call it peculiar. There's something else which is being said of him, still more peculiar."
"He has committed murder?"
"That's what's being said."
"George, do you know you're talking of your own brother?"
"Don't I know it? You've seen in the papers about this Noel Draycott who is missing; he's one of the men who accused him that night at poker. They say that after Sydney had made off with the women's jewels he came across Draycott, there was a row, and he killed him. And this is the man Violet has gone to London to look for! She's not the only person who is doing it. And I'll say this-I hope that neither she nor anyone else will find him. I don't want to have my name entered in the Newgate Calendar, nor to see my brother finish at the gallows."
"Is it possible, do you think, that Violet can know of this-of these charges which are alleged against him?"
"I'm told it's because she knows that she's gone to town. She's got some cranky notion in her head that this is a case in which, for love's sake, the world would be well lost. To associate love with a man like that!"
CHAPTER XXIV
2A Cobden Mansions
It was hard to see what Violet Forster had gained by her change of residence, even from her own point of view; she felt that herself. She was conscious that Cobden Mansions was not Nuthurst, and that her particular corner in that tall, ugly, red brick building left a deal to be desired. And so far as she could see, she had done no good by coming; she had learnt absolutely nothing of Sydney Beaton's whereabouts; she could not have learnt less had she chosen to stray in the woods at Nuthurst instead of the highways and by-ways of London.
She had never got over the difficulty which had beset her at the first, that she had not been able to decide which was the best way to carry on her search. She had always the one dreadful fact to remember, that she was not the only person who wanted to get within touch of Sydney. If she was not careful she might do him the worst possible turn, by placing him in the hands of his enemies. That, in the sense in which she used the word, he was an innocent man she had no doubt whatever; but whether that sense was one which would commend itself to the authorities was the problem which caused her many a sleepless night, which took the roses out of her cheeks, the light from her eyes, the spring from her steps; which had transformed the blooming, light-hearted, high-spirited maiden into a nervous, shrinking, white-faced woman. She who had never known what it was to have an hour's illness, had suddenly become the victim of headaches which would not go. Such headaches! It seemed as if some terrible weight were pressing on her brain, making it difficult even for her to open her eyes. Major Reith caught her one day while she was in the grip of one of the very worst of them. Coming unannounced into her little sitting-room, he found her lying face downwards on the couch. Starting up, turning towards him her pallid face, they regarded each other with mutual discomfiture.
He spoke first: "I beg your pardon, but-I did knock."
Assuming a more orthodox position, she conjured up-it seemed with difficulty-a faint, wan smile.
"I'm not surprised. It's I who should apologise; this absurd head of mine makes me feel so stupid that anyone might knock half a dozen times without my knowing it."
Her appearance startled him; to him she seemed genuinely ill; the change which had taken place in her hurt him more than he would have cared to say. He was so unwilling that she should see the concern on his face that he turned his face from her under the pretence of putting his hat upon a chair.
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"What's the use? Medicine won't cure me, at least the sort of stuff a doctor would prescribe."
"Suppose you get really bowled over, what then?" She did not answer; she shut her eyes and sat still. "Do you know you are beginning to strike me as an extremely obstinate person?"
"Are you only just beginning to find that out?"
"You'll be a case for the hospital before very long, and then what good will you have done, for yourself, for anyone?"
"That's a question which I put to myself-so often. Please don't bully me. You never have seen me cry, have you? But I shall cry if you do; and I feel that if I once start I shall never stop. Have you any news? That's the medicine I want, and a doctor who will give it me."
"I'm more than half disposed to telegraph to someone who'd pack you off to the sea; you'll brood yourself ill."
"The sea won't do me any good; I've told you the only medicine which will. Have you any?"
"News? Of a sort. The regiment is all at sixes and sevens; in the whole of its history there's never been such a state of things before."
"What's wrong now with your precious regiment?"
"Everything. There's a bad spirit abroad in the mess; there's continual friction, the fellows are all at loggerheads, there's something that jars."
"So there ought to be, amongst such a set of individuals as constitute your mess."
"I've something to tell which you may regard as some of that medicine you are looking for."
"Have you? That's good; what is it?"
"It depends upon the point of view whether it's good or whether it's bad; from one point of view it's uncommonly bad."
"I hope that's not mine."
"I dare say it won't be. You know that throughout I've declined to express a positive opinion about that poker business of Beaton's."
"I do; and I've hated you for it."
"I'm beginning to think that there may be something in your point of view after all."
"Really? That is condescension; and what has brought it about-you're beginning to think?"
"I know what you think, and I know why; you must forgive me if my thoughts are on a different plane. You consider one man only, there's nothing that matters except him; to me there's a very great deal. I'm a soldier; to me the service is first and last; my regiment is all in all."
"Do you think I don't know that?"
"That affair of Beaton's was bad enough in all conscience; it's a tale which will be told of the regiment for many a day; but if it's going to be reopened I don't know what will become of us-I honestly do not."
"You don't believe that justice should be done even if the heavens fall?"
"I'm not sure that it is not better that one man should suffer, even though unjustly, rather than that a great and glorious tradition should be dragged in the mud and made a mock of."
"Your sentiments do you infinite discredit; I wonder, since you hold them, that I ever let you speak to me."
"Yes-well, I do hold them, and I'm going to continue to speak to you whether you let me or not."
"You haven't got your medicine."
"Young Tickell has made an announcement to the mess which is likely to cause trouble. He laid a cheque on the table for the amount which was in the pool that night, and he said that, as circumstances had arisen which caused him to doubt, he felt that he would like the money to be held in trust till the point was finally decided."
"Bravo, Jackie! Conscience moves in a mysterious way; that really is medicine."
"Yes, I thought you'd think so; it doesn't occur to you to think what the young gentleman's action means for the rest of us."
"I'm hopeful that it will cause your consciences to move in a mysterious way; I've always insisted that the age of miracles is still with us."
"Tickell as good as said that he doubted that Dodwell and Draycott had said the thing which was not, and if we had not all of us behaved infamously."
"You prefer the French point of view of the chose jugée; isn't that the phrase with which they decline to let injustice be set right?"
"The thing's done-that was bad enough; but if it's all going to be reopened it may be made infinitely worse; Tickell's action practically laid an unpleasant imputation upon every one of us."
"I shall write to Mr. Tickell and tell him how glad I am to find that there is in him the making of an honest man."
"What did you say to him that night at the Avonham ball?" Although the major paused for an answer, none came. "I believe that what you said, whatever it was, was the direct cause of his present action. Now what did you say?"
The lady rose from the couch, with a smile which, this time, was childlike and bland.
"I say that your medicine has already done me some good, and I think that the fresh air of the heavens may do me more. Regent's Park is within easy distance. Would you favour me with your society if I were moved to stroll in it? I will go and put my hat on." She turned again just as she was leaving the room. "By the way, who is the correspondent who has favoured this morning's Daily Screecher with that mysterious communication; do you think it was manufactured in the office? I fancy that mysterious communications sometimes are."
"You credit me with a knowledge of journalistic methods which I don't possess."
"You saw it?" He nodded. "What do you think of it?"
"I would rather not think of it at all."
"That seems to be your attitude in all such matters; you're like the ostrich who thinks that he hides himself and escapes from an unpleasant predicament by hiding his head in the sand. You see, I've got to think."
"Then, if I were you, I shouldn't."
"The Daily Screecher says that a correspondent has favoured them with an account of certain extraordinary occurrences which took place at Avonham on the night of the Easter ball. If the statement is true, and it seems to bear on it the hall-mark of truth, then it throws a very lurid light on the continued mysterious disappearance of Captain Noel Draycott. It goes on to say that searching and exhaustive inquiries are being made into the statement, the result of which will be published in an early issue. In the meantime it assures its readers that sensational, and even astounding, developments may shortly be expected. I suppose you are capable of telling me if you think that that communication was manufactured in the office?"
The major showed a disposition to fidget, on which the lady commented.
"It's no use your shuffling your feet, or looking down at your boots, or fingering your tie; everything is quite all right. Will you please tell me what you think?"
"It's difficult to say."
"That means that you think there is a bona fide correspondent and that the communication is genuine."
"I'll put it this way-it's a wonder to me that something hasn't peeped out already. You and I know that the facts that the papers have got are not the real ones; there are-how many persons? – goodness only knows! – who are in a position to supply them with something which is a great deal nearer the truth-the whole truth, that is."
"And you think that one of those persons has?"
"Who knows? So far what struck me most about the matter is, that in spite of the boasted argus eyes of the newspapers, how easy it is to keep things from them. Even the approximate truth of what took place at Avonham would make-if they knew it-the fortunes of half a dozen journalists; and in America they would have got it, long ago; it's possible that here they're going to get it now."
The girl's smile had again become wan and faint.
"You're a comfortable counsellor; that paragraph in the Screecher gave me my headache; your medicine did it good; but now it's as bad again as ever. I don't think that I care to stroll in the park-even with you."
"Whether you care or not you are coming. Go and put on your hat; or am I to carry you off without it?"
The girl hesitated; then, without a word, quitted the room. She was absent some minutes; a hat is not put on in a second. When she returned there was something about her eyes which filled the major with uncomfortable suspicions. In silence she led the way downstairs, and he followed.
It did not promise to be a very agreeable stroll, although the weather was fine. He seemed to find it hard to make conversation; she certainly declined to help him. They were into the park before a dozen sentences had been exchanged. Then, when they had walked quite a little distance without a word being spoken, all at once, as if moved by a sudden impulse, she made an effort to relieve the situation.
"If we walk on much longer, mumchance, like two dumb statues, people will think one of two things; either that we are married-I've been given to understand that husbands and wives never speak to each other when they take their walks abroad-or else that we have quarrelled."
He bore himself as if he had a poker down his back, and his eyes were fixed straight in front of him as he replied:
"I've not the least objection to their thinking the first."
"I dare say; but I have. Will you please talk to me about the weather."
Before he had a chance to air his eloquence upon that well-worn subject, something happened which rendered it unnecessary for him to say anything at all. A taxicab had gone rushing past, and as it passed, its occupant, a lady, put out her head to look at them. The cab had not gone another fifty yards before she stopped it. As they approached she was standing on the footpath with the obvious intention of accosting them. Her tone as she did so was enthusiastic.
"Miss Forster! This is a pleasure."
Judging from the expression on the young lady's face she was more than doubtful if it was a pleasure which was common to them both.
"Jane Simmons!" she exclaimed.
The other shook her by no means ill-looking head, and she laughed.
"Not Simmons; my name is Spurrier, Julia Spurrier. Most fortunate my meeting you like this, Miss Forster; I have for some time been most anxious to have a talk with you. Is there anywhere where I can say a few words to you in private? I believe you will regard what I have to say as of the first importance-to you, Miss Forster. I know what I am saying."
