Miss Arnott's Marriage, page 11
As that aspect of the position began to penetrate her consciousness, it was all she could do to keep herself from playing the girl. After all, in years, she was only a girl. In simplicity, in ignorance of evil, in essential purity--a child. When she found herself confronted by the inquiry, what form would the payment take? girl-like, her courage began, as it were, to slip through her finger ends. Then there was that other side to the question, from whom would payment be demanded? Suddenly required to furnish an answer to this, for some moments her heart stood still. She looked about her, at the ruddy-hued water in the wash basin, at the clothing torn off because it was stained. Recalled her tell-tale entry, her admission by Day who, in spite of his unnaturally non-committal attitude, must have noticed the state that she was in; Evans's startled face when, attempting no concealment, she blurted out her confession of what she saw. Here, plainly, were all the essentials for a comedy or tragedy of misunderstanding.
If Hugh Morice chose to be silent all the visible evidences pointed at her. They all seemed to cry aloud that it was she who had done this thing. From the ignorant spectator's point of view there could hardly be a stronger example of perfect circumstantial proof.
For some occult reason her lips were wrinkled by a smile at the thought of Hugh Morice keeping silent. As if he would when danger threatened her, for whom he had done this thing. And yet, if he did not keep silent, who would have to pay? Would--? Yes, he would; certainly. At that thought her poor, weak, childish heart seemed to drop in her bosom like a lump of lead. The tears stood in her eyes. She went hot and cold. No--not that. Rather than that, it would be better that he should keep silent. Better--better anything than that. He had done this for her; but, he must not be allowed to do more. He had done enough for her already--more than enough--much more. She must make it her business to see that he did nothing else. Nothing.
Just as she was, all unclothed, she knelt down and prayed. The strangest prayer, a child's prayer, the kind of prayer which, sometimes, coming from the very heart of the child, is uttered in all simplicity. Many strange petitions have been addressed to God; but few stranger than that. She prayed that whoever might have to suffer for what had been done, he might escape scot-free; not only here but also hereafter; in heaven as well as on earth. Although the supplication invoked such an odd confusion of ideas, it was offered up with such intense earnestness and simplicity of purpose, that it had, at anyrate, one unlooked for effect. It calmed her mind. She rose up from her knees feeling more at ease than she had done since ten o'clock. In some vague way, which was incomprehensible to herself, her prayer seemed already to have been answered. Therefore, the future had no perils in store for her; she was at peace with the world.
She collected the garments which she had taken off, arranged them in a neat bundle and placed them in an almost empty drawer which she found at the bottom of a wardrobe. The knife she put under the bundle. Then, locking the drawer, she disposited the key beneath her pillows. In the morning her brain would be clearer. She would be able to decide what to do with the things which, although speechless, were yet so full of eloquence. The water in which she had washed she carried into the apartment which opened out of her bedroom, and, emptying it into the bath, watched it disappear down the waste water pipe. She flushed the bath so as to remove any traces which it might have left behind. Then, arraying herself in her night attire, she put out the lights and got into bed.
She awoke with that sense of pleasant refreshment which comes after calm, uninterrupted slumber. She lay, for some seconds, in a state of blissful indolence. Then, memory beginning to play its part, she raised herself upon her elbow with a sudden start. She looked about the room. All was as she had left it. Although the curtains and the blinds were drawn the presence of the sun was obvious. Through one window a long pencil of sunshine gleamed across the carpet. Evidently a fine night was to be followed by a delightful day. She touched the ivory push piece just above her head. Instantly Evans appeared.
"Get my bath ready. I'm going to get up at once."
She eyed the woman curiously, looking for news upon her face. There were none. Her countenance was again the servant's expressionless mask. When the curtains and blinds were drawn the room was filled with golden light. She had the windows opened wide. The glory of a summer's day came streaming in. The events of the night seemed to have become the phantasmagoria of some transient dream. It was difficult to believe that they were real, that she had not dreamed them. Her spirits were higher than they had been for some time. She sang to herself while she was having her bath. Evans, putting out her clothes in the next room, heard her.
"She seems to be all right now. That's the first time I've heard her singing, and she looks better. Slept well, I suppose. When you're young and healthy a good sleep works wonders. A nice sight she looked when she came in this morning; I never saw anything like it-- never! All covered with blood, my gracious! A queer one she is, the queerest I've ever had to do with, and I've had to do with a few. Seems to me that the more money a woman's got the queerer she is, unless she's got a man to look after her. However, it's no business of mine; I don't want to know what games she's up to. I have found knowing too much brings trouble. But whatever has become of the clothes that she had on? They've vanished, every single thing except the stockings. What can she have done with them? It's queer. I suppose, as she hasn't left them about it's a hint that I'm not to ask questions. I don't want to; I'm sure the less I know the better I'm pleased. Still, I do hope there's nothing wrong. She's a good sort; in spite of all her queernesses, I never want to meet a better. That generous! and simple as a child! Sooner than anything should happen to her I'd--well, I'd do a good deal. If she'd left those clothes of hers about I'd have washed 'em and got 'em up myself, so that no one need have known about the state that they were in. I don't want to speak to her about it. With her ideas about not liking to be overlooked she might think that I was interfering; but, I wish she had."
Somewhat to her surprise Miss Arnott found Mrs Plummer waiting for her at the breakfast-table.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I thought you would have finished long ago--ever so long ago."
"I was a little late myself; so I thought I'd wait for you. What time did you come in?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. I only wondered. Directly I had finished dinner I went to bed--straight from the table. I was tired; I thought you wouldn't care for me to sit up for you."
"Of course not; what an idea! You never have sat up for me, and I shouldn't advise you to begin. But--you still look tired. Haven't you slept away your fatigue?"
"I don't fancy I have quite. As you say, I'm still a little tired. Yet I slept well, fell asleep as soon as I got into bed directly, and never woke."
"Didn't you dream?"
"Dream? Why should I dream?"
"There's no particular reason that I know of, only when people march straight from dinner to bed dreams do sometimes follow--at least, so I've been told."
"They don't with me; I never dream, never. I don't suppose I've dreamt half-a-dozen times in my life."
"You're lucky."
"I've a clear conscience, my dear; a perfectly clear conscience. People with clear consciences don't dream. Where did you go to?"
"Oh--I strolled about, enjoying the fresh air."
"An odd hour to enjoy it, especially after the quantity of fresh air that you've been enjoying lately. What time did you say it was that you came in?"
"I didn't say. Day will be able to tell you, if you are anxious to know--you appear to be. He let me in." The elder lady was silent, possibly not caring to lay herself open to the charge of being curious. Presently Miss Arnott put the inquiry to the butler on her own account. "Probably, Day, you will be able to supply Mrs Plummer with the information she desires. What time was it when I came in?"
"I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't look at my watch. I've no idea."
The butler kept his eyes turned away as he answered. Something in his tone caused her to look at him-- something which told her that if the man had not been guilty of a positive falsehood, he had at least been a party to the suppression of the truth. She became instantly convinced that his intention was to screen her. She did not like the notion, it gave her an uncomfortable qualm.
CHAPTER XIV
ON THE HIGH ROAD
All that day nothing happened. Miss Arnott went in the morning to church; in the afternoon for a run on her motor, which had been neglected during the whole period of her absence abroad. She continued in a state of expectation. Before she started for church from everyone who approached her she looked for news; being persuaded that, if there were news of the kind she looked for, it would not be hidden from her long. But, plainly, no one had anything to tell.
Mrs Plummer accompanied her to church. Miss Arnott would rather she had refrained. A conviction was forcing itself upon her that, at the back of Mrs Plummer's mind, there was something which she was doing her best to keep to herself, but which now and then would peep out in spite of her--something hostile to herself. A disagreeable feeling was growing on her that the lady knew much more about her movements on the previous night than she was willing to admit. How she knew she did not attempt to guess, or even whether the knowledge really amounted to anything more than a surmise. She had an uncomfortable impression that her companion, who was obviously ill at ease, was watching her with a furtive keenness which she intuitively resented.
When they reached the church she was scarcely in a religious mood. She was conscious that her unexpected appearance made a small sensation. Those who knew her smiled at her across the pews. Only servants were in the Oak Dene pew; the master was absent. She wondered if anything had yet transpired; half expecting some allusion to the matter during the course of the sermon. While the vicar preached her thoughts kept wandering to the mossy nook beneath the beech tree. Surely someone must have been there by now, and seen. She would hear all about it after church--at anyrate, when she reached home.
But no, not a word. Nothing had stirred the tranquil country air. One item of information she did receive on her entering the house--Hugh Morice had called. She probably appeared more startled than the occasion seemed to warrant. The fact being that she had forgotten the appointment he had made with her the night before. In any case she would not have expected him to keep it. That he should have done so almost took her breath away. He had merely inquired if she was in; on learning that she was not had gone away. He had left no message.
If she had stayed at home and seen him, what would he have said to her?
That was the question which she kept putting to herself throughout the run on her motor; fitting it not with one answer, but a dozen. There were so many things he might have said, so many he might have left unsaid.
She expected to be greeted with the news when she brought the car to a standstill in front of her own hall door. No; still not a word. Not one during the whole of the evening. A new phase seemed to be developing in Mrs Plummer's character--she had all at once grown restless, fidgety. Hitherto, if she had had a tendency, it had been to attach herself too closely to her charge. She was disposed to be too conversational. Now, on a sudden, it was all the other way. Unless the girl's fancy played her a trick she was not only desirous of avoiding her, but when in her society she was taciturn almost to the verge of rudeness. Miss Arnott was anxious neither for her company nor her conversation; but she did not like her apparent unflattering inclination to avoid her altogether.
That night the girl went early to bed. Hardly had she got into her room than she remembered the key; the key of the wardrobe drawer, which, in the small hours of the morning, she had put under her pillow before she got into bed. Until that moment she had forgotten its existence. Now, all at once, it came back to her with a jarring shock. She went to the bed and lifted the pillows--there was nothing there.
"Have you heard anything about a key being found underneath this pillow? I put it there just before I got into bed. I forgot it when I got up."
"No, miss, I haven't. What key was it?"
"It was"--she hesitated--"it was the key of a drawer in this wardrobe. Perhaps it's in it now. No; there's nothing there. Whoever made my bed must have seen it. Who made the bed?"
"Wilson, miss. If she saw a key under your pillow she ought to have given it me at once. I was in the room all the while; but she never said a word. I'll go and ask her at once."
"Do. But I see all the drawers have keys. I suppose any one of them will fit any drawer?"
"No, miss, that's just what they won't do; and very awkward it is sometimes. There's a different lock to every drawer, and only one key which fits it. I'll go and make inquiries of Wilson at once."
While Evans was gone Miss Arnott considered. It would be awkward if the key were lost or mislaid. To gain access to that drawer the lock would have to be forced. Circumstances might very easily arise which would render it necessary that access should be gained, and by her alone. Nor was the idea a pleasant one that, although the drawer was closed to her, it might be accessible to somebody else.
Evans returned to say that the maid, Wilson, denied all knowledge of a key.
"She declares that there was no key there. She says that if there had been she couldn't have helped but see it. I don't see how she could have either. You are sure, miss, that you left it there?"
"Certain."
"Then perhaps it slipped on to the floor when she moved the pillow, without being noticed."
It was not on the floor then--at least, they could discover no signs of it. Evans moved the bed, and went on her knees to see. Nor did it appear to have strayed into the bed itself.
"I will see Wilson myself in the morning," said Miss Arnott, when Evans's researches proved resultless. "The key can't have vanished into nothing."
But Wilson, even when interviewed by her mistress, afforded no information. She was a raw country girl. A bundle of nerves when she saw that Miss Arnott was dissatisfied. There seemed no possible reason why she should wish to conceal the fact that she had lighted on the key, if she had done so. So far as she knew the key was valueless, certainly it was of no interest to her. Miss Arnott had to console herself with the reflection that if she did not know what had become of the key no one else did either. She gave instructions that if it was found it was to be handed her at once. There, for the moment, the matter rested.
Again on that Monday nothing transpired. It dawned upon the girl, when she began to think things over, that it was well within the range of possibility that nothing would transpire for a considerable period. That mossy nook was in a remote part of the estate. Practically speaking, except the gamekeepers, nobody went there at all. It was certain that whoever did would be trespassing. So far as she knew, thereabouts, trespassers of any sort were few and far between. As for the gamekeepers, there was nothing to take them there.
By degrees her cogitations began to trend in an altogether unexpected direction. If the discovery had not been made already, and might be postponed for weeks, it need never be made at all. The body might quite easily be concealed. If there was time it might even be buried at the foot of the beech tree under which it had been lying, and all traces of the grave be hidden. It only needed a little care and sufficient opportunity. She remembered when a favourite dog had died, how her father had buried it at one side of the lawn in their Cumberland home. He had been careful in cutting out the sods of turf; when replacing them in their former positions, he had done so with such neatness and accuracy that, two or three days after no stranger would have supposed they had ever been moved.
The dead man might be treated as her father had treated Fido. In which case his fate might never become known, unless she spoke. Indeed, for all she could tell, the body might be under the turf by now. If she chose to return to the enjoyment of her favourite lounge there might be nothing to deter her. She might lie, and laze, and dream, and be offended by nothing which could recall unpleasant memories.
As the possibility that this might be so occurred to her she became possessed by a strange, morbid disposition to put it to the test. She was nearly half inclined to stroll once more along that winding path, and see if there was anything to prevent her enjoying another waking dream. This inclination began to be so strong that, fearful lest it should get the better of her, to escape what was becoming a hideous temptation, she went for another run upon her car, and, in returning, met Hugh Morice.
They saw each other's car approaching on the long straight road, while they were yet some distance apart, possibly more than a mile, backed by the usual cloud of dust. She was descending an incline, he was below, far off, where the road first came in sight. For some moments she was not sure that the advancing car was his, then she was undecided what to do; whether to sweep past him, or to halt and speak. Her heart beat faster, her hands were tremulous, her breath came quicker. She had just resolved to go past him with a commonplace salutation, when the matter was taken out of her hands. When he was within a hundred yards of her he stopped his car, with the evident design of claiming her attention for at least a second or two. So she stopped also, when the machines were within a yard of one another.
He was alone. He glanced at her chauffeur with his big grey eyes, as if the sight of him were offensive. Then he looked at her and she at him, and for a while they were silent. It seemed to her that he was devouring her with his eyes. She was vaguely conscious of a curious feeling of satisfaction at being devoured. For her part she could not take her eyes off his face--she loved to look at him.
It was only after some moments had passed that it appeared to occur to him that there might be anything singular in such a fashion of meeting, especially in the presence of her mechanic. When he spoke his voice seemed husky, the manner of his speech was, as usual, curt.
"Why weren't you at home yesterday morning as you promised?"
