Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 1 of 3)

CHAPTER VI

HER SUDDEN RESOLVE

For some time after Mrs. Davenport left the drawing-room, young Pringle stood motionless, with his hand resting on the back of a chair. The scene had taken him completely by surprise. At the beginning of it he had made up his mind, or rather his emotions had so wrought upon him, he determined she had no reprehensible connection with the event of the night before.

He had implored her to confide in him, and she had given him her confidence up to a certain point. Then she not only refused to trust him any more, but behaved in such an extraordinary way as to lay herself open to the gravest suspicions. If she had at the end of their interview fallen down in a faint, he could have formed an opinion of the case-an opinion which would not have been very favourable to her, but still something definite. But the manner of her leaving the room seemed to throw a new light, or rather cast a new kind of shadow on the case.

He had better go down at once and inform Mr. Paulton of what had occurred.

He left the drawing-room and returned to the library. In as few words as possible he told the owner of the house that he feared there was no chance of avoiding the unpleasantness of an inquest. Mr. Paulton then asked what the lady had said, but Pringle explained he could not divulge it. He made no comment whatever.

The old man breathed heavily, and looked about helplessly when the solicitor had finished.

The two young men returned his look, but there was no comforting assurance in their gaze.

Alfred Paulton was now profoundly impressed with a sense of the unpleasantness into which he had drawn the whole family.

"I am very sorry, sir," said he, addressing his father, "that I have been the cause of all this worry. Of course I had not the least idea last night that anything of this kind was likely to arise. If I had, I should never have acted as I did."

"It is most unfortunate," said the father.

"Well," broke in Jerry O'Brien, "there's no use now in crying over spilt milk. What we have to ask ourselves is: How can it be best faced-eh, Pringle? Isn't that the practical question?"

"I think so," said the solicitor. "For my part I find myself in rather an awkward position. Mrs. Davenport's interests and yours, Mr. Paulton, can scarcely be said to be any longer identical. I cannot advise both. Besides, Mr. Paulton, you have a solicitor of your own. My position is uncomfortable-scarcely professional."

"My father's solicitor would be little or no use in this case, Mr. Pringle," said Alfred. "That is the reason we came to you."

"Mr. Pringle," said the father, "pray do not throw us over. If you do, I shall not know where to turn. Can you not show us any way out of this unhappy situation?"

"Of course," said Pringle, "you must put up with the consequences of facts up to this moment. What I suppose you to be asking me is-How can further consequences be avoided, or can they be avoided at all?"

"Precisely," said Mr. Paulton. "Can they be avoided at all? – and if so, how?"

"Well, as you offered the hospitality of your roof to Mrs. Davenport, and she has accepted it, you can't say to her, or even show to her, that you wish her to go-"

"Quite impossible," interrupted Alfred.

"But might I not say-that supposing she will see me again-a thing I doubt very much-it would be most desirable for her to move into town, so that she might be near me and I near her?"

"That would not be a bad plan," said Mr. Paulton, looking at his son and O'Brien for confirmation. "What do you think, boys?"

"I don't see what better can be done," said O'Brien, answering for the two.

He answered quickly, for he was half afraid that Alfred had not even yet made up his mind as to the desirability of her leaving the house.

"The great difficulty is that time is short, and I don't think I could intrude upon her again to-day. We had quite a scene upstairs. Judging from the state of agitation in which she left me, I should imagine she will not see any one on business during the remainder of the day."

At that moment the door of the library opened and Mrs. Davenport stepped into the room. She was in her walking dress.

All the men rose and stood looking at her silently. Mr. Paulton was the first to recover his presence of mind, and offered her a chair.

She came over quietly to where he stood, bowing slightly as she moved.

"I hope I do not disturb you, gentlemen," she said, in a gentle voice and with a wan smile.

"Not in the least," said Mr. Paulton. "Will you not take a chair?"

"Thank you, no. I am going out."

"Going out! May not some one go for you-one of my daughters or one of the servants?"

"You are very good; but I must go myself. I have just been explaining to Mrs. Paulton. I have come, Mr. Paulton, to thank you for your great kindness to me, a complete stranger. Believe me, I shall never forget it-never as long as I live. If a friend in need is a friend indeed, you have been a great friend; for I never wanted a friend more than I did this morning. I have come to thank you and to say good-bye."

"Good-bye!" he cried in astonishment. "Why should you leave us?"

His surprise was not feigned.

"Since you were kind enough to give me shelter, a serious difference has arisen in my position. When I came into your house I believed that there would be no unusual trouble about my poor husband's death. Now I understand in that I was mistaken. It would be monstrous on my part to involve you, Mr. Paulton, in any way in this unpleasantness, and it will be best for me to be alone."

She spoke with perfect composure, and Pringle could scarcely believe that this calm, collected woman, with the wan smile and resigned air, was the one who, a little while ago, had spoken impassioned words of despair.

Mr. Paulton was disturbed by this sudden and unexpected prospect of deliverance. There could be no doubt of the woman's sincerity. Here she was, without a suggestion from any one, offering to take the very step he desired. It was necessary to say something, and kind-hearted as he was, a polite lie was a sin utterly beneath him. He felt extremely awkward.

"Since you consider it useful to your own interest that you should go, I will say nothing against your leaving us."

"Allow me, Mrs. Davenport, to say that I think it will be better for you to be in London than here. I can then see you at any moment without delay," joined in Pringle.

When she heard his voice she turned to him. A shadow passed across her face. When he ceased speaking, she merely bowed. Turning her glance once more on Mr. Paulton, she went on:

"I have explained matters to Mrs. Paulton, and said good-bye to her. Your daughters are out, but your wife has promised me to say good-bye to them for me; and now there remains for me to say good-bye to only you and your son."

She held out her hand.

The host suffered a revulsion of feeling now that he heard her say good-bye, and saw her hold out her hand to him. It was hard to picture this beautiful woman alone in London, with her new woe. As long as she was an abstraction, as long as she was upstairs, and he regarded her as simply the source of notoriety if not of scandal, it was easy to wish her away at any inconvenience to herself or cost to him. But here she was now anticipating his wishes, doing precisely as he had most desired-about to launch herself alone on the vast ocean of London without a friend, and that, too, at the very time when she was most in need of friendly countenance and protection. It was too bad-much too bad.

He took her Land, and said, with perfect sincerity now:

"I am really sorry to say good-bye to you-really sorry you must go. I would like to be of any service to you I can. Will you, as a favour, promise me, if I can in any way assist you, you will let me know?"

"I will, indeed, Mr. Paulton. I am most grateful to you, and I am sure you would do anything you could for me; but" – she paused and sighed-"I am greatly afraid no one can do much to help me now. I must make up my mind to bear what cannot be avoided-to bear it bravely."

The tone in which these words were uttered and the smile which accompanied them were worse than any tears.

"But," said Mr. Paulton, still keeping the hand she had given him, "do you not think you had better wait a little, until evening, even if no longer?"

"I am greatly obliged to you. But what is to be gained by delay? Nothing."

"Well, but where do you propose going? What hotel do you intend staying at?"

"I know one," she answered, wearily, as she withdrew her hand gently from his. "It does not matter which or where."

"But you are not taking anything with you! You cannot go merely as you are!"

"I fear I must. I cannot take anything out of that awful house-no, never" – with a shudder. "All the things that are now there are like my dead husband-dead to me for ever. I can get what I need in London."

"At all events, you must not go alone. You must allow some one to escort you. I am certain my son would be delighted to take you wherever you may wish to go."

"It would give me great pleasure," said Alfred eagerly.

"You are both, I know, too good and kind to mistake for ungraciousness the refusal which I must give to your offer. I have no alternative but to go alone."

"Mrs. Davenport," said Pringle, "I am going to town at once. May I hope you will allow me to see you as far as either Ludgate Hill or Victoria? I am afraid that my want of caution when speaking to you a few minutes ago upstairs may have betrayed me into saying or implying more than I really should. We could talk a little more on the way in."

"With your permission, I will go by myself. Farewell;" and, with a bow that included all, she left the room.

They saw her walk through the little garden, open the gate, and reach the road. Then they lost sight of her.

For a long while no one spoke. Mr. Paulton broke the silence. "I'm very sorry." He did not say for what; he scarcely knew for what.

"She's a wonderful woman," said Jerry O'Brien. "I am not surprised at her not speaking to me. She bowed to me as much as to say she knew me. I often met her before, but never saw her in any humour like this. Why, in the name of all that's mysterious, would she not allow any one to go with her? It could not do her any harm for either you or Pringle or Alfred to go with her."

"That struck me as most strange," said Mr. Paulton.

"We are all friends here," said Pringle. "It doesn't seem strange to me. It seems foolish, though. If they want her they can catch her abroad as well as in England."

"Abroad!" said Mr. Paulton, in perplexity. "Surely she is not going abroad before the funeral of her husband. No woman would think of leaving the country before her husband is buried."

"Under certain circumstances, a woman might if an inquest was to precede the burial."

"Oh, I see."

"Now, gentlemen, I think we ought to be able to guess why she would have no luggage, no escort. She is going to disguise herself and fly to the Continent."

CHAPTER VII

LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS

When Mrs. Davenport left Paulton she walked straight to Herne Hill railway station. She asked when the next train would start for Victoria, and having learned there would be one in ten minutes, she took a ticket for that terminus, and then sat down on one of the seats on the platform.

It was cold, raw, dull, rainless February weather, and she was lightly clad, but she did not mind that. Her thoughts were turned inward, and she had but a dimly reflected idea of things surrounding her.

When the train steamed into the station, she rose in a quick but mechanical way, and took her seat in an empty compartment. Upon arriving at Victoria, she left the train in the same quick, mechanical way, got into a cab, and drove to a house in Jermyn Street. Having engaged a bed-room and sitting-room here, she sat down at once and wrote a letter.

As soon as the letter was finished she left the house, dropped the letter into the first post-pillar, and then ascended to the middle section of Regent Street. She visited several shops, bought many things, and ordered many more. When this was done she paused, seemingly at a loss.

"My letter," she thought, "will not be there until night. In the meantime, what shall I do?" She walked slowly down Regent Street. At last she started. "How stupid," she thought, "I have been not to telegraph! If I had telegraphed I could have had an answer in an hour."

She hastened forward, asked a policeman where the nearest telegraph office was, and on arriving there despatched a message. Then she went back to Jermyn Street, and, laying aside her bonnet and mantle, waited.

In an hour and a half a reply came. It ran:

"I shall be with you almost as soon as this."

When she read the message she got up and walked about the room in a state of great excitement. It was now dark, and the gas had not yet been lighted in the room. As she paced up and down she wrung her hands and moaned. After a while she became calmer, but still continued walking up and down. She had eaten nothing that day, yet she felt no want of food. In fact, when the servant, upon her return, suggested that she had better order dinner, she had refused to do so with a shudder. She knew she should need for the coming interview all her strength, but she could not bear the notion of food. She had not slept during the whole night, yet she felt no want of sleep.

"I feel," she thought, "as though my sorrows were immortal, and that I shall require earthly succour no more."

She had not long to wait in solitude. A hansom drove up to the door, a man jumped out, and in a few minutes he was ushered into the room. He found her still in the dark, leaning on the mantelshelf.

"Marion," he said-"are you here, Marion?"

"Yes," she answered, "I am here."

"I cannot see you, it is so dark."

"It is very dark. It never has been darker in all my life, and you know it."

"Will you not shake hands with me and order lights?"

"Neither. What is to be said can best be said in the dark. It is in the nature of darkness itself. Sit down. I prefer to stand; I wish you to sit. Sit down."

His eyes were now becoming accustomed to the obscurity. He found a chair, and sat down.

"Are you alone?" he asked, looking up at where she stood, motionless, by the mantelpiece.

"Absolutely," she answered, in a cold, hard voice. "And you know it."

"How could I know it? I got your telegram, and came at once. Marion, you are speaking to me in a tone I am unused to from you."

"Ay," she said, "I am unused to my own voice in its present tone. I am risking much for you, and you do not deserve that I should risk anything for you."

"Marion," he cried, half-rising, "you have not left him? You have not resolved to throw your fate in with mine at last? Marion, my darling! Marion, let me come to you."

"Stay where you are," she said, in a tone of perplexity, and with a shudder. "If you move from that chair, it must only be for the door. Remember this once for all."

"You are very hard, Marion-very hard. It is a long day since we met, and now you will not even give me your hand. You would give your hand to the most ordinary friend you have: think of what we were once."

His voice had a firm, manly, straightforward ring in it, and withal an undertone of passionate entreaty.

"I have thought too much of what has been once. I have thought too much of what was between you and me long ago. I have another matter to think of to-night."

"And what is that, Marion?"

"I have to think of last night."

He uttered a cry of surprise and half rose from his chair.

"Did you know I was there? I thought you were asleep. He said you were. Did he tell you I was there?"

She paused a moment and made a powerful effort to control herself. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady, and showed that a violent conflict was going on in her breast.

"He told me nothing," she said. "I have sent for you in order that you may tell me all. Now go on. All, remember."

"All?" he asked. "I would rather not tell you all. I never told you a lie yet."

"All," she said-"all, or go."

He shifted uneasily for a few minutes on his chair, and then spoke:

"Well, Marion, since you will have it all, you shall. I am no better than ever I was. I leave it to you to say if I could, being only human, be much worse. You might have made a different man of me once. You wouldn't. Let that pass."

"Yes, let that pass, and let it pass quickly. I did not sell you for a sum of money."

Her voice was scornful.

"No, you did not. You did better. You sold yourself for a sum of money. Shall we cry truce?"

"Yes; go on."

"I've been a good deal on the Continent. I've been doing a great many things I should not do. Amongst others, I have been gambling; and, worst of all, I have lost. There are many excuses for a man gambling. There is no excuse for a man losing. Well, I got cleaned out, and I came home-I mean I went back to Ireland.

"Naturally I faced south. Naturally I went on to Waterford. Naturally I found myself in Kilcash."

She made a gesture of dissent. But it was too dark for him to see. She said: "Most unwise and most unnatural."

"It may have been unwise, but it was most natural. What can be more natural than that a man should go where his heart- But if I say any more in this strain, you will be angry?"

"Most assuredly,"

"Well, when I got to Kilcash, I kept my ears open, and soon I heard that you were about to leave Kilcash House and take a house in or near London. I inquired still further, found out the day you were to leave, and got the address of the house you had taken. I came on to London.

"I arrived here the night before last. I knew you could not be in your new house until late in the day. I wanted to call most particularly. There was not an hour to be lost. It was neck or nothing with me. I resolved to call at Crescent House that very night, and I did."

"You did?" she said, in a voice like a terrified echo.

"You knew I was there. He told you?"

"No; go on. Go on, I say. You did not ask for me?"

"No. I wanted to see him."

"It was close to eleven, or after it then?"

"After it."

"And you wanted to see him at such an hour, and you knew he was an invalid?" she said, scornfully.

"I was an invalid myself."

"You! What was the matter with you?" – again that tone of scorn.

"A worse disease than his-poverty."

"What!" she cried, leaving the mantelpiece, and going a step towards him in the dark. "I thought you got the price of your-of me before."

"Marion, you are unjust-cruelly unjust. When I called on your husband last night, it was not to beg or to try and get money from him, because of anything in which you or I ever took part. I had a claim with which you have no connection, and the nature of which I will not divulge to you. He may if he likes."

"He never will," she said, with something between a laugh and a sob.

"So be it. It may be all the better the matter should never be spoken of. But to proceed. I knocked and he let me in. He explained that you were gone to bed, and that he and you were alone in the house. He was very polite, for he had an idea of why I came-or rather of the card of introduction, so to speak, that I brought with me. He made me take a chair, told me he was not well enough to lie down, as he had one of his bad attacks of asthma, though by no means a very bad one, and we had a pleasant general conversation for half-an-hour or so."

"Pleasant conversation!" she cried, falling back to her old position at the chimney-piece.

"Yes, I assure you it was quite a pleasant conversation. He told me all the incidents of your journey over from Ireland, and I amused him with my experiences on the Continent."

"This is too ghastly," she said. "Do not tell me any more about it. Did he give you-what you came for?"

"Oh, yes, or part of it."

"And then?" she asked, in a hard, constrained voice.

"And then after a few more words I stood up and said good-bye, left the house, and came back to town."

"Wait," she said. "I will give you another chance. Sit where you are. I shall be back in a few minutes."

"In the dark?" he asked.

"Yes. Is there anything in the dark that frightens you?"

"No," he answered; "but it is stupid to sit in the dark alone."

"Perhaps when I am gone you may not be quite alone. You may have memories for company."

There was great meaning in her voice.