By what frightful accident, she asked herself, had this catastrophe come about? She thought of all the obvious incidents which would have revealed the secret to herself--the dropped letter, the altered countenance, the badly arranged lie. No. She was convinced her secret had been guarded with minute, with scrupulous care. The only thing she had forgotten in her calculations was her husband"s character, if, indeed, she could be said to have forgotten that which she had never known.
Lord Newhaven was in his wife"s eyes a very quiet man of few words. That his few words did not represent the whole of him had never occurred to her. She had often told her friends that he walked through life with his eyes shut. He had a trick of half shutting his eyes which confirmed her in this opinion. When she came across persons who were after a time discovered to have affections and interests of which they had not spoken, she described them as "cunning." She had never thought Edward "cunning" till to-night. How had he, of all men, discovered this--this--? She, had no words ready to call her conduct by, though words would not have failed her had she been denouncing the same conduct in another wife and mother.
Gradually "the whole horror of her situation"--to borrow from her own vocabulary--forced itself upon her mind like damp through a gay wall-paper. What did it matter how the discovery had been made! It was made, and she was ruined. She repeated the words between little gasps for breath. Ruined! Her reputation lost! Hers--Violet Newhaven"s. It was a sheer impossibility that such a thing could have happened to a woman like her. It was some vile slander which Edward must see to. He was good at that sort of thing. But no, Edward would not help her. She had committed--She flung out her hands, panic-stricken, as if to ward off a blow. The deed had brought with it no shame, but the word--the word wounded her like a sword.
Her feeble mind, momentarily stunned, pursued its groping way.
He would divorce her. It would be in the papers. But no. What was that he had said to Hugh--"No names to be mentioned; all scandal avoided."
She shivered and drew in her breath. It was to be settled some other way. Her mind became an entire blank. Another way! What way? She remembered now, and an inarticulate cry broke from her. They had drawn lots.
_Which had drawn the short lighter?_
Her husband had laughed. But then he laughed at everything. He was never really serious, always shallow and heartless. He would have laughed if he had drawn it himself. Perhaps he had. Yes, he certainly had drawn it.
But Hugh? She saw again the white, set face as he pa.s.sed her. No; it must be Hugh who had drawn it--Hugh, whom she loved. She wrung her hands and moaned, half aloud:
"Which? Which?"
There was a slight movement in the next room, the door was opened, and Lord Newhaven appeared in the door-way. He was still in evening dress.
"Did you call?" he said, quietly. "Are you ill?" He came and stood beside her.
"No," she said, hoa.r.s.ely, and she sat up and gazed fixedly at him.
Despair and suspense were in her eyes. There was no change in his, and she remembered that she had never seen him angry. Perhaps she had not known when he was angry.
He was turning away, but she stopped him. "Wait," she said, and he returned, his cold, attentive eye upon her. There was no contempt, no indignation in his bearing. If those feelings had shaken him, it must have been some time ago. If they had been met and vanquished in secret, that also must have been some time ago. He took up an _Imitation of Christ_, bound in the peculiar shade of lilac which at that moment prevailed, and turned it in his hand.
"You are overwrought," he said, after a moment"s pause, "and I particularly dislike a scene."
She did not heed him.
"I listened at the door," she said, in a harsh, unnatural voice.
"I am perfectly aware of it."
A sort of horror seemed to have enveloped the familiar room. The very furniture looked like well-known words arranged suddenly in some new and dreadful meaning.
"You never loved me," she said.
He did not answer, but he looked gravely at her for a moment, and she was ashamed.
"Why don"t you divorce me if you think me so wicked?"
"For the sake of the children," he said, with a slight change of voice.
Teddy, the eldest, had been born in this room. Did either remember that gray morning six years ago?
There was a silence that might be felt.
"Who drew the short lighter?" she whispered, before she knew that she had spoken.
"I am not here to answer questions," he replied. "And I have asked none.
Neither, you will observe, have I blamed you. But I desire that you will never again allude to this subject, and that you will keep in mind that I do not intend to discuss it with you."
He laid down the _Imitation_ and moved towards his own room.
With a sudden movement she flung herself upon her knees before him and caught his arm. The att.i.tude suggested an amateur.
"Which drew the short lighter?" she gasped, her small upturned face white and convulsed.
"You will know in five months" time," he said. Then he extricated himself from her trembling clasp and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
CHAPTER IV
For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one!
--RUDYARD KIPLING.
When Hugh awoke the morning after Lady Newhaven"s party the day was already far advanced. A hot day had succeeded to a hot night. For a few seconds he lay like one emerging from the influence of morphia, who feels his racked body still painlessly afloat on a sea of rest, but is conscious that it is drifting back to the bitter sh.o.r.es of pain, and who stirs neither hand nor foot for fear of hastening the touch of the encircling, aching sands on which he is so soon to be cast in agony once more.
His mind cleared a little. Rachel"s grave face stood out against a dark background--a background darker surely than that of the summer night. He remembered with self-contempt the extravagant emotion which she had aroused in him.
"Absurd," Hugh said to himself, with the distrust of all sudden springs of pure emotion which those who have misused them rarely escape. And then another remembrance, which only a sleeping-draught had kept at bay, darted upon him like a panther on its prey.
He had drawn the short lighter.
He started violently, and then fell back trembling.
"Oh, my G.o.d!" he said, involuntarily.
He lay still, telling himself that this dreadful nightmare would pa.s.s, would fade in the light of common day.
His servant came in noiselessly with a cup of coffee and a little sheaf of letters.
He pretended to be asleep; but when the man had gone he put out his shaking hand for the coffee and drank it.
The mist before his mind gradually lifted. Gradually, too, the horror on his face whitened to despair, as a twilight meadow whitens beneath the evening frost. He had drawn the short lighter. Nothing in heaven or earth could alter that fact.
He did not stop to wonder how Lord Newhaven had become aware of his own dishonor, or at the strange weapon with which he had avenged himself. He went over every detail of his encounter with him in the study. His hand had been forced. He had been thrust into a vile position. He ought to have refused to draw. He did not agree to draw. Nevertheless, he had drawn. And Hugh knew that, if it had to be done again, he should again have been compelled to draw by the iron will before which his was as straw. He could not have met the scorn of those terrible half-closed eyes if he had refused.
"There was no help for it," said Hugh, half aloud. And yet to die by his own hand within five months! It was incredible. It was preposterous.
"I never agreed to it," he said, pa.s.sionately.
_Nevertheless, he had drawn_. The remembrance ever returned to lay its cold hand upon his heart, and with it came the grim conviction that if Lord Newhaven had drawn the short lighter he would have carried out the agreement to the letter. Whether it was extravagant, unchristian, whatever might have been truly said of that unholy compact, Lord Newhaven would have stood by it.