She dropped her face between her hands with a low moan. It was horrible--horrible.
Then, afraid that Tim might hear her, she pa.s.sed stumblingly into her own room at the end of the corridor, and there, in solitude and darkness, she fought out the battle between her desire still to preserve the secret she had guarded three-and-twenty years, and the impulse toward atonement which was struggling into life within her.
Like a scourge the knowledge of her debt to Garth drove her before it, beating her into the very depths of self-abas.e.m.e.nt, but, even so, her pride of name, and the mother-love which yearned to shield her son from all that it must involve if she should now confess the sin of her youth, urged her to let the present still keep the secrets of the past.
The habit of years, the very purpose for which she had worked, and lied, and fought, must be renounced if she were to make atonement. A tale that was unbelievably shameful must be revealed--and Tim would have to know all that there was to be known.
To Elisabeth, this was the most bitter thing she had to face--the fact that Tim, for whose sake she had so strenuously guarded her secret, must learn, not only what was written on that turned-down page of life, but also what kind of woman his mother had proved herself--how totally unlike the beautiful conception which his ardent boyish faith in her had formed.
Would he understand? Would he ever understand--and forgive?
CHAPTER x.x.xVIII
VINDICATION
Meanwhile, the Herricks and their guests--"Audrey"s refugees," as Molly elected to describe the latter, herself included--had gathered round the fire in the library, and were chatting desultorily while they awaited Elisabeth"s return from her visit to Tim"s sick-room.
The casualties of the previous evening had been found to be augmented by two, since Mrs. Selwyn had remained in bed throughout the day, under the impression that she was suffering from shock, whilst Garth Trent was discovered to have dislocated his shoulder, and had been compelled to keep his room by medical orders.
In endeavouring to shield Tim, as they crashed to the ground together from the tottering staircase, Trent had fallen undermost, receiving the full brunt of the fall; and a dislocated shoulder and a severe shaking, which had left him bruised and sore from head to foot, were the consequences.
Characteristically, he had maintained complete silence about his injury, composedly accompanying Sara back to Greenacres in his car, and he had just been making his way out of the house when he had quietly fainted away on to the floor. After which, the Herricks had taken over command.
"I think," remarked Molly pertinently, "you might as well turn Greenacres into an annexe to the "Convalescent," Audrey. You"ve got four cases already."
The Lavender Lady glanced up smilingly from one of the khaki socks which, in these days, dangled perpetually from her shining needles, and into which she knitted all the love, and pity, and tender prayers of her simple old heart.
"Mr. Trent is better," she announced with satisfaction. "I had tea upstairs with him this afternoon."
"Yes," supplements Selwyn, "I fancy one of your patients has struck, Audrey. Trent intends coming down this evening. Judson has just come back from Far End with some fresh clothes for him."
Audrey turned hastily to her husband.
"Good Heavens, Miles! We can"t let him come down! Mrs. Durward will be here with us."
"Well?"--placidly from Herrick.
"Well! It will be anything but well!" retorted Audrey significantly.
"Have you forgotten what happened that day in Haven Woods? I"m not going to have Garth hurt like that again! He may have been cashiered a hundred times--I don"t care whether he was or not!--he"s a man!"
A very charming smile broke over Miles"s face.
"I"ve always known it," he said quietly. "And--I should think Mrs.
Durward knows it now."
"Yes. I know it now."
The low, contralto tones that answered were Elisabeth"s. Unnoticed, she had entered the room and was standing just outside the little group of people cl.u.s.tered round the hearth--her slim, black-robed figure, with its characteristic little air of stateliness, sharply defined in the ruddy glow of the firelight.
A sudden tremor of emotion seemed to ripple through the room. The atmosphere grew tense, electric--alert as with some premonition of coming storm.
The two men had risen to their feet, but no one spoke, and the brief rustle of movement, as every one turned instinctively towards that slender, sable figure, whispered into blank silence.
To Miles, infinitely compa.s.sionate, there seemed something symbolical in the figure of the woman standing there--isolated, outside the friendly circle of the fireside group, standing solitary at the table as a prisoner stands at the bar of judgment.
The firelight, flickering across her face, revealed its pallor and the burning fever of her eyes, and drew strange lights from the heavy chestnut hair that swathed her head like a folded banner of flame.
For a long moment she stood silently regarding the ring of startled faces turned towards her. Then at last she spoke.
"I have something to tell you," she said, addressing herself primarily, it seemed, to Miles.
Perhaps she recognized the compa.s.sionate spirit of understanding which was his in so great a measure and appealed to it unconsciously. Selwyn, with sensitive perception, turned as though to leave the room, but she stopped him.
"No, don"t go," she said quickly. "Please stay--all of you. I--I wish you all to hear what I have to say." She spoke very composedly, with a curious submissive dignity, as though she had schooled herself to meet this moment. "It concerns Garth Trent--at least, that is the name by which you know him. His real name is Maurice--Maurice Kennedy, and he is my cousin, Lord Grisdale"s younger son. He has lived here under an a.s.sumed name because--because"--her voice trembled a little, then steadied again to its accustomed even quality--"because I ruined his life. . . . The only way in which I can make amends is by telling you the true facts of the Indian Frontier episode which led to Maurice"s dismissal from the Army. He--ought never to have been--cashiered for cowardice."
She paused, and with a sudden instinctive movement Sara grasped Selwyn"s arm, while the sharp sibilance of her quick-drawn breath cut across the momentary silence.
"No," Elisabeth repeated. "Maurice ought never to have been cashiered.
He was absolutely innocent of the charge against him. The real offender was Geoffrey . . . my husband. It was he--Geoffrey, not Maurice--who was sent out in charge of the reconnaissance party from the fort--and it was he whose nerve gave way when surprised by the enemy. Maurice kept his head and tried to steady him, but, at the time, Geoffrey must have been mad--caught by sudden panic, together with his men. Don"t judge him too hardly"--her voice took on a note of pleading--"you must remember that he had been enduring days and nights of frightful strain, and that the attack came without any warning . . . in the darkness. He had no time to think--to pull himself together. And he lost his head. . . . Maurice did his best to save the situation. Realizing that for the moment Geoffrey was hardly accountable, he deliberately shot him in the leg, to incapacitate him, and took command himself, trying to rally the men.
But they stampeded past him, panic-stricken, and it was while he was storming at them to turn round and put up a fight that--that he was shot in the back." She faltered, meeting the measureless reproach in Sara"s eyes, and strickenly aware of the hateful interpretation she had put upon the same incident when describing it to her on a former occasion.
For the first time, she seemed to lose her composure, rocking a little where she stood and supporting herself by gripping the edge of the table with straining fingers.
But no one stirred. In poignant silence they awaited the continuance of the tale which each one sensed to be developing towards a climax of inevitable calamity.
"Afterwards," pursued Elisabeth at last, "at the court-martial, two of the men gave evidence that they had seen Geoffrey fall wounded at the beginning of the skirmish--they did not know that it was Maurice who had disabled him intentionally--so that he was completely exonerated from all blame, and the Court came to the conclusion that, the command having thus fallen to Maurice, he had lost his nerve and been guilty of cowardice in face of the enemy. Geoffrey himself knew nothing of the actual facts--either then or later. He had gone down like a log when Maurice shot him, striking his head as he fell, and concussion of the brain wiped out of his mind all recollection of what had occurred in the fight prior to his fall. The last thing he remembered was mustering his men together in readiness to leave the fort. Everything else was a blank."
Out of the shadows of the fire-lit room came a muttered question.
"Yes." Elisabeth bent her head in answer. "There was--other evidence forthcoming. But not then, not at the time of the trial. Then Maurice was dismissed from the Army."
She seemed to speak with ever-increasing difficulty, and her hand went up suddenly to her throat. It was obvious that this self-imposed disclosure of the truth was taking her strength to its uttermost limit.
"I had better tell you the whole story--from the beginning," she said, at last, haltingly, and, after a moment"s hesitation, she resumed in the hard, expressionless voice of intense effort.
"Before Maurice went out to India, he and I were engaged to be married.
On my part, it would have been only a marriage of convenience, for I was not in love with him, although I had always been fond of him in a cousinly way. There was another man whom I loved--the man I afterwards married, Geoffrey Lovell--" for an instant her eyes glowed with a sudden radiance of remembrance--"and he and I became secretly engaged, in spite of the fact that I had already promised to marry Maurice. I expect you think that was unforgivable of me," she seemed to search the intent faces of her little audience as though challenging the verdict she might read therein; "but there was some excuse. I was very young, and at the time I promised myself to Maurice I did not know that Geoffrey cared for me. And then--when I knew--I hadn"t the courage to break with Maurice.
He and Geoffrey were both going out to India--they were in the same regiment--and I kept hoping that something might happen which would make it easier for me. Maurice might meet and be attracted by some other woman. . . . I hoped he would."
She fell silent for a moment, then, gathering her remaining strength together, as it seemed, she went on relentlessly--
"Something did happen. Maurice was cashiered from the Army, and I had a legitimate reason for terminating the engagement between us. . . .
Then, just as I thought I was free, he came to tell me his case would be reopened; there was an eye-witness who could prove his innocence, a private in his own regiment. I never knew who the man was"--she turned slightly at the sound of a sudden brusque movement from Miles Herrick, then, as he volunteered no remark, continued--"but it appeared he had been badly wounded and had only learned the verdict of the court-martial after his recovery. He had then written to Maurice, telling him that he was in a position to prove that it was not he, but Geoffrey Lovell who had been guilty of cowardice. When I understood this, and realized what it must mean, I confessed to Maurice that Geoffrey was the man I loved, and I begged and implored him to take the blame--to let the verdict of the court-marital stand. It was a horrible thing to do--I know that . . .
but think what it meant to me! It meant the honour and welfare of the man I loved, as opposed to the honour and welfare of a man for whom I cared comparatively little. Maurice was not easy to move, but I made him understand that, whatever happened now, I should never marry him--that I should sink or swim with Geoffrey, and at last he consented to do the thing I asked. He accepted the blame and went away--to the Colonies, I believe. Afterwards, as you all know, he returned to England and lived at Far End under the name of Garth Trent."
Such was the tale Elisabeth unfolded, and the hushed listeners, keyed up by its tragic drama, could visualize for themselves the scene of that last piteous interview between Elisabeth and the man who had loved her to his own utter undoing.