CHAPTER IV
Beatrice woke to the knowledge of her own utter misery. Contrary to heranticipation, she had slept very soundly all night, much as condemnedcriminals are supposed to do on the eve of execution. She felt well andvigorous in herself, a brilliant sunshine was pouring into her room, andall around her lay evidences of her coming slavery. Here were the bridalveil and the long train, there were the jewels laid out on the dressingtable. A maid was moving quietly about the room.
"Good morning, miss," she said. "A lovely morning. And if there's anytruth in the saying that 'happy's the bride that the sun shines on,'why----"
The maid stopped and smiled before she caught sight of Beatrice's pale,set face.
"I suppose you think I am to be envied?" Beatrice asked. "Now don'tyou?"
The maid lifted her hands to express her dumb admiration. "Who would notbe happy to be dressed in those lovely clothes, to be decked in thosejewels and to marry a man who will give you everything that the heartcould desire?" Beatrice smiled wearily.
"You are quite wrong, Adeline," she said. "If I could change places withyou at this moment I would gladly do so. You have a sweetheart, Isuppose?"
"Oh, yes, miss. He's in a shop. Some day he hopes to have a shop of hisown, and then----"
"And then you will be married. You love him very dearly, I suppose. AndI----"
Beatrice stopped, conscious of the fact that she was saying too much.She ate sparingly enough of her breakfast; she went down to thedrawing-room and wrote a few letters. It was not quite ten yet and shehad plenty of time. Lady Rashborough was not an early riser, thoughRashborough himself had breakfasted and gone out long before. Beatricewas moodily contemplating her presents in the library when Mr. StephenRichford was announced. He came in with an easy smile, though Beatricecould see that his hands were shaking and there was just a suggestion offear in his eyes. With all his faults, the man did not drink, andBeatrice wondered. She had once seen a forger arrested on a liner, andhis expression, as soon as he recognized his position, was just the sameas Beatrice now saw in the eyes of the man she was going to marry.
"What is the matter?" she asked listlessly. "You look as if you had hadsome great shock, like a man who has escaped from prison. Your face isghastly."
Richford made no reply for a moment. He contemplated his sullen, lividfeatures in a large Venetian mirror opposite. He was not a pretty objectat any time, but he was absolutely repulsive just at that moment.
"Bit of an upset," he stammered. "Saw a--a nasty street accident. Poorchap run over."
The man was lying to her; absolutely he was forced to the invention tosave himself from a confession of quite another kind. He was not in theleast likely to feel for anybody else, in fact he had no feeling ofhuman kindness, as Beatrice had once seen for herself. There had been afatal accident at a polo match under their very feet, and Richford hadpuffed at his cigarette and expressed the sentiment that if fools didthat kind of thing they must be prepared to put up with theconsequences.
"You are not telling the truth!" Beatrice said coldly. "As if anythingof that kind would affect _you_. You are concealing something from me.Is it--is there anything the matter with my father?"
Richford started violently. With all his self-control he could not holdhimself in now. His white face took on a curious leaden hue, his voicewas hoarse as he spoke.
"Of course I have no good points in your eyes," he said with a thicksneer. "And once a woman gets an idea into her head there is no rootingit out again. Your father is all right; nothing ever happens to men ofthat class. I saw him to his room last night, and very well he had donefor himself. Won over two hundred at bridge, too. Sir Charles can takecare of himself."
Beatrice's face flamed and then turned pale again. She had caughtherself hoping that something had happened to her father, somethingsufficiently serious to postpone to-day's ceremony. It was a dreadfullyunworthy thought and Beatrice was covered with shame. And yet she knewthat she would have been far happier in the knowledge of a disaster likethat.
"Why did you want to see me?" she asked. "I have not too much time tospare."
"Of course not. But you can cheer yourself with the reflection that weshall have so much time together later on when the happy knot is tied.Has it occurred to you that I have given you nothing as yet? I broughtthis for you."
Richford's hands, still trembling, produced a bulky package from hispocket. As he lifted the shabby lid a stream of living fire flashed out.There were diamonds of all kinds in old settings, the finest diamondsthat Beatrice had ever seen. Ill at ease and sick at heart as she was,she could not repress a cry.
"Ah, I thought I could touch you," Richford grinned. "A female saintcould not resist diamonds. Forty thousand pounds I gave for them. Theyare the famous Rockmartin gems. The family had to part with them, so theopportunity was too good to be lost. Well?"
"They are certainly exquisitely lovely," Beatrice stammered. "I thankyou very much."
"If not very warmly, eh? So that is all you have to say? Ain't theyworth one single kiss?"
Beatrice drew back. For the life of her she could not kiss this man.Never had his lips touched hers yet. They should never do so if Beatricehad her own way.
"I think not," she said in her cold constrained way. "It is veryprincely of you, and yet it does not touch me in the least. You made thebargain with your eyes open; I told you at the time that I could nevercare for you; that I sold myself to save my father's good name. I knowthe situation is not a new one; I know that such marriages, strange tosay, have before now turned out to be something like success. But notours. All the heart I ever had to bestow has long since been given toanother. I will do my best to make your life comfortable, I will do mybest to learn all that a wife is asked to become. But no more."
Richford turned away with a savage curse upon his lips. The coldcontempt struck him and pierced the hide of his indifference as nothingelse could. But he was going to have his revenge. The time was near athand when Beatrice would either have to bend or break, Richford did notcare which. It was the only consolation that he had.
"Very well," he said. "We understand one another. We shall see. _Aurevoir!_"
He took up his hat and his stick, and strode off without a further word.Beatrice put the diamonds away from her as if they had been so manydeadly snakes. She felt that she would loathe the sight of diamonds forthe rest of her life.
The time was drawing on now, it only wanted another hour, and the thingwould be done. Lady Rashborough came in and admired the diamonds; in heropinion, Beatrice was the luckiest girl in London. Her ladyship was apretty little blue-eyed thing adored by her husband, but she had noparticle of heart. Why a girl should dislike a man who would give herdiamonds like these she could not possibly imagine.
"You will be wiser as you grow older, my dear," she said sapiently. "Whydidn't I meet Richford before?"
Beatrice echoed the sentiment with all her heart. She resigned herselfdully to the maid; she took not the slightest interest in theproceedings; whether she looked ill or well mattered nothing. But thoughher own natural beauty was not to be dimmed, and though she had the aidof all that art could contrive, nothing could disguise the pallor of herface.
"A little rouge, miss," Adeline implored. "Just a touch on your cheeks.Your face is like snow, and your lips like ashes. I could do it socleverly that----"
"That people would never know," Beatrice said. "I have no doubt aboutit, Adeline. But all the same I am not going to have any paint on myface."
A big clock outside was striking the three quarters after eleven;already the carriage was at the door. As yet there was no sign of SirCharles. But perhaps he would join the party at the church, seeing thatthe head of the family and not himself was going to give the bride away.Lord Rashborough, a little awkward in his new frock coat, was fumingabout the library. He was an open-air man and hated the society intowhich his wife constantly dragged him.
"Don't be too late," he said. "Always like to be punctual. Of cou
rsethat father of yours has not turned up, though he promised to drive tothe church, with us."
"Father was never known to be in time in his life," Beatrice saidcalmly. Her dull depression had gone, she was feeling quite cool andtranquil. If anybody had asked her, she would have said that thebitterness of death had passed. "It is not necessary to wait for him."
"He'll understand," Lord Rashborough joined in. "We can leave a message,and he can follow to the church in a hansom. Let us be moving, Beatrice,if you are quite ready."
With wonderful calmness Beatrice answered that she was quite ready. Alittle knot of spectators had gathered outside to see the bride depart.Two or three carriages were there, and into the first, with the splendidpair of bays, Lord Rashborough handed Beatrice. They drove along thefamiliar streets that seemed to Beatrice as though she was seeing themfor the last time. She felt like a doomed woman with the deadly virus ofconsumption in her blood when she is being ordered abroad with theuncertain chance that she might never see England again. It almostseemed to Beatrice that she was asleep, and that the whole thing wasbeing enacted in a dream.
"Here we are at last," Rashborough exclaimed. "What a mob of women! Whata lot of flowers! Why anybody wants to make all this fuss over gettingmarried beats me. Come along."
It was a society wedding in the highest sense of the word, and thechurch was crowded. There was a rustle and a stir as the bride swept upthe aisle, and the organ boomed out. There was a little delay at thealtar, for the father of the bride had not yet arrived, and there was adisposition to give him a little latitude. Only Lord Rashboroughrebelled.
"Let's get on," he said. "Darryll may be half an hour late. One cannever tell. And I've got a most important appointment at Tattersall's athalf-past two."
Beatrice had no objection to make--she would have objected to nothing atthat moment. In the same dreamy way, presently she found herselfkneeling at the altar, and a clergyman was saying something thatconveyed absolutely nothing to her intelligence. Presently somebody wasfumbling unsteadily at her left hand, whereon somebody a great deal morenervous than she was trying to fix a plain gold ring. Someone at theback of the church was making a disturbance.
The officiating clergyman raised his head in protest. Except theexhortation, the ceremony was practically finished. A policeman appearedout of somewhere and seemed to be expostulating with the intruder. Justfor a minute it looked as if there was going to be an open brawl.
"I tell you I must go up," somebody was saying, and just for a moment itseemed to Beatrice that she was listening to the voice of Mark Ventmore."It is a matter of life and death."
Beatrice glanced up languidly at the silly society faces, the frocks andthe flowers. Did she dream, or was that really the pale face of Markthat she saw? Mark had burst from the policeman--he was standing nowhatless before the altar.
"The ceremony must not go on," he said, breathlessly. There was anameless horror in his white face. "I--I feel that I am strangely out ofplace, but it is all too dreadful."
Beatrice rose to her feet. There was some tragedy here, a tragedyreflected in the ghastly face of her groom. And yet on his face was asuggestion of relief, of vulgar triumph.
"What is it?" Beatrice asked. "Tell me. I could bear anything--_now_!"
"Your father!" Mark gasped. "We had to burst open his door. Sir Charleswas found in his bed quite dead. He had been dead for some hours whenthey found him."
The Slave of Silence Page 4