Crow's Inn Tragedy
Page 23
One woman paused as she passed.
“How perfectly sweet Peggy looked, Lady Carew! Quite the prettiest bridesmaid of them all.”
Lady Carew’s smile lighted up her face; she was obviously pleased as she murmured some inaudible reply.
The pale-eyed man was just behind her now. As she turned aside again he stepped out of the crowd and touched her arm.
“Judy!”
An extraordinary change passed over Lady Carew’s face as she heard the voice, as she turned and met the man’s gaze. Every drop of blood seemed to recede from her cheeks, leaving her white as death; only her eyes looked alive as she stared at him, even her lips were blue.
“You!” she said slowly in a hoarse whisper. “You!”
“Yes, I.” The man placed himself a little before her, so that in a measure he screened her. “At last I have found you, Judy!”
“But you—I thought you were dead.” Her eyes were strained upon his face in an agony of appeal.
“So I should suppose,” the man said roughly with a short, hard laugh, his pale eyes burning with an inward fire as they wandered over the lovely face, the graceful svelte form of the woman before him. “But I am not dead, Judy. On the contrary I am very much alive, and—I have come home for my own, Judy.”
“Your own!” Judith Carew repeated, slowly. Her face was like a death-mask now, but the eyes—the big, luring eyes—were living as they focused on the man’s bronzed face, as they drew forth some dreadful meaning. She gave a low hoarse sob. “Your own—my God!”
The pale eyes grew suddenly apprehensive, but the harsh tone did not soften.
“You know what I mean well enough. When shall I find my Lady Carew at home to me, Judy?”
“Never.” She shot the word out quickly. “You shall never enter my husband’s house. I will kill myself first.”
Sir Anthony was coming back. They could see his tall figure towering over the heads of others, here and there he was stopped by a cheery word of greeting; they could hear his laugh. The pale-eyed man looked at the trembling woman.
“I must see you again and to-day—where?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said with difficulty. “I have told you you shall not come into his house.”
Sir Anthony was on the top step now, only a few paces away. A tall woman in an outré costume of vieux rose had stopped him; the two were laughing and talking like old friends.
The echo of his light laugh, the sound of a careless word made Judith, waiting in her misery, catch her breath sharply.
“Go!” she cried. “Go! He must not hear. I forbid you to tell him now.”
The sullen fire in the pale eyes of the man watching her leapt to sudden life, then died down swiftly.
“If I go now, you must see me—later. Look.” He drew out his pocket-book and scribbled an address upon the first page: “42 Abbey Court, Leinster Avenue, 9.30 to-night. There!” He tore out the leaf and thrust it into her hands. “If you fail me, Judy, you know the consequences.”
She pushed the scrap of paper mechanically into her glove; he turned and disappeared in the crowd.
Sir Anthony caught a momentary glimpse of him as he came up, and looked after him curiously.
“Who was that, Judith? He looks rather an odd customer, as if he had seen life in some queer places. But what is it, child?”—his tone turning to one of apprehension—“You are ill—faint?”
Lady Carew forced a smile to her stiff lips. “It is nothing. It was so hot in the church,” hesitatingly, “and the scent of the flowers is overpowering,” she added as a passing waft of sweetness from the great sheaves of Madonna lilies that stood in the nave reached them. “I shall be all right directly. What was wrong with the car?”
“Nothing much,” Sir Anthony said carelessly. “Jenkins soon put it right, but you can’t wait here. Monktowers said he would send his brougham back for us. Ah, here it is!”
He helped her in carefully, and to her surprise gave their own address.
“I can’t have you knocked up, and the reception is sure to be a crush,” he said in answer to her look. “I am going to take you home, and make you rest, or certainly you will not be fit for the Denboroughs’ to-night.”
The Denboroughs’! Judith shivered in her corner; she was deadly cold beneath her furs. Lady Denborough’s dinner parties were among the most select in London; her invitations were eagerly sought after; it had been a tribute to the furore that Lady Carew’s beauty had excited that she, who but two years ago had been only Peggy Carew’s governess, should have been included.
How far away it all seemed to her now, as she laid her head back on the cushions and tried to think, to realize this awful catastrophe that had befallen her. The dead had come to life! All that past, that she had believed buried beyond resurrection, had risen, was here at her very doors.
Through the shadow of the carriage, she glanced at Anthony, at the dark rugged profile, at the crisp dark hair with its faint powdering of grey near the temples, at all that only an hour ago had been so intimately dear, that was now, as it were, set on the other side of a great gulf. Her heart sank, she felt sick as she thought of the other face with its bold good looks. It was impossible, she tried to tell herself despairingly, that this thing should really have befallen her, that there should be no way of escape. Sir Anthony watched her anxiously.
As the carriage neared their house in Grosvenor Square, she sat up, and drew her furs around her with a pitiful attempt to pull herself together.
Sir Anthony helped her out solicitously. As she paused for a moment on the step, a man passed, gazing up at the front of the house.
Lady Carew caught a momentary glimpse of the big familiar figure, a mist rose before her eyes, her fingers closed more tightly over that piece of paper in her glove as she swayed and reached out a trembling hand to her husband’s arm.
With a quick exclamation of alarm, Sir Anthony caught her, carried her over the threshold of their home.
“Judith, Judith, what is it, my darling?” he said, bending over her.
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
All Rights Reserved
First published in 1927 by The Bodley Head
Cover by DSP
Introduction © 2015 Curtis Evans
ISBN 978 1 911095 06 4
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk