“You married Francis Manners,” said Helen very slowly.
“I—I had to,” whispered Adela.
“And then?”
“He took me to his mother—a dreadful old woman—quite mad, and Frank was mad too, I think. He wasn’t at all like he used to be. He took opium, and talked in such a wild way, and he must have been mad because—oh, Helen, at last he killed himself.”
Helen said nothing. She only leaned against the wall, and Adela went on, shuddering:
“He came in one morning, and he said, ‘It is all over,’ and then he kissed me quite wildly, and went away, and shot himself, and his mother came in and cursed me. It was dreadful. And Anunda said that all the English women had been murdered, and thrown down the well near the Bibi Kotee. She cried, and said that that was why Frank shot himself—because he couldn’t bear it—and they all seemed to think that it was my fault somehow. And how could it be?”
Adela broke off, shivering under her light clothing.
“Helen, why don’t you say something?”
“Go on,” said Helen.
“They took me away in the night. They would have left me behind to be killed, but I told them that I thought I was going to have a baby. Anunda put it into my head, and said Frank’s mother would not let me be killed if she thought that, and after all it was true, though I was not sure then. They took me to Lucknow.”
“Go on,” said Helen again.
“I don’t know where we went to after Lucknow. We kept on moving, and I never saw any one except those dreadful native women, and they only cared for the baby. They would have been very glad for me to die. But I didn’t die. The baby was born in April. I don’t know where we were. I never saw anything but the one room they kept me in.”
“Yes—go on.”
Adela caught her breath as if she were in pain.
“Six weeks ago, the baby died. It was always sickly. Then it got fever and died. Then I began to be ill. At last they turned me out. I think they were afraid to keep me. Anunda said so. They put me in a janpan and sent me away, and after two stages the bearers ran off, and I had to get others. I thought I would come here. It wasn’t any farther than going anywhere else.”
There was a pause, and then Helen said:
“Dick is alive.”
Adela cried out sharply, and at the same moment Freddy Carlton knocked on the crazy door; they heard his voice and the creak of the hinge.
“Mrs. Morton! Are you ready? The bearers are here.”
Adela crouched down, trembling in every limb.
“Helen, how does he know? How does that man know? You didn’t tell him. I heard what you said. How does he know?”
Helen’s throat contracted.
“He doesn’t know,” she said.
“But he does. He called my name. Oh, don’t let him come, don’t let any one see me.”
“Mrs. Morton.”
Freddy’s voice was urgent. A crowd was collecting, and he was on thorns until the two women had been got away.
Helen went to the door.
“In one moment,” she said.
Then she turned to meet Adela’s eyes, brilliant with fear and suspicion.
“Helen—was he calling—you?”
“Yes—he was calling me.”
“You are married?”
Helen pulled the glove from her left hand and let it fall upon the floor. Then she stretched out her hand towards Adela. There was only one ring on it—a small narrow ring.
Adela looked and felt the breath flutter in her throat.
“Who is your husband?” she said faintly, and then her voice sharpened, and she repeated louder, “Helen, who is your husband?”
Helen looked at her.
Adela’s colour wavered. The high bright flush went out like a blown flame. Then it leaped again higher than before.
“Not—Richard?” she said in a quick, flurried way. “No, no, oh, no, no, no! Not Richard?”
Helen bent her head. Her shoulders felt as if they supported some intolerable weight. She needed all her strength to raise her head again.
“Nellie—Nellie!”
Adela began to pant like a tired animal. A look of terror came into her eyes.
“I’m—going to—faint!” she gasped, and suddenly she fell forwards, all in a heap amongst the folds of her widow’s sheet.
CHAPTER XXX
A DAY OF JUDGMENT
Look in my eyes, you whom I love,
Look in my eyes and see,
Here is my soul, like a naked thing,
Naked to you and me.
If there be spot on the naked soul,
If there be stain of mire,
Look on it now,
O you whom I love,
Look and search it with fire.
Richard Morton looked up from his writing as his wife came into the room. The lamps had been brought in an hour before. One stood upon the table, and the light beat down upon the white papers, leaving the upper part of the room in shadow.
“You are late,” he exclaimed. “Where have you been?”
Helen did not answer. She came and stood by the table, leaning on it with one ungloved hand. With the other she took off her hat, and let it fall upon the matting.
“Tired?” said Captain Morton.
He pushed his chair a little farther from the
table and swung round in it.
Helen lifted her head with a sudden movement. Words that she had heard once flamed in the darkness of her mind.
“Lead me, O Zeus and Destiny”—the words were blurred. She thought that they went on: “But if there be no leading, I needs must follow still.”
“I needs must follow”—the coward as well as the brave. Only it was easier to be brave.
“Helen,” said Richard uneasily, and she slipped upon her knees and leaned forward against his breast. In a moment his arms were about her, holding her.
“Dick, do you love me?” she said at last.
“Don’t you know?”
“Say it.”
“I love you.”
He spoke very slowly. At the last word she turned her lips to his, and they kissed, a long, long kiss.
“How much?” whispered Helen, with her face against his.
“As much as I know how to. More than I knew how to yesterday. More every day.”
“And if I changed—if I grew ill, or died? When we grow old—when trouble comes—or death—”
“I love you. There is no past or future, it is all love.”
“When trouble comes—”
“We shall be together.”
“If we were not?”
He was silent, holding her close.
“Dick, if we were not?”
“Darling, what could separate us? Foolish heart.”
“Dick, kiss me again.”
He kissed her. Her lips were very cold. Richard Morton began to be afraid, very much afraid.
With a movement that was almost rough, he put his right hand under Helen’s chin, and turned her face to the light. She yielded at once to his touch, and he saw her, all white in the yellow glow. There were lines upon her face that no one should have seen there for ten more years at least. Every feature seemed finer, as if the fulness of youth were gone. She stared into the flame of the lamp, and then turned a little and looked at her husband. He saw her eyes, darkly passionate, and her lips set in a strange smile.
“Helen, what is it?” he exclaimed sharply.
She spoke in a quiet voice.
“It is trouble, Dick.”
“You are not ill?”
“No. That would be easy. I am not at all ill.”
He laughed in his relief.
“Then it is nothing very bad. Tell me. Tell me at once—you
look as if the world had fallen to pieces.”
“I think it has,” said Helen.
Then she looked at him and said very simply:
“Adela is alive, Dick.”
Richard Morton knew then what he had been afraid of. That look on Helen’s face. He had heard of women whose minds became unhinged when a child was coming to them. He put his arms about her, and spoke soothingly.
“Darling, you are not well.”
Helen smiled at him in a heart-breaking way.
“I’m not mad, Dick—I don’t know why I’m not, but I’m not. It is true. The woman, the woman we were speaking of. It was Adela. I have seen her.”
“You’ve—seen—her?”
“Yes, darling. There was a palanquin, and the wind blew out the curtains. I saw the hand that pulled the curtains in. It was white. I made Captain Carlton follow to the serai. Then I went in, and the woman was Adela.”
She spoke reasonably, calmly.
Richard Morton took her by the arm with a grip that left a bruise there.
“Do you know—do you realise what you are saying? For God’s sake, Helen—”
Her eyes rested on his for a moment. The desperate wounded passion in them answered for her. To hurt the thing you love best in the world—to hurt the soul that is more to you than your own—Helen realised it, and her eyes made the answer.
“It is impossible.” Richard’s voice was quick with protest.
“Dick, it is true,” she said, “it is quite true, Dick. I brought her away. She is here.”
“Here!”
“How could I leave her? She is ill. I think she is very ill indeed. She fainted.”
“It is impossible,” said Richard Morton again, but his voice had fallen.
“It is true,” repeated Helen. “She thought that you were dead. She married!”
Richard flung out his hand with an oath.
Helen put both her hands over it, and went on speaking in the same steady and yet hesitating manner:
“It was the Nana’s nephew, Francis Manners, whom she used to know in England. She thought you were dead. You must remember that, Dick; and he saved her life, and she had known him before. Then he died—he killed himself. He was weak, not wicked, and he couldn’t stand it all; so he killed himself. His mother protected Adela because of the child. There was a baby. It died too. Then they turned her out. Poor Adie. She is so ill—she has suffered so dreadfully.”
Helen’s voice had dropped to a languid, half-conscious murmur. She began to understand how it was that Adela had been able to tell her tale so calmly. When you have thought of dreadful things for long enough, they hardly seem dreadful after all.
Richard’s grip upon her arm roused her.
“Helen! Is this true?”
“Yes, Dick. It is true.”
He turned from her, throwing out his arms across the table, and letting his head fall upon them:
“My God—Helen, what have I done to you?”
Helen started. She had not begun to think of herself. It was Dick, the separation, not herself at all.
The agony of Richard Morton’s voice struck through her defences. She saw herself suddenly as he saw her—stripped of her wifehood, defenceless to the world, mother of a nameless child. This was what was hurting him so—this.
She pressed against him as she knelt, lifting his head, drawing it to her heart, holding him to her with all her strength.
“Dick, love—love—don’t think it—never think it. I am proud—I am proud—” The force of her feeling broke the words, her voice trembled on them. Her eyes were shining.
“You—don’t—realise,” groaned Richard Morton.
Helen put her soft cheek against his.
“I do—I do really—but it doesn’t matter. This is—too big a thing for it to matter at all. Dick, listen—won’t you listen to me? Oh, do you think I could ever be anything but proud—so proud, because I was your wife? Do you think I should ever be ashamed? I shall thank God every day.”
Richard’s arms closed hard about her.
“My wife—my wife,” he said, and they clung together.
Then Helen lifted her head and smiled at him.
“Don’t you understand now?” she said. “Oh, Dick, I think you do—I think you must. How many women have never had—this at all. How can I help being proud and thankful?”
After a while he loosed her and leaned his head on his hand, half turned towards the table again.
“You say she is here?”
“Yes, I put her to bed. The doctor is coming.”
“Does Carlton know?”
“No. I said it was some one I had known. He was so very kind. He asked no questions.”
There was a pause. Then Helen said:
“Dick, I must go back to her. She isn’t fit to be left. The ayah is there now, but I can’t leave her. She is so ill.”
It was almost a relief when she was gone. Pain should be a secret thing. It is not decent that any one should look upon great agony, least of all one who, seeing, must share it. A man upon the rack does not ask that his wife should stand beside him to watch the straining of his self-control, or to see the sweat rise cold as death upon his brow. Richard Morton was glad to be alone, and as soon as the bewilderment of anguish had passed a little, he began to think, and to plan, for he was before all things a man of action.
When Helen returned, she found him walking up and down the room, with great impatient strides. His manner had altered completely. All the emotion had gone out of it. It was short, dry, businesslike, and he frowned as he walked, drawing his brows together till they made a thin, straight line of black above the hard blue of his eyes. No eyes can look so hard as the blue eyes which are merry when a man laughs.
“Helen, come here,” he said; and when she came to him, he put his hand on her shoulder.
“Look here, we have got to keep our heads,” he said. “When Renshaw comes, you are not to let him suspect. Tell—her. She can’t wish—” He broke off, frowned more deeply still, and went on: “It’s got to be hushed up, at any rate until we can get out of the country. Ultimately, I suppose, every one will know. We sha’n’t hear what they say, so it won’t affect us much. I can manage to get leave at once, I think. Then we will go to America. That will be best.”
Helen looked at him in a dazed, frightened fashion.
“Dick, what do you mean?”
“Was I obscure? I shall take you to America. It will mean sending in my papers as soon as we get clear of India.”
“And your career?” said Helen; but as she said it her pride leapt up, because she knew very well what he would say.
He said it with no emotion at all, as a man states a plain fact—briefly.
“You come first.”
Helen put out her hand and touched him on the wrist.
“Dick, we can’t.”
A sudden passion leapt into his voice.
“Did you think that I would let you go?”
“You—Dick—you must.”
She would have leaned against him, but his hand was on her arm, and he kept her off.
“Do you dream that I will ever let you go?”
Helen lifted her eyes to his.
“Dick, don’t hold me away. Let me come to you. Now look at me. Yes, I want to kiss you. Oh, Dick, you know that we can’t do it.”
“You are mine.”
“It is because of that.” Helen’s voice fell low, and broke on a sob. “If we cared less—if it meant less. We can’t spoil a perfect thing. We can’t destroy our strength. It would be running away. We are strong. We have so much. We can’t run away. And there is Adie—poor, poor Adie. Dick, if you saw her—oh, Dick, it is harder for you—”
Richard Morton threw back his head with a jerk.
“Sentiment,”
he said roughly, “fine words, Helen. But you are mine, and I will never let you go. Before God I won’t. Shake off this folly. Rouse yourself—do you realise your position? Have you forgotten the child—our child—yours and mine? What is any tie to that?”
Helen raised her face to his.
“No, Dick, I hadn’t—forgotten. That was why I said it was harder for you; I shall have the child.”
He turned from her abruptly.
“What are you made of? My God, Helen, you can’t—you can’t do it.”
A clatter of hoofs came along the drive. A horse drew up at the verandah steps.
“Any one there?” shouted Dr. Renshaw.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE END
Aeon on aeon, age on endless age,
The Watcher of the Universe is set.
His garment stirs the waters, and they live.
Lord, what is man that Thou art mindful yet?
Lord, what is man? The tide that we call Life
Ebbs deep, and draws us down in Time’s dark Sea;
But when Death’s breaking wave has turned the flood,
Shall it not bear us back again to Thee?
Dr. Renshaw latched the door of the sickroom behind him, and came out into the middle of the dining-room.
He was a small stout man, who was quiet at a patient’s bedside and fussily noisy everywhere else. He took out a pocket-handkerchief that crackled with starch, chafed his forehead with it, blew out his short grey moustache and beard, and rammed the handkerchief back into his pocket again with a force that threatened to burst the lining.
“What’s the good of talking?” he burst out, although Helen had said nothing. She leaned on the table and waited, and he took a short turn to the window, and then came back.
“Who is she? I suppose you won’t tell me. Want to hush it up. No wonder. But I shall have to put a name on the certificate.”
“The certificate?” said Helen faintly.
“Why, yes—dying—of course she’s dying. Dysentery for weeks, and a heart like that—what can I, or any one else, do with a bit of worn-out mechanism? It’s worn out— worn to a standstill; nobody can do anything. Just as well, perhaps, poor unfortunate creature—but that’s not my business. I’ll send you some drops. They may keep her going till the morning.”
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