CHAPTER XXVII
It was now early, very early in the morning after the return of Lord St.Amant to the Abbey. Dead dark, and dead quiet too, in the great sleepinghouse. Not dead cold, however, in his lordship's comfortable bedroom,for he had built up the fire, as he sat on and on, still fully dressed,reading, or trying to read--his bed exactly in the same state as when hehad gone upstairs from the drawing-room about eleven.
It was years and years since Lord St. Amant had last stayed up allnight, but though he had made a great effort to forget himself in thoseever fresh, even if familiar, memoirs of Saint Simon, he had found itimpossible to banish from his mind--even for a few moments--the awfulthing which he knew would, in a sense, never leave his mind again.
For the tenth time he put his book down, marking the page with a tinystrip of green watered ribbon, on a low table by his side, and then,staring into the fire, his memory lingered--not over his talk with SirAngus Kinross, he was sick of thinking _that_ over--but over theincidents which had marked the evening before.
He had returned from London only just in time to dress for dinner, andso he had not seen his guests till just before a quarter-past eight.Then had followed an hour passed, outwardly at least, peacefully andpleasantly.
But while he had been eating mechanically the food put before him, invery truth not knowing what it was, terrible thoughts had gone throughhis mind in a terrible sequence.
Once or twice he had caught, or thought he had caught, OliverTropenell's penetrating eyes fixed searchingly on his face, but he, thehost, had avoided looking at his guest. Somehow he could neither look atOliver, nor even think of Oliver--with Oliver and Laura there, the onesitting opposite to him, the other next him.
Laura? Laura, on Lord St. Amant's left, had looked lovely last night.She was wearing a white dress, almost bridal in its dead whiteness--arather singular fact considering that she had till to-day wornunrelieved black. Looking back, her host could not get her out of hismind. To think that she, proud, reserved, Laura Pavely was to be theheroine of a frightful tragedy which would bring not only shame anddisgrace on herself and on the man whom Lord St. Amant had every reasonto suppose she now loved, but--what was of so very much more concern tohim--on that man's mother.
Looking at Laura, seeing that strange, haunting Mona Lisa smile on herlovely face, it had seemed incredible that she should be the centralfigure of such a story. But how could she escape being the centralfigure, the heroine of the story, at any rate in the imagination of allthose, one might almost count them by millions, rather than thousands,who in a few days or a few weeks would be as familiar with the name"Mrs. Pavely" as they once had been with the names of--of Mrs. Bravo andMrs. Maybrick?
Yes, Lord St. Amant, staring into the fire, told himself, that thatthree-quarters of an hour spent in his own dining-room had been the mostpainful time he had ever lived through in his long life. He felt as ifevery moment of it was indelibly stamped on his brain. And yet he hadcompletely forgotten what the talk had been about! He supposed they hadtalked. Silence would have seemed so strange, so unnatural. Yet he couldnot remember a single thing which had been said.
But his vision of the three who had sat at table with him remainedhorribly clear.
Now he was haunted specially by Oliver. And then, after a while, Oliverleft him, and he was haunted by his poor friend, soon to be his poorwife.
Mrs. Tropenell had been more silent than usual--so much he did remember.And he wondered uneasily if he had given her any cause for thinking,from his appearance or his manner, that there was anything wrong?
The thought of what was going to happen to Mrs. Tropenell on the daywhich was now to-morrow, became suddenly so intolerable to Lord St.Amant that he got up from his chair, and walked twice round the large,shadowed bedroom.
Then he sat down again, and groaned aloud.
It was as though a bridge had been thrown over the chasm of nearly fortyyears. His withered heart became vivified. Something of the passionwhich he had left for the high-spirited and innocent, yetardent-natured, girl whom he had loved, and whom he had saved fromherself, stirred within him. Secretly, voicelessly, he had always beenvery proud of what he had, done--and left undone. It was the one good,nay, the one selfless, action of his long, agreeable, selfish life.
But he could not save her now! Some little shelter and protection hewould be able to afford her, but what would it avail against thefrightful cloud of shame and anguish which was about to envelop her?
He told himself suddenly what he had already told himself when with SirAngus--namely, that he and Letty must be married at once. She wouldcertainly acquiesce in any course which would benefit Oliver. Yes, Lettywould think of nothing but her son, and, the world being what it is,Oliver would of course benefit by the fact that Lord St. Amant was hisstepfather. It would add yet another touch of the unusual and theromantic to the story....
Once more his mind swung back to last evening. He and Oliver had stayedalone together some ten minutes after the ladies had gone into thedrawing-room, and there had come over Lord St. Amant a wild, unreasoningimpulse to unburden his heart. But of course he had checked, batteneddown resolutely, that foolish almost crazy impulse. As soon as Letty andLaura were safely gone tomorrow morning he must, of course, tackle theterrible task. And then he tried, as he had tried so often during thelast twelve hours, to put himself in Oliver Tropenell's place.
He recalled the younger man's easy, assured manner, and what a realhelp, nay, more than help, he had been when the house was full ofguests. More than one of their neighbours there had spoken warmly, withevident admiration, of Tropenell. "How well he's turned out! He wasthought to be such a queer chap as a boy."
A queer chap? Oliver was certainly _that_.
Lord St. Amant forced himself to consider the man whom his intellect, ifnot his heart, was compelled to recognise as a cold-blooded murderer.
What had been his and Laura's real attitude to one another duringGodfrey Pavely's lifetime? Was Laura absolutely innocent? Or, had sheplayed with Tropenell as women sometimes do play with men--as a certainkind of beautiful, graceful, dignified cat sometimes plays with a mouse?He was still inclined to think _not_,--before yesterday he wouldcertainly have said not. But one never can tell--with a woman....
And what was going to happen now? Oliver had always been a fighter--nodoubt Oliver would be prepared to take the "sporting chance."
When he and his guest had gone into the drawing-room last evening, Lauraand Oliver had almost at once passed through into the smallerdrawing-room. They had moved away unconcernedly, as if it was quitenatural that they should desire to be by themselves, rather than in thecompany of Oliver's mother and Laura's host; and Lord St. Amant, lookingfurtively at Mrs. Tropenell, had felt a sudden painful constriction ofthe heart as he had noted the wistful glance she had cast on the twoyounger people. It had been such a touching look--the look of the motherwho gives up her beloved to the woman who has become his beloved.
At ten o'clock tea had been brought in--an old-fashioned habit whichwas, perhaps, the only survival of the late Lady St. Amant's reign atthe Abbey, and, to the surprise of Mrs. Tropenell, her companion hadpoured himself out a cup and had drunk it off absently.
She had smiled, exclaiming, "You shouldn't have done that! You know younever can take tea and coffee so near together!" And he had said, "Can'tI? No, of course I can't. How stupid of me!"
And Laura, hearing the opening and the shutting of doors, had come back,and said that she felt sleepy. They had had another glorious walk, sheand Oliver....
Yes, that had been how the evening had worn itself out, so quiet andpleasant, so peaceful--outwardly. It was, indeed, outwardly just thekind of evening which Lord St. Amant had promised himself only yesterdayshould be repeated many times, after his marriage to his old friend. Butnow he knew that that had been the last apparently pleasant, peacefulevening that was ever likely to fall to his share in this life. Even ifOliver Tropenell, aided by his great wealth and shrewd intellect,escap
ed the legal consequences of his wicked deed, his mother would everbe haunted by the past--if indeed the fiery ordeal did not actually killher.
The old man, sitting by the fire, began to feel very, very tired--tired,yet excited, and not in the least sleepy. He turned and looked over athis bed, and then he shook his head. Yet he would have to get into thatbed and pretend that he had slept in it, before his valet came into theroom at half-past seven.
It was years, years, _years_ since he had last tried to make anunslept-in bed look as if it had been slept in.
He told himself fretfully that it was odd how unwilling he felt to goover in his own mind the amazing story told him by Sir Angus Kinross. Hehad thought of nothing else on his long journey from London, but sincehe had arrived at the Abbey, since he had seen Oliver, he could not bearto think over the details of the sinister story. He forced himself toglance at them, as it were obliquely, for a moment. Yes, he could quitesee what Sir Angus meant! Oliver certainly had a sporting chance, backedwith the power of commanding the best legal advice and the highesttalent at the Bar, coupled with the kind of sympathy which is aroused,even in phlegmatic England, by what the French call a _crime passionel_.
* * * * *
Once more Lord St. Amant took up the little faded red leather-boundvolume, but he had hardly pushed aside the green ribbon which marked hisplace in it, when there struck on his ears the metallic sound of analarum clock--one which he judged to have been carefully muffled anddeadened, yet which must be quite sufficiently audible to fulfil itspurpose of awakening any sleeper in the room where it happened to be.
Now, on hearing that sound, Lord St. Amant was exceedingly surprised,for, as far as he knew, only one other room was occupied on this side ofthe corridor. That room was that which his late wife had chosen inpreference to the one which had been his mother's, and by an odd whim hehad assigned it to Laura Pavely.
He turned slightly round in his chair, and glanced at the travellingclock which was on his dressing-table.
It was half-past five.
Why should Laura, or any one else in that great house for the matter ofthat, wish to be awakened on a winter's morning at such an hour?
While he was thinking this over, he heard the sound of a key turningquietly in a lock, and then there came that of the slow opening of adoor on to the corridor.
He stood up, uncertain what to do, and feeling his nerves taut.
Though he was now an old man, his limbs had not lost all theirsuppleness, and after a moment of hesitation he sprang to his door andopened it.
Yes! He could hear the firm tread of footsteps coming down the corridortowards him, to his left.
He flung his door wide open, and into the stream of light thrown by hispowerful reading lamp into the corridor, there suddenly appeared OliverTropenell----
For a flashing moment the tall figure loomed out of the darkness, andthen was engulfed again....
Lord St. Amant shut the door and hurried back to the fireplace. Hecursed the impulse, bred half of genuine alarm, half of eager curiosity,which had made him the unwilling sharer in another man's--andwoman's--secret.
Laura? Laura?--_Laura?_ He was so taken aback, so surprised, so utterlyastounded, and yes, so shocked, that for a moment he forgot the terriblething which had now filled his mind without ceasing for so many hours.Then it came back, a thousand-fold more vivid and accusing.
Laura? Good God, how mistaken he had been in her! Manlike, he toldhimself, most unfairly, that somehow what he had now learnt madeeverything--anything possible.
But before he had time to sit down, the door opened again, and OliverTropenell walked into the room.
"I wish you to know," he began, without any preamble, "that Laura and Iwere married a week ago in London. She wished to wait--in fact it hadbeen arranged that we should wait--till February or March. But to pleaseme--only to please me, St. Amant--she put her own wishes, her ownscruples aside. If there is any blame--the blame is entirely, _entirely_mine." He waited a moment, and then went on rapidly:
"As far as the rest of the world--the indifferent world--is concerned,it will believe that Laura and I were married when of course we shouldhave been, after Godfrey Pavely had been dead a year. But Laura wouldlike my mother to know. In fact she intends, I believe, to tell mymother to-morrow."
Lord St. Amant found himself debating, with a kind of terribleself-questioning, whether now was the moment to speak to Oliver.
"Of course I understand," he said shakily. "And I think Laura did quiteright. But even so I suggest that nothing is said to your mother--yet. Ihave a very serious reason for asking you to beg Laura to keep yourmarriage absolutely secret."
He was looking earnestly, painfully into the face of the younger man.
Oliver Tropenell's countenance suddenly stiffened. It assumed aterrible, mask-like expression.
"Had your journey to London," he asked slowly, "anything to do with myaffairs? I thought so once--at dinner. Did Sir Angus Kinross send foryou?"
Lord St. Amant could not, did not, speak. But at last he bent his head.
Then Oliver asked another question, quickly, in a matter-of-fact tone:"How many hours have I left?"
"Till to-morrow, I mean till Friday, morning," the other answered in astifled voice.
He longed to go on, to tell the man standing by his side what Sir Angushad said as to his having "a sporting chance." But there was somethingin the expression of the rigid, mask-like face which forbade his sayingthat.
And then Oliver Tropenell turned round and grasped his host's hand.
"I owe you a lot of kindness," he muttered. "I used not to be grateful,but I am grateful, _now_. We'll get Laura and mother off--and thenyou'll tell me what I have to know."
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