CHAPTER XI.

THE PICTURE RECOVERED

In the half-dark passage Rhoda stood, alone, when Jack Rotherfield had left her, uncertain what to do.

The first impulse of thankfulness and delight, in the thought that she had rescued Sir Robert’s favourite picture, that in a few moments he would be congratulating himself on its safe return, was quickly succeeded by a feeling of horror, of dread, when she realised the ever-increasing difficulties of her own position.

What should she say to him? How should she explain the manner in which she had obtained possession of the lost treasure?

To tell the whole truth was, for many reasons, out of the question.

In the first place, Jack Rotherfield, in asking her her terms, had, as it were, bound her in honour not to betray him; and, although she now appreciated the fact that, in keeping silence, she would be compounding a felony, she did not know what else to do.

Certainly Jack deserved to be denounced as a thief, and a traitor to his best friend. Remembering the horrible affair of ten years before, and that he had been concerned in it, she recognised that he must be a man wholly without conscience or sense of honour, since he could rob his best friend, deceive him, and even incur the guilt of a worse crime.

Whether the death of poor Langton were the result of murder or manslaughter, the silence of the man who had caused it gave reason for the worst suspicions.

But that was not by any means the whole of the difficulty. Even supposing that Rhoda had felt it her duty to denounce Jack to Sir Robert, regardless of the tacit obligation she was now under to be silent about his share in the theft of the picture, how could she take upon herself to open up such a disastrous series of questions as the baronet would naturally ask? How could she undertake the task of enlightening him as to the extent to which his own wife was involved in the deception which had been practised upon him?

And that it would be impossible to denounce Jack Rotherfield without involving Lady Sarah she felt sure.

Investigations would be made, interrogatories instituted, which would end in complete discovery. Even short of that, Rhoda doubted whether Lady Sarah would suffer her accomplice to be found guilty without confessing, tacitly or otherwise, to her share in his guilt.

But granted that even that difficulty were safely surmounted, and Jack Rotherfield ostracised, would not the result have consequences to be dreaded?

If Sir Robert were once to learn of the theft, he would certainly go on to learn the share Jack had had in the murder of the servant. And what questions would then be asked? What revelations would be made?

Again Lady Sarah’s name would be introduced into the discussion, and the tottering fabric of the domestic happiness of both husband and wife would come down with a crash.

Precarious as it was, Rhoda knew that the position was better left alone: her aim must be to consolidate such domestic peace as was possible in the household, not to involve the family in irretrievable ruin.

Uncertain and miserable, she remained standing in the darkest part of the passage which led from the hall to the study, at one moment taking a step forward to the room where she knew Sir Robert to be, at another moving slowly in the opposite direction, with the idea of carrying the picture up to her own room until she should have prepared the way for its restoration.

What if she were to leave it at the study door, for Sir Robert to find when he should come out?

But she shrank from the thought of this. For might it not involve her in difficulties of her own? Might it not result, if she were to restore it thus in an underhand way and without a word of explanation, that she herself would be suspected to have had a hand, not only in the restoration of the picture, but in the theft of it?

She shuddered at the thought. Not for the world would she have risked the loss of the baronet’s good opinion. She must find some better way than that of giving back the treasure.

She had not yet made up her mind, when she heard a light rustling on the stairs above her, saw the flutter of a lacy petticoat, caught a glimpse of a jewelled hand. Then, before she could move from where she stood, Rhoda found herself a prisoner. Lady Sarah was beside her, blocking the way to retreat.

“What’s that?” asked she in a low voice, touching the parcel which the girl carried in her arms.

But Rhoda, in the half-darkness, only looked reproachfully into her face, without uttering a word. She was sure that Lady Sarah knew as well as she did what she was holding, and that she knew, too, what had happened. Indeed there was just enough of a certain acerbity underneath the lady’s assumed frivolity of manner as she touched the roll, for Rhoda to be certain that Jack, before going, had told her everything.

Receiving no verbal answer, Lady Sarah looked up closely into the face of the other. Then she nestled up to her in the most caressing manner.

“You are ill,” she said. “What is the matter? Come with me, come into my room and let me look at you. Yes, yes, I insist.”

Rhoda would have resisted, protested, would have made her escape. But there was no getting away from the self-willed mistress of the house when she had made up her mind.

Lady Sarah had made no further inquiries about the parcel which Rhoda was holding tightly in her arms, and this reticence was suggestive.

“I’m not ill indeed. I’m going to my room,” said Rhoda.

“No, no, you’ll come to my boudoir first.”

She led the girl up the stairs, and they entered the beautiful room with its silk panels and white enamel, and here Lady Sarah made Rhoda sit by the fire, and, taking a chair close to her, asked again, “Now, what is it? Tell me all about it. What’s that you’re carrying?”

Rhoda turned towards her with sudden fierceness.

“You know very well what it is,” she said.

For a moment the spoilt beauty was taken aback. The colour faded out of her lips and cheeks as she sat back in silence. Rhoda looked at her steadily:

“You know what this parcel is, and you know how I got it,” she went on.

Lady Sarah recovered herself.

“Really I don’t understand you,” she said coldly. “I haven’t the least idea what it is you are carrying.”

“Yes, you have, you know it’s the picture, the Romney, which was stolen from the gallery. And more than that, you know who it was that stole it,” cried Rhoda defiantly.

Lady Sarah drew a long breath. She was frightened, in spite of her _aplomb_, and for the moment she did not know how to meet this direct attack.

Rhoda burst into tears.

“Oh, Lady Sarah, what is the use of pretending? You know all about it, and as I know it too, what is the use of acting? It’s a dreadful thing, a terrible thing, and it’s very hard that I should be dragged into it, that I should have had to be obliged to do what I did to get it back. No, don’t look as if you didn’t know all about that too. Mr. Rotherfield told you, I’m sure, before he went away.”

Lady Sarah was leaning on her hand. She was now deadly white, and her eyes seemed to have become twice their natural size. With laboured breathing she gasped out:

“What are you going to do? I don’t admit anything. I don’t know anything. But just tell me what you have in your mind.”

“I must give the picture back to Sir Robert. And--I must tell him how I got it. There is no help for it, is there?”

Lady Sarah sprang off her chair and walked rapidly up and down the room, her draperies flying about her, her hair disordered, her face haggard with strong emotion. Then, quite unexpectedly, she paused in her walk, and then threw herself on her knees in front of Rhoda.

Clasping her hands together, she placed them on the knees of the other woman, and looked up earnestly into her face.

“Do you know what will happen, if you do that?” she asked abruptly.

Rhoda hesitated.

“You’ve got to know what you’re doing,” went on Lady Sarah. “Mind, I know nothing about this picture affair. I’ve heard nothing but what you’ve told me. But I gather that what you’re carrying in that roll is the picture which was stolen out of the gallery last night.”

“You know it is.”

“I know nothing. But let us say that it is the picture. What are you going to tell Sir Robert?”

Rhoda hesitated again. Lady Sarah went on passionately:

“Are you going to make up some story of its having been restored to you?”

“I’m going to tell the truth,” cut in Rhoda brusquely. “I’m going to say that I watched the packing of Mr. Rotherfield’s luggage inside his car, that I saw the gun-case put in, that I took it out with my own hands, and that Mr. Rotherfield followed me back into the house, stopped me, and let me take the picture out.”

“How did you know--supposing this strange story is true--that the picture was in the gun-case?”

“I guessed it.”

Lady Sarah looked alarmed.

“You are very inquisitive,” she said sharply.

“Oh, Lady Sarah, how can I help it, when such things happen as have happened here?”

Lady Sarah drew a deep breath.

“Things! What things?” escaped her lips in spite of herself.

“Well, I know more than I have told you. Not through any curiosity on my part, but because I couldn’t help it.”

Lady Sarah looked askance at her, but did not venture to ask any more questions.

“Go on,” she said petulantly. “Go on with this fairy tale that you intend to tell Sir Robert.”

“That’s all. It will be for Sir Robert himself to make inquiries. All I have to tell him is how I became possessed of the picture.”

“Very well,” said Lady Sarah, in an attitude and with an expression of calm despair. “And do you know what will happen when you’ve told him?”

“It will not concern me. I shall have done what I had to do, and I shall go away.”

“After having succeeded in wrecking Sir Robert’s happiness and mine. Oh, yes, it is of no use to shake your head, that is what you will have done. Do you think he will be content to receive back the picture, and to accept your story, without making any inquiries? It is absurd to think such a thing. He will certainly find out that you have not told him the truth, because he knows Jack, and can trust him, and Jack will assure him that there is no truth in your preposterous story. But you will have sown the seed of mistrust in my husband, and you will have spoilt every chance there was of our continuing to live happily together. And that after your lectures to me, after your assurance that you were so grateful to him that all you wished for was his happiness!”

Rhoda was crying quietly, with her face hidden. She knew that the picture drawn by Lady Sarah would probably prove to be, in its main outlines, correct. Jack and Lady Sarah would certainly deny all that Rhoda said, and it was scarcely likely that, in the long run, with his admiration for his wife and his fondness for Jack at war with his confidence in Rhoda, he would end by taking her part against the other two.

Nevertheless, even if he allowed Rhoda to go away in disgrace, perhaps herself under suspicion of having committed the theft, it was probable that, as Lady Sarah suggested, the seeds of mistrust would have been sown within him, and there would be a change for the worse in the domestic life of the household.

Suddenly Rhoda looked up, in desperation.

“What can I do?” she asked. “I can’t let him be deceived. And Mr. Rotherfield is behaving infamously, Lady Sarah; he is robbing his best friend. Don’t deny it. You know that it is the truth; at least, that it is part of the truth.”

Lady Sarah turned pale again.

Then she suddenly unclasped her hands, and clung to Rhoda, coaxing, piteous, irresistible. It was part of the charm of this wayward woman that she could transform herself, without a moment’s notice, into a sort of grown-up child, helpless, weak, plaintive, lost in doubts and fears, begging for help, for kindness, for guidance.

That was what she seemed to be now, as she looked with imploring eyes into Rhoda’s face, and whispered:

“Don’t do it, don’t do it, dear. You wouldn’t like to break up the home, you wouldn’t like to make poor Sir Robert miserable. Even if what you thought were true, that is what would happen, if you were to tell him what you mean to tell.”

Rhoda trembled. It was almost impossible to resist the clinging hands, the appealing eyes, knowing as she did know that the danger of a break-up was real. Whatever might be the exact result of her telling Sir Robert the truth, as far as she knew it, Rhoda thought it more likely than not that it would take some tragic form.

“What do you suggest yourself that I should do?” she asked.

Lady Sarah recovered some of her brightness of manner, her alertness, upon the instant.

“I propose that you should give the picture to me, and that I should give it back to Sir Robert myself, telling him that the thief left it at the house, with a note begging to be forgiven for what he had done.”

But Rhoda frowned impatiently.

“No, no,” she said. “Don’t tell him more lies. You may give back the picture yourself, if you like, but on condition that you tell the truth, that you confess who it was that stole it, and say that he, Mr. Rotherfield, has given it back and begs forgiveness. It will be a shock to him, of course, to find who it was that did it, but at any rate it is better that he should be shocked than that he should be further deceived.”

Lady Sarah, however, shook her head.

“He would never forgive him. I couldn’t tell him that. Unless,” her face brightened, as a fresh idea struck her, “I might perhaps be able to persuade him that it was a rough practical joke! I might take the blame of that upon myself.”

“Yes, yes. Sir Robert would forgive you anything, anything,” urged Rhoda.

Already Lady Sarah had sprung up from her knees and seized the rolled-up picture.

“I’ll go at once,” said she, “and make him happy.”

But Rhoda was not satisfied. Misgivings had seized her the moment she saw the lady’s quick recovery from her depression. She was troubled, also, as to the extent to which she could rely upon her keeping her word.

“Lady Sarah,” she urged in a trembling voice, “remember this is not the only thing that has to be given back. The snuff-boxes----”

But the spoilt beauty was already at the door. Looking back over her shoulder, and laughing mischievously, she said, quite in her old, buoyant, happy manner:

“Snuff-boxes! Oh, dear, I know nothing about those! If he suspects, he’ll have to make his own discoveries. One surprise is enough for him at a time!”

And the next moment she had flitted out of the room, lightly tripping along, relieved from all care herself, but leaving Rhoda oppressed by a strong sense that she had not made the most of her opportunity.

She felt that she ought to have been more exacting, that she should have made more stringent conditions, that she ought perhaps even to have gone the length of insisting that she should accompany Lady Sarah on her errand to Sir Robert.

But it was too late for regrets, too late for anything but unwilling acquiescence in the bold plan which the wilful lady had conceived, for giving up the stolen Romney.

But Rhoda wondered, as she slowly went out of the boudoir, and to Caryl’s room, where the boy was waiting for her, what story it was that Lady Sarah would end by telling her husband? Would she go as near the truth as she had promised to do? Would she confess to having been one of the conspirators, and to Jack Rotherfield’s having been the other? And would she say, as she proposed, that the whole affair was nothing more than a practical joke?

If she did, would not even the gentle, unsuspicious Sir Robert turn round upon her with a question about the stolen snuff-boxes?

By no stretch of imagination could he be induced to believe, if once he were told that Lady Sarah and Jack were engaged in the robbery of the picture, that they were innocent of the other theft.

More and more slowly Rhoda walked, as she told herself, with a little shudder, that she could not trust Lady Sarah, and that the story she was telling her husband, whatever it be, would not implicate either herself or Jack Rotherfield.