CHAPTER XV.

SELF-ACCUSATIONS

Jack Rotherfield made no reply; indeed the hands of Sir Robert were pressing so tightly on his throat that he could scarcely have spoken if he had wished to do so.

For a few minutes the two men glared each at the other; Sir Robert pale with fierce anger, in deadly earnest, and probably unconscious how strong was his grip. Jack gasping, gurgling, perhaps affecting more inconvenience than he actually experienced, in order to gain time, and to think of an answer to satisfy the incensed husband.

But before the silence was broken, while Jack still lay struggling in the fierce grip of his captor, there was a sound on the terrace, a scream, a flutter of drapery, and Lady Sarah dashed into the room.

“What is it? Oh, what is it? What are you doing? You are killing him!” she cried, as she flew across the room and tried to drag her husband away.

But he shook her off almost roughly, and said, in a tone he had never used to her before:

“Go away. We must settle this between ourselves, he and I.”

But she would not go. Guessing now that some terrible revelation had been made to Sir Robert, and that a crisis had been reached, she came back when she had been repulsed, and throwing herself between the two men, stared up into her husband’s face, and said:

“Tell me what has happened. Tell me, tell me. I must, I will know.”

Sir Robert relaxed his hold on Jack Rotherfield, seized his wife by the shoulders, and looked her full in the face with penetrating, angry eyes.

“Why do you ask these questions? You know what it is I’ve found out. I know that you and he were engaged together last night in robbing me. What have you to say for yourself? Answer me if you can.”

There was, under all his ferocity, a hungry look of longing, an expression of strained eagerness to hear something from her lips which would mitigate the harshness of the sentence he must pass upon her.

There was silence for a few moments. Jack Rotherfield had risen hastily from the couch, and was standing, panting, a little behind Sir Robert, in the hope of being able to catch Lady Sarah’s eye.

But the baronet, now wholly alert and as keen to suspicion as a man could be, foiled this attempt at an exchange of looks or signs, by turning her round, so that he faced Jack, who did not dare to move away.

Lady Sarah, sobbing, tearful, trembling, looked up with a sudden impulse of daring.

“Well,” she almost shrieked out, dashing away her tears, “and what if I did? I wanted money, and you wouldn’t give it me. I begged you to let me have some, and all you would let me have was twenty pounds. Twenty pounds! After spending thousands on your pictures! I know it was wrong to steal your Romney; I know it was theft. But I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know where to turn. I made up my mind to take the picture, partly to pay my bills, and partly to have my revenge on you for being so mean to me. And Jack found out what I was going to do. And he tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t be stopped. So he helped me instead. The blame is all mine, all mine. He didn’t want to do it. I took the snuff-boxes myself, without his knowing anything about it. I got hold of the keys Miss Pembury used to take care of, and I took the snuff-boxes and put back the keys. There. That’s the story, all, all of it.”

Her eyes were dry and burning by this time, and she gazed up boldly, defiantly, at her husband.

He was plainly uncertain what to do, what to believe. Lady Sarah pressed her advantage.

“Of course I know I’ve done wrong, and I won’t ask you to forgive me. I only ask you to put the blame upon me, and not upon Jack, who only helped me because he couldn’t let me be caught by myself.”

Sir Robert made an impatient movement. Such magnanimity made him incredulous.

“There’s no excuse for either of you,” he said. “You both knew me.”

“Yes, and I knew you wouldn’t help me, for I asked you, and you refused.”

“I have never refused to help you. I offered to pay your bills.”

“You refused to give me money for myself. You wanted to treat me like a child. You showed that you distrusted me. Well, who is to blame, then, if I showed that I was not to be trusted? I was only treating you as you evidently expected me to treat you, wasn’t I?”

Her husband would not look at her. He was puzzled, sick at heart with mistrust much deeper than any he had betrayed to her. Was this all that he had to learn, that these two had combined together to rob him of his picture? That was the question which was agitating him, and to which he dared not as yet seek an answer.

The horrible secret which they had kept from him, this theft by which his own wife had, in conjunction with another man, sought to revenge herself upon him and to rob him at the same time, was such an unexpected revelation to the loyal-hearted and generous man, that on learning it he seemed to have stepped into a new world, where everything round him wore a fresh aspect, and where those nearest and dearest to him were transformed into shapes scarcely human.

He heard her lame and audacious attempt at defence, and waved his hand as if to ward off a blow.

“I can’t argue with you,” he said. “The whole thing is too shocking, too humiliating to us both, to us all.”

“Very well. I don’t ask you to forgive me. You’ve never understood me. I was never a suitable wife for you, and we can’t do each other justice,” said Lady Sarah. “However, we need not trouble one another any longer. I’ll get back your snuff-boxes if I can.”

“No, no. I don’t want them back. I don’t want ever to see again anything to remind me of this terrible day.”

Lady Sarah threw out her hands in a gesture of helpless despair.

“Very well. You shall not see anything to remind you of it, if I can help it. Of course for one thing, you don’t want to see me again.”

He looked at her sternly, but she would not meet his eyes. She went on quickly:

“I’ll go back to my father’s house. Whatever has to be arranged for the future you can arrange with him and with my mother. I don’t care what becomes of me. I’ve not been treated properly: I’ve been treated as if I were a doll. My life has been spoilt, and I have been sacrificed to other people’s blundering. Very well. I’ll do what I can to efface myself, and let us hear no more about it. You’ve got back your picture, and that’s all you wanted. It will console you for the loss of a wife whom you never cared to try to understand.”

She grew more and more excited as she went on, and ended by throwing herself on a sofa in a paroxysm of hysterical weeping.

Sir Robert stood motionless in the middle of the room, while Jack Rotherfield eyed him stealthily from near the window.

His wife’s wild accusations only affected him in proportion as they seemed to support or to refute the idea of some graver guilt than theft. He would not look at her, would not let himself be softened.

“I will take the night,” said he gravely, “to consider what to do.” He turned abruptly to his wife. “You had better go upstairs at once,” added he, “and stay in your room until the morning.”

She sat up, indignant.

“Am I to be kept a prisoner?” she asked. “Why not send for the police and give me in charge at once?”

“You will stay in your room,” said he, unmoved by her words, “until I send for you in the morning.”

“I see. I am to consider myself in custody. And pray, who is to be my gaoler? Not Miss Pembury. I won’t be watched by that girl. I suppose now that you are going to get rid of me, you will arrange for her to stay here.”

Sir Robert made no answer. But Jack struck in, anxious not to have Rhoda’s influence to combat as well as that of the baronet. Although he had failed to make his peace with her that evening, he knew that she had not, so far, told the worst that she had to tell, and it was worth an effort to try to keep her mouth shut, if only on that affair of ten years ago to which, as he knew, she had a clue.

So he suddenly struck into the conversation with an appearance of great magnanimity.

“Miss Pembury must not go away. She doesn’t like me, I know, but she is a good woman and she can be trusted. If you have to quarrel with me, Sir Robert, I hope you won’t vent your displeasure on either of the ladies. Sarah has done wrong, and I did worse wrong in helping her over the picture. I’m sorry and I’m ashamed. I know nothing can excuse her or me. Send me away, but don’t quarrel with her. Forgive her. She has never done anything to offend you till now, and Miss Pembury will take her part, I’m sure. I’ll go away to-night, if you like, on condition you let me take all the blame. Indeed I ought to do so.”

This magnanimity did not appear greatly to impress Sir Robert. The terrible doubts which assailed him, indeed, made all other considerations seem of minor importance.

But this address, if it did not impress the baronet, had its effect upon Lady Sarah. She was quick to jump to the conclusion that she was to take her cue from Jack, and to keep “in” with Rhoda, if she could. So she said:

“Jack is right, Robert. You must keep Miss Pembury, if only for Caryl’s sake. As for poor me, I don’t count, do I, now? But at least if you are going to send me away, let me have a talk with Rhoda first. Perhaps I can explain things to her better than to you, and if she believes me, why, I suppose you will.”

Sir Robert frowned. He did not like the tone which he noted in his wife’s speech, through which there seemed to run an undercurrent of sarcasm which offended and distressed him.

Lady Sarah, having made up her mind what to do, was already, in her impulsive fashion, on the way to carry it out.

“I will go straight to her,” she said, “and ask her to persuade you, not to forgive me, if you don’t want to forgive, but to do me justice. You are not doing me justice now.”

“I am trying to,” said he gravely.

Lady Sarah was at the door.

“Perhaps, with her help, you will succeed,” said she with some appearance of dignity, as she swept out of the room, throwing at Jack a glance of intelligence which implied that she was following his lead.

Sir Robert did not condescend to look at Jack again, but turning towards him, with his eyes averted, he said:

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

And with that he left the room and went upstairs, determined to keep watch himself, in order to prevent any meeting between his wife and Jack before the latter was safely got out of the house.

Already he was hoping that things were not so bad as he had at first been inclined to fear. The spirit shown by his wife had been, he thought, a hopeful sign. Bad as her conduct had been in robbing her own husband, he was hoping that might prove to be the worst, and that even that was rather the result of malice and mischief than depravity.

Certainly it was hard to reconcile this view of her behaviour with common sense. But Sir Robert shrank from the alternative. Going straight upstairs, with the intention of playing gaoler, as his wife had called it, to the extent of preventing any interview between her and Jack, he saw Lady Sarah going into Rhoda’s room.

This was just what he would have wished, and he went on to his own apartment, which was next to that of his wife, without affecting to see her.

Rhoda, who had fled upstairs in an agony of apprehension when Sir Robert came into the drawing-room and asked her to retire, sprang to her feet when she heard Lady Sarah’s impatient and haughty voice asking for admittance.

The wilful beauty rushed into the room like a whirlwind, a habit of hers when she was excited, and standing in the middle of the floor, gazed for a few moments defiantly at Rhoda, who had risen to receive her visitor.

Rhoda saw at once that a crisis had been reached in the domestic history of the ill-matched pair. Lady Sarah’s face was flushed, her eyes were red, her hair was disordered. Her gown of clinging rose-coloured satin was crumbled and soiled, and in every feature of her face, in every fold of her dress were signs of the disturbance of the past half-hour.

“I hope you are satisfied now, Miss Pembury, with the result of your well-meant advice to my husband, about his treatment of me!” she cried in a voice shrill with emotion, as she played nervously with her rings, and flashed indignant glances into Rhoda’s frank face. “You’ve roused suspicions in him which he ought to be ashamed of. He has made an awful scene, first with Jack and then with me, and the end will be the break up of the household.”

“What scene?” asked Rhoda hoarsely.

“Sir Robert professes to have found out that the picture was stolen by--by Jack, and so I had to say that I was the culprit. Now he has given us till to-morrow, when, I suppose, I shall have to go back to my parents, and poor Jack will be driven away too, of course.”

Rhoda was desperate, so she refused to be apologetic, or even sympathetic.

“Well, he couldn’t do better than that, at least, Lady Sarah, and you know that as well as I do.”

To her intense surprise, Lady Sarah took this boldly expressed opinion much better than she had expected. Staring intently into Rhoda’s face, she asked in a low voice:

“Do you really mean that, that you think he ought to be sent away? Tell me why. Tell me why.”

“I think he has had a very bad influence upon you, Lady Sarah.”

The baronet’s wife took this remark also in fairly good part. It was easier, at any rate, to discuss this matter with another woman than with Sir Robert. She took a seat near the dressing-table, and signed to Rhoda to sit too. Then she leaned on her hand, and looked her steadily in the face.

“You think, I suppose,” said she coolly, “that I am fonder of Jack than I ought to be.”

This was such unexpected frankness that Rhoda stammered, not quite prepared with a reply. Lady Sarah nodded sagely.

“Of course in a way you are right. I confess that I’ve always liked Jack better than any other man, much better, for instance, than I’ve ever liked Sir Robert.”

“Oh, hush! pray don’t say such things!”

Lady Sarah’s pretty face grew mutinous.

“Why shouldn’t I say them? You have always known the truth so far, and it would be only cant to pretend you hadn’t. Come, Miss Pembury, be honest. You first knew me ten years ago. Didn’t you know, even then, that I liked Jack best? If you didn’t, you ought to have known. For I’m sure everybody else did.”

“Well, even if I did, of course I took it for granted, when I found you married to a man so good and so generous, and so devoted to you, that you were fond of him.”

“You should never take anything for granted, with a woman like me. I don’t think even Sir Robert took so much for granted as you seem to have done. A man thinks only of getting the woman he likes best to marry him, you know; he never asks himself whether he can make her love him. That’s what _he_ takes for granted. Sometimes, no doubt, he’s right; sometimes, he’s wrong. Sir Robert was wrong.”

“Oh, don’t. I don’t like to hear.”

“But I want to tell you. Look here, Miss Pembury. We are not great friends, you and I. You don’t like me very much, and perhaps I don’t appreciate you properly. My husband doesn’t think I do, I know.”

Rather shocked by this mingled cynicism and honesty, Rhoda was yet interested, fascinated. Lady Sarah could always command any one’s interest and attention when she chose to take the trouble. And as she talked, looking the while as pretty as a picture by Greuze in spite of her recent tears, Rhoda could not help her own heart going out to the wayward creature, who talked so simply, and who seemed so frank.

“But, at any rate, as we’re both women, we ought to be able to understand each other, if we try. I want you to understand me. Not from any wish to make out a case for myself, but because I want some one to know, and to remember afterwards, just what Sir Robert is doing in driving Jack Rotherfield away. He will have to go, of course. Probably Sir Robert will make a pretence of forgiving me for my share in the picture affair, and I shall be allowed to remain here, as an act of distinguished clemency. But I don’t want to remain. If Jack, who is my friend, is sent away, and I am kept here as a sort of prisoner on parole, I might as well die at once. Of what use will my life be to me? If I am not trusted to have my own friends, if I am to find my amusement in Sir Robert’s stuffed birds, why should I take the trouble to live at all?”

“But Sir Robert isn’t so unreasonable. He wants you to be happy, and as he sees that you can’t be happy long at home, he is ready to take you abroad.”

“But I don’t want to go--with him. Oh, don’t look shocked. I’ve only dared to be so candid with you because I’m really quite innocent of anything worse than being bored to death by my own husband. You need not tell me he is good and generous, and all that. I’ve no doubt he is. But I can’t work myself up into enthusiasm about such negative qualities. I want something more piquant, more exciting, in a man than that. If only I’d been allowed to go on in my own way, all would have been right. I wasn’t a very good wife, perhaps, nor an absolutely perfect mother. But I never did anything wrong, or shocking, nothing worse than amuse myself in my own way with my own friends. Now you, with the best intentions, I’m sure, have made that impossible, what can you expect of me? Do you think I shall settle down at once to spectacles and knitting? Do you imagine that Sir Robert will at once find me an ideal companion, say, for a wet day? Oh, no, you know better than that. Well, what do you expect then?”

Rhoda answered with diffidence. Lady Sarah could put her own case well, of course, and it was evident that she quite believed all that she was saying. Rhoda began to doubt, herself, whether the upheaval in the domestic life at the Mill-house would not result in a change for the worse all round, and not for the better.

“Couldn’t you meet Sir Robert ever such a little way?” she suggested timidly.

“How? Just tell me how.”

“Would it really be such an infliction to take a journey with him to a country you have never visited? You would stay at the best hotels, enjoy yourself in your own way, only with your husband looking on, instead of right out of it. I’m sure you could trust him not to interfere with your amusements; all he would ask would be to be your companion, your protector.”

Lady Sarah screwed up her pretty features expressively. It was plain that the prospect had no charms for her. But she was silent a moment and then she threw out her arms with a sigh.

“That’s what I shall have to do, I suppose,” said she. “But it will be horrid--for both of us. Well,” she rose and nodded casually without putting out her hand: “at least now you understand me better than you did, even if you can’t find any excuses for my shocking behaviour.”

She was quite her old self again, mocking, laughing, contemptuous, charming.

Rhoda wondered, when she was alone, whether there was any possibility of touching her heart, or of making her realise her responsibilities in life.

She seemed to be absolutely without any sense of them; and although Rhoda was inclined to believe her account of the relations between her and Jack, realising as she did that there were no depths in the wayward woman, no heart-yearnings to be satisfied, she asked herself, in a kind of terror, whether such negative virtues were not even more hopeless to deal with than would have been the stormy passion of a guilty love.