CHAPTER XVIII
It was Thursday night—a night of cold, steady rain. Edgar had dined alone, and given orders that the motor should come round after dinner to take him up to town. The burden of his suspicions had become intolerable, and he could no longer resist testing them. Though sane reasoning told him that Lucia was at Ashdown with Mouse, and Charlie was in London with Maud, he could no longer pay any attention to sane reasoning, and he did not believe these things. Should his test fail, should he find no grounds for all that he suspected, he had fully made up his mind what to do—namely, to confess to Lucia all that had turned these last weeks into hell for him, and throw himself on her generosity, imploring her forgiveness.
The test he had devised was simple enough. He meant to drive to Charlie's house, ask the servant whether he was in, and whether Lucia had been there. If Charlie was in, and Lucia had not been there, that would be sufficient for him; for during these last two days all the suspicions which had been vague and indefinite had hardened and crystallized, and he believed that they would be together. But if Charlie was not in, he meant to drive to his own house in Prince's Gate, and ask there if Lucia had come up to town, or if Charlie had been there. If those questions were answered negatively, again his test would have failed, and he would throw himself on Lucia's generosity, confessing all, even to this last meanness, holding nothing whatever back.
The drive would not take more than three hours, and he expected and had planned to arrive in town about midnight. The car was a large one, and on the top and in the luggage-box behind was all that he meant to take abroad with him. Beside the chauffeur sat his own valet, and he had the inside of the car to himself. He had brought a book with him, for the electric light inside made reading easy, but the journey was half over before he remembered that he had brought it. He noticed also then, for the first time, that the rain was beating in through the window that he had left open. He closed that, but still he did not open his book. His mind seemed to him to be quite blank, some empty canvas waiting for a picture to be painted on it; but with that automatic perception that seems to become so vivid when anxiety or fear has deadened the large faculties into blankness, he found that he was getting very accurate impressions of the details that were presented to his senses. The two men in front wore black mackintoshes, and it was odd how the reflection of the light from the electric lamp seemed to be brighter on those wet, shiny surfaces than was the light itself. The car went smoothly, with a long-sustained burr of sound, but now and then they ran through a puddle, and he heard the dash of the water against the splash-board. Once or twice, too, against the splash-board there came a loud, single rap, from some stone, no doubt, which the wheel had jerked up. Then to his nostrils there suddenly came the smell of wallflower, which puzzled him. Then he remembered that it was a favourite scent of Lucia's and, looking in one of the pockets of the carriage, he found handkerchief of hers, which smelled of it. His hand closed on that; it was a tiny little square of finest cambric, little more than a monogram and a coronet.
The journey did not seem at all long; before he could have guessed that they were nearing its end, they had entered the suburbs, and their pace, never excessive, slowed down. They went over Hammersmith Bridge, and he saw the row of lights reflected in the tawny river; and, observing that the rain had stopped—for the pane was unblurred—he let the window down again, and the cold night air, a little tainted with the smell of smoke, came in. The million lamps of the town were reflected in the vapours overhead, and to the east it looked as if there must be some fire broken out, so red was the glow. The rain could not have ceased very long, for the pavements were still shining with it, and the streets were very empty of passengers, as if the world had despaired of fine weather that night, and had gone to bed. Motor-buses, empty on the top, but crammed to bursting inside, passed him. Once one skidded a little just as they were opposite it, and for a moment he thought there would be a collision. They were dangerous things on a wet night.
Then, before he realized they had passed through the miles of streets, the motor drew up at the house in Warwick Square, and his valet came to the door.
"I won't get out till you have inquired," said Edgar. "Just ring and ask if her ladyship has been here, and if Mr. Lindsay is in."
And still, even though he knew that perhaps in one moment from now all his fears and his suspicions would cease, would drop into the poisoned well from which they came, his mind was empty and void. But his body took cognizance, and he felt his heart hammering and the pulses leaping at his wrist and in his throat. God! would the bell never be answered?
The hall, as shown by the glass windows at the side of the door, was dark, but suddenly they leaped into light, as a servant inside came to the door. His own man was standing with his back to him; after a moment he turned and came down the steps.
"Mr. Lindsay is out, my lord," he said. "He was dining out, and has not come back yet. Her ladyship has not been to the house during the last week."
"Thanks. Drive to Prince's Gate. When we get there" Edgar was silent a moment, and saw that his own hand was trembling as with an ague fit. But still his mind was blank. "When we get there, I do not want you to ring. I have my key, and will let myself in. I want the motor to stop two or three doors off."
His servant mounted again; the car backed a little and made a half -turn, backed again, and completed its circuit. At the door of Charlie's house was still standing the servant who had answered the bell, and the warm light streamed out from behind him.
The drive up from Brayton had seemed short, but this mile or two to Prince's Gate seemed interminable. Even here in the heart of London the ways were very empty; the hansoms that jingled by were few; the buses—since it was now after midnight—had ceased; and he looked up long perspectives of nearly empty pavements. Here and there he saw a man letting himself into his house, even as he himself would soon be letting himself in, and he wondered idly if any were on the awful errand that was taking him westward. Then they passed the lights of the Grosvenor Hotel, and again, with a sense of irresponsibility and remoteness from life, he wondered whether or no he would be there the next night. Where he was to sleep to-night had not occurred to him.
The house stood in the middle of one of the small sections of Prince's Gate, and the motor stopped, as he had ordered, a couple of doors away.
With his latch-key already in his hand he got out, and then suddenly, to his own astonishment, for his mind was still aloof, he felt that his knees so trembled that he could scarcely walk. But in a moment he commanded himself, and went quietly past the two houses that intervened to his own porch. The windows were all blank and blinded, but then he saw something, a very little thing, that brought all his numbed faculties back to him.
The fanlight above the hall-door was lit.
For one moment he paused there, and for all the chilliness of the night the sweat poured from him. Agonizedly he told himself that the caretaker had forgotten it, that when he put his latchkey into its hole he would find the door bolted and locked. Then, with a hand that no longer trembled, he put the key in, turned it, and the door opened.
The hall was lit. On a chair lay a man's coat and an opera hat. The latter had not been folded up, and on the black silk of the crown, above the maker's name, he saw two initials in gilt, which caught the light.
There was no more thinking to be done. He had contemplated this—just this—so often, that his actions were automatic. He had not yet closed the door, and he went outside and beckoned.
His valet jumped down and came to him.
"Tell him to bring the car opposite the door," he said, "and then stop the engines. I want you both to sit in your places and take notice of what happens. You will not have to do anything; you will just keep your eyes on the door, and see who come out."
He waited on the doorstep till the car had slid up opposite, and then went into the house again, closing the door gently behind him.
It was only for a moment, when he saw the fanlight, that his mind had worked, and now again, as before, it was blank. On the left of the hall was the door of the dining-room, open, and he went in. The room was in darkness, but by the light that came in from the open door he could see that a cloth was laid over a corner of the big table. He took a chair on the far side of the room out of the light, but opposite the open door, and waited.
Whether time passed quickly or slowly now, he did not know. He did not know, either, in what form the future would come, or what he would do. He had forecast his arrival here just as it had happened, but his prevision had gone no further than that. There was no anger in his heart, there was perhaps a little hate, but that was immeasurable, at the time, with that which filled it—his dead love. Whatever he would do this night, he felt sure that he would do nothing violent, nothing passionate. All possibility of passion or violence was crushed beneath the huge dead weight that filled his mind and his soul. And then once more the odour of wall-flowers came to him, and he found that he had still in his hand that little scented square of cambric. With a sudden qualm as of physical sickness he threw it into the grate, where a few coals still smouldered.
The house was absolutely still; it was as if silence covered the whole world. No sound of passing traffic came to him, no tattoo of pedestrian heels on the pavement, no clink from the dying fire. Then, after ages, or after a few seconds only, for time had ceased to be computable, a sound came. Somewhere upstairs a door opened. That was followed by the noise of its shutting, and then there came steps on the stairs. They came down one flight; they passed along the landing of the drawing-room; they came down the second flight that led into the hall. Then Charlie's figure came into sight, and, standing opposite the open door into the dining-room, he put on his coat and took his hat. Then he passed out of sight, but the noise of the opening and closing of the front-door told Edgar that he had gone into the street, where, just opposite the house, the motor was waiting. Then he got up and went himself into the hall. Charlie had turned the light out, but the fanlight above the door still burned, and it was easily possible to see.
Then the silence was broken again; the bell sounded, and then the knocker on the front-door, gently at first, but with growing vehemence, as if panic had seized the man who was knocking, and the whole house resounded to it. He had not foreseen that Charlie would recognize the motor or the chauffeur, but it did not matter—nothing mattered. But Edgar just slipped the bolt at the bottom and top of the door, then he lit the hall light again, went upstairs.
The house above was dark, and as he went he turned on the passage lights. But even before he had reached the first landing lights were turned on above him, and Lucia, barefooted and in a dressing-gown, came running down. It was no wonder she had heard the knocking; it was sufficient to wake the dead. And just as she reached the landing by the drawing-room she saw him.
For some half-minute neither spoke. In Edgar's mind there was still no anger, only the intolerable weight of his dead love. Then he spoke, raising his voice a little, so that she might hear it above the noise of that tempest of blows outside.
"The motor is at the door," he said, "and it shall drive you away to some hotel. Go and dress yourself. I will wait here for you, and take your luggage down. Ah, here is Hopkins."
The caretaker, half dressed, appeared at this moment, roused from sleep by the noise that still continued.
"Please wait and take her ladyship's luggage to the motor, Hopkins," he said. "It will be ready as soon as possible."
Lucia had not moved since the moment she saw her husband. But then, with a passionate gesticulation, she came a step or two towards him.
"Edgar, I swear to you" she began.
He just held up his hand.
"Ah, quite so," he said. "It is wasted on me."
"But I implore you"
"That is wasted on me also. Go upstairs, and be quick."
He turned, went downstairs again, and crossed the hall to the door. He undid the bolts he had just fastened, and opened it, and found Charlie, white-faced, frantic.
"It will do no good to make that noise," he said. "You had better go home."
Charlie stammered a few incoherent words before he could make his tongue do his bidding.
"But I can't leave her like this!" he cried.
Then, at the sound of his voice, Edgar's dead love, in the presence of the man who had helped to murder it, cried from the earth. But even now he did not lose control of himself; he but just knew that his control was weakening.
"You will be wise to go, you damned hound!" he said. "I am flesh an,d blood also. You need not be afraid for her. She will leave the house in a few minutes. Are you so stupid as to suppose I could touch her? But I might touch you. You might spare me that. Go!"
Then he crossed the pavement.
"You will drive her ladyship to any hotel she wishes," he said to the chauffeur, "and come for orders in the morning. I shall not want you again to-night. Flynn, you will go and see her ladyship safe and then come back here. You can let yourself in with my latch-key."
Edgar went back into the hall. Before long the caretaker came downstairs with a couple of bags. He went out and put them in the car.
"You can go to bed," said Edgar.
But still Lucia did not come, and after a little while he went up to her room. She was standing there with her furs and her hat on, quite still in the centre of the room. All the lights were lit, and they showed the absolute whiteness of her face and its incomparable beauty.
"It is time for you to go," he said, holding the door wide. "You are keeping the men up."
But still she did not move. She raised her face a little, looking steadily at him, and with short, jerky movements she raised her hands also towards him. And then, without warning, his self-control gave way.
"Go, go—you harlot!" he screamed, "or I shall kill you!"
Once, long ago, his love had frightened her; it was his hate that frightened her now. And next moment she was alone in the empty room.