Chapter XII: A Horrible Secret

Poor Mabin gazed down blankly at the crouching figure of Mrs. Dale.

Were the complications of this mysterious history never to end. The little lady had shown terror at the mere sight of this man’s portrait; she had abandoned a room in which she had, as she thought, only dreamt of him. And yet now, when Mabin tried to reassure her by repeating his assurance that he would not force himself upon her again, the inconsistent woman gave every sign of the most profound sorrow.

Mabin looked, with her perplexity puckering her pretty face, at Rudolph, who had emerged from the wood in his turn. He however, was too deeply intent upon watching Mrs. Dale to notice his _fiancée’s_ expression, and Mabin felt a pang of jealousy, which she tried in vain to stifle.

“Don’t talk to her,” said Rudolph presently, as Mrs. Dale struggling with herself, and still white and trembling, got upon her feet. “Run into the house, Mabin, and get some _eau de Cologne_, and--and don’t go too fast, or you will get a headache.”

But Mabin, who felt hurt at this evident attempt to get rid of her, lingered, and offered the help of her arm to her friend. But to her astonishment and bitter annoyance, Mrs. Dale not only shrank from her, but cast upon the young girl a look full of resentment.

“Pray, don’t take so much trouble. I am quite, quite well,” she said coldly. “And I can walk alone, thank you.”

She had already withdrawn the arm Mabin had taken, and was plunging into the plantation with reckless steps, as if anxious to bury herself from observation. And she hastily put her handkerchief to her eyes and dashed away the tears which rose as she spoke.

Mabin drew herself up, and choked down a rising sob. What had she done that she should be treated like this? But the climax of her trouble came, when Rudolph, springing across the grass, and keeping his eyes still fixed anxiously on Mrs. Dale, as the little lady in black staggered blindly through the trees, touched her arm gently and whispered:

“You had better leave her for a little while, dear; she will be herself again presently.”

Mabin turned her back upon him, and marched off, without a word, in the direction of the house. He called to her to stop, to listen; but she would do neither. Wounded to the core, first by her friend, in whose cause she had been working, and then by her lover, she felt that she could not trust herself in the vicinity of either of them without an outbreak of grief or of anger to which her pride forbade her to give way.

She was in a whirl of feeling; she hardly saw the flowers or the trees as she walked; she scarcely knew whether she trod on grass or on gravel as she made her way straight into the house, shut herself up in her room, and sat down, in a passion of sullen resentment, by one of the high windows.

It seemed to her that she had sat there for hours, sore, perplexed, too miserable to think or to do anything but suffer, when her attention was attracted by a sound which made her start up and look out of the window. There, sauntering along between the broad beds of the kitchen-garden, stooping, from time to time, to hunt under the leaves for a late strawberry, or to gather a flower from the clumps of sweet-william and of clove-pinks which made a fragrant border to the more substantial products of the garden, was Mrs. Dale.

No longer melancholy, no longer silent, but bubbling over with high spirits, and laughing lightly at every other word of her companion, the lady in black looked more radiant than Mabin had ever before seen her, and appeared to be as light-hearted and incapable of serious thought as a child in the sunshine.

And her companion was Rudolph, who followed her, listened to her, laughed with her, and seemed thoroughly satisfied with her society.

This was the cruellest blow of all. That the deceitful woman who could pretend to be so miserable at one moment, and could throw off her grief so lightly the next, should have taken Rudolph and caused him to forget the girl he pretended to care for so much! Mabin watched them with a face wrinkled with despair, until her tears hid them from sight. But even then, Mrs. Dale’s voice, always gay, always bright, rang in her ears to the accompaniment of Rudolph’s deeper tones.

The girl, however, was not weak-minded enough to cry for long. The sound of the voices had scarcely died away when she sprang to her feet, bathed her face, and did her best to hide the traces of her grief. Pride had come to her assistance. She would show them both that she did not care; that Mrs. Dale might amuse herself with Rudolph, might carry him off altogether if she pleased, and she would not break her heart about it.

She was ready to go downstairs, and was crossing the room for that purpose, when there came a little tap at the door, and Mrs. Dale’s voice cried:

“May I come in?”

For answer Mabin turned the handle, and her friend, looking at her inquiringly, tripped into the room with a little affected air of penitence.

“I’m so sorry I was cross, dear, just now. Will you forgive me? I was worried, and unhappy--and---- But I’m better now, and so I’ve come to ask you to forgive me, and to come down to tea.”

She slid her arm round the girl’s waist. But Mabin could not disguise the change in her own feelings, which she could not help. She drew herself away with a laugh.

“I’m glad you are happier, and--and better,” she said stiffly. “I thought you were, when I saw you just now in the kitchen-garden.”

Mrs. Dale looked up at her mischievously.

“Why, you silly child, you have been making yourself miserable. It is of no use for you to try to deny it,” said she. “I believe you are jealous, Mabin. You would not be, dear, if you knew all about it.”

She spoke very kindly; and by one of those rapid changes of mood and manner which were her greatest charm, her face became suddenly clouded with an expression of gentle sadness.

But Mabin’s unhappiness had been too great to be effaced by a few gentle words. And her pride would not allow her to bend, to come to the explanation her friend might be willing to give.

“You are quite wrong,” she said coldly; “I am glad to see him so happy. I am not jealous.”

And she passed out of the room, as Mrs. Dale invited her to do, and went downstairs with her head very high in the air, and a sense of deep resentment at her heart.

At the dining-room door Rudolph met her, with a rose for her in his hand, and a pretty speech on his lips about her unkindness in hiding herself away for so long. But then, unluckily, Mabin’s sharp eyes detected that he threw a glance of intelligence at Mrs. Dale, and choosing instantly to fancy that there was a little conspiracy between the two to “get round” her, she was so reserved and silent and stiff as to make conciliatory advances impossible.

They had tea on the lawn, but it was a very brief affair, for Rudolph jumped up from his seat in about a minute and a half, and said to Mrs. Dale:

“If you will write it out now, I will take it at once.”

And then, Mrs. Dale, with a nod of intelligence, rose in her turn, and went quickly into the house.

Mabin sat very still, looking at the grass.

“Let me put your cup down, dear,” said Rudolph, who seemed to be subdued by the consciousness of what was in store for him.

As he took the cup, he managed to get hold of her hand.

“And now, Mabin, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said she with a grand air; “and you are treading on my frock.”

“I beg your pardon. I don’t think I was treading on your frock, by the bye. It is the table that is on it.”

So he went down on one knee, released her dress, and remained in his humble attitude, which brought him too low for her to avoid meeting his eyes, as she would have liked to do.

“And now, Mabin, tell me why you are unkind again so soon.”

“You had better get up. Mrs. Dale might see you,” was the icy answer.

“Well, and why shouldn’t she see me? Mabin, don’t behave like this; it isn’t worthy of you. I couldn’t have thought it possible you would sulk without any cause, as you are doing.”

“Without any cause? When Mrs. Dale and you both were unkind, making excuses to send me away, and----”

She stopped, afraid for her self-control. Rudolph taking a seat beside her, went on very quietly:

“She was very unhappy; you had said something, without knowing it, which gave her a great shock. She was hardly mistress of herself; you must have seen that.”

“But why was I to be sent away, like a child, without any explanation? When I had just been doing a very difficult thing, too, to try to help her!”

“What was the difficult thing?”

“I had called at ‘Stone House,’ and seen this man who calls himself Mr. Banks, and got him to promise that he wouldn’t get into ‘The Towers’ at night, as he has done twice, and frighten her.”

At this, much to her indignation, Rudolph’s mouth curved into an irrepressible smile. Mabin sprang up. But before she had fled very far, he caught her up, and insisted on keeping pace with her, as she ran toward the house.

“Stop, Mabin, and consider. If you run into the house, you will go straight into Mrs. Dale’s arms; and if you don’t, I will send her to your room after you. You had much better ‘have it out’ with me.”

So she turned and confronted him fiercely.

“Why did you laugh at me?”

“I can hardly tell you. No, don’t go off again; I mean that the reason is part of a secret that is not mine.”

“A secret, of course; I knew that. A secret which has been confided to you, but which I am not to know.”

Rudolph was silent.

“Can you expect me to be satisfied, to be laughed at and neglected, while you and Mrs. Dale exchange confidences, and forg-g-get me?”

“Now, Mabin, you are silly, my darling, silly, childish! You have known just as well as I that there was a secret somewhere. Can’t you be content to wait till the proper time comes for you to be told, instead of behaving like an inquisitive school-girl?”

Now this was the very worst sort of speech he could have made. If Rudolph had not been himself a good deal excited that afternoon by the story which Mrs. Dale had confided to his ears, he would have exercised greater restraint, greater choice in his words, and would have given more consideration to his _fiancée’s_ point of view.

Mabin grew white.

“I can wait, certainly,” she said with a sudden change to an extremely quiet manner and tone, “for the great secret which absorbed you so deeply. But there is another, a little mystery, which I want to know now; and that is--how a woman who is in the depths of despair at four o’clock, as Mrs. Dale appeared to be, can be in the very highest spirits at five? Or is that a secret I have to wait to know?”

“It’s all part of the same story,” replied Rudolph humbly, feeling perhaps that greater demands were being made upon her patience than was quite fair. “And I can only repeat that you will know everything presently.”

“And why not now?”

“The whole thing was confided to me, and I don’t feel at liberty to say any more even to you! Surely you can trust me, can trust us both. Why, Mabin, I thought you were so proud of your loyalty to your friends!”

The tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She was giving way, and yet feeling all the time that she had not been well treated, when unluckily she noticed a little movement on the part of her companion, and looked up quickly enough to see that Mrs. Dale, with a mischievous smile on her face, was standing at the door of the house, and waving a strip of paper to him as a signal.

“Go. Make haste. Mrs. Dale wants you!” cried Mabin bitterly.

And without leaving him time to protest or explain, she ran away.

That evening passed uncomfortably for both Mabin and Mrs. Dale. When they met at dinner, they both showed traces of recent tears on their pretty faces, and both unwisely tried to behave as if nothing had happened to disturb the usual course of things.

Mrs. Dale did indeed make advances toward a modified half-confidence; but it was so abundantly evident that she did so against her will, and that she was afraid of saying too much, that she repelled rather than encouraged the shy, proud girl.

Rudolph did not return. This was another sore point with poor Mabin, who ended by persuading herself that Mrs. Dale had succeeded in alienating from her the affections of her lover.

So that the hours dragged wearily by until bed-time, and both ladies showed an unusual anxiety to get early to bed.

But next morning there was a change in Mrs. Dale’s manner; she had lost her feverish high spirits, and was in such a state of nervous irritability that even the sound of Mabin’s voice, coldly asking a question at the breakfast-table, made her start and flush painfully. Her eyes were heavy; her cheeks were white; there were dark lines under her eyes which told of a sleepless night.

Mabin felt sorry for her, and was quite ready to “kiss and be friends.” After all, she said to herself with resignation not unmingled with bitterness, if Rudolph found the lovely widow with the interesting history more attractive than a girl with no fascinating mystery attached to her, it was not his fault, and it was not surprising. She felt ashamed now of her jealousy and ill-temper of the previous evening, excusable as they had been. And she deliberately made up her mind that, whatever happened, she would take matters quietly; and even if Rudolph deserted her altogether for Mrs. Dale, that she would give him up without a murmur, whatever the effort cost her.

After all, what was the use, she said to herself with a heavy sigh, of trying to keep a man’s love against his will? It had been a very fleeting happiness, that of his love; but the superstitious feeling the girl had had about its suddenness made her inclined to accept the loss of it as inevitable; and no one would have guessed, from her calm manner and measured voice, that Mabin was suffering the keenest sorrow she had ever known.

It was Mrs. Dale who was reticent to-day. She told Mabin that she expected a visitor that evening, but she did not say who it was. And from the fever which burned in her eyes, and the restlessness which increased upon her as the day went on, the young girl guessed that some matter of great importance was to be discussed or arranged.

Was the visitor to be Mr. Banks? she asked herself. But she did not dare to put the question to her hostess.

One unprecedented occurrence signalized the occasion. The musty drawing-room was turned out, aired, and prepared for the reception of the visitor.

“Do take your work in there, and leave it about, and try to make the place look a little less like a charnel-house,” cried Mrs. Dale to Mabin that afternoon, when they had gone together to inspect the state apartment.

“It does look rather dreary certainly,” admitted Mabin. “But it won’t look so bad to any one who hasn’t been used, like us, to knowing it is always shut up.”

“That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that. However, I still beg you to drop a few bits of filoselle about, and to read a few books and strew them about. And I’ll run out and get some bits of copper beech and bracken to fill those yawning bowls. Flowers would be quite lost in them.”

“Not the peonies. They would look splendid!” Mabin called out after her, as the widow went out through the French window on to the gravel path outside.

It was already late in the afternoon, and, darkened as it was by the trees and shrubs which grew near the large windows, the room was so dimly lighted that Mabin took her work--it was still the cooking apron--to the window. It had required some self-control to take up a piece of work to which such recent memories were attached; and as she sewed, Mabin had great difficulty in keeping back the tears. Here were the very stitches Rudolph had put in, the very bag on which their fingers had closed together. She felt the thrill of that contact now.

And even as she let the apron fall into her lap, while the longing to hear his voice speak tender words in her ear stirred in her heart and made it beat fast, she heard his footstep on the gravel outside; she saw him pass the window.

Scarcely repressing the cry: “Rudolph! Rudolph!” which rose to her lips, she saw that he was hurrying across the grass without having seen her. And looking out of the window, she saw that Mrs. Dale was standing under the lime trees, holding out her hand to him with a smile of greeting.

And the look of confidence and pleasure which irradiated the widow’s face filled Mabin with despair.

She stood still at the window, but she no longer saw anything; she was blinded by her tears. She hardly heard the door of the drawing-room open, or, if she heard, she did not notice it. She did not turn her head when the door closed.

It was not until a hard voice, close to her, said dryly:

“Are you the young lady whom I met here before--who refused to take the warning I gave?” that Mabin, dashing away the tears from her blinded eyes, recognized in the erect figure standing beside her Mrs. Dale’s former mysterious visitor.

“I--I beg your pardon,” said Mabin hastily; “I--I did not see you come in. You want to see Mrs. Dale. I will go and tell her.”

“You need not take that trouble,” replied the majestic lady in the same hard tones as before. “She expects me. She sent for me by telegraph yesterday.” And following the glance Mabin threw across the lawn, she asked quickly, and in a harsher tone than ever: “Who is the young man with her?”

“Mr. Bonnington, the Vicar’s son,” answered Mabin in a low voice.

“And what is he doing here?”

“He’s a friend of Mrs. Dale’s, and a friend of mine too,” added the girl with the generous wish to save her friend from the anger she saw in the elder woman’s eyes. “I am engaged to him.”

“Engaged to him! Engaged to marry him!” repeated the other sharply. “And you trust him with that woman!”

Mabin’s loyalty was fired by the tone.

“Yes. She is my friend,” said she proudly.

The elder lady uttered a short, hard sound, which she meant for a derisive laugh.

“Well, you are an independent young person, upon whom warnings are thrown away. However, it may be of passing interest for you to know that the lady you call your friend--” Mabin put her hands to her ears, instinctively guessing that she was to hear some horrible thing. In the darkness of the room the face above her seemed to her to be distorted with the passion of a fiend as, in a voice so piercing that the girl heard it distinctly, in spite of herself; she went on: “that the lady you call your friend has ruined the life of a man who loved her.” And Mabin caught her breath, thinking of the white face of Mr. Banks. Still the hard voice went inexorably on: “and that she murdered her own husband!”

Mabin uttered a shriek, as her hands fell down from her ears.