Chapter XXIV: Mrs. Sinclair Resolves to Go Away

Lavender never ceased to regret the impulse which had prompted her to persuade Melville to let her accompany him on that fateful visit to Fairbridge. Missing the constant attendance of him and of Sir Ross Buchanan, after their unfortunate meeting in her drawing room, she became bored with her own society, and was really only influenced by that, and perhaps by some little idle curiosity, when she called upon him at Jermyn Street and induced him to give her the innocent pleasure of a picnic up the river. It seemed too cruel that her simple want of something definite to do on that one day of her life should have involved her in such an appalling catastrophe. She had never known a moment's peace or happiness since then. Had it not been for her lack of occupation and for her natural terror of the thunderstorm, she would not have gone to the Manor House at all, would not have been a witness of the tragedy, would not have had this burden on her soul. Were it not for her knowledge whose hand took Sir Geoffrey's life she could have faced the world with a clear conscience on the subject of that crime, could have awaited the issue of Ralph's trial with comparative equanimity, and have received Melville with no reservation of mistrust or horror of the blood upon his hands.

That single impulse had rendered this impossible. She did know who the real criminal was, did know that it was an innocent man upon whom suspicion had fallen, did know the injustice of it all; and yet her lips were sealed and she was dumb. From the moment of Ralph's arrest until the moment at the assizes when the jury failed to agree upon a verdict, she had remained in London, unable to tear herself away from the dreadful fascination of his danger. She had confidently anticipated his acquittal, and the relief she would have experienced at knowing that an innocent man would not suffer death, would have been the saving of her own life and reason. But although she had endured the torments of suspense so long, her strength was exhausted and she could endure no more. If, next time, Ralph were convicted, Lavender felt sure that the horror of his impending doom would drive her mad. It was better if he had to die that she should not know it, should only learn of it long after it had happened. She must go away, and at once.

That was the conclusion at which she arrived immediately after the abortive trial, and Mr. Tracy's visits to The Vale only confirmed her resolution. She was satisfied that his object in calling was to identify her as Lady Holt, and that identification only meant the substitution of one disaster for another. So, after his second visit, she determined to do what her maid had professed she was upon the point of doing, and leave for the Continent that week. Had it not been for the necessity of seeing Melville, she would have made an effort to start the following day, but she could not leave without making some arrangement with him for the communication of urgent news, and this involved the settlement of some definite route to which she must adhere, and also the invention of some code, under the seeming innocence of which the most startling information might be sent to her without attracting attention.

Moreover, houses cannot be casually left in London, unless, perhaps, by the very rich, who have servants to whose care they can entrust everything just as it is at any moment; and Lavender had all the house-pride and affection for her goods and chattels that makes English home life so indicative of English character. Having decided to go away, she set about doing the thousand things that must be done ere she could lock all the doors and windows, and abandon her house to the formal custody of the caretaker.

She stood in the drawing-room buttoning her gloves, and looked around her. All the silver ornaments, the ivories and needlework were put away, and the place wore a cheerless look. She would be glad when the morrow came and she turned her back upon it for an indefinite time. If only she could leave her misery behind as well, with what a different feeling she would start upon her journey! But that could not be; only death could bring her that emancipation.

Leaving Lucille upstairs to finish packing, Lavender went round to the tradesmen to pay their several books and give instructions that they should not call for orders until they heard from her again. She completed her round of visits with an odd sense of having come to the end of a period in her existence, and was walking listlessly homewards, when the thought struck her that she must lose no time if she wanted to be sure of conveying a message to Melville before he left home, as she knew he generally did after his mid-day meal. It was to be a verbal message, given by Lucille to him in person, and it must be carefully worded, so as to arouse no speculations in the servant's mind. She walked briskly back and called Lucille.

"I want you to go to Jermyn Street at once," she said, "and take a message to Mr. Ashley. His chambers are on the top floor, and you can go up to his door without telling the hall porter whose rooms you are going to. Say you must see him himself, and when you do, give him my compliments, say I am going abroad to-morrow, and ask him if he will take me out to dinner to-night, and tell you where and when I shall meet him."

"And if he isn't in?"

"Don't deliver the message to anybody but Mr. Ashley. If he isn't in you must go again later on, but you will see him if you go now. Take a cab, so as to make sure."

Inwardly Lucille was a little surprised, for she had seen much less of Melville lately, and hoped that his great intimacy with Lavender was diminishing. She looked forward to a time when Sir Ross Buchanan would pick up the dropped threads of his courtship and draw her mistress into a safe haven of matrimony, from which Mr. Ashley, with all other disturbing influences, would be permanently excluded. That very morning, when packing, she had hesitated as to whether she should or should not put into one of the portmanteaux the large silver-framed photograph of the little baronet, which always stood on Lavender's dressing-table, and she had only decided not to do so because on this occasion she was anxious to take nothing which might remind her mistress of the immediate past. But of all this the good creature made no sign. She donned her hat and gloves, and, selecting a hansom with a likely-looking horse, soon arrived at Jermyn Street.

Acting upon her mistress's instructions, she walked upstairs and knocked at Melville's door. It was opened by Jervis, who looked at her approvingly.

"Is Mr. Ashley at home?" she enquired.

"Yes," said Jervis. "What name shall I say?"

Lucille hesitated; it might be advisable not to mention her mistress's name to the valet, and her own surname was not known to Melville.

"Miss Lucille," she said at last, and Jervis smiled.

"French," he thought. "Query, French maid. Gad, I'm beginning to think I gave Mr. Ashley a false character to the family lawyer, and that the circle of his female acquaintances is larger than I thought." He invited Lucille to walk in, and bestowing upon her another smile of cordiality and approval, of which she took no notice whatever, went into the bedroom where Melville was dressing.

"A lady to see you, sir."

"A what?" said Melville, looking at the clock; an odd time, he thought, forgetting for the moment, with characteristic casualness, the urgent reasons several women might have for ringing him up at any time. "Who is she? What does she want?"

"Don't know, sir," Jervis replied; "haven't seen her before; gave the name of Lucille--Miss Lucille."

"Oh! ah! of course," said Melville quickly. "That's all right. Tell her I'll come in a minute, and then I shan't want you."

"Thank you, sir," said Jervis, and giving the message to Lucille, he left the flat, and, substituting a smart coat for his linen jacket, he arranged himself upon the staircase to await Lucille's reappearance, holding a feather brush in his hand to avoid any air of being out of work.

Lucille criticised the room in which she was, and sniffed.

"Ladylike," she remarked, and the epithet was a happy one. The open piano, the violins, and a basket-tray of cut flowers, just delivered by a neighbouring florist, gave an impression that the occupant of the flat was a woman rather than a man. She rose as Melville entered.

"Your mistress has sent me a message?" he said curtly.

"Yes, sir!" she answered. "She desired me to give you her compliments and say that she is leaving for the Continent tomorrow, and to ask whether you could take her out to dinner this evening."

Melville frowned; he had an appointment for the evening which he was unwilling to cancel, but experience had shown him that Lavender would not trouble him unnecessarily, and if she was at last about to gratify him by going out of the country, she deserved this small gratification in return.

"I shall be delighted," he said, without a spark of enthusiasm. "Am I to come to The Vale?"

"Mrs. Sinclair said if you would tell me where you thought of dining, and at what time, she would meet you at the place," Lucille replied. "Her house is all dismantled, as she starts early to-morrow."

"Quite so," said Melville. "Well, ask her to join me at the Café d'Autriche in Pall Mall at a quarter to seven. Do you think that will be too early for her?"

"Not at all," said Lucille. "I daresay she will prefer not to be home late."

"Very well," said Melville, and as he held open the door for her to pass out, Lucille could not fail, much as she disliked the man, to be conscious of his fascination of manner and perfect breeding.

Jervis stood on the next landing and waved his feather brush in the direction of the lift.

"Mayn't I take you down in the lift, Miss--er--Lucille?" he suggested amiably.

"Thanks, no," she answered; "I don't like elevators."

"Elevators?" said Jervis. "Are you American? I made sure you were French."

"Did you?" Lucille remarked, withholding information on the point, but an amused look on her face belied the coldness of her tone.

"Tell me," Jervis persisted, "where do you live, Miss Lucille?"

"Geneva, when I'm at home," she answered.

"A perfect cosmopolitan," said Jervis, with admiration. "French name, American language, and Swiss home. I suppose you would not care to be English by marriage, would you?"

"Is that an offer?" Lucille enquired, looking at him so frigidly that his genial smile was frozen on his face.

"Well," he stammered, "I am engaged, you know, but----"

"Poor girl!" said Lucille, and continued her progress downstairs, leaving the valet short of repartee. He flung the feather brush down in the passage, and returned disconsolately to Melville's rooms.

Melville stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, thinking hard. He had been counting out his money that morning, and the operation took a disgustingly short time in the doing; he had a balance of thirty-seven pounds in the bank, and a five-pound note, three sovereigns and some silver in his rooms: a total of something under forty-six pounds left from Mr. Tracy's little payment on account of out-of-pocket expenses on Ralph's behalf. The result of the expenditure of the other fifty-four pounds was difficult to define, but if it did not benefit Ralph it benefited Melville as little. They were gone, though whither Melville had no clear notion. Mr. Tracy might be good for another hundred later on, but certainly not at once. The evening engagement which, by arranging to dine early, Melville did not find it necessary to cancel, might result in an addition to his funds, for its primary object was cards, but, on the other hand, it might not. The barometer of his luck had fluctuated from fair to stormy of late. Where should he go for an appreciable sum--if not to Lavender? And why not to Lavender? The necessity had arisen sooner than he anticipated, but from the first he had seen her potentialities as a source of revenue for himself, and he had no squeamish reluctance in availing himself of any means of assistance which fortune dropped in his way. The opportunity of asking her was created by herself, and, in view of her departure from England, might not arise again.

He wrote an open cheque for thirty pounds and called Jervis.

"Go round to my bank and cash that cheque for me. Take it in five-pound notes; I have enough change on me."

And when Jervis presently returned, Melville put the banknotes in his writing table drawer, lighted a cigarette, and went out for his usual gentle constitutional in the streets frequented by the best sort of idle man-about-town, as calm and free from worry as the idlest of them all.