Chapter XXV: Mrs. Sinclair Goes Away

The pleasant anticipation of her trip abroad, and the little mild excitement promised by her prospective dinner at a restaurant, among well-dressed people and brightened by lights and music, went far to rouse Lavender from her recent long spell of depression; there was much of the old sparkle in her eyes, much of the warm colour in her cheeks, as she finished dressing that evening and looked at her reflection in the mirrors while waiting for Lucille to bring her opera cloak.

Some caprice impelled her to desire to look her very best to-night, and she was magnificently dressed in champagne _crepe-de-chine_, worn over a foundation the tint of apricots. Regardless of the general superstition she had chosen opals for her jewels, and they burned in a myriad fantastic colours upon her splendid neck and bosom, and crept like a flaming serpent up one of her finely moulded arms. Few women could wear magnificent gems as easily as Lavender Sinclair, and, imperial as she looked to-night, there was no suggestion of ostentation or of bad taste in her appearance. Here was the splendour that compels homage, not the lavish display that challenges criticism.

Lucille surveyed her with proud affection ere she dropped the long opera cloak lightly over her shoulders, screening the glowing opals and covering the delicate gown. There was no need for Lavender to ask if she looked well; the least vain woman in the world, the most vain one as well, would have been satisfied by one glance at the image reflected from the depths of the full-length mirrors. Reluctantly Lucille extinguished the candles that stood in branching candelabra over the mirrors, and went downstairs to unroll the carpet from the hall door to the gate, where the hansom stood in readiness.

Lavender stood in the doorway and looked at the fair exterior of the small domain where for the last five years she had led so luxurious an existence. The sound of the traffic outside was subdued in here, and The Vale was like a green island in the great river of London life; all of the houses were creeper-covered, and in the flower-beds in the lawns were brilliant geraniums and petunias and giant sunflowers. Lavender's own garden was as pretty as any of them, with ribbon grass and flaunting lilies, and a gnarled wistaria stretching brown arms over the porch. It seemed a pity to be leaving home when it was all so sweet and dainty, and yet August had never before found her in London.

She got into the cab, and, smiling a farewell to Lucille, told the man to drive to the Café d'Autriche. It was a lovely evening, and already, early as it was, the stream of cabs and carriages was setting in the direction of the great hotels and restaurants. Lavender leaned back in her seat and watched the familiar scene with the keen interest of the intelligent Londoner, but as she travelled along the Brompton Road a wistful look stole over her face. Good as her lot had been until these later days, it might have been better still if as a child she had been taught more self-control. If Sir Geoffrey had been more patient with his impetuous child-wife, and she herself had been less self-willed and passionate, she might now be driving through the town, not as a practical adventuress masquerading under a name to which she had no right, but as the wife of an honoured and honourable old man--not as a supposititious Mrs. Sinclair, but in her true guise as Lady Holt.

They had got nearly to the end of the road when suddenly, with a deafening rattle and clanking of chains and a throbbing pulsation of machinery, a heavy traction engine, drawing a trolly laden with an enormous cylindrical boiler, came panting towards them. At the same moment the horses attached to an omnibus, between which and the pavement Lavender's cab was passing, shied and swerved, the axle of the hind wheel forcing the cab against the curb. Startled by the slight collision, and terrified by the hammering din of the ungainly locomotive, the animal behind which Lavender was sitting--a wiry Irish mare--threw back her ears, and, letting fly with her heels at the splash-board, dashed madly forward, jerking the bit between her teeth and getting absolutely out of hand.

A spasm of fear gripped Lavender's heart, and then, sitting bolt upright with hands pressed against the two sides of the cab, she braced herself to await the catastrophe. Even in the wild rush of the moment she noted with admiration how the driver managed to keep some semblance of control over the terrified mare, guiding her, he certainly knew not how, past cabs and omnibuses. But foolish people on the pavement began to shout, and only scared the little mare into a wilder pace. Crossing the top of Sloane Street they avoided by a hair's breadth a green omnibus full of people, and raced on towards the huge Hyde Park Hotel; they skidded over the edge of the island in the road, but already the cab was swaying from side to side with a rhythmical swing that grew more dangerous every time, and in Lavender's mind two words kept ringing in rhythm with the swinging of the cab, Lavender Holt--Lavender Holt--Lavender Holt.

She was kept in no suspense as to what the end would be, but even her stout heart quailed as she saw in what shape death was coming to her. Just by the railings of the Park the road was up, and policemen were diverting the traffic on to the other side of the road; but now the mare was blind and deaf and mad, only struggling to get faster and farther away from the hellish clangour of that horrible machine behind. Lifting herself together she charged full at the barrier of stout pines, upsetting a brazier full of charcoal and crashing anyhow into a maze of broken poles and blocks of karri-karri.

The impact threw the driver clear over the cab and forced Lavender through the window folded up above her. Shivering glass and splintering wood tore and rent their way into her face and neck and hands; one sob escaped her as a blaze of red flashed up before her to die away in utter hopeless blackness, and she was lying crushed and bleeding in the wreckage of the cab, as motionless as the mare that lay dead beside her.

There is no city in the world where help is so speedily forthcoming for the injured as it is in London. Almost before the crowd that ran shouting after the runaway came up to the spot where the dead mare lay amid the havoc she had wrought, Lavender and the cabman were taken to the nearest hospital. Tender hands took the jewels from her torn neck and shoulders, unclasped the winking serpent from her arm, and cut the stained gown from her broken frame. Her wounds were dressed and she was already laid in a spotless little bed ere she recovered consciousness.

"Who is she?" said the house-surgeon. "Does anybody know?"

"There are only initials on her linen," one of the nurses said; "perhaps the cabman may be able to tell us by-and-bye."

The house-surgeon shook his head.

"'The poor fellow can never tell us anything now; he was dead before they brought him in. This poor creature's hours are numbered too." He went out to the constables who had brought the accident in. "One of you had better come inside," he said; "the lady is dying, but she may recover consciousness before the end," and, with an inspector of police, he resumed his seat by the side of the bed. A quiver moved the tired eyelids, so faint that only the surgeon saw it. He bent over Lavender.

"Lavender Holt," she murmured, her dazed brain reverting to what had been almost her last conscious thought, and rhythmically the words forced themselves from the white lips again and yet again--"Lavender Holt--Lavender Holt."

"You are Lavender Holt?" the surgeon asked, and she made a sign of assent.

"Can that be the woman who has been advertised for from Fairbridge Manor?" the inspector whispered, an eager light shining in his eyes; "the missing widow of the murdered man?"

The silence was painfully long drawn out, but again the white lips tried to frame a name, and this time the inspector's suggestion helped.

"Try Ashley," he murmured, and with wonderful skill the surgeon encouraged the wavering brain to act.

"You are Lady Holt," he said, "and you want to see Mr. Ashley, is that it?"

A look of relief crossed her face. It was enough that her wish was understood, but too much for her to grasp the fact that there was any danger for anyone in what the wish involved. Behind her vacant look the surgeon saw the glimmer of consciousness, and with infinite patience he extracted from her that it was Melville whom she wished to see, and that he lived in Jermyn Street.

"That is the brother of the suspect," the inspector whispered. "You had better send for him at once," and without any delay a messenger was despatched in a cab to Melville's chambers.

Before the tiny wave of strength had ebbed, Lavender found means to ask for Lucille too, and said that she lived at The Vale, South Kensington. That much done, her brain became clouded again, and for a space the others could only wait and watch.

"She will probably have several periods of consciousness," the surgeon said to the inspector, "but there is no chance of life for her. If you think that she really is the widow of Sir Geoffrey Holt, who has been so sought after of late, perhaps you had better arrange for her depositions to be taken next time she comes round."

It was half-past eight before Lucille arrived, and later still before Lavender opened her eyes again and saw her loyal servant kneeling near her. She smiled, contented, but the worst ordeal was to come.

"Melville?" she whispered.

"He isn't here," they answered. "He said he would come at once, but something has detained him by the way."

Someone stooped over her: a tall, grey man with kind eyes set in a stern face, and he was speaking slowly and earnestly, so that each softly uttered word conveyed its full meaning. He told her that the end was very near; that if she had anything to say the minutes left in which to say it were but few, and that if she knew anything about her husband and his end it was her duty to reveal it all to man before she faced the judgment seat of God.

"Melville?" she said again, and in this supreme moment it was only his absence that distressed her. He had promised not to fail her when she should send for him, and now he was breaking his word because he could not trust her not to betray him.

"You understand?" the grey man said. "You are going to tell me everything you know, and I will write it down. The truth, dear lady, as before the God who is calling you away to-night."

"Ralph Ashley is innocent," she said, and by degrees the broken story was told; told in faint outline, but with sufficient clearness to make corroboration easy afterwards. She told of her early marriage to Sir Geoffrey and of her flight from him; of her marriage to Mr. Sinclair, made in all good faith, and of his death; of her visit to Fairbridge Manor on the fatal day from idle curiosity to see what might have been her home; of Sir Geoffrey's murder by the man with whom she went, and how she only chanced to be a witness of it because she was frightened by the storm; of how she saw the weapon dropped into the river, and was intimidated into silence afterwards; how she had always believed that an innocent man could not be convicted, and that Ralph would be set free and the true facts never be known. She told it all, but never gave a clue as to who her companion on that momentous occasion was.

On that point she was obdurate. It was her duty to prevent the innocent man from suffering, but she could not be brought to believe that it was her duty to bring the guilty one to justice. That was her code of morals, and while she was true to it in this last hour by doing what she could to set Ralph free, she would not be false to it by breaking her solemn promise to Melville.

"I'm very tired," she said, and in sheer compassion they let her be. She contrived to affix some sort of signature to the statement they read over to her, and then the others withdrew, leaving her to the care of the nurses and doctors and the company of Lucille, who loved her so.

"Everything I have I've given to you," she said once, and later on sent a farewell message to Sir Ross. Melville she did not mention any more; she had kept her promise and that sufficed. So she lay, waiting for the end, with an expression on her face in which fear had no part. Warm-hearted and impulsive, no one could ever tell how much she may have repented the part she played in spoiling Sir Geoffrey's life by her early desertion of him. From that point onwards, however, within the limitations of her rather crude nature, she had always been kind, straightforward, and true, and death found her not afraid. Of many a better woman not so much can be said.

Lucille knelt by her, gently stroking her hair, grudging every second as it sped. A faint smile flickered over Lavender's face, just lightening the gravity that was settling on it, and for the last time the lips that had never spoken an unkind word parted. Lucille bent her head nearer and caught the whisper.

"Good-bye--dear."