Part 15 (1/2)
”Because his death is common knowledge to those who--well, those who knew him,” she replied lamely.
”I tell you that Richard Keene has eaten cold meat and drunk beer in the tap-room at the _Stanchester Arms_. He came to Sibberton to make inquiries regarding the Earl and the occupants of this house.”
”He did!” she gasped aghast. ”Are you quite certain of that?”
”I heard him with my own ears. He questioned Warr, who is not, however, very communicative to strangers, especially if they are not very well-dressed.”
”How long ago?”
”On the evening of the tragedy.”
”Ah!” she sighed, and the light died out of her countenance again. ”But are you really certain that it was Richard Keene?--does Lolita know this?”
”Yes. He wrote to her.”
”Wrote to her! Then there is no mistake that the fellow is still alive?” she cried, dismayed.
”None. He told Warr that he had only just arrived home from abroad.
And he looked very travel-stained and weary. He seemed to be on tramp.”
”Without money?”
”On the contrary, he appeared to have plenty. It struck me that his penurious exterior was a.s.sumed for some purpose of his own.”
”Then if he really has returned, he means mischief--serious mischief,”
exclaimed the Countess, still very pale. ”The fact that he is not dead, as we had all supposed, alters entirely my theory regarding the crime and its motive.”
”You believe then that he is the guilty one?”
”No. That could not be,” was her quick reply.
”There are strong reasons--very strong reasons--why there can be no suspicion against him.”
”Is he such a very estimable person, then?” I inquired, hoping to obtain some further facts from her.
”Estimable!” she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. ”Why, he is the one person in all the world who--but no!” she added, suddenly breaking off. ”You are George's friend!”
”And therefore I must not be told the truth,” I remarked disappointedly.
”You must not know the secret of his sister Lolita,” she answered quite calmly. ”I cannot betray her confidence.”
I felt a.s.sured that the real reason of her refusal to tell me was because she feared lest I might betray her to her husband, and not on account of Lolita at all. She and I had somehow never been very close friends. I distrusted all women of her stamp, and treated them with that same light airy irresponsibility with which they treated me. The Countess of Stanchester could not be taken seriously. She was one of those women who, though married, live for the admiration and flattery of the opposite s.e.x, and who indeed, according to her enemies, would court the admiration of her footman, provided no other male of higher status were available. Often she had set herself to win from me some complimentary speech, but had, probably to her chagrin, always found me blind to all her feminine blandishments. That she was amazingly handsome could not for a moment be denied, but the open manner in which she coquetted under her husband's nose filled me with anger and contempt.
How different she was from Lolita. The latter possessed all that calm, well-bred dignity, that inflexible moral principle which had ever been characteristic of the n.o.ble Catholic line of Stanchester. Her early years had been pa.s.sed with the good nuns of the Sacred Heart at Provins, in France, and even now she gave the impression of one who had pa.s.sed under the enn.o.bling discipline of suffering and self-denial; a melancholy charm tempered the natural vigour of her mind; her spirit seemed to stand upon an eminence and look down upon the world as though it were not of it; and yet when brought into contact with that world which she inwardly despised, she shrank back with all the timidity natural to her convent education.
Marigold, on the other hand, possessed all the worst traits of the Gordons of Glenloch, that ill-fated house whose men were gamesters and whose women had for two centuries been noted only for their personal beauty. Successions of Gordons had ruined the estates, now mostly in the hands of Jew mortgagees, and the present generation, still reckless and improvident, were consequently very poor. Lady Gordon had successfully schemed to marry her three das.h.i.+ng daughters to wealthy men as a means of saving the last remnant of the estate from pa.s.sing out of her husband's hands and of the trio of girls who, for two seasons in London, were the most admired and most courted, Marigold, now Countess of Stanchester, was perhaps the most confirmed flirt. She had set all the _convenances_ at naught then, just as she did now. The golden bond of matrimony never for a moment, galled her. She found the world most amusing, she declared, pouting if her husband reproved her, and surely she might be allowed to amuse herself!
She differed very little from thousands of other wives--women of our latter-day degenerate stock which has neither code of honour to husband nor to tradesmen. Debts trouble them not, they fear neither man nor G.o.d, but skip arm-in-arm with the devil down to ruin and disgrace. If, however, the husband chances to be wealthy and their extravagance makes no difference to his income, they will, strangely enough, instead of descending to destruction, rise to a pinnacle of notoriety, become popular leaders of Society, and have their daily doings chronicled by the papers as a.s.siduously as those of the princes of the earth. But, after all, conscience is the padlock that we try to put on our inclinations.