Part 27 (1/2)

”This is new--Heaven _knows_ we have had disgrace enough--what else is going to fall on us?--Why put it off till to-morrow--what new thing have you done?”

Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceased sniffing and turned on Venetia.

”No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right to accuse him.”

”Accuse him!” cried the outraged Venetia.

”Yes, accuse him; you don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd be glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible.”

Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen.

Teresa had put her finger on the spot.

Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, a Righteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of other people's sins gave her pleasure.

Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had suddenly entered his practical mind.

”Good heavens,” said he, ”what has become of your luggage?”

”I don't know and I don't care,” replied the roused one, ”let it go with the rest.”

The car drew up.

”You will stay with us to-night, I suppose,” said Venetia coldly.

”I suppose so,” replied the other.

Jones got out.

”I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock,” said he. ”I want the whole family present.”--Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct Rochester--”Don't worry about what took place this evening. It was all my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the morning.”

She sighed and pa.s.sed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in a dream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house, then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It was Curzon street. Then he walked home.

Come what might he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did he feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love.

What a woman! and what a fate!

It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace, that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and lurid light.

Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, but up to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never thought of her, or he had not cared.

And such a wife!

”That fellow ought to be dug up and--cremated,” said Jones to himself as he opened the door with his latch key. ”He ought, sure. Well, I hope I'll cremate his reputation to-morrow.”

Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed.

He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the morrow, of what he would say to start with--then he gave up the attempt, determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment.