Part 37 (1/2)
”I see. As a doctor you will naturally be acquainted with many people in the neighbourhood; and that being so”--Major Carstairs moistened his lips and went heroically on--”you are of course familiar with my wife's story--you know all about those d.a.m.ned anonymous letters--and their sequel?”
”Yes.” Anstice met his gaze fully. ”I know the story, and I am glad of this opportunity to a.s.sure you of my unswerving belief in Mrs.
Carstairs' innocence of the charge brought against her. I hope you don't consider my a.s.sertion uncalled-for,” he added hastily.
For a long moment Major Carstairs said nothing, gazing ahead of him thoughtfully, and Anstice studied the face of Chloe Carstairs' husband with deep interest.
He said to himself that this man was a gentlemen and a man of honour.
There was something about him, something dignified, reserved, a little sad, which won Anstice's usually jealously-withheld sympathy at once; and although he had hitherto pictured Major Carstairs as harsh, unforgiving, narrow-minded, inasmuch as he could not bring himself to believe his wife innocent of a degrading charge, now that he saw the man himself, traced the lines in his face which spoke of tragedy, noted the sadness in his eyes, and heard the gentle note in his voice as he spoke of Chloe, Anstice was ready to swear that this man had not lightly disbelieved his wife.
If he had left her, it had not been done easily. He had surely acted in accordance with his lights, which would permit no compromise in a matter of honour; and as he now sat opposite to Major Carstairs, Anstice felt a strange new respect springing up in his heart for the man who had had the courage to stand by his inward convictions, however terribly, tragically mistaken those convictions might have been.
When at length that long pause ended, Anstice was surprised by the manner of its ending.
Major Carstairs leaned across the little table and laid his square-fingered hand, brown with the suns of India, on Anstice's arm.
”From the bottom of my heart I thank you for those words,” he said earnestly. ”I am glad to know my wife has one friend, at least, in Littlefield, who is able to believe in her innocence.”
”She has more than one, sir,” returned Anstice significantly, as Carstairs withdrew his hand. ”Sir Richard Wayne is as firmly convinced as I that Mrs. Carstairs has been the victim of a cruel injustice.
And----”
”Sir Richard? Ah, yes, he was always a true friend to Chloe.” He spoke absently and for a second said no more. Then he suddenly bent forward resolutely. ”Dr. Anstice, I see you are to be trusted. Well, you have doubtless heard that I left my wife because I could not bring myself to acquit her of the charge brought against her. I don't know how much you may have learned, but I give you my word the evidence against her was--or appeared to be--overwhelming.”
”So I have heard.” Anstice's tone was strictly non-committal, and after a glance at his impa.s.sive face Carstairs went on speaking.
”You must forgive me for reminding you that Mrs. Carstairs never categorically denied the charges made. That is to say, she implied that any such denial was, or should be, unnecessary; and it seemed as though her pride forbade her realizing how unsatisfactory her silence was--to others.”
”Forgive me, Major Carstairs.” Anstice took advantage of a momentary pause. ”May I not just suggest that a categorical denial was unnecessary? Surely to anyone who knew her, Mrs. Carstairs' silence must have been sufficient refutation of the charge?”
He was almost sorry for his impulsive words when he noted their effect.
Major Carstairs' naturally florid complexion turned grey; and his whole face grew suddenly aged. In that moment Anstice felt that his speech, with its implied rebuke, had been both impertinent and unjust; yet he hardly knew how to repair his error without committing still another breach of good taste.
Accordingly he said nothing; and after a moment had pa.s.sed Major Carstairs spoke with something of an effort.
”I am glad to see my wife has found a champion in you,” he said, with a smile which Anstice felt to be forced. ”And even although as a partisan of hers you naturally think me cruel and unjust, may I ask you to believe that I would give years--literally years--of my life to be able to think myself mistaken in my first judgment of that unhappy affair!”
The note of pa.s.sion in the last words moved Anstice powerfully; and he forgot his own delicate position in a sudden quite unusual desire to justify himself.
”Major Carstairs, forgive me if I seem to you impertinent, meddlesome. I know quite well that this is no business of mine, but--but I know Mrs.
Carstairs, and I know she has been made bitterly unhappy by this wretched misunderstanding. And I am sure, as sure as I am that you and I sit here to-day, that she never wrote one word of all those beastly letters--why, I can almost prove it to you, if you really care for such proof--and then----”
He stopped short, arrested by the change in Carstairs' face. His eyes suddenly blazed with a new and startling fire; and the hand which had been idly playing with a gla.s.s clenched itself into a determined fist.
”My G.o.d, man, what are you saying? If you can prove my wife to be innocent, why in G.o.d's name do you let me sit here in Purgatory?”
”I ... I said almost----” Anstice positively stammered, so taken by surprise was he.
”Well, that's enough to be going on with.” Carstairs spoke resolutely.
”Look here, I'll tell you something I meant to keep to myself. For the last two months--ever since I received my wife's short and formal letter telling me of Cherry's accident--I've been haunted by the thought that perhaps after all I was mistaken--frightfully, appallingly mistaken, in the conclusion I came to at the time of the trial. At first I was convinced, as you know, that the verdict was the only possible one; and, although it nearly killed me, I could do nothing but leave her and return to India alone. But in the last few weeks I have asked myself whether after all I have not made a terrible mistake. Supposing my wife were innocent, that her silence were the only possible course open to a proud and honourable woman ... supposing that a grievous wrong had been done, and the real writer of those letters allowed to escape scot-free.