The Woman in Black

by E. C. Bentley

  CHAPTER IX

  THE WIFE OF DIVES

  Mrs. Manderson stood at the window of her sitting-room at White Gablesgazing out upon a wavering landscape of fine rain and mist. The weatherhad broken as it seldom does in that part in June. White wreathingsdrifted up the fields from the sullen sea; the sky was an unbroken graydeadness shedding pin-point moisture that was now and then blown againstthe panes with a crepitation of despair. The lady looked out on the dimand chilling prospect with a woeful face. It was a bad day for a womanbereaved, alone and without a purpose in life.

  There was a knock, and she called, "Come in!" drawing herself up with anunconscious gesture that always came when she realized that theweariness of the world had been gaining upon her spirit. Mr. Trent hadcalled, the maid said; he apologized for coming at such an early hour,but hoped that Mrs. Manderson would see him on a matter of urgentimportance. Mrs. Manderson would see Mr. Trent. She walked to a mirror,looked into the olive face she saw reflected there, shook her head atherself with the flicker of a grimace, and turned to the door as Trentwas shown in.

  His appearance, she noted, was changed. He had the jaded look of thesleepless, and a new and reserved expression, in which her quicksensibilities felt something not propitious, took the place of hishalf-smile of fixed good-humor.

  "May I come to the point at once?" he said when she had given him herhand. "There is a train I ought to catch at Bishopsbridge at twelveo'clock, but I cannot go until I have settled this thing, which concernsyou only, Mrs. Manderson. I have been working half the night, andthinking the rest; and I know now what I ought to do."

  "You look wretchedly tired," she said kindly. "Won't you sit down?--thisis a very restful chair. Of course it is about this terrible businessand your work as correspondent. Please ask me anything you think I canproperly tell you, Mr. Trent. I know that you won't make it worse for methan you can help in doing your duty here. If you say you must see meabout something, I know it must be because, as you say, you ought to doit."

  "Mrs. Manderson," said Trent, slowly measuring his words, "I won't makeit worse for you than I can help. But I am bound to make it bad foryou--only between ourselves, I hope. As to whether you can properly tellme what I shall ask you, you will decide that; but I tell you this on myword of honor: I shall ask you only as much as will decide me whether topublish or to withhold certain grave things that I have found out aboutyour husband's death, things not suspected by any one else, nor, Ithink, likely to be so. What I have discovered--what I believe that Ihave practically proved--will be a great shock to you in any case. Butit may be worse for you than that; and if you give me reason to think itwould be so, then I shall destroy this manuscript"--he laid a longenvelop on the small table beside him--"and nothing of what it has totell shall ever be printed. It consists, I may tell you, of a shortprivate note to my editor, followed by a long despatch for publicationin the _Record_. Now you may refuse to say anything to me. If you dorefuse, my duty to my employers, as I see it, is to take this up toLondon with me to-day and leave it with my editor to be dealt with athis discretion. My view is, you understand, that I am not entitled tosuppress it on the strength of a mere possibility that presents itselfto my imagination. But if I gather from you--and I can gather it from noother person--that there is substance in that imaginary possibility Ispeak of, then I have only one thing to do as a gentleman and as onewho"--he hesitated for a phrase--"wishes you well. I shall suppress thatdespatch of mine. In some directions I decline to assist the police.Have you followed me so far?" he asked with a touch of anxiety in hiscareful coldness; for her face, but for its pallor, gave no sign as sheregarded him, her hands clasped before her and her shoulders drawn backin a pose of rigid calm. She looked precisely as she had looked at theinquest.

  "I understand quite well," said Mrs. Manderson in a low voice. She drewa deep breath, and went on: "I don't know what dreadful thing you havefound out, or what the possibility that has occurred to you can be, butit was good--it was honorable of you to come to me about it. Now willyou please tell me?"

  "I cannot do that," Trent replied. "The secret is my newspaper's, if itis not yours. If I find it is yours, you shall have my manuscript toread and destroy. Believe me," he broke out with something of his oldwarmth, "I detest such mystery-making from the bottom of my soul, but itis not I who have made this mystery. This is the most painful hour of mylife, and you make it worse by not treating me like a hound. The firstthing I ask you to tell me"--he reverted with an effort to his colorlesstone--"is this: is it true, as you stated at the inquest, that you hadno idea at all of the reason why your late husband had changed hisattitude toward you, and become mistrustful and reserved, during thelast few months of his life?"

  Mrs. Manderson's dark brows lifted and her eyes flamed; she quickly rosefrom her chair. Trent got up at the same moment, and took his envelopfrom the table; his manner said that he perceived the interview to be atan end. But she held up a hand, and there was color in her cheeks andquick breathing in her voice as she said: "Do you know what you ask, Mr.Trent? You ask me if I perjured myself."

  "I do," he answered unmoved; and he added after a pause: "You knewalready that I had not come here to preserve the polite fictions, Mrs.Manderson. The theory that no reputable person, being on oath, couldwithhold a part of the truth under any circumstances is a politefiction." He still stood as awaiting dismissal; but she was silent. Shewalked to the window, and he stood miserably watching the slightmovement of her shoulders until it subsided. Then with face averted,looking out on the dismal weather, she spoke at last clearly.

  "Mr. Trent," she said, "you inspire confidence in people, and I feelthat things which I don't want known or talked about are safe with you.And I know you must have a very serious reason for doing what you aredoing, though I don't know what it is. I suppose it would be assistingjustice in some way if I told you the truth about what you asked me justnow. To understand that truth you ought to know about what went before;I mean about my marriage. After all, a good many people could tell youas well as I can that it was not ... a very successful union. I was onlytwenty. I admired his force and courage and certainty; he was the onlystrong man I had ever known. But it did not take me long to find outthat he cared for his business more than for me, and I think I found outeven sooner that I had been deceiving myself and blinding myself,promising myself impossible things and wilfully misunderstanding my ownfeelings, because I was dazzled by the idea of having more money tospend than an English girl ever dreams of. I have been despising myselffor that for five years. My husband's feeling for me ... well, I cannotspeak of that ... what I want to say is that along with it there hadalways been a belief of his that I was the sort of woman to take a greatplace in society, and that I should throw myself into it with enjoymentand become a sort of personage and do him great credit--that was hisidea; and the idea remained with him after other delusions hadgone. I was a part of his ambition. That was his really bitterdisappointment--that I failed him as a social success. I think he wastoo shrewd not to have known in his heart that such a man as he was,twenty years older than I, with great business responsibilities thatfilled every hour of his life, and caring for nothing else--he must havefelt that there was a risk of great unhappiness in marrying the sort ofgirl I was, brought up to music and books and unpractical ideas, alwaysenjoying myself in my own way. But he had really reckoned on me as awife who would do the honors of his position in the world; and I found Icouldn't."

  Mrs. Manderson had talked herself into a more emotional mood than shehad yet shown to Trent. Her words flowed freely, and her voice had begunto ring and give play to a natural expressiveness that must hithertohave been dulled, he thought, by the shock and self-restraint of thepast few days. Now she turned swiftly from the window and faced him asshe went on, her beautiful face flushed and animated, her eyes gleaming,her hands moving in slight emphatic gestures, as she surrendered herselfto the impulse of giving speech to things long pent up.

  "The people!" she said. "Oh, those people! C
an you imagine what it mustbe for any one who has lived in a world where there was always creativework in the background, work with some dignity about it, men and womenwith professions or arts to follow, with ideals and things to believe inand quarrel about, some of them wealthy, some of them quite poor,--canyou think what it means to step out of that into another world where you_have_ to be very rich, shamefully rich, to exist at all--where money isthe only thing that counts and the first thing in everybody'sthoughts--where the men who make the millions are so jaded by the workthat sport is the only thing they can occupy themselves with when theyhave any leisure, and the men who don't have to work are even dullerthan the men who do, and vicious as well; and the women live for displayand silly amusements and silly immoralities--do you know how awful thatlife is?... Of course I know there are clever people and people of tastein that set, but they're swamped and spoiled, and it's the same thing inthe end--empty, empty! Oh! I suppose I'm exaggerating, and I did makefriends and have some happy times; but that's how I feel after it all.The seasons in New York and London! How I hated them! And ourhouse-parties and cruises in the yacht and the rest--the same people,the same emptiness!

  "And you see, don't you, that my husband couldn't have an idea of allthis? _His_ life was never empty. He did not live it in society, andwhen he was in society he had always his business plans and difficultiesto occupy his mind. He hadn't a suspicion of what I felt, and I neverlet him know--I couldn't; it wouldn't have been fair. I felt I must do_something_ to justify myself as his wife, sharing his position andfortune; and the only thing I could do was to try, and try, to live upto his idea about my social qualities.... I did try. I acted my best.And it became harder year by year.... I never was what they call apopular hostess--how could I be? I was a failure; but I went ontrying.... I used to steal holidays now and then. I used to feel as if Iwas not doing my part of a bargain--it sounds horrid to put it likethat, I know, but it _was_ so--when I took one of my old school-friends,who couldn't afford to travel, away to Italy for a month or two, and wewent about cheaply all by ourselves and were quite happy; or when I wentand made a long stay in London with some quiet people who had known meall my life, and we all lived just as in the old days, when we had tothink twice about seats at the theater, and told each other about cheapdress-makers. Those and a few other expeditions of the same sort were mybest times after I was married, and they helped me to go through with itthe rest of the time. But I felt my husband would have hated to know howmuch I enjoyed every hour of those returns to the old life.

  "And in the end, in spite of everything I could do, he came toknow.... He could see through anything, I think, once his attention wasturned to it. He had always been able to see that I was not fulfillinghis idea of me as a figure in the social world, and I suppose he thoughtit was my misfortune rather than my fault. But the moment he began tosee, in spite of my pretending, that I wasn't playing my part with anyspirit, he knew the whole story; he divined how I loathed and was wearyof the luxury and the brilliancy and the masses of money just becauseof the people who lived among them--who were made so by them, Isuppose.... It happened last year. I don't know just how or when. It mayhave been suggested to him by some woman--for _they_ all understood, ofcourse. He said nothing to me, and I think he tried not to change in hismanner to me at first; but such things hurt--and it was working in bothof us. I knew that he knew. After a time we were just being polite andconsiderate to each other. Before he found me out we had been on afooting of--how can I express it to you?--of intelligent companionship,I might say. We talked without restraint of many things of the kind wecould agree or disagree about without its going very deep ... if youunderstand. And then that came to an end. I felt that the only possiblebasis of our living in each other's company was going under my feet. Andat last it was gone.

  "It had been like that," she ended simply, "for months before he died."She sank into the corner of a sofa by the window, as though relaxing herbody after an effort. For a few moments both were silent. Trent washastily sorting out a tangle of impressions. He was amazed at thefrankness of Mrs. Manderson's story. He was amazed at the vigorousexpressiveness in her telling of it. In this vivid being, carried awayby an impulse to speak, talking with her whole personality, he had seenthe real woman in a temper of activity, as he had already seen the realwoman by chance in a temper of reverie and unguarded emotion. In bothshe was very unlike the pale, self-disciplined creature of majesty thatshe had been to the world. With that amazement of his went somethinglike terror of her dark beauty, which excitement kindled into anappearance scarcely mortal in his eyes. Incongruously there rushed intohis mind, occupied as it was with the affair of the moment, a littleknot of ideas ... she was unique not because of her beauty but becauseof its being united with intensity of nature; in England all the verybeautiful women were placid, all the fiery women seemed to have burnt upthe best of their beauty; that was why no beautiful woman had ever castthis sort of spell on him before; when it was a question of wit in womenhe had preferred the brighter flame to the duller, without muchregarding the lamp. "All this is very disputable," said his reason; andinstinct answered, "Yes--except that I am under a spell"; and a deeperinstinct cried out, "Away with it!" He forced his mind back to herstory, and found growing swiftly in him an irrepressible conviction. Itwas all very fine; but it would not do.

  "I feel as if I had led you into saying more than you meant to say, orthan I wanted to learn," he said slowly. "But there is one brutalquestion which is the whole point of my inquiry." He braced his framelike one preparing for a plunge into cold waters. "Mrs. Manderson, willyou assure me that your husband's change toward you had nothing to dowith John Marlowe?"

  And what he had dreaded came. "Oh!" she cried with a sound of anguish,her face thrown up and open hands stretched out as if for pity; and thenthe hands covered the burning face, and she flung herself aside amongthe cushions at her elbow, so that he saw nothing but her heavy crown ofblack hair and her body moving with sobs that stabbed his heart, and afoot turned inward gracefully in an abandonment of misery. Like a talltower suddenly breaking apart she had fallen in ruins, helplesslyweeping.

  Trent stood up, his face white and calm. With a senseless particularityhe placed his envelop exactly in the center of the little polishedtable. He walked to the door, closed it noiselessly as he went out, andin a few minutes was tramping through the rain out of sight of WhiteGables, going nowhere, seeing nothing, his soul shaken in the fierceeffort to kill and trample the raving impulse that had seized him in thepresence of her shame, that clamored to him to drag himself before herfeet, to pray for pardon, to pour out words--he knew not what words, buthe knew that they had been straining at his lips--to wreck hisself-respect forever, and hopelessly defeat even the crazy purpose thathad almost possessed him, by drowning her wretchedness in disgust, bybabbling with the tongue of infatuation to a woman with a husband notyet buried, to a woman who loved another man.

  Such was the magic of her tears, quickening in a moment the thing which,as his heart had known, he must not let come to life. For Philip Trentwas a young man, younger in nature even than his years, and a way oflife that kept his edge keen and his spirit volcanic had prepared himvery ill for the meeting that comes once in the early manhood of most ofus, usually--as in his case, he told himself harshly--to no purpose butthe testing of virtue and the power of the will.