"I was at Bournemouth, you know, last weekend," she remarked presently.
"Gerald told me so," said Clare.
They looked at each other. Vivien appeared almost plain today. Her face had a sharp, foxy look that robbed it of much of its charm.
"When you were at Skippington -" began Vivien.
"When I was at Skippington?" echoed Clare politely.
"You were speaking about some little hotel there."
"The County Arms. Yes. You didn't know it, you said?"
"I - I have been there once."
"Oh!"
She had only to keep still and wait. Vivien was quite unfitted to bear a strain of any kind. Already she was breaking down under it. Suddenly she leaned forward and spoke vehemently.
"You don't like me. You never have. You've always hated me. You're enjoying yourself now, playing with me like a cat with a mouse. You're cruel - cruel. That's why I'm afraid of you, because deep down you're cruel."
"Really, Vivien!" said Clare sharply.
"You know, don't you? Yes, I can see that you know. You knew that night - when you spoke about Skippington. You've found out somehow.
Well, I want to know what you are going to do about it. What are you going to do?"
Clare did not reply for a minute, and Vivien sprang to her feet.
"What are you going to do? I must know. You're not going to deny that you know all about it?"
"I do not propose to deny anything," said Clare coldly.
"You saw me there that day?"
"No. I saw your handwriting in the book - Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Brown."
Vivien flushed darkly.
"Since then," continued Clare quietly, "I have made inquiries. I find that you were not at Bournemouth that weekend. Your mother never sent for you. Exactly the same thing happened about six weeks previously."
Vivien sank down again on the sofa. She burst into furious crying, the crying of a frightened child.
"What are you going to do?" she gasped. "Are you going to tell Gerald?"
"I don't know yet," said Clare.
She felt calm, omnipotent.
Vivien sat up, pushing the red curls back from her forehead.
"Would you like to hear all about it?"
"It would be as well, I think."
Vivien poured out the whole story. There was no reticence in her. Cyril 'Brown', was Cyril Haviland, a young engineer to whom she had previously been engaged. His health failed, and he lost his job, whereupon he made no bones about jilting the penniless Vivien and marrying a rich widow many years older than himself. Soon afterwards Vivien married Gerald Lee.
She had met Cyril again by chance. That was the first of many meetings. Cyril, backed by his wife's money, was prospering in his career, and becoming a well known figure.
It was a sordid story, a story of backstairs meeting, of ceaseless lying and intrigue.
"I love him so," Vivien repeated again and again, with a sudden moan, and each time the words made Clare feel physically sick.
At last the stammering recital came to an end.
Vivien muttered a shamefaced: "Well?"
"What am I going to do?" asked Clare. "I can't tell you. I must have time to think."
"You won't give me away to Gerald?"
"It may be my duty to do so."
"No, no." Vivien's voice rose to a hysterical shriek. "He'll divorce me.
He won't listen to a word. He'll find out from that hotel, and Cyril will be dragged into it. And then his wife will divorce him. Everything will go his career, his health - he'll be penniless again. He'd never forgive me never."
"If you'll excuse my saying so," said Clare, "I don't think much of this Cyril of yours."
Vivien paid no attention.
"I tell you he'll hate me - hate me. I can't bear it. Don't tell Gerald. I'll do anything you like, but don't tell Gerald."
"I must have time to decide," said Clare gravely. "I can't promise anything offhand. In the meantime, you and Cyril mustn't meet again."
"No, no, we won't. I swear it."
"When I know what's the right thing to do," said Clare, "I'll let you know."
She got up. Vivien went out of the house in a furtive, slinking way, glancing back over her shoulder.
Clare wrinkled her nose in disgust. A beastly affair. Would Vivien keep her promise not to see Cyril? Probably not. She was weak - rotten all through.
That afternoon Clare went for a long walk. There was a path which led along the downs. On the left the green hills sloped gently down to the sea far below, while the path wound steadily upward. This walk was known locally as the Edge. Though safe enough if you kept to the path, it was dangerous to wander from it.
Those insidious gentle slopes were dangerous. Clare had lost a dog there once. The animal had gone racing over the smooth grass, gaining momentum, had been unable to stop and had gone over the edge of the cliff to be dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks below.
The afternoon was clear and beautiful. From far below there came the ripple of the sea, a soothing murmur. Clare sat down on the short green turf and stared out over the blue water. She must face this thing clearly. What did she mean to do?
She thought of Vivien with a kind of disgust. How the girl had crumpled up, how abjectly she had surrendered! Clare felt a rising contempt.
She had no pluck - no grit.
Nevertheless, much as she disliked Vivien, Clare decided that she would continue to spare her for the present. When she got home she wrote a note to her, saying that although she could make no definite promise for the future, she had decided to keep silence for the present.
Life went on much the same in Daymer's End. It was noticed locally that Lady Lee was looking far from well. On the other hand, Clare Halliwell bloomed. Her eyes were brighter, she carried her head higher, and there was a new confidence and assurance in her manner.
She and Lady Lee often met, and it was noticed on these occasions that the younger woman watched the older with a flattering attention to her slightest word.
Sometimes Miss Halliwell would make remarks that seemed a little ambiguous - not entirely relevant to the matter at hand. She would suddenly say that she had changed her mind about many things lately that it was curious how a little thing might alter entirely one's point of view. One was apt to give way too much to pity - and that was really quite wrong.
When she said things of that kind she usually looked at Lady Lee in a peculiar way, and the latter would suddenly grow quite white, and look almost terrified.
But as the year drew on, these little subtleties became less apparent.
Clare continued to make the same remarks, but Lady Lee seemed less affected by them. She began to recover her looks and spirits. Her old gay manner returned.
One morning, when she was taking her dog for a walk, Clare met Gerald in a lane. The latter's spaniel fraternized with Rover, while his master talked to Clare.
"Heard our news?" he said buoyantly. "I expect Vivien's told you."
"What sort of news? Vivien hasn't mentioned anything in particular."
"We're going abroad - for a year - perhaps longer. Vivien's fed up with this place. She never has cared for it, you know." He sighed; for a moment or two he looked downcast. Gerald Lee was very proud of his home. "Anyway, I've promised her a change. I've taken a villa near Algiers. A wonderful place, by all accounts." He laughed a little selfconsciously. "Quite a second honeymoon, eh?"
For a minute or two Clare could not speak. Something seemed to be rising up in her throat and suffocating her. She could see the white walls of the villa, the orange trees, smell the soft perfumed breath of the South. A second honeymoon!
They were going to escape. Vivien no longer believed in her threats.
She was going away, carefree, gay, happy.
Clare heard her own voice, a little hoarse in timbre, saying the appropriate things. How lovely! She envied them!
Mercifully at that moment Rover and the spaniel decided to disagree
.
In the scuffle that ensued, further conversation was out of the question.
That afternoon Clare sat down and wrote a note to Vivien. She asked her to meet her on the Edge the following day, as she had something very important to say to her.
The next morning dawned bright and cloudless. Clare walked up the steep path of the Edge with a lightened heart. What a perfect day! She was glad that she had decided to say what had to be said out in the open, under the blue sky, instead of in her stuffy little sitting room. She was sorry for Vivien, very sorry indeed, but the thing had got to be done.
She saw a yellow dot, like some yellow flower higher up by the side of the path. As she came nearer, it resolved itself into the figure of Vivien, dressed in a yellow knitted frock, sitting on the short turf, her hands clasped round her knees.
"Good morning," said Clare. "Isn't it a perfect morning?"
"Is it?" said Vivien. "I haven't noticed. What was it you wanted to say to me?"
Clare dropped down on the grass beside her.
"I'm quite out of breath," she said apologetically. "It's a steep pull up here."
"Damn you!" cried Vivien shrilly. "Why can't you say it, you smoothfaced devil, instead of torturing me?"
Clare looked shocked, and Vivien hastily recanted.
"I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, Clare. I am indeed. Only - my nerves are all to pieces, and your sitting here and talking about the weather - well, it got me all rattled."
"You'll have a nervous breakdown if you're not careful," said Clare coldly.
Vivien gave a short laugh.
"Go over the edge? No - I'm not that kind. I'll never be a loony. Now tell me - what's all this about?"
Clare was silent for a moment, then she spoke, looking not at Vivien but steadily out over the sea.
"I thought it only fair to warn you that I can no longer keep silence about - about what happened last year."
"You mean - you'll go to Gerald with that story?"
"Unless you'll tell him yourself. That would be infinitely the better way."
Vivien laughed sharply.
"You know well enough I haven't got the pluck to do that."
Clare did not contradict the assertion. She had had proof before of Vivien's utterly craven temper.
"It would be infinitely better," she repeated.
Again Vivien gave that short, ugly laugh.
"It's your precious conscience, I suppose, that drives you to do this?" she sneered.
"I dare say it seems very strange to you," said Clare quietly. "But it honestly is that."
Vivien's white, set face stared into hers.
"My God!" she said. "I really believe you mean it, too. You actually think that's the reason."
"It is the reason."
"No, it isn't. If so, you'd have done it before - long ago. Why didn't you?
No, don't answer. I'll tell you. You got more pleasure out of holding it over me - that's why. You liked to keep me on tenterhooks, and make me wince and squirm. You'd say things - diabolical things - just to torment me and keep me perpetually on the jump. And so they did for a bit - till I got used to them."
"You got to feel secure," said Clare.
"You saw that, didn't you? But even then, you held back, enjoying your sense of power. But now we're going away, escaping from you, perhaps even going to be happy - you couldn't stick that at any price.
So your convenient conscience wakes up!"
She stopped, panting. Clare said, still very quietly:
"I can't prevent your saying all these fantastical things, but I can assure you they're not true."
Vivien turned suddenly and caught her by the hand.
"Clare - for God's sake! I've been straight - I've done what you said. I've not seen Cyril again - I swear it."
"That's nothing to do with it."
"Clare - haven't you any pity - any kindness? I'll go down on my knees to you."
"Tell Gerald yourself. If you tell him, he may forgive you."
Vivien laughed scornfully.
"You know Gerald better than that. He'll be rabid - vindictive. He'll make me suffer - he'll make Cyril suffer. That's what I can't bear.
Listen, Clare - he's doing so well. He's invented something machinery, I don't understand about it, but it may be a wonderful success. He's working it out now - his wife supplies the money for it, of course. But she's suspicious - jealous. If she finds out, and she will find out if Gerald starts proceedings for divorce - she'll chuck Cyril - his work, everything. Cyril will be ruined."
"I'm not thinking of Cyril," said Clare. "I'm thinking of Gerald. Why don't you think a little of him, too?"
"Gerald? I don't care that -" she snapped her fingers - "for Gerald. I never have. We might as well have the truth now we're at it. But I do care for Cyril. I'm a rotter, through and through, I admit it. I dare say he's a rotter, too. But my feeling for him - that isn't rotten. I'd die for him, do you hear? I'd die for him!"
"That is easily said," said Clare derisively.
"You think I'm not in earnest? Listen, if you go on with this beastly business, I'll kill myself. Sooner than have Cyril brought into it and ruined, I'd do that."
Clare remained unimpressed.
"You don't believe me?" said Vivien, panting.
"Suicide needs a lot of courage."
Vivien flinched back as though she had been struck.
"You've got me there. Yes, I've no pluck. If there were an easy way -"
"There's an easy way in front of you," said Clare. "You've only got to run straight down the green slope. It would be all over in a couple of minutes. Remember that child last year."
"Yes," said Vivien thoughtfully. "That would be easy - quite easy - if one really wanted to -"
Clare laughed.
Vivien turned to her.
"Let's have this out once more. Can't you see that by keeping silence as long as you have, you've - you've no right to go back on it now? I'll not see Cyril again. I'll be a good wife to Gerald - I swear I will. Or I'll go away and never see him again. Whichever you like. Clare -"
Clare got up.
"I advise you," she said, "to tell your husband yourself... Otherwise - I shall."
"I see," said Vivien softly. "Well - I can't let Cyril suffer -"
She got up - stood still as though considering for a minute or two, then ran lightly down to the path, but instead of stopping, crossed it and went down the slope.
Once she half turned her head and waved a hand gaily to Clare, then she ran on gaily, lightly, as a child might run, out of sight...
Clare stood petrified. Suddenly she heard cries, shouts, a clamor of voices. Then - silence.
She picked her way stiffly down to the path. About a hundred yards away a party of people coming up it had stopped. They were staring and pointing. Clare ran down and joined them.
"Yes, Miss, someone's fallen over the cliff. Two men have gone down to see."
She waited. Was it an hour, or eternity, or only a few minutes?
A man came toiling up the ascent. It was the vicar in his shirtsleeves.
His coat had been taken off to cover what lay below.
"Horrible," he said, his face very white. "Mercifully, death must have been instantaneous."
He saw Clare, and came over to her.
"This must have been a terrible shock to you. You were taking a walk together, I understand?"
Clare heard herself answering mechanically.
Yes. They had just parted. No, Lady Lee's manner had been quite normal. One of the group interposed the information that the lady was laughing and waving her hand. A terribly dangerous place - there ought to be a railing along the path.
The vicar's voice rose again.
"An accident - yes, clearly an accident."
And then suddenly Clare laughed - a hoarse, raucous laugh that echoed along the cliff.
"That's a damned lie," she said. "I killed her."
She felt someone patting her shoulder, a vo
ice spoke soothingly.
"There, there. It's all right. You'll be all right presently."
But Clare was not all right presently. She was never all right again. She persisted in the delusion - certainly a delusion, since at least eight persons had witnessed the scene - that she had killed Vivien Lee.
She was very miserable till Nurse Lauriston came to take charge.
Nurse Lauriston was very successful with mental cases.
"Humor them, poor things," she would say comfortably.
So she told Clare that she was a wardress from Pentonville Prison.
Clare's sentence, she said, had been commuted to penal servitude for life. A room was fitted up as a cell.
"And now, I think, we shall be quite happy and comfortable," said Nurse Lauriston to the doctor. "Round-bladed knives if you like, doctor, but I don't think there's the least fear of suicide. She's not the type. Too self-centered. Funny how those are often the ones who go over the edge most easily."
CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE
I
The big logs crackled merrily in the wide, open fireplace, and above their crackling rose the babel of six tongues all wagging industriously together. The house-party of young people were enjoying their
Christmas.
Old Miss Endicott, known to most of those present as Aunt Emily, smiled indulgently on the clatter.
'Bet you you can't eat six mince-pies, Jean.'
'Yes, I can.'
'No, you can't.'
'You'll get the pig out of the trifle if you do.'
'Yes, and three helps of trifle, and two helps of plum-pudding.'
'I hope the pudding will be good,' said Miss Endicott apprehensively.
'But they were only made three days ago. Christmas puddings ought to be made a long time before Christmas. Why, I remember when I was a child, I thought the last Collect before Advent - "Stir up, O Lord, we beseech Thee ..." - referred in some way to stirring up the Christmas puddings!'
There was a polite pause while Miss Endicott was speaking. Not because any of the young people were in the least interested in her reminiscences of bygone days, but because they felt that some show of attention was due by good manners to their hostess. As soon as she stopped, the babel burst out again. Miss Endicott sighed, and glanced towards the only member of the party whose years approached her own, as though in search of sympathy - a little man with a curious eggshaped head and fierce upstanding moustaches. Young people were not what they were, reflected Miss Endicott. In olden days there would have been a mute, respectful circle, listening to the pearls of wisdom dropped by their elders. Instead of which there was all this nonsensical chatter, most of it utterly incomprehensible. All the same, they were dear children! Her eyes softened as she passed them in review - tall, freckled Jean; little Nancy Cardell, with her dark, gipsy beauty; the two younger boys home from school, Johnnie and Eric, and their friend, Charlie Pease; and fair, beautiful Evelyn Haworth ... At thought of the last, her brow contracted a little, and her eyes wandered to where her eldest nephew, Roger, sat morosely silent, taking no part in the fun, with his eyes fixed on the exquisite Northern fairness of the young girl.
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