Dawn

  CHAPTER LIX

  The news of George Caresfoot's tragic death was soon common property,and following as it did so hard upon his marriage, which now wasbecoming known, and within a few hours of the destruction of his houseby fire, it caused no little excitement. It cannot be said that thegeneral feeling was one of very great regret; it was not. GeorgeCaresfoot had commanded deference as a rich man, but he certainly hadnot won affection. Still his fate excited general interest andsympathy, though some people were louder in their regrets over thedeath of such a plucky dog as Aleck, than over that of the man hekilled, but then these had a personal dislike of George. When,however, it came to be rumoured that the dog had attacked Georgebecause George had struck the dog's mistress, general sympathy veereddecidedly towards the dog. By-and-by, as some of the true facts of thecase came out, namely, that Angela Caresfoot had gone mad, that herlover, who was supposed to be dead, had been seen in Rewtham on theevening of the wedding, that the news of Mr. Heigham's death had beenconcocted to bring about the marriage, and last, but not least, thatthe Isleworth estates had passed into the possession of PhilipCaresfoot, public opinion grew very excited, and the dog Aleck waswell spoken of.

  When Sir John Bellamy stepped out on the platform at Roxham on hisreturn from London that day, his practised eye saw at once thatsomething unusual had occurred. A group of county magistratesreturning from quarter sessions were talking excitedly together whilstwaiting for their train. He knew them all well, but at first theyseemed inclined to let him pass without speaking to him. Presently,however, one of them turned, and spoke to him.

  "Have you heard about this, Bellamy?"

  "No; what?"

  "George Caresfoot is dead; killed by a bulldog, or something. They sayhe was thrashing the girl he married yesterday, his cousin's daughter,with a whip, and the dog made for him, and they both fell into thewater together and were drowned. The girl has gone mad."

  "Good heavens, you don't say so!"

  "Yes, I do, though; and I'll tell you what it is, Bellamy, they saythat you and your wife went to Madeira and trumped up a story abouther lover's death in order to take the girl in. I tell you this as anold friend."

  "What? I certainly went to Madeira, and I saw young Heigham there, butI never trumped up any story about his death. I never mentioned him toAngela Caresfoot for two reasons, first, because I have not comeacross her, and secondly, because I understood that Philip Caresfootdid not wish it."

  "Well, I am glad to hear it, for your sake; but I have just seenFraser, and he tells me that Lady Bellamy told the girl of this youngHeigham's death in his own presence, and, what is more, he showed me aletter they found in her dress purporting to have been written by himon his death-bed which your wife gave her."

  "Of what Lady Bellamy has or has not said or done, I know nothing. Ihave no control over her actions."

  "Well, I should advise you to look into the business, because it willall come out at the inquest," and they separated.

  Sir John drove homewards, thoughtful, but by no means unhappy. Thenews of George's agonizing death was balm to him, he only regrettedthat he had not been there--somewhere well out of the way of the dog,up a tree, for instance--to see it.

  As soon as he got home, he sent a message to Lady Bellamy to say hewished to speak to her. Then he seated himself at his writing-desk,and waited. Presently he heard his wife's firm step upon the stairs.He rubbed his dry hands, and smiled a half frightened, wicked littlesmile.

  "At last," he said. "And now for revenge."

  She entered the room, looking rather pale, but calm and commanding asever.

  "So you have come back," she said.

  "Yes. Have you heard the news? _Your flame_, George Caresfoot, isdead."

  "I knew that he was dead. How did he die?"

  "Who told you he was dead?"

  "No one, I knew it; I told him he would die last night, and I felt himdie this morning. Did she kill him or did Arthur Heigham?"

  "Neither, that bulldog flew at him and he fell into the lake."

  "Oh, I suppose Angela set it on. I told him that she would win. Youremember the picture falling in the study at Isleworth. It has been atrue omen, you see."

  "Angela is mad. The story is all over the country and travelling likewild-fire. The letter you forged has been found. Heigham was down herethis morning and has gone again, and you, Lady Bellamy, are adisgraced and ruined woman."

  She did not flinch a muscle.

  "I know it, it is the result of pitting myself against that girl; butpray, Sir John, what are you? Was it not you who devised the scheme?"

  "You are right, I did, to trap two fools. Anne, I have waited twentyyears, but you have met your master at last."

  Lady Bellamy made a slight exclamation and relapsed into silence.

  "My plot has worked well. Already one of you is dead, and for you afate is reserved that is worse than death. You are henceforth apenniless outcast, left at forty-two to the tender mercies of the wideworld."

  "Explain yourself a little."

  "With pleasure. For years I have submitted to your contumely, longingto be revenged, waiting to be revenged. You thought me a fool, I know,and compared with you I am; but you do not understand what an amountof hatred even a fool is capable of. For twenty years, Lady Bellamy, Ihave hated you, you will never know how much, though perhaps what I amgoing to say may give you some idea. I very well knew what terms youwere on with George Caresfoot, you never took any pains to hide themfrom me, you only hid the proofs. I soon discovered indeed that yourmarriage to me was nothing but a blind, that I was being used as ascreen forsooth. But your past I could never fathom. I don't look likea revengeful man, but for all that I have for years sought many waysto ruin you both, yet from one thing and another they all failed, tilla blessed chance made that brute's blind passion the instrument of hisown destruction, and put you into my hands. You little thought whenyou told me all that story, and begged my advice, how I was revellingin the sense that, proud woman as you are, it must have been an agonyof humiliation for you to have to tell it. It was an instructive scenethat, it assured me of what I suspected before that George Caresfootmust have you bound to him by some stronger ties than those ofaffection, that he must hold you in a grip of iron. It made me think,too, that if by any means I could acquire the same power, I too shouldbe able to torture you."

  For the first time Lady Bellamy looked up.

  "Am I tiring you," he said, politely, "or shall I go on?"

  "Go on."

  "With your permission, I will ring for a glass of sherry--no, claret,the day is too hot for sherry," and he rang.

  The claret was brought and he drank a glass, remarking with anaffectation of coolness that it was a sound wine for a pound a dozen;then he proceeded.

  "The first thing I have to call your attention to is this ArthurHeigham plot. At first it may appear that I am involved with you; I amnot. There is not, now that George Caresfoot is dead, one tittle ofevidence against me except your own, and who will believe _you?_ Youare inculpated up to the eyes; you delivered the forged letter, I canprove that you cozened the ring out of Heigham, and you told Philip:there is no escape for you, and I have already taken an opportunity torenounce any responsibility for your acts. At the inquest I shallappear to give evidence against you, and then I shall abandon you toyour fate."

  "Is that all?"

  "No, woman. _I have your letters!_"

  She sprang up with a little scream and stood over him with dilatedeyes. Sir John leaned back in his chair, rubbed his hands, and watchedher tortured face with evident satisfaction.

  "Yes, you may well scream," he said, "for I not only possess them, butI have read and re-read them. I know all your story, the name of thehusband you deserted and of the child who died of your neglect. I haveeven sent an agent to identify the localities. Yes, you may wellscream, for I have read them all, and really they are most instructivedocuments, and romantic enough for a novel; such fire, such passio
nateinvective, such wild despair. But, since I learnt how and why youmarried me, I will tell you what I have made up my mind to do. I amgoing after the inquest to turn you out of this house, and give you apittance to live on so long as you remain here. I wish you to become avisible moral, a walking monument of disgrace in the neighbourhood youruled. Should you attempt to escape me, the payment will be stopped;should you obtain employment, your character shall be exposed. Atevery turn you shall be struck down till you learn to kiss the handthat strikes you and beg for pity on your knees. My revenge, Anne,shall be to break your spirit."

  "And are you not perhaps afraid that I may turn upon you? You know meto be a woman of strong will and many resources, some of which you donot even understand."

  "No, I am not afraid, because I still have a reserve force; I stillhold the letters that I stole two days ago; and, even should youmurder me, I have left directions that will ensure your exposure."

  A pause ensued.

  "Have you nothing more to say?" he said, at last.

  "Nothing."

  "Supposing, Anne, that I were to tell you that I have been trying tofrighten you, and that if you were to go down on your knees before menow, and beg my forgiveness, I would forgive you--no, not forgive you,but let you off with easier terms--would you do it?"

  "No, John, I would not. Once I went on my knees to a man, and I havenot forgotten the lesson he taught me. Do your worst."

  "Then you understand my terms, and accept them?"

  "Understand them! yes. I understand that you are a little-minded man,and, like all little-minded men, cruel, and desirous of exacting theuttermost farthing in the way of revenge, forgetting that you oweeverything to me. I do not wish to exculpate myself, mind you. Lookingat the case from your point of view, and in your own petty way, I canalmost sympathize with you. But as for accepting your terms--do youknow me so little as to think that I could do so? Have you not learntthat I may break, but shall never bend? And, if I chose now to facethe matter out, I should beat you, even now when you hold all thecards in your hand; but I am weary of it all, especially weary of youand your little ways, and I do not choose. You will injure me enoughto make the great success I planned for us both impossible, and I amtired of everything except the success which crowns a struggle. Well,I have ways of escape you know nothing of. Do your worst; I am notafraid of you;" and she leaned back easily in her chair, and looked athim with wearied and indifferent eyes.

  Little Sir John ground his teeth, and twisted his pippen-like faceinto a scowl that looked absurdly out of place on anything so jovial.

  "Curse you," he said, "even now you dare to defy me. Do you know, youwoman fiend, that at this moment I almost think I love you?"

  "Of course I know it. If you did not love me, you would not take allthis trouble to try to crush me. But this conversation is very long;shall we put an end to it?"

  Sir John sat still a moment, thinking, and gazing at the splendidSphinx-browed creature before him with a mixture of hatred andrespect. Then he rose, and spoke.

  "Anne, you are a wonderful woman! I cannot do it, I cannot utterlyruin you. You must be exposed--I could not help that, if I would--andwe must separate, but I will be generous to you; I will allow you fivehundred a year, and you shall live where you like. You shall notstarve."

  She laughed a little as she answered.

  "I am starving now: it is long past luncheon time. As for your fivehundred a year that you will give me out of the three or four thousandI have given you, I care nothing for it. I tell you I am tired of itall, and I never felt more superior to you than I do now in the momentof your triumph. It wants a stronger hand than yours to humble me. Imay be a bad woman, I daresay I am, but you will find, too late, thatthere are few in the world like me. For years you have shone with areflected light; when the light goes out, you will go out too. Getback into your native mud, the mental slime out of which I picked you,contemptible creature that you are! and, when you have lost me, learnto measure the loss by the depths to which you will sink. I rejectyour offers. I mock at your threats, for they will recoil on your ownhead. I despise you, and I have done with you. John Bellamy, good-bye;" and, with a proud curtsey, she swept from the room.