CHAPTER XIX. THE TRUTH
To Captain Tremayne, fretted with impatience in the diningroom, came,at the end of a long hour of waiting, Sylvia Armytage. She enteredunannounced, at a moment when for the third time he was on the point ofringing for Mullins, and for a moment they stood considering eachother mutually ill at ease. Then Miss Armytage closed the door and cameforward, moving with that grace peculiar to her, and carrying her headerect, facing Captain Tremayne now with some lingering signs of thedefiance she had shown the members of the court-martial.
"Mullins tells me that you wish to see me," she said the merestconventionality to break the disconcerting, uneasy silence.
"After what has happened that should not surprise you," said Tremayne.His agitation was clear to behold, his usual imperturbability alldeparted. "Why," he burst out suddenly, "why did you do it?"
She looked at him with the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips, as ifshe found the question amusing. But before she could frame any answer hewas speaking again, quickly and nervously.
"Could you suppose that I should wish to purchase my life at such aprice? Could you suppose that your honour was not more precious to methan my life? It was infamous that you should have sacrificed yourselfin this manner."
"Infamous of whom?" she asked him coolly.
The question gave him pause. "I don't know!" he cried desperately."Infamous of the circumstances, I suppose."
She shrugged. "The circumstances were there, and they had to be met. Icould think of no other way of meeting them."
Hastily he answered her out of his anger for her sake: "It should nothave been your affair to meet them at all."
He saw the scarlet flush sweep over her face and leave it deathly white,and instantly he perceived how horribly he had blundered.
"I'm sorry to have been interfering," she answered stiffly, "but, afterall, it is not a matter that need trouble you." And on the words sheturned to depart again. "Good-day, Captain Tremayne."
"Ah, wait!" He flung himself between her and the door. "We mustunderstand each other, Miss Armytage."
"I think we do, Captain Tremayne," she answered, fire dancing in hereyes. And she added: "You are detaining me."
"Intentionally." He was calm again; and he was masterful for thefirst time in all his dealings with her. "We are very far from anyunderstanding. Indeed, we are overhead in a misunderstanding already.You misconstrue my words. I am very angry with you. I do not think thatin all my life I have ever been so angry with anybody. But you are notto mistake the source of my anger. I am angry with you for the greatwrong you have done yourself."
"That should not be your affair," she answered him, thus flinging backthe offending phrase.
"But it is. I make it mine," he insisted.
"Then I do not give you the right. Please let me pass." She looked himsteadily in the face, and her voice was calm to coldness. Only the heaveof her bosom betrayed the agitation under which she was labouring.
"Whether you give me the right or not, I intend to take it," heinsisted.
"You are very rude," she reproved him.
He laughed. "Even at the risk of being rude, then. I must make myselfclear to you. I would suffer anything sooner than leave you under anymisapprehension of the grounds upon which I should have preferred toface a firing party rather than have been rescued at the sacrifice ofyour good name."
"I hope," she said, with faint but cutting irony, "you do not intend tooffer me the reparation of marriage."
It took his breath away for a moment. It was a solution that in hisconfused and irate state of mind he had never even paused to consider.Yet now that it was put to him in this scornfully reproachful manner heperceived not only that it was the only possible course, but also thaton that very account it might be considered by her impossible.
Her testiness was suddenly plain to him. She feared that he was come toher with an offer of marriage out of a sense of duty, as an amende,to correct the false position into which, for his sake, she had placedherself. And he himself by his blundering phrase had given colour tothat hideous fear of hers.
He considered a moment whilst he stood there meeting her defiant glance.Never had she been more desirable in his eyes; and hopeless as hislove for her had always seemed, never had it been in such danger ofhopelessness as at this present moment, unless he proceeded here withthe utmost care. And so Ned Tremayne became subtle for the first time inhis honest, straightforward, soldierly life. "No," he answered boldly,"I do not intend it."
"I am glad that you spare me that," she answered him, yet her pallorseemed to deepen under his glance.
"And that," he continued, "is the source of all my anger, againstyou, against myself, and against circumstances. If I had deemed myselfremotely worthy of you," he continued, "I should have asked you weeksago to be my wife. Oh, wait, and hear me out. I have more than once beenupon the point of doing so--the last time was that night on the balconyat Count Redondo's. I would have spoken then; I would have taken mycourage in my hands, confessed my unworthiness and my love. But I wasrestrained because, although I might confess, there was nothing I couldask. I am a poor man, Sylvia, you are the daughter of a wealthy one; menspeak of you as an heiress. To ask you to marry me--" He broke off."You realise that I could not; that I should have been deemed afortune-hunter, not only by the world, which matters nothing, butperhaps by yourself, who matter everything. I--I--" he faltered,fumbling for words to express thoughts of an overwhelming intricacy. "Itwas not perhaps that so much as the thought that, if my suit shouldcome to prosper, men would say you had thrown yourself away on afortune-hunter. To myself I should have accounted the reproach wellearned, but it seemed to me that it must contain something slighting toyou, and to shield you from all slights must be the first concern of mydeep worship for you. That," he ended fiercely, "is why I am so angry,so desperate at the slight you have put upon yourself for my sake--forme, who would have sacrificed life and honour and everything I hold ofany account, to keep you up there, enthroned not only in my own eyes,but in the eyes of every man."
He paused, and looked at her and she at him. She was still very white,and one of her long, slender hands was pressed to her bosom as if tocontain and repress tumult. But her eyes were smiling, and yet it was asmile he could not read; it was compassionate, wistful, and yet tinged,it seemed to him, with mockery.
"I suppose," he said, "it would be expected of me in the circumstancesto seek words in which to thank you for what you have done. But I haveno such words. I am not grateful. How could I be grateful? You havedestroyed the thing that I most valued in this world."
"What have I destroyed?" she asked him.
"Your own good name; the respect that was your due from all men."
"Yet if I retain your own?"
"What is that worth?" he asked almost resentfully.
"Perhaps more than all the rest." She took a step forward and set herhand upon his arm. There was no mistaking now her smile. It was alltenderness, and her eyes were shining. "Ned, there is only one thing tobe done."
He looked down at her who was only a little less tall than himself, andthe colour faded from his own face now.
"You haven't understood me after all," he said. "I was afraid you wouldnot. I have no clear gift of words, and if I had, I am trying to saysomething that would overtax any gift."
"On the contrary, Ned, I understand you perfectly. I don't think I haveever understood you until now. Certainly never until now could I be sureof what I hoped."
"Of what you hoped?" His voice sank as if in awe. "What?" he asked.
She looked away, and her persisting, yet ever-changing smile grewslightly arch.
"You do not then intend to ask me to marry you?" she said.
"How could I?" It was an explosion almost of anger. "You yourselfsuggested that it would be an insult; and so it would. It is to takeadvantage of the position into which your foolish generosity hasbetrayed you. Oh!" he clenched his fists and shook them a moment at hissides.
"Very well," she said. "In that case I must ask you to marry me."
"You?" He was thunderstruck.
"What alternative do you leave me? You say that I have destroyed my goodname. You must provide me with a new one. At all costs I must become anhonest woman. Isn't that the phrase?"
"Don't!" he cried, and pain quivered in his voice. "Don't jest upon it."
"My dear," she said, and now she held out both hands to him, "whytrouble yourself with things of no account, when the only thing thatmatters to us is within our grasp? We love each other, and--"
Her glance fell away, her lip trembled, and her smile at last tookflight. He caught her hands, holding them in a grip that hurt her; hebent his head, and his eyes sought her own, but sought in vain.
"Have you considered--" he was beginning, when she interrupted him. Herface flushed upward, surrendering to that questing glance of his, andits expression was now between tears and laughter.
"You will be for ever considering, Ned. You consider too much, where theissues are plain and simple. For the last time--will you marry me?"
The subtlety he had employed had been greater than he knew, and it hadachieved something beyond his utmost hopes.
He murmured incoherently and took her to his arms. I really do not seethat he could have done anything else. It was a plain and simple issue,and she herself had protested that the issue was plain and simple.
And then the door opened abruptly and Sir Terence came in. Nor did hediscreetly withdraw as a man of feeling should have done before theintimate and touching spectacle that met his eyes. On the contrary, heremained like the infernal marplot that he intended to be.
"Very proper," he sneered. "Very fit and proper that he should put rightin the eyes of the world the reputation you have damaged for his sake,Sylvia. I suppose you're to be married."
They moved apart, and each stared at O'Moy--Sylvia in cold anger,Tremayne in chagrin.
"You see, Sylvia," the captain cried, at this voicing of the world'sopinion he feared so much on her behalf.
"Does she?" said Sir Terence, misunderstanding. "I wonder? Unless you'vemade all plain."
The captain frowned.
"Made what plain?" he asked. "There is something here I don'tunderstand, O'Moy. Your attitude towards me ever since you ordered meunder arrest has been entirely extraordinary. It has troubled me morethan anything else in all this deplorable affair."
"I believe you," snorted O'Moy, as with his hands behind his backhe strode forward into the room. He was pale, and there was a set,malignant sneer upon his lip, a malignant look in the blue eyes thatwere habitually so clear and honest.
"There have been moments," said Tremayne, "when I have almost felt youto be vindictive."
"D'ye wonder?" growled O'Moy. "Has no suspicion crossed your mind that Imay know the whole truth?"
Tremayne was taken aback. "That startles you, eh?" cried O'Moy, andpointed a mocking finger at the captain's face, whose whole expressionhad changed to one of apprehension.
"What is it?" cried Sylvia. Instinctively she felt that under thistroubled surface some evil thing was stirring, that the issues perhapswere not quite as simple as she had deemed them.
There was a pause. O'Moy, with his back to the window now, his handsstill clasped behind him, looked mockingly at Tremayne and waited.
"Why don't you answer her?" he said at last. "You were confidentialenough when I came in. Can it be that you are keeping something back,that you have secrets from the lady who has no doubt promised by now tobecome your wife as the shortest way to mending her recent folly?"
Tremayne was bewildered. His answer, apparently an irrelevance, was themere enunciation of the thoughts O'Moy's announcement had provoked.
"Do you mean to say that you have known throughout that I did not killSamoval?" he asked.
"Of course. How could I have supposed you killed him when I killed himmyself?"
"You? You killed him!" cried Tremayne, more and more intrigued. And--
"You killed Count Samoval?" exclaimed Miss Armytage.
"To be sure I did," was the answer, cynically delivered, accompanied bya short, sharp laugh. "When I have settled other accounts, and put allmy affairs in order, I shall save the provost-marshal the trouble offurther seeking the slayer. And you didn't know then, Sylvia, when youlied so glibly to the court, that your future husband was innocent ofthat?"
"I was always sure of it," she answered, and looked at Tremayne forexplanation.
O'Moy laughed again. "But he had not told you so. He preferred that youshould think him guilty of bloodshed, of murder even, rather than tellyou the real truth. Oh, I can understand. He is the very soul of honour,as you remarked yourself, I think, the other night. He knows how muchto tell and how much to withhold. He is master of the art of discreetsuppression. He will carry it to any lengths. You had an instance ofthat before the court this morning. You may come to regret, my dear,that you did not allow him to have his own obstinate way; that youshould have dragged your own spotless purity in the mud to providehim with an alibi. But he had an alibi all the time, my child; anunanswerable alibi which he preferred to withhold. I wonder would youhave been so ready to make a shield of your honour could you have knownwhat you were really shielding?"
"Ned!" she cried. "Why don't you speak? Is he to go on in this fashion?Of what is he accusing you? If you were not with Samoval that night,where were you?"
"In a lady's room, as you correctly informed the court," came O'Moy'sbitter mockery. "Your only mistake was in the identity of the lady. Youimagined that the lady was yourself. A delusion purely. But you and Imay comfort each other, for we are fellow-sufferers at the hands of thisman of honour. My wife was the lady who entertained this gallant in herroom that night."
"My God, O'Moy!" It was a strangled cry from Tremayne. At last he sawlight; he understood, and, understanding, there entered his heart agreat compassion for O'Moy, a conception that he must have suffered allthe agonies of the damned in these last few days. "My God, you don'tbelieve that I--"
"Do you deny it?"
"The imputation? Utterly."
"And if I tell you that myself with these eyes I saw you at the windowof her room with her; if I tell you that I saw the rope ladder danglingfrom her balcony; if I tell you that crouching there after I had killedSamoval--killed him, mark me, for saying that you and my wife betrayedme; killed him for telling me the filthy truth--if I tell you that Iheard her attempting to restrain you from going down to see what hadhappened--if I tell you all this, will you still deny it, will you stilllie?"
"I will still say that all that you imply is false as hell and your ownsenseless jealousy can make it.
"All that I imply? But what I state--the facts themselves, are theytrue?"
"They are true. But--"
"True!" cried Miss Armytage in horror.
"Ah, wait," O'Moy bade her with his heavy sneer. "You interrupt him.He is about to construe those facts so that they shall wear an innocentappearance. He is about to prove himself worthy of the great sacrificeyou made to save his life. Well?" And he looked expectantly at Tremayne.
Miss Armytage looked at him too, with eyes from which the dreadpassed almost at once. The captain was smiling, wistfully, tolerantly,confidently, almost scornfully. Had he been guilty of the thing imputedhe could not have stood so in her presence.
"O'Moy," he said slowly, "I should tell you that you have played theknave in this were it not clear to me that you have played the fool." Hespoke entirely without passion. He saw his way quite clearly. Things hadreached a pass in which for the sake of all concerned, and perhaps forthe sake of Miss Armytage more than any one, the whole truth must bespoken without regard to its consequences to Richard Butler.
"You dare to take that tone?" began O'Moy in a voice of thunder.
"Yourself shall be the first to justify it presently. I should be angrywith you, O'Moy, for what you have done. But I find my anger vanishingin regret. I should scorn you for the lie you have acted, for your
scantregard to your oath in the court-martial, for your attempt to combatan imagined villainy by a real villainy. But I realise what you havesuffered, and in that suffering lies the punishment you fully deservefor not having taken the straight course, for not having taxed me thereand then with the thing that you suspected."
"The gentleman is about to lecture me upon morals, Sylvia." But Tremaynelet pass the interruption.
"It is quite true that I was in Una's room while you were killingSamoval. But I was not alone with her, as you have so rashly assumed.Her brother Richard was there, and it was on his behalf that I waspresent. She had been hiding him for a fortnight. She begged me, asDick's friend and her own, to save him; and I undertook to do so. Iclimbed to her room to assist him to descend by the rope ladder you saw,because he was wounded and could not climb without assistance. At thegates I had the curricle waiting in which I had driven up. In this Iwas to have taken him on board a ship that was leaving that night forEngland, having made arrangements with her captain. You should haveseen, had you reflected, that--as I told the court--had I been comingto a clandestine meeting, I should hardly have driven up in so open afashion, and left the curricle to wait for me at the gates.
"The death of Samoval and my own arrest thwarted our plans and preventedDick's escape. That is the truth. Now that you have it I hope you likeit, and I hope that you thoroughly relish your own behaviour in thematter."
There was a fluttering sigh of relief from Miss Armytage. Then silencefollowed, in which O'Moy stared at Tremayne, emotion after emotionsweeping across his mobile face.
"Dick Butler?" he said at last, and cried out: "I don't believe a wordof it! Ye're lying, Tremayne."
"You have cause enough to hope so."
The captain was faintly scornful.
"If it were true, Una would not have kept it from me. It was to me shewould have come."
"The trouble with you, O'Moy, is that jealousy seems to have robbed youof the power of coherent thought, or else you would remember that youwere the last man to whom Una could confide Dick's presence here. Iwarned her against doing so. I told her of the promise you had beencompelled to give the secretary, Forjas, and I was even at pains tojustify you to her when she was indignant with you for that. It wouldperhaps be better," he concluded, "if you were to send for Una."
"It's what I intend," said Sir Terence in a voice that made a threatof the statement. He strode stiffly across the room and pulled open thedoor. There was no need to go farther. Lady O'Moy, white and tearful,was discovered on the threshold. Sir Terence stood aside, holding thedoor for her, his face very grim.
She came in slowly, looking from one to another with her troubledglance, and finally accepting the chair that Captain Tremayne made hasteto offer her. She had so much to say to each person present that it wasimpossible to know where to begin. It remained for Sir Terence to giveher the lead she needed, and this he did so soon as he had closed thedoor again. Planted before it like a sentry, he looked at her betweenanger and suspicion.
"How much did you overhear?" he asked her.
"All that you said about Dick," she answered without hesitation.
"Then you stood listening?"
"Of course. I wanted to know what you were saying."
"There are other ways of ascertaining that without stooping tokeyholes," said her husband.
"I didn't stoop," she said, taking him literally. "I could hear whatwas said without that--especially what you said, Terence. You will raiseyour voice so on the slightest provocation."
"And the provocation in this instance was, of course, of the slightest.Since you have heard Captain Tremayne's story of course you'll have nodifficulty in confirming it."
"If you still can doubt, O'Moy," said Tremayne, "it must be because youwish to doubt; because you are afraid to face the truth now that it hasbeen placed before you. I think, Una, it will spare a deal of trouble,and save your husband from a great many expressions that he mayafterwards regret, if you go and fetch Dick. God knows, Terence hasenough to overwhelm him already."
At the suggestion of producing Dick, O'Moy's anger, which had begun tosimmer again, was stilled. He looked at his wife almost in alarm, andshe met his look with one of utter blankness.
"I can't," she said plaintively. "Dick's gone."
"Gone?" cried Tremayne.
"Gone?" said O'Moy, and then he began to laugh. "Are you quite sure thathe was ever here?"
"But--" She was a little bewildered, and a frown puckered her perfectbrow. "Hasn't Ned told you, then?"
"Oh, Ned has told me. Ned has told!" His face was terrible.
"And don't you believe him? Don't you believe me?" She was moreplaintive than ever. It was almost as if she called heaven to witnesswhat manner of husband she was forced to endure. "Then you had bettercall Mullins and ask him. He saw Dick leave."
"And no doubt," said Miss Armytage mercilessly, "Sir Terence willbelieve his butler where he can believe neither his wife nor hisfriend."
He looked at her in a sort of amazement. "Do you believe them, Sylvia?"he cried.
"I hope I am not a fool," said she impatiently.
"Meaning--" he began, but broke off. "How long do you say it is sinceDick left the house?"
"Ten minutes at most," replied her ladyship.
He turned and pulled the door open again. "Mullins?" he called."Mullins!"
"What a man to live with!" sighed her ladyship, appealing to MissArmytage. "What a man!" And she applied a vinaigrette delicately to hernostrils.
Tremayne smiled, and sauntered to the window. And then at last cameMullins.
"Has any one left the house within the last ten minutes, Mullins?" askedSir Terence.
Mullins looked ill at ease.
"Sure, sir, you'll not be after--"
"Will you answer my question, man?" roared Sir Terence.
"Sure, then, there's nobody left the house at all but Mr. Butler, sir."
"How long had he been here?" asked O'Moy, after a brief pause.
"'Tis what I can't tell ye, sir. I never set eyes on him until I saw himcoming downstairs from her ladyship's room as it might be."
"You can go, Mullins."
"I hope, sir--"
"You can go." And Sir Terence slammed the door upon the amazed servant,who realised that some unhappy mystery was perturbing the adjutant'shousehold.
Sir Terence stood facing them again. He was a changed man. The fire hadall gone out of him. His head was bowed and his face looked haggard andsuddenly old. His lip curled into a sneer.
"Pantaloon in the comedy," he said, remembering in that moment thebitter gibe that had cost Samoval his life.
"What did you say?" her ladyship asked him.
"I pronounced my own name," he answered lugubriously.
"It didn't sound like it, Terence."
"It's the name I ought to bear," he said. "And I killed that liar forit--the only truth he spoke."
He came forward to the table. The full sense of his position suddenlyoverwhelmed him, as Tremayne had said it would. A groan broke from himand he collapsed into a chair, a stricken, broken man.