The Witness on the Roof (14 page)

“So you shall! You are always thinking of other people, Joan. Just for the present I want you to let me look after you.''

Joan smiled at him; her hand touched his face softly.

“You are very good to me, Paul, my dear!”

Warchester had arranged that their carriage should be attached to the Warchester train so, that there was no change at Birmingham. Their luncheon was brought to them there, and Warchester poured out a glass of champagne and insisted on Joan drinking it, smiling as he saw the colour coming back to her cheeks, the light to her eyes. Then he made her rest quietly, and watched beside her until he saw her eyelids droop and her low regular breathing told him that she was asleep.

When they reached the station before Warchester he roused her.

“Only ten minutes before we get out, dear!”

With an effort Joan opened her eyes and sat up.

“Oh, how could you let me sleep so long, Paul? What a dull journey it has been for you, and you have not even smoked! Do you know when I was lying half-awake I could not help thinking how all this must have worried you and how good it was of you not to reproach me with giving you such a very undesirable family of brothers and sisters-in-law?”

Warchester looked at her with eloquent eyes.

“I am proud to share everything connected with you,” he said quietly.

Joan laughed a little unsteadily.

“Even Mrs. Spencer? Oh, Paul!”

“Mrs. Spencer has nothing to do with you,” he replied. “You are in no way responsible for your father's choice of a second wife. I hate to think you were ever in that woman's power, Joan. To-day I went to the inn first, you know, hoping to be in time to start with you. I was picturing you there—a little frightened child tyrannized over by your stepmother, but growing up like some fragile tender lily untouched by the gloom and grime of the inn.”

“That is a very pretty simile,” Joan observed, her smile deepening in spite of herself, “but, unfortunately for its truth, I never lived at the inn—I never was in Willersfield at all until Friday.”

Warchester was watching her as she put on her hat and adjusted her veil.

“You never lived at the inn?” he cried. “You never were in Willersfield till Friday? And I—I have been looking at everything with interest to-day, thinking to myself ‘perhaps as a child Joan played here!'”

“But how strange that you should not have known!” Joan remarked with evident amusement. “A great part of the time we were in the country, at Merton Park, you know. And yet, looking back, it always seems to me that most of my childish days were spent in London in that little house at the back of Grove Street.”

“I hope the car is here all right.” Warchester put his head out of the window as the train steamed into the station. “I told them we should probably come by this train, but Bonham is a careless beggar! Grove Street, did you say, Joan? What Grove Street?” His voice was unaltered.

Joan had spoken in the first place without any ulterior thought, but now she could not help remembering; she looked quickly at him. He was standing up, reaching his cane from the rack; as he met her glance he smiled at her.

With a sense of profound relief, Joan smiled back.

“Oh, Grove Street at the back of Hinton Square! Do you know it?”

As he sat down he laid one hand on the door-handle. Insensibly, it tightened its clasp, the knuckles showing white through the tense brown skin.

“I used to know Hinton Square very well,” he replied, but the appearance of a porter at the carriage-door terminated their conversation.

To-day there was no occasion for blaming Bonham; the car was waiting in the little station-yard, as well as the omnibus for Treherne and the luggage.

Joan settled herself in her corner with an exclamation of pleasure as they started.

“How nice it seems to be back! And how fresh everything looks after the smoky town of Willersfield!” she exclaimed, glancing about her with appreciative eyes.

The dog-roses and the honeysuckle that wreathed the hedges were shedding their blossoms, but tall up-standing meadow-sweet and big ragged-robins still fringed the ditches; in the fields the green and gold of summer were beginning to give place to the russet tints of autumn. Over the top of the trees they could catch a glimpse of the chimneys of Davenant Hall.

Suddenly Joan turned to her husband.

“I wonder whether you would mind, Paul? We still have an hour before dinner, and it would not be far out of our way. I should like to ask how Evelyn is.”

“I sent up this morning,” answered Warchester. He wanted his wife to himself this evening; he did not want to share her with anyone, least of all with this unknown elder sister; but when he saw the disappointed look on her face his tone altered. “Of course we will go! As you say, it is not far out of our way, and naturally there will be much you will want to talk over with your sister.”

Joan's grateful smile was his reward.

The Hall was looking much as usual as they turned in at the gates. Joan was glad to see the windows unshuttered, the blinds drawn up once more. Half-way up the drive they met Mr. Hurst in his dog-cart. He pulled up.

“I should be glad if I might have a word with you, Lord Warchester?”

“Of course!” Warchester opened the door and jumped out. “You will excuse me, Joan? Drive on to the house, and I will come to you in a minute or two.” As the car went on he turned to the lawyer. “Well?”

Mr. Hurst climbed down slowly. His limbs were getting stiff; age was telling on him.

“Dr. Graves came to see me this morning,” he said slowly. “He wished to speak to me about Mr. Wilton. It appears to me that he has been much worse lately; the journey down to the Marsh tired him terribly. Besides, the servants are talking. His eccentricities are increasing, and—and before long Dr. Graves says some more definite steps will have to be taken. It is probable, Graves thinks, that a splinter is pressing on the brain, and if that could be removed—”

“I dare say; but I haven't any faith in these operations,” replied Warchester. “As for this particular one, from all I can hear the recoveries are only about five per cent. Graves spoke to me about it some time ago, and I told him plainly it was out of the question.”

“I know! I know!” The old lawyer nodded. “He told me as much. But, if you will excuse me, I do not think you quite realize how the matter stands. Graves says that if the operation is not performed the terrible paroxysms of rage to which poor Mr. Wilton is subject will increase, and — and, in short, there can only be one ending—absolute insanity.”

“Yes—I see.” Warchester muttered. The lawyer glanced at him curiously, and saw that his face was white and drawn. But that may be better than—”

“I think you are wrong,” Mr. Hurst said gravely. “I feel sure Mr. Wilton would prefer death itself to such an existence. And Dr. Graves says that there is a distinct chance of perfect recovery.”

Warchester did not answer; his lips were set in a rigid, obstinate line.

“Graves was particularly anxious I should speak to you as soon as possible,” the lawyer resumed after a perceptible pause. “He thinks that if you would consult Mr. Wilton's sister, Mrs. Mannering—”

“How on earth can I consult her when she is in New Zealand?” Warchester inquired savagely. “You can't explain this sort of thing in a letter.”

Mr. Hurst coughed.

“I should have thought that difficulty might have been arranged,” he suggested mildly. “But it will not be an obstacle in the future, Mrs. Mannering telegraphed from Marseilles last night that she expects to land at Southampton tomorrow.”

“Ah!” Warchester caught his breath sharply. There was a curious light in his eyes as he glanced quickly away from the lawyer; then his tone altered to one of absolute indifference, “Well, it seems to me that you and I need not concern ourselves further, Hurst. The question will become one for Mrs. Mannering to decide.”

I
T SEEMED
strange to Joan to drive under the old familiar portico, to hear her footman inquire for Miss Davenant. In a minute she came back. Miss Davenant was better; she would be glad to see her ladyship.

In the hall, Sturgess, the old butler who had been in the service of the Davenants when Joan's mother was a child, was waiting to receive her. He looked whiter—older, Joan thought as she greeted him pleasantly. Mrs. Davenant's death and the changes that had come since had tried him sorely.

Evelyn was in the boudoir. The furniture was precisely as it had been in Mrs. Davenant's time, but the new mistress had contrived, even in this short time, to infuse an atmosphere of subtle change. The wide couch that had always stood in the recess between the windows had been pulled before the fire and piled with cushions brought in from the drawing-room; great pots of flowering plants stood everywhere; some exquisite old china that had been the pride of Mrs. Davenant's heart was standing on the writing-table. The air was heavy with the scent of hothouse flowers mingling with the perfume Evelyn affected and the stale smell of her endless cigarettes.

To Joan, coming in from the fresh air outside, it felt oppressively hot and stuffy. But possibly Evelyn herself presented the most incongruous element, in her tumbled white muslin peignoir, with her untidy golden—too golden—hair, her crudely tinted cheeks. She sprang to meet her sister, throwing a cheap edition of a popular novel on the ground.

“So you are back! Well, I call this good of you to come in to see me first thing.”

Joan submitted to be kissed, blaming herself for the inward distaste she always felt for Evelyn's caresses.

“Yes, I wanted to know how you were, and I thought you would be anxious to hear all about Father and everything. He was terribly anxious about you, Evelyn. I wish you had been able to come with me.”

Evelyn resumed her lounge on the couch as Joan took a seat nearer the window.

“I was sorry I couldn't in a way, but I think on the whole it is just as well. After all, he hadn't troubled about either of us much, and I don't mean to be bothered with Mrs. Spencer and her second family, I shall let her see that plainly if she makes any appeal to me; and if you are wise you will do the same, Joan, or we may have them sponging on us for ever.”

There was a certain justice in the remark, as Joan could not help feeling, but Evelyn's careless manner and hardness of tone grated on her.

“Mrs. Spencer was unkind to us, to you especially,” she said slowly. But she did not do us any real harm, Evie; and I thought perhaps we might do something for the children. The eldest, Amy, is such a nice girl.”

Miss Davenant contemplated the big buckles on her shoes.

“Well, anyhow, I couldn't go,” she remarked with an air of dismissing the subject. “I was downright bad, Joan. I had your doctor from the village. Wilkins his name is, isn't it? He seemed a bit of a muff, I thought, but, anyhow, he was quite clear that it wouldn't do for me to go to the funeral. Besides—well, I hadn't seen the poor old Dad for fifteen years, and funerals give me the hump.”

“If you feel like that perhaps it was better that you should stay away,” Joan said coldly.

“Yes, perhaps it was,” Evelyn mimicked. She got up suddenly from her seat and crossed over to Joan. “Have a cigarette?” holding out her case. “What—you don't smoke! Why, I don't know how I should live without it! But, phew—how hot these rooms do get! Do you mind if I open the other window?”

“I should be delighted,” Joan said heartily. “Let me do it.”

“No, no!” Evelyn put her aside determinedly. She opened the French window and then paused and looked out. “There is somebody coming up the drive—a man. Who —who can he be? In some surprise Joan joined her.

“It is Paul, my husband! I left him in the drive with Mr. Hurst. Now he is coming on to fetch me.”

“What?” Evelyn turned and stared at her with wide-open eyes. “I —you don't understand, Joan. I am talking of the man who is in the drive now, not of Lord Warchester. Quick, look—tell me who it is!” She gripped Joan's arm, and almost pushed her through the window. Who is it, I say?”

Half frightened, Joan looked again, but there was no one that she could see to account for Evelyn's agitation—no one at all in sight but Warchester, who was now glancing across at the window.

“‘Yes—of course, as I told you, it is Paul. Why do you look at me so strangely, Evelyn? And, do you know you are pinching my arm? I believe I shall be black and blue to-morrow.”

“Oh, I forgot!” Evelyn's hand dropped. She laughed harshly. “I—I was a little surprised. I—I hadn't thought Lord Warchester was like that. He—he reminds me of some one I used to know long ago.”

“Does he?” Joan questioned coldly. She stepped outside on to the grass. “Ah, he has seen me—he is coming across! You don't mind, do you, Evelyn?”

A strange light gleamed for an instant in the elder sister's eyes as she stood behind and waited.

“Ask him to come here.”

Joan waved her hand and Warchester came towards her quickly.

“Are you ready, Joan? How is your sister?”

“Here she is to answer for herself.” Joan stood aside. “This is Paul, Evelyn.”

To Warchester in the sunshine the interior of the boudoir looked almost dark. He could only distinguish a tall figure standing behind Joan. He bowed.

“Surely Lord Warchester and I have met before?”

He started as he heard the voice and looked round incredulously.

But Evelyn was coming forward now with outstretched hand. Beside Joan, in her severe black coat and skirt and simple toque, Evelyn's crumpled garments, her tousled hair, her artificially darkened eyebrows, looked very tawdry.

But Worcester's eyes noticed nothing of this; they sought her face eagerly, apprehensively. The expression that had flashed into them when he heard her voice deepened. Was it one of fear or one of recognition?