'Not a farthing. I didn't ask you to undertake this. If you do it, well and good, I will pay you. But nothing till then.'

Mrs. Strangeways perused the carpet.

'Anyone else,' she murmured, 'might be tempted to think that you didn't really care to have her caught.'

'You may be tempted to think exactly what you like,' answered Sibyl, with fine scorn.

The other scrutinised her, with an eye of anxious uncertainty.

'Have you thought, again, of taking any steps in the other matter?'

'Have you anything to show?'

'No. But it can be obtained. A charge of slander could be brought against her at any moment. If you prefer libel, it is merely taking a little trouble.'

Sibyl reflected.

'There is no hurry. I will pay you, as I said, for any trustworthy evidence--of any kind. You bring me none.--Does she come to see you?'

'Occasionally.'

'And--have you succeeded in making _her_ pay?' asked Sibyl, with a curl of the lips.

Mrs. Strangeways merely smiled. After a brief pause, Sibyl looked at her watch, and rose.

'I have an engagement. And--pray don't trouble to come again unless you have really something to come for. I can't pretend to have any taste for this kind of conversation. It really matters very little; we know that woman will be caught some day, and I shall have the pleasure of prosecuting her for stealing my jewellery and things. The other person--perhaps she is a little beneath my notice.'

She rang the bell, and Mrs. Strangeways, having no alternative, slightly bent her head and withdrew.

Mrs. Carnaby had no engagement; she was quite at leisure, and, as usual nowadays, spent her leisure in thought. She did not read much, and not at all in the solid books which were to be seen lying about her rooms; but Lady Isobel Barker, and a few other people, admired her devotion to study. Certainly one or two lines had begun to reveal themselves on Sibyl's forehead, which might possibly have come of late reading and memory overstrained; they might also be the record of other experiences. Her beauty was more than ever of the austere type; in regarding her, one could have murmured--

Chaste a' the icicle That's curded by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple.

But in privacy Sibyl did not look her best. a.s.suredly not after the withdrawal of Mrs. Strangeways, when her lips, sneering away their fine contour, grew to an ugly hardness, and her eyes smalled themselves in a vicious intensity of mental vision.

CHAPTER 11

Major Carnaby, Hugh's brother, was now in England. A stranger to the society in which Mrs. Carnaby had lived, he knew nothing of the gossip at one time threatening her with banishment from polite circles. An honest man, and taking for granted the honesty of his kinsfolk, he put entire faith in Hugh's story, despatched to him by letter a few days after the calamitous event at Wimbledon. On arriving in London, the good Major was pleased, touched, flattered by the very warm welcome with which his sister-in-law received him. Hitherto they had seen hardly anything of each other; but since the disaster their correspondence had been frequent, and Sibyl's letters were so brave, yet so pathetic, that Major Carnaby formed the highest opinion of her.

She did not pose as an injured woman; she never so much as hinted at the activity of slanderous tongues; she spoke only of Hugh, the dear, kind, n.o.ble fellow, whom fate had so cruelly visited The favourable impression was confirmed as soon as they met. The Major found that this beautiful, high-hearted creature had, among her many virtues, a sound capacity for business; no one could have looked after her husband's worldly interests with more a.s.siduity and circ.u.mspection. He saw that Hugh had been quite right in a.s.suring him (at Sibyl's instance) that there was no need whatever for him to neglect his military duties and come home at an inconvenient time. Hugh's affairs were in perfect order; all he would have to think about was the recovery of health and mental tranquillity.

To this end, they must decide upon some retreat in which he might pa.s.s a quiet month or two. That dear and invaluable friend, to whom Sibyl owed 'more than she could tell' (much more than she could tell to Major Carnaby), was ready with a delightful suggestion. Lady Isobel (that is to say, her auriferous husband, plain Mr. Barker) had a little house in the north, cosy amid moor and mountain, and she freely offered it.

There Hugh and his wife might abide in solitude until the sacred Twelfth, when religious observance would call thither a small company of select pilgrims. The offer was gratefully accepted. Major Carnaby saw no reason for hesitating, and agreed with Sibyl that the plan should be withheld from Hugh until the last moment, as a gratifying surprise. By some means, however, on the day before Hugh's release, there appeared in certain newspapers a little paragraph making known to the public this proof of Lady Isabel's friendship for Sibyl and her husband.

'It's just as well,' said Mrs. Carnaby, after appearing vexed for a moment. 'People will be saved the trouble of calling here. But it really is mysterious how the papers get hold of things.'

She was not quite sure that Hugh would approve her arrangement, and the event justified this misgiving. Major Carnaby was to bring his brother to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, and, if possible, all were to travel northward that same day. But Hugh, on hearing what was proposed, made strong objection: he refused to accept the hospitality of people quite unknown to him; why, with abundant resources of their own, should they become indebted to strangers? So vehement was his resistance, and so pitiful the state of body and mind which showed itself in his all but hysterical excitement, that Sibyl pretended to abandon the scheme.

Today they would remain here, talking quietly; by tomorrow they might have decided what to do.

At ten o'clock next morning, when Sibyl had been up for an hour, Hugh still lay asleep. She went softly into the room, lighted by the sun's yellow glimmer through blind and lace curtains, and stood looking at him, her husband. To him she had given all the love of which she was capable; she had admired him for his strength and his spirit, had liked him as a companion, had prized the flattery of his ardent devotion, his staunch fidelity. To have married him was, of course, a mistake, not easy of explanation in her present mind; she regretted it, but with no bitterness, with no cruel or even unkind thought. His haggard features, branded with the long rage of captivity; his great limbs, wasted to mere bone and muscle, moved her indignant pity. Poor dear old boy!

He believed her; he still believed her. She saw that these two years of misery had made his faith in her something like a religion; he found it his one refuge from despair. 'But for that, Sibyl, I shouldn't be alive now!' She had known self-reproach; now again it touched her slightly, pa.s.singly--poor old boy! But unfaithful to him? To call _that_ unfaithfulness? The idea was too foolish.

Her fears were all outlived. She had dared the worst, and daring was grown an easy habit. But in the life that lay before them, _her_ judgment, _her_ ambitions, must prevail and direct. Yesterday she had no course save yielding; today her rule must begin.

Hugh was stirring. He groaned, and threw out one of his arms; muttered, as if angrily. She touched him, and on the instant he awoke.

'Sibyl? Good G.o.d! that's a queer thing--I dreamt that yesterday was a dream, and that I had woke up to find myself---- Did you ever do that--dream you were dreaming?'

She stroked his head, laughing playfully.

'You've had a good long night. Don't you feel better? Shall I bring you some breakfast here?'

'No; I must get up. What's the time? Miles will be coming.'

Sibyl knew that the Major would not be here until two o'clock; but she said nothing, and left him to dress.

On the breakfast-table were delicacies to tempt his palate, but Hugh turned from them. He ate for a few minutes only, without appet.i.te, and, as on the day before, Sibyl was annoyed by the strange rudeness with which he fed himself; he seemed to have forgotten the habits of refinement at table. Afterwards he lighted a cigar, but soon threw it aside; tobacco made him sick. In the drawing-room he moved aimlessly about, blundering now and then against a piece of furniture, and muttering a curse. The clothes he wore, out of his old wardrobe, hung loose about him; he had a stoop in the shoulders.

'Sibyl, what are we going to do?'

For this she had waited. She sat looking at him with a compa.s.sionate smile. It was an odd thing if this poor broken-down man could not be made subservient to her will.

'I still think, dear boy, that we ought to accept Lady Isobel's invitation.'

A nervous paroxysm shook him.

'd.a.m.n Lady Isobel! I thought that was done with.'

'I don't think you would speak of her like that, Hugh, if you knew all her kindness to me. I couldn't tell you all yesterday. May I now? Or shall I only irritate you?'

'What is it? Of course, I don't want you to offend her. But I suppose she has common-sense?'

'More than most women. There's no fear of offending her. I have another reason. Come and sit quietly by me, and let us talk as we used to do.

Do you know, dear, it's a good thing for me that I had powerful friends; I needed all their help against my enemies.'

'What enemies?'

'Have you forgotten what you yourself said, and felt so strongly, at that time--what a danger I was exposed to when we determined to tell the whole truth? You knew what some people would say.'

'They've said it, no doubt; and what harm has it done you? Tell me a name, and if it's a man----'

'Don't! I can't bear to see that look on your face, Hugh. You could do nothing but endless harm, trying to defend me that way. I have lived it down, thinking of you even more than of myself. There was a time when I almost despaired; people are so glad to think evil. If I had been a weak woman, I should have run away and hidden myself; and then everybody would have said, "I told you so." But I had to think of you, and that gave me strength. What could I do? Truth alone is no good against the world; but truth with a handle to its name and with a million of money--that's a different thing. It was life or death, dear boy, and I had to fight for it. So I went to Lady Isobel Barker. I only knew her by name. She, of course, knew _me_ by name, and cold enough she was when I got admitted to her. But half an hour's talk--and I had won! She was my friend; she would stand by me, and all the world should know it. Stay! The worst is over, but there's still a good deal to be done. It has to be known that my friends are your friends also. There was a paragraph in the papers yesterday, saying that you and your wife were going as Lady Isobel's guests to that house of hers. She did that for me. And now, do you think we ought to seem even seem--to slight her kindness?' Hugh was turning about, chafing impotently.

'Then you mean to go on here?' he asked, with half-appealing, half-resentful eyes.