The Woman's Way Part 34

"Put that away for a minute or two, Rex," he said. "I want to talk to you. Do you know how to get married?"

"You catch your bride and bridegroom, dress them carefully, place them in a church, add a parson and mix slowly and carefully. There is also another way, much more expeditious and less trouble. You obtain a fresh, fair-sized special licence----"

"That's it," said Derrick, nodding. "Be serious, Rex, if you can. I want to know all about it."

"Quite so. And you've come to the right shop," said Reggie. "A novelist knows everything, or what's the use of him! I'll tell you all about it.

And so you're going to marry your true love out of hand?" he said, when he had imparted the required information. "I don't blame you. If my angel would consent to marry me, I'd marry her the first available day, hour, instant. But why this haste on your part? I should have thought Miss Grant would have stipulated for the usual fuss and flare-up, bridesmaids, wedding cake, speeches, reception, et cetera."

"She ought to have them all," said Derrick, with a sigh. "But there are reasons why we should be married at once."

"One angel the less in England," said Reggie, with a sigh. "Well, you leave it all to me. I'll fix it for you, as the Americans say. By the way, do you know my friend, Lady Gridborough?"

"I did, but I don't," said Derrick, shortly. "At least, she doesn't know me now--as you saw. No, I can't tell you. Confound it all, I'm like a man in a beastly novel, a man 'with a secret,' a mystery."

"'Beastly novel!' I forgive you the blasphemy," said Reggie, "because I treasure you. A real live man with a secret is more precious than rubies in the eyes of a novelist. There, go in and get something to eat, if you can eat; I couldn't, if I were going to marry Celia Grant."

"And I can't--eat, I mean," said Derrick, and with something between a laugh and a sigh he rose and went into the inn.

CHAPTER XXV

Heyton slept badly that night and came down to breakfast after Lord Sutcombe and Miriam had finished theirs and gone out. He was in a bad temper, cursed the footman who waited on him, and when he had drunk a cup of coffee and made pretence of eating a piece of toast, mixed himself a gla.s.s of soda and whisky and went out.

He wandered about the park, and did not come in to lunch, but when he appeared at dinner, he was more than usually cheerful and talked to Miriam and his father in the aimless and futile way with which a man talks when he is engaged in the unaccustomed task of making himself agreeable. Both Miriam and his father noticed that he was more sparing of the wine than usual, and Lord Sutcombe, who thought that Miriam had given Percy a hint, glanced at her gratefully.

"Where have you been all day, Percy?" asked Miriam, masking her indifference with a show of curiosity.

"Oh, I've been mouching about," he said. "Looking round the estate generally." He fingered his gla.s.s and glanced across at the Marquess.

"They seem to look after the preserves pretty well," he said; "but I noticed that there was a gipsy encampment down by the pool. Unpleasant sort of characters to have about you. I should clear them away, father."

"I know the gipsy encampment you mean," said the Marquess; "but they are pitched on that piece of common land; it is just outside the estate, and we have no power to remove them. Besides," he added, "I've a kind of liking for them; they do no harm; and they are, well, picturesque, don't you think, Miriam?"

"That's all very well," said Heyton, with a forced laugh; "but I don't know about their doing no harm. They're most of them thieves, I should say."

"We can spare a fowl or two," said the Marquess, with a smile. "And a broken hedge is soon mended."

"Oh, if it were only the fowls," said Heyton. "But I daresay some of them would fly higher than hen-roosts. For instance, nothing would be easier than to break into the house here; and there's plenty to tempt them--plenty of silver, I mean," he added, hastily and with a furtive glance at the Marquess.

"I don't think gipsies commit burglaries," said the Marquess, in his precise way. "They would find some difficulty in getting away with their booty. It would be easy to trace them."

"All the same, I'd try to get rid of them," said Heyton, doggedly. "I saw one or two of them, evil-looking chaps, lurking about the plantation."

"Looking for wood for their fires, no doubt," said the Marquess. "But I'll speak to the steward, if you wish it; though, as I say, they are on common land and it will not be easy to turn them off."

"Well, don't blame me when it's too late," said Percy, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Departing from his usual custom, he went into the drawing-room with his father and sat there, listening to Miriam's playing and singing; and it was he who suggested bed.

"I'm a bit tired; had a long tramp to-day," he said, yawning and stretching his arms.

"You ought to walk more, Percy," remarked the Marquess. "If you'll allow me to say so, I don't think you take enough exercise. You ought to ride; but perhaps you will when the hunting begins."

"Can't afford to hunt," retorted Heyton, with an unpleasant laugh.

"Horses cost money."

"You shall have some hunters," said the Marquess, with a contraction of his brow. "I had thought of speaking to you about it. We will discuss it later on."

"All right," said Heyton, ungraciously. "Well, I'm off."

He went upstairs, and Miriam and the Marquess followed him soon after.

Just as she was ready for bed, Heyton opened his dressing-room door and, looking in, said:

"I'm going to sleep in here to-night, Miriam."

He had often occupied the bed in his dressing-room; generally on nights when, if the truth must be told, he had drunk too much and was ashamed that Miriam should see him.

"Very well," she said, indifferently.

He closed the door and turned the key softly, took off his things and put on a thick dressing-gown over his pyjamas; then he sat down in a chair, with his hands thrust in the dressing-gown pockets, his head sunk on his breast, his teeth gnawing his lip. He was listening intently.

Presently he got up, went to the bed and disarranged the clothes, giving them the appearance of having been slept in; then he went back to his chair and sat and listened again.

The faint noises of a big household retiring to rest grew less by degrees and then ceased; and presently all was perfectly still. He sat motionless, still listening, for another hour, two; then he rose and, opening the outer door stealthily, stopped, with craned head, still listening. The silence was unbroken, and with noiseless tread, he pa.s.sed along the corridor to his father's door and, with his ear to the keyhole, listened again. He could hear his father's steady, long-drawn breathing, the breathing of a man in a deep sleep.

With a gesture, as if he were controlling his nervousness, Heyton tried the handle of the door; the door was not locked and he opened it and went in. The house was lit by electricity, and a small lamp was burning beside the Marquess's bed. Heyton stole across the room, in his felt slippers, and looked down at the sleeping man for a moment; then his furtive, bloodshot eyes went towards the small table beside the bed.

There was a carafe of water and a gla.s.s, the Marquess's ring and his watch and chain on the table. The chain was an old-fashioned affair, with an extra ring, and on this ring were two keys, the key of the safe and a smaller one. Heyton knew that it was the key to the jewel-case.

His hand shook so much that, for a moment or two, he was afraid to touch the chain, lest it should jingle and wake the Marquess; with an effort, Heyton controlled the shaking hand, and, after some fumbling, took the keys from the ring; as he did so, his eyes wandered apprehensively from the things he was purloining to the face on the pillow; but in reality his movements had been noiseless, and the Marquess had not awakened.

With the keys in his hand, Heyton stole into the dressing-room adjoining, and closing the door softly, turned up the electric light. At sight of the safe, his courage rose, his nerves grew more steady; he had been careful to drink very little that night, and his brain was clear.

He unlocked the safe and looked inside it. There were bundles of papers tied with tape and, at the back of them, a box covered with morocco leather. Heyton's breath came fast and his eyes glistened; he had seen that box once before, and knew that it contained the Sutcombe jewels. He took it out of the safe, closed the door and had got half-way across the room when he stopped suddenly; for it had occurred to him that, if he took the box, the Marquis, if he chanced to go to the safe, would miss it: it would be safer to empty the box of its precious contents and replace it in the safe. As he had guessed, the smaller key fitted the lock of the box; he opened it and, at sight of the diamonds and the other gems, he caught his breath, his eyes dilated.

There is a mystic fascination in precious stones and, gazing at them, Heyton yielded to that fascination and forgot for a moment, as his eyes dwelt on their flashing beauty, the need which had compelled him to steal them; but presently he released himself from the spell, thrust the jewels into the capacious pockets of his dressing-gown, locked the box and replaced it in the safe. As the safe door clanged softly to, he heard, or fancied he heard, a slight noise in the adjoining bedroom; the sound, actual or only fancied, struck a sudden terror to his craven heart and he sprang towards the door leading on to the corridor. The handle turned, but the door did not open: it was locked, and the key was not in it.

The noise in the Marquess's bedroom grew more distinct, and it had now resolved itself into the sound of footsteps. Livid with terror, with the perspiration standing out on his forehead, Heyton leant against the door as if powerless to move, powerless to stand upright. The door between the dressing-room and the bedroom opened; instinctively, Heyton stretched out his hand, found the switch, and extinguished the light.

"Who is there?" came the Marquess's voice. "What is it? Who is there?"

The voice came nearer; the Marquess was now in the dressing-room. Heyton knew that his father was standing still; that, in another instant, he would be calling for a.s.sistance. But the Marquess did not speak; he made a movement, and Heyton guessed that his father was returning to the bedroom to turn up all the lights there.

With a smothered oath, the wretched man stole forward, felt for the fireplace with his foot, caught up the poker and, feeling his way round the wall, reached the bedroom door. As he did so, the Marquess reached it also and actually touched his son. Heyton drew back a pace, swung up the poker and struck at the figure he could not see; there was a cry, a choked groan, the sound of a body falling to the floor; then a death-like silence.

Shaking in every limb, the poker still grasped in his hand, Heyton leant against the wall, his other hand clinging to it, as if for support. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick a thousand times as he crouched there, staring, with protruding eyes, into the horrible darkness; then, with a gasp, as if he were suffocating, he felt his way round to the switch, and turned it on. The light fell on the figure of the Marquess, lying on its back, where he had fallen; his arms were stretched out, he was quite motionless, and a thin stream of blood was trickling from his forehead; it had already reddened his face and made a small pool on the carpet.

Heyton stood and gazed at this horrible sight, as if he were turned to stone. He was like a man who has been suddenly struck by paralysis; it seemed to him as if the whole of his legs and feet had been turned to lead, and that he should never again be able to move them, that he would be forced to remain there until the servants came and that--that horrible thing lying at his feet were discovered.

For some minutes he remained in this condition of coma, stupor; but presently, gradually, he recovered the use of his limbs, his brain began to work again, and he asked himself whether there was any reason for the terror which had obsessed him. Of compunction for the awful crime there was nothing in his mind or heart. That the man he had struck down was his own father, did not count; every fibre of his being was absorbed, to the exclusion of everything else, in the desire for his own safety. So gigantic was his selfishness, that the working of his mind was not disturbed by the enormity of the crime he had committed; he saw now that, as events had turned out, he had acted unwisely in taking the jewels from their box; and, alertly and with something like calmness, he unlocked the safe, replaced the jewels in the box and left the safe door open; he was actually turning away, leaving the jewel-case in its place, when his cupidity got the better of him and he took up the case, hid it under his dressing-gown, and went towards the bedroom door.