CHAPTER XLII.
THE TRAGEDY OF A WOMAN'S VANITY.
MEANTIME Hilliston, unaware of that fatal meeting with Mona Bantry,which threatened to demoralize his plans, was devoting himself to hisunfortunate wife. She was very ill, and not expected to recover, sofeeling that he would soon lose her, the lawyer stayed constantly by herside, and strove, though unsuccessfully, to ameliorate her cruelsufferings. It was all the more credit to him that he did so, as he hadmarried her mainly for her money, and was still in love with Mrs. Bezel.No doubt, remorse had something to do with his present attitude.
The landlord of the Connaught Hotel had insisted upon Mrs. Hillistonbeing removed when the first symptoms of disease showed themselves. Hedeclared that were it known that he had a smallpox patient in his house,he would be ruined for the season, so Hilliston, recognizing the truthof this assertion, took steps to isolate his wife, as was necessary fromthe nature of her illness. Assisted by the doctor, who attended to alldetails relative to the municipal authorities, he hired a small house onthe outskirts of Eastbourne, and thither the wreck of what had once beena beautiful woman was removed one evening. Nurses were hired fromLondon, Hilliston sent word to his partner that he would not return tobusiness for some weeks; and then began the slow martyrdom of thesickroom.
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Hilliston had been seized with thedisease, and now it had taken so favorable a turn that the doctor heldout great hopes that she would recover. But the beauty of which she hadbeen so proud was gone, and with it went the hopes that she could stillretain her husband by her side. Mrs. Hilliston knew well enough that itwas only her persistence which had made Hilliston marry her, and nowthat she had lost her good looks--the one hold she had on his lukewarmaffection--she foresaw only too clearly that he would neglect her in thefuture. Moreover, the woman's vanity was so powerful that she could notaccept calmly the possibility of surviving, a scarred and maimed object,to face looks of pity and of horror. She felt that she would rather die,and in fact resolved to do so. Meanwhile she tossed and turned, andmoaned and wept on her sick bed; crying out against the stern Fate whichhad dealt her such hard measure. Yet in her secret soul she admittedthat the punishment was just.
Hilliston was scarcely less unhappy than his wife. While her illness wasserious, he had thought of nothing but how to save her, but now that achance of recovery offered a respite from his arduous attendance by thesick bed, he had time to turn his thoughts toward the Horriston tragedy.He wondered that he had not heard from Paynton relative to the interviewwith Claude, and, fearful lest some untoward event had occurred to upsethis plans, he wrote to Rose Cottage asking for information. To-day hehad received a reply, and on reading it saw his worst fears realized.
"I know you now [wrote Captain Larcher briefly]. I have seen Claude; Ihave seen Mona. Henceforth I look upon you as an enemy, and I intend totake immediate steps to clear my name at your expense."
* * * * *
There was no signature, but Hilliston was too well acquainted with hisfriend's writing to have any doubt as to the genuineness of the letter.The blow had fallen; Mona had betrayed him, and he sat there helpless,with the letter in his hand, a spectacle of baffled scheming, ofunmasked villany.
"To clear his name at my expense," muttered Hilliston to himself. "Whatdoes he mean by that? He cannot have discovered--but no, that isimpossible. When they find out who picked up that dagger at the ball,they may learn the truth, but not till then. I defy them all. Larcherwill remain Paynton till the end of his life. Mona! Ah, I shall punishher when I return to town for her cruel treachery."
While he was thus thinking, a nurse entered the room to intimate thatMrs. Hilliston would like to see him. The lawyer obeyed the summons atonce, placed Larcher's letter in his pocket, smoothed his brow, andentered the sickroom. Signing to the nurse to go away, Mrs. Hillistonwaited till she was alone with her husband.
"Francis," she said in a low voice, stretching out her hand, "I wish tospeak to you--on that subject."
"I think it would be wise if you refrained from doing so," repliedHilliston, knowing to what she alluded. "We understand one another onthat point; you can do no good by bringing it up again. Why should you?"
"For Claude's sake," said Mrs. Hilliston feverishly. "You owe him somereparation."
"I owe him none, Louisa. I have acted like a father to him, and he hasturned on me. I helped Larcher to hide himself when it was dangerous forhim to become known, and he tells me that I am his enemy."
"Have you heard from him?"
"I received a curt note of three lines intimating that he was about toassert his innocence, and clear his name at my expense."
"Francis," cried Mrs. Hilliston, in a tone of terror, "you are lost! Ifall is known----"
"All will not be known," replied Hilliston, patting her hand; "only twopeople know the truth--you and I. We can keep our own counsel."
"But that little man, Tait, is at Horriston."
"What of that?"
"He will see Belinda Pike there. You know how she hated me because Iloved you. She wanted to marry you herself. If he meets Miss Pike shewill speak against me."
"What of that?" said Hilliston soothingly. "You forget, my dear, thatyour life is different now. No one can find Louisa Sinclair in LouisaHilliston. When you went to America you vanished and returned as Mrs.Derrick, the rich widow. Belinda Pike can never learn that. My dear, youdistress yourself suddenly. We are perfectly safe."
"But the garnet scarfpin," questioned Mrs. Hilliston feverishly.
"I am secure on that point. Larcher knew that I was in the garden onthat night, and may have thought I dropped it. He will not dare toaccuse me of the crime. If he did," continued Hilliston, his browgrowing black, "I could turn the tables on him in a manner he littleexpects. There is more evidence against him than against me."
"But if they learn that I was with you on that night?"
"They will never learn. No one saw you there. If they did, what does itmatter? Louisa Sinclair is dead. You need have no fear of beingrecognized. I'll answer for that."
"It does not matter to me if I am known or not," said Mrs. Hillistongloomily; "I have done with life."
"My dear, the doctor says you will recover."
"I shall not recover," said the sick woman, with emphasis. "Oh, do notdeceive yourself, Francis! I shall never rise from this sick bed to bean object of horror and pity to you."
"My dear----"
"You never loved me. You only married me out of pity. At Horriston yourefused to make me your wife, and it was only when I returned fromAmerica a rich woman that you did so. Pity," she said, with a scornfullaugh, "no, not pity, but necessity. You would have been ruined but formy money."
"I admit it, Louisa, and I am deeply grateful to you for the way inwhich you have helped me. I can never repay you for saving my name andcredit."
"You can, Francis. Get me my dressing case."
"Louisa, you cannot----"
"I insist upon being obeyed," she said imperiously. "Get me my dressingcase."
With great reluctance he brought it from a distant table and placed iton a chair by the bedside. In obedience to her directions he opened it,and took therefrom a sealed envelope.
"In there," she said, as he held it in his hand, "is an account of all Isaw on that fatal night. You must send that letter to Captain Larcherwhen I am dead."
"Louisa, do you wish to ruin me?"
"I wish to save you, Francis. Do not deceive yourself into a belief thatthe investigation is at an end. Claude may cease to meddle with thematter, for he is in love with Jenny, and will probably marry her, forby this time, according to you, he knows who she is. But I am afraid ofSpenser Tait. He will hunt you down; he will urge Larcher to find outthe truth. If it comes to that, send them my account of the matter."
"It will ruin me," he said again.
"It will save you," she repeated. "Do not be foolish, Francis. You can
read it before sending it away."
"But you?"
"I shall be dead. I feel sure I shall not live. Promise me that if theworst comes you will send that letter."
"I promise," he said, sorely against his will, "but it will not be sent:you will live."
"I don't think so, Francis. I know better than the doctor. Now kiss me,my husband, and leave me to myself."
He did so in silence, and took up the dressing-case, whereupon shestopped him. "Let it be," she said quietly: "some of your letters are init, and I wish to read them. Kiss me again."
Again he kissed her, and reluctantly left the room. So quiet and selfcontained was she that he had no inkling of her intention. Had heguessed her fatal resolve, little as was the love he bore her, he wouldsurely have striven to turn her from her purpose. But he guessednothing, and left her alone, with the devil tempting her.
Good-by, my husband!" she murmured, as the door closed, and then burstinto tears. He had gone, she would never see him again, and she moanedover her lost beauty which failed to retain him by her side. He wascoldly polite; he was affectionate out of pity, but he had no love forher, and she hungered for the want of it. Her life passed before her,episode after episode, till it stopped short at the spectacle of aclosed door, and herself lying alone and deserted in that sickroom.
She wept and prayed, and then, with a firm hand, took out of herdressing case a small vial filled with a dark brown liquid. Twice sheput it to her lips, and twice she hesitated; the third time sheaccomplished her purpose. The thought of her lost beauty, of herhusband's neglect, of her childless home and wretched future, all thesenerved her, and she drank off the contents, then quickly replaced thebottle in the dressing case.
When the nurse came in to see her patient, Mrs. Hilliston was lying backwith a quiet smile on her pale lips. She had found peace at last.