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CHAPTER XLI

THE sick man was getting slowly better. Day after day he made progress, very slow progress, it is true, but still undoubted progress towards recovery.

"If his wife were only with him he would get well fast enough," said the doctor, "but this terrible anxiety about her is weighing on his mind and retarding his recovery very much. We have all connived together to tell him lies with regard to Mrs. Henley, but in the long run he must know the truth. What will he do when he hears that she is lost, that no one has the slightest idea where she is?"

It was now a terrible fear in all hearts that Kate in a pang of despair had taken her life. Meanwhile, Mary kept Rogers, as he chose to call himself, staying on at the little Inn. She paid him a small sum weekly to induce him to stay, and she also met his hotel expenses; these were slight enough, for he was not inclined to be extravagant.

She did not care to speak to Rogers, she told him that she was biding her time, that she might require him or she might not. For the present he was to regard himself as her guest. The man was very glad indeed to do so. He had no money whatever, and for the present he was living in what he considered the height of comfort.

Meanwhile, Ethel avoided her sister. Mrs. Hume said when she saw Mary's thin, anxious, overwrought | | 377 face, "My poor child, try to turn your thoughts to healthier subjects."

Mary looked at her mother, opened her lips, tried to speak, and then restrained herself. No one would listen to her now, no one would believe her; the general feeling about Kate was that she had taken her own life in a fit of overweening anxiety. Every one mourned for Kate as if she were already dead. Impostor as Mary was certain she was, she was loved by all who knew her, whereas even her own people had turned against Mary. Shut up by every one, the girl at last resolved to leave the Grange. She would go back to her aunt in Russell Square. She had never told Mrs. Stirling what she really suspected, but in that house she would not be watched, and would be in consequence, more at ease. She went away, therefore, and as the days wore on and there were no tidings whatever of the missing wife, and the husband asked for her oftener and oftener, even Mary began to have pangs of remorse. She began to see Kate in her dreams; if she, Mary, had driven her to some extreme step, she would be unhappy to her dying day. Even the fortune which she felt was almost at her door, scarcely consoled her.

Ethel mourned and wept in secret. Mrs. Hume spent long and anxious nights. Mr. Hume set several of the most able detectives in Scotland Yard on the track, but nowhere were there tidings of Kate Henley; where had she vanished? Was she indeed now amongst the living?

There came a beautiful evening towards the end of October. There was even a breath of summer in it. The air was balmy, there was little to betoken the near approach of winter but the rapidly shortening day.

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Rogers, who had spent the whole of his day mooning about, smoking, sitting in the porch of the Inn, and eating his meals, took a walk. As he did so, he thought over the queer state of things. What had become of Mrs. Henley? He knew far less of her secret than she imagined he did. It is true that on that memorable night--how long ago it seemed now!--he had stolen softly up into the garden of the villa Beau Séjour, and had overheard Kate make use of the following words:--

"Beyond that two thousand pounds which I am giving you, I mean to wash my hands of you. You can clear all your debts and take a good house and start on your own account. Now are you satisfied? for if not--"

"If not, what will happen?" Merriman as he there called himself, heard Mrs. Mildmay saying in a timid voice.

"You had better not ask me what will happen," answered the other voice, the young, strong, determined voice, "only, remember that I am desperate, I am resolved. Do you accept? Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Mildmay had replied, "I am satisfied."

"That is right," replied Kate the heiress.

How earnestly the listening man had longed that he had been a little sooner on the scene. One thing at least he was certain of. Kate Bouverie would not give Mrs. Mildmay two thousand pounds for nothing. He had discovered that there was a secret. Often and often in the days that followed he remembered the words he had overheard. Often and often he repeated them to himself--"beyond this two thousand pounds I wash my hands of you." Surely no ordinary heiress | | 379 would speak in such a tone to a woman in Mrs. Mildmay's position. Then he had not failed to recognise the terror in the woman's voice as she had replied to the determined voice of the girl, and after this she suddenly became rich and paid back the money she had stolen from Madam Argot, and had quite got out of his, Henry Merriman's, power. He had made great capital on these words since he had overheard them, but did he really know what they meant?

All this time he was walking along the dusty road. Twilight was deepening into night. Suddenly he saw coming to meet him, walking feebly and uncertainly, the thin and almost shadowy figure of Mrs. Mildmay. He could not mistake it. He knew Mrs. Mildmay too well, he had seen her too often. Not a month ago he had held a conversation with her at Mentone. She was well dressed and was the owner of a flourishing house, and had been inclined to be quite snubby to him, her old friend Henry Merriman. He longed often to taunt her with the fact that he could upset, he was certain he could, all her fine speculations, and deprive her of all her savings, but he had considered discretion the better part of valour, and had taken care never to betray what little he knew of Kate's secret except to Kate herself. But what was Mrs. Mildmay doing here? Why had she left Mentone? The woman never stirred from home, and how bad she looked, how shadowy, and shabby too in her dress! Well, at any rate, it was she beyond doubt. He hurried to meet her.

"Well," he said, "who would have supposed that you would be here?"

"And who would have guessed that you would be here, Henry Merriman?" retorted the widow. She | | 380 stopped, he held out his hand, she did not offer hers in response. Both were silent for a moment, then Mrs. Mildmay said quietly--

"Can you tell me the way to a place called the Grange?"

Henry Merriman gave a long, significant whistle.

"Well, this beats all!" he cried; "why, the Grange is where Mr. Henley, the rich Mrs. Henley's uncle, lives, the lady that was Kate Bouverie, you know. Now may I ask what you want; what have you to do with the people at the Grange?"

"That is my own affair," replied Mrs. Mildmay. She was deadly tired and terribly frightened, but Kate had insisted on her undertaking this journey. It was a miserable journey, with awful confession at the end, but she was doing it for her child's sake--she was the sort of woman who would undergo any torture for her child.

"I am going for a walk," said Merriman, "I may as well go there as anywhere else. I will take you to the Grange."

"Thank you," answered Mrs. Mildmay.

The man turned and walked by her side.

"You look bad, madam," said Merriman, "not so blooming, not so flourishing as when I met you a month ago in Mentone."

"I have had a shock since then," answered the widow in a low tone.

"A shock!" said Merriman; "I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, I thank you."

They reached the gates of the Grange.

"I am obliged to you," said Mrs. Mildmay; "you say the house is at the other end of this avenue. I will wish you good-evening now."

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"I would walk down with you if it were not for the dogs," said Merriman, "but two of the dogs have taken a dislike to me; last week one of them fastened his teeth in my leg just above the knee, I dislike snappy dogs."

"Oh, I am not afraid," replied Mrs. Mildmay.

"You are very courageous, Madam. Well, perhaps I'll see you at the Inn presently. I am staying there at the expense of a very nice young lady, a Miss Mary Hume."

Mrs. Mildmay did not reply at all to this; it is to be doubted if she even heard Merriman's words. She began to walk slowly down the avenue. As it happened she did not meet any dogs, and in less than a quarter of an hour was standing in the porch inquiring for Mr. Hume. It was late and the Hume family were at dinner.

Henley had been rather worse that day, very fretful, very depressed, refusing to eat, sunk in gloom. His nurse did not like his condition. She had spoken to the doctor about it.

"He had better know the truth; it is the state of suspense which is worrying him so," said the woman.

And the doctor, too, had made up his mind that Henley must know the truth. He would not tell him that night, but early in the morning he would tell him what had really happened.

"It will break him down terribly," thought the medical man, "but he ought to know, he must know. When he has got over the first severity of the blow he will begin to recover. Suspense, the most wearying thing of all, will at least be at an end."

Now Mrs. Mildmay stood in the porch, her sorrowful eyes looked into the luxuriously furnished | | 382 house. She saw a girl flit across the hall, a girl in a light evening dress with flowers in her hair. She called out suddenly, "Oh, I wonder if you are Miss Hume?"

The girl came up to her.

"I am Ethel Hume," she said, "what is the matter?" She looked into Mrs. Mildinay's face and it seemed to Ethel that there was a likeness there, a likeness to somebody she knew, but she could not tell who that somebody was.

"I have come to see your father, Miss Hume, your father and your mother, on a matter of very great importance."

"Indeed!" said Ethel. She did not seem excited about this. The worn, sad-looking widow was not a person to excite her curiosity in any way, but the next words uttered by that same woman caused Ethel's heart to beat with double its usual force, the colour to rush into her cheeks, and her very hands to tremble.

"I have come with news of a young lady, Mrs. Henley, I have come to speak about her."

"Oh! oh!" said Ethel. She took the widow's hands and dragged her into the hall.

"Oh, come quickly and at once," she said, "it may save his life."

"Whose life, my dear?"

"Ralph Henley's life, Ralph, the husband of Kate."

"Then he is not dead?" said the widow.

"No, no, no, he is not dead, but he will die soon if relief is not coming. Oh, come quickly; Kate must have sent you."

"I have bad, very bad news, my dear young lady."

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"She is not dead, is she?"

"No, she is alive."

"Alive? then everything is all right. Oh, come at once, at once."

Ethel dragged Mrs. Mildmay across the hall. She flung open the door of the dining-room, where her father and mother were still lingering over their dessert. Mrs. Hume was lying in her usual easy-chair; her face looked very worn and sad. Hume was helping himself absently to another glass of wine.

On this scene burst Ethel, her face aflame, her voice shaking, dragging in a very shabby, pale, worn-looking woman.

"Father, mother, this woman has come--she has not given me her name."

"Mildmay, Miss Hume, Mrs. Mildmay."

"Mrs. Mildmay has come. I think from her appearance she must have come a long way. She has come with news of Kate, Kitty, our Kitty; oh, the joy, the joy!"

"But it is all most painful, it is all most terrible," said Mrs. Mildmay.

Mr. Hume now came forward.

"Sit down," he said; "if you bring news of Mrs. Henley you are indeed welcome. Sit down."

The widow sat down. The room seemed to swim before her eyes.

"Oh, poor thing, she is quite overcome," said Mrs. Hume. She looked anxiously into the worn woman's face; she, too, was disturbed by an intangible likeness.

"What is it?" she said. "Oh, you are going to faint. Give her a glass of wine, Robert."

Mr. Hume poured out some brandy, mixed it with a little water, and handed it to the trembling woman.

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"You are overcome," he said, "but take your own time."

"May I go and tell Ralph?" said Ethel.

"No, no," said her father, "have patience for a little."

Ethel stood behind her father's chair.

Mrs. Mildmay drank her brandy and water. Just at that moment there came a rustling in the hall; quick steps were heard; the door was burst open, and Mary Hume came in.

The moment she saw her Mrs. Mildmay turned whiter than ever. She had not felt any peculiar sensation when she saw Ethel, but Mary seemed to disturb her in the most unaccountable way.

"I have heard that you have come," she said. "I wonder what about. I was coming to spend a night at home. I have had no tidings for some time. Am I very unwelcome, mothe ? am I very unwelcome, father?"

"If you choose to behave yourself, Mary, you are always welcome," said her father in a constrained voice. "And now, my poor woman," he said, turning to Mrs. Mildmay, "will you tell us all you know about Mrs. Henley."

Still Mrs. Mildmay was silent. It was so difficult to begin. How much they loved Mrs. Henley, her girl, her bonny, bonny, beautiful, wild, eccentric Kate! They all loved her; all, that is, with the exception of the young lady who had come in late. Mrs. Mildmay was shrewd enough to guess that there was not much love for anybody in that girl's heart.

"Perhaps you would rather speak to us alone," said Mr. Hume, wondering at her agitation, and why the words did not come from her lips.

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"No, no," said the widow then, "all the world has got to know--and you four, yes, there are four of you, you must know first of all."

Mary drew herself up. She did not quite know what she expected, but somehow it came over her that suspense was at an end.

"Speak," she said, in a peremptory voice, and something in her tone, indignant as it was, seemed to give Mrs. Mildmay heart and courage. It was straight at Mary Hume herself she looked as she told her story.

"Kate wished me to come, and Kate wished me to tell," she began. "She feels that concealment is no longer possible. She would have come herself, but she was too ill. I should have been here a week ago, but she was at death's door. She was very ill, very ill, and we thought she would die. If she died, it--well, I did think, that in her grave, her secret might be buried, poor Kate, poor Kate."

"You are speaking very strange words, but we are listening," said Mr. Hume; "pray go on."

Mrs. Mildmay seemed to swallow something in her throat. She stood up now, and her attitude was very stiff. There was a chair near her, but she did not support herself by it; she stood as stiff as if she were made of iron. All her words came out slowly in a mechanical sort of way.

"There was a great sin done," she said, "a great wrong was committed. I will tell you; please listen, and don't interrupt me while I am telling you. You can do exactly what you like afterwards.

"A year ago, or nearly a year ago, a young lady came to Mentone. She took a house called the Beau Séjour up one of the valleys which led out of | | 386 Mentone. She was a very handsome young lady, but very delicate. Her name was Miss Bouverie."

"Our Kate, our dear Kitty," murmured Mrs. Hume.

"She had come from India and she was more delicate than she herself knew. She wanted some one to be with her to cheer her up. A girl went to stay with her as a sort of companion--the girl's name was Kate Mildmay. The girl was bonny to look at and strong, and--and--" here the widow swayed very slightly, then she recovered herself, "she had a great look of Kate Bouverie, she was like her, so very like that apart these two girls would be mistaken each for the other, with the one great exception that one was strong and the other weak. Perhaps you can guess what is coming. Kate Mildmay was very poor, miserably poor, and her mother was poor as poor could be, and in debt and difficulties, and soon it was quite plain that there was no hope at all of Kate Bouverie, that she was going to die, and then Kate Mildmay, the other Kate, so like the one who was ill, conceived the idea of changing places with her."

"Ah," said Mary, "I--I thought as much."

Mrs. Mildmay raised a warning hand.

"You can speak afterwards, Miss," she said, "let me finish now. She conceived the idea and she carried it out. Kate Bouverie died, and she was buried as Kate Mildmay, and Kate Mildmay, my daughter, madam, my daughter, young ladies, she assumed the part of Kate Bouverie and she deceived you all."

"Not me, at least not for long," said Mary.

"She almost deceived you, Miss, and she deceived | | 387 all the rest of you, and she married the rich young gentleman, who was to have married Kate Bouverie had she lived, and that is the truth, Miss, that is the story. She was an adventuress from first to last."

Nobody spoke. Even Mary herself was too stunned to speak. The widow did not tremble now, she looked firmly round.

"She married the rich young gentleman, and the unfortunate thing is she loved him; she never reckoned on that when she made her mad and wicked scheme--the scheme in which I helped her--she never reckoned on that. She loved the young gentleman, and she became his wife, and since then her days were one long torture, and she felt that God was pursuing her on account of her sins, and when her husband got ill and nearly died, she broke down utterly; her nerve gave way; it was that which finished her. She felt she could not look on his dead face, and she came away, and always and always she heard the bells ringing, ringing out the number of his years. She was pursued by those bells and she fled from the house. She came back to me, for when a girl is in awful, awful trouble, she thinks then of her mother. She thought she would come to me, and she came, and she said she was going to tell. She was quite certain that Mr. Henley was dead, and she was going to tell, and she begged and implored of me to go for her, to go to you ladies and to you, sir, and to tell the whole story. At first I refused, but then I said I would, but I waited till she was out of danger. She is out of danger of dying now, so I came. That is all. She knows and I know that there is nothing but prison before us, both. She does not mind that. The only one thing she wants is to | | 388 get rid of those bells in her ears, and to secure the forgiveness of God for her sin. That is all, sir and ladies, I thought I would tell you. I am going back now. I shall sleep to-night at the Inn; you can do what you please with me."