The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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continued Rhoda, as if she had not heard him. "I've thought that it was all my fault. I did wrong to Perris. I never ought to have married him. I treated him had—now and then. And I did wrong to you—only I got fond of you all of a sudden, before I knew, and without thinking. I—I treated Perris better after I loved you, because I was sorry for him. And though I'm as innocent as can be about these things, still it's been my fault, and I've thought that perhaps if I died all might come right. I don't know why I thought that—my head gets so queer—but I thought it. And when I came out this afternoon I meant to go, Mark. I'd reckoned it all up—I'd wait till dark and then I'd walk along the edge of the quarry here—there's a bit of old paling just there that's rotten: I meant to lean against it, and I should have fallen over when it broke under my weight, and then, you see, everybody would have thought it was an accident. And I came here and stood a long time, watching the kiln burn, and something was always telling me to wait, to wait!"
Taffendale put his arm round her with a strong grip. His resolution had come back to him as he listened to the confession of feminine weakness.
"Come away, Rhoda!" he said. "Come away—now! You're innocent, and God knows it, and I know it—come, be brave. Perhaps you're to wait for something that's going to prove it. Come away!"
Rhoda sighed heavily, but she made no resistance when he raised her to her feet. For a moment he took her into his arms and drew her face to his.
"Promise me you'll never think of that again," he said. "Or that if you do you'll come to me."
"I'll come to you," she answered quietly, "be sure to come to you."
Taffendale led her across to the house in silence and into the parlour. He gave the housekeeper a look and a nod as they entered, and the housekeeper understood and began to bustle around the tea-tray. And Taffendale, with a heart as heavy as lead, endeavoured to make conversation over the tea and the toast, and while he chattered was thinking vaguely of something which he had once read about some man or other who played the fool and made merriment on the stage while his heart was torn within him because at home a child lay dying. He knew that that cosy parlour, with its evidences of prosperity, made a warm and attractive picture; he knew also that on the hearts of two people who sat in it the fear of the unknown lay heavy and cold.
"There's a gentleman at the garden door wants to see the master, if you please," said one of the maids, entering the room as Taffendale was talking for talk's sake. "Shall I take him into the little room, sir?"
"Aye, take him into the little room," replied Taffendale. He made a pretence of lingering to drink his tea, and he murmured something about having expected a customer for a supply of lime. But he knew that Rhoda had started when the maid tapped at the door, and that for the first time in his life his own hands were trembling. And when he rose and left the parlour he was careful to avoid the woman's eyes.
There was a small room near the garden door, which Taffendale used as a sort of office. He braced himself as he opened the door and walked in, for he had a curious presentiment of what he was about to face. And suddenly he was within the room, and the door was shut behind him, and he was mechanically shaking hands with the district superintendent of police—an elderly, bearded man, whose face expressed anxious concern.
"Yes?" said Taffendale.
The superintendent glanced at the door.
"Mr. Taffendale," he said in a low voice, "I'd rather this had been anybody's job than mine. Mrs. Perris—you understand, sir?"
"There's been a warrant issued?" said Taffendale dully. "Eh?"
The superintendent tapped the breast of his overcoat.
"Just so, sir," he answered. "I have it here. And down the lane there I have a very comfortable two-horse cab from the George. Now, Mr. Taffendale, I want to do all this with as little trouble to Mrs. Perris as ever I can. She's here, of course, sir?"
"She's here," said Taffendale.
"Well, now, now, sir, I've no doubt she'll do anything that you suggest," said the superintendent. "How would it be, Mr. Taffendale, if you just prepared her and asked her to come with us, and we'll put off the formal business until we get to the office? Then I needn't bother her just now, you see. I've no doubt she's ready to meet this charge, and she'll be glad to get it over."
"Yes," said Taffendale. "Yes—that will do. Thank you—it's good of you. I'll prepare her, and then we'll go with you. I may come, I suppose?"
"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Taffendale—there's plenty of room in the cab for you, sir," replied the superintendent. "Oh, certainly, come by all means."
"And another thing," said Taffendale; "on our way to the police-station, may we call at Mr. Wroxdale's, my solicitor, and take him on with us? I want him to be there."
"Certainly you may, sir, with pleasure. I'll give orders to the driver, who, between ourselves, is one of my men," said the superintendent. "Yes—anything to make matters pleasant."
"We shall be ready in a few minutes," said Taffendale. He crossed the room to a cupboard and brought out whisky and soda and glasses. "You'll take a drink?" he said. "Well!" he went on, as he helped the superintendent and poured out a glass for himself. "I'm glad it's come at last—the suspense was killing her."
"Poor thing—poor thing!" said the superintendent sympathetically. "I've no doubt it was. Yes, it's best to get at these things and be done with 'em, one way or the other. Your health, sir. Now, you'll bring her here to me all ready, Mr. Taffendale—you'll understand that after I've once seen her I can't lose sight of her again. There shall be naught said now, sir, beyond a pleasant word or so—a 'good evening,' eh?—and we'll drive straight to Mr. Wroxdale's and he shall go on with us. And—and tell her not to be afraid, sir."
Taffendale nodded and left the room. He stood in the hall for a minute, thinking. Then from an old chest he took out two thick carriage rugs and laid them in readiness; near them he placed a heavy travelling cloak, which had been his mother's. That done, he opened the parlour door and called the housekeeper, and in a word or two explained what had happened and bade her keep out of the way for a few minutes. And then he opened the door again and went in to Rhoda. She gave him one quick look and rose, and the colour flushed into her pale cheeks. He saw that she knew.
Taffendale took her hands.
"You wanted this to be settled, Rhoda?" he said.
"Yes—yes!" she breathed quickly. "Yes—oh, yes!"
"Then—it's going to be settled now," he said.
"They've—come for me?" she whispered. Taffendale nodded.
"I'm ready—and I'm glad," she said. "Now—tell me what to do. But first—"
She threw her arms about him passionately and kissed him. And Taffendale asked himself as their lips met if that was for the last time.
Five minutes later Taffendale opened the door of the little room, and cried cheerily and bravely—
"Now, Mr. Superintendent, here's Mrs. Perris—all ready for you, and well wrapped up for a cold drive!"
Chapter XXII
There were three railway-stations in the market-town; that at which Perris arrived lay in a valley, far out from the centre of the place, and during his two years' acquaintance with the neighbourhood he had never seen it or its immediate surroundings before, never having had occasion to travel by the small branch line which had brought him to it from the main line at the big junction twelve miles off. Only himself and one more passenger left the train; on the wind-swept platform there was no one to be seen but a porter; the station itself was poorly lighted by a couple of oil-lamps; outside it the winter night was cheerless and black. Within a minute or two of his leaving the train, Perris was standing outside the station in the midst of a darkness that seemed all the denser because of his recollection of the brilliantly lighted scenes amidst which he had often