Chapter 11

JANE Clifton realised that she could be two persons. At the moment she was one---but it was the wrong one. She could sit at dinner with her husband and Wells and talk lightly and almost amusingly about people they knew, could ask calmly whether Marjorie was well and take, or surprisingly simulate, an interest in the petty interests of a woman whom she passively disliked. She found herself talking about the wedding and was shocked.

It was amazing that she could talk and act rationally. She was angered by her own indifference, her own abnormal serenity. She tried to stimulate a sense of horror which would not develop naturally. She was married to a madman---tied to him for life---the son of a homicide, a forger planning and carrying out his crime with all the proper cunning of a madman.

Jane found herself examining him feature by feature. There was nothing of madness in his eyes---she dimly remembered a hideous picture her father had once painted of a lunatic's face. It used to be kept in one of his locked sketch-books, but she had seen it one day and had been physically nauseated. The loose mouth, the irregular features, the peculiar unevenness of the face. John Leith had painted the picture in water-colours for his own edification and had been brutally faithful to his subject.

Peter bore no resemblance to this nightmare portrait. The hands that were folded on the table were singularly beautiful, big, but as shapely as a woman's. His mouth was firm, the gaze fixed upon Cheyne Wells steadfast.

If she could only experience some emotion---fear, contempt, indignation at the wrong he had done in marrying at all---if she were anything but what she was, an impersonal observer of his weaknesses, she might bring her own fate into perspective.

Donald Wells seemed unconscious of the strained atmosphere. No reference had been made to that encounter in the rose garden. Though she had seen Peter for a moment before dinner, she did not ask what had become of Basil, and he had volunteered no explanation. There was a bruise on his cheek and one of his fingers was bandaged. He told Wells in the course of the meal that a dog had bitten him, and pooh-poohed the suggestion that he should have the wound, slight as it was, examined.

It was obvious to Jane that even Donald Wells knew nothing of the fight or of Basil's presence, for once in the course of dinner he mentioned casually that he had met Basil in Bond Street and that he was going abroad for three months. But the doctor was not kept in ignorance very long. Jane had hardly left the room before the doctor put the question that he had wanted to ask through the meal.

"What is the matter, Peter?"

Peter shook his head.

"Nothing," he said curtly.

"Don't be a fool. Something has upset you."

Peter hesitated for a while, and then briefly, haltingly, he told of the occurrence in the garden. At the mention of Basil's name the doctor half rose from his chair.

"Basil?" he said incredulously. "What was he doing there? What was he talking about?"

Peter shrugged.

"Can't you guess?" he asked bitterly. "The swine knows who I am---and what I am!"

Wells stared at him incredulously.

"You mean he has told Jane---impossible!"

"Didn't you see her at dinner? Wasn't it as clear as daylight that she knows?"

Donald Wells pinched his under lip.

"I can't believe it's possible---good God! How would he know?"

Peter shook his head, shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"How can I tell? That sort of prying sneak worms his way into every ugly secret. For a moment I had a thought that you----"

"I? Don't be absurd!" scoffed Wells. "It would be a terribly unprofessional thing to do, and unpardonable even if Hale was my best friend, which he isn't."

Peter sat for a long time staring ahead of him; his face was tense and troubled; and then he asked suddenly:

"Do you think there's any danger? That man has scared me: I'm as frightened as a child in the dark."

Donald Wells reached out his hand and took the other's wrist and felt the pulse for a while with the other. To his consternation, Peter saw a frown gather on the doctor's face.

"You're rather upset, aren't you?" asked Wells, biting his lip thoughtfully. "I didn't realise you had taken this so badly---what a swine! I'm going to see Jane and ask her if she minds my staying the night here."

"You're not to frighten her." Peter Clifton's voice was almost rough. "God! I'd have given all my fortune to have prevented this, Donald. What a fool I was, what a fool!"

Donald Wells misunderstood him.

"I suppose you beat him up---there's nothing foolish about that----"

"I'm thinking about my marriage," said Peter slowly. "I relied on you---I'm not blaming you, old man, for I realise you were guided by the specialist. Is there any immediate danger of a relapse?"

Donald shook his head.

"You cannot have a 'relapse' since you have never shown any symptoms of the disease. As to whether you are likely to be attacked at all, I should say there was not the slightest," he said, but his tone lacked heartiness. "I'll give you a light sedative to-night, and I'd better phone Marjorie that I shan't be back."

When he rose from the table there came from outside the sound of a car's brakes, and the two men looked at one another.

"Are you expecting anybody?" asked Donald.

Peter shook his head.

"Not unless Mr. Hale has decided to pay a return visit," he said grimly. "In my present mood I could desire nothing better!"

Jane had also heard the wheels, and it was she who went out into the hall as the old serving man opened the door. She stepped back in amazement as the visitor was revealed. It was Marjorie Wells, and on that beautiful lady's face was an apologetic smile.

"I hope I've come to take Donald back---but I'm not sure," she said. "Do you very much mind my interrupting your honeymoon?"

In spite of herself, Jane laughed. It seemed so odd to hear that word.

"Everybody is interrupting my honeymoon," she said good-humouredly. "I could almost fall on your neck in sheer gratitude, Marjorie!"

"Bored already----"

"What do you want?"

It was Cheyne Wells's voice, its anger ill concealed.

"Hallo, darling!" Marjorie was coolness itself. "I'm being a loving and attentive wife. I know how you hate solitary drives; I thought it would be a good idea to pick you up."

Donald said nothing. In the dim light which the hall lamp gave Jane saw the effort he made to control himself.

His attitude was hardly a surprise to her. There were rumours, vague and unsupported by external evidence, that all was not well in the Wells ménage. Basil had been the chief vehicle of this gossip; but beneath all his malignity there was, generally, a thin stratum of unhappy truth.

"I'm not returning to-night," he said shortly, after he had brought his voice to a politer level. "Peter isn't feeling quite up to the mark, and I thought I'd stay and see him through."

"How lucky!" She did not waver under his steely eyes. "I thought something like that might happen, and I've brought down your sleeping suit. Peter, dear, will you please pay off my hired car? I simply dare not ask Donald for money. He's always at his worst when questions of finance are involved."

Relief, absolute and unqualified, was Jane's chief emotion. She led the way up to the room she had mentally set aside for her unexpected guests.

"I don't as a rule forgive people who hate me," Marjorie prattled on as she threw her cloak on the bed, "but I'll forgive you if you feel the tiniest bit savage. Where is Donald sleeping?" she asked abruptly.

For a moment Jane was embarrassed.

"I don't know. I really hadn't thought. I didn't even know that he was staying," she answered. "But this old house is full of spare rooms. I'll get Anna to make the beds up."

"I only asked," said Marjorie calmly, "because I think I should like to be a long way from him to-night. Donald has a violent temper---most husbands get that way after a time. No, I'm not going to disclose the family skeletons, my dear. This room is lovely." She walked to the door and inspected the lock. "And there's a key---shall I tell you something?"

Without waiting for the permission she asked, she went on:

"Do you realise the most dreadful thing a woman can get is a talkative husband? The husband who strides up and down the room half the night telling you your faults and instructing you how you can get rid of them?"

"I'm sure Peter will never do that."

"You're too great a lamb to have any faults at this stage of your married life!"

"Basil Hale was here to-day."

Why she said this Jane could never understand. It was one of those unpremeditated speeches that one would give everything to unsay. But the effect on the woman was extraordinary. She had been looking at her reflection in the long, old-fashioned pier glass over the mantelpiece, and now she turned quickly, her mouth and eyes wide open.

"Basil Hale---here? Why did he come?" she asked quickly. "You didn't ask him, of course?"

She spoke rapidly, the words stumbling forth in her agitation.

"I thought you meant when you said that you had an interrupted honeymoon---- He dared!"

And then Jane jerked out a question.

"Do you know anything about Peter?" She was reckless now, her pent emotions at last finding expression. "You've known him longer than I---is it true what Basil said about him? I wanted to ask Donald, but I didn't dare, and I haven't had the opportunity---oh, I don't know what I'm talking about. You'll think I'm mad, but I just wasn't interested enough to ask him anything."

To her surprise she found she was trembling violently. Marjorie Cheyne Wells took her by the shoulders and, pushing her into a chair, stared down at her through slits of eyelids.

"Do I know what about Peter?" she demanded. "What is the matter, Jane? Has it something to do with Basil calling?"

The girl nodded.

"Something he knew about Peter that he told you?"

Jane nodded again. When she spoke her voice was shaking.

"He said Peter's father was mad---and his grandfather. There's a horrible history of insanity in the family. And oh, there's something else, Marjorie---I can't tell you. I didn't seem to care till this minute. I don't know why I'm such a weakling, but I'm afraid---terribly afraid."

"Of Peter?"

Jane shivered.

"No, not of Peter, but for him. I don't think I love him, Marjorie. I liked him awfully, and daddy was very pleased that I should marry. But I'm terribly sorry for him."

Marjorie spoke no word; her dark eyes were fixed steadily upon the girl.

"Peter is the son of a lunatic, eh?" she said softly. "Of course, that accounts for so much. What a fool I have been!" A pause, and then: "Is he the Clever One by any chance?"