Читать книгу So Evil My Love: Based on a True Crime Story - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 11

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“I’ve let my little house, Susan.”

“Oh! For how long?”

“It is not decided. I meet Mr. Bellis again tomorrow.”

Susan tried to forget her own discomforts and to show an interest in her friend’s affairs, for she was conscious that for once Mrs. Sacret wanted to talk about herself. Sewing industriously in the rosy light of the silver lamp she recounted her interview with her tenant. Susan thought it sounded very dull and wondered why Olivia seemed so interested, even excited and pleased.

“What was he like, Olivia?”

“I hardly know. I scarcely looked at him, or noticed. All I was thinking of was letting the house.”

“Why were you in such a hurry, dear? And a painter, you say. A stranger, without references—who would not pay in advance! I’m sure I don’t know much about business—but I thought you did,” said Susan candidly.

“I liked him,” admitted Mrs. Sacret, laying down her sewing. “He is different from anyone whom I have met before. He has traveled much, and knows much of people and things. He has some purpose in life—is bold and careless, yet sure and prudent. His presence makes life different. It would be impossible to be wearied in his company.”

“Yet you scarcely saw him!” exclaimed Susan, startled.

“A glance was sufficient to tell me his—character—shall I say?—or his attraction?”

“Then you let him have your house, on his own terms, because he fascinated you! How queer! Do tell me what he is like, Olivia. Of course you noticed—”

“Yes. He is extremely elegant. A gentleman. You would not suppose him to be a painter—not that I ever met one. He looks as if he were well to do. Not in the least as if he came from Pimlico lodgings. That is why I asked a high rent. He is about thirty-five years old. Neither dark nor fair—a bright color, like gold under brown in his hair and eyes—his complexion very healthy, yes, he is a fine, robust, healthy man.”

“How odd he wanted your house!”

“Yes. I could not let him go, he interested me. That, also, is odd.”

Mrs. Sacret picked up her sewing and Susan sat in an uneasy silence. She felt, vaguely, that a new and hostile influence had entered her already troubled life. After a pause she probed her friend’s intentions, looking with apprehension at the neat figure of Mrs. Sacret in the handsome mourning, her charming head with the hazel-colored braids bent so that her precise profile was edged by the rosy lamplight that struck dull gleams from her polished jet earrings and brooch.

“Are you—staying with me—for a long time, Olivia?”

“How frightened you sound! Do you wish to get rid of me, as your husband and his mother do? I want to stay and look after you, dear. You are so undecided about your own affairs. You won’t stand up for yourself. I should like to see you in possession of your own fortune—and happy—”

“You’ll never see that,” replied Susan quickly. “Don’t you understand yet—about John?”

Mrs. Sacret thought that she did understand, better than she had understood yesterday, what Susan felt. Passion, fascination, obsession—these words had new meanings to her now.

“Lady Curle is still alive,” she said quietly. “You must not speak like that—”

“Then don’t you speak of happiness,” retorted Susan in a muffled desperate voice. “And pray do destroy those letters.”

“The letters! Always the letters! Of course I shall—but they are of no matter—”

“Bring them down now.”

“There is no fire.” Mrs. Sacret glanced at the pretty satin-embroidered screen, a design of lilies and tulips, that concealed the grate.

“I can get some matches.”

“And make a smell, and a mess—really you are silly, Susan!”

“You torment me—you don’t mean to destroy them—”

“Hush.” Mrs. Sacret raised her clear eyes and Susan cowered slightly into her silk cushions. “You must not accuse me of unkindness. I have told you again and again I shall destroy the letters. But I mean to keep them a little longer because you have done something wrong, Susan. I told you they were in my trinket box, and you went into my room and looked for them.”

“How do you know!” cried Susan wildly.

“I arranged the things in a certain way and they were turned over. I don’t suspect the maids. They have never touched anything of mine. But just after I told you about the letters the box was tampered with. How silly you are!” she added scornfully. “If I had had anything of value I should have locked the box—you ought to have thought of that.”

“Of value—you do think those letters of value, then?”

“Of sentimental value. I told you.”

“Were they ever there? Did you move them? Was it a trap?”

“Of course not. I chanced to move them. It is wrong of you to talk so recklessly—of traps.”

“Olivia, I shall give you my new diamond bracelet if you’ll destroy those letters!”

“Susan, please. I cannot wear diamonds. Do think. And that sounds like a bribe. It is quite insulting. The letters are worth nothing. I meant to tear them up, in front of you—as small as snowflakes—and throw them away from the carriage when we were driving, one day, in the park—”

“Oh, why didn’t you!”

“Because you tried to steal them.”

“A punishment! I suppose that was how you were brought up—to punish people.”

“Yes. I was. And I was punished, too. At home, at school, as Frederick’s wife. Not only for what I did, but for what I was. One pays for that, you know, Susan.”

“You are harsh. Used to dealing with those wretched heathen.”

“I’m your best friend, Susan.”

Old Mrs. Rue entered, glancing with equal hostility at the flushed beauty of her son’s wife and the nut brown elegancy of Mrs. Sacret. She stared ostentatiously at the low table with the painted porcelain top on which Susan usually had the bottle of sherry and the two glasses. Tonight it was empty and old Mrs. Rue raised her eyebrows.

“Tea,” she remarked, seating herself heavily. “Could we have some tea—so much better for one than wine in the evening, don’t you think?”

Susan rose and hastened out of the room.

“There!” exclaimed her mother-in-law, with a complacent shrug. “You see how nervous she is! The least word and she is off in a tantrum! I only asked for tea.”

“You reminded her that Mr. Rue has forbidden the servants to serve wine except at table,” replied Mrs. Sacret coldly. “You never have tea here. And seldom join us of an evening.”

“Hoity-toity! You can’t put me out,” replied Mrs. Rue. “I understand you perfectly well. I’ve asked you to leave and my son has asked you to leave. And you are brazen enough to stay. For no good purpose, of course.”

“To help Susan. I feel it my duty.”

“Sunday school, Dissenting talk!”

“I was baptized into the Church of England. I attend church with Susan.”

“More genteel, I suppose, than the chapel. Really, you have done very well for yourself, Mrs. Sacret—considering what you are.”

“Perhaps I have, Mrs. Rue.”

The elder lady leaned forward, there was a stir of the scent the chemists term “violet” from the rice powder on her sagging face and the mauve velvet ribbons on her lace cap. “Are you going to tell me about the letters?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Rue.” Olivia Sacret rose. “Black mail.”

Mrs. Sacret slightly winced. The word was familiar to her mind, and she had never forgotten the look of it in print, as she had seen it in the Morning Post. But this was the first time she had heard it spoken.

“You have a vulgar mind,” she sneered.

“Susan doesn’t really like you,” retorted Mrs. Rue resolutely. “She wouldn’t have you here if she wasn’t afraid of you. And she wouldn’t be afraid of you unless you had a hold over her. And it’s likely to be letters. About that married man she got herself talked of with. She’s silly enough to have sent some of his to you—for sympathy or advice—or perhaps you stole them.” Mrs. Rue took a small tin box from her pocket and helped herself to mauve cachets. “Or she wrote to you, giving herself away.”

“Would she be so frightened,” asked Mrs. Sacret scornfully, “of what is past?”

“Susan is very timid—and could never face disgrace. And what disgrace ever is past?”

Mrs. Sacret knew that this was true. Susan could never endure any scandal. Though she seemed to have nothing to lose in her present life she clung to it desperately, because it was, in a way, safe and respectable. Her friend would not admit this to old Mrs. Rue. Once more she pointed out that Susan could demand all her money from her husband, and depart, a wealthy woman, for some fashionable Continental spa.

“That is your plan, I can see,” replied old Mrs. Rue. “You want to fasten on her and take her away—to keep you in luxury. You won’t succeed. Susan hasn’t the courage.”

“You are confused,” retorted the other woman. “If you believe that I am—that I have a hold—over Susan—and she thinks so much of her—good name—then I could make her do as I wished.”

The two widows, one so dowdy, one so elegant, stared at one another. The elder was taken aback, she scowled. If this wretched creature was blackmailing Susan it would be true that she could make that weak, foolish woman do as she pleased. Yet Susan could hardly leave her husband and go ahead without that slur on her reputation she so much dreaded. Old Mrs. Rue thought rapidly. It would suit her quite well to be rid of her daughter-in-law in this manner. Martin would return to her and all would be as it had been at Blackheath. But it would not suit her for Martin to return to Susan the large sums of money she had so foolishly given him. Old Mrs. Rue termed herself prudent and that it would be “a sin” to trust Susan with her large fortune that she would not know how to manage, and that this designing, wicked Mrs. Sacret would certainly get from her once she had separated her from her husband.

Olivia Sacret guessed what she was thinking. A mean old woman, close fisted as her son. It was strange they had not induced Susan to part legally with her money. Probably her father’s and her first husband’s lawyers looked after her affairs and what he could not obtain lawfully, Martin had had to wheedle out of Susan.

Old Mrs. Rue sighed, sucking her cachets. She had never had to deal with anything like this before, but she did not feel unequal to the situation. Ever since Martin had married the detestable Susan, his mother had been prepared for anything unpleasant, even Mrs. Sacret did not surprise her. Just what I should have expected of Susan, she reflected, to know a horrible woman like this and get into her clutches.

“I’ll go to bed,” remarked Mrs. Sacret; her soft, pretty voice held no note of malice or exasperation. She shook out the folds of her fine black silk dress with the crape borders.

“We’ve settled nothing,” protested old Mrs. Rue, “the letters—”

“I never admitted there were any compromising letters. For that is what you mean, Mrs. Rue. And there is nothing to settle—or that we ever shall settle,” she added in an even softer tone.

The elder widow, looking at her malignantly, thought, Why, she’s pretty—as pretty as Susan, in a different style. Younger than I thought, also. And hated her the more vehemently. But controlled her hatred. She had now decided that she would prefer her son to keep Susan and her money, sooner than part with both. But whatever “hold” Mrs. Sacret had over Susan must be transferred to her, Amelia Rue, so that she, and she alone, could keep Susan cowed and obedient. She did not doubt that she would have to pay heavily for this odious intruder’s secret—and she began her bidding.

“I, as well as Susan, could give you what you want—say, a visit abroad. Isn’t that what you desire?”

Mrs. Sacret laughed and the other woman was startled. She had never heard Mrs. Sacret laugh before, or a sound like that, so cool, heartless and amused.

With no more than that laugh, Mrs. Sacret went upstairs. In her own room she stood thoughtfully regarding a sovereign that she took out of the drawer of her dressing table where she had hidden it under a pile of lawn handkerchiefs.

What, she wondered, had he been thinking of, when he had offered her that piece of gold, after their rapid and sordid bargaining? Did he recognize the falsehoods her statements about herself implied? That she had tried to cheat him over the rent because it had seemed easy to do so? Probably he had lied also. No references. An adventurer. What did he want with her mean little house, he in his smart broadcloth and fine linen, with his freshly shaved cheek and glossy hair?

It has nothing to do with me, as long as he pays his rent. Her thoughts turned, as they had turned on the occasion of her reading the paragraph on the blackmail case, to that vague, wide world about her, filled with people of whose lives and means of existence she knew nothing, of whose sins and follies she could only guess at random. A world that might be extremely exciting, that aroused unsuspected curiosity in her ignorance, as her duel with old Mrs. Rue and her sense of power over Susan had aroused unsuspected passions, as her meeting with the unplaced stranger had aroused an unaccountable stir of fascination such as she had never known before. Her past life, viewed from her present vantage point, seemed incredibly dull, like a waterless, featureless plain glanced at, backwards, from a mountain side. How had she endured her barren childhood, the humiliations of her poverty-blighted school days, her marriage to a Dissenting, invalid missionary, those years in Jamaica where she had been cut off from everyone save a handful of fellow zealots and Negroes, to her unsympathetic and aloof temperament, as degraded as slaves.

She checked her thoughts, reminding herself, without conscious hypocrisy, that she must, in all things, do the will of God, that she must try to protect and reform Susan. She had already been a good influence over that wayward creature. Susan was drinking less wine lately. Sherry would never be served in the garden room again, not only because Mr. Rue had forbidden this, but because Olivia Sacret had said, “Susan, if you really need a little sherry wine, for your health, I shall buy a bottle and keep it in my room. And so you can sometimes have a little, a very little, without annoying your husband or being talked about by the servants.”

Susan had been grateful for this suggestion and Mrs. Sacret now reminded herself that she must buy the sherry tomorrow when she visited Minton Street and bring it to the Old Priory in the small carpetbag that had belonged to Frederick.

She weighed and turned the gold piece in her hand as if it had been something unusual and precious. She reflected that she had never possessed a jewel nor any ornaments beyond the few silver brooches and bracelets engraved with ferns and ivy leaves given her by her mother on her birthdays, and the simple cross she always wore that had been her husband’s wedding gift. She found pleasure in the delicate lawn as she replaced the coin. Until she had come to the Old Priory her handkerchiefs had been cotton. She had not realized that pleasure could be found in luxury because both pleasure and luxury had been so outside her experience. She trembled, turning toward the bed with the satin coverlet where she would kneel “to say her prayers” as the pat phrase ran mechanically in her mind. Her thoughts were not heavenwards. Susan had offered her a diamond bracelet. Absurd, indecent for a poor missionary’s widow in heavy mourning. But for the first time in her life Mrs. Sacret reflected that her wrist was white and slender, her arm round and well shaped and that she would like to experience the odd sensation of seeing diamonds clasp the firm flesh, never yet adorned, always hidden.