Volume Three—Chapter Six.
The Double Knot.
As Gertrude Huish, wild with horror and half mad as she realised that there was something which she could not comprehend about the man who had clasped her in his arms, raised her voice in a loud appeal for help, steps were heard upon the stairs, and there was loud knocking.
“Go in there!” was whispered hoarsely, and trembling with the great dread which had come upon her she escaped from the hands which held her, rushed through an open door and shut it to and locked it before she stood alone in the darkness, ready to swoon away.
It was horrible! Those rumours about John Huish which she had proudly refused to believe—were they, then, all true? That woman had claimed him for her husband, and what, then, was she? And then his manner—the coming of the police—his conduct to her!
“God help me!” she half cried. “It is not he—it cannot be! What is to become of me? What shall I do?”
Yes; that was it. That explained the feeling of loathing she had felt when he clasped her in his arms. At other times her arms had stolen round his neck, her lips had clung to his; while now this man seemed half mad, his breath reeked of spirits, and he horrified her. Was it really, then, all true—that her husband had a double life, or was this some horror in his place?
Her position was maddening, and she felt at times that her reason must give way as, with hands extended, she felt her way in the intense darkness about the little bedroom till her hands rested upon the second door, which, like the first, was fast.
She remembered now that he had entered the room, locked the door, and removed the key, so that she was a prisoner in the utter darkness, where at last she threw herself upon her knees and prayed for help and guidance in her sore strait.
She rose up at last strengthened and calmer, feeling that she must escape and get back home at any cost. No, to Uncle Robert, who would help her; for she dared not, after leaving home as she did, face Lady Millet now.
Then, as she pressed her head with her hands, she felt confused and strange. Her brain swam, and she told herself that she must not go.
One o’clock—two o’clock had struck, and still she sat there in the darkness, with her brain growing more and more bewildered; and then she started to her feet and a cry rose to her lips, for there were footsteps without, and they passed the door and entered the next room.
Then as she stood listening to the heavy beating of her heart there was the harsh scratching noise made by a match, and a gleam of light shone beneath the door.
What should she do? He was coming again, and an insane desire came upon her to seek for the window and cast herself out—anything to avoid meeting him now.
At last, when the mental agony of suspense was more than she could bear longer, the door was suddenly opened, the light shone in, and a low hoarse cry of horror subsided into a wail of relief, for there stood the same woman, pale, even ghastly, holding a candle above her head, and with a dull, angry look upon her countenance as she entered the room.
“Well,” she said harshly, “are you satisfied?”
“I don’t understand you,” said Gertrude eagerly, as she crept towards her; “but you are a woman. Pray, pray help me to get away from this dreadful place. For indeed it is dreadful to me,” continued Gertrude, catching at the woman’s hand, but only for her to snatch it angrily away.
“You don’t know it as I do,” she said, “or you would call it a dreadful place. Don’t touch me: I hate you!”
“No, no, I never injured you!” cried Gertrude piteously. “Oh, as you are a woman, help me! Here, look, I will reward you. Take this.”
She hastily detached her watch and chain, and held them out.
“Pah!” exclaimed the woman, “what are they to me? I’ve seen him and them bring scores of them, and rich jewels, diamonds and pearls—I’m sick of them; and do you think I would take that from you?”
“Why not?” cried Gertrude. “Oh, have you no pity for me?”
“Pity? Pity for you! Why, are you not his wife?”
“Yes, yes, yes, but you cannot understand. I cannot explain. Help me to get away from here. I must go—to my friends.”
“Go? To your friends?” said the woman, looking perplexed. “What, have you quarrelled already?”
“Oh, do not ask me—I cannot tell you,” cried Gertrude piteously; “only help me to escape from here, and I will pray for you to my dying day.”
“What good’s that?” said the woman mockingly. “I’m so bad that no one could pray me good. I’m a curse and a misery, and everything that’s bad. Pray, indeed! I’ve prayed hundreds of times that I might die, but it’s no good.”
“Have you no heart—no feeling?” cried Gertrude, going down upon her knees.
“Not a bit,” said the woman bitterly. “They crushed one and hardened the other till it all died.”
“Let me pass you then!” cried Gertrude angrily. “I will not stay.”
“If I let you pass, you could not get away. The doors are locked below, and you could not find the keys. You don’t want to go.”
“What can I say—how am I to tell you that I would give the world to get away from here?” cried Gertrude. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake save me before he comes again!”
“He will not come again. He is downstairs drunk. He is always either drunk or mad. And so you are the new Mrs John Huish?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Gertrude; and then wildly, “Tell me, it is not true? You—you—cannot be his wife!”
“The parson said I was when we were married—Mrs Frank Riversley.”
“Ah!” cried Gertrude joyously. “Sometimes,” continued the woman, as if she enjoyed torturing her rival; “lately he has called himself John Huish—since he has neglected me so much to go to clubs and chambers.”
“Oh!” sighed Gertrude.
“But I never complained.”
“I cannot bear this,” moaned Gertrude to herself; and then, fighting down the emotion, she crept upon her knees to the woman and clasped her hand.
“Let me go,” she moaned. “Let me get away from here, and I will bless you. Ask anything of me you like, and it shall be yours, only get me away.”
“You don’t want to go,” said the woman mockingly. “It’s all a sham.”
“How can I prove to you that I mean it?” cried Gertrude.
“I don’t know; I only know that if I did he would kill me.”
“Oh no, no; he dare not touch you. Come with me, then, and I’ll see that you are not hurt.”
“Are you in earnest? Better not. I ought to be in bed now—sick almost to death. Better stay,” she said mockingly. “This may kill me. I hope it will, and then you can be happy—with him!”
“No! no! no!” cried Gertrude wildly. “Never again. I did not know. It is too dreadful! Woman, if you hope for mercy at the last, help me to get away before I see that man again.”
“That man? that man?”
“No, no,” cried Gertrude wildly. “I cannot explain. It is too dreadful! He is not my husband. He is like him, but he is not him. I don’t know what I am saying. I cannot explain it. Only for God’s sake get me away from here, or I shall go mad!”
The woman stood gazing at her piercingly as Gertrude cast herself at her feet.
“You do mean it, then?” she said at last.
“Mean it? Yes. I have been deceived—cheated. This man is—Oh! I don’t know—I don’t know,” she cried wildly; “but pray help me, and let me go!”
The woman gazed down at her for a few moments longer, and then said huskily, “Come!”
Gertrude caught at the hand held forth to her, and suffered herself to be led out on to the landing, and then slowly down the dark stairs of the old City mansion in which they were, till they stood in the narrow hall, where, reaching up, the woman thrust her hand into a niche and drew out a key, and then set down and blew out the light.
Gertrude stood trembling, and she clung to the hand which touched her.
“Afraid of the dark?”
“No, no! But pray make haste; he may hear.”
“No. He hears nothing after he has taken so much brandy. He was wild with the other lodgers for interfering; and when he is wild he drinks till he goes to sleep, and when he wakes—”
She did not finish her sentence, but led her companion to the door, unlocked it, and the next moment the cool dank air of the night was blowing upon Gertrude’s cheek, as she dashed out into the narrow street, flying like some hunted beast, in the full belief that the steps she heard were those of the man who could not be the husband whom she loved.