She turned away from the window and looked round her room; she had means to gratify all reasonable desires, and she was cat-like in her fondness for warmth and soft rugs and cushions. All down one wall of her bedroom was a broad settee spread thickly with down pillows and covered with magnificent opossum rugs. Curtains, draped tent fashion from the ceiling, screened this divan from every draught, and Moorish lanterns, filled with scented oil, illumined it by night. An inlaid Syrian table stood near at hand, and there was a suggestion of Oriental luxury about the place that seemed to bar anything not conducive to repose. From a hanging wardrobe Lavender took a comfortable peignoir, a French creation of billowy chiffon and lace and ribbons, and leaving the windows open, stretched herself upon the divan and pulled up the rugs breast high; and while she lay there waiting for her maid to come to her, her thoughts wandered to what she stood to lose if any change occurred in her life other than the one she might voluntarily make by marrying Sir Ross Buchanan.
Except Melville, no one knew she had ever been Sir Geoffrey's wife, and she might rely upon his respecting her wish for the secret to be preserved now that she was in possession of this terrible secret of his. Sir Geoffrey had held his peace about the past in which she had figured, and it might be buried with him in his grave; the fear of prosecution for her bigamous marriage with Mr. Sinclair, which Melville had conjured up so vividly before her, was removed as well, and she could continue her indolent existence as his widow at The Vale, or burst forth into a period of splendour as the wife of the Scotch millionaire. No one knew of the picnic up the river, and the procrastination, in which she had acquiesced through terror and physical illness, had proved the safest and wisest policy after all. Of such an offence as being an accessory after the fact in any crime, Lavender, in her rather uneducated state, had no idea; if she had ever heard the phrase, it conveyed no meaning to her. She would acquiesce in a policy of absolute silence—forget her individuality as Lady Holt, and resume her ordinary life as the widow of the estimable Mr. Sinclair, who had provided for her maintenance on a scale that coincided so accurately with her desires.
Lucille tapped gently at the door and opened it softly in case her mistress should be still asleep, but when she saw the open window and the vacant bed she came in briskly, pleased to know that Lavender must be better.
"I am glad," she said with a smile, "you are better?"
"Much better," said Lavender; "well, and more than ready for some breakfast."
"That is good," the maid replied, and disappeared to return with an inviting tray, which she placed on the table by Lavender's side; and while Lavender, reclining on the divan, enjoyed her breakfast thoroughly, Lucille busied herself about the room and chatted pleasantly of trifles.
Presently Lucille removed the tray, and, sitting on a low chair by Lavender's side, began to brush out her mistress's hair, while Lavender leant on one arm with her face turned towards the wall.
"I didn't like to mention it to you while you were so ill," Lucille remarked, "but have you heard the sad news about Mr. Ashley's uncle? Shot in his own summer house!"
"Yes," Lavender replied; "I read about it yesterday." She spoke steadily; she had better get accustomed to hearing the crime talked about, but still she was glad her face was averted.
"There's some more about it in the papers to-day."