"What nonsense! Haven't I told you that I won't have you sit up for me when I'm unusually late? I dislike to feel that my movements are being overlooked by my servants, that they are too intimately acquainted with my goings out and comings in. Go to bed at once."
"Is there nothing I can do for you, miss? Are you--I beg your pardon--but are you sure there's nothing wrong? You look so strange!"
"Wrong? What do you mean--wrong? Go!"
Evans went, the imperturbable demeanour of the well-trained servant not being sufficient to conceal the fact that she went unwillingly. When she was gone Miss Arnott looked at the silver clock on the mantel-shelf. It was past two. She had been out more than four hours. Into those four hours had been crowded the events of a lifetime; the girl who had gone out was not the woman who had returned.
For the first time she began to suspect herself of being physically weary. She moved her hand up towards her forehead. As she did so her glance fell on it; it was all smirched with blood. Simultaneously she became aware that stains of the same sort were on the light blue linen costume she was wearing, particularly on the front of the bodice. She moved to a cheval glass. Was it possible? were her eyes playing her a trick? was there something the matter with the light? Not a bit of it, the thing was clear enough, her face was all smeared with blood, probably where it had been touched by her fingers. Why, now that she could see herself plainly, she saw that she looked as if she had come fresh from a butcher's shambles. No wonder Evans had stared at her in such evident perturbation, demanding if she was sure that there was nothing wrong. Old Day must have been an automaton, not a man, to have betrayed no surprise at the spectacle she presented.
She tore open her bodice, took out from it the knife-- his knife, Hugh Morice's. It was drier, but still damp. It was covered with blood all over. It must have been thrust in up to the hilt--even the handle was mired. It had come off on to all her clothes, had penetrated even to her corsets. Seemingly it resembled ink in its capacity to communicate its presence. She stripped herself almost to the skin in the sudden frenzy of her desire to free herself from the contamination of his blood. When she had washed herself she was amazed to see what a sanguine complexion the water had assumed. It seemed to her that she was in an atmosphere of blood--his blood. What was to be done? She sat down on a chair and tried to think.
It was not surprising that she found it hard to bring herself to a condition in which anything like clarity of thought was possible. But, during the last four hours, she had matured unconsciously, had attained to the possession of will power of strength of which she herself was unsuspicious. She had made up her mind that she would think this thing out, and by degrees she did, after a fashion.
Three leading facts became gradually present to her mind to the exclusion of almost all beside. One was that Robert Champion was dead--dead. And so she had obtained release by the only means to which, as it seemed to her, Mr Whitcomb, that eminent authority on the law of marriage, had pointed. But at what a price! The price exceeded the value of the purchase inconceivably. There was the knife--his knife--to show it. When she shut her eyes she could still see him rushing in the moonlight through the brushwood, like some wild creature, mad with the desire to escape. Beyond all doubt the price was excessive. And it had still to be paid. That was the worst of it, very much the worst. The payment--what form would it take?
As that aspect of the position began to penetrate her consciousness, it was all she could do to keep herself from playing the girl. After all, in years, she was only a girl. In simplicity, in ignorance of evil, in essential purity--a child. When she found herself confronted by the inquiry, what form would the payment take? girl-like, her courage began, as it were, to slip through her finger ends. Then there was that other side to the question, from whom would payment be demanded? Suddenly required to furnish an answer to this, for some moments her heart stood still. She looked about her, at the ruddy-hued water in the wash basin, at the clothing torn off because it was stained. Recalled her tell-tale entry, her admission by Day who, in spite of his unnaturally non-committal attitude, must have noticed the state that she was in; Evans's startled face when, attempting no concealment, she blurted out her confession of what she saw. Here, plainly, were all the essentials for a comedy or tragedy of misunderstanding.
If Hugh Morice chose to be silent all the visible evidences pointed at her. They all seemed to cry aloud that it was she who had done this thing. From the ignorant spectator's point of view there could hardly be a stronger example of perfect circumstantial proof.