For some occult reason her lips were wrinkled by a smile at the thought of Hugh Morice keeping silent. As if he would when danger threatened her, for whom he had done this thing. And yet, if he did not keep silent, who would have to pay? Would--? Yes, he would; certainly. At that thought her poor, weak, childish heart seemed to drop in her bosom like a lump of lead. The tears stood in her eyes. She went hot and cold. No--not that. Rather than that, it would be better that he should keep silent. Better--better anything than that. He had done this for her; but, he must not be allowed to do more. He had done enough for her already--more than enough--much more. She must make it her business to see that he did nothing else. Nothing.
Just as she was, all unclothed, she knelt down and prayed. The strangest prayer, a child's prayer, the kind of prayer which, sometimes, coming from the very heart of the child, is uttered in all simplicity. Many strange petitions have been addressed to God; but few stranger than that. She prayed that whoever might have to suffer for what had been done, he might escape scot-free; not only here but also hereafter; in heaven as well as on earth. Although the supplication invoked such an odd confusion of ideas, it was offered up with such intense earnestness and simplicity of purpose, that it had, at anyrate, one unlooked for effect. It calmed her mind. She rose up from her knees feeling more at ease than she had done since ten o'clock. In some vague way, which was incomprehensible to herself, her prayer seemed already to have been answered. Therefore, the future had no perils in store for her; she was at peace with the world.
She collected the garments which she had taken off, arranged them in a neat bundle and placed them in an almost empty drawer which she found at the bottom of a wardrobe. The knife she put under the bundle. Then, locking the drawer, she disposited the key beneath her pillows. In the morning her brain would be clearer. She would be able to decide what to do with the things which, although speechless, were yet so full of eloquence. The water in which she had washed she carried into the apartment which opened out of her bedroom, and, emptying it into the bath, watched it disappear down the waste water pipe. She flushed the bath so as to remove any traces which it might have left behind. Then, arraying herself in her night attire, she put out the lights and got into bed.
She awoke with that sense of pleasant refreshment which comes after calm, uninterrupted slumber. She lay, for some seconds, in a state of blissful indolence. Then, memory beginning to play its part, she raised herself upon her elbow with a sudden start. She looked about the room. All was as she had left it. Although the curtains and the blinds were drawn the presence of the sun was obvious. Through one window a long pencil of sunshine gleamed across the carpet. Evidently a fine night was to be followed by a delightful day. She touched the ivory push piece just above her head. Instantly Evans appeared.
"Get my bath ready. I'm going to get up at once."
She eyed the woman curiously, looking for news upon her face. There were none. Her countenance was again the servant's expressionless mask. When the curtains and blinds were drawn the room was filled with golden light. She had the windows opened wide. The glory of a summer's day came streaming in. The events of the night seemed to have become the phantasmagoria of some transient dream. It was difficult to believe that they were real, that she had not dreamed them. Her spirits were higher than they had been for some time. She sang to herself while she was having her bath. Evans, putting out her clothes in the next room, heard her.
"She seems to be all right now. That's the first time I've heard her singing, and she looks better. Slept well, I suppose. When you're young and healthy a good sleep works wonders. A nice sight she looked when she came in this morning; I never saw anything like it-- never! All covered with blood, my gracious! A queer one she is, the queerest I've ever had to do with, and I've had to do with a few. Seems to me that the more money a woman's got the queerer she is, unless she's got a man to look after her. However, it's no business of mine; I don't want to know what games she's up to. I have found knowing too much brings trouble. But whatever has become of the clothes that she had on? They've vanished, every single thing except the stockings. What can she have done with them? It's queer. I suppose, as she hasn't left them about it's a hint that I'm not to ask questions. I don't want to; I'm sure the less I know the better I'm pleased. Still, I do hope there's nothing wrong. She's a good sort; in spite of all her queernesses, I never want to meet a better. That generous! and simple as a child! Sooner than anything should happen to her I'd--well, I'd do a good deal. If she'd left those clothes of hers about I'd have washed 'em and got 'em up myself, so that no one need have known about the state that they were in. I don't want to speak to her about it. With her ideas about not liking to be overlooked she might think that I was interfering; but, I wish she had."
Somewhat to her surprise Miss Arnott found Mrs Plummer waiting for her at the breakfast-table.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I thought you would have finished long ago--ever so long ago."
"I was a little late myself; so I thought I'd wait for you. What time did you come in?"