Cursing angrily, I turned away: there was nothing for it but to foot it back again. And then I saw a thing which pulled me up sharp: a small window to one side of the front door was open. I thought of that foul walk along the drive, and I made up my mind without more ado. Ten seconds later I was inside the house.
The room in which I found myself was a small cloak-room. Hats and coats hung on pegs around the walls: two shooting sticks and a bag of golf-clubs stood in one corner. So much I saw by the light of a match, but another more welcome object caught my eye—an electric-light switch. I had already made up my mind that should anyone appear I would make no attempt to conceal myself, but would say frankly who I was and my reasons for breaking in. And so I had no hesitation in turning on the light as I left and walked along a passage which led from the room. A door was at the end of it, and I pushed it open to find myself in a vast panelled hall.
Holding the door open to get the benefit of the light from the cloak-room I saw more switches beside me, and in a moment the place was brightly illuminated. It was even bigger than I had at first thought. At one end, opposite the front door, was a broad staircase, which branched both ways after the first flight. Facing me was a large open fireplace with logs arranged in it—logs which, to my joy, I saw were imitation ones fitted for an electric fire. In the middle stood a long refectory table, whilst all round the walls there hung paintings of men in the dress of bygone days. The family portrait gallery: evidently the house belonged to a man of ancient lineage. All that, however, could wait: my first necessity was to get moderately dry.
I fumed off some of the lights, and crossed to the fireplace, where I found the heat switch without difficulty. By this time I was sure that the house was empty, and, having returned to the cloak-room to get an overcoat, I took off my clothes and sat down in an armchair in front of the glowing logs. (I know these small details seem irrelevant, but I am putting them down to prove that my recollection of that night is still perfect.)
The hall was in semi-darkness. Two suits of armour standing sentinel on each side of the staircase gleamed red in the light of the fire: an overhead cluster threw a pool of white radiance on the polished table in the centre. Outside the rain still beat down pitilessly, and as I looked at my steaming clothes I thanked Heaven for that open window. And after a while I began to feel drowsy. A leaden weight settled on my eyelids: my head dropped forward: I fell asleep.
Suddenly, as so often happens when one is beat, I was wide awake again. Something had disturbed me—some noise, and as I listened intently I heard it again. It was the sound of wheels on the drive outside, and of horses. It was as if a coach and four was being driven up to the door, but the strangeness of such a conveyance at that hour of the night did not strike me for the moment. I was far too occupied in trying to think what excuse I was going to make for my presence in such unconventional garb. And then, even as with a jangling of bits the vehicle pulled up by the front door, I realised to my amazement that my clothes had been removed.
I tried to puzzle it out—to collect myself, but before I could think what I was going to say the door was flung open and a great gust of wind came sweeping in, making the candles on the table gutter. Candles! Who had put candles there and turned out the electric light? And who had laid supper?
I looked again towards the door: a woman had come in, and my embarrassment increased. She swept towards the table, and stood there, one hand resting on it, staring straight in front of her. Of me she took no notice whatever, though it seemed inconceivable that she had not seen me. And then, as she remained there motionless, my amazement grew: her dress was that of the Stuart period.
The front door shut and a man came into the circle of light. Magnificently handsome, with clean-cut, aquiline features he was dressed as the typical cavalier of King Charles's time. And as he stood drawing off his driving gauntlets, I realised what had happened. He was the owner of the house and there had been a fancy dress ball. Still, I was glad I had a man to explain things to.
He threw his gloves into a chair and came straight towards me. And the words of explanation were trembling on my tongue when he knelt down almost at my feet and stretched out his hands towards the blaze. He seemed oblivious of my presence, but what was even more amazing was the fire itself. For now great flames roared up the chimney from giant logs that blazed fiercely.
I glanced again at the woman; she had not moved. But on her face had come an expression that baffled me. Her eyes were resting on the man's back, and in them was a strange blending of contempt and fear.
The man rose and turned towards her, and instantly the look vanished, to be replaced by one of bored indifference.
"Welcome, my love," he said with a bow, "to your future home." Was it my imagination, or was there a sneer in his voice?
"You honour me, Sir James," she answered with a deep curtsy. "From a material point of view it leaves nothing to be desired."
"Your Ladyship will perhaps deign to explain?"
"Is it necessary?" she said coldly. "The subject is tedious to a degree."
"Nevertheless," he remarked—and now there was no attempt to conceal the sneer, "I must insist on an explanation of your Ladyship's remark."
"Ladyship!" Her face was white, and her eyes, for a moment, blazed hatred. "Would to God I had no right to the title."
He shot his lace ruffles languidly. "Somewhat higher in the social scale, my love," he murmured, "than Mistress Palmer of Mincing Lane. The latter is worthy, no doubt—but a trifle bourgeois."
"Perhaps so." Her voice was low and shaking. "At any rate, it was honest and clean."
He yawned. "They tell me your father is a pillar of respectability. In fact, I gather there is a talk of his being made an alderman, whatever that obscure office signifies."
"You coward," she cried tensely. "How dare you sneer at a man whose shoes you are not worthy to shine."
He raised his eyebrows and began to laugh silently. "Charming, charming!" he remarked. "I find you vastly diverting, my love, when you are in ill-humour. I bear no malice to the admirable Palmer, whose goods I am told are of passing fair quality. But now that you have become my wife, I must beg you to remember that conditions have changed."
He reverently lifted a bottle, encrusted and cobwebby. "From the sun-kissed plains of France," he continued. "The only other man in England who has this vintage is His Grace of Wessex. Permit me."
She shook her head, and stood facing him, her hands clenched. "What made you marry me, Sir James?" she said in a low voice.
"My dear!" he murmured with simulated surprise. "You have but to look in yonder mirror for your answer."
"You lie!" she cried. "I have but to look to your bank for my answer."
For a moment his eyes narrowed: the shaft had gone home. Then, with an elaborate gesture that was in itself an insult, he lifted his glass to his lips. "What perspicacity!" he murmured. "What deep insight into human nature! But surely, my dear Laura, you must have realised that a man in my position would hardly have married so far beneath him without some compensating advantage."
She turned white to the lips. "So at last you have admitted it," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. "Dear God! how I hate you."
"The point is immaterial," he cried harshly. "You are now Lady Mertonbridge: you will be good enough to comport yourself as such."
But she seemed hardly to have heard him: with her eyes fixed on the fire she went on almost as if talking to herself. And her voice was that of a dead woman. "Lady Mertonbridge! What a hideous mockery! Two days after that travesty of a service I found you kissing a common tavern wench. A week later you were away for two nights, and I overheard your man and my tirewoman laughing over