“Well, if he’s a friend of yours, you’ve no business to hide his wife from him!”
“Yes, I have. Been thinking of it for a long time.”
“Thinking of hiding Kitten for a long time?” demanded Lord Wrotham incredulously.
“You’re a fool, George. Big a fool as Ferdy. Been thinking about Sherry and Kitten. Fond of ’em both.”
“I’m fond of them both too,” said Ferdy. “What’s more, Sherry’s my cousin. But he’s got no right to behave like a curst brute to Kitten. Cousin or no cousin. Dear little soul! Dash it, Gil, almost an angel!”
“No,” said Mr Ringwood, after thinking this over. “Not an angel, Ferdy. Dear little soul, yes. Angel, no!”
“It don’t matter what she is!” struck in George. “All that signifies is that she’s Sherry’s wife!”
Mr Ringwood looked at him under his brows, but refrained from comment. After a slight pause, George said: “Not our affair, whatever we may think. The fact of the matter is, she does need some older female to school her.”
“She’ll have one,” replied Mr Ringwood.
“Yes, that’s all very well, but though I don’t say he set about it the right way, Sherry ain’t so far wrong when he takes it into his head to send Kitten down to the dowager.”
“Do you know my aunt Valeria, George?” asked Ferdy, astonished.
“Oh, lord, yes, I know her! But — ”
“Well, I wouldn’t have thought it.”
“That ain’t the point,” interrupted Mr Ringwood. “Point is what Kitten said just now: Sherry don’t love her.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Gil,” protested Ferdy. “Never told me he didn’t love her!”
Mr Ringwood closed his cloak-bag and strapped it. “I know Sherry,” he said. “But I don’t know if he loves Kitten or not. Going to find out. If you ask me, he don’t know either. If he don’t it ain’t a particle of use sending Kitten to the dowager. Come to think of it, it ain’t much use sending her there if he does, because that ain’t the way he’d find it out. But if he does love her, he ain’t going to like not knowing what’s become of her. Might miss her like the devil. Make him start to think a trifle.”
George regarded him frowningly. “Are you going to tell Sherry you don’t know where his wife is?”
“Not going to tell him anything,” said Mr Ringwood. “He won’t think I had anything to do with it. Thought it all out. You’re going to tell Sherry I’ve gone off to Hertfordshire, because that uncle of mine looks like dying at last.”
“I’ll tell him, if George don’t like to,” offered Ferdy.
“No, you won’t,” answered Mr Ringwood. “You’re coming to Bath with me.”
“No, dash it, Gil!” feebly protested Ferdy.
George, whose brow had cleared, said: “By God, I believe you’ve hit it, Gil! Damme, I’ve thought for a long time Sherry needed a lesson! I will tell him you’ve gone to Hertfordshire! Yes, by Jove, and I’ll take precious good care he don’t ask me if I know what’s become of his Kitten!”
“Yes, but I don’t want to go to Bath!” said Ferdy.
“Nonsense! Of course you’ll go!” George said briskly. “You can’t leave poor old Gil to bear the brunt of it! Besides, it’ll look better if you both escort Kitten. You know what Sherry is! Why, he even called me out, only for kissing her! If he got to hear of Gil’s jauntering about the country with her he’d very likely cut his liver out and fry it. Can’t take exception to the pair of you going with her.”
When the matter was put to him like that, all Ferdy’s chivalrous instincts rose to the surface, and he at once begged pardon, and said that he would stand by Gil to the death. Upon reflection, he admitted that he would as lief not meet his cousin Sherry on the following day. George then wished to be assured that Mr Ringwood’s man, Chilham, was to be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and upon being told that he was the most discreet fellow alive, said that there seemed to be nothing more to do in the matter until the following day. All three gentlemen thereupon left the house, Ferdy going off to Cavendish Square and Mr Ringwood, his cold forgotten, accompanying George to his lodgings in Ryder Street.
Chapter Nineteen
WHEN HERO PUT IN NO APPEARANCE AT THE breakfast table next morning, the Viscount was not much surprised, and he made no comment. He himself had passed an indifferent night. His visit to White’s, on the previous evening, had confirmed his worst fears. One tactless gentleman had actually had the effrontery to mention Hero’s projected race to him, and instead of landing this person a facer he had been obliged to treat the matter lightly, saying that it was all a hum, and that he wondered that anyone could have been green enough to have supposed that it could have been anything else. After that he had gone home, and had written a stiff note to Lady Royston, cancelling the meeting. That had taken him an hour to compose, and he had wasted a great many sheets of paper on it, and had not even the satisfaction of feeling that the final copy conveyed his sentiments to the lady. Unquiet dreams had disturbed his sleep, and he arose in the morning not in the least refreshed, but more determined than ever to remove Hero from London until such time as the Polite World had forgotten her lapse from grace. His lordship was not going to run the risk of his wife’s being refused a voucher for Almack’s; and, to do him justice, this caution was more on her behalf than on his own. He made up his mind to explain it all carefully to Hero on the way down to Kent, for although he had been extremely angry with her on the previous evening, he was not one to nurse rancour, and he was already sorry that he had left her room so precipitately, and without comforting her distress, or making any real attempt to alleviate her alarms. He did not like to think of his Hero in tears, and he was much afraid that she had cried herself to sleep. When she did not come down to breakfast, he was sure of it. So as soon as he had finished his own repast he went up to her room and knocked politely on the door. There was no answer, and, after waiting for a moment, he turned the handle and walked in. The room was in darkness. Surprised, he hesitated for an instant before speaking his wife’s name. There was again no answer. All at once the Viscount felt, without quite knowing why, that there was no one but himself in the room. He strode over to the window, and flung back the curtains, and turned. No erring wife lay sleeping in the silk-hung bedstead. The quilt had not even been removed from it, but on one pillow lay a sealed billet.
The Viscount picked it up with a hand that was not entirely steady. It was addressed to himself. He broke the seal and spread open the sheet of paper.
Sherry,
I have run away, because I will never go to your Mama, and I see now that it would be to no avail, even if I did, for you were right when you said you should not have married me, though I did not know it then, when I was so ignorant and stupid. It was all my fault, for I always knew that you did not love me, and you have been so patient with me, and so very kind, and I know I have been very troublesome, and quite spoilt your life, besides getting into debt, and obliging you to sell those horses, and not knowing how to contrive so that Mrs Bradgate should not order such expensive things, like that dreadful bill for candles, and a dozen others. So please, Sherry, will you divorce me, and forget all about me, and pray do not tease yourself with wondering what has become of me, because I shall do very well, and there is not the least occasion for you to do so. And also, Sherry, I hope you will not mind that I have taken the drawing-room clock, and my canary, for they were truly mine, like the earrings you gave me on my wedding day, and Ferdy’s bracelet.
— Your loving Kitten.
The Viscount’s lips quivered; he looked up from the letter, and stared about him at surroundings which seemed suddenly desolate. He found that he was not able to think very clearly, for when he tried to concentrate on the problem of Hero’s present whereabouts his brain seemed not to move at all, and the only thought which reiterated rather stupidly in his head was that she had gone.