The Missioner
by E. Phillips Oppenheim · English · Gutenberg #33546 · 432,561 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Missioner
Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim
Illustrator: Fred Pegram
Release date: August 27, 2010 [eBook #33546]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33546
Credits: Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSIONER ***
Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
The Missioner
BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of
Sinners," "The Master Mummer," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY FRED PEGRAM
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY THE PEARSON PUBLISHING COMPANY.
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published January, 1909.
Fourth Printing
[ Illustration: "DO YOU MIND EXPLAINING YOURSELF?" SHE ASKED.
[Page 23.] FRONTISPIECE.]
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER PAGE
I MISTRESS AND AGENT 1
II THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY 13
III FIRST BLOOD 22
IV BEATING HER WINGS 32
V EVICTED 41
VI CRICKET AND PHILOSOPHY 52
VII AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC 61
VIII ROSES 70
IX SUMMER LIGHTNING 78
X THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR 85
XI THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS 93
XII RETREAT 100
XIII A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 105
XIV SEARCHING THE PAPERS 114
XV ON THE SPREE 121
XVI THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 129
XVII THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY 138
XVIII LETTY'S DILEMMA 147
XIX A REPORT FROM PARIS 155
XX LIKE A TRAPPED ANIMAL 162
BOOK II
CHAPTER PAGE
I RATHER A GHASTLY PART 172
II PLAYING WITH FIRE 180
III MONSIEUR S'AMUSE 188
IV AT THE "DEAD RAT" 196
V THE AWAKENING 204
VI THE ECHO OF A CRIME 210
VII A COUNTRY WALK 218
VIII THE MISSING LETTY 227
IX FOILED! 235
X MYSTERIES IN MAYFAIR 244
XI THE WAY OF SALVATION 253
XII JEAN LE ROI 262
XIII THE KING OF THE APACHES 271
XIV BEHIND THE PALM TREES 281
XV THE ONLY WAY 289
XVI MAN TO MAN 296
XVII LORD AND LADY BOUNTIFUL 304
THE MISSIONER
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
MISTRESS AND AGENT
The lady of Thorpe was bored. These details as to leases and repairs
were wearisome. The phrases and verbiage confused her. She felt obliged
to take them in some measure for granted; to accept without question the
calmly offered advice of the man who stood so respectfully at the right
hand of her chair.
"This agreement with Philip Crooks," he remarked, "is a somewhat
important document. With your permission, madam, I will read it to you."
She signified her assent, and leaned wearily back in her chair. The
agent began to read. His mistress watched him through half closed eyes.
His voice, notwithstanding its strong country dialect, had a sort of
sing-song intonation. He read earnestly and without removing his eyes
from the document. His listener made no attempt to arrive at the sense
of the string of words which flowed so monotonously from his lips. She
was occupied in making a study of the man. Sturdy and weather-beaten,
neatly dressed in country clothes, with a somewhat old-fashioned stock,
with trim grey side-whiskers, and a mouth which reminded her somehow of
a well-bred foxhound's, he represented to her, in his clearly cut
personality, the changeless side of life, the side of life which she
associated with the mighty oaks in her park, and the prehistoric rocks
which had become engrafted with the soil of the hills beyond. As she saw
him now, so had he seemed to her fifteen years ago. Only what a
difference! A volume to her--a paragraph to him! She had gone out into
the world--rich, intellectually inquisitive, possessing most of the
subtler gifts with which her sex is endowed; and wherever the passionate
current of life had flown the swiftest, she had been there, a leader
always, seeking ever to satisfy the unquenchable thirst for new
experiences and new joys. She had passed from girlhood to womanhood with
every nerve of her body strained to catch the emotion of the moment.
Always her fingers had been tearing at the cells of life--and one by one
they had fallen away. This morning, in the bright sunshine which flooded
the great room, she felt somehow tired--tired and withered. Her maid was
a fool! The two hours spent at her toilette had been wasted! She felt
that her eyes were hollow, her cheeks pale! Fifteen years, and the man
had not changed a jot. She doubted whether he had ever passed the
confines of her estate. She doubted whether he had even had the desire.
Wind and sun had tanned his cheeks, his eyes were clear, his slight
stoop was the stoop of the horseman rather than of age. He had the air
of a man satisfied with life and his place in it--an attitude which
puzzled her. No one of her world was like that! Was it some inborn gift,
she wondered, which he possessed, some antidote to the world's
restlessness which he carried with him, or was it merely lack of
intelligence?
He finished reading and folded up the pages, to find her regarding him
still with that air of careful attention with which she had listened to
his monotonous flow of words. He found her interest surprising. It did
not occur to him to invest it with any personal element.
"The agreement upon the whole," he remarked, "is, I believe, a fair one.
You are perhaps thinking that those clauses----"
"If the agreement is satisfactory to you," she interrupted, "I will
confirm it."
He bowed slightly and glanced through the pile of papers upon the table.
"I do not think that there is anything else with which I need trouble
you, madam," he remarked.
She nodded imperiously.
"Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hurd," she said.
If he felt any surprise, he did not show it. He drew one of the
high-backed chairs away from the table, and with that slight air of
deliberation which characterized all his movements, seated himself. He
was in no way disquieted to find her dark, tired eyes still studying
him.
"How old are you, Mr. Hurd?" she asked.
"I am sixty-three, madam," he answered.
Her eyebrows were gently raised. To her it seemed incredible. She
thought of the men of sixty-three or thereabouts whom she knew, and her
lips parted in one of those faint, rare smiles of genuine amusement,
which smoothed out all the lines of her tired face. Visions of the
promenade at Marienbad and Carlsbad, the Kursaal at Homburg, floated
before her. She saw them all, the men whom she knew, with the story of
their lives written so plainly in their faces, babbling of nerves and
tonics and cures, the newest physician, the latest fad. Defaulters all
of them, unwilling to pay the great debt--seeking always a way out!
Here, at least, this man scored!
"You enjoy good health?" she remarked.
"I never have anything the matter with me," he answered simply. "I
suppose," he added, as though by an afterthought, "the life is a healthy
one."
"You find it--satisfying?" she asked.
He seemed puzzled.
"I have never attempted anything else," he answered. "It seems to be
what I am suited for."
She attempted to abandon the _role_ of questioner--to give a more
natural turn to the conversation.
"It is always," she remarked, "such a relief to get down into the
country at the end of the season. I wonder I don't spend more time here.
I daresay one could amuse oneself?" she added carelessly.
Mr. Hurd considered for a few moments.
"There are croquet and archery and tennis in the neighbourhood," he
remarked. "The golf course on the Park hills is supposed to be
excellent. A great many people come over to play."
She affected to be considering the question seriously. An intimate
friend would not have been deceived by her air of attention. Mr. Hurd
knew nothing of this. He, on his part, however, was capable of a little
gentle irony.
"It might amuse you," he remarked, "to make a tour of your estate. There
are some of the outlying portions which I think that I should have the
honour of showing you for the first time."
"I might find that interesting," she admitted. "By the bye, Mr. Hurd,
what sort of a landlord am I? Am I easy, or do I exact my last pound of
flesh? One likes to know these things."
"It depends upon the tenant," the agent answered. "There is not one of
your farms upon which, if a man works, he cannot make a living. On the
other hand, there is not one of them on which a man can make a living
unless he works. It is upon this principle that your rents have been
adjusted. The tenants of the home lands have been most carefully chosen,
and Thorpe itself is spoken of everywhere as a model village."
"It is very charming to look at," its mistress admitted. "The flowers
and thatched roofs are so picturesque. 'Quite a pastoral idyll,' my
guests tell me. The people one sees about seem contented and respectful,
too."
"They should be, madam," Mr. Hurd answered drily. "The villagers have
had a good many privileges from your family for generations."
The lady inclined her head thoughtfully.
"You think, then," she remarked, "that if anything should happen in
England, like the French Revolution, I should not find unexpected
thoughts and discontent smouldering amongst them? You believe that they
are really contented?"
Mr. Hurd knew nothing about revolutions, and he was utterly unable to
follow the trend of her thoughts.
"If they were not, madam," he declared, "they would deserve to be in the
workhouse--and I should feel it my duty to assist them in getting
there."
The lady of Thorpe laughed softly to herself.
"You, too, then, Mr. Hurd," she said, "you are content with your life?
You don't mind my being personal, do you? It is such a change down here,
such a different existence ... and I like to understand everything."
Upon Mr. Hurd the almost pathetic significance of those last words was
wholly wasted. They were words of a language which he could not
comprehend. He realized only their direct application--and the woman to
him seemed like a child.
"If I were not content, madam," he said, "I should deserve to lose my
place. I should deserve to lose it," he added after a moment's pause,
"notwithstanding the fact that I have done my duty faithfully for four
and forty years."
She smiled upon him brilliantly. They were so far apart that she feared
lest she might have offended him.
"I have always felt myself a very fortunate woman, Mr. Hurd," she said,
"in having possessed your services."
He rose as though about to go. It was her whim, however, to detain him.
"You lost your wife some years ago, did you not, Mr. Hurd?" she began
tentatively. As a matter of fact, she was not sure of her ground.
"Seven years back, madam," he answered, with immovable face. "She was,
unfortunately, never a strong woman."
"And your son?" she asked more confidently. "Is he back from South
Africa?"
"A year ago, madam," he answered. "He is engaged at present in the
estate office. He knows the work well----"
"The best place for him, of course," she interrupted. "We ought to do
all we can for our young men who went out to the war. I should like to
see your son, Mr. Hurd. Will you tell him to come up some day?"
"Certainly, madam," he answered.
"Perhaps he would like to shoot with my guests on Thursday?" she
suggested graciously.
Mr. Hurd did not seem altogether pleased.
"It has never been the custom, madam," he remarked, "for either my son
or myself to be associated with the Thorpe shooting parties."
"Some customs," she remarked pleasantly, "are well changed, even in
Thorpe. We shall expect him."
Mr. Hurd's mouth reminded her for a moment of a steel trap. She could
see that he disapproved, but she had no intention of giving way. He
began to tie up his papers, and she watched him with some continuance of
that wave of interest which he had somehow contrived to excite in her.
The signature of one of the letters which he was methodically folding,
caught her attention.
"What a strange name!" she remarked. "Victor Macheson! Who is he?"
Mr. Hurd unfolded the letter. The ghost of a smile flickered upon his
lips.
"A preacher, apparently," he answered. "The letter is one asking
permission to give a series of what he terms religious lectures in
Harrison's large barn!"
Her eyebrows were gently raised. Her tone was one of genuine surprise.
"What, in Thorpe?" she demanded.
"In Thorpe!" Mr. Hurd acquiesced.
She took the letter and read it. Her perplexity was in no manner
diminished.
"The man seems in earnest," she remarked. "He must either be a stranger
to this part of the country, or an extremely impertinent person. I
presume, Mr. Hurd, that nothing has been going on in the place with
which I am unacquainted?"
"Certainly not, madam," he answered.
"There has been no drunkenness?" she remarked. "The young people have, I
presume, been conducting their love-making discreetly?"
The lines of Mr. Hurd's mouth were a trifle severe. One could imagine
that he found her modern directness of speech indelicate.
"There have been no scandals of any sort connected with the village,
madam," he assured her. "To the best of my belief, all of our people are
industrious, sober and pious. They attend church regularly. As you know,
we have not a public-house or a dissenting place of worship in the
village."
"The man must be a fool," she said deliberately. "You did not, of
course, give him permission to hold these services?"
"Certainly not," the agent answered. "I refused it absolutely."
The lady rose, and Mr. Hurd understood that he was dismissed.
"You will tell your son about Thursday?" she reminded him.
"I will deliver your message, madam," he answered.
She nodded her farewell as the footman opened the door.
"Everything seems to be most satisfactory, Mr. Hurd," she said. "I shall
probably be here for several weeks, so come up again if there is
anything you want me to sign."
"I am much obliged, madam," the agent answered.
He left the place by a side entrance, and rode slowly down the private
road, fringed by a magnificent row of elm trees, to the village. The
latch of the iron gate at the end of the avenue was stiff, and he failed
to open it with his hunting crop at the first attempt. Just as he was
preparing to try again, a tall, boyish-looking young man, dressed in
sombre black, came swiftly across the road and opened the gate. Mr. Hurd
thanked him curtly, and the young man raised his hat.
"You are Mr. Hurd, I believe?" he remarked. "I was going to call upon
you this afternoon."
The little man upon the pony frowned. He had no doubt as to his
questioner.
"My name is Hurd, sir," he answered stiffly. "What can I do for you?"
"You can let me have that barn for my services," the other answered
smiling. "I wrote you about it, you know. My name is Macheson."
Mr. Hurd's answer was briefly spoken, and did not invite argument.
"I have mentioned the matter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton, sir. She agrees with
me that your proposed ministrations are altogether unneeded in this
neighbourhood."
"You won't let me use the barn, then?" the young man remarked
pleasantly, but with some air of disappointment.
Mr. Hurd gathered up the reins in his hand.
"Certainly not, sir!"
He would have moved on, but his questioner stood in the way. Mr. Hurd
looked at him from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. The young man was
remarkably young. His smooth, beardless face was the face of a boy. Only
the eyes seemed somehow to speak of graver things. They were very bright
indeed, and they did not falter.
"Mr. Hurd," he begged, "do let me ask you one question! Why do you
refuse me? What harm can I possibly do by talking to your villagers?"
Mr. Hurd pointed with his whip up and down the country lane.
"This is the village of Thorpe, sir," he answered. "There are no poor,
there is no public-house, and there, within a few hundred yards of the
farthest cottage," he added, pointing to the end of the street, "is the
church. You are not needed here. That is the plain truth."
The young man looked up and down, at the flower-embosomed cottages, with
their thatched roofs and trim appearance, at the neatly cut hedges, the
well-kept road, the many signs of prosperity. He looked at the little
grey church standing in its ancient walled churchyard, where the road
divided, a very delightful addition to the picturesque beauty of the
place. He looked at all these things and he sighed.
"Mr. Hurd," he said, "you are a man of experience. You know very well
that material and spiritual welfare are sometimes things very far
apart."
Mr. Hurd frowned and turned his pony's head towards home.
"I know nothing of the sort, sir," he snapped. "What I do know is that
we don't want any Salvation Army tricks here. You should stay in the
cities. They like that sort of thing there."
"I must come where I am sent, Mr. Hurd," the young man answered. "I
cannot do your people any harm. I only want to deliver my message--and
go."
Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round.
"I submitted your letter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said. "She agrees
with me that your ministrations are wholly unnecessary here. I wish you
good evening!"
The young man caught for a moment at the pony's rein.
"One moment, sir," he begged. "You do not object to my appealing to
Miss Thorpe-Hatton herself?"
A grim, mirthless smile parted the agent's lips.
"By no means!" he answered, as he cantered off.
Victor Macheson stood for a moment watching the retreating figure. Then
he looked across the park to where, through the great elm avenues, he
could catch a glimpse of the house. A humorous smile suddenly brightened
his face.
"It's got to be done!" he said to himself. "Here goes!"
CHAPTER II
THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY
The mistress of Thorpe stooped to pat a black Pomeranian which had
rushed out to meet her. It was when she indulged in some such movement
that one realized more thoroughly the wonderful grace of her slim,
supple figure. She who hated all manner of exercise had the ease of
carriage and flexibility of one whose life had been spent in athletic
pursuits.
"How are you all?" she remarked languidly. "Shocking hostess, am I not?"
A fair-haired little woman turned away from the tea-table. She held a
chocolate eclair in one hand, and a cup of Russian tea in the other. Her
eyes were very dark, and her hair very yellow--and both were perfectly
and unexpectedly natural. Her real name was Lady Margaret Penshore, but
she was known to her intimates, and to the mysterious individuals who
write under a _nom-de-guerre_ in the society papers, as "Lady Peggy."
"A little casual perhaps, my dear Wilhelmina," she remarked. "Comes from
your association with Royalty, I suppose. Try one of your own caviare
sandwiches, if you want anything to eat. They're ripping."
Wilhelmina--she was one of the few women of her set with whose Christian
name no one had ever attempted to take any liberties--approached the
tea-table and studied its burden. There were a dozen different sorts of
sandwiches arranged in the most tempting form, hot-water dishes with
delicately browned tea-cakes simmering gently, thick cream in silver
jugs, tea and coffee, and in the background old China dishes piled with
freshly gathered strawberries and peaches and grapes, on which the bloom
still rested. On a smaller table were flasks of liqueurs and a spirit
decanter.
"Anyhow," she remarked, pouring herself out some tea, "I do feed you
people well. And as to being casual, I warned you that I never put in an
appearance before five."
A man in the background, long and lantern-faced, a man whose age it
would have been as impossible to guess as his character, opened and
closed his watch with a clink.
"Twenty minutes past," he remarked. "To be exact, twenty-two minutes
past."
His hostess turned and regarded him contemplatively.
"How painfully precise!" she remarked. "Somehow, it doesn't sound
convincing, though. Your watch is probably like your morals."
"What a flattering simile!" he murmured.
"Flattering?"
"It presupposes, at any rate, their existence," he explained. "It is
years since I was reminded of them."
Wilhelmina seated herself before an open card-table.
"No doubt," she answered. "You see I knew you when you were a boy.
Seriously," she continued, "I have been engaged with my agent for the
last half-hour--a most interesting person, I can assure you. There was
an agreement with one Philip Crooks concerning a farm, which he felt
compelled to read to me--every word of it! Come along and cut, all of
you!"
The fourth person, slim, fair-haired, the typical army officer and
country house habitue, came over to the table, followed by the
lantern-jawed man. Lady Peggy also turned up a card.
"You and I, Gilbert," Wilhelmina remarked to the elder man. "Here's luck
to us! What on earth is that you are drinking?"
"Absinthe," he answered calmly. "I have been trying to persuade Austin
to join me, but it seems they don't drink absinthe in the Army."
"I should think not, indeed," his hostess answered. "And you my partner,
too! Put the stuff away."
Gilbert Deyes raised his glass and looked thoughtfully into its
opalescent depths.
"Ah! my dear lady," he said, "you make a great mistake when you
number absinthe amongst the ordinary intoxicating beverages. I
tell you that the man who invented it was an epicure in sensations
and--er--gastronomy. If only De Quincey had realized the possibility
of absinthe, he would have given us jewelled prose indeed."
Wilhelmina yawned.
"Bother De Quincey!" she declared. "It's your bridge I'm thinking of."
"Dear lady, you need have no anxiety," Deyes answered reassuringly. "One
does not trifle with one's livelihood. You will find me capable of the
most daring finesses, the most wonderful coups. I shall not revoke, I
shall not lead out of the wrong hand. My declarations will be touched
with genius. The rubber, in fact, is already won. Vive l'absinthe!"
"The rubber will never be begun if you go on talking nonsense much
longer," Lady Peggy declared, tapping the table impatiently. "I believe
I hear the motors outside. We shall have the whole crowd here directly."
"They won't find their way here," their hostess assured them calmly. "My
deal, I believe."
They played the hand in silence. At its conclusion, Wilhelmina leaned
back in her chair and listened.
"You were right, Peggy," she said, "they are all in the hall. I can hear
your brother's voice."
Lady Peggy nodded.
"Sounds healthy, doesn't it?"
Gilbert Deyes leaned across to the side table and helped himself to a
cigarette.
"Healthy! I call it boisterous," he declared. "Where have they all
been?"
"Motoring somewhere," Wilhelmina answered. "They none of them have any
idea how to pass the time away until the first run."
"Sport, my dear hostess," Deyes remarked, "is the one thing which makes
life in a country house almost unendurable."
Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.
"That's all very well, Gilbert," she said, "but what should we do if we
couldn't get rid of some of these lunatics for at least part of the
day?"
"Reasonable, I admit," Deyes answered, "but think what an intolerable
nuisance they make of themselves for the other part. I double No Trumps,
Lady Peggy."
Lady Peggy laid down her cards.
"For goodness' sake, no more digressions," she implored. "Remember,
please, that I play this game for the peace of mind of my tradespeople!
I redouble!"
The hand was played almost in silence. Lady Peggy lost the odd trick and
began to add up the score with a gentle sigh.
"After all," her partner remarked, returning to the subject which they
had been discussing, "I don't think that we could get on very well in
this country without sport, of some sort."
"Of course not," Deyes answered. "We are all sportsmen, every one of us.
We were born so. Only, while some of us are content to wreak our
instinct for destruction upon birds and animals, others choose the
nobler game--our fellow-creatures! To hunt or trap a human being is
finer sport than to shoot a rocketing pheasant, or to come in from
hunting with mud all over our clothes, smelling of ploughed fields,
steaming in front of the fire, telling lies about our exploits--all
undertaken in pursuit of a miserable little animal, which as often as
not outwits us, and which, in an ordinary way, we wouldn't touch with
gloves on! What do you say, Lady Peggy?"
"You're getting beyond me," she declared. "It sounds a little savage."
Deyes dealt the cards slowly, talking all the while.
"Sport is savage," he declared. "No one can deny it. Whether the quarry
be human or animal, the end is death. But of all its varieties, give me
the hunting of man by man, the brain of the hunter coping with the wiles
of the hunted, both human, both of the same order. The game's even then,
for at any moment they may change places--the hunter and his quarry.
It's finer work than slaughtering birds at the coverside. It gives your
sex a chance, Lady Peggy."
"It sounds exciting," she admitted.
"It is," he answered.
His hostess looked up at him languidly.
"You speak like one who knows!"
"Why not?" he murmured. "I have been both quarry and hunter. Most of us
have more or less! I declare Hearts!"
Again there was an interval of silence, broken only by the stock phrases
of the game, and the soft patter of the cards upon the table. Once more
the hand was played out and the cards gathered up. Captain Austin
delivered his quota to the general discussion.
"After all," he said, "if it wasn't for sport, our country houses would
be useless."
"Not at all!" Deyes declared. "Country houses should exist for----"
"For what, Mr. Deyes? Do tell us," Lady Peggy implored.
"For bridge!" he declared. "For giving weary married people the
opportunity for divorce, and as an asylum from one's creditors."
Wilhelmina shook her head as she gathered up her cards.
"You are not at your best to-day, Gilbert," she said. "The allusion to
creditors is prehistoric! No one has them nowadays. Society is such a
hop-scotch affair that our coffers are never empty."
"What a Utopian sentiment!" Lady Peggy murmured.
"We can't agree, can we?" Deyes whispered in her ear.
"You! Why they say that you are worth a million," she protested.
"If I am I remain poor, for I cannot spend it," he declared.
"Why not?" his hostess asked him from across the table.
"Because," he answered, "I am cursed with a single vice, trailing its
way through a labyrinth of virtues. I am a miser!"
Lady Peggy laughed incredulously.
"Rubbish!" she exclaimed.
"Dear lady, it is nothing of the sort," he answered, shaking his head
sadly. "I have felt it growing upon me for years. Besides, it is
hereditary. My mother opened a post-office savings bank account for me.
At an early age I engineered a corner in marbles and sold out at a huge
profit. I am like the starving dyspeptic at the rich man's feast."
Captain Austin intervened.
"I declare Diamonds," he announced, and the hand proceeded.
Wilhelmina leaned back in her chair as the last trick fell. Her eyes
were turned towards the window. She could just see the avenue of elms
down which her agent had ridden a short while since. Deyes, through half
closed eyes, watched her with some curiosity.
"If one dared offer a trifling coin of the realm----" he murmured.
"I was thinking of your theory," she interrupted. "According to you, I
suppose the whole world is made up of hunters and their quarry. Can you
tell, I wonder, by looking at people, to which order they belong?"
"It is easy," he answered. "Yet you must remember we are continually
changing places. The man who cracks the whip to-day is the hunted beast
to-morrow. The woman who mocks at her lover this afternoon is often the
slave-bearer when dusk falls. Swift changes like this are like rain upon
the earth. They keep us, at any rate, out of the asylums."
Wilhelmina was still looking out of the window. Up the great avenue, in
and out amongst the tree trunks, but moving always with swift buoyant
footsteps towards the house, came a slim, dark figure, soberly dressed
in ill-fitting clothes. He walked with the swing of early manhood, his
head was thrown back, and he carried his hat in his hand. She leaned
forward to watch him more closely--he seemed to have associated himself
in some mysterious manner with the mocking words of Gilbert Deyes. Half
maliciously, she drew his attention to the swiftly approaching figure.
"Come, my friend of theories," she said mockingly. "There is a stranger
there, the young man who walks so swiftly. To which of your two orders
does he belong?"
Deyes looked out of the window--a brief, careless glance.
"To neither," he answered. "His time has not come yet. But he has the
makings of both."
CHAPTER III
FIRST BLOOD
A footman entered the room a few minutes later, and obedient, without a
doubt, to some previously given command, waited behind his mistress'
chair until a hand had been played. When it was over, she spoke to him
without turning her head.
"What is it, Perkins?" she asked.
He bent forward respectfully.
"There is a young gentleman here, madam, who wishes to see you most
particularly. He has no card, but he said that his name would not be
known to you."
"Tell him that I am engaged," Wilhelmina said. "He must give you his
name, and tell you what business he has come upon."
"Very good, madam!" the man answered, and withdrew.
He was back again before the next hand had been played. Once more he
stood waiting in respectful silence.
"Well?" his mistress asked.
"His name, madam, is Mr. Victor Macheson. He said that he would wait as
long as you liked, but he preferred telling you his business himself."
"I fancy that I know it," Wilhelmina answered. "You can show him in
here."
"Is it the young man, I wonder," Lady Peggy remarked, "who came up the
avenue as though he were walking on air?"
"Doubtless," Wilhelmina answered. "He is some sort of a missionary.
I had him shown in here because I thought his coming at all an
impertinence, and I want to make him understand it. You will probably
find him amusing, Mr. Deyes."
Gilbert Deyes shook his head quietly.
"There was a time," he murmured, "when the very word missionary was a
finger-post to the ridiculous. The comic papers rob us, however, of our
elementary sources of humour."
They all looked curiously towards the door as he entered, all except
Wilhelmina, who was the last to turn her head, and found him hesitating
in some embarrassment as to whom to address. He was somewhat above
medium height, fair, with a mass of wind-tossed hair, and had the smooth
face of a boy. His eyes were his most noticeable feature. They were
very bright and very restless. Lady Peggy called them afterwards
uncomfortable eyes, and the others, without any explanation, understood
what she meant.
"I am Miss Thorpe-Hatton," Wilhelmina said calmly. "I am told that you
wished to see me."
She turned only her head towards him. Her words were cold and
unwelcoming. She saw that he was nervous and she had no pity. It was
unworthy of her. She knew that. Her eyes questioned him calmly. Sitting
there in her light muslin dress, with her deep-brown hair arranged in
the Madonna-like fashion, which chanced to be the caprice of the moment,
she herself--one of London's most beautiful women--seemed little more
than a girl.
"I beg your pardon," he began hurriedly. "I understood--I expected----"
"Well?"
The monosyllable was like a drop of ice. A faint spot of colour burned
in his cheeks. He understood now that for some reason this woman was
inimical to him. The knowledge seemed to have a bracing effect. His eyes
flashed with a sudden fire which gave force to his face.
"I expected," he continued with more assurance, "to have found Miss
Thorpe-Hatton an older lady."
She said nothing. Only her eyebrows were very slightly raised. She
seemed to be asking him silently what possible concern the age of the
lady of Thorpe-Hatton could be to him. He was to understand that his
remark was almost an impertinence.
"I wished," he said, "to hold a service in Thorpe on Sunday afternoon,
and also one during the week, and I wrote to your agent asking for the
loan of a barn, which is generally, I believe, used for any gathering of
the villagers. Mr. Hurd found himself unable to grant my request. I have
ventured to appeal to you."
"Mr. Hurd," she said calmly, "decided, in my opinion, quite rightly. I
do not see what possible need my villagers can have of further religious
services than the Church affords them."
"Madam," he answered, "I have not a word to say against your parish
church, or against your excellent vicar. Yet I believe, and the
body to which I am attached believes, that change is stimulating. We
believe that the great truths of life cannot be presented to our
fellow-creatures too often, or in too many different ways."
"And what," she asked, with a faint curl of her beautiful lips, "do you
consider the great truths of life?"
"Madam," he answered, with slightly reddening cheeks, "they vary for
every one of us, according to our capacity and our circumstances. What
they may mean," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "to people of
your social order, I do not know. It has not come within the orbit of my
experience. It was your villagers to whom I was proposing to talk."
There was a moment's silence. Gilbert Deyes and Lady Peggy exchanged
swift glances of amused understanding. Wilhelmina bit her lip, but she
betrayed no other sign of annoyance.
"To what religious body do you belong?" she asked.
"My friends," he answered, "and I, are attached to none of the
recognized denominations. Our only object is to try to keep alight in
our fellow-creatures the flame of spirituality. We want to help
them--not to forget."
"There is no name by which you call yourselves?" she asked.
"None," he answered.
"And your headquarters are where?" she asked.
"In Gloucestershire," he answered--"so far as we can be said to have any
headquarters at all."
"You have no churches then?" she asked.
"Any building," he answered, "where the people are to whom we desire to
speak, is our church. We look upon ourselves as missioners only."
"I am afraid," Wilhelmina said quietly, "that I am only wasting your
time in asking these questions. Still, I should like to know what
induced you to choose my village as an appropriate sphere for your
labours."
"We each took a county," he answered. "Leicestershire fell to my lot. I
selected Thorpe to begin with, because I have heard it spoken of as a
model village."
Wilhelmina's forehead was gently wrinkled.
"I am afraid," she said, "that I am a somewhat dense person. Your reason
seems to me scarcely an adequate one."
"Our belief is," he declared, "that where material prosperity is
assured, especially amongst this class of people, the instincts towards
spirituality are weakened."
"My people all attend church; we have no public-house; there are never
any scandals," she said.
"All these things," he admitted, "are excellent. But they do not help
you to see into the lives of these people. Church-going may become a
habit, a respectable and praiseworthy thing--and a thing expected of
them. Morality, too, may become a custom--until temptation comes. One
must ask oneself what is the force which prompts these people to direct
their lives in so praiseworthy a manner."
"You forget," she remarked, "that these are simple folk. Their religion
with them is simply a matter of right or wrong. They need no further
instruction in this."
"Madam," he said, "so long as they are living here, that may be so.
Frankly, I do not consider it sufficient that their lives are seemly, so
long as they live in the shadow of your patronage. What happens to those
who pass outside its influence is another matter."
"What do you know about that?" she asked coldly.
"What I do know about it," he answered, "decided me to come to Thorpe."
There was a moment's silence. Any of the other three, Gilbert Deyes
especially, perhaps, would have found it hard to explain, even to
realize the interest with which they listened to the conversation
between these two--the somewhat unkempt, ill-attired boy, with the
nervous, forceful manner and burning eyes, and the woman, so sure of
herself, so coldly and yet brutally ungracious. It was not so much the
words themselves that passed between them that attracted as the
undernote of hostility, more felt than apparent--the beginning of a
duel, to all appearance so ludicrously onesided, yet destined to endure.
Deyes turned in his chair uneasily. He was watching this intruder--a
being outwardly so far removed from their world. The niceties of a
correct toilet had certainly never troubled him, his clothes were rough
in material and cut, he wore a flannel shirt, and a collar so low that
his neck seemed ill-shaped. He had no special gifts of features or
figure, his manner was nervous, his speech none too ready. Deyes found
himself engaged in a swift analysis of the subtleties of personality.
What did this young man possess that he should convey so strong a sense
of power? There was something about him which told. They were all
conscious of it, and, more than any of them, the woman who was regarding
him with such studied ill-favour. To the others, her still beautiful
face betrayed only some languid irritation. Deyes fancied that he saw
more there--that underneath the mask which she knew so well how to wear
there were traces of some deeper disturbance.
"Do you mind explaining yourself?" she asked. "That sounds rather an
extraordinary statement of yours."
"A few months ago," he said, "I attended regularly one of the police
courts in London. Day by day I came into contact with the lost souls who
have drifted on to the great rubbish-heap. There was a girl, Martha
Gullimore her name was, whose record for her age was as black as sin
could make it. Her father, I believe, is the blacksmith in your model
village! I spoke to him of his daughter yesterday, and he cursed me!"
"You mean Samuel Gullimore--my farrier?" she asked.
"That is the man," he answered.
"Have you any other--instances?" she asked.
"More than one, I am sorry to say," he replied. "There were two young
men who left here only a year ago--one is the son of your gardener,
the other was brought up by his uncle at your lodge gates. I was
instrumental in saving them from prison a few months ago. One we have
shipped to Canada--the other, I am sorry to say, has relapsed. We did
what we could, but beyond a certain point we cannot go."
She leaned her head for a moment upon the slim, white fingers of her
right hand, innocent of rings save for one great emerald, whose gleam
of colour was almost barbaric in its momentary splendour. Her face
had hardened a little, her tone was almost an offence.
"You would have me believe, then," she said, "that my peaceful village
is a veritable den of iniquity?"
"Not I," he answered brusquely. "Only I would have you realize that
roses and honeysuckle and regular wages, the appurtenances of material
prosperity, are after all things of little consequence. They hear the
song of the world, these people, in their leisure moments; their young
men and girls are no stronger than their fellows when temptation comes."
Deyes leaned suddenly forward in his chair. He felt that his
intervention dissipated a dramatic interest, of which he was keenly
conscious, but he could not keep silence any longer.
"To follow out your argument, sir, to its logical conclusion," he said,
"why not aim higher still? It is your contention, is it not, that the
seeds of evil things are sown in indifference, that prosperity might
even tend towards their propagation. Why not direct your energies, then,
towards the men and women of Society? There is plenty of scope here for
your labours."
The young man turned towards him. The lines of his mouth had relaxed
into a smile of tolerant indifference.
"I have no sympathy, sir," he answered, "with the class you name. On a
sinking ship, the cry is always, 'Save the women and children.' It is
the less fortunate in the world's possessions who represent the women
and children of shipwrecked morality. It is for their betterment that we
work."
Deyes sighed gently.
"It is a pity," he declared. "I am convinced that there is a magnificent
opening for mission work amongst the idle classes."
"No doubt," the young man agreed quickly. "The question is whether the
game is worth the candle."
Deyes made no reply. Lady Peggy was laughing softly to herself.
"I have heard all that you have to say, Mr. Macheson," the mistress of
Thorpe said calmly, "and I can only repeat that I think your presence
here as a missioner most unnecessary. I consider it, in fact, an----"
She hesitated. With a sudden flash of humour in his deep-set eyes, he
supplied the word.
"An impertinence, perhaps!"
"The word is not mine," she answered, "but I accept it willingly. I
cannot interfere with Mr. Hurd's decision as to the barn."
"I am sorry," he said slowly. "I must hold my meetings out of doors!
That is all!"
There was a dangerous glitter in her beautiful eyes.
"There is no common land in the neighbourhood," she said, "and you will
of course understand that I will consider you a trespasser at any time
you are found upon my property."
He bowed slightly.
"I am here to speak to your people," he said, "and I will do so, if I
have to stop in these lanes and talk to them one by one. You will pardon
my reminding you, madam, that the days of feudalism are over."
Wilhelmina carefully shuffled the pack of cards which she had just taken
up.
"We will finish our rubber, Peggy," she said. "Mr. Deyes, perhaps I may
trouble you to ring the bell!"
The young man was across the room before Deyes could move.
"You will allow me," he said, with a delightfully humourous smile, "to
facilitate my own dismissal. I shall doubtless meet your man in the
hall. May I be allowed to wish you all good afternoon!"
They all returned his farewell save Wilhelmina, who had begun to deal.
She seemed determined to remember his existence no more. Yet on the
threshold, with the handle of the door between his fingers, he turned
back. He said nothing, but his eyes were fixed upon her. Deyes leaned
forward in his chair, immensely curious. Softly the cards fell into
their places, there was no sign in her face of any consciousness of his
presence. Deyes alone knew that she was fighting. He heard her breath
come quicker, saw the fingers which gathered up her cards shake. Slowly,
but with obvious unwillingness, she turned her head. She looked straight
into the eyes of the man who still lingered.
"Good afternoon, Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said pleasantly. "I am sorry to
have troubled you."
Her lips moved, but she said nothing. She half inclined her head. The
door was softly closed.
CHAPTER IV
BEATING HER WINGS
Never was a young man more pleased with himself than Stephen Hurd, on
the night he dined at Thorpe-Hatton. He had shot well all day, and been
accepted with the utmost cordiality by the rest of the party. At dinner
time, his hostess had placed him on her left hand, and though it was
true she had not much to say to him, it was equally obvious that her
duties were sufficient to account for her divided attention. He was
quite willing to be ignored by the lady on his other side--a little
elderly, and noted throughout the country for her husband-hunting
proclivities. He recognized the fact that, apart from the personal side
of the question, he could scarcely hope to be of any interest to her.
The novelty of the situation, Wilhelmina's occasional remarks, and a
dinner such as he had never tasted before were sufficient to keep him
interested. For the rest he was content to twirl his moustache, of which
he was inordinately proud, and lean back in his chair with the
comfortable reflection that he was the first of his family to be offered
the complete hospitality of Thorpe-Hatton.
Towards the close of dinner, his hostess leaned towards him.
"Have you seen or heard anything of a young man named Macheson in the
village?" she asked.
"I have seen him once or twice," he answered. "Here on a missionary
expedition or something of the sort, I believe."
"Has he made any attempt to hold a meeting?" she asked.
"Not that I have heard of," he replied. "He has been talking to some of
the people, though. I saw him with old Gullimore yesterday."
"That reminds me," she remarked, "is it true that Gullimore has had
trouble with his daughter?"
"I believe so," young Hurd admitted, looking downwards at his plate.
"The man was to blame for letting her leave the place," Wilhelmina
declared, in cold, measured tones. "A pretty girl, I remember, but very
vain, and a fool, of course. But about this young fellow Macheson. Do
you know who he is, and where he came from?"
Stephen Hurd shook his head.
"I'm afraid I don't," he said doubtfully. "He belongs to some sort of
brotherhood, I believe. I can't exactly make out what he's at. Seems a
queer sort of place for him to come missioning, this!"
"So I told him," she said. "By the bye, do you know where he is
staying?"
"At Onetree farm," the young man answered.
Wilhelmina frowned.
"Will you execute a commission for me to-morrow?" she asked.
"With pleasure!" he answered eagerly.
"You will go to the woman at Onetree farm, I forget her name, and say
that I desire to take her rooms myself from to-morrow, or as soon as
possible. I will pay her for them, but I do not wish that young man to
be taken in by any of my tenants. You will perhaps make that known."
"I will do so," he declared. "I hope he will have the good sense to
leave the neighbourhood."
"I trust so," Wilhelmina replied.
She turned away to speak once more to the man on her other side, and did
not address Stephen Hurd again. He watched her covertly, with tingling
pulses, as she devoted herself to her neighbour--the Lord-Lieutenant of
the county. He considered himself a judge of the sex, but he had had few
opportunities even of admiring such women as the mistress of Thorpe. He
watched the curve of her white neck with its delicate, satin-like skin,
the play of her features, the poise of her somewhat small, oval head. He
admired the slightly wearied air with which she performed her duties and
accepted the compliments of her neighbour. "A woman of mysteries" some
one had once called her, and he realized that it was the mouth and the
dark, tired eyes which puzzled those who attempted to classify her. What
a triumph--to bring her down to the world of ordinary women, to drive
the weariness away, to feel the soft touch, perhaps, of those wonderful
arms! He was a young man of many conquests, and with a sufficiently good
idea of himself. The thought was like wine in his blood. If only it
were possible!
He relapsed into a day-dream, from which he was aroused only by the soft
flutter of gowns and laces as the women rose to go. There was a
momentary disarrangement of seats. Gilbert Deyes, who was on the other
side of the table, rose, and carrying his glass in his hand, came
deliberately round to the vacant seat by the young man's side. In his
evening clothes, the length and gauntness of his face and figure seemed
more noticeable than ever. His skin was dry, almost like parchment, and
his eyes by contrast appeared unnaturally bright. His new neighbour
noticed, too, that the glass which he carried so carefully contained
nothing but water.
"I will come and talk to you for a few minutes, if I may," Deyes said.
"I leave the Church and agriculture to hobnob. Somehow I don't fancy
that as a buffer I should be a success."
Young Hurd smiled amiably. He was more than a little flattered.
"The Archdeacon," he remarked, "is not an inspiring neighbour."
Deyes lit one of his own cigarettes and passed his case.
"I have found the Archdeacon very dull," he admitted--"a privilege of
his order, I suppose. By the bye, you are having a dose of religion from
a new source hereabouts, are you not?"
"You mean this young missioner?" Hurd inquired doubtfully.
Deyes nodded.
"I was with our hostess when he came up to ask for the loan of a barn to
hold services in. A very queer sort of person, I should think?"
"I haven't spoken to him," Hurd answered, "but I should think he's more
or less mad. I can understand mission and Salvation Army work and all
that sort of thing in the cities, but I'm hanged if I can understand any
one coming to Thorpe with such notions."
"Our hostess is annoyed about it, I imagine," Deyes remarked.
"She seems to have taken a dislike to the fellow," Hurd admitted. "She
was speaking to me about him just now. He is to be turned out of his
lodgings here."
Gilbert Deyes smiled. The news interested him.
"Our hostess is practical in her dislikes," he remarked.
"Why not?" his neighbour answered. "The place belongs to her."
Deyes watched for a moment the smoke from his cigarette, curling
upwards.
"The young man," he said thoughtfully, "impressed me as being a person
of some determination. I wonder whether he will consent to accept defeat
so easily."
The agent's son scarcely saw what else there was for him to do.
"There isn't anywhere round here," he remarked, "where they would take
him in against Miss Thorpe-Hatton's wishes. Besides, he has nowhere to
preach. His coming here at all was a huge mistake. If he's a sensible
person he'll admit it."
Deyes nodded as he rose to his feet and lounged towards the door with
the other men.
"Play bridge?" he asked his companion, as they crossed the hall.
"A little," the young man answered, "for moderate stakes."
They entered the drawing-room, and Deyes made his way to a secluded
corner, where Lady Peggy sat scribbling alone in a note-book.
"My dear Lady Peggy," he inquired, "whence this exceptional industry?"
She closed the book and looked up at him with twinkling eyes.
"Well, I didn't mean to tell a soul until it was finished," she
declared, "but you've just caught me. I've had such a brilliant idea.
I'm going to write a Society Encyclopaedia!"
Deyes looked at her solemnly.
"A Society Encyclopaedia!" he repeated uncertainly. "'Pon my word, I'm
not quite sure that I understand."
She motioned him to sit down by her side.
"I'll explain," she said. "You know we're all expected to know something
about everything nowadays, and it's such a bore reading up things. I'm
going to compile a little volume of definitions. I shall sell it at a
guinea a copy, pay all my debts, and become quite respectable again."
Deyes shook his head. His attitude was scarcely sympathetic.
"My dear Lady Peggy, what nonsense!" he declared. "Respectable, indeed!
I call it positively pandering to the middle classes!"
Lady Peggy looked doubtful.
"It is a horrid word, isn't it?" she admitted, "but it would be lovely
to make some money. Of course, I haven't absolutely decided how to spend
it yet. It does seem rather a waste, doesn't it, to pay one's debts, but
think of the luxury of feeling one could do it if one wanted to!"
"There's something in that," Deyes admitted. "But an encyclopaedia! My
dear Lady Peggy, you don't know what you're talking about. I've got one
somewhere, I know. It came in a van, and it took two of the men to
unload it."
Lady Peggy laughed softly.
"Oh! I don't mean that sort, of course," she declared. "I mean just a
little gilt-edged text book, bound in morocco, you know, with just those
things in it we're likely to run up against. Radium, for instance. Now
every one's talking about radium. Do you know what radium is?"
Deyes swung his eyeglass carefully by its black riband.
"Well," he admitted, "I've a sort of idea, but I'm not very good at
definitions."
"Of course not," Lady Peggy declared triumphantly. "When it comes to the
point, you see what a good idea mine is. You turn to my textbook," she
added, turning the pages over rapidly, "and there you are. Radium! 'A
hard, rare substance, invented by Mr. Gillette to give tone to his
bachelor parties.' What do you think of that?"
"Wonderful!" Deyes declared solemnly. "Where do you get your information
from?"
"Oh! I poke about in dictionaries and things, and ask every one
questions," Lady Peggy declared airily. "Would you like to hear some
more?"
"Our hostess is beckoning to me," Deyes answered, rising. "I expect she
wants some bridge."
"I'm on," Lady Peggy declared cheerfully. "Whom shall we get for a
fourth?"
"Wilhelmina has found him already," Deyes declared. "It's the new young
man, I think."
Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders.
"The agent's son?" she remarked. "I shouldn't have thought that he would
have cared about our points."
"He can afford it for once in a way, I should imagine," Deyes answered.
"I can't understand, though----"
He stopped short. She looked at him curiously.
"Is it possible," she murmured, "that there exists anything which
Gilbert Deyes does not understand?"
"Many things," he answered; "amongst them, why does Wilhelmina patronize
this young man? He is well enough, of course, but----" he shrugged his
shoulders expressively; "the thing needs an explanation, doesn't it?"
"If Wilhelmina--were not Wilhelmina, it certainly would," Lady Peggy
answered. "I call her craving for new things and new people positively
morbid. All the time she beats her wings against the bars. There are no
new things. There are no new experiences. The sooner one makes up one's
mind to it the better."
Gilbert Deyes laughed softly.
"If my memory serves me," he said, "you are repeating a cry many
thousand years old. Wasn't there a prophet----"
"There was," she interrupted, "but they are beckoning us. I hope I don't
cut with the young man. I don't believe he has a bridge face."
CHAPTER V
EVICTED
Victor Macheson smoked his after-breakfast pipe with the lazy enjoyment
of one who is thoroughly at peace with himself and his surroundings. The
tiny strip of lawn on to which he had dragged his chair was surrounded
with straggling bushes of cottage flowers, and flanked by a hedge thick
with honeysuckle. Straight to heaven, as the flight of a bird, the thin
line of blue smoke curled upwards to the summer sky; the very air seemed
full of sweet scents and soothing sounds. A few yards away, a procession
of lazy cows moved leisurely along the grass-bordered lane; from the
other side of the hedge came the cheerful sound of a reaping-machine,
driven slowly through the field of golden corn.
The man, through half closed eyes, looked out upon these things, and
every line in his face spelt contentment. In repose, the artistic
temperament with which he was deeply imbued, asserted itself more
clearly--the almost fanatical light in his eyes was softened; one
saw there was something of the wistfulness of those who seek to
raise but a corner of the veil that hangs before the world of
hidden things--something, too, of the subdued joy which even the
effort brings. The lines of his forceful mouth were less firm, more
sensitive--a greater sense of humanity seemed somehow to have descended
upon him as he lounged there in the warmth of the sun, with the full joy
of his beautiful environment creeping through his blood.
"If you please, Mr. Macheson," some one said in his ear.
He turned his head at once. A tall, fair girl had stepped out of the
room where he had been breakfasting, and was standing by his elbow. She
was neatly dressed, pretty in a somewhat insipid fashion, and her hands
and hair showed signs of a refinement superior to her station. Just now
she was apparently nervous. Macheson smiled at her encouragingly.
"Well, Letty," he said, "what is it?"
"I wanted--can I say something to you, Mr. Macheson?" she began.
"Why not?" he answered kindly. "Is it anything very serious? Out with
it!"
"I was thinking, Mr. Macheson," she said, "that I should like to leave
home--if I could--if there was anything which I could do. I wanted to
ask your advice."
He laid down his pipe and looked at her seriously.
"Why, Letty," he said, "how long have you been thinking of this?"
"Oh! ever so long, sir," she exclaimed, speaking with more confidence.
"You see there's nothing for me to do here except when there's any one
staying, like you, sir, and that's not often. Mother won't let me help
with the rough work, and Ruth's growing up now, she's ever such a strong
girl. And I should like to go away if I could, and learn to be a little
more--more ladylike," she added, with reddening cheeks.
Macheson was puzzled. The girl was not looking him in the face. He felt
there was something at the back of it all.
"My dear girl," he said, "you can't learn to be ladylike. That's one of
the things that's born with you or it isn't. You can be just as much a
lady helping your mother here as practising grimaces in a London
drawing-room."
"But I want to improve myself," she persisted.
"Go for a long walk every day, and look about you," he said. "Read. I'll
lend you some books--the right sort. You'll do better here than away."
She was frankly dissatisfied.
"But I want to go away," she declared. "I want to leave Thorpe for a
time. I should like to go to London. Couldn't I get a situation as
lady's help or companion or something of that sort? I shouldn't want any
money."
He was silent for a moment.
"Does your mother know of this, Letty?" he asked.
"She wouldn't object," the girl answered eagerly. "She lets me do what I
like."
"Hadn't you better tell me--the rest?" Macheson asked quietly.
The girl looked away uneasily.
"There is no rest," she protested weakly.
Macheson shook his head.
"Letty," he said, "if you have formed any ideas of a definite future for
yourself, different from any you see before you here, tell me what they
are, and I will do my best to help you. But if you simply want to go
away because you are dissatisfied with the life here, because you fancy
yourself superior to it, well, I'm sorry, but I'd sooner prevent your
going than help you."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh! Mr. Macheson, it isn't that," she declared, "I--I don't want to
tell any one, but I'm very--very fond of some one who's--quite
different. I think he's fond of me, too," she added softly, "but he's
always used to being with ladies, and I wanted to improve myself so
much! I thought if I went to London," she added wistfully, "I might
learn?"
Macheson laughed cheerfully. He laid his hand for a moment upon her arm.
"Oh! Letty, Letty," he declared, "you're a foolish little girl! Now,
listen to me. If he's a good sort, and I'm sure he is, or you wouldn't
be fond of him, he'll like you just exactly as you are. Do you know what
it means to be a lady, the supreme test of good manners? It means to be
natural. Take my advice! Go on helping your mother, enter into the
village life, make friends with the other girls, don't imagine yourself
a bit superior to anybody else. Read when you have time--I'll manage the
books for you, and spend all the time you can out of doors. It's sound
advice, Letty. Take my word for it. Hullo, who's this?"
A new sound in the lane made them both turn their heads. Young Hurd had
just ridden up and was fastening his pony to the fence. He looked
across at them curiously, and Letty retreated precipitately into the
house. A moment or two later he came up the narrow path, frowning at
Macheson over the low hedge of foxgloves and cottage roses, and barely
returning his courteous greeting. For a moment he hesitated, however, as
though about to speak. Then, changing his mind, he passed on and entered
the farmhouse.
He met Mrs. Foulton herself in the passage, and she welcomed him with a
smiling face.
"Good morning, Mr. Hurd, sir!" she exclaimed, plucking at her apron.
"Won't you come inside, sir, and sit down? The parlour's let to Mr.
Macheson there, but he's out in the garden, and he won't mind your
stepping in for a moment. And how's your father, Mr. Hurd? Wonderful
well he was looking when I saw him last."
The young man followed her inside, but declined a chair.
"Oh! the governor's all right, Mrs. Foulton," he answered. "Never knew
him anything else. Good weather for the harvest, eh?"
"Beautiful, sir!" Mrs. Foulton answered.
"Were you wanting to speak to John, Mr. Stephen? He's about the home
meadow somewhere, or in the orchard. I can send a boy for him, or
perhaps you'd step out."
"It's you I came to see, Mrs. Foulton," the young man said, "and 'pon my
word, I don't like my errand much."
Mrs. Foulton was visibly anxious.
"There's no trouble like, I hope, sir?" she began.
"Oh! it's nothing serious," he declared reassuringly. "To tell you the
truth, it's about your lodger."
"About Mr. Macheson, sir!" the woman exclaimed.
"Yes! Do you know how long he was proposing to stay with you?"
"He's just took the rooms for another week, sir," she answered, "and a
nicer lodger, or one more quiet and regular in his habits, I never had
or wish to have. There's nothing against him, sir--surely?"
"Nothing personal--that I know of," Hurd answered, tapping his boots
with his riding-whip. "The fact of it is, he has offended Miss
Thorpe-Hatton, and she wants him out of the place."
"Well, I never did!" Mrs. Foulton exclaimed in amazement. "Him offend
Miss Thorpe-Hatton! So nice-spoken he is, too. I'm sure I can't imagine
his saying a wry word to anybody."
"He has come to Thorpe," Hurd explained, "on an errand of which Miss
Thorpe-Hatton disapproves, and she does not wish to have him in the
place. She knows that he is staying here, and she wishes you to send him
away at once."
Mrs. Foulton's face fell.
"Well, I'm fair sorry to hear this, sir," she declared. "It's only this
morning that he spoke for the rooms for another week, and I was glad and
willing enough to let them to him. Well I never did! It does sound all
anyhow, don't it, sir, to be telling him to pack up and go sudden-like!"
"I will speak to him myself, if you like, Mrs. Foulton," Stephen said.
"Of course, Miss Thorpe-Hatton does not wish you to lose anything, and I
am to pay you the rent of the rooms for the time he engaged them. I will
do so at once, if you will let me know how much it is."
He thrust his hand into his pocket, but Mrs. Foulton drew back. The
corners of her mouth were drawn tightly together.
"Thank you, Mr. Stephen," she said, "I'll obey Miss Thorpe-Hatton's
wishes, of course, as in duty bound, but I'll not take any money for the
rooms. Thank you all the same."
"Don't be foolish, Mrs. Foulton," the young man said pleasantly. "It
will annoy Miss Thorpe-Hatton if she knows you have refused, and you may
just as well have the money. Let me see. Shall we say a couple of
sovereigns for the week?"
Mrs. Foulton shook her head.
"I'll not take anything, sir, thank you all the same, and if you'd say a
word to Mr. Macheson, I'd be much obliged. I'd rather any one spoke to
him than me."
Stephen Hurd pocketed the money with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Just as you like, of course, Mrs. Foulton," he said. "I'll go out and
speak to the young gentleman at once."
He strolled out and looked over the hedge.
"Mr. Macheson, I believe?" he remarked interrogatively.
Macheson nodded as he rose from his chair.
"And you are Mr. Hurd's son, are you not?" he said pleasantly.
"Wonderful morning, isn't it?"
Young Hurd stepped over the rose bushes. The two men stood side by side,
something of a height, only that the better cut of Hurd's clothes showed
his figure to greater advantage.
"I'm sorry to say that I've come on rather a disagreeable errand," the
agent's son began. "I've been talking to Mrs. Foulton about it."
"Indeed?" Macheson remarked interrogatively.
"The fact is you seem to have rubbed up against our great lady here,"
young Hurd continued. "She's very down on these services you were going
to hold, and she wants to see you out of the place."
"I am sorry to hear this," Macheson said--and once more waited.
"It isn't a pleasant task," Stephen continued, liking his errand less as
he proceeded; "but I've had to tell Mrs. Foulton that--that, in short,
Miss Thorpe-Hatton does not wish her tenants to accept you as a lodger."
"Miss Thorpe-Hatton makes war on a wide scale," Macheson remarked,
smiling faintly.
"Well, after all, you see," Hurd explained, "the whole place belongs to
her, and there is no particular reason, is there, why she should
tolerate any one in it of whom she disapproves?"
"None whatever," Macheson assented gravely.
"I promised Mrs. Foulton I would speak to you," Stephen continued,
stepping backwards. "I'm sure, for her sake, you won't make any trouble.
Good morning!"
Macheson bowed slightly.
"Good morning!" he answered.
Stephen Hurd lingered even then upon the garden path. Somehow he was
not satisfied with his interview--with his own position at the end of
it. He had an uncomfortable sense of belittlement, of having played a
small part in a not altogether worthy game. The indifference of the
other's manner nettled him. He tried a parting shaft.
"Mrs. Foulton said something about your having engaged the rooms for
another week," he said, turning back. "Of course, if you insist upon
staying, it will place the woman in a very awkward position."
Macheson had resumed his seat.
"I should not dream," he said coolly, "of resisting--your mistress'
decree! I shall leave here in half an hour."
Young Hurd walked angrily down the path and slammed the gate. The sense
of having been worsted was strong upon him. He recognized his own
limitations too accurately not to be aware that he had been in conflict
with a stronger personality.
"D---- the fellow!" he muttered, as he cantered down the lane. "I wish
he were out of the place."
A genuine wish, and one which betrayed at least a glimmering of a
prophetic instinct. In some dim way he seemed to understand, even before
the first move on the board, that the coming of Victor Macheson to
Thorpe was inimical to himself. He was conscious of his weakness, of a
marked inferiority, and the consciousness was galling. The fellow had no
right to be a gentleman, he told himself angrily--a gentleman and a
missioner!
Macheson re-lit his pipe and called to Mrs. Foulton.
"Mrs. Foulton," he said pleasantly, "I'll have to go! Your great lady
doesn't like me on the estate. I dare say she's right."
"I'm sure I'm very sorry, sir," Mrs. Foulton declared shamefacedly.
"You've seen young Mr. Hurd?"
"He was kind enough to explain the situation to me," Macheson answered.
"I'm afraid I am rather a nuisance to everybody. If I am, it's because
they don't quite understand!"
"I'm sure, sir," Mrs. Foulton affirmed, "a nicer lodger no one ever had.
And as for them services, and the Vicar objecting to them, I can't see
what harm they'd do! We're none of us so good but we might be a bit
better!"
"A very sound remark, Mrs. Foulton," Macheson said, smiling. "And now
you must make out my bill, please, and what about a few sandwiches? You
could manage that? I'm going to play in a cricket match this afternoon."
"Why you've just paid the bill, sir! There's only breakfast, and the
sandwiches you're welcome to, and very sorry I am to part with you,
sir."
"Better luck another time, I hope, Mrs. Foulton," he answered, smiling.
"I must go upstairs and pack my bag. I shan't forget your garden with
its delicious flowers."
"It's a shame as you've got to leave it, sir," Mrs. Foulton said
heartily. "If my Richard were alive he'd never have let you go for all
the Miss Thorpe-Hattons in the world. But John--he's little more than a
lad--he'd be frightened to death for fear of losing the farm, if I so
much as said a word to him."
Macheson laughed softly.
"John's a good son," he said. "Don't you worry him."
He went up to his tiny bedroom and changed his clothes for a suit of
flannels. Then he packed his few belongings and walked out into the
world. He lit a pipe and shouldered his portmanteau.
"There is a flavour of martyrdom about this affair," he said to himself,
as he strolled along, "which appeals to me. I don't think that young man
has any sense of humour."
He paused every now and then to listen to the birds and admire the view.
He had the air of one thoroughly enjoying his walk. Presently he turned
off the main road, and wandered along a steep green lane, which was
little more than a cart-track. Here he met no one. The country on either
side was common land, sown with rocks and the poorest soil, picturesque,
but almost impossible of cultivation. A few sheep were grazing upon the
hills, but other sign of life there was none. Not a farmhouse--scarcely
a keeper's cottage in sight! It was a forgotten corner of a not
unpopulous county--the farthest portion of a belt of primeval forest
land, older than history itself. Macheson laughed softly as he reached
the spot he had had in his mind, and threw his bag over the grey stone
wall into the cool shade of a dense fragment of wood.
"So much," he murmured softly, "for the lady of Thorpe!"
CHAPTER VI
CRICKET AND PHILOSOPHY
"The instinct for games," Wilhelmina remarked, "is one which I never
possessed. Let us see whether we can learn something."
In obedience to her gesture, the horses were checked, and the footman
clambered down and stood at their heads. Deyes, from his somewhat
uncomfortable back seat in the victoria, leaned forward, and, adjusting
his eyeglass, studied the scene with interest.
"Here," he remarked, "we have the 'flannelled fool' upon his native
heath. They are playing a game which my memory tells me is cricket.
Everyone seems very hot and very excited."
Wilhelmina beckoned to the footman to come round to the side of the
carriage.
"James," she said, "do you know what all this means?"
She waved her hand towards the cricket pitch, the umpires with their
white coats, the tent and the crowd of spectators. The man touched his
hat.
"It is a cricket match, madam," he answered, "between Thorpe and
Nesborough."
Wilhelmina looked once more towards the field, and recognized Mr. Hurd
upon his stout little cob.
"Go and tell Mr. Hurd to come and speak to me," she ordered.
The man hastened off. Mr. Hurd had not once turned his head. His eyes
were riveted upon the game. The groom found it necessary to touch him on
the arm before he could attract his attention. Even when he had
delivered his message, the agent waited until the finish of the over
before he moved. Then he cantered his pony up to the waiting carriage.
Wilhelmina greeted him graciously.
"I want to know about the cricket match, Mr. Hurd," she asked, smiling.
Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round so that he could still watch the game.
"I am afraid that we are going to be beaten, madam," he said dolefully.
"Nesborough made a hundred and ninety-eight, and we have six wickets
down for fifty."
Wilhelmina seemed scarcely to realize the tragedy which his words
unfolded.
"I suppose they are the stronger team, aren't they?" she remarked. "They
ought to be. Nesborough is quite a large town."
"We have beaten them regularly until the last two years," Mr. Hurd
answered. "We should beat them now but for their fast bowler, Mills. I
don't know how it is, but our men will not stand up to him."
"Perhaps they are afraid of being hurt," Wilhelmina suggested
innocently. "If that is he bowling now, I'm sure I don't wonder at it."
Mr. Hurd frowned.
"We don't have men in the eleven who are afraid of getting hurt," he
remarked stiffly.
A shout of dismay from the onlookers, a smothered exclamation from Mr.
Hurd, and a man was seen on his way to the pavilion. His wickets were
spreadeagled, and the ball was being tossed about the field.
"Another wicket!" the agent exclaimed testily. "Crooks played all round
that ball!"
"Isn't that your son going in, Mr. Hurd?" Wilhelmina asked.
"Yes! Stephen is in now," his father answered. "If he gets out, the
match is over."
"Who is the other batsman?" Deyes asked.
"Antill, the second bailiff," Mr. Hurd answered. "He's captain, and he
can stay in all day, but he can't make runs."
They all leaned forward to witness the continuation of the match.
Stephen Hurd's career was brief and inglorious. He took guard and looked
carefully round the field with the air of a man who is going to give
trouble. Then he saw the victoria, with its vision of parasols and
fluttering laces, and the sight was fatal to him. He slogged wildly at
the first ball, missed it, and paid the penalty. The lady in the
carriage frowned, and Mr. Hurd muttered something under his breath as he
watched his son on the way back to the tent.
"I'm afraid it's all up with us now," he remarked. "We have only three
more men to go in."
"Then we are going to be beaten," Wilhelmina remarked.
"I'm afraid so," Mr. Hurd assented gloomily.
The next batsman had issued from the tent and was on his way to the
wicket. Wilhelmina, who had been about to give an order to the footman,
watched him curiously.
"Who is that going in?" she asked abruptly.
Mr. Hurd was looking not altogether comfortable.
"It is the young man who wanted to preach," he answered.
Wilhelmina frowned.
"Why is he playing?" she asked. "He has nothing to do with Thorpe."
"He came down to see them practise a few evenings ago, and Antill asked
him," the agent answered. "If I had known earlier I would have stopped
it."
Wilhelmina did not immediately reply. She was watching the young man who
stood now at the wicket, bat in hand. In his flannels, he seemed a very
different person from the missioner whose request a few days ago had so
much offended her. Nevertheless, her lip curled as she saw the terrible
Mills prepare to deliver his first ball.
"That sort of person," she remarked, "is scarcely likely to be much good
at games. Oh!"
Her exclamation was repeated in various forms from all over the field.
Macheson had hit his first ball high over their heads, and a storm of
applause broke from the bystanders. The batsman made no attempt to run.
"What is that?" Wilhelmina asked.
"A boundary--magnificent drive," Mr. Hurd answered excitedly. "By Jove,
another!"
The agent dropped his reins and led the applause. Along the ground this
time the ball had come at such a pace that the fieldsman made a very
half-hearted attempt to stop it. It passed the horses' feet by only a
few yards. The coachman turned round and touched his hat.
"Shall I move farther back, madam?" he asked.
"Stay where you are," Wilhelmina answered shortly. Her eyes were fixed
upon the tall, lithe figure once more facing the bowler. The next ball
was the last of the over. Macheson played it carefully for a single, and
stood prepared for the bowling at the other end. He began by a graceful
cut for two, and followed it up by a square leg hit clean out of the
ground. For the next half an hour, the Thorpe villagers thoroughly
enjoyed themselves. Never since the days of one Foulds, a former
blacksmith, had they seen such an exhibition of hurricane hitting. The
fast bowler, knocked clean off his length, became wild and erratic. Once
he only missed Macheson's head by an inch, but his next ball was driven
fair and square out of the ground for six. The applause became frantic.
Wilhelmina was leaning back amongst the cushions of her carriage,
watching the game through half closed eyes, and with some apparent
return of her usual graceful languor. Nevertheless, she remained there,
and her eyes seldom wandered for a moment from the scene of play.
Beneath her apparent indifference, she was watching this young man with
an interest for which she would have found it hard to account, and which
instinct alone prompted her to conceal. It was a very ordinary scene,
after all, of which he was the dominant figure. She had seen so much of
life on a larger scale--of men playing heroic parts in the limelight of
a stage as mighty as this was insignificant. Yet, without stopping to
reason about it, she was conscious of a curious sense of pleasure in
watching the doings of this forceful young giant. With an easy
good-humoured smile, replaced every now and then with a grim look of
determination as he jumped out from the crease to hit, he continued his
victorious career, until a more frantic burst of applause than usual
announced that the match was won. Then Wilhelmina turned towards Stephen
Hurd, who was standing by the side of the carriage.
"You executed my commission," she asked, "respecting that young man?"
"The first thing this morning," he answered. "I went up to see Mrs.
Foulton, and I also spoke to him."
"Did he make any difficulty?"
"None at all!" the young man answered.
"What did he say?"
Stephen hesitated, but Wilhelmina waited for his reply. She had the air
of one remotely interested, yet she waited obviously to hear what this
young man had said.
"I think he said something about your making war upon a large scale,"
Stephen explained diffidently.
She sat still for a moment. She was looking towards the deserted cricket
pitch.
"Where is he staying now?" she asked.
"I do not know," he answered. "I have warned all the likely people not
to receive him, and I have told him, too, that he will only get your
tenants into trouble if he tries to get lodgings here."
"I should like," she said, "to speak to him. Perhaps you would be so
good as to ask him to step this way for a moment."
Stephen departed, wondering. Deyes was watching his hostess with an air
of covert amusement.
"Do you continue the warfare," he asked, "or has the young man's prowess
softened your heart?"
Wilhelmina raised her parasol and looked steadily at her questioner.
"Warfare is scarcely the word, is it?" she remarked carelessly. "I have
no personal objection to the young man."
They watched him crossing the field towards them. Notwithstanding his
recent exertions, he walked lightly, and without any sign of fatigue.
Deyes looked curiously at the crest upon the cap which he was carrying
in his hand.
"Magdalen," he muttered. "Your missioner grows more interesting."
Wilhelmina leaned forwards. Her face was inscrutable, and her greeting
devoid of cordiality.
"So you have decided to teach my people cricket instead of morals, Mr.
Macheson," she remarked.
"The two," he answered pleasantly, "are not incompatible."
Wilhelmina frowned.
"I hope," she said, "that you have abandoned your idea of holding
meetings in the village."
"Certainly not," he answered. "I will begin next week."
"You understand," she said calmly, "that I consider you--as a
missioner--an intruder--here! Those of my people who attend your
services will incur my displeasure!"
"Madam," he answered, "I do not believe that you will visit it upon
them."
"But I will," she interrupted ruthlessly. "You are young and know little
of the world. You have not yet learnt the truth of one of the oldest of
proverbs--that it is well to let well alone!"
"It is a sop for the idle, that proverb," he answered. "It is the motto
for the great army of those who drift."
"I have been making inquiries," she said. "I find that my villagers are
contented and prosperous. There are no signs of vice in the place."
"There is such a thing," he answered, "as being too prosperous,
over-contented. The person in such a state takes life for granted.
Religion is a thing he hears about, but fails to realize. He has no need
of it. He becomes like the prize cattle in your park! He has a mind, but
has forgotten how to use it."
She looked at him steadily, perhaps a trifle insolently.
"How old are you, Mr. Macheson?" she asked.
"Twenty-eight," he answered, with a slight flush.
"Twenty-eight! You are young to make yourself the judge of such things
as these. You will do a great deal of mischief, I am afraid, before you
are old enough to realize it."
"To awaken those who sleep in the daytime--is that mischief?" he asked.
"It is," she answered deliberately. "When you are older you will realize
it. Sleep is the best."
He bent towards her. The light in his eyes had blazed out.
"You know in your heart," he said, "that it is not true. You have
brains, and you are as much of an artist as your fettered life permits
you to be. You know very well that knowledge is best."
"Do you believe," she answered, "that I--I take myself not personally
but as a type--am as happy as they are?"
She moved her parasol to where the village lay beyond the trees. He
hesitated.
"Madam," he answered gravely, "I know too little of your life to answer
your question."
She shrugged her shoulders. For a moment her parasol hid her face.
"We are quite _a la mode_, are we not, my dear Peggy?" she remarked,
with a curious little laugh. "Philosophy upon the village green.
Gilbert, tell them to drive on."
She turned deliberately to Macheson.
"Come and convert us instead," she said. "We need it more."
"I do not doubt it, madam," he answered. "Good afternoon!"
The carriage drove off. Macheson, obeying an impulse which he did not
recognize, watched it till it was out of sight. At the bend, Wilhelmina
deliberately turned in her seat and saw him standing there. She waved
her parasol in ironical farewell, and Macheson walked back to the tent
with burning cheeks.
CHAPTER VII
AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC
A great dinner party had come to an end, and the Lord-Lieutenant of the
county bowed low over the cold hand of his departing guest, in whose
honour it had been given. A distant relationship gave Lord Westerdean
privileges upon which he would willingly have improved.
"You are leaving us early, Wilhelmina," he murmured reproachfully. "How
can I expect to keep my other guests if you desert us?"
Wilhelmina withdrew the hand and nodded her other farewells. The heat of
the summer evening had brought every one out from the drawing-room. The
hall doors stood open. Those of the guests who were not playing bridge
or billiards were outside upon the terrace--some had wandered into the
gardens.
"My dear Leslie," she said, as she stood upon the broad steps, "you are
losing your habit of gallantry. A year ago you would not have ventured
to suggest that in my absence the coming or going of your other guests
could matter a straw."
"You know very well that it doesn't," he answered, dropping his voice.
"You know very well----"
"To-night," she interrupted calmly, "I will not be made love to! I am
not in the humour for it."
He looked down at her curiously. He was a man of exceptional height,
thin, grey, still handsome, an ex-diplomat, whose career, had he chosen
to follow it, would have been a brilliant one. Wealth and immense
estates had thrust their burdens upon him, however, and he was content
to be the most popular man in his county.
"There is nothing the matter?" he asked anxiously.
She shook her head.
"You are well?" he persisted, dropping his voice.
"Absolutely," she answered. "It is not that. It is a mood. I used to
welcome moods as an escape from the ruts. I suppose I am getting too old
for them now."
He shook his head.
"I wonder," he said, "if the world really knows how young you are."
"Don't," she interrupted, with a shudder, "I have outlived my years."
A motor omnibus and a small victoria came round from the stables. The
party from Thorpe began slowly to assemble upon the steps.
"I am going in the victoria--alone," she said, resting her fingers upon
his arm. "Don't you envy me?"
"I envy the vacant place," he answered sadly. "Isn't this desire for
solitude somewhat of a new departure, though?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "I am rather looking forward to my drive.
To-night, as we came here, the whole country seemed like a great garden
of perfumes and beautiful places. That is why I had them telephone for a
carriage. There are times when I hate motoring!"
He broke off a cluster of pink roses and placed them in her hands.
"If your thoughts must needs fill the empty seat," he whispered, as he
bent over her for his final adieux, "remember my claims, I beg. Perhaps
my thoughts might even meet yours!"
She laughed under her breath, but the light in his eyes was unanswered.
"Perhaps!" she answered. "It is a night for thoughts and dreams, this.
Even I may drift into sentiment. Good night! Such a charming evening."
The carriage rolled smoothly down the avenue from the great house, over
which she might so easily have reigned, and turned into the road. A few
minutes later the motor-car flashed by. Afterwards there was solitude,
for it was already past midnight. Gilbert Deyes looked thoughtfully out
at the carriage from his place in the car. He had begged--very hard for
him--for that empty seat.
"Of what is it a sign," he asked, "when a woman seeks solitude?"
Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders.
"Wilhelmina is tired of us all, I suppose," she remarked. "She gets like
that sometimes."
"Then of what is it a sign," he persisted, "when a woman tires of
people--like us?"
Lady Peggy yawned.
"In a woman of more primitive instincts," she said, "it would mean an
affair. But Wilhelmina has outgrown all that. She is the only woman of
our acquaintance of whom one would dare to say it, but I honestly
believe that to Wilhelmina men are like puppets. Was she born, I wonder,
with ice in her veins?"
"One wonders," Deyes remarked softly. "A woman like that is always
something of a mystery. By the bye, wasn't there a whisper of something
the year she lived in Florence?"
"People have talked of her, of course," Lady Peggy answered. "In
Florence, a woman without a lover is like a child without toys. To be
virtuous there is the one offence which Society does not pardon."
"I believe," Deyes said, "that a lover would bore Wilhelmina terribly."
"Why the dickens doesn't she marry Leslie?" Austin asked, opening his
eyes for a moment.
"Too obvious," Deyes murmured. "Some day I can't help fancying that she
will give us all a shock."
A mile or more behind, the lady with ice in her veins, leaned back
amongst the cushions of her carriage, drinking in, with a keenness of
appreciation which surprised even herself, the beauties of the still,
hot night. The moon was as yet barely risen. In the half light, the
country and the hills beyond, with their tumbled masses of rock, seemed
unreal--of strange and mysterious outline. More than anything, she was
conscious of a sense of softness. The angles were gone from all the
crude places, it was peace itself which had settled upon the land.
Peace, and a wonderful silence! The birds had long ago ceased to sing,
no breath of wind was abroad to stir the leaves of the trees. All the
cheerful chorus of country sounds which make music throughout the long
summer day had ceased. Once, when a watch-dog barked in the valley far
below, she started. The sound seemed unreal--as though, indeed, it came
from a different world!
The woman in the carriage looked out with steady tireless eyes upon this
visionary land. The breath of the honeysuckle and the pleasant odour of
warm hay seemed to give life to the sensuous joy of the wonderful night.
She herself was a strange being to be abroad in these quiet lanes. Her
only wrap was a long robe of filmy lace, which she had thrown back, so
that her shoulders and neck, with its collar of lustrous pearls, were
bare to the faint breeze, which only their own progress made. Her
gleaming dress of white satin, undecorated, unadorned, fell in delicate
lines about her limbs. No wonder that the only person whom they passed,
a belated farmer, rubbed his eyes and stared at her as at a ghost!
It seemed to her that something of the confusion of this delightful,
half-seen world, had stolen, too, into her thoughts. All day long she
had been conscious of it. There was something alien there, something
wholly unrecognizable. She felt a new light falling upon her life. From
where? She could not tell. Only she knew that its pitiless routine, its
littleness, its frantic struggle for the front place in the great
pleasure-house, seemed suddenly to stand revealed in pitiful colours.
Surely it belonged to some other woman! It could not be she who did
those things and called them life. She, who scarcely knew what nerves
were, was suddenly afraid. Some change was coming upon her; she felt
herself caught in a silent, swift-flowing current. She was being carried
away, and she had not strength to resist. And all the time there was an
undernote of music. That was what made it so strange. The light that was
falling was like summer rain upon the bare, dry places. She was
conscious of a new vitality, a new life, and she feared it. Fancy being
endowed with a new sense, in the midst of an ordinary work-a-day
existence! She felt like that. It was unbelievable, and yet its tumult
was stirring in her heart, was rushing through her veins. Often before,
her tired eyes had rested unmoved upon a country as beautiful as this,
even the mystery of this half light was no new thing. To-night she saw
farther--she felt the throbbing, half-mad delight of the wanderer in the
enchanted land, the pilgrim who hears suddenly the Angelus bell from the
shrine he has journeyed so far to visit. What it meant she could not,
she dared not ask herself. She was content to sit there, her eyes wide
open now, the tired lines smoothed from her forehead, her face like the
face of an eager and beautiful child. No one of her world would have
recognized her, as she travelled that night through the perfumed lanes.
It was when they were within a mile or two of home that an awakening
came. They had turned into a lonely lane leading to one of the back
entrances to Thorpe, and were climbing a somewhat steep hill. Suddenly
the horses plunged and almost stopped. She leaned forward.
"What is it, Johnson?" she asked.
The man touched his hat.
"The 'osses shied, madam, at the light in the trees there. Enough to
frighten 'em, too."
Her eyes followed his pointing finger. A few yards back from the
roadside, a small, steady light was burning amongst the trees.
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"I can't say, madam," the man answered. "It looks like a lantern or a
candle, or something of that sort."
"There is no cottage there?" she asked.
The man shook his head.
"There's none nearer than the first lodge, madam," he answered. "There's
a bit of a shelter there--Higgs, the keeper, built it for a watchman."
"Can I take care of the horses for a moment, while you go and see what
it is?" she asked.
"They take a bit of holding, madam," the man answered doubtfully. "We
got your message so late at the stables, or I should have had a second
man."
Wilhelmina stepped softly out into the road.
"I will go myself," she said. "I daresay it is nothing. If I call,
though, you must leave the horses and come to me."
She opened the gate, and raising her skirts with both hands, stepped
into the plantation. Her small, white-shod feet fell noiselessly upon
the thick undergrowth; she reached the entrance of the shelter without
making any sound. Cautiously she peeped in. Her eyes grew round with
surprise, her bosom began rapidly to rise and fall. It was Macheson who
lay there, fast asleep! He had fallen asleep evidently whilst reading.
A book was lying by his side, and a covered lantern was burning by his
left shoulder. He was dressed in trousers and shirt; the latter was open
at the throat, showing its outline firm and white, and his regular
breathing. She drew a step nearer, and leaned over him. Curiously
enough, in sleep the boyishness of his face was less apparent. The
straight, firm mouth, rigidly closed, was the mouth of a man; his limbs,
in repose, seemed heavy, even massive, especially the bare arm upon
which his head was resting. His shirt was old, but spotlessly clean; his
socks were neatly darned in many places. He occupied nearly the whole of
the shelter, in fact one foot was protruding through the opening. In the
corner a looking-glass was hanging from a stick, and a few simple toilet
articles were spread upon the ground.
She bent more closely over him, holding her breath, although he showed
no signs of waking. Her senses were in confusion, and there was a mist
before her eyes. An unaccountable impulse was urging her on, driving
her, as it seemed, into incredible folly. Lower and lower she bent, till
her hot breath fell almost upon his cheek. Suddenly he stirred. She
started back. After all he did not open his eyes, but the moment was
gone. She moved backwards towards the opening. She was seized now with
sudden fright. She desired to escape. She was breathless with fear, the
fear of what she might not have escaped. Yet in the midst of it, with
hot trembling fingers she loosened the roses from her dress and dropped
them by his side. Then she fled into the semi-darkness.
The habits of a lifetime die hard. They are proof, as a rule, against
these fits of temporary madness.
Wilhelmina stepped languidly into her carriage, and commanded her
coachman's attention.
"Johnson," she said, "I found a poor man sleeping there. There is no
necessity for him to be disturbed. It is my wish that you do not mention
the occurrence to any one--to any one at all. You understand?"
The man touched his hat. He would have been dull-witted, indeed, if he
had not appreciated the note of finality in his mistress' tone. His
horses sprang forward, and a few minutes later turned into the dark
avenue which led to the house.
CHAPTER VIII
ROSES
Macheson woke with the daylight, stiff, a little tired, and haunted with
the consciousness of disturbing dreams. He sprang to his feet and
stretched himself. Then he saw the roses.
For a moment or two he stared at them incredulously. Then his thoughts
flashed backwards--where or how had he become possessed of them? A few
seconds were sufficient. Some one had been there in the night--most
likely a woman.
His cheeks burned at the thought. He stooped and took them hesitatingly,
reverently, into his hand. To him they represented part of the mystery
of life, the mystery of which he knew so little. Soft and fragrant, the
touch of the drooping blossoms was like fire to his fingers. Had he been
like those predecessors of his in the days of the Puritans, he would
have cast them away, trampled them underfoot; he would have seen in them
only the snare of the Evil One. But to Macheson this would have seemed
almost like sacrilege. They were beautiful and he loved beautiful
things.
He made his way farther into the plantation, to where the trees,
suddenly opening, disclosed a small, disused slate quarry, the water in
which was kept fresh by many streams. Stripping off his clothes, he
plunged into the deep cool depths, swimming round for several minutes on
his back, his face upturned to the dim blue sky. Then he dressed--in the
ugly black suit, for it was Sunday, and made a frugal breakfast, boiling
the water for his coffee over a small spirit-lamp. And all the time he
kept looking at the roses, now fresh with the water which he had
carefully sprinkled over them. Their coming seemed to him to whisper of
beautiful things, they turned his thoughts so easily into that world of
poetry and sentiment in which he was a habitual wanderer. Yet, every now
and then, their direct significance startled, almost alarmed. Some one
had actually been in the place while he slept, and had retreated without
disturbing him. Roses do not drop from the sky, and of gardens there
were none close at hand. Was it one of the village girls, who had seen
him that afternoon? His cheeks reddened at the thought. Perhaps he had
better leave his shelter. Another time if she came she might not steal
away so quietly. Scandal would injure his work. He must run no risks.
Deep down in his heart he thrust that other, that impossibly sweet
thought. He would not suffer his mind to dwell upon it.
After breakfast he walked for an hour or so across the hills, watching
the early mists roll away in the valleys, and the sunlight settle down
upon the land. It was a morning of silence, this--that peculiar,
mysterious silence which only the first day of the week seems to bring.
The fields were empty of toilers, the harvest was stayed. From its
far-away nest amongst the hills, he could just hear, carried on the
bosom of a favouring breeze, the single note of a monastery bell, whose
harshness not even distance, or its pleasant journey across the open
country, could modify. Macheson listened to it for a moment, and sat
down upon a rock on the topmost pinnacle of the hills he was climbing.
Below him, the country stretched like a piece of brilliant patchwork.
Thorpe, with its many chimneys and stately avenues, and the village
hidden by a grove of elms, was like a cool oasis in the midst of the
landscape. Behind, the hills ran rockier and wilder, culminating in a
bleak stretch of country, in the middle of which was the monastery.
Macheson looked downwards at Thorpe, with the faint clang of that single
bell in his ears. The frown on his forehead deepened as the rush of
thoughts took insistent hold of him.
For a young man blessed with vigorous health, free from all material
anxieties, and with the world before him, Macheson found life an
uncommonly serious matter. Only a few years ago, he had left the
University with a brilliant degree, a splendid athletic record, and a
host of friends. What to do with his life! That was the problem which
pressingly confronted him. He recognized in himself certain gifts
inevitably to be considered in this choice. He was possessed of a deep
religious sense, an immense sympathy for his fellows, and a passion for
the beautiful in life, from which the physical side was by no means
absent.
How to find a career which would satisfy such varying qualities! A life
of pleasure, unless it were shared by his fellows, did not appeal to him
at all; personal ambition he was destitute of; his religion, he was very
well aware, was not the sort which would enable him to enter with any
prospect of happiness any of the established churches. For a time he had
travelled, and had come back with only one definite idea in his mind.
Chance had brought him, on his return, into contact with two young men
of somewhat similar tastes. A conversation between them one night had
given a certain definiteness to his aims. He recalled it to himself as
he sat looking down at the thin blue line of smoke rising from the
chimneys of Thorpe.
"To use one's life for others," he had repeated thoughtfully--it was the
enthusiast of the party who had spoken--"but how?"
"Teach them to avoid like filth the ugly things of life--help them in
their search for the things beautiful."
"What are the things beautiful?" he had asked. "Don't they mean
something different to every man?"
Holderness had lifted his beautiful head--the boy with whom he had
played at school--the friend of his younger life.
"The Christian morality," he had answered.
Macheson had been surprised.
"But you----" he said, "you don't believe anything."
"It is not necessary," Holderness had answered. "It is a matter of the
intelligence. As an artist, if I might dare to call myself one, I say
that the Christian life, if honestly lived, is the most beautiful thing
of all the ages."
Macheson walked down to the village with the memory of those words still
in his brain. The bell was ringing for service from the queer,
ivy-covered church, the villagers were coming down the lane in little
groups. Macheson found himself one of a small knot of people, who stood
reverently on one side, with doffed hats, just by the wooden porch. He
looked up, suddenly realizing the cause.
A small vehicle, something between a bath-chair and a miniature
carriage, drawn by a fat, sleek pony, was turning into the lane from one
of the splendid avenues which led to the house. A boy led the pony, a
footman marched behind. Wilhelmina, in a plain white muslin dress and a
black hat, was slowly preparing to descend. She smiled languidly, but
pleasantly enough, at the line of curtseying women and men with doffed
hats. The note of feudalism which their almost reverential attitudes
suggested appealed irresistibly to Macheson's sense of humour. He, too,
formed one of them; he, too, doffed his hat. His greeting, however, was
different. Her eyes swept by him unseeing, his pleasant "Good morning"
was unheeded. She even touched her skirt with her fingers, as though
afraid lest it might brush against him in passing. With tired, graceful
footsteps, she passed into the cool church, leaving him to admire
against his will the slim perfection of her figure, the wonderful
carriage of her small but perfect head.
He followed with the others presently, and found a single seat close to
the door. The service began almost at once, a very beautiful service in
its way, for the organ, a present from the lady of the manor, was
perfectly played, and the preacher's voice was clear and as sweet as a
boy's. Macheson, however, was nervous and ill at ease. From the open
door he heard the soft whispering of the west wind--for the first time
in his life he found the simple but dignified ritual unconvincing. He
was haunted by the sense of some impending disaster. When the prayers
came, he fell on his knees and remained there! Even then he could not
collect himself! He was praying to an unknown God for protection against
some nameless evil! He knew quite well that the words he muttered were
vain words. Through the stained glass windows, the sunlight fell in a
subdued golden stream upon the glowing hair, the gracefully bent head of
the woman who sat alone in the deep square pew. She, too, seemed to be
praying. Macheson got up and softly, but abruptly, stole from the
church.
Up into the hills, as far away, as high up as possible! A day of sabbath
calm, this! Macheson, with the fire in his veins and a sharp pain in his
side, climbed as a man possessed. He, too, was fleeing from the unknown.
He was many miles away when down in the valley at Thorpe some one spoke
of him.
"By the bye," Gilbert Deyes remarked, looking across the luncheon table
at his hostess, "when does this athletic young missioner of yours begin
his work of regeneration?"
Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows.
"To-morrow evening, I believe," she answered. "He is going to speak at
the cross-roads. I fancy that his audience will consist chiefly of the
children, and Mrs. Adnith's chickens."
"Can't understand," Austin remarked, "why a chap who can play cricket
like that--he did lay on to 'em, too--can be such a crank!"
"He is very young," Wilhelmina remarked composedly, "and I fancy that he
must be a little mad. I hope that Thorpe will teach him a lesson. He
needs it."
"You do not anticipate then," Deyes remarked, "that his labours here
will be crowned with success?"
"He won't get a soul to hear him," Stephen Hurd replied confidently.
"The villagers all know what Miss Thorpe-Hatton thinks of his coming
here. It will be quite sufficient."
Wilhelmina lit a cigarette and rose to her feet.
"Let us hope so," she remarked drily. "Please remember, all of you, that
this is the Palace of Ease! Do exactly what you like, all of you, till
five o'clock. I shall be ready for bridge then."
Lady Peggy rose briskly.
"No doubt about what I shall do," she remarked. "I'm going to bed."
Deyes smiled.
"I," he said, "shall spend the afternoon in the rose garden. I
need--development."
Wilhelmina looked at him questioningly.
"Please don't be inexplicable," she begged. "It is too hot."
"Roses and sentiment," he declared, "are supposed to go together. I want
to grow into accord with my surroundings."
Wilhelmina was silent for a moment.
"If you have found sentiment here," she said carelessly, "you must have
dug deep."
"On the contrary," he answered, "I have scarcely scratched the surface!"
Stephen Hurd looked uneasily from Deyes to his hostess. Never altogether
comfortable, although eager to accept the most casually offered
invitation to Thorpe, he had always the idea that the most commonplace
remark contained an innuendo purposely concealed from him.
"Mr. Deyes," he remarked, "looks mysterious."
Deyes glanced at him through his eyeglass.
"It is a subtle neighbourhood," he said. "By the bye, Mr. Hurd, have you
ever seen the rose gardens at Carrow?"
"Never," Hurd replied enviously. "I have heard that they are very
beautiful."
Wilhelmina passed out.
"The gardens are beautiful," she said, looking back, "but the roses are
like all other roses, they fade quickly. Till five o'clock, all of you!"
CHAPTER IX
SUMMER LIGHTNING
Stephen Hurd walked into the room which he and his father shared as a
sanctum, half office, half study. Mr. Hurd, senior, was attired in his
conventional Sabbath garb, the same black coat of hard, dull material,
and dark grey trousers, in which he had attended church for more years
than many of the villagers could remember. Stephen, on the other hand,
was attired in evening clothes of the latest cut. His white waistcoat
had come from a London tailor, and his white tie had cost him
considerable pains. His father looked him over with expressionless face.
"You are going to the House again, Stephen?" he asked calmly.
"I am asked to dine there, father," he answered. "Sorry to leave you
alone."
"I have no objection to being alone," Mr. Hurd answered. "I think that
you know that. You lunched there, didn't you?"
Stephen nodded.
"Miss Thorpe-Hatton asked me as we came out of church," he answered.
"You play cards?"
The directness of the question allowed of no evasion. Stephen flushed as
he answered.
"They play bridge. I may be asked to join. It--is a sort of whist, you
know."
"So I understand," the older man remarked. "I have no remark to make
concerning that. Manners change, I suppose, with the generations. You
are young and I am old. I have never sought to impose my prejudices upon
you. You have seen more of the world than I ever did. Perhaps you have
found wisdom there."
Stephen was not at his ease.
"I don't know about that, sir," he answered. "Of course, Sunday isn't
kept so strictly as it used to be. I like a quiet day myself, but it's
pretty dull here usually, and I didn't think it would be wise to refuse
an invitation from Miss Thorpe-Hatton."
"Perhaps not," Mr. Hurd answered. "On the other hand, I might remind you
that during the forty years during which I have been agent to this
estate I have never accepted--beyond a glass of wine--the hospitality
offered to me by Miss Thorpe-Hatton's father and grandfather, and by the
young lady herself. It is not according to my idea of the fitness of
things. I am a servant of the owner of these estates. I prefer to
discharge my duties honestly and capably--as a servant."
Stephen frowned at his reflection in the glass. He did not feel in the
least like a servant.
"That's rather an old-fashioned view, dad," he declared.
"It may be," his father answered. "In any case, I do not seek to impose
it upon you. You are free to come and go according to your judgment.
But you are young, and I cannot see you expose yourself to trouble
without some warning. Miss Thorpe-Hatton is not a lady whom it is wise
for you to see too much of."
The directness of this speech took the young man aback.
"I--she seems very pleasant and gracious," he faltered.
"Not even to you," his father continued gravely, "can I betray
the knowledge of such things as have come under my notice as the
servant of these estates and this young lady. Her father was a fine,
self-respecting gentleman, as all the Thorpe-Hattons have been; her
mother came from a noble, but degenerate, French family. I, who live
here a life without change, who mark time for the years and watch the
striplings become old men, see many things, and see them truthfully. The
evil seed of her mother's family is in this young woman's blood. She
lives without a chaperon, without companionship, as she pleases--and to
please herself only."
Stephen frowned irritably. His father's cold, measured words were like
drops of ice.
"But, father," he protested, "she is a leader of Society, she goes to
Court and you see her name at the very best places. If there was
anything wrong about her, she wouldn't be received like that."
"I know nothing about Society or its requirements," his father answered.
"She has brains and wealth, and she is a woman. Therefore, I suppose the
world is on her side. I have said all that I wish to say. You can
perhaps conjecture the reason of my speaking at all."
"She wouldn't take the trouble to make a fool of me," Stephen answered
bitterly. "I just happen to make up a number, that's all."
"I am glad that you understand the young lady so well," his father
answered. "Before you go, will you be good enough to pass me the Bible
and my spectacles, and let Mary know that Mr. Stuart will be in to
supper with me."
Stephen obeyed in silence. He remembered the time, not so long ago, when
he would have been required to seat himself on the opposite side of the
fireplace, with a smaller Bible in his hand, and read word for word with
his father. His mind went back to those days as he walked slowly up the
great grass-grown avenue to the house, picking his steps carefully, lest
he should mar the brilliancy of his well-polished patent-leather boots.
He compared that old time curiously with the evening which was now
before him; the round table drawn into the midst of the splendid
dining-room, an oasis of exquisitely shaded light and colour; Lady
Peggy with her daring toilette and beautiful white shoulders; Deyes
with his world-worn face and flippant tongue; the mistress of Thorpe
herself, more subdued, perhaps, in dress and speech, and yet with the
ever-present mystery of eyes and lips wherein was always the fascination
of the unknown. More than ever that night Stephen Hurd felt himself to
be her helpless slave. All his former amours seemed suddenly empty and
vulgar things. She came late into the drawing-room, her greeting was as
carelessly kind as usual, there was no perceptible difference in her
manner of speech. Yet his observation of her was so intense that he
found readily the signs of some subtle, indefinable change, a change
which began with her toilette, and ended--ah! as yet there was no
ending. Her gown of soft white silk was daring as a French modiste could
make it, but its simplicity was almost nun-like. She wore a string of
pearls, no earrings, no rings, and her hair was arranged low down,
almost like a schoolgirl's. She had more colour than usual, a temporary
restlessness seemed to have taken the place of her customary easy
languor. What did it mean? he asked himself breathlessly. Was it Deyes?
Impossible, for Deyes himself was a watcher, a thin smile parting
sometimes the close set lips of his white, mask-like face. After all,
how hopelessly at sea he was! He knew nothing of her life, of which
these few days at Thorpe were merely an interlude. She might have lovers
by the score of whom he knew nothing. He was vain, but he was not wholly
a fool.
She talked more than usual at dinner-time, but afterwards she spoke of a
headache, and sat on the window-seat of the library, a cigarette between
her lips, her eyes half closed. When the bridge table was laid out, she
turned her head languidly.
"I will come in in the next rubber," she said. "You four can start."
They obeyed her, of course, but Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders
slightly. She had no fancy for Stephen's bridge, and they cut together.
Wilhelmina waited until the soft fall of the cards had ceased, and the
hands were being examined. Then, with a graceful movement, she slipped
out of the window and away into the shadows. No signs of her headache
were left. She passed swiftly along a narrow path, bordered by gigantic
shrubs, until she reached a small iron gate. Here for the first time she
paused.
For several moments she listened. There was no sound from the great
house, whose outline she could barely see but whose long row of lights
stretched out behind her. She turned her head and looked along the
grass-grown lane beyond the gate. There was no one in sight--no sound.
She lifted the latch and passed through.
For a summer night it was unusually dark. All day the heat had been
almost tropical, and now the sky was clouded over, and a south wind, dry
and unrefreshing, was moving against the tall elms. Every few seconds
the heavens were ablaze with summer lightning; once the breathless
silence was broken by a low rumble of distant thunder.
She reached the end of the lane. Before her, another gate led out on to
a grass-covered hill, strewn with fragments of rocks. She paused for a
moment and looked backwards. She was suddenly conscious that her heart
was beating fast; the piquant sense of adventure with which she had
started had given place to a rarer and more exciting turmoil of the
senses. Her breath was coming short, as though she had been running.
The silence seemed more complete than ever. She lifted her foot and felt
the white satin slipper. It was perfectly dry, there was no dew, and as
yet no rain had fallen. She lifted the latch of the gate and passed
through.
The footpath skirted the side of a plantation, and she followed it
closely, keeping under the shelter of the hedge. Every now and then a
rabbit started up almost from under her feet, and rushed into the hedge.
The spinney itself seemed alive with birds and animals, startled by her
light footsteps in the shelter which they had sought, disturbed too by
their instinct of the coming storm. Her footsteps grew swifter. She was
committed now to her enterprise, vague though it had seemed to her. She
passed through a second gate into a ragged wood, and along a winding
path into a country road. She turned slowly up the hill. Her breath was
coming faster than ever now. What folly!--transcendental!--exquisite!
Her footsteps grew slower. She kept to the side of the hedge, raising
her skirts a little, for the grass was long. A few yards farther was the
gate. The soft swish of her silken draperies as she stole along, became
a clearly recognizable sound against the background of intense silence.
Macheson had been leaning against a tree just inside. He opened the
gate. She stepped almost into his arms. Her white face was suddenly
illuminated by the soft blaze of summer lightning which poured from the
sky. He had no time to move, to realize. He felt her hands upon his
cheek, his face drawn downwards, her lips, soft and burning, pressed
against his for one long, exquisite second. And then--the darkness once
more and his arms were empty.
CHAPTER X
THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR
With upraised skirts, and feet that flashed like silver across the turf
and amongst the bracken, Wilhelmina flew homewards. Once more her heart
was like the heart of a girl. Her breath came in little sobs mingled
with laughter, the ground beneath her feet was buoyant as the clouds.
She had no fear of being pursued--least of anything in the world did she
desire it. The passion of a woman is controlled always by her sentiment.
It seemed to her that that breathless episode was in itself an epic, she
would not for worlds have added to it, have altered it in any shape or
form. A moment's lingering might so easily have spoilt everything. Had
he attempted to play either the prude or the Lothario, the delicate
flavour would have passed away from the adventure, which had set her
heart beating once more, and sent the blood singing so sweetly through
her veins. So she sped through the darkness, leaving fragments of lace
upon the thorns, like some beautiful bird, escaped from long captivity,
rushing through a strange world.
Before she reached the grounds the storm came. There was a crash of
thunder, which seemed to tear apart the heavens above, and then the big
raindrops began to fall upon her bare shoulders and her clothes as light
and airy as butterfly's wings. She abandoned herself to the ruin of a
Paquin gown without a thought of regret; she even laughed softly with
pleasure as she lifted her burning face to the cool sweet deluge, and
lessened her pace in the avenue, walking with her hands behind her and
her head still upraised. It was a wonderful night, this. She had found
something of her lost girlhood.
She reached the house at last, and stole through the hall like a truant
schoolgirl. Her shoes were nothing but pulp; her dress clung to her
limbs like a grey, sea-soaked bathing-costume; everywhere on the oak
floor and splendid rugs she left a trail of wet. On tiptoe she stole up
the stairs, looking guiltily around, yet with demure laughter in her
glowing eyes. She met only one amazed servant, whom she dispatched at
once for her own maid. In the bath-room she began to strip off her
clothes, even before Hortense, who loved her, could effect a breathless
entrance.
"Eh! Madame, Madame!" the girl exclaimed, with uplifted hands.
Wilhelmina stopped her, laughing.
"It's all right, Hortense," she exclaimed gaily. "I was out in the
grounds, and got caught in the storm. Turn on the hot water and cut
these laces--so!"
To Hortense the affair was a tragedy. Her mistress' indifference could
not lessen it.
"Madame," she declared, "the gown is ruined--a divine creation. Madame
has never looked so well in anything else."
"Then I am glad I wore it to-night," was the astonishing reply. "Quick,
quick, quick, Hortense! Get me into the bath, and bring me some wine and
biscuits. I am hungry. I don't think I could have eaten any dinner."
Hortense worked with nimble fingers, but her eyes at every opportunity
were studying her mistress' face. Was it the English rain which could
soften and beautify like this? Madame was brilliant--and so young! Such
a colour! Such a fire in the eyes! Madame laughed as she thrust her from
the room.
"The wine, Hortense, and the biscuits--no sandwiches! I die of hunger.
And send word to the library that I have been caught in the storm, and
must change my clothes, but shall be down presently. So!"
* * * * *
She found them, an hour later, just finishing a rubber. Their languid
post-mortem upon a curiously played hand was broken off upon her
entrance. They made remarks about the storm and her ill-luck--had she
been far from shelter? was she not terrified by the lightning? Lady
Peggy remembered her gown. Deyes alone was silent. She felt him watching
her all the time, taking cold note of her brilliant colour, the softer
light in her eyes. She felt that he saw her as she was--a woman suddenly
set free, even though for a few short hours. She had broken away from
them all, and she gloried in it.
She played bridge later--brilliantly as usual, and with success. Then
she leaned back in her chair and faced them all.
"Dear guests," she murmured, "you remember the condition, the only
condition upon which we bestowed our company upon one another in this
benighted place. You remember it was agreed that when you were bored,
you left without excuse or any foolish apologies. The same to apply to
your hostess."
"My dear Wilhelmina," Lady Peggy exclaimed, "I know what you're going to
say, and I won't go! I'm not due anywhere till the thirteenth. I won't
be stranded."
Wilhelmina laughed.
"You foolish woman!" she exclaimed. "Who wants you to go? You shall be
chatelaine--play hostess and fill the place if you like. Only you
mustn't have Leslie over more than twice a week."
"You are going to desert us?" Deyes asked coolly.
"It was in the bond, wasn't it?" she answered. "Peggy will look after
you all, I am sure."
"You mean that you are going away, to leave Thorpe?" Stephen Hurd asked
abruptly.
She turned her head to look at him. He was sitting a little outside the
circle--an attitude typical, perhaps, of his position there. The change
in her tone was slight indeed, but it was sufficient.
"I am thinking of it," she answered. "You, Gilbert, and Captain Austin
can find some men to shoot, no doubt. Ask any one you like. Peggy will
see about some women for you. I draw the line at that red-haired
Egremont woman. Anybody else!"
"This is a blow," Deyes remarked, "but it was in the bond. Nothing will
move me from here till the seventeenth--unless your _chef_ should leave.
Do we meet in Marienbad?"
"I am not sure," Wilhelmina answered, playing idly with the cards. "I
feel that my system requires something more soothing."
"I hate them all--those German baths," Lady Peggy declared. "Ridiculous
places every one of them."
"After all, you see," Wilhelmina declared, "illness of any sort is a
species of uncleanliness. I think I should like to go somewhere where
people are healthy, or at least not so disgustingly frank about their
livers."
"Why not stay here?" Stephen ventured to suggest. "I doubt whether any
one in Thorpe knows what a liver is."
"'Inutile!'" Lady Peggy exclaimed. "Wilhelmina has the 'wander fever.' I
can see it in her face. Is it the thunder, I wonder?"
Deyes walked to the window and threw it open. The storm was over, but
the rain was still falling, a soft steady downpour. The cooler air which
swept into the room was almost faint with the delicious perfume of
flowers and shrubs bathed in the refreshing downpour.
"I think," he said, "that there is some magic abroad to-night. Did you
meet Lucifer walking in the rose garden?" he asked, turning slightly
towards his hostess. "The storm may have brought him--even here!"
"Neither Lucifer nor any other of his princely fellows," she answered.
"The only demon is here,"--she touched her bosom lightly--"the demon of
unrest. It is not I alone who am born with the wanderer's curse! There
are many of us, you know."
He shook his head.
"You have not the writing in your face," he said. "I do not believe that
you are one of the accursed at all. To-night----"
She was standing by his side now, looking out into the velvety darkness.
Her eyes challenged his.
"Well! To-night?"
"To-night you have the look of one who has found what she has sought for
for a long time. This sounds bald, but it is as near to truth as I can
get."
She was silent for a moment. She stood by his side listening to the soft
constant patter of the rain, the far-away rumblings of the dying storm.
"One has moods," she murmured.
"Heaven forbid that a woman should be without them!" he answered.
"Do you ever feel as though something were going to happen?" she asked
suddenly.
"Often," he answered; "but nothing ever does!"
Lady Peggy came yawning over to them.
"My dear," she said, "I feel it in my very bones. I firmly believe that
something is going to happen to every one of us. I have a most
mysterious pricking about my left elbow!"
"To every one of us?" Stephen Hurd asked, idly enough.
"To every one of us!" she answered. "To you, even, who live in Thorpe.
Remember my words when you get home to-night, or when you wake in the
morning. As for you, Wilhelmina, I am not at all sure that you have not
already met with your adventure."
Deyes lit a cigarette.
"Let us remember this," he declared. "In a week's time we will compare
notes."
Stephen Hurd stood up to take his leave.
"You are really going--soon?" he asked, as he bent over her carelessly
offered hand.
"As soon as I can decide where to go to," she answered.
"Can I give my father any message? Would you care to see him to-morrow
morning?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"It is not necessary," she answered.
He made his adieux reluctantly. Somehow he felt that the night had not
been a success. She was going away. Very likely he would not see her
again. The great house and all its glories would be closed to him. To do
him justice, he thought of that less than the casual manner of her
farewell. His vanity was deeply wounded. She had begun by being so
gracious--no wonder that he had lost his head a little. He thought over
the events of the last few days. Something had occurred to alter her.
Could he have offended in any way?
He walked dejectedly home, heedless of the sodden path and wet grass. A
light was still burning in the study. He hesitated for a moment, and
then, turning the handle, entered.
"You're late, father," he remarked, going towards the cupboard to select
a pipe.
There was no answer. The still figure in the chair never moved.
Something in the silence struck Stephen as ominous. He turned abruptly
round, and for the first time noticed the condition of the room. A chair
was overturned, a vase of flowers spilt upon the table, the low window,
from which one stepped almost into the village street, was wide open.
The desk in front of the motionless figure was littered all over with
papers in wild confusion. Stephen, with a low cry of horror, crossed the
room and laid his hand upon his father's shoulder. He tried to speak to
him, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew very well that there
could be no reply. His father was sitting dead in his chair.
CHAPTER XI
THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS
Out amongst the broken fragments of the storm, on the hill-top and down
the rain-drenched lane, Macheson sought in vain by physical exertion to
still the fever which burned in his veins. Nothing he could do was able
to disturb that wonderful memory, to lessen for an instant the
significance of those few amazing seconds. The world of women, all the
lighter and quieter joys of life, he had, with the fierce asceticism of
the young reformer, thrust so resolutely behind him. But he had never
imagined anything like this! Its unexpectedness had swept him off his
feet. The memory of it was most delicious torture!
Sleep?--he dared not think of it. Who could sleep with such a fire in
his blood as this? He heard the storm die away, thunder and wind and
rain melted into the deep stillness of midnight. A dim moon shone behind
a veil of mist. The dripping of rain from the trees alone remained. Then
he heard a footstep coming down the lane. His first wild thought was
that she had returned. His eyes burned their way through the darkness.
Soon he saw that it was a man who came unsteadily, but swiftly, down
the roadway.
Macheson leaned over the gate. He would have preferred not to disclose
himself, but as the man passed, he was stricken with a sudden
consciousness that for him the events of the night were not yet over.
This was no villager; he had not even the appearance of an Englishman.
He was short and inclined to be thick-set, his coat collar was turned
up, and a tweed cap was drawn down to his eyes. He walked with uneven
footsteps and muttered to himself words that sounded like words of
prayer, only they were in some foreign language. Macheson accosted him.
"Hullo!" he said. "Have you lost your way?"
The man cried out and then stood still, trembling on the roadside. He
turned a white, scared face to where Macheson was leaning against the
gate.
"Who is that?" he cried. "What do you want with me?"
Macheson stepped into the lane.
"Nothing at all," he answered reassuringly. "I simply thought that you
might have lost your way. These are lonely parts."
The newcomer drew a step nearer. He displayed a small ragged beard, a
terror-stricken face, and narrow, very bright eyes. His black clothes
were soaked and splashed with mud.
"I want a railway station," he said rapidly. "Where is the nearest?"
Macheson pointed into the valley.
"Just where you see that light burning," he answered, "but there will
be no trains till the morning."
"Then I must walk," the man declared feverishly. "How far is it to
Nottingham?"
"Twenty-five miles," Macheson answered.
"Too far! And Leicester?"
"Twelve, perhaps! But you are walking in the wrong direction."
The man turned swiftly round.
"Point towards Leicester," he said. "I shall find my way."
Macheson pointed across the trees.
"You can't miss it," he declared. "Climb the hill till you get to a road
with telegraph wires. Turn to the left, and you will walk into
Leicester."
For some reason the stranger seemed to be occupied in looking earnestly
into Macheson's face.
"What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly.
"I am close to where I am staying," Macheson answered. "Just in the wood
there."
The man took a quick step forwards and then reeled. His hand flew to his
side. He was attacked by sudden faintness and would have fallen, but for
Macheson's outstretched arm.
"God!" he muttered, "it is finished."
He was obviously on the verge of a collapse. Macheson dragged him into
the shelter and poured brandy between his teeth. He revived a little and
tried to rise.
"I must go on," he cried. "I dare not stay here."
The terror in his face was unmistakable. Macheson looked at him gravely.
"You had better stay where you are till morning," he said. "You are not
in a fit state to travel."
The man had raised himself upon one arm. He looked wildly about him.
"Where am I?" he demanded. "What is this place?"
"It is a gamekeeper's shelter," Macheson answered, "which I am making
use of for a few days. You are welcome to stay here until the morning."
"I must go on," the man moaned. "I am afraid."
Almost as he uttered the words he fell back, and went off immediately
into an uneasy doze. Macheson threw his remaining rug over the prostrate
figure, and, lighting his pipe, strolled out into the spinney. The man's
coming filled him with a vague sense of trouble. He seemed so utterly
out of keeping with the place, he represented an alien and undesirable
note--a note almost of tragedy. All the time in his broken sleep he was
muttering to himself. Once or twice he cried out in terror, once
especially--Macheson turned round to find him sitting up on the rug, his
brown eyes full of wild fear, and the perspiration running down his
face. A stream of broken words flowed from his lips. Macheson thrust him
back on the rug.
"Go to sleep," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of."
After that the man slept more soundly. Macheson himself dozed for an
hour until he was awakened by the calling of the birds. Directly he
opened his eyes he knew that something had happened to him. It was not
only the music of the birds--there was a strange new music stirring in
his heart. The pearly light in the eastern sky had never seemed so
beautiful; never, surely, had the sunlight streamed down upon so perfect
a corner of the earth. And then, with a quick rush of blood to his
cheeks, he remembered what it was that had so changed the world. He
lived again through that bewildering moment, again he felt the delicious
warmth of her presence, the touch of her hair as it had brushed his
cheek, the soft passionate pressure of her lips against his. It was
like an episode from a fairy story, there was something so delicate,
so altogether fanciful in that flying visit. Something, too, so
unbelievable when he thought of her as the mistress of Thorpe, the
languid, insolent woman of the world who had treated him so coldly.
Then a movement behind reminded him of his strange visitor. He turned
round. The man was already on his feet. He looked better for his sleep,
but the wild look was still in his eyes.
"I must go," he said. "I ought to have started before. Thank you for
your shelter."
Macheson reached out for his spirit lamp.
"Wait a few minutes," he said, "and I will have some coffee ready."
The man hesitated. He looked sorely in need of something of the sort. As
he came to the opening of the shelter, the trembling seized him again.
He looked furtively out as though he feared the daylight. The sunshine
and the bright open day seemed to terrify him.
"I ought to have gone on last night," he muttered. "I must----"
He broke off his sentence. Macheson, too, had turned his head to listen.
"What is that?" he asked sharply.
"The baying of dogs," Macheson answered.
"Dogs! What dogs?" he demanded.
"Colonel Harvey's bloodhounds!"
The man's face was ashen now to the lips. He clutched Macheson's arm
frantically.
"They are after me!" he exclaimed. "Where can I hide? Tell me quick!"
Macheson looked at him gravely.
"What have you been doing?" he asked. "They do not bring bloodhounds out
for nothing."
"I have hurt a man down in the village," was the terrified answer. "I
didn't mean to--no! I swear that I did not mean to. I went to his house
and I asked him for money. I had a right to it! And I asked him to tell
me where--but oh! you would not understand. Listen! I swear to you that
I did not mean to hurt him. Why should I? He was old, and I think he
fainted. God! do you hear that?"
He clung to Macheson in a frenzy. The deep baying of the dogs was coming
nearer and nearer.
"Listen," Macheson said, "the dogs will not be allowed to hurt you, but
if you are loose I promise that I will protect you from them. You had
better wait here with me."
The man fell upon his knees.
"Sir," he begged, "I am innocent of everything except a blow struck in
anger. Help me to escape, I implore you. There are others who will
suffer--if anything happens to me."
"The law is just," Macheson answered. "You will suffer nothing except
justice."
"I want mercy, not justice," the man sobbed. "For the love of God, help
me!"
Macheson hesitated. Again the early morning stillness was broken by that
hoarse, terrifying sound. His sporting instincts were aroused. He had
small sympathy with the use of such means against human beings.
"I will give you a chance," he said. "Remember it is nothing more.
Follow me!"
He led the way to the slate pit.
"Can you swim?" he asked.
"Yes!" the man answered.
"This is where I take my morning bath," Macheson said. "You will see
that though you can scramble down and dive in, it is too precipitous to
get out. Therefore, I have fixed up a rope on the other side--it goes
through those bushes, and is attached to the trunk of a tree beneath the
bracken. If you swim across, you can pull yourself out of the water and
hide just above the water in the bushes. There is just a chance that you
may escape observation."
Already he was on his way down, but Macheson stopped him.
"I shall leave a suit of dry clothes in the shelter," he said. "If they
should give up the chase you are welcome to them. Now you had better
dive. They are in the spinney."
The man went in, after the fashion of a practised diver. Macheson turned
round and retraced his steps towards his temporary dwelling-house.
CHAPTER XII
RETREAT
Out in the lane a motley little group of men were standing. Stephen Hurd
was in the act of springing off his brown cob. The dogs were already in
the shelter.
"What the devil are you doing here?" Hurd asked, as Macheson strode
through the undergrowth.
Macheson pointed to the shelter.
"I could find no other lodging," he answered, "thanks to circumstances
of which you are aware."
Stephen Hurd kicked the gate open. He was pale and there were deep lines
under his eyes. He was still in his evening clothes, except for a rough
tweed coat, but his white tie was hanging loose, and his patent-leather
shoes were splashed with mud.
"We are chasing a man," he said. "Have you seen him?"
"I have," Macheson answered. "What has he done?"
There was a momentary silence. Hurd spoke with a sob.
"Murdered--my father!"
Macheson was shocked.
"You mean--that Mr. Hurd is dead?" he asked, in an awe-stricken tone.
"Dead!" the young man answered with a sob. "Killed in his chair!"
The dogs came out of the shelter. They turned towards the interior of
the spinney. The little crowd came streaming through the gate.
"I gave shelter to a man who admitted that he was in trouble," he said
gravely. "He heard the dogs and he was terrified. He has jumped into the
slate quarry."
The dogs were on the trail now. They followed them to the edge of the
quarry. Here the bushes were trodden down, a man's cap was hanging on
one close to the bottom. They all peered over into the still water,
unnaturally black. Amies, the head keeper, raised his head.
"It's twenty-five feet deep--some say forty, and a sheer drop," he
declared impressively. "We'll have to drag it for the body."
"Best take the dogs round the other side, and make sure he ain't got out
again," one of the crowd suggested.
Amies pointed scornfully to the precipitous side. Such a feat was
clearly impossible. Nevertheless the dogs were taken round. For a few
minutes they were uneasy, but eventually they returned to the spot from
which their intended victim had dived. Every one was peering down into
the dark water as though fascinated.
"I thought as they come up once or twice before they were drownded,"
somebody remarked.
"Not unless they want to," another answered. "This chap wasn't too
anxious. He knew his goose was cooked."
The dogs were muzzled and led away. One by one the labourers and
servants dispersed. Two of them started off to telegraph for a drag.
Stephen Hurd was one of the last to depart.
"I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am for you," Macheson
declared earnestly. "Such a tragedy in a village like Thorpe seems
almost incredible. I suppose it was a case of attempted robbery?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," Hurd answered. "There was plenty of money left
untouched, and I can't find that there is any short. The man arrived
after the maids had gone to bed, but they heard him knock at the door,
and heard my father let him in."
"They didn't hear any struggle then?" Macheson asked.
Hurd shook his head.
"There was only one blow upon his head," he answered. "Graikson says
that death was probably through shock."
Macheson felt curiously relieved.
"The man did not go there as a murderer then," he remarked. "Perhaps not
even as a thief. There may have been a quarrel."
"He killed him, anyhow," Hurd said brokenly. "What time was it when you
first saw him?"
"About midnight, I should think," Macheson answered. "He came down the
lane like a drunken man."
"What was he like?" Hurd asked.
"Small, and I should say a foreigner," Macheson answered. "He spoke
English perfectly, but there was an accent, and when he was asleep he
talked to himself in a language which, to the best of my belief, I have
never heard before in my life."
"A foreigner?" Hurd muttered. "You are sure of that?"
"Quite," Macheson answered. "There could be no mistake about it."
Stephen Hurd mounted his cob and turned its head towards home. He asked
no more questions; he seemed, if possible, graver than ever. Before he
started, however, he pointed with his whip towards the shelter.
"You've no right there, you know," he said. "We can't allow it. You must
clear out at once."
"Very well," Macheson answered. "I'm trespassing, of course, but one
must sleep somewhere."
"There is no necessity for you to remain in Thorpe at all," Hurd said.
"I think, in the circumstances, the best thing you can do is to go."
"In the circumstances!" The irony of the phrase struck home. What did
this young man know of the circumstances? There were reasons now,
indeed, why he should fly from Thorpe as from a place stricken with the
pestilence. But no other soul in this world could know of those reasons
save himself--and she.
"I should not, of course, think of holding my services at present,"
Macheson said gravely. "If you think it would be better, I will go
away."
Stephen Hurd nodded as he cantered off.
"I am glad to hear you say so," he declared shortly. "Go and preach in
the towns where this scum is reared. There's plenty of work for
missioners there."
Macheson stood still until the young man on his pony had disappeared.
Then he turned round and walked slowly back towards the slate quarry.
The black waters remained smooth and unrippled; there was no sound of
human movement anywhere. In the adjoining field a harvesting-machine was
at work; in the spinney itself the rabbits, disturbed last night by the
storm, were scurrying about more frolicsome than usual; a solitary
thrush was whistling in the background. The sunlight lay in crooked
beams about the undergrowth, a gentle west breeze was just stirring the
foliage overhead. There was nothing in the air to suggest in any way the
strange note of tragedy which the coming of this hunted man had
nevertheless brought.
Macheson was turning away when a slight disturbance in the undergrowth
on the other side of the quarry attracted his notice. He stood still and
watched the spot. The bracken was shaking slightly--then the sound of a
dry twig, suddenly snapped! For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned on
his heel and walked abruptly away. With almost feverish haste, he flung
his few belongings into his portmanteau, leaving in the shelter his
flask, a suit of clothes, and several trifles. Five minutes later he was
on his way down the hill, with his bag upon his shoulder and his face
set southwards.
CHAPTER XIII
A CREATURE OF IMPULSE
Up the broad avenue to the great house of Thorpe, Stephen Hurd slowly
made his way, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes fixed upon the
ground. But his appearance was not altogether the appearance of a man
overcome with grief. The events of the last few days had told upon him,
and his deep mourning had a sombre look. Yet there were thoughts working
even then in his brain which battled hard with his natural depression.
Strange things had happened--stranger things than he was able all at
once to digest. He could not see the end, but there were possibilities
upon which he scarcely dared to brood.
He was shown into the library and left alone for nearly twenty minutes.
Then Wilhelmina came, languid, and moving as though with tired feet. Yet
her manner was gentler and kinder than usual. She leaned back in one of
the vast easy-chairs, and murmured a few graceful words of sympathy.
"We were all so sorry for you, Mr. Hurd," she said. "It was a most
shocking affair."
"I thank you very much--madam," he replied, after a moment's pause. It
was better, perhaps, for the present, to assume that their relations
were to continue those of employer and employed.
"I do not know," she continued, "whether you care to speak about this
shocking affair. Perhaps you would prefer that we did not allude to it
for the present."
He shook his head.
"I am not sure," he answered, "that it is not rather a relief to have it
spoken of. One can't get it out of one's mind, of course."
"There is no news of the man--no fresh capture?"
"None," he answered. "They are dragging the slate quarry again to-day. I
believe there are some very deep holes where the body may have drifted."
"Do you believe that that is the case?" she asked; "or do you think that
he got clean away?"
"I cannot tell," he answered. "It seems impossible that he should have
escaped altogether without help."
"And that he could not have had, could he?" she asked.
He looked across at her thoughtfully, watching her face, curious to see
whether his words might have any effect.
"Only from one person," he said.
"Yes?"
"From Macheson, the fellow who came here to convert us all," he said
deliberately.
Beyond a slight elevation of the eyebrows, his scrutiny was in vain, for
she made no sign.
"He scarcely seems a likely person, does he, to aid a criminal?" she
asked in measured tones.
Stephen Hurd shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps not," he admitted, "but at any rate he sheltered him."
"As he doubtless would have done any passer-by on such a night," she
remarked. "By the bye, what has become of that young man?"
"He has left the neighbourhood," Hurd answered shortly.
"Left altogether?" she inquired.
"I imagine so," Hurd answered. "I had the shelter destroyed, and I gave
him to understand pretty clearly what your wishes were. There really
wasn't much else for him to do."
Her eyelids drooped over her half closed eyes. For a moment she was
silent.
"If you hear of him again," she said quietly, "be so good as to let me
know."
Her indifference seemed too complete to be assumed. Yet somehow or other
Hurd felt that she was displeased with him.
"I will do so," he said, "if I hear anything about him. It scarcely
seems likely."
Wilhelmina sat quite still. Her head, resting slightly upon the long
delicate fingers of her right hand, was turned away from the young man
who was daring to watch her. She was apparently gazing across the park,
down the magnificent avenue of elms which led to the village. So he was
gone--without a word! How else? On the whole she could not but approve!
And yet!--and yet!
She turned once more to Hurd.
"I read the account of the inquest on your father's death," she said,
speaking very slowly, with her usual drawl, yet with a softer note in
her voice, as though out of respect for the dead man. "Does it not seem
very strange that the money was left untouched?"
"Yes!" he answered. "Yet, after all, I don't know. You see, the governor
must have closed with the fellow and shown fight before he got that
knock on the head. If the thief was really only an ordinary tramp, he'd
be scared to death at what he'd done, and probably bolt for his life
without stopping to take anything with him."
"Isn't it rather surprising to have tramps--in Thorpe?" she asked.
"I have scarcely ever seen one," he answered.
Wilhelmina turned her head slightly, so that she was now directly facing
him. She looked him steadily in the eyes.
"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Hurd," she asked, "that this young man may
not have been a tramp at all, and that his visit to your father may have
been on other business than that of robbery?"
He hesitated for a moment.
"My father's connexions with the outside world," he said slowly, "were
so slight."
"Yet it has occurred to you?"
"Yes!" he admitted.
"And have you come to any conclusion?"
"None," he declared.
"You carried out my instructions with regard to the papers and documents
belonging to the estate?"
"Certainly, madam," he answered. "Within five minutes of receiving your
message, they were all locked up in the safe and the key handed to your
messenger."
"You did not go through them yourself?" she asked.
"I did not," he answered, lying with admirable steadiness. "I scarcely
felt that I was entitled to do so."
"So that you could not tell if any were missing?" she continued.
"I could not," he admitted.
"Your father never spoke, then, of any connexions with people--outside
Thorpe--likely to prove of a dangerous character?"
The young man smiled. "My father," he said, "had not been farther than
Loughborough for twenty years."
There was a short silence. Wilhelmina, deliberately, and without any
attempt at concealment, was meditatively watching the young man,
studying his features with a half-contemptuous and yet searching
interest. Perhaps the slightly curving lips, the hard intentness of her
gaze, suggested that he was disbelieved. He lost colour and fidgeted
about. It was a scrutiny not easy to bear, and he felt that it was going
against him. Already she had written him down a liar.
She spoke to him at last. If the silence had not ended soon, he would
have made some blundering attempt to retrieve his position. She spoke
just in time to avert such ignominy.
"Mr. Hurd," she said, "the question of your father's successor is one
that has doubtless occurred to you as it has to me. I trust that you
will, at any rate, remain here. As to whether I can offer you your
father's position in its entirety, I am not for the present assured."
He glanced up at her furtively. He was certain now that he had played
his cards ill. She had read through him easily. He cursed himself for a
lout.
"You see," she continued, "the post is one of great responsibility,
because it entails the management of the whole estates. It is necessary
for me to feel absolute confidence in the person who undertakes it. I
have not known you very long, Mr. Hurd."
He bowed. He could not trust himself to words.
"I have instructed them to send some one down from my solicitor's office
for a week or so," she continued, "to assist you. In the meantime, I
must think the matter over."
"I am very much obliged to you, madam," he said. "You will find me, I
think, quite as trustworthy and devoted to your interests as my father."
She smiled slightly. She recognized exactly his quandary, and it amused
her. The slightest suggestion of menace in his manner would be to give
the lie to himself.
"I am coming down this afternoon," she said, "to go through the safes.
Please be there in case I want you. You will not forget, in case you
should hear anything of Mr. Macheson, that I desire to be informed."
He took his leave humiliated and angry. He had started the game with a
wrong move--retrievable, perhaps, but annoying. Wilhelmina passed into
the library, where Lady Peggy, in a wonderful morning robe, was leaning
back in an easy-chair dictating letters to Captain Austin.
"You dear woman!" she exclaimed, "don't interrupt us, will you? I have
found an ideal secretary, writes everything I tell him, and spells quite
decently considering his profession. My conscience is getting lighter
every moment."
"And my heart heavier," Austin grumbled. "A most flirtatious
correspondence yours."
She laughed softly.
"My next shall be to my dressmaker," she declared. "Such a charming
woman, and so trustful. Behave yourself nicely, and you shall go with me
to call on her next week, and see her mannikins. By the bye, Wilhelmina,
am I hostess or are you?"
"You, by all means," Wilhelmina answered. "I shall go to-morrow or the
next day. Is any one coming to lunch?"
"His Grace, I fancy--no one else."
Wilhelmina yawned.
"Where is Gilbert?" she asked.
"Asleep on the lawn last time I saw him."
"No one shooting, then?"
"We're going to beat up the home turnips after lunch," Captain Austin
answered. "It's rather an off day with us. Gilbert is nursing his
leg--fancies he has rheumatism coming."
She strolled out into the garden, but she avoided the spot where Gilbert
Deyes lounged in an easy-chair, reading the paper and smoking
cigarettes, with his leg carefully arranged on a garden chair in front
of him. She took the winding path which skirted the kitchen gardens and
led to the green lane, along which the carts passed to the home farm.
She felt that what she was doing was in the nature of an experiment,
she was yielding again to that most astonishing impulse which once
before had taken her so completely by surprise. She passed out of the
gate and along the lane. She began to climb the hill. About the success
of her experiment she no longer had any doubt. Her heart was beating
with pleasant insistence, a feeling of suppressed excitement sent the
blood gliding through her veins with delicious softness. All the time
she mocked at herself--that this should be Wilhelmina Thorpe-Hatton, to
whom the most distinguished men, not only in one capital, but in Europe,
had paid court, whom the most ardent wooer had failed to move, who had
found, indeed, in all the professions of love-making something
insufferably tedious. She was at once amused and annoyed at herself, but
an instinctive habit of truthfulness forbade even self-deception. Her
cheeks were aflame, and her heart was beating like a girl's as she
reached the spinney. She recognized the fact that she was experiencing a
new and delightful pleasure, an emotion as unexpected and ridiculous as
it was inexplicable. But she hugged it to herself. It pleased her
immensely to feel that the impossible had happened. What all this army
of men, experienced in the wiles of love-making, had failed to do, a
crazy boy had accomplished without an effort. Absolutely bizarre, of
course, but not so wonderful after all! She was so secure against any
ordinary assault. She felt herself like the heroine of one of Gautier's
novels. If he had been there himself, she would have taken him into her
arms with all the passionate simplicity of a child.
But he was not there. On the contrary, the place was looking forlorn and
deserted. The shelter had been razed to the ground--she felt that she
hated Stephen Hurd as she contemplated its ruin--the hedge was broken
down by the inrush of people a few days ago. In the absence of any
sunshine, the country around seemed bleak and colourless. She leaned
over the gate and half closed her eyes. Memory came more easily like
that!
CHAPTER XIV
SEARCHING THE PAPERS
The late Stephen Hurd had been a methodical man. Every one of those many
packets of foolscap and parchment bore in the left-hand corner near the
top a few carefully written words summarizing their contents. It was
clear from the first that Wilhelmina had undertaken not an examination
but a search. Mortgages, leases, agreements, she left unopened and
untouched. One by one she passed them back to the young man who handed
them out to her, for replacement. In the end she had retained one small
packet of letters only, on the outside of which were simply the initials
P. N. These she held for a moment thoughtfully in her hand.
"Do you happen to remember, Mr. Hurd," she said, "whether this small
packet which I have here was amongst the papers which you found had been
disturbed after the attack upon your father?"
"I am sorry," the young man answered, "but it is quite impossible for me
to say. I do not remember it particularly."
Wilhelmina turned it over thoughtfully. It was an insignificant packet
to hold the tragedy of a woman's life.
"You see," she continued, "that it has the appearance of having been
tampered with. There are marks of sealing wax upon the tape and upon the
paper here. Then, too," she continued, turning it over, "it has been
tied up hastily, unlike any of the other packets. The tape, too, is much
too long. It looks almost as though some letters or papers had been
withdrawn."
"I am afraid I cannot help you at all," he admitted regretfully. "My
father never allowed any one but himself to open that safe. Mine was the
out-of-door share of the work--and the rent-book, of course. I kept
that."
She slowly undid the tape. The contents of the packet consisted of
several letters, which she smoothed out with her fingers before
beginning to read. Stephen Hurd stood with his back towards her,
rearranging the bundles of documents in the safe.
"You have no idea then," she asked softly, "of the contents of this
packet?"
He turned deliberately round. He was not in the least comfortable. It
was almost as though she could see through his tweed shooting-jacket
into that inner pocket.
"May I see which packet you refer to?" he asked.
She showed it to him without placing it in his hand. He shook his head.
"No!" he said, "I have not noticed them before."
She sighed--or was it a yawn? At any rate, her eyes left his face, for
which he was immediately grateful. She began to read the papers, and,
having finished his task, he walked towards the window and stood there
looking out. He stood there minute after minute, hearing only the sound
of rustling paper behind. When at last it ceased he turned around.
She had risen to her feet and was slowly drawing on her gloves. The
letters had disappeared, presumably into her pocket, but she made no
reference to them. When she spoke, her voice was smooth and deliberate
as usual. Somehow or other he was at once conscious, however, that she
had received a shock.
"I presume, Mr. Hurd," she said quietly, "that amongst your father's
private papers you did not discover anything--unexpected?"
"I am afraid I scarcely follow you, madam," he answered.
"I am asking you," she repeated deliberately, "whether amongst your
father's private papers, which I presume you have looked through, you
found anything of a surprising nature?"
He shook his head.
"I found scarcely any," he answered, "only his will and a memorandum of
a few investments. May I ask----"
She turned towards the door.
"No!" she said, "do not ask me any questions. To tell you the truth, I
am not yet fully persuaded that the necessity exists."
"I do not understand," he protested.
[Illustration: "FORGIVE ME," HE SAID, WITH HIS HAND UPON THE GATE. Page
117]
She shrugged her shoulders. She did not trouble to explain her words.
He followed her along the cool, white-flagged hall, hung with old prints
and trophies of sport, into the few yards of garden outside, brilliant
with cottage flowers. Beyond the little iron gate her carriage was
waiting--a low victoria, drawn by a pair of great horses, whose sleek
coats and dark crimson rosettes suggested rather a turn in the Park
than these country lanes. The young man was becoming desperate. She was
leaving him altogether mystified. Somewhere or other he had missed his
cue: he had meant to have conducted the interview so differently. And
never had she looked so provokingly well! He recognized, with hopeless
admiration, the perfection of her toilette--the trim white flannel
dress, shaped by the hand of an artist to reveal in its simple lines
the peculiar grace of her slim figure; the patent shoes with their
suggestion of open-work silk stockings; the black picture hat and veil,
a delicate recognition of her visit to a house of mourning, yet light
and gossamer-like, with no suggestion of gloom. Never had she seemed so
desirable to him, so fascinating and yet so unattainable. He made a last
and clumsy effort to re-establish himself.
"Forgive me," he said, with his hand upon the gate, "but I must ask you
what you mean by that last question. My father had no secrets that I
know of. How could he, when for the last forty years his life was
practically spent in this village street?"
She nodded her head slowly.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "events come to those even who sit and wait,
those whose lives are absolutely secluded. No one is safe from fate, you
know."
"But my father!" he answered. "He had no tastes, no interests outside
the boundary of your estates."
She motioned to him to open the gate.
"Perhaps not," she assented, "yet I suppose that there is not one of us
who knows as much of his neighbour's life as he imagines he does. Good
afternoon, Mr. Hurd! My visit has given me something to think about. I
may send for you to come to the house before I go away."
She drove away, leaning back amongst the cushions with half closed eyes,
as though tired. The country scenery with its pastoral landscape, its
Watteau-like perfections, was wholly unseen. Her memory had travelled
back, she was away amongst the days when the roar of life had been in
her ears, when for a short while, indeed, the waves had seemed likely to
break over her head. An unpleasant echo, this! No more than an echo--and
yet! The thought of old Stephen Hurd lying in his grave suddenly chilled
her. She shivered as she left the carriage, and instead of entering the
house, crossed the lawn to where Gilbert Deyes was lounging. He
struggled to his feet at her approach, but she waved him back again.
"Sybarite," she murmured, glancing around at his arrangements for
complete comfort. "You have sent Austin out alone."
"Dear lady, I confess it," he answered. "What would you have? It is too
fine an afternoon to kill anything."
She sank into a chair by his side. A slight smile parted her lips as she
glanced around. On a table by his side, a table drawn back into the
shade of the cedar tree, were several vellum-bound volumes, a tall
glass, and a crystal jug half full of some delicate amber beverage,
mixed with fruit and ice, a box of cigarettes, an ivory paper-cutter,
and a fan.
"Your capacity for making yourself comfortable," she remarked, "amounts
almost to genius."
"Let it go at that," he answered. "I like the sound of the word."
"I want you to go to Paris for me," she said abruptly.
He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and looked at her
thoughtfully. Not a line of his face betrayed the least sign of
surprise.
"To-morrow?" he asked.
"Yes!"
"I can get up in time for the two-twenty," he remarked thoughtfully. "I
wonder whether it will be too late for the Armenonville!"
She laughed quietly.
"You are a 'poseur,'" she declared.
"Naturally," he admitted. "We all are, even when the audience consists
of ourselves alone. I fancy I'm rather better than most, though."
She nodded.
"You won't mind admitting--to me--that you are surprised?"
"Astonished," he said. "To descend to the commonplace, what on earth do
you want me to go to Paris for?"
"I will tell you," she answered. "Forget for a moment the Paris that you
know, and remember the Paris of the tourist."
"Painful," he answered; "but it is done."
"The _Hotel de Luxe_!"
"I know it well."
"There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who
hang about the hall and the boulevard outside--guides they call
themselves."
"'Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,'" he quoted.
"Yes; I know them."
"There is, or was, one," she continued, "who goes by the name of Thomas
Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He
used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an
accent."
"I should know the beast anywhere," he declared.
"Find out if he is there still. Let him take you out. Don't lose sight
of him--and write to me."
"To-morrow night," he said, "I will renew my youth. I will search for
him on the boulevards, and see the sights which make a gay dog of the
travelling Briton."
She nodded.
"You're a good sort, Gilbert," she said simply. "Thanks!"
CHAPTER XV
ON THE SPREE
High up on the seventh floor of one of London's newest and loftiest
buildings, a young man sat writing in a somewhat barely furnished
office. He wrote deliberately, and with the air of one who thoroughly
enjoyed his occupation. The place had a bookish aspect--the table was
strewn with magazines and books of reference; piles of literature of a
varied order stood, in the absence of bookshelves, against the wall. The
young man himself, however, was the most interesting object in the room.
He was big and dark and rugged. There was strength in his square-set
shoulders, in the compression of his lips, even in the way his finger
guided the pen across the paper. He was thoroughly absorbed in his task.
Nevertheless he raised his head at a somewhat unusual sound. The lift
had swung up to his floor, he heard the metal gate thrown open. There
was a knock at the door, and Macheson walked in.
"Victor, by glory!"
Down went the pen, and Richard Holderness stood up at his desk with
outstretched hands. Macheson grasped them heartily and seated himself
on the edge of the table.
"It's good to see you, Dick," he declared, "like coming back to the
primitive forces of nature, unchanged, unchanging. The sight of you's
enough to stop a revolution."
"You're feeling like that, are you?" his friend answered, his eyes fixed
upon Macheson's face. "Yes, I see you are. Go ahead! Or will you smoke
first?"
Macheson produced his pipe, and his host a great tin of honeydew.
Macheson helped himself slowly. He seemed to be trying to gain time.
"Blessed compact, ours," the giant remarked, leaning back in his chair.
"No probing for confidences, no silly questions. Out with it!"
"I've started wrong," Macheson said. "I'll have to go back on my tracks
a bit anyway."
Holderness grunted affably.
"Nothing like mistakes," he remarked. "Best discipline in the world."
"I started on a theory," Macheson continued thoughtfully. "It didn't pan
out. The people I have been trying to get at are better left alone."
"Exactly why?" Holderness asked.
"I'll tell you," Macheson answered. "You know I've seen a bit of what we
call village life. Their standard isn't high enough, of course. Things
come too easily, their noses are too close to the ground. They are
moderately sober, moderately industrious, but the sameness of life is at
work all the time. It makes machines of the factory hands, animals of
the country folk. I knew that before I started. I thought I could lift
their heads a little. It's too big a task for me, Dick."
"Of course," Holderness assented. "You can't graft on to dead wood."
"They live decent lives--most of them," Macheson continued thoughtfully.
"They can't understand that any change is needed, no more can their
landlords, or their clergy. A mechanical performance of the Christian
code seems all that any one expects from them. Dick, it's all they're
capable of. You can't alter laws. You can't create intelligence. You
can't teach these people spirituality."
"As well try to teach 'em to fly," Holderness answered. "I could have
told you so before, if it had been of any use. What about these
Welshmen, though?"
"It's hysteria," Macheson declared. "If you can get through the hide,
you can make the emotions run riot, stir them into a frenzy. It's a
debauch. I've been there to see. The true spiritual life is partly
intellectual."
"What are you going to do now?" Holderness asked.
"I don't know," Macheson answered. "I haven't finished yet. Dick, curse
all women!"
The giant looked thoughtful.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
Macheson swung himself from the table. He walked up and down the room.
"It isn't serious," he declared. "It isn't even definite. But it's like
a perfume, or a wonderful chord of music, or the call of the sea to an
inland-bred viking! It's under my heel, Dick, but I can't crush it. I
came away from Leicestershire because I was afraid."
"Does she--exist?" Holderness asked.
"Not for me," Macheson declared hurriedly. "Don't think that. I
shouldn't have mentioned it, but for our compact."
Holderness nodded.
"Bad luck," he said. "This craving for something we haven't got--can't
have--I wish I could find the germ. The world should go free of it for a
generation. We'd build empires, we'd reconstruct society. It's a deadly
germ, though, Victor, and it's the princes of the world who suffer most.
There's only one antidote--work!"
"Give me some," Macheson begged.
The giant looked at him thoughtfully.
"Right," he answered, "but not to-day. Clothes up in town?"
Macheson nodded.
"We'll go on the bust," Holderness declared. "I've been dying for a
spree! We'll have it. Where are you staying?"
"My old rooms," Macheson answered. "I looked in on my way from the
station and found them empty."
"Capital! We're close together. Come on! We'll do the West End like two
gay young bucks. Five o'clock, isn't it? We'll walk up Regent Street and
have an 'aperitif' at Biflore's. Wait till I brush my hat."
Macheson made no difficulties, but he was puzzled. Holderness he knew
well enough had no leanings towards the things which he proposed with so
much enthusiasm. Was it a pilgrimage they were to start upon--or what?
After all, why need he worry? He was content to go his friend's way.
So they walked up Regent Street, bright with the late afternoon
sunshine, threading their way through the throngs of sauntering men and
women gazing into the shops--and at one another! At Biflore's Macheson
would have felt out of his element but for Holderness' self-possession.
He had the air of going through what might have been an everyday
performance, ordered vermouth mixed, lit a cigarette, leaned back at his
ease upon the cushioned seat, and told with zest and point a humorous
story. There were women there, a dozen or more, some alone, some in
little groups, women smartly enough dressed, good-looking, too, and
prosperous, with gold purses and Paris hats, yet--lacking something.
Macheson did not ask himself what it was. He felt it; he knew, too, that
Holderness meant him to feel it. The shadow of tragedy was there--the
world's tragedy....
They went back to their rooms to dress and met at a popular
restaurant--one of the smartest. Here Macheson began to recover his
spirits. The music was soft yet inspiring, the women--there were none
alone here--were well dressed, and pleasant to look at, the sound of
their laughter and the gay murmur of conversation was like a delightful
undernote. The dinner and wine were good. Holderness seemed to know very
well how to choose both. Macheson began to feel the depression of a few
hours ago slipping away from him. Once or twice he laughed softly to
himself. Holderness looked at him questioningly.
"You should have been with me for the last fortnight, Dick," he
remarked, smiling. "The lady of the manor at Thorpe didn't approve of
me, and I had to sleep for two nights in a gamekeeper's shelter."
"Didn't approve of you to such an extent?" Holderness remarked. "Was she
one of those old country frumps--all starch and prejudice?"
Then for a moment the heel was lifted, and a rush of memory kept him
dumb. He felt the tearing of the blood in his veins, the burning of his
cheeks, the wild, delicious sense of an exaltation, indefinable,
mysterious. He was tongue-tied, suddenly apprehensive of himself and his
surroundings. He felt somehow nearer to her--it was her atmosphere,
this. Was he weaker than his friend--had he, indeed, more to fear? He
raised his glass mechanically to his lips, and the soft fire of the
amber wine soothed whilst it disquieted him. Again he wondered at his
friend's whim in choosing this manner of spending their evening.
"No!" he said at last, and he was surprised to find his voice composed
and natural, "the mistress of Thorpe is not in the least that sort.
Thorpe is almost a model village, and of course there is the church, and
a very decent fellow for vicar. I am not at all sure that she was not
right. I must have seemed a fearful interloper."
Holderness stretched his long limbs under the table and laughed softly.
"Well," he declared, "it was a hare-brained scheme. Theoretically, I
believe you were right. There's nothing more dangerous than content.
Sort of armour you can't get through.... Come, we mustn't miss the
ballet."
They threaded their way down the room. Suddenly Macheson stopped short.
He was passing a table set back in a recess, and occupied by two
persons. The girl, who wore a hat and veil, and whose simple country
clothes were conspicuous, was staring at him with something like fear in
her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted, she was leaning
forward as though to call her companion's attention to Macheson's
approach. Macheson glanced towards him with a sudden impulse of
indignant apprehension. It was Stephen Hurd, in irreproachable evening
clothes save only for his black tie, and his companion was Letty.
Macheson stopped before the table. He scarcely knew what to say or how
to say it, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Hurd's curt
nod.
"So you are up in town, Letty," he said gravely. "Is your mother with
you?"
The girl giggled hysterically.
"Oh, no!" she declared. "Mother can't bear travelling. A lot of us came
up this morning at six o'clock on a day excursion, six shillings each."
"And what time does the train go back?" Macheson asked quickly.
"At twelve o'clock," the girl answered, "or as soon afterwards as they
can get it off. It was terribly full coming up."
Macheson was to some extent relieved. At any rate there was nothing
further that he could do. He bent over the girl kindly.
"I hope you have had a nice day," he said, "and won't be too tired when
you get home. These excursions are rather hard work. Remember me to your
mother."
He exchanged a civil word with the girl's companion, who was taciturn
almost to insolence. Then he passed on and joined Holderness, who was
waiting near the door.
"An oddly assorted couple, your friends," he remarked, as they struggled
into their coats.
Macheson nodded.
"The girl was my landlady's daughter at Thorpe, and the young man's the
son of the agent there," he said.
"Engaged?" Holderness asked.
"I'm--afraid not," Macheson answered. "She's up on an excursion--for the
day--goes back at twelve."
"I suppose he's a decent fellow--the agent's son?" Holderness remarked.
"She seems such a child."
"I suppose he is," Macheson repeated. "I don't care for him very much,
Dick; I suppose I'm an evil-minded person, but I hate leaving them."
Holderness looked back into the restaurant.
"You can't interfere," he said. "It's probably a harmless frolic enough.
Come on!"
CHAPTER XVI
THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON
"No stalls left," Holderness declared, turning away from the box office
at the Alhambra. "We'll go in the promenade. We can find a chair there
if we want to sit down."
Macheson followed him up the stairs and into the heavily carpeted
promenade. His memory of the evening, a memory which clung to him for
long afterwards, seemed like a phantasmagoria of thrilling music, a
stage packed with marvellously dressed women, whose movements were
blended with the music into one voluptuous chorus--a blaze of colour not
wholly without its artistic significance, and about him an air heavy
with tobacco smoke and perfumes, a throng of moving people, more
women--many more women. A girl spoke to Holderness,--a girl heavily
rouged but not ill-looking, dressed in a blue muslin gown and large
black hat. Holderness bent towards her deferentially. His voice seemed
to take to itself its utmost note of courtesy, he answered her inquiry
pleasantly, and accepted a glance at her programme. The girl looked
puzzled, but they talked together for several moments of casual things.
Then Holderness lifted his hat.
"My friend and I are tired," he said. "We are going to look for a seat."
She bowed and they strolled on down the promenade, finding some chairs
at the further end. The dresses of the women brushed their feet and the
perfume from the clothes was stronger even than the odour from the
clouds of tobacco smoke which hung about the place. Macheson, in whom
were generations of puritanical impulses, found himself shrinking back
in his corner. Holderness turned towards him frowning.
"No superiority, Victor," he said. "These are your fellow-creatures.
Don't look at them as though you'd come down from the clouds."
"It isn't that," Macheson answered, "it's a matter of taste."
"Taste! Rot!" Holderness answered. "The factory girl's hat offends my
taste, but I don't shrink away from her."
A girl, in passing, stumbled against his foot. Holderness stood up as he
apologized.
"I am really very sorry," he said. "No one with feet like mine ought to
sit down in a public place. I hope you haven't torn your dress?"
"It really doesn't matter," the girl answered. "I ought to have looked
where I was going."
"In which case," Holderness remarked, with a laugh, "you could not have
failed to see my feet."
There were two empty chairs at their table. The girl glanced towards
them and hesitated.
"Do you mind if we sit down here for a minute," she asked, "my friend
and I? We are rather tired."
He drew the chairs towards them.
"By all means," he answered courteously. "Your friend does look tired."
The party arranged itself. Holderness called to a waiter and gave an
order.
"My friend and I," he remarked, indicating Macheson, who was fiercely
uncomfortable and struggling hard not to show it, "are disappointed that
we could not get stalls. We wanted to see La Guerrero and this wonderful
conjurer."
"The place is full every night," the girl answered listlessly. "La
Guerrero comes on at ten o'clock, you can see her from the front of the
promenade easily. You don't often come here, do you?"
"Not very often," Holderness answered. "And you?"
"Every night," the girl answered in a dull tone.
"That must be monotonous," he said kindly.
"It is," she admitted.
They talked for a few minutes longer, or rather it was Holderness who
mostly talked, and the others who listened. It struck Macheson as
curious that his friend should find it so easy to strike the note of
their conversation and keep it there, as though without any definite
effort he could assume control over even the thoughts of these girls, to
whom he talked with such easy courtesy. He told a funny story and they
all laughed naturally and heartily. Macheson had an idea that the girls
had forgotten for the moment exactly where they were. Something in their
faces, something which had almost terrified him at their first coming,
had relaxed, if it had not passed wholly away. At the sound of a few
bars of music one of them leaned almost eagerly forward.
"There," she said, "if you want to see La Guerrero you must hurry. She
is coming on now."
The two young men rose to their feet. One of the girls looked wistfully
at Holderness, but nothing was said beyond the ordinary farewells.
"Thank you so much for telling us," Holderness said. "Come along,
Victor. It is La Guerrero."
Macheson breathed more freely when once they were in the throng. They
watched the Spanish dancer with her exquisite movements, sinuous, full
of grace. Holderness especially applauded loudly. Afterwards they found
seats in the front and remained there for the rest of the performance.
Out in the street they hesitated. Holderness passed his arm through his
companion's.
"Supper!" he declared. "This way! Did you know what a man about town I
was, Victor? Ah! but one must learn, and life isn't all roses and honey.
One must learn!"
They threaded their way through the streets, crowded with hansoms,
electric broughams, and streams of foot passengers. Holderness led the
way to a sombre-looking building, and into a room barely lit save for
the rose-shaded lamps upon the tables. Macheson gasped as he entered.
Nearly every table was occupied by women in evening dress, women
alone--waiting. Holderness glanced around quite unconcernedly as he gave
up his coat and hat to a waiter.
"Feeling shy, Victor?" he asked, smiling. "Never mind. We'll find a
table to ourselves all right."
They sat in a corner. The girls chattered and talked across them--often
at them. A Frenchwoman, superbly gowned in white lace, and with a long
rope of pearls around her neck, paused as she passed their table. She
carried a Pomeranian under her arm and held it out towards them.
"See! My little dog!" she exclaimed. "He bite you. Messieurs are
lonely?"
"Alas! Of necessity," Holderness answered in French. "Madame is too
kind."
She passed on, laughing. Macheson looked across the table almost
fiercely.
"What are you doing it for, Dick?" he exclaimed. "What does it mean?"
His friend looked across at him steadfastly.
"Victor," he said, "I want you to understand. You are an enthusiast, a
reformer, a prophet of lost causes. I want you to know the truth if you
can see it. There are many sides to life."
"What am I to learn of this?" Macheson asked, almost passionately.
"If I told you," Holderness answered, "the lesson would only be half
learnt. Sit tight and don't be a fool. Drink your wine. Mademoiselle in
violet there wants to flirt with you."
"Shall I ask her to join us?" Macheson demanded with wasted satire.
"You might do worse," Holderness answered calmly. "She could probably
teach you something."
It was a dull evening, and many of the tables remained unoccupied--save
for the one waiting figure. The women, tired of looking towards the
door, were smoking cigarettes, twirling their bracelets, yawning, and
looking around the room. Many a mute invitation reached the two young
men, but Holderness seemed to have lost his sociability. His face had
grown harder and he seemed glad when their meal was over and they were
free to depart. In the hall below they had to wait for their overcoats.
Macheson strolled idly towards the entrance of another supper room on
the ground floor, and looked in. An exclamation broke from his lips. He
turned towards Holderness.
"You see the time," he exclaimed, "and they are here! Those two!"
Holderness nodded gravely.
"The girl has been crying," he said, "and there is an A B C on the
table. It's up to you, Victor. We may both have to take a hand in the
game. No! I wouldn't go in. Wait till they come out!"
They stood in the throng, jostled, cajoled, besought. At last the two
rose and came towards the door. Letty had dried her eyes, but she looked
still pale and terrified. Hurd, on the contrary, was flushed as though
with wine. Macheson took her by the arm as she passed.
"Letty," he said gravely, "have you missed your train?"
She gave a stifled cry and shrank back, when she saw who it was.
However, she recovered herself quickly.
"Mr. Macheson!" she exclaimed. "How you startled me! I didn't expect--to
see you again."
"About this train, Letty?" he repeated.
"Mr. Hurd's watch stopped," she declared, her eyes filling once more
with tears. "He thought it was eleven o'clock,--and it was ten minutes
past twelve. I don't know what mother will say, I am sure."
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
She looked round nervously.
"Mr. Hurd is going to take me to some friends of his," she answered.
"You see it was his fault, so he has promised to see mother and
explain."
Hurd pushed angrily forward.
"Look here," he said to Macheson, "have you been following us about?"
"I have not," Macheson answered calmly. "I am very glad to have come
across you, though."
"Sorry I can't return the compliment," Hurd remarked. "Come, Letty."
A girl who was passing tapped him on the arm. She was dressed in blue
silk, with a large picture hat, and she was smoking a cigarette.
"Hullo, Stephen!" she exclaimed. "Edith wants to see you. Are you coming
round to-night?"
Hurd muttered something under his breath and moved away. Letty looked at
him with horror.
"Stephen!" she exclaimed. "You can't--you don't mean to say that you
know--any of these?"
She was trembling in every limb. He tried to pass his arm through hers.
"Don't be a fool, Letty," he said. "It's time we went, or my friends
will have gone to bed."
She looked at him with wide-open eyes. Her lips were quivering. It was
as though she saw some new thing in his face.
"Your friends," she murmured, "are they--that sort? Oh! I am afraid."
She clung to Macheson. People were beginning to notice them. He led her
out into the street. Hurd followed, angrily protesting. Holderness was
close behind.
"I say, you know," Hurd began, with his arm on Macheson's shoulder.
Macheson shook it off.
"Mr. Hurd," he said, "at the risk of seeming impertinent, I must ask you
precisely where you intend taking this girl to-night?"
"What the devil business is it of yours?" Hurd answered angrily.
"Tell me, all the same," Macheson persisted.
Hurd passed his arm through Letty's.
"Come, Letty," he said, "we will take this hansom."
The girl was only half willing. Macheson declined to let them go.
"No!" he said, "I will have my question answered."
Hurd turned as though to strike him, but Holderness intervened, head and
shoulders taller than the other.
"I think," he said, "that we will have my friend's question answered."
Hurd was almost shaking with rage, but he answered.
"To some friends in Cambridge Terrace," he said sullenly. "Number
eighteen."
"You will not object," Macheson said, "if I accompany you there?"
"I'll see you damned first," Hurd answered savagely. "Get in, Letty."
The girl hesitated. She turned to Macheson.
"I should like to go to the station and wait," she declared.
"I think," Macheson said, "that you had better trust yourself to me and
my friend."
"I am sure of it," Holderness added calmly.
She put her hand in Macheson's. She was as pale as death and avoided
looking at Hurd. He took a quick step towards her.
"Very well, young lady," he said. "If you go now, you understand that I
shall never see you again."
She began to cry again.
"I wish," she murmured, "that I had never seen you at all--never!"
He turned on his heel. A row was impossible. It occurred to him that a
man of the world would face such a position calmly.
"Very good," he said, "we will leave it at that."
He paused to light a cigarette, and strolled back down the street
towards the restaurant which they had just left. Letty was crying now in
good earnest. The two young men looked at one another in something like
dismay. Then Holderness began to laugh quietly.
"You're a nice sort of Don Quixote to spend an evening with," he
remarked softly.
CHAPTER XVII
THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY
The girl was still crying, softly but persistently. She caught hold of
Macheson's arm.
"If you please, I think I had better go back to Stephen," she said. "Do
you think I could find him?"
"I think you had much better not, Letty," he answered. "He ought not to
have let you miss your train. My friend here and I are going to look
after you."
"It's very kind of you," the girl said listlessly, "but it doesn't
matter much what becomes of me now. Mother will never forgive me--and
the others will all know--that I missed the train."
"We must think of some way of putting that all right," Macheson
declared. "I only wish that I had some relations in London. Can you
suggest anything, Dick?"
"I can take the young lady to some decent rooms," Holderness answered.
"The landlady's an old friend of mine. She'll be as right as rain
there."
The girl shook her head.
"I'd as soon walk about the streets," she said pathetically. "Mother'll
never listen to me--or the others. Some of them saw me with Stephen, and
they said things. I think I'll go to the station and wait till the five
o'clock train."
They were walking slowly up towards Piccadilly. A fine rain had begun to
fall, and already the pavements were shining. Neither of them had an
umbrella, and Letty's hat, with its cheap flowers and ribbon, showed
signs of collapse. Suddenly Macheson had an idea.
"Look here," he said, "supposing you spent the night at Miss
Thorpe-Hatton's house in Berkeley Square--no one could say anything
then, could they?"
The girl looked up with a sudden gleam of hope.
"No! I don't suppose they could," she admitted; "but I don't know where
it is, and I don't suppose they'd take me in anyway."
"I know where it is," Macheson declared, "and we'll see about their
taking you in. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton may be there herself. Stop
that fourwheeler, Dick."
They climbed into a passing cab, and Macheson directed the driver. The
girl was beginning to lose confidence again.
"The house is sure to be shut up," she said.
"There will be a caretaker." Macheson declared hopefully. "We'll manage
it, never fear. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton is there herself."
Letty was trembling with excitement and fear.
"I'm scared to death of her," she admitted. "She's so beautiful, and she
looks at you always as though you were something a long way off."
Macheson was suddenly silent. A rush of memories surged into his brain.
He had sworn to keep away! This was a different matter, an errand of
mercy. Nevertheless he would see her, if only for a moment. His heart
leaped like a boy's. He looked eagerly out of the window. Already they
were entering Berkeley Square. The cab stopped.
Macheson looked upwards. There were lights in many of the windows, and a
small electric brougham, with a tall footman by the side of the driver,
was waiting opposite the door.
"The house is open," he declared. "Don't be afraid, Letty."
The girl descended and clung to his arm as they crossed the pavement.
"I shall wait here for you," Holderness said. "Good luck to you, and
good night, young lady!"
Macheson rang the bell. The door was opened at once by a footman, who
eyed them in cold surprise.
"We wish to see Miss Thorpe-Hatton for two minutes," Macheson said,
producing his card. "It is really an important matter, or we would not
disturb her at such an hour. She is at home, is she not?"
The footman looked exceedingly dubious. He looked from the card to
Macheson, and from Macheson to the girl, and he didn't seem to like
either of them.
"Miss Thorpe-Hatton has just returned from the opera," he said, "and she
is going on to the Countess of Annesley's ball directly. Can't you come
again in the morning?"
"Quite impossible," Macheson declared briskly. "I am sure that Miss
Thorpe-Hatton will see me for a moment if you take that card up."
The footman studied Macheson again, and was forced to admit that he was
a gentleman. He led the way into a small morning-room.
"Miss Thorpe-Hatton shall have your card, sir," he said. "Kindly take a
seat."
He left the room. Macheson drew up a chair for Letty, but she refused
it, trembling.
"Oh! I daren't sit down, Mr. Macheson," she declared. "And please--don't
say that I was with Mr. Hurd. I know he wouldn't like it."
"Probably not," Macheson answered, "but what am I to say?"
"Anything--anything but that," she begged.
Macheson nodded his promise. Then the door opened, and his heart seemed
to stand still. She entered the room in all the glory of a wonderful
toilette; she wore her famous ropes of pearls, the spotless white of her
gown was the last word from the subtlest Parisian workshop of the day.
But it was not these things that counted. Had he been dreaming, he
wondered a moment later, or had that strange smile indeed curved her
lips, that marvellous light indeed flowed from her eyes? It was the lady
of his dreams who had entered--it was a very different woman who, with a
slight frown upon her smooth forehead, was looking at the girl who stood
trembling by Macheson's side.
"It is Mr. Macheson, is it not?" she said calmly, "the young man who
wanted to convert my villagers. And you--who are you?" she asked,
turning to the girl.
"Letty Foulton, if you please, ma'am," the girl answered.
"Foulton! Letty Foulton!" Wilhelmina repeated.
"Yes, ma'am! My brother has Onetree farm," the girl continued.
Wilhelmina inclined her head.
"Ah, yes!" she remarked, "I remember now. And what do you two want of me
at this hour of the night?" she asked frigidly.
"If you will allow me, I will explain," Macheson interrupted eagerly.
"Letty came up from Thorpe this morning on an excursion train which
returned at midnight."
Wilhelmina glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to one.
"Well?"
"She missed it," Macheson continued. "It was very careless and very
wrong, of course, but the fact remains that she missed it. I found her
in great distress. She had lost her friends, and there is no train back
to Thorpe till the morning. Her brother and mother are very strict, and
all her friends who came from Thorpe will, of course, know that--she
remained in London. The position, as you will doubtless realize, is a
serious one for her."
Wilhelmina made no sign. Nothing in her face answered in any way the
silent appeal in his.
"I happened to know," he continued, "that you were in London, so I
ventured to bring her at once to you. You are the mistress of Thorpe,
and in our recent conversation I remember you admitted a certain amount
of responsibility as regards your people there. If she passes the night
under your roof, no one can have a word to say. It will save her at once
from her parent's anger and the undesirable comments of her neighbours."
Wilhelmina glanced once more towards the clock.
"It seems to me," she remarked, "that a considerable portion of the
night has already passed."
Both Macheson and the girl were silent. Wilhelmina for the first time
addressed the latter.
"Where have you been spending the evening?" she asked.
"We had dinner and went to a place of entertainment," she faltered.
"Then we had supper, and I found out how late it was."
"Who is we?"
The girl's face was scarlet. She did not answer. Wilhelmina waited for a
moment and then shrugged her shoulders.
"You are to be congratulated," she said, with cold irony, "upon your
fortunate meeting with Mr. Macheson."
She had touched the bell, and a footman entered.
"Reynolds," she said, "show this young person into the housekeeper's
room, and ask Mrs. Brown to take charge of her for the night."
The girl moved forward impulsively, but something in Wilhelmina's
expression checked her little speech of gratitude. She followed the man
from the room without a word. Wilhelmina also turned towards the door.
"You will excuse me," she said coldly to Macheson. "I am already later
than I intended to be."
"I can only apologize for disturbing you at such an hour," he answered,
taking up his hat. "I could think of nothing else."
She looked at him coldly.
"The girl's parents," she said, "are respectable people, and I am
sheltering her for their sake. But I am bound to say that I consider her
story most unsatisfactory."
They were standing in the hall--she had paused on her way out to
conclude her sentence. Her maid, holding out a wonderful rose-lined
opera cloak, was standing a few yards away; a man-servant was waiting at
the door with the handle in his hand. She raised her eyes to his, and
Macheson felt the challenge which flashed out from them. She imagined,
then, that he had been the girl's companion; the cold disdain of her
manner was in itself an accusation.
His cheeks burned with a sort of shame. She had dared to think this of
him--and that afterwards he should have brought the girl to her to beg
for shelter! There were a dozen things which he ought to have said,
which came flashing from his brain to find themselves somehow imprisoned
behind his tightly locked lips. He said nothing. She passed slowly,
almost unwillingly, down the hall. The maid wrapped her coat around
her--still he stood like a statue. He watched her pass through the
opened door and enter the electric brougham. He watched it even glide
away. Then he, too, went and joined Holderness, who was waiting outside.
"Hail, succourer of damsels in distress!" Holderness called out,
producing his cigar-case. "Jolly glad you got rid of her! It would have
meant the waiting-room at St. Pancras and an all-night sitting. Smoke,
my son, and we will walk home--unless you mind this bit of rain. Was her
ladyship gracious?"
"She was not," Macheson answered grimly, "but she is keeping the girl.
I'd like to walk," he added, lighting a cigar.
"A very elegant lady," Holderness remarked, "but I thought she looked a
bit up in the air. Did you notice her pearls, Victor?"
Macheson nodded.
"Wonderful, weren't they?"
"Yes. She wears them round her neck, and these--these wear always their
shame," he added, pushing gently away a woman who clutched at his arm.
"Funny thing, isn't it? What are they worth? Ten thousand pounds, very
likely. A lot of money for gewgaws--to hang upon a woman's body. Shall
we ever have a revolution in London, do you think, Victor?"
"Who knows?" Macheson answered wearily. "Not a political one, perhaps,
but the other might come. The sewers underneath are pretty full."
They passed along in silence for a few minutes. Neither the drizzling
rain nor the lateness of the hour could keep away that weary procession
of sad, staring-eyed women, who seemed to come from every shadow, and
vanish Heaven knows where. Macheson gripped his companion by the arm.
"Holderness," he cried, "for God's sake let's get out of it. I shall
choke presently. We'll take a side street."
But Holderness held his arm in a grip of iron.
"No," he said, "these are the things which you must feel. I want you to
feel them. I mean you to."
"It's heart-breaking, Dick."
Holderness smiled faintly.
"I know how you feel," he declared. "I've gone through it myself. You
are a Christian, aren't you--almost an orthodox Christian?"
"I am not sure!"
"Don't waste your pity, then," Holderness declared. "God will look after
these. It's the women with the pearl necklaces and the scorn in their
eyes who're looking for hell. Your friend in the electric brougham, for
instance. Can't you see her close her eyes and draw away her skirts if
she should brush up against one of these?"
"It's hard to blame her," Macheson declared.
Holderness looked down at him pityingly.
"Man," he said, "you're a long way down in the valley. You'll have to
climb. Vice and virtue are little else save relative terms. They number
their adherents by accident rather than choice."
"You mean that it is all a matter of temptation?"
Holderness laughed. They had passed into the land of silent streets.
Their own rooms were close at hand.
"Wait a little time," he said. "Some day you'll understand."
CHAPTER XVIII
LETTY'S DILEMMA
"You are quite sure," the girl said anxiously, "that Miss Thorpe-Hatton
wants to see me? You see there's a train at ten o'clock I could catch."
The housekeeper looked up from the menu she was writing, and tapped the
table impatiently with her pencil.
"My dear child," she said, "is it likely I should keep you here without
orders? We have sent a telegram to your mother, and you are to wait
until the mistress is ready to see you."
"What time does she generally get down?" Letty asked.
"Any time," Mrs. Brown answered, resuming her task. "She was back early
last night, only stayed an hour at the ball, so she may send for you at
any moment. Don't fidget about so, there's a good girl. I'm nervous this
morning. We've twenty-four people dining, and I haven't an idea in my
head. I'm afraid I shall have to send for Francois."
"Is Francois the man-cook who comes down to Thorpe?" Letty asked.
Mrs. Brown nodded.
"The _chef_ you should call him," she answered. "A very clever man, no
doubt, in his way, but takes a lot of keeping in order."
"Do you have to look after all the servants?" Letty asked. "Doesn't Miss
Thorpe-Hatton ever order anything?"
Mrs. Brown looked pityingly at her guest.
"My dear child," she said, "I doubt if she could tell you to three or
four how many servants there are in the house, and as to ordering
anything, I don't suppose such a thought's ever entered into her head.
Here's James coming. Perhaps it's a message for you."
A footman entered and greeted Letty kindly.
"Good morning, young lady!" he said. "You are to go into the
morning-room at once."
Letty rose with alacrity.
"Is--is she there?" she asked nervously.
"She is," the man answered, "and if I were you, miss, I wouldn't do much
more than just answer her questions and skedaddle. I haven't had any
conversation with her myself, but mademoiselle says she's more than a
bit off it this morning. Slept badly or something."
"Don't frighten the child, James," Mrs. Brown said reprovingly. "She's
not likely to say much to you, my dear. You hurry along, and come back
and have a glass of wine and a biscuit before you go. Show her the way,
James."
"If you please, miss," the man answered, becoming once more an
automaton.
Letty was ushered into a small room, full, it seemed to her as she
entered, of sunshine and flowers. Wilhelmina, in a plain white-serge
gown, with a string of beads around her neck of some strange-coloured
shade of blue, was sitting in a high-backed easy-chair. A small wood
fire was burning in the grate, filling the room with a pleasant aromatic
odour, and the window leading into the square was thrown wide open.
On a table by her side were a pile of letters, an ivory letter-opener,
several newspapers, and a silver box of cigarettes. For the moment,
however, none of these things
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