On one side of the Lake Dora mid John walked together, on the other Mary and Charlie. Miss Bussey and Roger Deane sat in the garden of the cafi. The scene round them was gay. Carriages constantly drove up, discharging daintily attired ladies and their cavaliers. There was a constant stream of bicycles, some of them steered by fair riders in neat bloomer-suits; the road-waterers spread a grateful coolness in their ambit, for the afternoon was hot for the time of year, and the dust had an almost autumnal volume. Miss Bussey had been talking for nearly ten minutes on end, and now she stopped with an exhausted air, and sipped her coffee. Deane lit another cigar and sat silently looking on at the life that passed and repassed before him.
“It’s a curious story,” he observed at last.
“Very; but I suppose it’s all ended happily now. Look at them, Sir Roger.”
“Oh, I see them.”
“Their troubles are over at last, poor children; and really I think they’ve all behaved very well. And yet——”
“Yes?”
“I should have thought Mary and Mr. Ashforth so suited to one another. Well, well, the heart’s an unaccountable thing—to an old spinster, anyhow.”
“You’re right, Miss Bussey. Take my wife and me. You wouldn’t have thought we should have hit it off, would you? First year I knew her I hardly dared to speak to her—used to mug up Browning and—(Sir Roger here referred to an eminent living writer) and chaps like that, before I went to see her, you know. No use! I bored her to death. At last I chucked it up.”
“Well?”
“And I went one day and talked about the Grand National for half an hour by the clock. Well, she asked me to come again next day, and I went, and told her all about the last burlesque and—and so on, you know. And then I asked her to marry me.”
“And she said ‘Yes’?”
“Not directly. She said there was an impassable gulf between us—an utter want of sympathy in our tastes and an irreconcilable difference of intellectual outlook.”
“Dear me! Didn’t that discourage you?”
“I said I didn’t care a dash; she was the only girl I ever cared for (all right, Miss Bussey, don’t laugh), and I’d have any outlook she liked. I said I knew I was an ass, but I thought I knew a pretty girl when I saw one, and I’d go away if she’d show me a prettier one.”
“Well?”
“Well, she didn’t.”
Miss Bussey laughed a little.
“Of course,” resumed Sir Roger, “I’ve got money, you know, and all that, and perhaps——”
“Sir Roger! What a thing to say of your wife!”
“Well, with another girl—but hang it, I don’t believe Maud would. Still, you see, it’s so dashed queer that sometimes——”
“I’m sure she’s very fond of you,” said Miss Bussey, rather surprised fit the nature of the confidence which she was receiving.
“I expect it’s all right,” resumed Deane, more cheerfully, “and that brings us back to where we started, doesn’t it?”
“And we started in bewilderment.”
“You’re puzzled that Dora, Bellairs and Ashforth should pair off together, and——?”
“Well, the other combination would seem more natural, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t it surprise you a little?”
“I’m never surprised at anything till I know it’s true,” said Sir Roger.
“What, you——?”
They were interrupted by the return of their friends, and a move was made. Three vehicles were necessary to take them back, for the twos could, obviously, neither be separated from one another nor united with anybody else, and in procession, Miss Bussey and Deane leading, they filed along the avenues back to the Arc de Triomphe.
They had hardly passed the open Place when their progress was suddenly arrested. A crowd spread almost across the broad road, and sergents-de-ville imperiously commanded a halt. There was a babble of tongues, great excitement, and a thousand eager fingers pointing at a house. The doorway was in ruins, and workmen were busy shoring it up with beams. In the middle of the crowd there was an open circle, surrounded by gendarmes, and kept clear of people. In the middle of it lay a thing like a rather tall slim watering-pot, minus the handle. The crowd, standing on tiptoe and peeping over the shoulders of their guardians, shook their fists at this harmless-looking article and apostrophised it with a wonderful wealth of passionate invectives.
“What in the world’s the matter?” cried Miss Bussey, who was nervous in a crowd.
“Revolution, I suppose;” responded Deane calmly, mid turning to his nearest neighbor, he continued in the first French that came to him, “Une autre rivolution, n’est-ce-pas, Monsieur?”
The man stared, but a woman near him burst into a voluble explanation, from the folds of which unlearned English ears disentangled, at the third reiteration, the ominous word, “Dynamite;” and she pointed to the watering-pot.
“Oh, it’ll go off!” shrieked Miss Bussey.
“It’s gone off,” said Sir Roger. “We’re too late,” and there was a touch of disappointment in his voice, as he turned and shouted to the others, “Keep your seats! It’s all over. Only an explosion.”
“Only!” shuddered Miss Bussey. “It’s a mercy we weren’t killed.”
It appeared that this mercy had not stopped at Miss Bussey and her friends. Nobody had been killed—not even the magistrate on the third floor for whose discipline and reformation the occurrence had been arranged; and presently the carriages were allowed to proceed.
Lady Deane’s grief at having missed so interesting an occasion was very poignant.
“No, Roger,” said she, “it is not a mere craving for horrors, or a morbid love of excitement; I wish I had been there to observe the crowd, because it’s just at such moments that people reveal their true selves. The veil is lifted—the veil of hypocrisy and convention—and you see the naked soul.”
“You could hear it too, Maud,” observed Sir Roger. “Fine chance of improving your French vocabulary. Still, I daresay you’re right.”
“I’m sure I am.”
Deane looked at his wife meditatively.
“You think,” he asked, “that being in danger might make people——”
“Reveal their inmost natures and feelings? I’m sure of it.”
“Gad! Then we might try.”
“What do you mean, Roger?”
“Nothing. You’re going out with the General to-night? Very well, I shall take a turn on my own hook.”
As he strolled toward the smoking-room, he met Charlie Ellerton.
“Well, old fellow, had a pleasant afternoon?”
“Glorious!” answered Charlie in a husky voice.
“Are we to congratulate you?”
“I—I—well, it’s notabsolutelysettled yet, Deane, but—soon, I hope.”
“That’s right. Miss Bussey told me the whole story, and I think you’re precious lucky to get such a girl.”
“Yes, aren’t I?”
“You don’t look over and above radiant.”
“Do you want me to go grinning about the hotel like an infernal hyena?”
“I think a chastened joy would be appropriate.”
“Don’t be an ass, Deane. I suppose you think you’re funny.”
Sir Roger passed on, with a smile on his lips. As he passed the reading-room Dora Bellairs came out.
“Well, Miss Dora, enjoyed your afternoon?”
“Oh, awfully—except that dreadful explosion.”
“You must excuse a friend, you know. I’m awfully glad it’s all come right in the end.”
“You—you’re very kind, Sir Roger. It’s—it’s—there’s nothing quite settled yet.”
“Oh, of course not, but still——! Well, I heard all about it and I think he’s worthy of you. I can’t say more. He seems a capital fellow.”
“Yes, isn’t he? I——”
“Yes?”
“Oh, I’m very, very,veryhappy,” and, after making this declaration in a shaky voice, she fairly ran away down the passage. Deane watched her as she went.
“Maud’s right,” said he. “She always is. There’s nothing for it but dynamite. I wonder where it’s to be got?”
General Bellairs clapped him on the shoulders.
“Inclined for a turn, Deane? I’m going to see an old servant of mine—Painter’s his name. He married my poor wife’s French maid, and set up as a restaurant-keeper in the Palais-Royal. I always look him up when I come to Paris.”
“I’m your man,” answered Deane, and they set out for Mr. Painter’s establishment. It proved to be a neat little place, neither of the very cheap nor of the very sumptuous class, and the General was soon promising to bring the whole party to dejeuner there. Painter was profuse in thanks and called Madame to thank the General. The General at once entered into conversation with the trim little woman.
“Nice place yours, Painter,” observed Deane.
“Pleased to hear you say so, Sir Roger.”
“Very nice. Ah—er—heard of the explosion?”
“Yes, Sir Roger. Abominable thing, sir. These Socialists——”
“Quite so. Never had one here, I suppose?”
“No, sir. We’re pretty well looked after in here.”
“Like one?” asked Deane.
“Beg pardon, sir. Ha-ha. No, sir.”
“Because I want one.”
“You—beg pardon, sir?”
“Look here, Painter. I’ll drop in here after dinner for some coffee. I want to talk to you. See? Not a word to the General.”
“Glad to see you, Sir Roger, but——”
“All right. I’ll put you up to it. Here they come. Present me to Madame.”
They went away, haying; arranged with the Painters for luncheon and a private room on the next day but one.
“Lunch for eight,” said Deane. “At least, General, I thought we might ask our friends from the European.”
“Yes—and young Laing.”
“Oh, I forgot him. Yes, Laing, of course. For nine—neuf, you know, please, madame.”
“That’s all right,” said the General, “I’m glad to do him a turn.”
“Yes, that’s all right,” assented Sir Roger, with the slightest possible chuckle. “We shall have a jolly lunch, eh, General?”
“I shall never, never forgot your generosity, John.”
“No, Mary. It was your honesty and courage that did it.”
“I told Mr. Ellerton the whole story, and he seemed positively astonished.”
“And Miss Bellairs admitted that when she wrote she considered such a tiling utterly impossible. She’s changed a little, Mary. She’s not so cheerful and light-hearted as she used to be.”
“Think what she’s gone through. I’ve noticed just the same in Mr. Ellerton, but—”
“You hope to restore him soon?”
“Oh, well, I expect Miss Bellairs—what a pretty girl she is, John—will soon revive too, now she is with you again. John, have; you observed anything peculiar in Aunt Sarah’s manner?”
“To tell you the truth, I fancied she was rather short with me once or twice at dinner.”
“I believe she is—isn’t pleased at—at what’s happened. She hasn’t taken much to Mr. Ellerton, and you know she liked you so much, that I think she still wants you as one of the family.”
John laughed: then he leant forward and said in a low voice:
“Have you settled anything about dates?”
“No. Mr. Ellerton—well he didn’t introduce the subject: so of course I didn’t. Have you?”
“No, we haven’t. I made some suggestion of the kind, but Miss Bellairs didn’t fall in with it. She won’t even let me ask her father’s consent just yet.”
“Mr. Ellerton proposes not to announce our—anything—for a few days.”
“Well,” said John, “I shall insist on an announcement very shortly, and you ought to do the same, Mary. We know the evils—” He checked himself, but Mary was not embarrassed.
“Of secret engagements?” she said calmly. “We do indeed.”
“Besides it’s a bore. I couldn’t go with Miss Bellairs to the theatre to-night, because she said it would look too marked.”
“Yes, and Mr. Ellerton said that if he dined here he might as well announce our engagement from the statue of Strasburg.”
John frowned, and Mary perceiving the bent of his thoughts ventured to say, though with a timid air unusual to her:
“I think they’re the least little bit inconsiderate, don’t you, John—after all we have done for them?”
“Well, I don’t mind admitting that I do feel that. I do not consider that Miss Bellairs quite appreciates the effort I have made.”
Mary sighed.
“We mustn’t expect too much of them, must we?” she asked.
“I suppose not,” John conceded; but he still frowned.
When we consider how simple the elements of perfect happiness appear to be, regarded in the abstract, it becomes surprising to think how difficult it is to attain them in the concrete. A kind magician may grant us all we ask, may transport us whither we would go, dower us with all we lack, bring to us one desired companion after another, but something is wrong. We have a toothache, or in spite of our rich curtains there’s a draught, or the loved one haps not to be at the moment congenial: and we pitifully pray the wizard to wave his wand again. Would any magician wave his for these four troublesome folk? It must be admitted that they hardly deserved it.
Nevertheless a magician was at work, and, with the expiration of the next night, his train was laid. At eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Friday, Roger Deane had a final interview with the still hesitating Painter.
“But if the police should come, Sir Roger?” urged the fearful man.
“Why, you’ll look a fool, that’s all. Isn’t the figure high enough?”
“Most liberal, Sir Roger, but—but it will alarm my wife.”
“If you come to that, it’ll alarm my wife.”
“Very true, Sir Roger.” Painter seemed to derive some comfort from this indirect community of feeling with the aristocracy.
“It’ll alarm everybody, I hope. That’s what it’s for. Now mind—2.30 sharp—and when the coffee’s been in ten minutes. Not before! I must have time for coffee.”
“Very good, Sir Roger.”
“Is the ladder ready?”
“Yes, Sir Roger.”
“And the what’s-its-name?”
“Quite ready, Sir Roger.”
“Let’s see it.”
It was inspected and pronounced satisfactory. Then Roger Deane set out to return to his hotel, murmuring contentedly:
“If that don’t make up their minds for ‘em, I don’t know what will.”
Then he paused suddenly.
“Gad! Will the women have hysterics?” he asked, but in a moment he added, reassuring himself, “Maud never has, and, hang it, we must chance the rest.”
Arrived at home he found Arthur Laing kicking his heels in the smoking-room.
“Lunching with you to-day, ain’t I, somewhere in the Palais-Royal?” asked the visitor.
“Yes, some place the General’s found out. Look here, Laing, are you a nervous man?”
“Nervous! What do you take me for?”
“Lose your head in moments of excitement?”
“I never have ‘em.”
“Oh, well, hang you! I say, Laing, you’re not a fool. Just look here. Anything I say—anything, mind—at lunch today, you’re not to contradict. You’re to back me up.”
“Right you are, old chap.”
“And the more infernal nonsense it sounds, the more you’re to take your oath about it.”
“I’m there.”
“And finally, you’re on no account to lay a finger either on Miss Travers or on Dora Bellairs.”
“Hullo! I’m not in the habit of beating women at any time, let alone at a lunch-party.”
“I mean what I say: you’re not to touch either of them. If you do you’ll spoil it. You’re to go for Miss Bussey.”
“She’s not done me any harm.”
“Never mind. As soon as the row begins and I say, ‘Save the ladies!’ you collar Miss Bussey. See?”
“Oh, I see. Seems to me we’re going to have a lively lunch. Am I to carry the old lady?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, by Jove! How’s my biceps? Just feel, will you?”
Deane felt and gravely pronounced the muscle to be equal to its task. Laing was much gratified, and awaited the unknown future with philosophic patience.
Sir Roger had predicted “a jolly lunch,” but, in its early stages, the entertainment hardly earned this description. Something was wrong somewhere; Dora started by refusing, very pointedly, to sit near Charlie Ellerton; and yet, when she found herself between Ashforth and Laing, she was absent, silent, and melancholy. Charlie, on the other hand, painfully practised a labored attentiveness to Mary Travers which contrasted ill with his usual spontaneous and gay courtesy. Miss Bussey wore an air of puzzled gravity, and Laing kept looking at her with a calculating eye. He seemed to be seeking the best grip. Lady Deane and the General, engrossed in a tjte-`-tjte discussion, did little to promote the hilarity of the table, and it was left to Deane to maintain the flow of conversation as he best could. Apparently he found the task a heavy one, for, before long, he took a newspaper out of his pocket, and, ` propos to one of his own remarks, began to read a highly decorated account of the fearful injuries under which the last victim of the last diabolical explosion had been in danger of succumbing. Sir Roger read his gruesome narrative with much emphasis, and as he laid down the paper he observed:
“Well, I hope I’m not more of a coward than most men, but in face of dynamite—ugh!” and he shuddered realistically.
“I should make for the door,” said Laing.
“Yes, but in this case the bomb was at the door!”
“Then,” said Laing, “I should exit by the window.”
“But this poor man.” remarked Mary Travers, “stayed to rescue the woman he loved,” and her eyes rested for an instant in confident affection on Charlie Ellerton.
“We should all do as much, I trust,” said John, glancing at Dora Bellairs.
“I’m sure I hope you won’t have to,” said Dora, rather ungraciously.
“Think what a convincing test of affection it would be,” suggested Deane persuasively. “After that you could never doubt that the man loved you.”
“My good Sir Roger,” observed Miss Bussey, “it would be common humanity.”
“Suppose there were two girls,” said Laing, “and you couldn’t take ‘em both!”
Deane hastily interposed.
“Haven’t we had enough of this dreary subject?” he asked, and he frowned slightly at Laing.
“Isn’t it about time for coffee?” the General suggested.
Deane looked at his watch.
“What does the time matter, Deane, if we’re ready?”
“Not a bit. 2.20. That’s all right,” and he rang the bell.
Painter came in with the coffee: the little man looked rather pale and nervous, but succeeded in serving the company without upsetting the cups. He came to Deane last.
“Is everything ready?” whispered that gentleman, and receiving a trembling “Yes, sir,” he added, “in ten minutes.”
“This,” he observed out loud, “has been a pleasant gathering—a pleasant end to our outing.”
“What? You’re going?” asked Miss Bussey.
“Yes: my wife and I cross to England to-morrow.”
“I shall go the next day,” announced the General, “if Dora is ready.”
John threw a glance toward Dora, but she was busy drinking her coffee.
“Well,” said Deane, “I hope we may soon meet again, under equally delightful circumstances, in London. At any rate,” he added with a laugh, “there we shall be safe from——”
Crash! A loud noise came from the door, as if of some metallic substance thrown against the panels.
“Hullo!” said Laing.
“Oh, somebody tumbled downstairs,” said Deane reassuringly. “Don’t move, Miss Bussey.”
“Oh, but Sir Roger, what is it? What do you think? It didn’t sound at all like what you say.”
The General laughed.
“Come, Miss Bussey, I don’t suppose it’s——”
As he spoke the form of Painter appeared at the open window. He was breathless, and shrieked hastily:
“Dynamite, dynamite! Save yourselves! It’ll be off in a minute.”
“Then I shall be off in half a minute,” said Laing.
There was a rush to the door, and Laing, remembering his instructions, joined hastily in it.
“No, no. The bomb’s there!” cried Painter, excitedly.
They stood still in horror for ten seconds.
“To the window, to the window, for your lives! Save the ladies!” cried Sir Roger Deane.
The ladies looked at one another. Even in that awful moment, the becoming, the seemly, the dignified had its claims. The window was narrow: the ladder—Mary Travers had gone to look at it—was steep: a little, curious, excited crowd was gathering below. Deane saw their hesitation. He rushed to the door and cautiously opened it. The thing was there! Across the very entrance—that villainous oblong case! And from below came a shriek—it was Madame’s voice, and a cry of “Quick! quick!”
“This,” said the General firmly (he had been through the Mutiny), “is not a time for punctilio. Excuse me,” and he lifted Lady Deane in his stalwart arms and bore her toward the window.
With a distant reminiscence of the ball room, Arthur Laing approached Miss Bussey, murmuring “May I have the—” and with a mighty effort swung the good lady from the ground. She clutched his cravat wildly, crying “Save me!”
Mary Travers was calmness itself. With quiet mien and unfaltering voice, she laid her hand on Charlie’s arm and murmured:
“I am ready, Charlie.”
At the same moment John Ashforth, the light of heroism in his eye, whispered to Dora, “You must trust yourself implicitly to me.”
“Quick, quick!” cried Deane, “or it’s all up with you. Quick, Ashforth! Quick, Charlie, quick, man!”
There was one more pause. Mary’s hand pressed a little harder. John’s arm was advancing towards Dora’s waist. Sir Roger looked on with apparent impatience.
“Are you never going?” he called. “Must I——”
Suddenly a loud cry rang out. It came from Miss Bellairs.
“Oh, Charlie, save me, save me!” she cried, and then and there flung herself into his arms.
“My darling!” he whispered loudly, and catching her up made for the window. As they disappeared through it, Deane softly and swiftly opened the door and disappeared in his turn. Mary and John were left alone. Then Mary’s composure gave way. Sinking into a chair she cried:
“And I am left! Nobody cares for me. What shall I do?”
In an instant John’s strong arm was round her. “I care for you!” he cried, and raising her almost senseless form, he rushed to the window. The ladder was gone!
“Gone!” he shrieked. “Where is it?”
There was no answer. The little crowd had gone too.
“We are lost,” he said.
Mary opened her eyes.
“Lost!” she echoed.
“Lost! Abandoned—by those who loved—ah, no, no, Mary. In the hour of danger—then we see the truth!”
Mary’s arms clasped him closer.
“Ah, John, John,” she said, “we must die together, dear.”
John stooped and kissed her.
Suddenly the door was opened and Deane entered. He wore a comically apologetic look, and carried an oblong metal vessel in his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he said. “There’s been—er—slight but very natural mistake. It wasn’t—er—exactly dynamite—it’s—er—a preserved-peach tin. That fool Painter——”
“Then we’re safe!” cried Mary.
“Yes, thank Heaven,” answered Deane fervently.
“Oh, John!” she cried.
Sir Roger, with a smile, retired and closed the door after him.
Downstairs Lady Deane and Miss Bussey, forgetful of their sufferings, were restoring Madame Painter to her senses; Painter was uncorking a bottle of champagne for Arthur Laing; Sir Roger Deane was talking in a low voice and persuasive tones to an imposing representative of the police. “What passed between them is unknown; possibly only words, possibly something else; at any rate, after a time, Deane smiled, the great man smiled responsively, saluted, and disappeared, murmuring something about Anglais, milords, and drtles. The precise purport of his reflections could not be distinctly understood by those in the house, for civility made him inarticulate, but when he was safely outside he looked at a piece of crisp paper in his hand, then, with his thumb pointing over his shoulder, he gave an immense shrug, and exclaimed:
“Mais voil`, un fou!” and to this day he considers Roger Deane the very type of a maniac.
Mary and John descended. As soon as they appeared Dora jumped up from her seat and ran towards John, crying, “Oh, Mr. Ashforth!”
While Charlie, advancing more timidly to Mary, murmured: “Forgive me, but—”
Mary with a slight bow, John with a lift of his hat, both without a halt or a word, passed through the room, arm-in-arm, and vanished from Mr. Painter’s establishment.
Sir Roger had seized on Laing’s champagne and was pouring it out. He stopped now, and looked at Dora. A sudden gleam of intelligence glanced from her eyes. Rushing up to him, she whispered, “You did it all? It was all a hoax?”
He nodded.
“And why?”
“Ask Charlie Ellerton,” he answered.
“Oh, but Mr. Ashforth and Mary Travers are so angry!”
“With one another?”
“No, with us.”
Sir Roger looked her mercilessly full in the face, regardless of her blushes.
“That,” he observed with emphasis, “is exactly what you wanted, Miss Bellairs.”
Then he turned to the company, holding a full glass in his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “some of us have had a narrow escape. Whether we shall be glad of it or sorry hereafter, I don’t know—do you, Charlie? But hero’s a health to——”
But Dora, glancing apprehensively at the General, whispered, “Not yet!”
“To Dynamite!” said Sir Roger Deane.
It should be added that a fuller, more graphic, and more sensational account of the outrage in the Palais-Royal than this pen has been capable of inscribing will appear, together with much other curious and enlightening matter, in Lady Deane’s next work. The author also takes occasion in that work—and there is little doubt that the subject was suggested by the experiences of some of her friends—to discuss the nature, quality, and duration of the Passion of Love. She concludes—if it be permissible thus far to anticipate the publication of her book—that all True Love is absolutely permanent and indestructible, untried by circumstance and untouched by time; and this opinion is, she says, indorsed by every woman who has ever been in love. Thus fortified, the conclusion seems beyond cavil. If, therefore, any incidents here recorded appear to conflict with it, we must imitate the discretion of Plato and say, either these persons were not Sons of the Gods—that is. True Lovers—or they did not do such things. Unfortunately, however, Lady Deane’s proof-sheets were accessible too late to allow of the title of this story being changed. So it must stand—“The Wheel of Love;” but if any lady (men are worse than useless) will save the author’s credit by proving that wheels do not go round, he will be very much obliged—and will offer her every facility.
“I see Mr. Vansittart Merceron’s at the Court again, mamma.”
“Yes, dear. Lady Merceron told me he was coming. She wanted to consult him about Charlie.”
“She’s always consulting him about Charlie, and it never makes any difference.”
Mrs. Bushell looked up from her needlework; her hands were full with needle and stuff, and a couple of pins protruded from her lips. She glanced at her daughter, who stood by the window in the bright blaze of a brilliant sunset, listlessly hitting the blind-cord and its tassel to and fro.
“The poor boy’s very young still,” mumbled Mrs. Bushell through her pins.
“He’s twenty-five last month,” returned Millicent. “I know, because there’s exactly three years between him and me.”
The sinking rays defined Miss Bushell’s form with wonderful clearness. She was very tall, and the severe well-cut cloth gown she wore set off the stately lines of her figure. She had a great quantity of fair hair and a handsome face, spoilt somewhat by a slightly excessive breadth across the cheeks; as her height demanded or excused, her hands and feet were not small, though well shaped. Would Time have arrested his march for ever, there would have been small fault to find with Nature’s gifts to Miss Bushell; but, as her mother said, Millie was just what she had been at twenty-one; and Mrs. Bushell was now extremely stout. Millie escaped the inference by discrediting her mother’s recollection.
The young lady wore her hat, and presently she turned away from the window, remarking:
“I think I shall go for a stroll. I’ve had no exercise to-day.”
Either inclination, or perhaps that threatening possibility from which she strove to avert her eyes, made Millie a devotee of active pursuits. She hunted, she rode, she played lawn-tennis, and, when at the seaside, golf; when all failed, she walked resolutely four or five miles on the high-road, swinging along at a healthy pace, and never pausing save to counsel an old woman or rebuke a truant urchin. On such occasions her manner (for we may not suppose that her physique aided the impression) suggested the benevolent yet stern policeman, and the vicar acknowledged in her an invaluable assistant. By a strange coincidence she seemed to suit the house she lived in—one of those large white square dwelling’s, devoid of ornament, yet possessing every substantial merit, and attaining, by virtue of their dimensions and simplicity, an effect of handsomeness denied to many more tricked-out building’s. The house satisfied; so did Millie, unless the judge were very critical.
“I shall just walk round by the Pool and back,” she added as she opened the door.
“My dear, it’s four miles!”
“Well, it’s only a little after six, and we don’t dine till eight.”
Encountering no further opposition than a sigh of admiration—three hundred yards was the limit of pleasure in a walk to her mother—Millie Bushell started on her way, dangling a neat ebony stick in her hand, and setting her feet down with a firm decisive tread. It did not take her long to cover the two miles between her and her destination. Leaving the road, she entered the grounds of the Court and, following a little path which ran steeply down hill, she found herself by the willows and reeds fringing the edge of the Pool. Opposite to her, on the higher bank, some seven or eight feet above the water, rose the temple, a small classical erection, used now, when at all, as a summer-house, but built to commemorate the sad fate of Agatha Merceron. The sun had just sunk, and the Pool looked chill and gloomy; the deep water under the temple was black and still. Millie’s robust mind was not prone to superstition, yet she was rather relieved to think that, with the sun only just gone, there was a clear hour before Agatha Merceron would come out of the temple, slowly and fearfully descend the shallow flight of marble steps, and lay herself down in the water to die. That happened every evening, according to the legend, an hour after sunset—every evening, for the last two hundred years, since poor Agatha, bereft and betrayed, had found the Pool kinder than the world, and sunk her sorrow and her shame and her beauty there—such shame and such beauty as had never been before or after in all the generations of the Mercerons.
“What nonsense it all is!” said Millie aloud. “But I’m afraid Charlie is silly enough to believe it.”
As she spoke her eye fell on a Canadian canoe, which lay at the foot of the steps. She recognized it as Charlie Merceron’s, and, knowing that approach to the temple from the other side was to be gained only by a difficult path through a tangled wood, and that the canoe usually lay under a little shed a few yards from where she stood, she concluded that Charlie was in the temple. There was nothing surprising in that: it was a favorite haunt of his. She raised her voice; and called to him. At first no answer came, and she repeated:
“Charlie! Charlie!”
After a moment of waiting a head was thrust out of a window in the side of the temple—a head in a straw hat.
“Hullo!” said Charlie; Merceron in tones of startled surprise. Then, seeing the visitor, he added: “Oh, it’s you, Millie! How did you know I was here?”
“By the canoe, of course.”
“Hang the canoe!” muttered Charlie, and his head disappeared. A second later he came out of the doorway and down the steps. Standing on the lowest, he shouted—the Pool was about sixty feet across—“What do you want?”
“How rude you are!” shouted Miss Bushell in reply.
Charlie got into the canoe and began to paddle across. He had just reached the other side, when Millie screamed:
“Look, look, Charlie!” she cried. “The temple!”
“What?”
“I—I saw something white at the window.”
Charlie got out of the canoe; hastily.
“What?” he asked again, walking up to Miss Bushell.
“I declare I saw something white at the window. Oh, Charlie! But it’s all——”
“Bosh? Of course it is. There’s nothing in the temple.”
“Well, I thought—I wonder you like to be there.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
The mysterious appearance not being repeated, Millie’s courage returned.
“I thought you believed in the ghost,” she said, smiling.
“So I do, but I don’t mind it.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“Supposing I haven’t? That doesn’t prove it’s not true.”
“But you’re often here at the time?”
“Never,” answered Charlie with emphasis. “I always go away before the time.”
“Then you’d better come now. Put the canoe to bed and walk with me.”
Charlie Merceron thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled at his companion. He was tall also, and just able to look down on her.
“No,” he said, “I’m not going yet.”
“How rude—oh, there it is again, Charlie! I saw it! I’m—I’m frightened,” and her healthy color paled a trifle, as she laid a hand on Charlie’s arm.
“I tell you what,” observed Charlie. “If you have fancies of this kind you’d better not come here any more—not in the evening, at all events. You know people who think they’re going to see things always do see em.”
“My heart is positively beating,” said Miss Bushell. “I—I don’t quite like walking back alone.”
“I’ll see you as far as the road,” Charlie conceded, and with remarkable promptitude he led the way, turning his head over his shoulder to remark:
“Really, if you’re so nervous, you oughtn’t to come here.”
“I never will again—not alone, I mean.”
Charlie had breasted the hill with such goodwill that they were already at the road.
“And you’re really going back?” she asked.
“Oh, just for a few minutes. I left my book in the temple—I was reading there. She’s not due for half an hour yet, you know.”
“What—what happens if you see her?”
“Oh, you die,” answered Charlie. “Goodnight;” and with a smile and a nod he ran down the hill towards the Pool.
Miss Bushell, cavalierly deserted, made her way home at something more than her usual rate of speed. She had never believed in that nonsense, but there was certainly something white at that window—something white that moved. Under the circumstances, Charlie really might have seen her home, she thought, for the wood-fringed road was gloomy, and dusk coming on apace. Besides, where was the hardship in being her escort?
Doubtless none, Charlie would have answered, unless a man happened to have other fish to fry. The pace at which the canoe crossed the Pool and brought up at its old moorings witnessed that he had no leisure to spend on Miss Bushell. Leaping out, he ran up the stops into the temple, crying in a loud whisper:
“She’s gone!”
The temple was empty, and Charlie, looking round in vexation, added:
“So has she, by Jingo!”
He sat down disconsolately on the low marble seat that ran round the little shrine.
There were no signs of the book of which he had spoken to Millie Bushell. There were no signs of anybody whom he could have meant to address. Stay! One sign there was: a long hat-pin lay on the floor. Charlie picked it tip with a sad smile.
“Agatha’s,” he said to himself.
And yet, as everyone in the neighborhood knew, poor Agatha Merceron went nightly to her phantom death bareheaded and with golden locks tossed by the wind. Moreover, the pin was of modern manufacture; moreover, ghosts do not wear—but there is no need to enter on debatable ground; the pin was utterly modern.
“Now, if uncle Van,” mused Charlie, “came here and saw this—!” He carefully put the pin in his breast-pocket, and looked at his watch. It was exactly Agatha Merceron’s time; yet Charlie leant back on his cold marble seat, put his hands in his pockets, and gazed up at the ceiling with the happiest possible smile on his face. For one steeped in family legends, worshipping the hapless lady’s memory with warm devotion, and reputed a sincere believer in her ghostly wanderings, he awaited her coming with marvellous composure. In point of fact he had forgotten all about her, and there was nothing to prevent her coming, slipping down the steps, and noiselessly into the water, all unnoticed by him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, the smile played on his lips, his ears were filled with sweet echoes, and his thoughts were far away. Perhaps the dead lady came and passed unseen. That Charlie did not see her was ridiculously slight evidence whereon to damn so ancient and picturesque a legend. He thought the same himself, for that night at dinner—he came in late for dinner—he maintained the credit of the story with fierce conviction against Mr. Vansittart Merceron’s scepticism.