CHAPTER XX
Callanderwas in the hall when they went down, and he took Deborah home. He wondered a little at the ceremoniousness with which Christian took leave of them at the door, but he was often puzzled by the mixture of boyishness and dignity in the young man, and thought no more of it. As for Deb, she was too busy holding to her hat in the teeth of the now flying gale to yield any satisfactory psychological impression. He had long since realised the affinity between the two, but exactly where they stood he could not guess.
As they left the park by the lower lodge, the Whyterigg car turned in at the gates, and roared past them in the fading light.
“There’s Rishwald,” Callander remarked, looking after it. “Christian will be late. Mrs. Stanley was ready for dinner long since, and kept coming out of her room and signalling me with hair-brushes to know whether you were still in the house.”
“It was good of you to wait,” Deb replied mechanically. Her brain was still numb after the late strain, and she felt dazed by the rushing tumult around her.
“I wanted to walk home with you,” he said simply.“I knew Christian was engaged, and it isn’t a night for a lady to be out alone,” and put his arm before her as he spoke, for a torn branch came whirling heavily to the ground at their very feet.
She could hear the big tide filling the river, and wondered if the sheep were safe on the mosses, and whether the low-lying farms were trembling for the sea-wall. She could not help remembering that on such a night Slinker had gone to his account. On such a night Christian had come into her life; and on this, its counterpart, he was going out of it. A thought struck her, and she half-stopped, looking back to Crump.
“What is it?” Callander asked. “Have you forgotten something? I will go back for it.” But she turned again, shaking her head.
“It was only an old superstition that came into my mind,” she explained, when they came under the lee of the Kilne wall, and she could get her breath. “They say Lyndesays of Crump always die in a gale. I suppose it’s absurd, but it’s a fact that Stanley died on a night like this, and William Lyndesay, too. Of course there is many a storm which brings no disaster, and it can’t be anything but a curious coincidence, but Crump has many a frowning fate against it, as you must have found, by now.”
“Yes, the estate seems to reek with ill-luck,” Callander said thoughtfully. “I’m always running up against samples. And how firmly everybody believes in it, too! This field must not be ploughed—nothingwould spring in it. Sheep can’t be heafed on that fell—they would die in a week. In a certain shippon the dobbie milks first; and so on. It has a certain charm for an outsider, but it is awkward from a business point of view, and must be decidedly trying if you take it all to heart.”
“There’s a big wrestling-match on at the Academy, to-night,” he added presently, “and Christian has promised to look in. I’m going up for him, so can keep an eye open to see that the gale does him no harm!” he ended laughingly, as they reached the gate.
“Thanks!” Deb returned, smiling. “It’s all nonsense, I suppose, and you must think me very silly, but I’m just as governed by the old traditions as all the rest.”
“I’m glad you came here,” she added, on a sudden impulse. “I’m glad you’ll have Kilne when we’re gone. It knows you already—don’t you feel it when you come in? I couldn’t have gone away, leaving the house to a stranger.”
“There is no need for you ever to go away,” he answered quietly. “This isn’t the time for speaking, but you may as well know it. Think it over, my Lady of the Land!”
He went away without waiting for an answer, and she stood in the porch, looking across to the lights of Crump starred steadfast on the frantic night, and her heart reached piteously across the cleaving water. Then, conscious of a great unwillingnessto leave the wildness without, she went wearily into the house.
Even the most perfect of servants has his moments of temporary aberration, and when Mrs. Slinker came lightly down the stairs in clinging, gleaming, ivory satin, with pearls twisted round her head and pearls shining from her throat, it was scarcely surprising that the first footman should drop the steel poker and stare like a very kitchen-maid.
“She’s a bloomin’ bride!” he informed the underworld, when he had got himself (furtively staring to the furthest limit) safely out of reach. “A bloomin’ bride—that’s what she looked, and no mistake about it! Satin and ropes of pearls, and twinkly things on her shoes, and a colour like the light shining through that there ruby sugar-bowl! You take my word for it, she’s making up her mind to get married again—soon!”
“Then it’s Whyterigg,” announced the second, who had just reached the blissful stage at which he was permitted to make observations without being unduly snubbed. “I hung up his coat when he came, and there was a hard thing with corners in his pocket that couldn’t have been anything else but chocolates.Hehas a kind of white satin and ruby look about him, too. Bet you what you like it’s Whyterigg!”
“Rishwald’s running her hard,” the cook agreed. “My young man says his car’s always in the village,and Rishwald peering into shops and looking lost, and then rushing inside to buy things he can’t want anyhow if he thinks folks is looking at him. And last time he came he never touched that vol-o-vong I sent up extra-special. There’s bound to be something at the back ofthat. My aunt! she’s doing well for herself—first Crump and then Whyterigg! None so dusty for a horse-dealer’s daughter, is it?”
“I don’t believe she’ll take Whyterigg,” a quiet, refined-looking girl spoke up from beside the fire. “She’s only cared for one man all her life, and we all know who that is! I used to see a lot of Nettie Stone before she was sent away to finish her education, and she was in love with Anthony Dixon even then.”
“Go on—you and your Anthony Dixon!” the cook sniffed contemptuously. “As if anybody with a chance of Whyterigg would be cracked enough to give Dockerneuk a second thought! She’s travelled far enough from her Dockerneuk days, I’ll be bound. Satin for Anthony Dixon! Pearls! Twinkly things on her toes! A fat lotyouknow about it, to be sure. Rishwald it’ll be, you’ll see, and another slap in the eye for their precious county!”
Rishwald was distinctly of the same opinion, judging from the atmosphere of tender possession with which he instantly surrounded the bridal vision. He even forgot certain tea-spoons of quite historic importance, and was content to whisper illiteratenothings into a charming ear, while the footmen eyed him through the open dining-room door, and laid bets as to his probable chances.
Christian was late, as Callander had prophesied, and when he entered at last it was with a double apology.
“You’ll think me frightfully rude, of course, and I’m wretchedly ashamed, but I was unexpectedly detained; and to make matters worse, I’m afraid I shall have to go down into the village, later on. I suppose you wouldn’t care to come along?—a wrestling-match, you know—some of your men are down,—yes, yes, you’d rather stop here, of course—I quite understand! I seem to have made a muddle of things, somehow—I’ve rather a knack that way,” he added, with a sudden little laugh, at which Nettie looked up quickly.
Something had happened, she knew, upstairs in that detestable little room which had never harboured anything but trouble; something that had sent Deborah away without a word to herself, and set that hurt, puzzled look in Christian’s kind eyes. To-morrow she would find out, and by hook or crook things should be put right; but to-night washernight, and she could spare no thought for any one else. The gale had set her blood racing in her veins—wild blood that came through a questionable pedigree from lawless Border thieves of the North; and the interview with Roger Lyndesay had carried her back with a rush to the happy days of her earlygirlhood, when she and Dixon were stepping on the borderland of love, and the shadow of Crump was far enough from their young glamour. The old man’s courtly action had given her back her self-respect as nothing else could have done, setting her free, it seemed, for the future. For the second time she shook off her dead husband’s clasp, and deliberately took her life in both hands, calling on the gods of field and fold.
Dinner was a rapid meal, and when the ladies rose, the men followed very shortly. Rishwald drew Nettie to the piano, but though she played when he asked her, she would not sing, for in her ears was a rioting song of hope and fear, so tempestuous that she marvelled others could not hear it. His head swam as he bent over her flushed cheek and shining gown, hungering for some response to his passion, and nearer complete abstraction from self than he had ever been in his life, or would be again.
Christian sat by the fire, sunk in a deep chair, his face hidden in a cloud of smoke. Near him, his mother bent closely over a fine square of lace, her thin, powerful fingers moving lightly among the threads. They never looked at each other—these two. The veil of bitterness between them was stretched to-night as far as the stars.
“If you would give us a week at Whyterigg,” Rishwald was saying quite humbly, “I should be honoured to arrange an old-time concert in the musician’s gallery. A harpsichord—viola da gamba,and so on—the musicians in costume, of course. Does the idea please you?”
He bent nearer, and at that moment a bell rang, far at the back of the house. Nettie started violently, her hands dropping from the keys, and she half-rose, looking at the stairs, but before she could move, one of the men entered with the message that Anthony Dixon wished to see Mrs. Stanley.
Slinker’s wife came out from behind the piano.
“Bring him here, please,” she said quickly. “I will see him here. That is, if you will excuse me!” she added, turning apologetically to her hosts.
“My dear Nettie!” Mrs. Lyndesay’s eyebrows went up in cold disapproval. “If you must see the man—and surely it cannot be necessary, at this hour?—the hall is scarcely the place for an interview. The steward’s room, Matthew, or the east parlour.”
The servant bowed and was turning away when Mrs. Slinker checked him. She stood in the middle of the hall, a radiant, gleaming figure, scattering the gloom of Crump like a high-held lamp, showing beside the rigid blackness of her mother-in-law like a shining lily beside a bough of yew.
“No—wait!” she said clearly, putting out her hand, and Christian, through the smoke, saw that her wedding-ring had disappeared. “I prefer to have him brought here—if you will forgive me. Do as I say, please!” and the startled footman threw a frightened glance at the older woman, and fled. For the first and last time in her life, Nettie Stonewas absolute mistress of Crump, and she never forgot it.
Anthony came into the hall shyly, but with his beautiful dignity unimpaired. His hat was off, and his hand went up in salute as his tranquil eyes travelled deferentially round the circle. Christian nodded cordially through his screen of smoke, and Rishwald, though deeply annoyed by the interruption, acknowledged his greeting with a stiff bend of the head; but Mrs. Lyndesay merely stared at him in cold surprise, and the quick blood rushed to his tanned face as he realised her resentment at his presence.
“I’m sorry if I’m intruding, ma’am,” he said quietly. “I’m here by order. Mrs. Stanley sent me word she had something to ask me.” And Slinker’s wife, her face all laughter and tears, walked up to him and said—“That’s so, Anthony! Will you marry me?” and laid her hands on his breast.
In the mighty pause that followed they were still as stone, spectators as well as actors in the swift little scene; and then came a soft, final sound—the closing of the library door. Even Rishwald saw clear at that moment, and he knew that he had lost. There was one thing at least Whyterigg would never take from Crump.
Mrs. Lyndesay stood up and reached for the bell, but Christian slid his fingers over the ivory knob before she could press it.
“Leave that, Mother!” he said with gentle force. “This matter is for ourselves only. I’ll not have Anthony turned like a dog from Crump.” He dropped his hand and stood up beside her, staring at the still, concentrated figures, conscious only of themselves.
“Turn them out!” Mrs. Lyndesay said in a low, harsh voice, and suddenly she began to shake like a leaf in the wind of her wounded pride. “Turn them both out—the woman as well—the low-born thing that in my folly I raised to our level! She shows her breeding at last, insulting us under our very roof. Turn them out! If William Lyndesay were alive, he would have them whipped from the door!”
The fierce words reached the culprit, and Slinker’s wife dropped her hands and turned towards the furious voice, paling a little, though her eyes were full of soft light.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently, “but I had to do it—it was the only way to make Anthony believe I cared. Yes, turn me out—pleaseturn me out—quick!—and then—he’ll take me in!”
She stretched out her hands, half-laughing, half-crying, and Christian went across to her and caught them in his own.
“Oh, Nettie, how mad you are!” he exclaimed, divided himself between laughter and tears. “You foolish, ridiculous, utterly adorable thing! As ifyou’d ever be turned from here while Crump is Christian’s roof!”
But Anthony stepped forward with a certain dogged resentment, his quiet face working painfully.
“All the same, it’s done, sir, asking your pardon! It’s not true that William Lyndesay would have turned me out. He never gave me a wrong word. But neither Anthony Dixon nor aught that belongs to him needs telling to go more than once. Nettie comes home with me to-night to my mother, and while I live she never crosses the door again!”
“Come, Anthony—take time to think——!” Christian expostulated, hurt yet conciliatory, but Dixon waved him aside.
“Where’s your cloak, lass?” he said to Slinker’s wife, and with a low laugh of pure happiness she caught up a rug that Christian had given her at Christmas, and threw it round her, following Dixon to the door. As he opened it, she turned abruptly, and took a last look at the rigid figure by the fire, its scornful eyes following her with open hatred, and for a long moment the two women stood staring at each other across the hall. Then Slinker’s wife uttered a passionate little sound, part sorrow and part justified relief.
“You never really loved me,” she said, “never, never—except as Stanley’s chattel! I’m sorry, I think, but it makes things easier.” Then she stepped back to Christian, caught his hand and kissed it.“Good-bye, Youngest One! Don’t forget me. I’d stay with you if I could, but I’m called home, and you won’t grudge me that. Oh, Laker dear, at least there’s one lost dog no more a-seeking!”
At the foot of the steps he saw Anthony throw his arm around her, and Nettie lay her face on his breast; and his eyes were wet when he stepped inside and shut them out.