It was the only breath of fresh air which I had allowed myself all the morning, though the dazzling sunlight and the soft west wind had tempted me all the time. And now, as ill luck would have it, I had walked straight into the presence of the one person in the world whom I wished most earnestly to avoid. She was standing on the edge of the cliff, her hands behind her, gazing seawards, and though I stopped short at the sight of her, and for a moment entertained wild thoughts of flight, it was not possible for me to carry them out. A dry twig snapped beneath my feet, and, turning quickly round, she had seen me. She came forward at once, and for some reason or other I knew that she was glad. She smiled upon me almost gaily.
"So this sunshine has even tempted you out, Sir Hermit," she exclaimed."Is it not good to feel the Spring coming?"
"Delightful," I answered.
She looked at me curiously.
"How pale you are!" she said. "You are working too hard, Mr. Ducaine."
"I came down from London by the mail last night," I said. "I sawColonel Ray—had dinner with him, in fact."
She nodded, but asked me no questions.
"I think," she said abruptly, "that they are all coming down here in a few days. I heard from my father this morning."
I sighed.
"I have been very unfortunate, Lady Angela," I said. "Your father is displeased with me. I think that but for Colonel Ray I should have been dismissed yesterday."
"Is it about—the Prince of Malors?" she asked in a low tone.
"Partly. I was forced to tell what I knew." She hesitated for a moment, then she turned impulsively toward me.
"You were right to tell them, Mr. Ducaine," she said. "I have hated myself ever since the other night when I seemed to side against you. There are things going on about us which I cannot fathom, and sometimes I have fears, terrible fears. But your course at least is a clear one. Don't let yourself be turned aside by any one. My father has prejudices which might lead him into grievous errors. Trust Colonel Ray—no one else. Yours is a dangerous position, but it is a splendid one. It means a career and independence. If there should come a time even—"
She broke off abruptly in her speech. I could see that she was agitated, and I thought that I knew the cause.
"Lady Angela," I said slowly, "would it not be possible for you andColonel Ray to persuade Lord Blenavon to go abroad?"
She swayed for a moment as though she would have fallen, and her eyes looked at me full of fear.
"You think—that it would be better?"
"I do."
"It would break my father's heart," she murmured, "if ever he could be brought to believe it."
"The more reason why Lord Blenavon should go," I said. "He is set between dangerous influences here. Lady Angela, can you tell me where your brother was last night?"
"How should I?" she answered slowly. "He tells me nothing."
"He was not at home?"
"He dined at home. I think that he went out afterwards."
I nodded.
"And if he returned at all," I said, "I think you will find that it was after three o'clock."
She came a little nearer to me, although indeed we were in a spot where there was no danger of being overheard.'
"What do you know about it?"
"Am I not right?" I asked.
"He did not return at all," she answered. "He is not home yet."
I had believed from the first that Blenavon was one of my two assailants. Now I was sure of it.
"When he does come back," I remarked grimly, "you may find him more or less damaged."
"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "you must explain yourself."
I saw no reason why I should not do so. I told her the story of my early morning adventure. She listened with quivering lips.
"You were not hurt, then?" she asked eagerly.
"I was not hurt," I assured her. "I was fortunate."
"Tell me what measures you are taking," she begged.
"What can I do?" I asked. "It was pitch dark, and I could identify no one. I am writing Colonel Ray. That is all."
"That hateful woman," she murmured. "Mr. Ducaine, I believe that if Blenavon is really concerned in this, it is entirely through her influence."
"Very likely," I answered. "I have heard strange things about her. She is a dangerous woman."
We were both silent for a moment. Then Lady Angela, whose eyes were fixed seawards, suddenly turned to me.
"Oh," she cried, "I am weary of all these bothers and problems and anxieties. Let us put them away for one hour of this glorious morning. Dare you play truant for a little while and walk on the sands?"
"I think so," I answered readily, "if you will wait while I go and putGrooton in charge."
"I will be scrambling down," she declared. "It is not a difficult operation."
I joined her a few minutes later, and we set our faces toward the point of the bay. Over our heads the seagulls were lazily drifting and wheeling, the quiet sea stole almost noiselessly up the firm yellow sands. Farther over the marshes the larks were singing. Inland, men like tiny specks in the distance were working upon their farms. We walked for a while in silence, and I found myself watching my companion. Her head was thrown slightly back, she walked with all the delightful grace of youth and strength, yet there was a cloud which still lingered upon her face.
"These," I said abruptly "should be the happiest days of your life, Lady Angela. After all, is it worth while to spoil them by worrying about other people's doings?"
"Other people's doings?" she murmured.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Selfishness, you know, is the permitted vice of the young—and of lovers."
"Blenavon can scarcely rank amongst the other people with me," she said."He is my only brother."
"Colonel Ray is to be your husband," I reminded her, "which is far more important."
She turned upon me with flaming cheeks.
"You do not understand what you are talking about, Mr. Ducaine," she said, stiffly. "Colonel Ray and I are not lovers. You have no right to assume anything of the sort."
"If you are not lovers," I said, "what right have you to marry?"
She seemed a little staggered, as indeed she might be by my boldness.
"You are very mediaeval," she remarked.
"The mediaeval sometimes survives. It is as true now as then that loveless marriages are a curse and a sin," I answered. "It is the one thing which remains now as it was in the beginning."
She looked at me furtively, almost timidly.
"I should like to know why you are speaking to me like this," she said. "I do not want to seem unkind, but do you think that the length of our acquaintance warrants it?"
"I do not know how long I have known you," I answered. "I do not remember the time when I did not know you. You are one of those people to whom I must say the things which come into my mind. I think that if you do not love Colonel Ray you have no right to marry him."
She looked me in the face. Her cheeks were flushed with walking, and the wind had blown her hair into becoming confusion.
"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "do you consider that Colonel Ray is your friend?"
"He has been very good to me," I answered.
"There is something between you two. What is it?"
"It is not my secret," I told her.
"There is a secret, then," she murmured. "I knew it. Is this why you do not wish me to marry him?"
"I have not said that I do not wish you to marry him," I reminded her.
"Not in words. You had no need to put it into words."
"You are very young," I said, "to marry any one for any other reason save the only true one. Some day there might be some one else."
She watched the flight of a seagull for a few moments—watched it till its wings shone like burnished silver as it lit upon the sun-gilded sea.
"I do not think so," she said, dreamily. "I have never fancied myself caring very much for any one. It is not easy, you know, for some of us."
"And for some," I murmured, "it is too easy."
She looked at me curiously, but she had no suspicion as to the meaning of my words.
"I want you to tell me something," she said, in a few minutes. "Have you any other reason beyond this for objecting to my marriage with Colonel Ray?"
"If I have," I answered slowly, "I cannot tell it you. It is his secret, not mine."
"You are mysterious!" she remarked.
"If I am," I objected, "you must remember that you are asking me strange questions."
"Colonel Ray is too honest," she said, thoughtfully, "to keep anything from me which I ought to know."
I changed the conversation. After all I was a fool to have blundered into it. We talked of other and lighter things. I exerted myself to shake off the depression against which I had been struggling all the morning. By degrees I think we both forgot some part of our troubles. We walked home across the sandhills, climbing gradually higher and higher, until we reached the cliffs. On all sides of us the coming change in the seasons seemed to be vigorously asserting itself. The plovers were crying over the freshly-turned ploughed fields, a whole world of wild birds and insects seemed to have imparted a sense of movement and life to what only a few days ago had been a land of desolation, a country silent and winterbound. Colour was asserting itself in all manner of places—in the green of the sprouting grass, the shimmer of the sun upon the sea-stained sands, in the silvery blue of the Braster creeks. Lady Angela drew a long breath of content as we paused for a moment at the summit of the cliffs.
"And you wonder," she murmured, "that I left London for this!"
"Yes, I still wonder," I answered. "The beauties of this place are for the lonely—I mean the lonely in disposition. For you life in the busy places should just be opening all her fascinations. It is only when one is disappointed in the more human life that one comes back to Nature."
"Perhaps then," she said, a little vaguely, "I too must be suffering from disappointments. I have never realized—"
We had taken the last turn. My cottage was in sight. To my surprise a man was standing there as though waiting. He turned round as we approached. His face was very pale, and the back of his head was bandaged. He carried his arm, too, in a sling. It was Colonel Mostyn Ray!
Ray was smoking his customary enormous pipe, which he deliberately emptied as Lady Angela and I approached. The sight of him and the significance of his wounds reduced me to a state of astonishment which could find no outlet in words. I simply stood and stared at him. Lady Angela, however, after her first exclamation of surprise, went up and greeted him.
"Why, my dear Mostyn," she exclaimed, "wherever have you sprung from, and what have you been doing to yourself?"
"I came from London—newspaper train," he answered.
"And your head and arm?"
"Thrown out of a hansom last night," he said grimly.
We were all silent for a moment. So far as I was concerned, speech was altogether beyond me. Lady Angela, too, seemed to find something disconcerting in Ray's searching gaze.
"My welcome," he remarked quietly, "does not seem to be overpowering."
Lady Angela laughed, but there was a note of unreality in her mirth.
"You must expect people to be amazed, Mostyn," she said, "if you treat them to such surprises. Of course I am glad to see you. Have you seen Blenavon yet?"
"I have not been to the house," he answered. "I came straight here."
"And your luggage?" she asked.
"Lost," he answered tersely. "I only just caught the train, and the porter seems to have missed me."
"You appear to have passed through a complete chapter of mishaps," she remarked. "Never mind! You must want your lunch very badly, or do you want to talk to Mr. Ducaine?"
"Next to the walk up to the house with you," he answered, "I think thatI want my lunch more than anything in the world."
Lady Angela smiled her farewells at me, and Ray nodded curtly. I watched them pass through the plantation and stroll across the Park. There was nothing very loverlike in their attitude. Ray seemed scarcely to be glancing towards his companion; Lady Angela had the air of one absorbed in thought. I watched them until they disappeared, and then I entered my own abode and sat down mechanically before the lunch which Grooton had prepared. I ate and drank as one in a dream. Only last night Ray had said nothing about coming to Braster. Yet, there he was, without luggage, with his arm and head bound up. Just like this I expected to see the man whom I had struck last night.
Now though Ray's attitude towards me was often puzzling, an absolute faith in his honesty was the one foundation which I had felt solid beneath my feet during these last few weeks of strange happenings. This was the first blow which my faith had received, and I felt that at any cost I must know the truth. After lunch I finished the papers which, when complete, it was my duty to lock away in the library safe up at the house, and secured them in my breast-pocket. But instead of going at once to the house I set out for Braster Junction.
There was a porter there whom I had spoken to once or twice. I called him on one side.
"Can you tell me," I asked, "what passengers there were from London by the newspaper train this morning?"
"None at all, sir," the man answered readily.
"Are you quite sure?" I asked.
The man smiled.
"I'm more than sure, sir," the man answered, "because she never stopped. She only sets down by signal now, and we had the message 'no passengers' from Wells. She went through here at forty miles an hour."
"I was expecting Colonel Ray by that train," I remarked, "the gentleman who lectured on the war, you know, at the Village Hall."
The man looked at me curiously.
"Why, he came down last night, same train as you, sir. I know, because he only got out just as the train was going on, and he stepped into the station master's house to light his pipe."
"Thank you," I said, giving the man a shilling. "I must have just missed him, then."
I left the station and walked home. Now, indeed, all my convictions were upset. Colonel Ray had left me outside his clubhouse last night, twenty minutes before the train started, without a word of coming to Braster. Yet he travelled down by the same train, avoided me, lied to Lady Angela and myself this morning, and had exactly the sort of wounds which I had inflicted upon that unknown assailant who attacked me in the darkness. If circumstantial evidence went for anything, Ray himself had been my aggressor.
I avoided the turn by Braster Grange and went straight on to the village. Coming out of the post office I found myself face to face with Blanche Moyat. She held out her hand eagerly.
"Were you coming in?" she asked.
"Well, not to-day," I answered. "I am on my way to Rowchester, and I am late already."
She kept by my side.
"Come in for a few moments," she begged, in a low tone. "I want to talk to you."
"Not the old subject, I hope," I remarked.
She looked around with an air of mystery.
"Do you know that some one is making inquiries about—that man?"
"I always thought it possible," I answered, "that his friends might turn up some time or other."
We were opposite the front of the Moyats' house. She opened the door and beckoned me to follow. I hesitated, but eventually did so. She led the way into the drawing-room, and carefully closed the door after us.
"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "I mean it, really. There is some one in the village making inquiries—about—the man who was found dead."
"Well," I said, "that is not very surprising, is it? His friends were almost certain to turn up sooner or later."
"His friends! But do you know who it is?" she asked.
I sank resignedly into one of Mrs. Moyat's wool-work covered chairs.An absurd little canary was singing itself hoarse almost over my head.I half closed my eyes. How many more problems was I to be confrontedwith during these long-drawn-out days of mystery?
"Oh, I do not know," I declared. "I am sure I do not care. I am sorry that I ever asked you for one moment to keep your counsel about the fellow. I never saw him, I do not know who he was, I know nothing about him. And I don't want to, Miss Moyat. He may have been prince or pedlar for anything I care."
"Well, he wasn't an ordinary person, after all," she declared, with an air of mystery. "Have you heard of the lady who's taken Braster Grange? She's a friend of Lord Blenavon's. He's always there."
"I have heard that there is such a person," I answered wearily.
"She's been making inquiries right and left—everywhere. There's a notice in yesterday'sWells Gazette, and a reward of fifty pounds for any one who can give any information about him sufficient to lead to identification."
"If you think," I said, "that you can earn the pounds, pray do not let me stand in your way."
She looked at me with a fixed intentness which I found peculiarly irritating.
"You don't think that I care about the fifty pounds," she said, coming over and standing by my chair.
"Then why take any notice of the matter at all?" I said. "All that you can disclose is that he came from the land and not from the sea, and that he asked where I lived. Why trouble yourself or me about the matter at all? There really isn't any necessity. Some one else probably saw him besides you, and they will soon find their way to this woman."
"It was only to me," she murmured, "that he spoke of you."
"Do you believe," I asked, "that I murdered him?"
She shuddered.
"No, of course I don't," she declared.
"Then why all this nervousness and mystery?" I asked. "I have no fear of anything which might happen. Why should you be afraid?"
"I am not afraid," she said slowly, "but there is something about it which I do not understand. Ever since that morning you have avoided me."
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed.
"It is not nonsense," she answered. "It is the truth. You used to come sometimes to see father—and now you never come near the place. It is—too bad of you," she went on, with a little sob. "I thought that after that morning, and my promising to do what you asked, that we should be greater friends than ever. Instead of that you have never been near us since. And I don't care who knows it. I am miserable."
She was leaning against the arm of my chair. It was clearly my duty to administer the consolation which the situation demanded. I realized, however, that the occasion was critical, and I ignored her proximity.
"Miss Moyat," I said, "I am sorry if asking you to tell that harmless little fib has made you miserable. I simply desired—"
"It isn't altogether that," she interrupted. "You know it isn't."
"You give me credit for greater powers of divination than I possess," I answered calmly. "Your father was always very kind to me, and I can assure you that I have not forgotten it. But I have work to do now, and I have scarcely an hour to spare. Mr. Moyat would understand it, I am sure."
The door was suddenly opened. Mrs. Moyat, fat and comely, came in. She surveyed us both with a friendly and meaning smile, which somehow made my cheeks burn. It was no fault of mine that Blanche had been hanging over my chair.
"Come," she said, "I'm sure I'm very glad to see you once more, Mr. Ducaine. Such a stranger as you are too! But you don't mean to sit in here without a fire all the afternoon, I suppose, Blanche. Tea is just ready in the dining-room. Bring Mr. Ducaine along, Blanche."
I held out my hand.
"I am sorry that I cannot stop, Mrs. Moyat," I said. "Good-afternoon,Miss Moyat."
She looked me in the eyes.
"You are not going," she murmured.
"I am afraid," I answered, "that it is imperative. I ought to have been at Rowchester long ago. We are too near neighbours, though, not to see something of one another again before long."
"Well, I'm sure there's no need to hurry so," Mrs. Moyat declared, backing out of the room. "Blanche, you see if you can't persuade Mr. Ducaine. Father'll be home early this evening, too."
"I think," Blanche said, "that Mr. Ducaine has made up his mind."
She walked with me to the hall door, but she declined to shake hands with me. Her appearance was little short of tragic. I think that at another time I might have been amused, for never in my life had I spoken more than a few courteous words to the girl. But my nerves were all on edge, and I took her seriously. I walked down the street, leaving her standing in the threshold with the door open as though anxious to give me a chance to return if I would. I looked back at the corner, and waved my hand. There was something almost threatening in the grim irresponsive figure, standing watching me, and making no pretence at returning my farewell—watching me with steady eyes and close-drawn brows.
I walked straight to the House, and locked up my papers in the great safe. I had hoped to escape without seeing either Ray or Lady Angela, but as I crossed the hall they issued from the billiard-room. Lady Angela turned towards me eagerly.
"Mr. Ducaine," she exclaimed, "have you seen anything of Lord Blenavon to-day?"
I shook my head.
"I have not seen him for several days, Lady Angela," I answered.
Ray said something to her which I could not hear. She nodded and left us together.
"It seems," he said, "that this amiable young gentleman is more or less in the clutches of our siren friend at Braster Grange. I think that you and I had better go and dig him out."
"Thank you," I answered, "but I had all I wanted of Braster Grange last night."
"Pooh!" he answered lightly, "you are not even scratched. They are clumsy conspirators there. I think that you and I are a match for them. Come along!"
"You must excuse me, Colonel Ray," I said, "but I have no desire to visit Braster Grange, even with you."
Lady Angela, whose crossing the hall had been noiseless, suddenly interposed.
"You are quite right, Mr. Ducaine," she said; "but this is no visit of courtesy, is it? I am sure that my brother would never stay there voluntarily. Something must have happened to him."
"We will go and see," Ray declared. "Come along, Ducaine."
I hesitated, but a glance from Lady Angela settled the matter. For another such I would have walked into hell. Ray and I started off together, and I was not long before I spoke of the things which were in my mind.
"Colonel Ray," I said, "when I saw you this morning you made two statements, both of which were false."
Ray brought out his pipe and began to fill it in leisurely fashion.
"Go on," he said. "What were they?"
"The first was that you had come down from London by the newspaper train this morning, and the second was that you had received your injuries in a hansom cab accident."
His pipe was started, and he puffed out dense volumes of smoke with an air of keen enjoyment.
"Worst of having a woman for your hostess," he remarked, "one can't smoke except a sickly cigarette or two. You should take to a pipe, Ducaine."
"Will you be good enough to explain those two misstatements, ColonelRay?"
"Lies, both of them!" he answered, with grim cheerfulness. "Rotten lies, and I hate telling 'em. The hansom cab accident must have sounded a bit thin."
"It did," I assured him.
He removed his pipe from his teeth, and pushed down the tobacco with the end of his finger.
"I came down from town by the same train that you did," he said, "and as for my broken head and smashed arm, you did it yourself."
"I imagined so," I answered. "Perhaps you will admit that you owe me some explanation." He laughed, a deep bass laugh, and looked down at me with a gleam of humour in his black eyes.
"Come," he said, "I think that the boot is on the other leg. My head is exceedingly painful and my leg is very stiff. For a young man of your build you have a most surprising muscle."
"I am to understand, then, that it was you who committed an unprovoked assault upon me—who planned to have me waylaid in that dastardly fashion?"
"Do you think," Ray asked quietly, "that I should be such a damned fool?"
"What am I to think, then, what am I to believe?" I asked, with a sudden anger. "You found me starving, and you gave me employment, but ever since I started my work life has become a huge ugly riddle. Are you my friend or my enemy? I do not know. There is a drama being played out before my very eyes. The figures in it move about me continually, yet I alone am blindfolded. I am trusted to almost an incredible extent. Great issues are confided to me. I have been given such a post as a man might work for a lifetime to secure. Yet where a little confidence would give me zest for my work—would take away this horrible sense of moving always in the darkness—it is withheld from me."
Ray smoked on in silence for several moments.
"Well," he said, "I am not sure that you are altogether unreasonable. But, on the other hand, you must not forget that there is method, and a good deal of it, in the very things of which you complain. There are certain positions in which a man may find himself where a measure of ignorance is a blessed thing. Believe me, that if you understood, your difficulties would increase instead of diminish."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"But between you and me at least, Colonel Ray," I said, "there is a plain issue. You can explain the events of last night to me."
"I will do that," he answered, "since you have asked it. Briefly, then, I parted from you on the steps of my club at a few minutes past nine last night."
"Yes!"
"I saw from the moment we appeared that you were being watched. I saw the man who was loitering on the pavement lean over to hear the address you gave to the cabman, and you were scarcely away before he was following you. But it was only just as he drove by, leaning a little forward in his hansom, that I saw his face. I recognized him for one of that woman's most dangerous confederates, and I knew then that some villainy was on foot. To cut a long story short, I came down unobserved in your train, followed you to Braster Grange, and was only a yard or two behind when this fellow, who acts as the woman'schauffeur, sprang out upon you. I was unfortunately a little two quick to the rescue, and received a smash on the head from your stick. Then you bolted, and I found myself engaged with a pair of them. On the whole I think that they got the worst of it."
"The other one—was Lord Blenavon!" I exclaimed.
"It was."
"Then he is concerned in the plots which are going on against us," I continued. "I felt certain of it. What a blackguard!"
"For his sister's sake," Colonel Ray said softly, "I want to keep him out of it if I can. Therefore I hit him a little harder than was necessary. He should be hors de combat for some time."
"But why didn't you cry out to me?" I said. "I should not have run if I had known that I had an ally there."
"To run was exactly what I wanted you to do," Ray answered. "You had the dispatch-box, and I wanted to see you safe away."
I glanced at his bandaged head and arm.
"I suppose that I ought to apologize to you," I said.
"Under the circumstances," he declared, "we will cry quits."
Then as we walked together in the glittering spring sunshine, this big silent man and I, there came upon me a swift, poignant impulse, the keener perhaps because of the loneliness of my days, to implore him to unravel all the things which lay between us. I wanted the story of that night, of my concern in it, stripped bare. Already my lips were opened, when round the corner of the rough lane by which Braster Grange was approached on this side came a doctor's gig. Ray shaded his eyes and gazed at its occupant.
"Is this Bouriggs, Ducaine?" he asked, "the man who shot with us?"
"It is Dr. Bouriggs," I answered.
Ray stopped the gig and exchanged greetings with the big sandy-haired man, who held a rein in each hand as though he were driving a market wagon. They chatted for a moment or two, idly enough, as it seemed to me.
"Any one ill at the Grange, doctor?" Ray asked at length.
The doctor looked at him curiously.
"I have just come from there," he answered. "There is nothing very seriously wrong."
"Can you tell me if Lord Blenavon is there?" Ray asked.
The doctor hesitated.
"It was hinted to me, Colonel Ray," he said, "that my visit to the Grange was not to be spoken of. You will understand, of course, that the etiquette of our profession—"
"Quite right," Ray interrupted. "The fact is, Lady Angela is very anxious about her brother, who did not return to Rowchester last night, and she has sent us out as a search party. Of course, if you were able to help us she would be very gratified."
The doctor hesitated.
"The Duke and, in fact, all the family have always been exceedingly kind to me," he remarked, looking straight between his horse's ears. "Under the circumstances you mention, if you were to assert that Lord Blenavon was at Braster Grange I do not think that I should contradict you."
Ray smiled.
"Thank you, doctor," he said. "Good morning."
The doctor drove on, and we pursued our way.
"It was a very dark night," Ray said, half to himself, "but if Blenavon was the man I hit he ought to have a cracked skull."
After all, our interrogation of the doctor was quite unnecessary. We were admitted at once to the Grange by a neatly-dressed parlour-maid. Mrs. Smith-Lessing was at home, and the girl did not for a moment seem to doubt her mistress's willingness to receive us. As she busied herself poking the fire and opening wider the thick curtains, Ray asked her another question.
"Do you know if Lord Blenavon is here?"
"Yes, sir," the girl answered promptly. "He was brought in last night rather badly hurt, but he is much better this morning. I will let Mrs. Smith-Lessing know that you are here, sir."
She hurried out, with the rustle of stiff starch and the quick light-footedness of the well-trained servant. Ray and I exchanged glances.
"After all, this is not such a home of mystery as we expected," I remarked.
"Apparently not," he answered. "The little woman is playing a bold game."
Then Mrs. Smith-Lessing came in.
She came in very quietly, a little pale and wan in this cold evening light. She held out her hand to me with a subdued but charming smile of welcome.
"I am so glad that you have come to see me," she said softly. "You can help me, too, about this unfortunate young man who has been thrown upon my hands. I—"
Then she saw Ray, and the words seemed to die away upon her lips. I had to steel my heart against her to shut out the pity which I could scarcely help feeling. She was white to the lips. She stood as one turned to stone, with her distended eyes fixed upon him. It was like a trapped bird, watching its impending fate. She faltered a little on her feet, and—I could not help it—I hurried to her side with a chair. As she sank into it she thanked me with a very plaintive smile.
"Thank you," she said, simply. "I am not very strong, and I did not know that man was with you."
Ray broke in. His voice sounded harsh, his manner, I thought, was unnecessarily brutal.
"I can understand," he said, "that you find my presence a little unwelcome. I need scarcely say that this is not a visit of courtesy. You know very well that willingly I would never spend a moment under the same roof as you. I am here to speak a few plain words, to which you will do well to listen."
She raised her eyes to his. Her courage seemed to be returning at the note of battle in his tone. Her small, well-shaped head was thrown back. The hands which grasped the sides of her chair ceased to tremble.
"Go on," she said.
"We will not play at cheap diplomacy," he said, sneeringly. "I know you by a dozen names, which you alter and adopt to suit the occasion. You are a creature of the French police, one of those parasitical creatures who live by sucking the honesty out of simpler persons. You are here because the more private meetings of the English Council of Defence are being held at Rowchester. It is your object by bribery, or theft, or robbery, or the seductive use of those wonderful charms of yours, to gain possession of copies of any particulars whatever about the English autumn manoeuvres, which, curiously enough, have been arranged as a sort of addendum to those on your side of the Channel. You have an ally, I regret to say, in the Duke's son, you are seeking to gain for yourself a far more valuable one in the person of this boy. You say to yourself, no doubt, Like father, like son. You ruined and disgraced the one. You think, perhaps, the other will be as easy."
"Stop!" she cried.
He looked at her curiously. Her face was drawn with pain. In her eyes was the look of a being stricken to death.
"It is terrible!" she murmured, "that men so coarse and brutal as you should have the gift of speech. I do not wish to ask for any mercy from you, but if I am to stay here and listen, you will speak only of facts."
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"You should be hardened by this time," he said, "but I forgot that we had an audience. It is always worth while to play a little to the gallery, isn't it? Well, facts, then. The boy is warned against you, and from to-day this house is watched by picked detectives. Blenavon can avail you nothing, for he knows nothing. Such clumsy schemes as last night's are foredoomed to failure, and will only get you into trouble. You will waste your time here. Take my advice, and go!"
She rose to her feet. Smaller and frailer than ever she seemed, as she stood before Ray, dark and massive.
"Your story is plausible," she said coldly. "It may even be true. But, apart from that, I had another and a greater reason for coming to England, for coming to Braster. I came to seek my husband—the father of this boy. I am even now in search of him."
I held my breath and gazed at Ray. For the moment it seemed as though the tables were turned. No signs of emotion were present in his face, but he seemed to have no words. He simply looked at her.
"He left me in January," she continued, "determined at least to have speech with his son. He heard then for the first time of the absconding trustee. He came to England, if not to implore his son's forgiveness, at least to place him above want. And in this country he has never been heard of. He has disappeared. I am here to find him. Perhaps," she added, leaning a little over towards Ray, and in a slightly altered tone, "perhaps you can help me?"
Again it seemed to me that Ray was troubled by a certain speechlessness. When at last he found words, they and his tone were alike harsh, almost violent.
"Do you think," he said, "that I would stretch out the little finger of my hand to help you or him? You know very well that I would not. The pair of you, in my opinion, were long since outside the pale of consideration from any living being. If he is lost, so much the better. If he is dead, so much the better still."
"It is because I know how you feel towards him," she said, slowly, "that I wondered—yes, I wondered!"
"Well?"
"Whether you could not, if you chose, solve for me the mystery of his disappearance."
There was as much as a dozen seconds or so of tense silence between them. She never once flinched. The cold question of her eyes seemed to burn its way into the man's composure. A fierce exclamation broke from his lips.
"If he were dead," he said, "and if it were my hand which had removed him, I should count it amongst the best actions of my life."
She looked at him curiously—as one might regard a wild beast.
"You can speak like this before his son?"
"I veil my words at no time and for no man," he answered. "The truth is always best."
Then the door opened, and Blenavon entered. His arm and head were bandaged, and he walked with a limp. He was deathly pale, and apparently very nervous. He attempted a casual greeting with Ray, but it was a poor pretence. Ray, for his part, had evidently no mind to beat about the bush.
"Lord Blenavon," he said, "this house is no fit place for your father's son. I have warned you before, but the time for advice is past. Your hostess here is a creature of the French police, and her business here is to suborn you and others whom she can buy or cajole into a treasonable breach of confidence. It is very possible that you know all this, and more. But I appeal to you as an Englishman and the representative of a great English family. Are you willing to leave at once with us and to depart altogether from this part of the country, or will you face the consequences?"
Blenavon was a coward. He shook and stammered. He was not even master of his voice.
"I do not understand you," he faltered. "You have no right to speak to me like this."
"Right or no right, I do," Ray answered. "If you refuse I shall not spare you. Last night was only one incident of many. I break my faith as a soldier by giving you this opportunity. Will you come?"
"I am waiting now for a carriage," Blenavon answered. "I have sent to the house for one."
"You will not return to the house," Ray said shortly. "You will leavehere for the station, the station for London, and London for theContinent. You do this, and I hold my peace. You refuse, and I seeLord Chelsford and your father to-night."
From the first I knew that he would yield, but he did it with an ill grace.
"I don't see why I should go," he said, sulkily.
"Either you and I together, or I alone, are going to catch the six o'clock train to London," Ray said. "If I go alone you will be an exile from England for the rest of your life, your name will be removed from every club to which you belong, and you will have brought irreparable disgrace upon your family. The choice is yours."
Blenavon turned towards the woman as though for aid. But she stood with her back to him, pale and with a thin scornful smile upon her lips.
"The choice," Ray repeated, glancing at his watch, "is yours, but the time is short."
"I will go," Blenavon said. "I was off in a day or two, anyway. Of what you suspect me I don't know, and I don't care. But I will go."
Ray put his watch into his pocket. He turned to Mrs. Smith-Lessing.
"Better come too," he said quietly. "You have no more chance here.Every one knows now who and what you are."
She looked at him with white expressionless face.
"It does not suit me to leave the neighbourhood at present," she said calmly.
If she had been a man Ray would have struck her. I could see his white teeth clenched fiercely together.
"It does not suit me," he said, in a low tone vibrate with suppressed passion, "to have you here. You are a plague spot upon the place. You have been a plague spot all your life. Whatever you touch you corrupt."
She shrank away for a moment. After all, she was a woman, and I hatedRay for his brutality.
"What a butcher you are!" she said, looking at him curiously. "If ever you should marry—God help the woman."
"There are women and women," he answered roughly. "As for you, you do not count in the sex at all."
She turned away from him with a little shudder, and for the first time during the interview she hid her face in her hands. It was all I could do to avoid speech.
"Come," he said, "do you agree? Will you leave this place? I promise you that your schemes here at any rate are at an end."
She turned to me. Perhaps something in my face had spoken the sympathy which I could not wholly suppress.
"Guy," she said, "I want to be rid of this man, because every word he speaks—hurts. But I cannot even look at him any more. At this war of words he has won. I am beaten. I admit it. I am crushed. I am not going away. I spoke truthfully when I said that I came to England in search of your father. We may both of us be the creatures that man would have you believe, but we have been husband and wife for eighteen years, and it is my duty to find out what has become of him. Therefore I stay."
I could see Ray's black eyes flashing. He almost gripped my arm as he drew me away. We three left the house together. At the bottom of the drive we met a carriage sent down from Rowchester. Ray stopped it.
"Blenavon and I will take this carriage to the station," he said. "Will you, Ducaine, return to Lady Angela and tell her exactly what has happened?"
"Oh, come, I'm not going to have that," Blenavon exclaimed.
"It will not be unexpected news," Ray said sternly. "Your sister suspects already."
"I'm not going to be bundled away and leave you to concoct any precious story you think fit," Blenavon declared, doggedly. "I—"
Ray opened the carriage door and gripped Blenavon's arm. "Get in," he said in a low, suppressed tone. There was something almost animal in the fury of Ray's voice. I looked away with a shudder. Blenavon stepped quietly into the carriage. Then Ray came over to me, and as he looked searchingly into my face, he pointed up the carriage drive.
"Boy," he said, "you are young, and in hell itself there cannot be many such as she. You think me brutal. It is because I remember—your mother!"
He stepped into the carriage. I turned round and set out forRowchester.
There followed for me another three days of unremitting work. Then midway through one morning I threw my pen from me with a great sense of relief. They might come or send for me when they chose. I had finished. My eyes were hot and my brain weary. Instinctively I threw open my front door, and it seemed to me that the sun and the wind and the birds were calling.
So I walked northwards down on the beach, across the grass-sprinkled sandhills and the mud-bottomed marshes. I walked with my cap stuffed in my pocket, my head bared to the freshening wind, and all the way I met no living creature. As I walked, my thoughts, which had been concentrated for these last few days upon my work, went back to that terrible half-hour at Braster Grange. I thought of Ray. I realized now that for days past I had been striving not to think of him. The man's sheer brutality appalled me. I believed in him now wholly, I believed at least in his honesty, his vigorous and trenchant loyalty. But the ways of the man were surely brutal to torture even vermin caught in the trap, and that woman, adventuress though she might be, had flinched before him in agony, as though her very nerves were being hacked out of her body. And Blenavon, too! Surely he might have remembered that he was her brother. He might have helped him to retain just a portion of his self-respect. Was he as severe on every measure of wrong-doing? I fancied to myself the meeting on that lonely road between the poor white-faced creature who had looked in upon my window, and this strong merciless man. Warmed with exercise as I was, I shivered. Ray reminded me of those grim figures of the Old Testament. An eye for an eye, a life for a life, were precepts with him indeed. He was as inexorable as Fate itself. I feared him, and I knew why. I feared him when I thought of Angela, almost over-sensitive, so delicate a flower to be held in his strong, merciless grasp. I walked faster and faster, for thoughts were crowding in upon me. Such a tangled web, such bitter sweetness as they held for me. These were the thoughts which in those days it was the struggle of my life to keep from coming to fruition. I knew very well that, if once I gave way to them, flight alone could save me. For the love of her was in my nerves, in every beat of my pulse, a wild and beautiful dream, against which I was fighting always a hopeless battle.
Far away, coming towards me along the sands, I saw her. I stopped short. For a moment my heart was hot with joy, then I looked wildly around, thinking of flight. It was not possible. Already she had seen me. She waved her hand and increased her pace, walking with the swift effortless grace of her beautiful young limbs, her head thrown back, a welcoming smile already parting her lips. I set my teeth and prepared myself for the meeting. Afterwards would come the pain, but for the present the joy of seeing her, of being with her, was everything! I hastened forward.
"I could not stay indoors," she said, as she turned by my side, "although I have an old aunt and some very uninteresting visitors to entertain. Besides, I have news! My father is coming down to-day, and I think some of the others. We have just had a telegram."
"I am glad," I answered. "I have just finished my work, and I want some more."
"You are insatiable," she declared, smiling. "You have written for three days, days and nights too, I believe, and you look like a ghost. You ought to take a rest now. You ought to want one, at any rate."
Then the smile faded from her lips, and the anxiety of a sudden thought possessed her.
"I have not heard a word from Colonel Ray," she said. "It terrifies me to think that he may have told my father about Blenavon."
"You must insist upon it that he does not," I declared. "Your brother has left England, has he not?"
"He is at Ostend."
"Then Colonel Ray will keep his word," I assured her. "Besides, you have written to him, have you not?"
"I have written," she answered. "Still, I am afraid. He will do what he thinks right, whatever it may be."
"He will respect your wishes," I said.
She smiled a little bitterly.
"He is not an easy person to influence," she murmured. "I doubt whether my wishes, even my prayers, would weigh with him a particle against his own judgment. And he is severe—very severe."
I said nothing, and we walked for some time in silence.
"Next week," she said abruptly, "I must go back to London."
It was too sudden! I could not keep back the little exclamation of despair. She walked for some time with her head turned away from me, as though something on the dark clear horizon across the waters had fascinated her, but I caught a glimpse of her face, and I knew that my secret had escaped me. Whether I was glad or sorry I could not tell. My thoughts were all in hopeless confusions. When she spoke, there was a certain reserve in her tone. I knew that things would never again be exactly the same between us. Yet she was not angry! I hugged that thought to myself. She was startled and serious, but she was not angry.
"One season is very much like another," she said, "but it is not possible to absent oneself altogether. Then afterwards there is Cowes and Homburg, and I always have a plan for at least three weeks in Scotland. I believe we shall close Rowchester altogether."
"The Duke?" I asked.
"He never spends the summer here," she answered. "We are generally together after July, so perhaps," she added, "you may have to endure more of my company than you think."
She looked at me with a faint, provoking smile. How dare she? I was master of myself now, and I answered her coldly.
"I shall be very sorry to leave here," I said. "I hope if my work lasts so long that I shall be able to go on with it at the 'Brand.'"
She made no answer to that, but in a moment or two she turned and looked at me thoughtfully.
"You are rather a surprising person," she remarked, "in many ways. And you certainly have strange tastes."
"Is it a strange taste to love this place?" I asked.
"Of course not. But, on the other hand, it is strange that you should be content to remain here indefinitely. Solitude is all very well at times, but at your age I think that the vigorous life of a great city should have many attractions for you. Life here, after all, must become something of an abstraction."
"It contents me," I declared shortly.
"Then I am not sure that you are in an altogether healthy frame of mind," she answered, coolly. "Have you no ambitions?"
"Such as I have," I muttered, "are hopeless. They were built on sand—and they have fallen."
"Then reconstruct them," she said. "You are far too young to speak with such a note of finality."
"Some day," I answered, "I suppose I shall. At present I am content to live on, amongst the fragments. One needs only imagination. The things one dreams about are always more beautiful and perhaps more satisfying than the things one does."
Again our eyes met, and I fancied that this time she was looking a little frightened. At any rate she knew. I was sure of that.
"What an ineffective sort of proceeding!" she murmured.
A creek separated us for a few minutes. When we came together again I asked her a question.
"There is something, Lady Angela," I said, "which, if you would forgive the impertinence of it, I should very much like to ask you."
She moved her head slowly, as though giving a tacit consent. But I do not think that she was quite prepared for what I asked her.
"When are you going to marry Colonel Ray?"
She looked at me quickly, almost furtively, and I saw that her cheeks were flushed. There was a look in her eyes, too, which I could not fathom.
"The date is not decided yet," she said. "You know there is some talk of trouble in Egypt, and if so he might have to leave at a moment's notice."
"It will not be, at any rate, before the autumn, then?" I persisted.
"No!"
I drew a little breath of relief. I was reckless whether she heard it or not. Suddenly she paused.
"Who is that?" she asked.
I recognized him at once—a small grey figure, standing on the top of a sandhill a little way off, and regarding us steadily. It was the Duke.
"Your father!" I said.
We quickened our pace. If Lady Angela was in any way discomposed she showed no signs of it. She waved her hand, and the Duke solemnly removed his hat.
"I am so glad that he has come down before the others," she said. "I am longing to have a talk with him. And I don't believe he knows anything about Blenavon. No, he's far too cheerful."
She went straight up to him and passed her arm through his. He greeted me stiffly, but not unkindly.
"I am so glad that you have come," she said. "If I had not heard I should have telegraphed to you. I've seen it in all the papers."
"You approve?" I heard him ask quietly.
"Approve is not the word," she declared eagerly. "It is magnificent."
"I wonder," he asked, "if you realize what it means?"
"It simply doesn't matter," she answered, with a delightful smile. "I can make my own dresses, if you like. Annette is a shocking nuisance to me."
"I am afraid," he remarked, with an odd little smile, "that Blenavon will scarcely regard the matter in the same light."
"Bother Blenavon!" she answered lightly. "I suppose you know that he's gone off abroad somewhere?"
"I had a hurried line from him with information to that effect," the Duke answered. "I think that it would have been more respectful if he had called to see me on his way through London."
I heard her sigh of relief.
"Now, tell me," she begged, "where shall we begin? Cowes, Homburg, town house, or Annette? I'm ready."
The Duke looked at her for a moment as I had never seen him look at any living person.
"You must not exaggerate to yourself the importance of this affair, Angela," he said. "I do not think we need interfere for the present with any existing arrangements."
She took his arm, and they walked on ahead to the clearing in front of my. cottage, talking earnestly together. I had no clue to the meaning of those first few sentences which had passed between them. And needless to say, I now lingered far enough behind to be out of earshot. When they reached the turn in the path they halted and waited for me.
"I am anxious for a few minutes' conversation inside with you, Ducaine," the Duke said. "Angela, you had better perhaps not wait for me."
She nodded her farewell, a brief imperious little gesture, it seemed to me, with very little of kindliness in it. Then the Duke followed me into my sitting-room. I waited anxiously to hear what he had to say.
The Duke selected my most comfortable easy chair and remained silent for several minutes, looking thoughtfully out of the window. Notwithstanding the fresh colour, which he seldom lost, and the trim perfection of his dress, I could see at once that there was a change in him. The lines about his mouth were deeper, his eyes had lost much of their keen brightness. I found myself wondering whether, after all, some suspicion of Lord Blenavon's doings had found its way to him.
"You are well forward with your work, I trust, Mr. Ducaine?" he said at last.
"It is completed, your Grace," I answered.
"The proposed subway fortifications as well as the new battery stations?"
"Yes, your Grace."
"What about the maps?"
"I have done them also to the best of my ability, sir," I answered. "I am not a very expert draughtsman, I am afraid, but these are at least accurate. If you would care to look them over, they are in the library safe."
"And the code word?"
In accordance with our usual custom I scribbled it upon a piece of paper, and held it for a moment before his eyes. Then I carefully destroyed it.
"To-morrow," he said, "perhaps to-night, we have some railway men coming down to thoroughly discuss the most efficient method of moving troops from Aldershot and London to different points, and to inaugurate a fresh system. You had better hold yourself in readiness to come up to the house at any moment. They are business men, and their time is valuable. They will probably want to work from the moment of their arrival until they go."
"Very good, your Grace," I answered.
He turned his head and looked at me for a moment reflectively.
"You remember our conversation at the War Office, Mr. Ducaine?"
"Yes, your Grace."
"I do not wish you to have a false impression as to my meaning at that time," he said coldly. "I do not, I have never, doubted your trustworthiness. My feeling was, and is, that you are somewhat young and of an impetuous disposition for a post of such importance. That feeling was increased, of course, by the fact that I considered your story with reference to the Prince of Malors improbable to the last degree. In justice to you," he continued more slowly, "I must now admit the possibility that your description of that incident may after all be in accordance with the facts. Certain facts have come to my knowledge which tend somewhat in that direction. I shall consider it a favour, therefore, if you will consider my remarks at that interview retracted."
"I thank your Grace very much," I answered.
"With reference to the other matter," he continued, "there my opinion remains unaltered. I do not believe that the papers in the safe were touched after you yourself deposited them there, and I consider your statement to the contrary a most unfortunate one. But the fact remains that you have done your work faithfully, and the Council is satisfied with your services. That being so, you may rely upon it that any feeling I may have in the matter I shall keep to myself."
I would have expressed my gratitude to him, but he checked me.
"There is," he said, "one other, a more personal matter, concerning which I desired a few words with you. I have had a visit from a relative of yours who is also an old friend of my own. I refer to Sir Michael Trogoldy."
I looked at him in amazement. I was, in fact, so surprised that I said nothing at all.
"Sir Michael, it seems, has been making inquiries about you, and learned of your present position," the Duke continued. "He asked me certain questions which I was glad to be able to answer on your behalf. He also entrusted me with a note, which I have here in my pocket."
He produced it and laid it upon the table. I made no movement to take it.
"The details of your family history," the Duke said, "are unknown to me. But if the advice of an old man is in any way acceptable to you, I should strongly recommend you to accept any offer of friendship which Sir Michael may make. He is an old man, and he is possessed of considerable wealth. Further, I gather that you are his nearest relative."
"Sir Michael was very cruel to my mother, sir," I said slowly.
"You have nothing to gain by the harbouring of ancient grievances," the Duke replied. "I have always known Sir Michael as a just if a somewhat stern man. Please, however, do not look upon me in any way as a would-be mediator. My interest in this matter ceases with the delivery of that letter."
The Duke rose to his feet. I followed him to the door.
"In any case, sir," I said, "I am very much obliged to you for your advice and for bringing me this letter."
"By-the-bye," the Duke said, pausing on the threshold, "I fear that we may lose the help of Colonel Ray upon the Council. There are rumours of serious trouble in the Soudan, and if these are in any way substantiated, he will be certainly sent there. Good afternoon, Mr. Ducaine."
"Good afternoon, your Grace."
So he left me, stiff, formal, having satisfied his conscience, though I felt in my heart that his opinion of me, once formed, was not likely to be changed. Directly I was alone I opened my uncle's letter.
"DEAR Guy,—
"It has been on my mind more than once during the last few years—ever since, in fact, I heard of you at college—to write and inform myself as to your prospects in life. You are the son of my only sister, although I regret to say that you are the son also of a man who disgraced himself and his profession. You have a claim upon me which you have made no effort to press. Perhaps I do not think the worse of you for that. In any case, I wish you to accept an allowance of which my lawyers will advise you, and if you will call upon me when you are in town I shall be glad to make your acquaintance. I may say that it was a pleasure to me to learn that you have succeeded in obtaining a responsible and honourable post.
"I am, yours sincerely,
I took pen and paper, and answered this letter at once.
"My DEAR SIR MICHAEL,—
"As I am your nephew, and I understand, almost your nearest relative, I see no reason why I should not accept the allowance which you are good enough to offer me. I shall also be glad to come and see you next time I am in London, if it is your wish.
"Yours sincerely,
Grooton brought in my tea, also a London morning paper which he had secured in the village.
"I thought that you might be interested in the news about the Duke, sir," he said respectfully.
"What news, Grooton?" I asked, stretching out my hand for the paper.
"You will find a leading article on the second page, sir, and another in the money news. It reads quite extraordinary, sir."
I opened the paper eagerly. I read every word of the leading article, which was entitled "Noblesse Oblige," and all the paragraphs in the money column. What I read did not surprise me in the least when once I had read the circumstances. It was just what I should have expected from the Duke. It seemed that he had lent his name to the prospectus of a company formed for the purpose of working some worthless patent designed to revolutionize the silk weaving trade. The Duke's reason for going on the Board was purely philanthropic. He had hoped to restore an ancient industry in a decaying neighbourhood. The whole thing turned out to be a swindle. One angry shareholder stated plainly at the meeting that he had taken his shares on account of the Duke's name upon the prospectus, and hinted ugly things. The Duke had risen calmly in his place. He assured them that he fully recognized his responsibilities in the matter. If the person who had last spoken was in earnest when he stated that the Duke's name had induced him to take shares in this company, then he was prepared to relieve him of those shares at the price which he had paid for them. Further, if there was any other persons who were able honestly to say that the name of the Duke of Rowchester upon the prospectus had induced them to invest their money in this concern, his offer extended also to them.