Monsieur François piloted the little party himself to the corner table which he had reserved for them. He had taken a fancy to this tall young Englishman, whose French, save for a trifle of accent, was as perfect as his own, who spent money with both hands, who was gay as the gayest, and yet who had the air of being little more than a looker-on at the merriment which he did so much to promote.
“We are full to-night, monsieur,” he said. “There will be a great crowd. Yet you see your table waits. Mademoiselle Bolero herself begged for it, but I said always—‘No! no! no! It is for monsieur and his friends.’”
“You are a prince,” Macheson exclaimed as they filed into their places. “To-night we are going to prove to ourselves that we are indeed in Paris! Sommelier, the same wine—in magnums to-night! My friend is sleepy. We must wake him up. Ah, mademoiselle!” he waved his hand to the little short-skirted danseuse. “You must take a glass of wine with us, and afterwards—the Maxixe! Waiter, a glass, a chair for mademoiselle!”
Mademoiselle came pirouetting up to them. Monsieur was very kind. She would take a glass of champagne, and afterwards—yes! the Maxixe, if they desired it!
They sat with their backs to the wall, facing the little space along which the visitors to the café came and went, and where, under difficulties, one danced. The leader of the orchestra came bowing and smiling towards them, playing an American waltz, and Macheson, with a laugh, sprang up and guided mademoiselle through the throng of people and hurrying waiters.
“Monsieur comes often to Paris?” she asked, as they whirled around.
“For the first time in my life,” Macheson answered. “We are here on a quest! We want to understand what pleasure means!”
Mademoiselle sighed ever so slightly under the powder with which her pretty face was disfigured.
“One is gay here always,” she said somewhat doubtfully, “but it is the people who come seldom who enjoy themselves the most.”
Macheson laughed as he led her back to their table.
“You are right,” he declared. “Pleasure is a subtle thing. It does not do to analyse.”
Macheson filled her glass.
“Sit down,” he said, “and tell us about the people. It is early yet, I suppose?”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she answered. “There are many who come every night who have not yet arrived.”
Ella leaned forward to ask a question, and mademoisellenodded. Yes! that was Bolero at the small table opposite. She sat with three men, one of whom was busy sketching on the back of the menu card. Bolero, with her wonderful string of pearls, smileless, stolid, with the boredom in her face of the woman who sees no more worlds to conquer. Monsieur with the ruffled hair and black eyes? Yes! a Russian certainly. Mademoiselle, with a smile which belied her words, was not sure of his name, but François spoke always of His Highness! The gentleman with the smooth-shaven face, who read a newspaper and supped alone? Mademoiselle looked around. She hesitated. After all, monsieur and his friends were only casual visitors. It was not for them to repeat it, but the gentleman was a detective—one of the most famous. He had watched for some one for many nights. In the end it would happen. Ah! Some one was asking for a cake-walk? Mademoiselle finished her wine hastily and sprang up. She will return? But certainly, if monsieur pleases!
The band struck up something American. Mademoiselle danced up and down the little space between the tables. Ella laid her hand upon Macheson’s shoulder.
“Why do you want to talk to every one?” she whispered. “I think you forget sometimes that you are not alone.”
Macheson laughed impatiently.
“My dear young lady,” he said, “you too forget that we are on a quest. We are here to understand what pleasure means—how to win it. We must talk to every one, do everything everybody else does. It’s no good looking on all the time.”
“But you never talk to me at all,” she objected.
“Rubbish!” he answered lightly. “You don’t listen. Come, I am getting hungry. Davenant, we must order supper.”
Davenant, whose hair Mademoiselle Rosine had been ruffling, whose tie was no longer immaculate, and who was beginning to realize that he had drunk a good deal of wine, leaned forward and regarded Macheson with admiration.
“Old man,” he declared, “you’re great! Order what you like. We will eat it—somehow, won’t we, Rosine?”
She laughed assent.
“For me,” she begged, “some caviare, and afterwards an omelette.”
“Consommé and dry biscuits—and some fruit!” Ella suggested.
Macheson gave the order and filled their glasses. It was half-past two, and people were beginning to stream in. Unattached ladies strolled down the room—looking for a friend—or to make one. Their more fortunate sisters of the “haute demi-monde” were beginning to arrive with their escorts, from the restaurants and cafés. Greetings were shouted up and down the room. Suddenly Ella’s face clouded over again. It was the girl in blue, with whom Macheson had danced at Lesueur’s, who had just entered with a party of friends, women in lace coats and wonderful opera cloaks, the men all silk-hatted—the shiniest silk hats in Europe—white gloves, supercilious and immaculate. A burst of applause greeted her, as, with her blue skirts daringly lifted, she danced down the room to thetable which was hastily being prepared for them. Her piquant face was wreathed with smiles, she shouted greetings everywhere, and when she saw Macheson, she threw him kisses with both hands, which he stood up and gallantly returned. She was the centre of attraction until Mademoiselle Anna from the Circus arrived, and to reach her place leaped lightly over an intervening table, with a wonderful display of red silk stocking and filmy lingerie. The place became gayer and noisier every moment. Greetings were shouted from table to table. The spirit of Bohemianism seemed to flash about the place like quicksilver. People who were complete strangers drank one another’s health across the room. The hard-worked waiters were rushing frantically about. The popping of corks was almost incessant, a blue haze of tobacco smoke hung about the room. Macheson, leaning back in his place, watched with eyes that missed little. He saw the keen-faced little man whose identity mademoiselle had disclosed, calmly fold up his paper, light a cigarette, and stroll across the room to a table nearly opposite. A man was sitting there with a couple of women—a big man with a flushed face and tumbled hair. The waiter was opening a magnum of champagne—everything seemed to promise a cheerful time for the trio. Then a word was whispered in his ear. The newcomer bowed apologetically to the ladies and accepted a glass of wine. But a moment later the two men left the place together—and neither returned.
“What are you staring at?” Ella demanded curiously.
Macheson looked away from the door and smiled quietly.
“I was wondering,” he answered, “what it was like—outside?”
“Would you like to go?” she whispered eagerly in his ear. “I’m ready. The others could come on afterwards.”
“What, without supper?” he exclaimed. “My dear girl, I’m starving. Besides—I didn’t mean that altogether.”
“It’s rather hard to know what you do mean,” she remarked with a sigh. “Say, I don’t understand you a little bit!”
“How should you,” he answered, “when I’m in the same fix myself?”
“I wish you were like other boys,” she remarked. “You’re so difficult!”
He looked at her—without the mask—for a moment, and she drew back, wondering. For his eyes were very weary, and they spoke to her of things which she did not understand.
“Don’t try,” he said. “It wouldn’t be any good.”
Mademoiselle sank into her chair opposite to them, breathless and hot. She accepted a glass of wine and begged for a cigarette. She whispered in Macheson’s ear that the big man was a forger, an affair of the year before last. He was safe away from Paris, but the price of his liberty was more than he could pay. The man there to the left with the lady in pink, no! not the Vicomte, the one beyond, he was tried for murder a month ago. There was a witness missing—the case fell through, but—mademoiselle shook her shoulders significantly. Thelady with fair hair and dark eyes, Macheson asked, was she English? But certainly, mademoiselle assured him. She was the divorced wife of an English nobleman. “To-night she is alone,” mademoiselle added, “but it is not often! Ah, monsieur!”
Mademoiselle shook her finger across the table. Macheson’s too curious glance had provoked a smile of invitation from the lady!
“I really think you might remember that I am here,” Ella remarked. “It is very interesting to hear you talk French, but I get tired of it!”
Mademoiselle took the hint and flitted away. Supper arrived and created a diversion. Nevertheless, Macheson alone of the little party seemed to have absorbed successfully the spirit of the place. He was almost recklessly gay. He drank toasts right and left. He was the centre from which the hilarity of the room seemed to radiate. Davenant was half muddled with wine, and sleepy. He sat with his arm about Rosine, who looked more often towards Macheson. Ella, who had refused to eat anything, was looking flushed and angry. She had tried to link her arm in her companion’s, but he had gently disengaged it. She kept whispering in his ear, and sat with her eyes glued upon Mademoiselle Flossie, whose glances and smiles were all for Macheson. And soon after the end came. The band began a waltz—“L’Amoureuse”—it was apparently mademoiselle herself who had commanded it. With the first bars, she sprang to her feet and came floating down the room, her arms stretched out towards Macheson. She leaned over the table, her body swaying towards him, her gesture of invitationpiquant, bewitching. Macheson, springing at once to his feet, rested his hand for a moment upon the table which hemmed him in, and vaulted lightly into the room. A chorus of laughter and bravoes greeted his feat.
“But he is un homme galant, this Englishman,” a Frenchwoman cried out, delighted. Every one was watching the couple. But Ella rose to her feet and called a waiter to move the table.
“I am going,” she said angrily. “I have had enough of this. You people can come when you like.”
They tried to stop her, but it was useless. She swept down the room, taking not the slightest notice of Macheson and his companion, a spot of angry colour burning in her cheeks. Davenant and Mademoiselle Rosine stood up, preparing to follow her. The former shouted to Macheson, who brought his partner up to their table and poured her out a glass of champagne.
“Ella’s gone!” Davenant exclaimed. “You’ll catch it!”
Macheson smiled.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Are you off too?”
“As soon as the Johnny brings the bill,” Davenant answered.
“I’ll settle up,” Macheson declared. “Take the automobile. I’ll follow you in a few minutes.”
Mademoiselle Flossie, called back to her own table, hurried off with a parting squeeze of Macheson’s hand. He sat down alone for a moment. At the other end of the room, a darkey with a doll’s hat upon his head was singing a coon song!
Alone for the first moment of the evening, it seemed to Macheson that a sudden wave of confounding thoughts surged into his brain, at war from the first with all that was sensuous and brilliant in this new and swiftly developed phase of his personality. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when again he opened them it seemed indeed as though a miracle had taken place. The whole atmosphere of the room was changed. He looked around, incredulous, amazed. The men especially were different. Such good fellows as they had seemed a few moments ago—from his altered point of view Macheson regarded them now in scornful curiosity. Their ties were awry, their hair was ruffled, their faces were paled or flushed. The laughter of women rang still through the place, but the music had gone from their mirth. It seemed to him that he saw suddenly through the smiles that wreathed their lips, saw underneath the barren mockery of it all. This hideous travesty of life in its gentler moods had but one end—the cold, relentless path to oblivion. Louder and louder the laughter rang, until Macheson felt that he must close his ears. The Devil was using his whip indeed.
Mademoiselle la Danseuse, seeing him alone, paused at his table on her way through the room.
“Monsieur istriste,” she remarked, “because his friends have departed.”
Macheson shook his head.
“I am off, too, in a few minutes,” he answered.
A waiter with immovable face slipped a note into his hand, under cover of presenting the bill. Macheson read it and glanced across the room. Mademoiselle Flossie was watching him with uplifted eyebrows and expectant smile. Macheson shook his head, slightly but unmistakably. The young lady in blue shrugged her shoulders and pouted.
Mademoiselle la Danseuse was watching him curiously.
“I wonder,” she said softly, “why monsieur comes here.”
“In search of pleasure,” Macheson answered grimly.
She looked at him fixedly, and Macheson, momentarily interested, returned her gaze. Then he saw that underneath the false smile, for a moment laid aside, there was something human in her face.
“Monsieur makes a brave show, but he does not succeed,” she remarked.
“And you?” he asked. “Why do you come here?”
“It pays—very well,” she answered quietly, and left him.
Macheson settled his bill and called for the vestiaire. In the further corner of the room two women were quarrelling. The languid senses of those who still lingered in the place were stirred.The place was electrified instantly with a new excitement. A fight, perhaps—every one crowded around. Unnoticed, Macheson walked out.
Down the narrow stairs he groped his way, with the music of the orchestra, the fierce hysterical cries of the women, the mock cheering of those who crowded round, in his ears. He passed out into the blue-grey dawn. The stars were faint in the sky, and away eastwards little fleecy red clouds were strewn over the house-tops. He stood on the pavement and drew in a long breath. The morning breeze was like a draught of cold water; it was as though he had come back to life again after an interlude spent in some other world. Overhead he could still hear the music of the “Valse Amoureuse,” the swell of voices. He shivered, with the cold perhaps—or the memory of the nightmare!
The commissionaire, hat in hand, summoned a coupé, and Macheson took his place in the small open carriage. Down the cobbled street they went, the crazy vehicle swaying upon its worn rubber tyres, past other night resorts with their blaze of lights and string of waiting cabs; past women in light boots, in strange costumes, artificial in colour and shape, painted, bold-eyed, uncanny pilgrims in the City of Pleasure; past the great churches, silent and stern in the cold morning light; past weary-eyed scavengers into the heart of the city, where a thin stream of early morning toilers went on their relentless way. Once more he entered the obscurity of his dimly lit hotel, where sleepy-eyed servants were sweeping, and retired to his room, into which he let himself at last with a sighof relief. He threw up the blinds and opened the windows. To be alone within those four walls was a blessed thing.
He threw off his coat and glanced at his watch. It was half-past five. His eyes were hot, but he had no desire for sleep. He walked restlessly up and down for a few minutes, and then threw himself into an easy-chair. Suddenly he looked up.
Some one was knocking softly at his door. He walked slowly towards it and paused. All his senses were still pulsating with a curious sense of excitement; when he stood still he could almost hear his heart beat. From outside came the soft rustling of a woman’s gown—he knew very well who it was that waited there. He stood still and waited. Again there came the knocking, to him almost like a symbolical thing in its stealthy, muffled insistence. He felt himself battling with a sudden wave of emotions, struggling with a passionate, unexpected desire to answer the summons. He took a quick step forwards. Then sanity came, and the moment seemed far away—a part of the nightmare left behind. He waited until he heard the quiet, reluctant footsteps pass away down the corridor. Then he muttered something to himself, which sounded like a prayer. He sank into a chair and passed his hand across his forehead. The recollection of that moment was horrible to him. He stared at the door with fascinated eyes. What if he had opened it!
He still had no desire for sleep, but he began slowly to undress. His clothes, his tie, everything he had been wearing, seemed to him to reek of accumulatedperfumes of the night, and he flung them from him with feverish disgust. There was a small bath-room opening from his sleeping chamber, and with a desire for complete cleanliness which was not wholly physical, he filled the bath and plunged in. The touch of the cold water was inspiring and he stepped out again into a new world. Much of the horror of so short a time ago had gone, but with his new self had come an ever-increasing distaste for any resumption, in any shape or form, of his associations of the last few days. He must get away. He rummaged through his things and found a timetable. In less than an hour he was dressed, his clothes were packed, and the bill was paid. He wrote a short note to Davenant and a shorter one to Ella. Ignoring the events of the last night, he spoke of a summons home. He enclosed the receipted hotel bill, and something with which he begged her to purchase a souvenir of her visit. Then he drank some coffee, and with a somewhat stealthy air made his way to the lift, and thence to the courtyard of the hotel. Already a small victoria was laden with his luggage; the concierge, the baggage-master, the porters, were all tipped with a prodigality almost reckless. Shaven, and with a sting of the cold water still upon his skin, in homely flannel shirt and grey tweed travelling clothes, he felt like a man restored to sanity and health as his cab lumbered over the long cobbled street, on its way to the Gare du Nord. It was only a matter of a few hours, and yet how sweet and fresh the streets seemed in the early morning sunshine. The shops were all open, and the busy housewiveswere hard at work with their bargaining, the toilers of the city thronged the pavements, everywhere there was evidence of a real and rational life. The city of those few hours ago was surely a city of nightmares. The impassable river flowed between. Macheson leaned back in his carriage and his eyes were fixed upon the blue sunlit sky. His lips moved; a song of gratitude was in his heart. He felt like the prisoner before whom the iron gates have been rolled back, disclosing the smiling world!
“
Macheson, by Jove! Where on earth have you sprung from?”
Holderness threw down his pen and held out both his hands. Macheson drew a long sigh of relief.
“From the pigsties, Dick. Whew! It’s good to see you again—to be here!”
Holderness surveyed his friend critically.
“What have you been up to?” he asked. “Look washed out, as though you’d had a fever or something. I’ve been expecting to see you every day.”
“I’ve been on a pleasure trip to Paris,” Macheson answered. “Don’t talk about it, for God’s sake.”
Holderness roared with laughter.
“You poor idiot!” he exclaimed. “Been on the razzle-dazzle, I believe. I wish I’d known. I’d have come.”
“It’s all very well to laugh,” Macheson answered. “I feel like a man who’s been living in a sewer.”
“Are you cured?” Holderness asked abruptly.
Macheson hesitated. As yet he had not dared to ask himself that question. Holderness watched the struggle in his face.
“I’m sorry I asked you that,” he said quietly. “Look here! I know what you’ve come to me for, and I can give it you. You can start at once if you like.”
“Work?” Macheson asked eagerly. “You mean that?”
“Of course! Tons of it! Henwood’s at his wits’ end in Stepney. He’s started lecturing, and the thing’s taken on, but he can’t go on night after night. We don’t want anything second-rate either. Then I want help with the paper.”
“I’ll help you with the paper as soon as you like,” Macheson declared. “I’d like to go to Stepney, too, but could we hit it, Henwood and I?”
“Of course,” Holderness answered. “What are you thinking of, man? You haven’t become a straw-splitter, have you?”
“Not I,” Macheson answered “but you have crystallized your ideas into a cult, haven’t you? I might find myself on the other side of the traces.”
“Rot!” Holderness answered vigorously. “Look here! This is what we call ugliness and dirt. We say that these things make for misery. We say that it is every man’s duty, and every woman’s, too, to keep themselves clean and clean-living, for the sake of the community. We take the Christian code. It is the most complete, the most philosophic, the most beautiful. We preach it not from the Christian standpoint, but from the point of view of the man of common sense. Doctrinal religions are all very well in their way, but the great bald fact remains that the truth has not been vouchsafed to us through any of them. Therefore we say live the life and wait.From a scientific point of view we believe, of course, in a future state. It may be that the truth awaits us there. You can work to that, can’t you?”
“Of course,” Macheson answered, “but don’t you rather overlook the support which doctrine gives to the weak and superstitious?”
“Bah! There are the strong to be considered,” Holderness declared. “Think how many men of average intelligence chuck the whole thing because they can’t stomach doctrine. Besides, these people all think, if you want to confirm ’em or baptize ’em or anything of that sort, that you’ve your own axe to grind. Jolly suspicious lot the East-Enders, I can tell you.”
“I’ll go and see Henwood,” Macheson declared.
Holderness glanced at his watch.
“We’ll have something to eat and go together,” he declared. “Look here, I’m really pushed or I wouldn’t bother you. Can you do me a country walk in November for the paper? I have two a month. You can take the last number and see the sort of thing.”
“I’ll try,” Macheson promised. “You can give me a couple of days, I suppose?”
“A week—only I want it off my mind. You can get out somewhere and rub up your impressions. We’ll dine for half a crown in Soho, and you shall tell me about Paris.”
Macheson groaned.
“Shut up about Paris,” he begged. “The thought of it’s like a nightmare to me—a nightmare full of puppet gnomes, with human masks and the faces of devils underneath.”
“The masks came off?” Holderness asked.
Macheson shivered.
“They did,” he answered.
“Do you good,” Holderness declared coolly, locking his desk. “I’ve been through it. So long as the masks came off it’s all right. What was it sent you there, Victor?”
“A piece of madness,” Macheson answered in a low tone, “supreme, utter madness.”
“Cured?”
“Oh! I hope so,” Macheson answered. “If not—well, I can fight.”
Holderness stood still for a moment. There was a queer look in his eyes.
“There was a woman once, Victor,” he said, “who nearly made mincemeat of my life. She could have done it if she liked—and she wasn’t the sort who spares. She died—thank God! You see I know something about it.”
They walked out arm in arm, and not a word passed between them till they reached the street. Then Holderness called a hansom.
“I feel like steak,” he declared. “Entre-côte with potatoes, maître d’hôtel. Somehow I feel particularly like steak. We will chuck Soho and dine at the Café Royal.”
They talked mostly of Henwood and his work. Holderness spoke of it as successful, but the man himself was weakly. The strain of holding his difficult audience night after night had begun to tell on him. Macheson’s help would be invaluable. There was a complete school of night classes running in connexion with the work, and also a library.“You can guess where the money came from for those,” he added, smiling. “On the women’s side there was only the cookery, and the care of the children. All very imperfect, but with the making of great things about it.”
They went into the Café proper for their coffee, sitting at a marble-topped table, and Holderness called for dominoes. But they had scarcely begun their game before Macheson started from his seat, and without a word of explanation strode towards the door. He was just in time to stop the egress of the man whom he had seen slip from his seat and try to leave the place.
“Look here,” he said, touching him on the shoulder. “I want to talk to you.”
The man made no further attempt at escape. He was very shabby and thin, but Macheson had recognized him at once. It was the man who had come stealing down the lane from Thorpe on that memorable night—the man for whose escape from justice he was responsible.
“My friend won’t interfere with us,” Macheson said, leading him back to their seats. “Sit down here.”
The man sat down quietly. Holderness took up a paper.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I shan’t listen.”
“If I am to talk,” the man said, “I must have some absinthe. My throat is dry. I have things to say to you, too.”
Macheson called a waiter and ordered it.
“Look here,” the man said, “I know all that you want to say to me. I can save you time. It was Iwho called upon old Mr. Hurd. It was out of kindness that I went. He has a daughter whom I cannot find. She is in danger, and I went to warn him. He struck me first. He lost his temper. He would not tell me where to find her, he would not give me even the money I had spent on my journey. I, too, lost my temper. I returned the blow. He fell down—and I was frightened. So I ran away.”
Macheson nodded.
“Well,” he said, “you seem to have struck an old man because he would not let you blackmail him, and I, like a fool, helped you to escape.”
“Blackmail!” The man looked around him as though afraid of the word. His cheeks were sunken, but his brown eyes were still bright. “It wasn’t that,” he said. “I brought information that was really valuable. There is a young lady somewhere who is in danger of her life. I came to warn him; I believed what I had always been told, that she was his daughter. I found out that it was a lie. It was a conspiracy against me. He never had a daughter. But I am going to find out who she is!”
“What if I give you up to the police?” Macheson asked.
“For the sake of the woman whom the old man Hurd was shielding you had better not. You had very much better not,” was the hoarse reply. “If you do, it may cost a woman her life.”
“Why are you staying on in England?” Macheson asked.
“To find that woman, and I will find her,” headded, with glittering eyes. “Listen! I have seen her riding in a carriage, beautifully dressed, with coachman and footman upon the box, an aristocrat. I always said that she was that. It was a plot against us—to call her that old man’s daughter.”
“All this has nothing to do with me,” Macheson said quietly. “The only thing I have to consider is whether I ought or ought not to hand you over to the police.”
The man eyed him craftily. He had little fear.
“If you did, sir,” he said, “it would be an injustice. I only touched the old man in self-defence.”
Macheson looked at him gravely.
“I hope that that is the truth,” he said. “You can go.”
The man stood up. He did not immediately depart.
“What is it?” Macheson asked.
“I was wondering, sir,” he said, in a confidential whisper, “whether you could not give me an idea as to who the lady was who called herself Stephen Hurd’s daughter in Paris six years ago.”
Macheson shook his head.
“I have no idea,” he answered curtly.
The man shuffled away. Macheson lit a cigarette and watched him for a moment steadfastly through the large gilt-framed mirror.
“Queer sort of Johnny, your friend,” Holderness remarked.
“He’s a bad lot, I’m afraid,” Macheson answered. “Somehow or other I can’t help wishing that I hadn’t seen him.”
Holderness laughed.
“Man alive,” he said, “it’s a good thing you’ve come back to me, or you’d be a bundle of nerves in no time. We’ll get along now, if you’re ready. You might find something to say to ’em to-night. I know Henwood’s pretty well pumped dry.”
They left the place, and took an omnibus citywards.
It was exactly such a day as he would have chosen for his purpose when Macheson stepped out of the train at the wayside station and set his face towards Thorpe. A strong blustering wind, blowing down from the hills, had dried the road of all save a slight coating of mud, a wind fresh from the forest, so fresh and strong that he walked with his cap in his hand and his head thrown back, glad to breathe it in his lungs and feel the sting of it on his cheeks. It seemed to him that he had been away for months, as he climbed the long hill towards the village. The fields now were brown instead of green, a pungent smell of freshly turned earth and burning wood was in his nostrils. The hedges and trees were bare; he caught a glimpse of the great house itself from an unexpected point. Everywhere he was receiving familiar impressions. He came to the avenue up which he had passed on his first visit to the house, continually he met carts bearing her name, and villagers, most of whom he noticed with some surprise, looked at him doubtfully. Presently he arrived at the village itself, and stopped before the long, low, white house where Stephen Hurd lived.He paused for a moment, hesitating whether to fulfil this part of his mission now, or to wait until later in the day. Eventually, with the idea of getting the thing over, he opened the gate and rang the front-door bell.
He was shown into the study, and in a few minutes Stephen Hurd came in, smoking a pipe, his hands in his pockets. When he saw who his visitor was he stopped short. He did not offer his hand or ask Macheson to sit down. He looked at him with a heavy frown upon his face.
“You wished to see me?” he said.
“I did,” Macheson answered. “Perhaps my call is inopportune. I have come from London practically for no other reason than to ask you a single question.”
Hurd laughed shortly.
“You had better ask it then,” he said. “I thought that you might have other business in the neighbourhood. Preaching off, eh?”
“My question is simply this,” Macheson said calmly. “Have you, or had you, ever a sister?”
A dull red flush streamed into the young man’s face. He removed his pipe from his mouth and stared at Macheson. His silence for several moments seemed to arise from the fact that surprise had robbed him of the powers of speech.
“Who put you up to asking that?” he demanded sharply.
Macheson raised his eyebrows slightly.
“My question is a simple one,” he said. “If you do not choose to answer it, it is easy for me to procure the information from elsewhere. The firstvillager I met would tell me. I preferred to come to you.”
“I have no sister,” Hurd said slowly. “I never had. Now you must tell me why you have come here to ask me this.”
“I am told,” Macheson said, “that years ago a girl in Paris represented herself as being your father’s daughter. She is being inquired for in a somewhat mysterious way.”
“And what business is it of yours?” Hurd demanded curtly.
“None—apparently,” Macheson answered. “I am obliged to you for your information. I will not detain you any longer.”
But Stephen Hurd barred the way. Looking into his face, Macheson saw already the signs of a change there. His eyes were a little wild, and though it was early in the morning he smelt of spirits.
“No! you don’t,” he declared truculently. “You’re not going till you tell me what you mean by that question.”
“I am afraid,” Macheson answered, “that I have nothing more to tell you.”
“You will tell me who this mysterious person is,” Hurd declared.
Macheson shook his head.
“No!” he said. “I think that you had better let me pass.”
“Not yet,” Hurd answered. “Look here! You’ve been in communication with the man who came here and murdered my father. You know where he is.”
“Scarcely that, was it?” Macheson answered.“There was a struggle, but your father’s death was partly owing to other causes. However, I did not come here to discuss that with you. I came to ask you a question, which you have answered. If you will permit me to pass I shall be obliged.”
Hurd hesitated for a moment.
“Look here,” he said, with an assumption of good nature, “there’s no reason why you and I should quarrel. I want to know who put you up to asking me that question. It isn’t that I want to do him any harm. I’ll guarantee his safety, if you like, so far as I am concerned. Only I’m anxious to meet him.”
Macheson shook his head.
“I do not know where he is myself,” he answered. “In any case, I could not give you any information.”
Stephen Hurd stood squarely in front of the door.
“You’ll have to,” he said doggedly. “That’s all there is about it.”
Macheson took a step forward.
“Look here,” he said, “I shouldn’t try that on if I were you. I am stronger than you are, and I have studied boxing. I don’t care about fighting, but I am going to leave this room—at once.”
“The devil you are,” Hurd cried, striking at him. “Take that, you canting hypocrite.”
Macheson evaded the blow with ease. Exactly how it happened he never knew, but Hurd found himself a few seconds later on his back—and alone in the room. He sprang up and rushed after Macheson, who was already in the front garden. His attack was so violent that Macheson had no alternative. He knocked him into the middle ofhis rose bushes, and opened the gate, to find himself face to face with the last person in the world whom he expected to see in Thorpe. It was Wilhelmina herself who was a spectator of the scene!
“Mr. Macheson,” she said gravely, “what is the meaning of this?”
Macheson was taken too completely by surprise to frame an immediate answer. Stephen Hurd rose slowly to his feet, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief.
“A little disagreement between us,” he said, with an evil attempt at a smile. “We will settle it another time.”
“You will settle it now,” the lady of the Manor said, with authority in her tone. “Shake hands, if you please. At once! I cannot have this sort of thing going on in the village.”
Macheson held out his hand without hesitation.
“The quarrel was not of my seeking,” he said. “I bear you no ill-will, Hurd. Will you shake hands?”
“No!” Stephen Hurd answered fiercely.
Macheson’s hand fell to his side.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“You will reconsider that, Mr. Hurd,” Wilhelmina said quietly.
“No!” he answered. “I am sorry, Miss Thorpe-Hatton, to seem ungracious, but there are reasons why I cannot accept his hand. He knows them well enough. We cannot possibly be friends. Don’t let us be hypocrites.”
Wilhelmina turned away coldly.
“Very well,” she said. “Mr. Macheson, will youwalk with me a little way? I have something to say to you.”
“With pleasure,” he answered. “I’m sorry, Hurd,” he added, turning round.
There was no answer. Together they walked up the village street. Already the shock of seeing her had passed away, and he was fighting hard against the gladness which possessed him. He had paid dearly enough already for his folly. He was determined that there should be no return of it.
“Which way were you going?” she asked.
“To the hills,” he answered. “I can leave you at the church entrance. But before you go——”
“I am not going,” she answered. “I should love a walk. I will come with you to the hills.”
He looked at her doubtfully. She appeared to him so different a person in her country clothes—a dark brown tailor-made suit, with short skirt, a brown tam-o’-shanter and veil. She was not much more than a child after all. Her mouth was a little sad, and she was very pale and seemed tired.
“If you care to walk so far,” he said gravely—“and with me!”
“What am I expected to say to that?” she asked demurely.
“I think that you know what I mean,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “Your villagers will certainly think it strange to see their mistress walking with the poor missioner who wasn’t allowed to hold his services.”
“I am afraid,” she answered, “that my people have learnt to expect the unexpected from me. Now tell me,” she continued, “what has broughtyou back to the scene of your persecutions? I am hoping you are going to tell me that it is to apologize for the shockingly rude way you left me last time we met.”
“I did not know that you were here,” he answered. “I came for two reasons—first, to collect materials for a short article in a friend’s magazine, and secondly, to ask a question of Stephen Hurd.”
“Apparently,” she remarked, “your question annoyed him.”
“He seemed annoyed before I asked it,” Macheson remarked; “I seem to have offended him somehow or other.”
“I should imagine,” she said drily, “that that is not altogether incomprehensible to you.”
So she knew or guessed who it was that had been Letty Foulton’s companion in London. Macheson was silent. They walked on for some distance, climbing all the time, till Wilhelmina paused, breathless, and leaned against a gate.
“I hope,” said she, “that you are collecting your impressions. If so, I am sure they must be in the air, for you have not looked to the right or to the left.”
He smiled and stood by her side, looking downwards. The village lay almost at their feet, and away beyond spread the mist-wreathed country, still and silent in the November afternoon. The wind had fallen, the birds were songless, nothing remained of the busy chorus of summer sounds. They stood on the edge of a plantation—the peculiar fragrance of freshly turned earth from the ploughed fields opposite, and of the carpet of wet leaves beneaththeir feet, had taken the place of all those sweeter perfumes which a short while ago had seemed to belong naturally to the place.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I have been thinking more about something which I have to say to you.”
“Is it something serious?” she asked.
“Rather,” he admitted.
Her eyebrows were faintly contracted. She looked up at him pathetically.
“It will keep for a little time,” she said. “Let us finish our walk first. I am down here alone, and have been dull. This exercise is what I wanted. It is doing me good. I will not have my afternoon spoilt. See, I have the key of the gate here, we will go through the plantation and up to the back of the beacon.”
She led the way, giving him no time to protest, and he followed her, vaguely uneasy. Through the plantation their feet fell noiselessly upon a carpet of wet leaves; outside on the springy turf the rabbits scampered away in hundreds to their holes. Then they began to climb. Beneath them the country expanded and rolled away like a piece of patchwork, dimly seen through a veil of mist. Wilhelmina turned towards him with a laugh. There was more colour now in her cheeks. She was breathless before they reached the summit and laid her hand upon his arm for support.
“Confess,” she said, “you like me better here than in London, don’t you?”
“You are more natural,” he answered. “You are more like what I would have you be.”
She sat down on a piece of grey rock. They were at the summit now. Below was the great house with its magnificent avenues and park, the tiny village, and the quaint church. Beyond, a spreading landscape of undulating meadows and well-tilled land. The same thought came to both of them.
“Behold,” she murmured, “my possessions.”
He nodded.
“You should be very proud of your home,” he said quietly. “It is very beautiful.”
She turned towards him. Her face was as cold and destitute of emotion as the stone on which she sat.
“Do you wonder,” she asked, “why I have never married?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“A matter of temperament, perhaps,” he said. “You are inclined to be independent, aren’t you?”
“There have been things in my life—a very secret chamber,” she said slowly. “I think that some day I shall tell you about it, for I may need help.”
“I shall be glad,” he said simply. “You know that!”
She rose and shook out her skirts.
“Come,” she said, “it is too cold to sit down. I am going to take you to Onetree Farm. Mrs. Foulton must give us some tea. I have a reason, too,” she added more slowly, “for taking you there.”
Macheson knew directly they entered the farm that Wilhelmina had brought him here for some purpose. For Mrs. Foulton straightened herself at the sight of him, and forgot even her usual respectful courtesy to the lady of the Manor.
“I have brought Mr. Macheson to see you, Mrs. Foulton,” Wilhelmina said. “We want you to give us some tea—and there is a question which I think you ought to ask him.”
The woman was trembling. She seemed for the moment to have no words.
“If you like,” Wilhelmina continued calmly, “I will ask it for you. Did you know, Mr. Macheson, that Letty Foulton has left home and has gone away without a word to her mother?”
“I did not know it,” Macheson answered gravely. “I am very sorry.”
“You—didn’t know it? You don’t know where she is?” the woman demanded fiercely.
“Certainly not,” Macheson answered. “How should I?”
The woman looked bewildered. She turned towards Wilhelmina as though for an explanation.
“Mr. Macheson has himself to blame,” Wilhelmina said, “if his action in bringing your daughter to me that night has been misunderstood. At any rate, he cannot refuse to tell you now what he refused to tell me. You understand, Mr. Macheson,” she added, turning towards him, “Mrs. Foulton insists upon knowing with whom you found her daughter having supper that night in London.”
Macheson hesitated only for a moment.
“Your daughter was with Mr. Stephen Hurd, Mrs. Foulton,” he said.
The woman threw her apron over her head and hastened away. They heard her sobbing in the kitchen. Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.
“What a bore!” she remarked. “We shan’t get any tea. People of this sort have no self-control.”
Macheson looked at her sternly.
“Have the people here,” he asked, “been connecting me with this child’s disappearance?”
“I suppose so,” she answered carelessly. “Rather a new line for you, isn’t it—the gay Lothario! It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t be so mysterious.”
“You didn’t believe it?” he said shortly.
“Why not? You’ve been—seeing life lately, haven’t you?”
“You didn’t believe it?” he repeated, keeping his eyes fixed upon her.
She came over to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Her pale face was upturned to his. It seemed open to him to transform her attitude into a caress.
“Of course not, dear,” she answered. “If—any one else did, they will soon know the truth.”
“All the same,” he muttered, “it’s horrible. We must do something!”
She moved away from him wearily. His thoughts were full of the tragedy of Letty Foulton’s disappearance. He seemed scarcely to know that she had been almost in his arms. He turned to her suddenly.
“I shall go back,” he said, “to speak once more with Stephen Hurd.”
She looked into his face and saw things there which terrified her. He had moved already towards the door, but she stood in his way.
“No!” she cried. “It is not your affair. Let me deal with him!”
He shook his head.
“It is no matter,” he said, “for a woman to interfere in.”
“He will not listen to you,” she continued eagerly. “He will tell you that it is not your concern.”
“It is the concern of every honest man,” he interrupted. “You must please let me go!”
She was holding his arm, and she refused to withdraw her fingers. Then Mrs. Foulton intervened.
She had smoothed her hair and was carrying a tea-tray. They both looked at her as though fascinated.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting, madam,” she said quietly. “I had to send Ruth up for the cream. The boy’s at Loughborough market, and I’m a bit shorthanded.”
“I—oh! I’m sorry you bothered about the tea, Mrs. Foulton,” Wilhelmina said, with an effort. “But how good it looks! Come, Mr. Macheson! Idon’t know whether you’ve had any lunch, but I haven’t. I’m perfectly ravenous.”
“I’ve some sandwiches in my pocket,” Macheson answered, moving slowly to the table, “but to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten them.”
She drew off her gloves and seated herself before the teapot. All the time her eyes were fixed upon Macheson. She was feverishly anxious to have him also seat himself, and he could scarcely look away from the woman who, with a face like a mask, was calmly arranging the things from the tray upon the table. When she left the room he drew a little breath.
“Do they feel—really, these people,” he asked, “or are they Stoics?”
“We feel through our nerves,” she answered, “and they haven’t many. Is that too much cream?—and pass the strawberry jam, please.”
He ate and drank mechanically. The charm of this simple meal alone with her was gone—it seemed to him that there was tragedy in the arrangement of the table. She talked to him lightly, and he answered—what he scarcely knew. Suddenly he interposed a question.
“When did this girl Letty leave home?” he asked.
“I am not sure,” she answered. “We will ask Mrs. Foulton.”
Mrs. Foulton came silently in.
“We want to know, Mrs. Foulton, when Letty went away,” Wilhelmina asked.
“A week ago to-morrow, madam,” Mrs. Foulton answered. “Is there anything else you will be wanting?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Wilhelmina answered, and then, seeing that the woman lingered, she continued:
“Are you wanting to get rid of us?”
The woman hesitated.
“It isn’t that, madam,” she said, “but I’m wanting to step out as soon as possible.”
The same idea occurred at once to both Wilhelmina and Macheson.
“You are going down to the village, Mrs. Foulton?” Wilhelmina asked gravely.
“I’m going down to have a bit of talk with Mr. Stephen Hurd, madam,” she answered grimly. “I’d be glad to clear away as soon as convenient.”
Wilhelmina turned round in her chair, and laid her hand upon the woman’s arm.
“Mrs. Foulton,” she said, “Mr. Macheson and I are going to see him at once. Leave it to us, please.”
Mrs. Foulton shook her head doubtfully.
“Letty’s my daughter, madam, thank you kindly,” she said. “I must go myself.”
Wilhelmina shook her head.
“No!” she said firmly. “You can go and see him afterwards, if you like. Mr. Macheson and I are going to see what we can do first. Believe me, Mrs. Foulton, it will be better for Letty.”
The woman was shaken and Wilhelmina pushed home her advantage.
“We are going straight to the village now, Mrs. Foulton,” she said. “You will only have to be patient for a very short time. Come, Mr. Macheson. If you are ready we will start.”
They walked briskly along the country lane, through the early twilight. They said little to one another.
Macheson was profoundly moved by the tragedy of Letty’s disappearance. With his marvellous gift of sympathy, he had understood very well the suffering of the woman whom they had just left. He shivered when he thought of the child. With every step they took, his face resolved itself into grimmer lines. Wilhelmina was forced at last to protest.
“After all,” she said, touching his arm, “this young man will scarcely run away. Please remember that I am not an athletic person—and I have not much breath left.”
He slackened his pace at once.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I was forgetting.”
“Yes,” she answered simply, “you were forgetting. I—noticed it!”
To Macheson, her irritation seemed childish—unworthy. He knew so little of women—or their moods.
“What are you going to say to Stephen Hurd?” he asked abruptly.
“I shall make him marry Letty Foulton,” she answered.
“Can you do it?” he demanded.
“He must marry her or go,” she declared. “I will make that quite clear.”
Macheson drew a little breath. He suddenly realized that for all his impetuosity, the woman who walked so calmly by his side held the cards. He slackened his pace. The lane had narrowed now,and on either side of them was a tall holly hedge. Her hand stole through his arm.
“Well,” she said softly, “you have not told me yet whether your pilgrimage to Paris was a success.”
He turned upon her almost fiercely.
“Yes!” he answered. “It was! A complete success! I haven’t an atom of sentiment left! Thank goodness!”
She laughed softly.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered in his ear. “You went abroad to be cured of an incurable disease. Do you imagine that the Mademoiselle Rosines of the world count for anything? You foolish, foolish person. Do you imagine that if I had not known you—I should have let you go?”
“I am not one of your tenants,” he answered grimly.
“You might be,” she laughed.
“You are very kind,” he declared. “But I need not tell you that nothing in this world would induce me to become one.”
She walked on, humming to herself. He was hard to tame, she told herself, but the end was so sure. Yet all her experience of his sex had shown her nothing like this. It was the first time she had played such a part. Was it only the novelty which she found attractive? She stole an upward glance at him through the twilight. Taller and more powerful than ever he seemed in the gathering darkness—so far as looks were concerned he was certainly desirable enough. And yet the world—her world, was full of handsome men. It mustbe something else which he possessed, some other less obvious gift, perhaps that flavour of puritanism about his speech and deportment, of which she was always conscious. He resisted where other men not only succumbed but rushed to meet their fate. It must be that,or——
She herself became suddenly serious. She looked straight ahead down the darkening lane. Fate could surely not play her a trick so scurvy as this. It could not be that she cared. Her hands were suddenly clenched; a little cry broke from her lips. Her heart was beating like a girl’s; the delicious thrill of youth seemed to be thawing her long frozen blood. Not again! she prayed, not again! It was a catastrophe this; grotesque, impossible! She thrust out her hands, as though to guard herself from some impending danger. Macheson turned to look at her in surprise, and her eyes were glowing like stars.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
She laughed unnaturally.
“A memory,” she answered, “a superstition if you like. Some one was walking over the grave of my forgotten days.”
She pointed to the front of the low white house, now only a few yards away. A dogcart stood there waiting, with some luggage at the back. Stephen Hurd himself, dressed for travelling, was standing in the doorway.