Macheson woke with the daylight, stiff, a little tired, and haunted with the consciousness of disturbing dreams. He sprang to his feet and stretched himself. Then he saw the roses.
For a moment or two he stared at them incredulously. Then his thoughts flashed backwards—where or how had he become possessed of them? A few seconds were sufficient. Some one had been there in the night—most likely a woman.
His cheeks burned at the thought. He stooped and took them hesitatingly, reverently, into his hand. To him they represented part of the mystery of life, the mystery of which he knew so little. Soft and fragrant, the touch of the drooping blossoms was like fire to his fingers. Had he been like those predecessors of his in the days of the Puritans, he would have cast them away, trampled them underfoot; he would have seen in them only the snare of the Evil One. But to Macheson this would have seemed almost like sacrilege. They were beautiful and he loved beautiful things.
He made his way farther into the plantation, to where the trees, suddenly opening, disclosed a small,disused slate quarry, the water in which was kept fresh by many streams. Stripping off his clothes, he plunged into the deep cool depths, swimming round for several minutes on his back, his face upturned to the dim blue sky. Then he dressed—in the ugly black suit, for it was Sunday, and made a frugal breakfast, boiling the water for his coffee over a small spirit-lamp. And all the time he kept looking at the roses, now fresh with the water which he had carefully sprinkled over them. Their coming seemed to him to whisper of beautiful things, they turned his thoughts so easily into that world of poetry and sentiment in which he was a habitual wanderer. Yet, every now and then, their direct significance startled, almost alarmed. Some one had actually been in the place while he slept, and had retreated without disturbing him. Roses do not drop from the sky, and of gardens there were none close at hand. Was it one of the village girls, who had seen him that afternoon? His cheeks reddened at the thought. Perhaps he had better leave his shelter. Another time if she came she might not steal away so quietly. Scandal would injure his work. He must run no risks. Deep down in his heart he thrust that other, that impossibly sweet thought. He would not suffer his mind to dwell upon it.
After breakfast he walked for an hour or so across the hills, watching the early mists roll away in the valleys, and the sunlight settle down upon the land. It was a morning of silence, this—that peculiar, mysterious silence which only the first day of the week seems to bring. The fields were empty oftoilers, the harvest was stayed. From its far-away nest amongst the hills, he could just hear, carried on the bosom of a favouring breeze, the single note of a monastery bell, whose harshness not even distance, or its pleasant journey across the open country, could modify. Macheson listened to it for a moment, and sat down upon a rock on the topmost pinnacle of the hills he was climbing.
Below him, the country stretched like a piece of brilliant patchwork. Thorpe, with its many chimneys and stately avenues, and the village hidden by a grove of elms, was like a cool oasis in the midst of the landscape. Behind, the hills ran rockier and wilder, culminating in a bleak stretch of country, in the middle of which was the monastery. Macheson looked downwards at Thorpe, with the faint clang of that single bell in his ears. The frown on his forehead deepened as the rush of thoughts took insistent hold of him.
For a young man blessed with vigorous health, free from all material anxieties, and with the world before him, Macheson found life an uncommonly serious matter. Only a few years ago, he had left the University with a brilliant degree, a splendid athletic record, and a host of friends. What to do with his life! That was the problem which pressingly confronted him. He recognized in himself certain gifts inevitably to be considered in this choice. He was possessed of a deep religious sense, an immense sympathy for his fellows, and a passion for the beautiful in life, from which the physical side was by no means absent.
How to find a career which would satisfy suchvarying qualities! A life of pleasure, unless it were shared by his fellows, did not appeal to him at all; personal ambition he was destitute of; his religion, he was very well aware, was not the sort which would enable him to enter with any prospect of happiness any of the established churches. For a time he had travelled, and had come back with only one definite idea in his mind. Chance had brought him, on his return, into contact with two young men of somewhat similar tastes. A conversation between them one night had given a certain definiteness to his aims. He recalled it to himself as he sat looking down at the thin blue line of smoke rising from the chimneys of Thorpe.
“To use one’s life for others,” he had repeated thoughtfully—it was the enthusiast of the party who had spoken—“but how?”
“Teach them to avoid like filth the ugly things of life—help them in their search for the things beautiful.”
“What are the things beautiful?” he had asked. “Don’t they mean something different to every man?”
Holderness had lifted his beautiful head—the boy with whom he had played at school—the friend of his younger life.
“The Christian morality,” he had answered.
Macheson had been surprised.
“But you——” he said, “you don’t believe anything.”
“It is not necessary,” Holderness had answered. “It is a matter of the intelligence. As an artist, if I might dare to call myself one, I say that theChristian life, if honestly lived, is the most beautiful thing of all the ages.”
Macheson walked down to the village with the memory of those words still in his brain. The bell was ringing for service from the queer, ivy-covered church, the villagers were coming down the lane in little groups. Macheson found himself one of a small knot of people, who stood reverently on one side, with doffed hats, just by the wooden porch. He looked up, suddenly realizing the cause.
A small vehicle, something between a bath-chair and a miniature carriage, drawn by a fat, sleek pony, was turning into the lane from one of the splendid avenues which led to the house. A boy led the pony, a footman marched behind. Wilhelmina, in a plain white muslin dress and a black hat, was slowly preparing to descend. She smiled languidly, but pleasantly enough, at the line of curtseying women and men with doffed hats. The note of feudalism which their almost reverential attitudes suggested appealed irresistibly to Macheson’s sense of humour. He, too, formed one of them; he, too, doffed his hat. His greeting, however, was different. Her eyes swept by him unseeing, his pleasant “Good morning” was unheeded. She even touched her skirt with her fingers, as though afraid lest it might brush against him in passing. With tired, graceful footsteps, she passed into the cool church, leaving him to admire against his will the slim perfection of her figure, the wonderful carriage of her small but perfect head.
He followed with the others presently, and found a single seat close to the door. The service beganalmost at once, a very beautiful service in its way, for the organ, a present from the lady of the manor, was perfectly played, and the preacher’s voice was clear and as sweet as a boy’s. Macheson, however, was nervous and ill at ease. From the open door he heard the soft whispering of the west wind—for the first time in his life he found the simple but dignified ritual unconvincing. He was haunted by the sense of some impending disaster. When the prayers came, he fell on his knees and remained there! Even then he could not collect himself! He was praying to an unknown God for protection against some nameless evil! He knew quite well that the words he muttered were vain words. Through the stained glass windows, the sunlight fell in a subdued golden stream upon the glowing hair, the gracefully bent head of the woman who sat alone in the deep square pew. She, too, seemed to be praying. Macheson got up and softly, but abruptly, stole from the church.
Up into the hills, as far away, as high up as possible! A day of sabbath calm, this! Macheson, with the fire in his veins and a sharp pain in his side, climbed as a man possessed. He, too, was fleeing from the unknown. He was many miles away when down in the valley at Thorpe some one spoke of him.
“By the bye,” Gilbert Deyes remarked, looking across the luncheon table at his hostess, “when does this athletic young missioner of yours begin his work of regeneration?”
Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows.
“To-morrow evening, I believe,” she answered. “He is going to speak at the cross-roads. I fancythat his audience will consist chiefly of the children, and Mrs. Adnith’s chickens.”
“Can’t understand,” Austin remarked, “why a chap who can play cricket like that—he did lay on to ’em, too—can be such a crank!”
“He is very young,” Wilhelmina remarked composedly, “and I fancy that he must be a little mad. I hope that Thorpe will teach him a lesson. He needs it.”
“You do not anticipate then,” Deyes remarked, “that his labours here will be crowned with success?”
“He won’t get a soul to hear him,” Stephen Hurd replied confidently. “The villagers all know what Miss Thorpe-Hatton thinks of his coming here. It will be quite sufficient.”
Wilhelmina lit a cigarette and rose to her feet.
“Let us hope so,” she remarked drily. “Please remember, all of you, that this is the Palace of Ease! Do exactly what you like, all of you, till five o’clock. I shall be ready for bridge then.”
Lady Peggy rose briskly.
“No doubt about what I shall do,” she remarked. “I’m going to bed.”
Deyes smiled.
“I,” he said, “shall spend the afternoon in the rose garden. I need—development.”
Wilhelmina looked at him questioningly.
“Please don’t be inexplicable,” she begged. “It is too hot.”
“Roses and sentiment,” he declared, “are supposed to go together. I want to grow into accord with my surroundings.”
Wilhelmina was silent for a moment.
“If you have found sentiment here,” she said carelessly, “you must have dug deep.”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “I have scarcely scratched the surface!”
Stephen Hurd looked uneasily from Deyes to his hostess. Never altogether comfortable, although eager to accept the most casually offered invitation to Thorpe, he had always the idea that the most commonplace remark contained an innuendo purposely concealed from him.
“Mr. Deyes,” he remarked, “looks mysterious.”
Deyes glanced at him through his eyeglass.
“It is a subtle neighbourhood,” he said. “By the bye, Mr. Hurd, have you ever seen the rose gardens at Carrow?”
“Never,” Hurd replied enviously. “I have heard that they are very beautiful.”
Wilhelmina passed out.
“The gardens are beautiful,” she said, looking back, “but the roses are like all other roses, they fade quickly. Till five o’clock, all of you!”
Stephen Hurd walked into the room which he and his father shared as a sanctum, half office, half study. Mr. Hurd, senior, was attired in his conventional Sabbath garb, the same black coat of hard, dull material, and dark grey trousers, in which he had attended church for more years than many of the villagers could remember. Stephen, on the other hand, was attired in evening clothes of the latest cut. His white waistcoat had come from a London tailor, and his white tie had cost him considerable pains. His father looked him over with expressionless face.
“You are going to the House again, Stephen?” he asked calmly.
“I am asked to dine there, father,” he answered. “Sorry to leave you alone.”
“I have no objection to being alone,” Mr. Hurd answered. “I think that you know that. You lunched there, didn’t you?”
Stephen nodded.
“Miss Thorpe-Hatton asked me as we came out of church,” he answered.
“You play cards?”
The directness of the question allowed of no evasion. Stephen flushed as he answered.
“They play bridge. I may be asked to join. It—is a sort of whist, you know.”
“So I understand,” the older man remarked. “I have no remark to make concerning that. Manners change, I suppose, with the generations. You are young and I am old. I have never sought to impose my prejudices upon you. You have seen more of the world than I ever did. Perhaps you have found wisdom there.”
Stephen was not at his ease.
“I don’t know about that, sir,” he answered. “Of course, Sunday isn’t kept so strictly as it used to be. I like a quiet day myself, but it’s pretty dull here usually, and I didn’t think it would be wise to refuse an invitation from Miss Thorpe-Hatton.”
“Perhaps not,” Mr. Hurd answered. “On the other hand, I might remind you that during the forty years during which I have been agent to this estate I have never accepted—beyond a glass of wine—the hospitality offered to me by Miss Thorpe-Hatton’s father and grandfather, and by the young lady herself. It is not according to my idea of the fitness of things. I am a servant of the owner of these estates. I prefer to discharge my duties honestly and capably—as a servant.”
Stephen frowned at his reflection in the glass. He did not feel in the least like a servant.
“That’s rather an old-fashioned view, dad,” he declared.
“It may be,” his father answered. “In any case, I do not seek to impose it upon you. You arefree to come and go according to your judgment. But you are young, and I cannot see you expose yourself to trouble without some warning. Miss Thorpe-Hatton is not a lady whom it is wise for you to see too much of.”
The directness of this speech took the young man aback.
“I—she seems very pleasant and gracious,” he faltered.
“Not even to you,” his father continued gravely, “can I betray the knowledge of such things as have come under my notice as the servant of these estates and this young lady. Her father was a fine, self-respecting gentleman, as all the Thorpe-Hattons have been; her mother came from a noble, but degenerate, French family. I, who live here a life without change, who mark time for the years and watch the striplings become old men, see many things, and see them truthfully. The evil seed of her mother’s family is in this young woman’s blood. She lives without a chaperon, without companionship, as she pleases—and to please herself only.”
Stephen frowned irritably. His father’s cold, measured words were like drops of ice.
“But, father,” he protested, “she is a leader of Society, she goes to Court and you see her name at the very best places. If there was anything wrong about her, she wouldn’t be received like that.”
“I know nothing about Society or its requirements,” his father answered. “She has brains and wealth, and she is a woman. Therefore, I suppose the world is on her side. I have said all that I wishto say. You can perhaps conjecture the reason of my speaking at all.”
“She wouldn’t take the trouble to make a fool of me,” Stephen answered bitterly. “I just happen to make up a number, that’s all.”
“I am glad that you understand the young lady so well,” his father answered. “Before you go, will you be good enough to pass me the Bible and my spectacles, and let Mary know that Mr. Stuart will be in to supper with me.”
Stephen obeyed in silence. He remembered the time, not so long ago, when he would have been required to seat himself on the opposite side of the fireplace, with a smaller Bible in his hand, and read word for word with his father. His mind went back to those days as he walked slowly up the great grass-grown avenue to the house, picking his steps carefully, lest he should mar the brilliancy of his well-polished patent-leather boots. He compared that old time curiously with the evening which was now before him; the round table drawn into the midst of the splendid dining-room, an oasis of exquisitely shaded light and colour; Lady Peggy with her daring toilette and beautiful white shoulders; Deyes with his world-worn face and flippant tongue; the mistress of Thorpe herself, more subdued, perhaps, in dress and speech, and yet with the ever-present mystery of eyes and lips wherein was always the fascination of the unknown. More than ever that night Stephen Hurd felt himself to be her helpless slave. All his former amours seemed suddenly empty and vulgar things. She came late into the drawing-room, her greeting was as carelessly kindas usual, there was no perceptible difference in her manner of speech. Yet his observation of her was so intense that he found readily the signs of some subtle, indefinable change, a change which began with her toilette, and ended—ah! as yet there was no ending. Her gown of soft white silk was daring as a French modiste could make it, but its simplicity was almost nun-like. She wore a string of pearls, no earrings, no rings, and her hair was arranged low down, almost like a schoolgirl’s. She had more colour than usual, a temporary restlessness seemed to have taken the place of her customary easy languor. What did it mean? he asked himself breathlessly. Was it Deyes? Impossible, for Deyes himself was a watcher, a thin smile parting sometimes the close set lips of his white, mask-like face. After all, how hopelessly at sea he was! He knew nothing of her life, of which these few days at Thorpe were merely an interlude. She might have lovers by the score of whom he knew nothing. He was vain, but he was not wholly a fool.
She talked more than usual at dinner-time, but afterwards she spoke of a headache, and sat on the window-seat of the library, a cigarette between her lips, her eyes half closed. When the bridge table was laid out, she turned her head languidly.
“I will come in in the next rubber,” she said. “You four can start.”
They obeyed her, of course, but Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders slightly. She had no fancy for Stephen’s bridge, and they cut together. Wilhelmina waited until the soft fall of the cards had ceased, and the hands were being examined.Then, with a graceful movement, she slipped out of the window and away into the shadows. No signs of her headache were left. She passed swiftly along a narrow path, bordered by gigantic shrubs, until she reached a small iron gate. Here for the first time she paused.
For several moments she listened. There was no sound from the great house, whose outline she could barely see but whose long row of lights stretched out behind her. She turned her head and looked along the grass-grown lane beyond the gate. There was no one in sight—no sound. She lifted the latch and passed through.
For a summer night it was unusually dark. All day the heat had been almost tropical, and now the sky was clouded over, and a south wind, dry and unrefreshing, was moving against the tall elms. Every few seconds the heavens were ablaze with summer lightning; once the breathless silence was broken by a low rumble of distant thunder.
She reached the end of the lane. Before her, another gate led out on to a grass-covered hill, strewn with fragments of rocks. She paused for a moment and looked backwards. She was suddenly conscious that her heart was beating fast; the piquant sense of adventure with which she had started had given place to a rarer and more exciting turmoil of the senses. Her breath was coming short, as though she had been running.
The silence seemed more complete than ever. She lifted her foot and felt the white satin slipper. It was perfectly dry, there was no dew, and as yet norain had fallen. She lifted the latch of the gate and passed through.
The footpath skirted the side of a plantation, and she followed it closely, keeping under the shelter of the hedge. Every now and then a rabbit started up almost from under her feet, and rushed into the hedge. The spinney itself seemed alive with birds and animals, startled by her light footsteps in the shelter which they had sought, disturbed too by their instinct of the coming storm. Her footsteps grew swifter. She was committed now to her enterprise, vague though it had seemed to her. She passed through a second gate into a ragged wood, and along a winding path into a country road. She turned slowly up the hill. Her breath was coming faster than ever now. What folly!—transcendental!—exquisite! Her footsteps grew slower. She kept to the side of the hedge, raising her skirts a little, for the grass was long. A few yards farther was the gate. The soft swish of her silken draperies as she stole along, became a clearly recognizable sound against the background of intense silence. Macheson had been leaning against a tree just inside. He opened the gate. She stepped almost into his arms. Her white face was suddenly illuminated by the soft blaze of summer lightning which poured from the sky. He had no time to move, to realize. He felt her hands upon his cheek, his face drawn downwards, her lips, soft and burning, pressed against his for one long, exquisite second. And then—the darkness once more and his arms were empty.
With upraised skirts, and feet that flashed like silver across the turf and amongst the bracken, Wilhelmina flew homewards. Once more her heart was like the heart of a girl. Her breath came in little sobs mingled with laughter, the ground beneath her feet was buoyant as the clouds. She had no fear of being pursued—least of anything in the world did she desire it. The passion of a woman is controlled always by her sentiment. It seemed to her that that breathless episode was in itself an epic, she would not for worlds have added to it, have altered it in any shape or form. A moment’s lingering might so easily have spoilt everything. Had he attempted to play either the prude or the Lothario, the delicate flavour would have passed away from the adventure, which had set her heart beating once more, and sent the blood singing so sweetly through her veins. So she sped through the darkness, leaving fragments of lace upon the thorns, like some beautiful bird, escaped from long captivity, rushing through a strange world.
Before she reached the grounds the storm came.There was a crash of thunder, which seemed to tear apart the heavens above, and then the big raindrops began to fall upon her bare shoulders and her clothes as light and airy as butterfly’s wings. She abandoned herself to the ruin of a Paquin gown without a thought of regret; she even laughed softly with pleasure as she lifted her burning face to the cool sweet deluge, and lessened her pace in the avenue, walking with her hands behind her and her head still upraised. It was a wonderful night, this. She had found something of her lost girlhood.
She reached the house at last, and stole through the hall like a truant schoolgirl. Her shoes were nothing but pulp; her dress clung to her limbs like a grey, sea-soaked bathing-costume; everywhere on the oak floor and splendid rugs she left a trail of wet. On tiptoe she stole up the stairs, looking guiltily around, yet with demure laughter in her glowing eyes. She met only one amazed servant, whom she dispatched at once for her own maid. In the bath-room she began to strip off her clothes, even before Hortense, who loved her, could effect a breathless entrance.
“Eh! Madame, Madame!” the girl exclaimed, with uplifted hands.
Wilhelmina stopped her, laughing.
“It’s all right, Hortense,” she exclaimed gaily. “I was out in the grounds, and got caught in the storm. Turn on the hot water and cut these laces—so!”
To Hortense the affair was a tragedy. Her mistress’ indifference could not lessen it.
“Madame,” she declared, “the gown is ruined—a divine creation. Madame has never looked so well in anything else.”
“Then I am glad I wore it to-night,” was the astonishing reply. “Quick, quick, quick, Hortense! Get me into the bath, and bring me some wine and biscuits. I am hungry. I don’t think I could have eaten any dinner.”
Hortense worked with nimble fingers, but her eyes at every opportunity were studying her mistress’ face. Was it the English rain which could soften and beautify like this? Madame was brilliant—and so young! Such a colour! Such a fire in the eyes! Madame laughed as she thrust her from the room.
“The wine, Hortense, and the biscuits—no sandwiches! I die of hunger. And send word to the library that I have been caught in the storm, and must change my clothes, but shall be down presently. So!”
She found them, an hour later, just finishing a rubber. Their languid post-mortem upon a curiously played hand was broken off upon her entrance. They made remarks about the storm and her ill-luck—had she been far from shelter? was she not terrified by the lightning? Lady Peggy remembered her gown. Deyes alone was silent. She felt him watching her all the time, taking cold note of her brilliant colour, the softer light in her eyes. She felt that he saw her as she was—a woman suddenly set free, even though for a fewshort hours. She had broken away from them all, and she gloried in it.
She played bridge later—brilliantly as usual, and with success. Then she leaned back in her chair and faced them all.
“Dear guests,” she murmured, “you remember the condition, the only condition upon which we bestowed our company upon one another in this benighted place. You remember it was agreed that when you were bored, you left without excuse or any foolish apologies. The same to apply to your hostess.”
“My dear Wilhelmina,” Lady Peggy exclaimed, “I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t go! I’m not due anywhere till the thirteenth. I won’t be stranded.”
Wilhelmina laughed.
“You foolish woman!” she exclaimed. “Who wants you to go? You shall be chatelaine—play hostess and fill the place if you like. Only you mustn’t have Leslie over more than twice a week.”
“You are going to desert us?” Deyes asked coolly.
“It was in the bond, wasn’t it?” she answered. “Peggy will look after you all, I am sure.”
“You mean that you are going away, to leave Thorpe?” Stephen Hurd asked abruptly.
She turned her head to look at him. He was sitting a little outside the circle—an attitude typical, perhaps, of his position there. The change in her tone was slight indeed, but it was sufficient.
“I am thinking of it,” she answered. “You, Gilbert, and Captain Austin can find some men toshoot, no doubt. Ask any one you like. Peggy will see about some women for you. I draw the line at that red-haired Egremont woman. Anybody else!”
“This is a blow,” Deyes remarked, “but it was in the bond. Nothing will move me from here till the seventeenth—unless yourchefshould leave. Do we meet in Marienbad?”
“I am not sure,” Wilhelmina answered, playing idly with the cards. “I feel that my system requires something more soothing.”
“I hate them all—those German baths,” Lady Peggy declared. “Ridiculous places every one of them.”
“After all, you see,” Wilhelmina declared, “illness of any sort is a species of uncleanliness. I think I should like to go somewhere where people are healthy, or at least not so disgustingly frank about their livers.”
“Why not stay here?” Stephen ventured to suggest. “I doubt whether any one in Thorpe knows what a liver is.”
“‘Inutile!’” Lady Peggy exclaimed. “Wilhelmina has the ‘wander fever.’ I can see it in her face. Is it the thunder, I wonder?”
Deyes walked to the window and threw it open. The storm was over, but the rain was still falling, a soft steady downpour. The cooler air which swept into the room was almost faint with the delicious perfume of flowers and shrubs bathed in the refreshing downpour.
“I think,” he said, “that there is some magic abroad to-night. Did you meet Lucifer walking in the rose garden?” he asked, turning slightlytowards his hostess. “The storm may have brought him—even here!”
“Neither Lucifer nor any other of his princely fellows,” she answered. “The only demon is here,”—she touched her bosom lightly—“the demon of unrest. It is not I alone who am born with the wanderer’s curse! There are many of us, you know.”
He shook his head.
“You have not the writing in your face,” he said. “I do not believe that you are one of the accursed at all.To-night——”
She was standing by his side now, looking out into the velvety darkness. Her eyes challenged his.
“Well! To-night?”
“To-night you have the look of one who has found what she has sought for for a long time. This sounds bald, but it is as near to truth as I can get.”
She was silent for a moment. She stood by his side listening to the soft constant patter of the rain, the far-away rumblings of the dying storm.
“One has moods,” she murmured.
“Heaven forbid that a woman should be without them!” he answered.
“Do you ever feel as though something were going to happen?” she asked suddenly.
“Often,” he answered; “but nothing ever does!”
Lady Peggy came yawning over to them.
“My dear,” she said, “I feel it in my very bones. I firmly believe that something is going to happen to every one of us. I have a most mysterious pricking about my left elbow!”
“To every one of us?” Stephen Hurd asked, idly enough.
“To every one of us!” she answered. “To you, even, who live in Thorpe. Remember my words when you get home to-night, or when you wake in the morning. As for you, Wilhelmina, I am not at all sure that you have not already met with your adventure.”
Deyes lit a cigarette.
“Let us remember this,” he declared. “In a week’s time we will compare notes.”
Stephen Hurd stood up to take his leave.
“You are really going—soon?” he asked, as he bent over her carelessly offered hand.
“As soon as I can decide where to go to,” she answered.
“Can I give my father any message? Would you care to see him to-morrow morning?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“It is not necessary,” she answered.
He made his adieux reluctantly. Somehow he felt that the night had not been a success. She was going away. Very likely he would not see her again. The great house and all its glories would be closed to him. To do him justice, he thought of that less than the casual manner of her farewell. His vanity was deeply wounded. She had begun by being so gracious—no wonder that he had lost his head a little. He thought over the events of the last few days. Something had occurred to alter her. Could he have offended in any way?
He walked dejectedly home, heedless of the sodden path and wet grass. A light was still burning in the study. He hesitated for a moment, and then, turning the handle, entered.
“You’re late, father,” he remarked, going towards the cupboard to select a pipe.
There was no answer. The still figure in the chair never moved. Something in the silence struck Stephen as ominous. He turned abruptly round, and for the first time noticed the condition of the room. A chair was overturned, a vase of flowers spilt upon the table, the low window, from which one stepped almost into the village street, was wide open. The desk in front of the motionless figure was littered all over with papers in wild confusion. Stephen, with a low cry of horror, crossed the room and laid his hand upon his father’s shoulder. He tried to speak to him, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew very well that there could be no reply. His father was sitting dead in his chair.
Out amongst the broken fragments of the storm, on the hill-top and down the rain-drenched lane, Macheson sought in vain by physical exertion to still the fever which burned in his veins. Nothing he could do was able to disturb that wonderful memory, to lessen for an instant the significance of those few amazing seconds. The world of women, all the lighter and quieter joys of life, he had, with the fierce asceticism of the young reformer, thrust so resolutely behind him. But he had never imagined anything like this! Its unexpectedness had swept him off his feet. The memory of it was most delicious torture!
Sleep?—he dared not think of it. Who could sleep with such a fire in his blood as this? He heard the storm die away, thunder and wind and rain melted into the deep stillness of midnight. A dim moon shone behind a veil of mist. The dripping of rain from the trees alone remained. Then he heard a footstep coming down the lane. His first wild thought was that she had returned. His eyes burned their way through the darkness. Soon he saw that it wasa man who came unsteadily, but swiftly, down the roadway.
Macheson leaned over the gate. He would have preferred not to disclose himself, but as the man passed, he was stricken with a sudden consciousness that for him the events of the night were not yet over. This was no villager; he had not even the appearance of an Englishman. He was short and inclined to be thick-set, his coat collar was turned up, and a tweed cap was drawn down to his eyes. He walked with uneven footsteps and muttered to himself words that sounded like words of prayer, only they were in some foreign language. Macheson accosted him.
“Hullo!” he said. “Have you lost your way?”
The man cried out and then stood still, trembling on the roadside. He turned a white, scared face to where Macheson was leaning against the gate.
“Who is that?” he cried. “What do you want with me?”
Macheson stepped into the lane.
“Nothing at all,” he answered reassuringly. “I simply thought that you might have lost your way. These are lonely parts.”
The newcomer drew a step nearer. He displayed a small ragged beard, a terror-stricken face, and narrow, very bright eyes. His black clothes were soaked and splashed with mud.
“I want a railway station,” he said rapidly. “Where is the nearest?”
Macheson pointed into the valley.
“Just where you see that light burning,” heanswered, “but there will be no trains till the morning.”
“Then I must walk,” the man declared feverishly. “How far is it to Nottingham?”
“Twenty-five miles,” Macheson answered.
“Too far! And Leicester?”
“Twelve, perhaps! But you are walking in the wrong direction.”
The man turned swiftly round.
“Point towards Leicester,” he said. “I shall find my way.”
Macheson pointed across the trees.
“You can’t miss it,” he declared. “Climb the hill till you get to a road with telegraph wires. Turn to the left, and you will walk into Leicester.”
For some reason the stranger seemed to be occupied in looking earnestly into Macheson’s face.
“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.
“I am close to where I am staying,” Macheson answered. “Just in the wood there.”
The man took a quick step forwards and then reeled. His hand flew to his side. He was attacked by sudden faintness and would have fallen, but for Macheson’s outstretched arm.
“God!” he muttered, “it is finished.”
He was obviously on the verge of a collapse. Macheson dragged him into the shelter and poured brandy between his teeth. He revived a little and tried to rise.
“I must go on,” he cried. “I dare not stay here.”
The terror in his face was unmistakable. Macheson looked at him gravely.
“You had better stay where you are till morning,” he said. “You are not in a fit state to travel.”
The man had raised himself upon one arm. He looked wildly about him.
“Where am I?” he demanded. “What is this place?”
“It is a gamekeeper’s shelter,” Macheson answered, “which I am making use of for a few days. You are welcome to stay here until the morning.”
“I must go on,” the man moaned. “I am afraid.”
Almost as he uttered the words he fell back, and went off immediately into an uneasy doze. Macheson threw his remaining rug over the prostrate figure, and, lighting his pipe, strolled out into the spinney. The man’s coming filled him with a vague sense of trouble. He seemed so utterly out of keeping with the place, he represented an alien and undesirable note—a note almost of tragedy. All the time in his broken sleep he was muttering to himself. Once or twice he cried out in terror, once especially—Macheson turned round to find him sitting up on the rug, his brown eyes full of wild fear, and the perspiration running down his face. A stream of broken words flowed from his lips. Macheson thrust him back on the rug.
“Go to sleep,” he said. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
After that the man slept more soundly. Macheson himself dozed for an hour until he was awakened by the calling of the birds. Directly he opened his eyes he knew that something had happened to him. It was not only the music of the birds—there was astrange new music stirring in his heart. The pearly light in the eastern sky had never seemed so beautiful; never, surely, had the sunlight streamed down upon so perfect a corner of the earth. And then, with a quick rush of blood to his cheeks, he remembered what it was that had so changed the world. He lived again through that bewildering moment, again he felt the delicious warmth of her presence, the touch of her hair as it had brushed his cheek, the soft passionate pressure of her lips against his. It was like an episode from a fairy story, there was something so delicate, so altogether fanciful in that flying visit. Something, too, so unbelievable when he thought of her as the mistress of Thorpe, the languid, insolent woman of the world who had treated him so coldly.
Then a movement behind reminded him of his strange visitor. He turned round. The man was already on his feet. He looked better for his sleep, but the wild look was still in his eyes.
“I must go,” he said. “I ought to have started before. Thank you for your shelter.”
Macheson reached out for his spirit lamp.
“Wait a few minutes,” he said, “and I will have some coffee ready.”
The man hesitated. He looked sorely in need of something of the sort. As he came to the opening of the shelter, the trembling seized him again. He looked furtively out as though he feared the daylight. The sunshine and the bright open day seemed to terrify him.
“I ought to have gone on last night,” he muttered. “I must——”
He broke off his sentence. Macheson, too, had turned his head to listen.
“What is that?” he asked sharply.
“The baying of dogs,” Macheson answered.
“Dogs! What dogs?” he demanded.
“Colonel Harvey’s bloodhounds!”
The man’s face was ashen now to the lips. He clutched Macheson’s arm frantically.
“They are after me!” he exclaimed. “Where can I hide? Tell me quick!”
Macheson looked at him gravely.
“What have you been doing?” he asked. “They do not bring bloodhounds out for nothing.”
“I have hurt a man down in the village,” was the terrified answer. “I didn’t mean to—no! I swear that I did not mean to. I went to his house and I asked him for money. I had a right to it! And I asked him to tell me where—but oh! you would not understand. Listen! I swear to you that I did not mean to hurt him. Why should I? He was old, and I think he fainted. God! do you hear that?”
He clung to Macheson in a frenzy. The deep baying of the dogs was coming nearer and nearer.
“Listen,” Macheson said, “the dogs will not be allowed to hurt you, but if you are loose I promise that I will protect you from them. You had better wait here with me.”
The man fell upon his knees.
“Sir,” he begged, “I am innocent of everything except a blow struck in anger. Help me to escape, I implore you. There are others who will suffer—if anything happens to me.”
“The law is just,” Macheson answered. “You will suffer nothing except justice.”
“I want mercy, not justice,” the man sobbed. “For the love of God, help me!”
Macheson hesitated. Again the early morning stillness was broken by that hoarse, terrifying sound. His sporting instincts were aroused. He had small sympathy with the use of such means against human beings.
“I will give you a chance,” he said. “Remember it is nothing more. Follow me!”
He led the way to the slate pit.
“Can you swim?” he asked.
“Yes!” the man answered.
“This is where I take my morning bath,” Macheson said. “You will see that though you can scramble down and dive in, it is too precipitous to get out. Therefore, I have fixed up a rope on the other side—it goes through those bushes, and is attached to the trunk of a tree beneath the bracken. If you swim across, you can pull yourself out of the water and hide just above the water in the bushes. There is just a chance that you may escape observation.”
Already he was on his way down, but Macheson stopped him.
“I shall leave a suit of dry clothes in the shelter,” he said. “If they should give up the chase you are welcome to them. Now you had better dive. They are in the spinney.”
The man went in, after the fashion of a practised diver. Macheson turned round and retraced his steps towards his temporary dwelling-house.
Out in the lane a motley little group of men were standing. Stephen Hurd was in the act of springing off his brown cob. The dogs were already in the shelter.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Hurd asked, as Macheson strode through the undergrowth.
Macheson pointed to the shelter.
“I could find no other lodging,” he answered, “thanks to circumstances of which you are aware.”
Stephen Hurd kicked the gate open. He was pale and there were deep lines under his eyes. He was still in his evening clothes, except for a rough tweed coat, but his white tie was hanging loose, and his patent-leather shoes were splashed with mud.
“We are chasing a man,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
“I have,” Macheson answered. “What has he done?”
There was a momentary silence. Hurd spoke with a sob.
“Murdered—my father!”
Macheson was shocked.
“You mean—that Mr. Hurd is dead?” he asked, in an awe-stricken tone.
“Dead!” the young man answered with a sob. “Killed in his chair!”
The dogs came out of the shelter. They turned towards the interior of the spinney. The little crowd came streaming through the gate.
“I gave shelter to a man who admitted that he was in trouble,” he said gravely. “He heard the dogs and he was terrified. He has jumped into the slate quarry.”
The dogs were on the trail now. They followed them to the edge of the quarry. Here the bushes were trodden down, a man’s cap was hanging on one close to the bottom. They all peered over into the still water, unnaturally black. Amies, the head keeper, raised his head.
“It’s twenty-five feet deep—some say forty, and a sheer drop,” he declared impressively. “We’ll have to drag it for the body.”
“Best take the dogs round the other side, and make sure he ain’t got out again,” one of the crowd suggested.
Amies pointed scornfully to the precipitous side. Such a feat was clearly impossible. Nevertheless the dogs were taken round. For a few minutes they were uneasy, but eventually they returned to the spot from which their intended victim had dived. Every one was peering down into the dark water as though fascinated.
“I thought as they come up once or twice before they were drownded,” somebody remarked.
“Not unless they want to,” another answered. “This chap wasn’t too anxious. He knew his goose was cooked.”
The dogs were muzzled and led away. One by one the labourers and servants dispersed. Two of them started off to telegraph for a drag. Stephen Hurd was one of the last to depart.
“I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am for you,” Macheson declared earnestly. “Such a tragedy in a village like Thorpe seems almost incredible. I suppose it was a case of attempted robbery?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Hurd answered. “There was plenty of money left untouched, and I can’t find that there is any short. The man arrived after the maids had gone to bed, but they heard him knock at the door, and heard my father let him in.”
“They didn’t hear any struggle then?” Macheson asked.
Hurd shook his head.
“There was only one blow upon his head,” he answered. “Graikson says that death was probably through shock.”
Macheson felt curiously relieved.
“The man did not go there as a murderer then,” he remarked. “Perhaps not even as a thief. There may have been a quarrel.”
“He killed him, anyhow,” Hurd said brokenly. “What time was it when you first saw him?”
“About midnight, I should think,” Macheson answered. “He came down the lane like a drunken man.”
“What was he like?” Hurd asked.
“Small, and I should say a foreigner,” Macheson answered. “He spoke English perfectly, but there was an accent, and when he was asleep he talkedto himself in a language which, to the best of my belief, I have never heard before in my life.”
“A foreigner?” Hurd muttered. “You are sure of that?”
“Quite,” Macheson answered. “There could be no mistake about it.”
Stephen Hurd mounted his cob and turned its head towards home. He asked no more questions; he seemed, if possible, graver than ever. Before he started, however, he pointed with his whip towards the shelter.
“You’ve no right there, you know,” he said. “We can’t allow it. You must clear out at once.”
“Very well,” Macheson answered. “I’m trespassing, of course, but one must sleep somewhere.”
“There is no necessity for you to remain in Thorpe at all,” Hurd said. “I think, in the circumstances, the best thing you can do is to go.”
“In the circumstances!” The irony of the phrase struck home. What did this young man know of the circumstances? There were reasons now, indeed, why he should fly from Thorpe as from a place stricken with the pestilence. But no other soul in this world could know of those reasons save himself—and she.
“I should not, of course, think of holding my services at present,” Macheson said gravely. “If you think it would be better, I will go away.”
Stephen Hurd nodded as he cantered off.
“I am glad to hear you say so,” he declared shortly. “Go and preach in the towns where this scum is reared. There’s plenty of work for missioners there.”
Macheson stood still until the young man on hispony had disappeared. Then he turned round and walked slowly back towards the slate quarry. The black waters remained smooth and unrippled; there was no sound of human movement anywhere. In the adjoining field a harvesting-machine was at work; in the spinney itself the rabbits, disturbed last night by the storm, were scurrying about more frolicsome than usual; a solitary thrush was whistling in the background. The sunlight lay in crooked beams about the undergrowth, a gentle west breeze was just stirring the foliage overhead. There was nothing in the air to suggest in any way the strange note of tragedy which the coming of this hunted man had nevertheless brought.
Macheson was turning away when a slight disturbance in the undergrowth on the other side of the quarry attracted his notice. He stood still and watched the spot. The bracken was shaking slightly—then the sound of a dry twig, suddenly snapped! For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned on his heel and walked abruptly away. With almost feverish haste, he flung his few belongings into his portmanteau, leaving in the shelter his flask, a suit of clothes, and several trifles. Five minutes later he was on his way down the hill, with his bag upon his shoulder and his face set southwards.
Up the broad avenue to the great house of Thorpe, Stephen Hurd slowly made his way, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes fixed upon the ground. But his appearance was not altogether the appearance of a man overcome with grief. The events of the last few days had told upon him, and his deep mourning had a sombre look. Yet there were thoughts working even then in his brain which battled hard with his natural depression. Strange things had happened—stranger things than he was able all at once to digest. He could not see the end, but there were possibilities upon which he scarcely dared to brood.
He was shown into the library and left alone for nearly twenty minutes. Then Wilhelmina came, languid, and moving as though with tired feet. Yet her manner was gentler and kinder than usual. She leaned back in one of the vast easy-chairs, and murmured a few graceful words of sympathy.
“We were all so sorry for you, Mr. Hurd,” she said. “It was a most shocking affair.”
“I thank you very much—madam,” he replied, after a moment’s pause. It was better, perhaps, forthe present, to assume that their relations were to continue those of employer and employed.
“I do not know,” she continued, “whether you care to speak about this shocking affair. Perhaps you would prefer that we did not allude to it for the present.”
He shook his head.
“I am not sure,” he answered, “that it is not rather a relief to have it spoken of. One can’t get it out of one’s mind, of course.”
“There is no news of the man—no fresh capture?”
“None,” he answered. “They are dragging the slate quarry again to-day. I believe there are some very deep holes where the body may have drifted.”
“Do you believe that that is the case?” she asked; “or do you think that he got clean away?”
“I cannot tell,” he answered. “It seems impossible that he should have escaped altogether without help.”
“And that he could not have had, could he?” she asked.
He looked across at her thoughtfully, watching her face, curious to see whether his words might have any effect.
“Only from one person,” he said.
“Yes?”
“From Macheson, the fellow who came here to convert us all,” he said deliberately.
Beyond a slight elevation of the eyebrows, his scrutiny was in vain, for she made no sign.
“He scarcely seems a likely person, does he, to aid a criminal?” she asked in measured tones.
Stephen Hurd shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps not,” he admitted, “but at any rate he sheltered him.”
“As he doubtless would have done any passer-by on such a night,” she remarked. “By the bye, what has become of that young man?”
“He has left the neighbourhood,” Hurd answered shortly.
“Left altogether?” she inquired.
“I imagine so,” Hurd answered. “I had the shelter destroyed, and I gave him to understand pretty clearly what your wishes were. There really wasn’t much else for him to do.”
Her eyelids drooped over her half closed eyes. For a moment she was silent.
“If you hear of him again,” she said quietly, “be so good as to let me know.”
Her indifference seemed too complete to be assumed. Yet somehow or other Hurd felt that she was displeased with him.
“I will do so,” he said, “if I hear anything about him. It scarcely seems likely.”
Wilhelmina sat quite still. Her head, resting slightly upon the long delicate fingers of her right hand, was turned away from the young man who was daring to watch her. She was apparently gazing across the park, down the magnificent avenue of elms which led to the village. So he was gone—without a word! How else? On the whole she could not but approve! And yet!—and yet!
She turned once more to Hurd.
“I read the account of the inquest on your father’s death,” she said, speaking very slowly, with her usual drawl, yet with a softer note in her voice,as though out of respect for the dead man. “Does it not seem very strange that the money was left untouched?”
“Yes!” he answered. “Yet, after all, I don’t know. You see, the governor must have closed with the fellow and shown fight before he got that knock on the head. If the thief was really only an ordinary tramp, he’d be scared to death at what he’d done, and probably bolt for his life without stopping to take anything with him.”
“Isn’t it rather surprising to have tramps—in Thorpe?” she asked.
“I have scarcely ever seen one,” he answered.
Wilhelmina turned her head slightly, so that she was now directly facing him. She looked him steadily in the eyes.
“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Hurd,” she asked, “that this young man may not have been a tramp at all, and that his visit to your father may have been on other business than that of robbery?”
He hesitated for a moment.
“My father’s connexions with the outside world,” he said slowly, “were so slight.”
“Yet it has occurred to you?”
“Yes!” he admitted.
“And have you come to any conclusion?”
“None,” he declared.
“You carried out my instructions with regard to the papers and documents belonging to the estate?”
“Certainly, madam,” he answered. “Within five minutes of receiving your message, they were all locked up in the safe and the key handed to your messenger.”
“You did not go through them yourself?” she asked.
“I did not,” he answered, lying with admirable steadiness. “I scarcely felt that I was entitled to do so.”
“So that you could not tell if any were missing?” she continued.
“I could not,” he admitted.
“Your father never spoke, then, of any connexions with people—outside Thorpe—likely to prove of a dangerous character?”
The young man smiled. “My father,” he said, “had not been farther than Loughborough for twenty years.”
There was a short silence. Wilhelmina, deliberately, and without any attempt at concealment, was meditatively watching the young man, studying his features with a half-contemptuous and yet searching interest. Perhaps the slightly curving lips, the hard intentness of her gaze, suggested that he was disbelieved. He lost colour and fidgeted about. It was a scrutiny not easy to bear, and he felt that it was going against him. Already she had written him down a liar.
She spoke to him at last. If the silence had not ended soon, he would have made some blundering attempt to retrieve his position. She spoke just in time to avert such ignominy.
“Mr. Hurd,” she said, “the question of your father’s successor is one that has doubtless occurred to you as it has to me. I trust that you will, at any rate, remain here. As to whether I can offeryou your father’s position in its entirety, I am not for the present assured.”
He glanced up at her furtively. He was certain now that he had played his cards ill. She had read through him easily. He cursed himself for a lout.
“You see,” she continued, “the post is one of great responsibility, because it entails the management of the whole estates. It is necessary for me to feel absolute confidence in the person who undertakes it. I have not known you very long, Mr. Hurd.”
He bowed. He could not trust himself to words.
“I have instructed them to send some one down from my solicitor’s office for a week or so,” she continued, “to assist you. In the meantime, I must think the matter over.”
“I am very much obliged to you, madam,” he said. “You will find me, I think, quite as trustworthy and devoted to your interests as my father.”
She smiled slightly. She recognized exactly his quandary, and it amused her. The slightest suggestion of menace in his manner would be to give the lie to himself.
“I am coming down this afternoon,” she said, “to go through the safes. Please be there in case I want you. You will not forget, in case you should hear anything of Mr. Macheson, that I desire to be informed.”
He took his leave humiliated and angry. He had started the game with a wrong move—retrievable, perhaps, but annoying. Wilhelmina passed into the library, where Lady Peggy, in a wonderful morning robe, was leaning back in an easy-chair dictating letters to Captain Austin.
“You dear woman!” she exclaimed, “don’t interrupt us, will you? I have found an ideal secretary, writes everything I tell him, and spells quite decently considering his profession. My conscience is getting lighter every moment.”
“And my heart heavier,” Austin grumbled. “A most flirtatious correspondence yours.”
She laughed softly.
“My next shall be to my dressmaker,” she declared. “Such a charming woman, and so trustful. Behave yourself nicely, and you shall go with me to call on her next week, and see her mannikins. By the bye, Wilhelmina, am I hostess or are you?”
“You, by all means,” Wilhelmina answered. “I shall go to-morrow or the next day. Is any one coming to lunch?”
“His Grace, I fancy—no one else.”
Wilhelmina yawned.
“Where is Gilbert?” she asked.
“Asleep on the lawn last time I saw him.”
“No one shooting, then?”
“We’re going to beat up the home turnips after lunch,” Captain Austin answered. “It’s rather an off day with us. Gilbert is nursing his leg—fancies he has rheumatism coming.”
She strolled out into the garden, but she avoided the spot where Gilbert Deyes lounged in an easy-chair, reading the paper and smoking cigarettes, with his leg carefully arranged on a garden chair in front of him. She took the winding path which skirted the kitchen gardens and led to the green lane, along which the carts passed to the home farm. She felt that what she was doing was in the natureof an experiment, she was yielding again to that most astonishing impulse which once before had taken her so completely by surprise. She passed out of the gate and along the lane. She began to climb the hill. About the success of her experiment she no longer had any doubt. Her heart was beating with pleasant insistence, a feeling of suppressed excitement sent the blood gliding through her veins with delicious softness. All the time she mocked at herself—that this should be Wilhelmina Thorpe-Hatton, to whom the most distinguished men, not only in one capital, but in Europe, had paid court, whom the most ardent wooer had failed to move, who had found, indeed, in all the professions of love-making something insufferably tedious. She was at once amused and annoyed at herself, but an instinctive habit of truthfulness forbade even self-deception. Her cheeks were aflame, and her heart was beating like a girl’s as she reached the spinney. She recognized the fact that she was experiencing a new and delightful pleasure, an emotion as unexpected and ridiculous as it was inexplicable. But she hugged it to herself. It pleased her immensely to feel that the impossible had happened. What all this army of men, experienced in the wiles of love-making, had failed to do, a crazy boy had accomplished without an effort. Absolutely bizarre, of course, but not so wonderful after all! She was so secure against any ordinary assault. She felt herself like the heroine of one of Gautier’s novels. If he had been there himself, she would have taken him into her arms with all the passionate simplicity of a child.
But he was not there. On the contrary, the place was looking forlorn and deserted. The shelter had been razed to the ground—she felt that she hated Stephen Hurd as she contemplated its ruin—the hedge was broken down by the inrush of people a few days ago. In the absence of any sunshine, the country around seemed bleak and colourless. She leaned over the gate and half closed her eyes. Memory came more easily like that!