Lois and her companion stopped on the summit of the hill to look at the rolling background of woods, brilliant still with their autumn coloring. The west wind had blown her hair into disorder, but it had blown also the color back into her cheeks. Her eyes were bright, and her laughter infectious. Her companion stooped down and passed his arm through hers, looking into her face admiringly.
“Lois,” he said, “this is the first day I have seen you like your old self. I can’t tell you how glad I am.”
She smiled.
“I wasn’t aware, Maurice,” she said, “that I have been very different. I have had headaches now and then, lately. Fancy having a headache an afternoon like this!” she added, throwing back her head once more, and breathing in the fresh, invigorating air.
“You ought to have seen a doctor,” her companion declared. “I told Lady Mary so the other day.”
“Rubbish!” Lois exclaimed, lightly.
“Nothing of the sort,” Captain Vandermere replied. “I was beginning to worry about you. I almostfancied——”
“Well?”
“It almost seemed,” he continued, a little awkwardly, “as though you had something on your mind. You seemed so queer every now and then, little girl,” he added, “I do hope that if there was anything bothering you, you’d tell me all about it. We’re old pals, you know.”
She laughed—not quite naturally.
“My dear Maurice,” she said, “of course there has been nothing of that sort the matter with me! What could I have on my mind?”
“No love affairs, eh?” he asked, stroking his fair moustache.
She shook her head thoughtfully.
“No!” she said. “No love affairs.”
He tightened his grasp upon her arm. He had an idea that he was being very diplomatic indeed. And Lady Mary had begged him to find out whatever was the matter with poor dear Lois!
“Well,” he said, “I am glad to hear it. To tell you the truth, I have been very jealous lately.”
“You jealous!” she exclaimed, mockingly.
“Fact, I assure you,” he answered.
“Captain Maurice Vandermere jealous!” she repeated, looking up at him with dancing eyes—“absolutely the most popular bachelor in London! And jealous of me, too!”
“Is that so very wonderful, Lois?” he asked. “We have been pretty good friends, you know.”
She felt his hand upon her arm, and she looked away.
“Yes,” she said, “we have been friends, only wehaven’t seen much of one another the last month or so, have we?”
“It hasn’t been my fault,” he declared. “I really couldn’t get leave before, although I tried hard. I shouldn’t have been here now, to tell you the truth, Lois,” he went on, “but Lady Mary’s been frightening me a bit.”
“About me?” Lois asked.
“About you,” he assented.
“What has she been saying?”
“Well, nothing definite,” Captain Vandermere answered, “but of course you know she’s an awful good pal of mine, and she did write me a line or two about you. It seems there’s some young fellow been about down here whom she isn’t very stuck on, and she seemed to beafraid——”
“Well, go on,” Lois said calmly.
“Well, that he was making the running with you a bit,” Captain Vandermere declared, feeling that he was getting into rather deeper waters. “Of course, I don’t know anything about him, and I don’t want to say anything against anybody who is a friend of yours, but from all that I have heard he didn’t seem to me to be the sort of man I fancied for my little friend Lois to get—well, fond of.”
“So you decided to come down yourself,” Lois continued.
“I decided to come down and say something which I ought to have said some time ago,” Captain Vandermere continued, “only you see you are really only a child,and you’ve got a lot more money than I have, and you are not of age yet, so I thought I’d let it be for a bit. But you know I’m fond of you, Lois.”
“Are you?” she asked, artlessly.
“You must know that,” he continued, bending over her. “I wonder——”
“Are you aware that we are standing on the top of a hill,” Lois said, “and that everybody for a good many miles round has a perfectly clear view of us?”
“I don’t care where we are,” he declared. “I have got to go on now. Lois, will you marry me?”
“Is this a proposal?” She laughed nervously.
“Sounds like it,” he admitted.
She was silent for several moments. Into her eyes there had come something of that look which had sent Lady Mary into her room to write to Captain Vandermere, and bid him come without delay. The color had gone. She seemed suddenly older—tired.
“Oh, I don’t know!” she said. “I think I should like to, but I can’t!—no, I can’t!”
They began to descend the hill. He kept his arm in hers.
“Why not?” he asked. “Don’t you care for me?”
“I—I don’t know,” she answered. “I don’t know whether I care for anybody. Wait, please. Don’t speak to me for several moments.”
Their path skirted the side of a ploughed field, and then through a little gate they passed into a long, straggling plantation. Directly she was under the shelter of the trees, she burst into tears.
“Don’t come near me,” she begged. “Leave me alone for a moment. I shall be better directly.”
He disregarded her bidding to the extent of placing his arm around her waist. He made no attempt, however, to draw her hands away from her face, or stop her tears.
“Little girl,” he said, “I knew that there was some trouble. It is there in your dear, innocent little face for anyone to see who cares enough about you to look. When you have dried those eyes, you must tell me all about it. Remember that even if you won’t have me for a husband, we are old enough friends for you to look upon me as an elder brother.”
She dried her eyes, and looked up at him with a hopeless little smile.
“You are a dear,” she said, “and I am very fond of you. I don’t know what’s happened to me—at least I do know, but I can’t tell anyone.”
“Is it,” he asked gravely, “that you care about this person?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” she answered. “I hope not. I don’t know, I’m sure. Sometimes I feel that I do, and sometimes, when I am sane, when I am in my right mind, I know that I do not. Maurice,” she begged, “help me. Please help me.”
His face cleared.
“I’ll help you right enough, little girl,” he answered. “Just listen to me. I’m not going to see you throw yourself away upon an outsider. Just remember that. On the other hand, I’m not going to bother you to death. Here I am by your side, and here I mean to stay. If that—no,I won’t call him names!” he said, stopping short in his sentence—“but if anyone tries to make you unhappy, well, I shall have something to say. Come along, let’s finish our walk. We’ll talk about something else if you like.”
She drew a little sigh of relief.
“You are a dear, Maurice,” she repeated. “Come along, we’ll go down the lane and over the hills home. I do feel safe, somehow, with you,” she added, impulsively. “You are not going away just yet, are you?”
“Not for a fortnight, at any rate,” he answered.
“And you won’t leave me alone?” she begged—“not even if I ask to be left alone? You see—I can’t make you understand—but I don’t even trust myself.”
He laughed reassuringly.
“I’ll look after you, never fear,” he answered. “I’ll be better than a watchdog. Tell me, what’s your handicap at golf now? We must have a game to-morrow.”
They walked down the lane, talking—in a somewhat subdued manner, perhaps, but easily enough—upon lighter subjects. And then at the corner, just as they had passed the entrance to Blackbird’s Nest, they came face to face with Saton. Vandermere felt her suddenly creep closer to him, as though for protection, and from his six feet odd of height, he frowned angrily at the young man with his hat in his hand preparing to accost them. Never was dislike more instinctive and hearty. Vandermere, an ordinarily intelligent but unimaginative Englishman, of the normally healthy type, a sportsman, a good fellow, and a man of breeding—and Saton, this strange productof strange circumstances, externally passable enough, but with something about him which seemed, even in that clear November sunshine, to suggest the footlights.
“You are quite a stranger, Miss Champneyes,” Saton said, taking her unresisting hand in his. “I hope that you are going in to see the Comtesse. Only this morning she told me that she was finding it appallingly lonely.”
“I—I wasn’t calling anywhere this afternoon,” Lois said timidly. “Captain Vandermere has come down to stay with us for a few days, and I was showing him the country. This is Mr. Saton—Captain Vandermere. I don’t know whether you remember him.”
The two men exchanged the briefest of greetings. Saton’s was civil enough. Vandermere’s was morose, almost discourteous.
“Let me persuade you to change your mind,” Saton said, speaking slowly, and with his eyes fixed upon Lois. “The Comtesse would be so disappointed if she knew that you had passed this way and had not entered.”
Vandermere was conscious that in some way the girl by his side was changed. She drew a little away from him.
“Very well,” she said, “I shall be pleased to go in and see her. You do not mind, Maurice?”
“Not at all,” he answered. “If I may be allowed, I will come with you.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Saton spoke—quietly, regretfully.
“I am so sorry,” he said, “but the Comtesse de Vestinges—my adopted mother,” he explained, with a little bow—“receives no one. She is old, and her health is not of the best. A visit from Miss Champneyes always does her good.”
Lois looked up at her companion.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you will have a cigarette in the lane.”
“I am sorry to seem inhospitable,” Saton said smoothly. “If Captain Vandermere will come up to the house, my study is at his service, and I can give him some cigarettes which I think he would find passable.”
“Thank you,” Vandermere answered, a little gruffly, “I’ll wait out here. Remember, Lois,” he added, turning towards her, “that we are expected home to play bridge directly after tea.”
“I will not be long,” she answered.
She moved off with Saton, turning round with a little farewell nod to Vandermere as they passed through the gate. He took a quick step towards her. Was it his fancy, or was there indeed appeal in the quick glance which she had thrown him? Then directly afterwards, while he hesitated, he heard her laugh. Reluctantly he gave up the idea of following them, and swinging himself onto a gate, sat watching the two figures climbing the field toward the house.
The laugh which checked Vandermere in his first intention of following Lois and Saton up the field, was scarcely a mirthful effort. Saton had bent toward his companion, and his tone had been almost threatening.
“You must not look at anyone like that while I am with you,” he said. “You must not look as though you were frightened of me. You must seem amused. You must laugh.”
She obeyed. It was a poor effort, but it sounded natural enough in the distance.
“Come,” Saton continued, “you are not very kind to me, Lois. You are not very kind to the man whom you are going to marry, whom you have said that you love. It has been very lonely these last few days, Lois. You have not come to me. I have watched for you often.”
“I could not come,” she answered. “Lady Mary has been with me all the time. I think that she suspects.”
“Surely you are clever enough,” he answered, “to outwit a little simpleton like that. Has Rochester been interfering?”
“If he knew that I even spoke to you,” she answered, “I think that he would send me away.”
“It is not kind of them,” he said, “to be so bitter against me.”
She shrank from him.
“If they knew!” she said. “If they only knew that I even thought of marrying you, or—or—”
Saton shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, well,” he said, “they know as much as it is well for them to know! After all, you see, no harm has happened to your guardian. I saw him to-day, on his way home from hunting. He looked strong and well enough. Tell me, Lois,” he continued, “has he had any visitors from London the last few days? I don’t mean guests—I mean people to see him on business?”
“Not that I know of,” she answered. “Why?”
Saton’s face darkened.
“It is he, I am sure,” he said, “who is interfering in my concerns. Never mind, Lois, we will not talk about that, dear. Give me your hand. We are engaged, you know. You should be glad to have these few minutes with me.”
Her fingers which he clasped were like ice. He was puzzled at her attitude.
“A month ago,” he said softly, “you did not find it such a hardship to spend a little time alone with me.”
“A month ago,” she answered, “I had not seen you on your knees with a gun, seen your white face, heard the report, and seen Mr. Rochester fall. I had not seen you steal away through the bracken. Oh, it was terrible! You looked like a murderer! I shall never, never forget it.”
He laughed softly.
“These things are fancies,” he said—“dreams. You will forget them, my dear Lois. You will forget them very soon.”
They entered the house, and in the hall he drew her into his arms. She wrenched herself free, and crouched back in the corner, with her hands stretched out in front of her face.
“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t! If you kiss me, I shall go mad. Can’t you see that I don’t want to come with you, that I don’t want to be with you? You shall let me go! You must let me go!”
He stood frowning a few feet away. To tell the truth, he was honestly puzzled at her attitude. At last, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he threw open the door of the sitting-room.
“Rachael,” he said, “Lois has come to see you for a few minutes.”
Lois went timidly into the room. Rachael, with a shawl around her shoulders, was sitting in front of a huge fire. She turned her head and held out her long withered hand, as usual covered with rings.
“Sit opposite me, child. Let me look at you.”
Lois sat down, gazing with fascinated eyes at the woman whose presence she found almost as terrifying as the presence of Saton himself.
“My son—I call Bertrand my son,” she said, “because I have adopted him, and because everything I have, even my name if he will have it—will be his—my son, then, tells me that he has not seen you for several days.”
“It is very difficult,” Lois said, trembling.
“Why?” Rachael asked.
“My guardian, Mr. Rochester, does not allow Bertrand to come to the house,” Lois said, hesitatingly, “and Lady Mary tries not to let me come out alone.”
Rachael nodded her head slowly, her eyes glittered in the firelight. Wrapped in her black shawl, she looked like some quaint effigy—something scarcely human.
“Your guardian and his wife,” she said, “are foolish, ignorant people. They do not understand such men as Bertrand. You will understand him, child. You will know him better when he is your husband, know him better, and be proud of him. Is it not so?”
“I—I suppose so,” Lois said.
“I am glad that you came this afternoon,” Rachael continued. “Bertrand and I have been talking. We think it well that you should be married very soon.”
“I am not of age,” Lois said, breathlessly.
“It does not matter,” Rachael declared. “Your guardian can keep back your money, but that is of no consequence. It will come to you in time, and Bertrand has plenty himself. I am afraid that they might try and tempt you to be faithless to my son. You are very young and impressionable, and though I do not doubt but that you are fond of him, it is not easy to be faithful when you are alone, and with such people as Mr. Rochester and Lady Mary. I am going to London in a few days. I think it would be well if you went with me. Bertrand could get a special license, and you could be married at once.”
“No!” she shrieked. “No! No!”
Rachael said nothing. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Only her eyes flashed unutterable things.
Upon the somewhat hysterical silence came the sound of Saton’s voice—cold, decisive.
“Lois,” he said, “what my mother has advised would make me very happy. Will you remember that I wish it? Will you remember that?”
“Yes!” she faltered.
“I shall make you a good husband,” he added, coming a little nearer to her, sinking on one knee by her side, and taking her cold, unresisting hands into his. “I shall make you a good husband, and I think that you will be happy. We cannot go on like this. I only see you now by stealth. It must come to an end.”
“Yes!” she faltered.
“Next time we meet,” he continued, “I will tell you what plans we have made.”
She turned her head slowly, and looked at him with frightened, wide-open eyes.
“Why?” she asked. “Why do you want me to marry you? You do not care for me. You do not care for me at all. Is it because I am rich? But you—you are rich yourselves. I would offer you my money, but you cannot want that.”
He smiled enigmatically.
“No!” he said. “Money is a good thing, but we have money ourselves. Don’t you believe, Lois,” he added, bending towards her, “that I am fond of you?”
“Oh! yes,” she answered, “if you say so!”
“Of course I say so!” he declared. “I am very fond of you indeed, or I should not want to marry you. Come, I think that you had better say good-bye to my mother now. Your friend outside will be tired of waiting.”
She rose to her feet, and he led her from the room. They walked down the field side by side, and Lois felt her knees trembling. She was white as a sheet, and once she was obliged to clutch his arm for support. As they neared the gate, they saw that Vandermere was talking to someone on horseback. Saton’s face darkened as he recognised the tall figure. His first impulse was to stop, but with Lois by his side he saw at once that it was impossible. With the courage that waits upon the inevitable, he opened the gate and passed out into the lane.
“Good afternoon, Miss Champneyes!” he said, holding out his hand. “It was very good of you to come in and visit the Comtesse. She is always so glad indeed to see you.”
The girl’s fingers lay for a moment icy cold within his. Then she turned with a little breath of relief to Vandermere. They walked off together.
Rochester signalled with his whip to Saton to wait for a moment. As soon as the other two were out of earshot, he leaned down from his saddle.
“My young friend,” he said, “it seems to me that you are wilfully disregarding my warning.”
“I was not aware,” Saton answered, “that Miss Champneyes was a prisoner in your house, nor do I seehow I am to be held responsible for her call upon the Comtesse.”
“We will not bandy words,” Rochester said. “I have no wish to quarrel with you, but I want you always to remember the things which I have said. Lois Champneyes is very nearly of age, it is true, but she remains a child by disposition and temperament. As her guardian, I want you to understand that I forbid you to continue your friendship or even your acquaintance with her!”
The quiet contempt of Rochester’s words stung Saton into a moment of fury.
“What sort of a creature am I, then,” he exclaimed, “that you should think me unworthy even to speak to your ward, or to the women of your household? You treat me as though I were a criminal, or worse!”
Rochester tapped his riding boot with the end of his whip. Saton watched him with fascinated eyes. There seemed something a little ominous in the action, in the sight of that gently moving whip, held so firmly in the long, sinewy fingers.
“What you are,” Rochester said, leaning a little down from his horse, “you know and I know. Let that be enough. Only remember that there comes a time when threats cease, and actions commence. And as sure as you and I are met here together this evening, Saton, I tell you that if you offend again in this matter, I shall punish you. You understand?”
Rochester swung his horse round and cantered down the lane. Saton stood looking after him with white, angry face and clenched hands.
The Duchess welcomed the little party from Beauleys in person, and with more than ordinary warmth.
“I am glad to see you all, of course,” she said, “but I am really delighted to see you about again, Henry. Do tell me, now. I have heard so many contradictory reports. Did you shoot yourself, or was it one of your guests who did it? I don’t know how it is, but poor Ronald always says that the men one asks to shoot, nowadays, hit everything except the birds.”
“My dear Duchess,” Rochester answered, “I certainly did not shoot myself. I have every confidence in my guests, and so far as we have been able to ascertain, there wasn’t another soul in the neighborhood. Shall we say that I was shot by the act of God? There really doesn’t seem to be any other explanation.”
The Duchess was not altogether satisfied.
“To-night I am going to offer you a great privilege,” she said. “I am going to give you a chance of finding out the answer to your riddle.”
Rochester looked perplexed, and Lady Mary blandly curious. Pauline alone seemed as though by instinct to realize what lay beneath their hostess’s words. Her faceseemed suddenly to grow tense. She shrank back—a slight, involuntary movement, but significant enough under the circumstances.
“An answer to my riddle,” Rochester remarked, smiling. “Really, I did not know that I had propounded one.”
“Only a moment ago,” the Duchess reminded him, “you spoke of being shot by the act of God. That, of course, was a form of speech. You meant that you did not know who did it. Perhaps we shall be able to solve that little mystery for you.”
Rochester looked at his hostess as though for a moment he doubted her sanity. Tall and slim in his immaculate clothes, standing before the great wood fire which burned in the open grate, he leaned a little forward upon his stick, with knitted brows. Then his eyes caught Pauline’s, and something which he was about to say seemed to die away upon his lips.
“Of course, you are unbelievers, all of you,” the Duchess said, calmly, “but some day—perhaps even to-night—you may become converts. Did I tell you, Mary,” she continued, turning away from Rochester, “that I met that extraordinary man Naudheim in London? He told me so many interesting things, and since then I have been reading. He introduced me to—to one of his most brilliant pupils—a young man, he assured me, whose insight was more highly developed, even, than his own. Of course, you understand that in these matters, insight and perception take the place almost of brains.”
“My dear Duchess,” Rochester interrupted, “what are you talking about?”
“The new science,” the Duchess answered, with a note of triumph in her tone. “You will learn all about it some day, and you cannot begin too soon. The young man whom Professor Naudheim spoke so highly of is dining here to-night. Curiously enough, I found that he was almost a neighbor of both of ours.”
There was an instant’s silence. Pauline, who was prepared, was now perhaps the calmest of the trio. Rochester’s face was dark with anger.
“You refer, Duchess, I suppose,” he said—
The Duchess left him unceremoniously. She took a step or two forward with outstretched hands. The butler was announcing—
“Mr. Saton!”
The dinner was as successful as the Duchess’s country dinners always were. She herself, a hostess of renown, led the conversation at her end of the table. Like all women with a new craze, she conscientiously did her best to keep it in the background, and completely failed. Before the third course had been removed, she was discussing occultism with the bishop of the diocese. Rochester, from her other side, listened with a thin smile. She turned upon him suddenly.
“Oh, I know that you’re an unbeliever!” she said. “You’re one of those people who go through life doubting everything. You shan’t have him for an ally, Bishop,” she said, “because your points of view are entirelydifferent. Henry here doubts everything, from his own existence to the vintage of my champagne. You, on the other hand,” she added, turning toward her other companion, “are forced to disbelieve, because you feel that any new power or gift that may be granted to us, and which we discover for ourselves, is opposed, of course, to your creed.”
“It depends,” the bishop remarked, “upon the nature of that power.”
“Even in its elementary stages,” the Duchess said, “there is no doubt that it is a power which can do a great deal for us towards solving the mysteries of existence. Personally, I consider it absolutely and entirely inimical to any form of religious belief.”
“Why?” Rochester asked quietly.
“Because,” the Duchess answered, “all the faith that has been lavished upon religion since the making of the world, has been a misapplied force. If it had been applied toward developing this new part of ourselves, there is no doubt that so many thousands of years could never have passed without our entering the last and greatest chamber in the treasure-house of knowledge.”
The bishop, being a privileged guest, and a cousin of his hostess, deliberately turned his back upon her and escaped from the conversation. The Duchess looked past him towards Saton, who was sitting a few places down the table.
“There!” she exclaimed. “I have been braver than even you could have been.”
Saton smiled.
“That sort of courage,” he remarked, “is the prerogative of your sex.”
“You have heard what I said,” she continued. “Don’t you agree with me?”
“Of course,” he answered.
He hesitated for a moment, but the Duchess was looking at him. She evidently expected him to continue the subject.
“We are told,” he said slowly, “that there is no such thing as waste in the physical world—that matter simply changes its form. I suppose that is true enough. And yet a change of form can be for the better or for the worse, according to our caprices. Strictly speaking, it is a waste when matter is changed for the worse. It is very much like this, I think, with regard to the subject which you were just then discussing. Faith, from our point of view, is a very real and psychical force. The faith which has been spent upon religion through all these ages, seems to us very much like the tragedy of an unharnessed Niagara.”
The Duchess looked around her triumphantly. She was chilled a little, however, by Rochester’s curling lip.
“Dear hostess,” he whispered in her ear, “this sort of conversation is scarcely respectful to the bishop, even though he be a relative. You can let your young protégé expound his marvelous views after dinner.”
The Duchess shrugged her ample shoulders.
“I wonder how it is,” she declared, a little peevishly, “that directly one sets foot in the country, one seems to come face to face with the true Briton. What hypocriteswe all are! We are broad enough to discuss any subject under the sun, in town, but we seem to shrink into something between the Philistine and the agricultural pedagogue, as soon as we sniff the air of the ploughed fields.”
She rose a little pettishly, and motioned to Rochester to take her place.
“Five minutes only,” she said. “You will find us all over the place. The cigarettes and cigars are in the hall. You can finish your wine here, and come out.”
“Is there anything particular,” Rochester asked grimly, “that we are permitted to talk about?”
“With this crowd,” she whispered, “if I forbid politics and agriculture, I don’t think you’ll last the five minutes.”
Afew of the Duchess’s guests left early—those who had to drive a long distance, and who had not yet discarded their carriage horses for motor-cars. Afterwards the party seemed to draw into a little circle, and it was then that the Duchess, rising to her feet, went over and talked earnestly for a few minutes with Saton.
“Some slight thing!” she begged. “Anything to set these people wondering! Look at that old stick Henry Rochester, for instance. He believes nothing—doesn’t want to believe anything. Give him a shock, do!”
“Can’t you understand, Duchess,” Saton said, “how much harm we do to ourselves by any exhibition of the sort you suggest? People are at once inclined to look upon the whole thing as a clever trick, and go about asking one another how it is done.”
The Duchess was disappointed, and inclined to be pettish. Saton realized it, and after a moment’s hesitation prepared to temporize.
“If it would amuse you,” he said, “and I can find anyone here to help me, I daresay we could manage some thought transference. All London seems to be going to see those two people at the Alhambra—or is it the Empire? You can see the same thing here, if you like.”
The Duchess beamed.
“That would be delightful,” she said. “Whom would you like to help you?”
“Leave me alone for a minute or two,” Saton said. “I will look around and choose somebody.”
The Duchess stepped back into the circle of her guests.
“Mr. Saton is going to entertain us in a very wonderful manner,” she announced.
Rochester, who had been on his way to the billiard room, came back.
“Let us stay and see the tricks,” he remarked to the bishop, who had been his companion.
The Duchess frowned. Saton shot a sudden glance at Rochester. A dull, angry color burned in his cheeks.
“Stay, by all means, Mr. Rochester,” he said. “We may possibly be able to interest you.”
There was almost a challenge in his words. Rochester, ignoring them save for his slightly uplifted eyebrows, sat down by the side of Pauline.
“The fellow’s cheek is consummate!” he muttered.
“I need,” Saton remarked quietly, “what I suppose Mr. Rochester would call a confederate. I can only see one whom I think would be temperamently suitable. Will you help me?” he asked, turning suddenly toward Pauline.
“No!” Rochester answered sternly. “Lady Marrabel will have nothing to do with your performance.”
Rochester bit his lip the moment he had spoken. He felt that he had made a mistake. One or two of the guests looked at him curiously. The Duchess was literallyopen-mouthed. Saton was smiling in a peculiar manner.
“In that case,” he remarked quietly, “if Mr. Rochester has spoken with authority, I fear that I can do nothing.”
The Duchess was very nearly angry.
“Don’t be such an idiot, Henry!” she said. “Of course Pauline will help. What is it you want her to do, Mr. Saton?”
“Nothing at all,” he answered, “except to sit in a corner of the room, as far from me as possible, and answer the questions which I shall ask her, if she be able. You will do that?” turning suddenly towards her.
“Of course she will!” the Duchess declared. “Be quiet, Henry. You are a stupid, prejudiced person, and I won’t have you interfere.”
Pauline rose to her feet.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that I can scarcely be of much use, but of course I don’t mind trying.”
Saton was standing a little away, with his elbow leaning upon the mantelpiece.
“If two of you,” he said, helping himself to a cigarette, and deliberately lighting it, “will take Lady Marrabel over—say to that oak chair underneath the banisters—blindfold her, and then leave her. Really I ought to apologize for what I am going to do. Everything is so very obvious. Still, if it amuses you!”
Pauline sat by herself. The others were all gathered together in the far corner of the great hall. Saton turned to the bishop.
“This is only a repetition of the sort of thing which you have doubtless seen,” he said. “Have you anything in your pocket which you are quite sure that Lady Marrabel knows nothing of?”
Silently the bishop produced a small and worn Greek Testament. Saton opened it at random. Then he turned suddenly toward the figure of the woman sitting alone in the distance. Some change had taken place in his manner and in his bearing. Those who watched him closely were at once aware of it. His teeth seemed to have come together, the lines of his face to have become tense. He leaned a little forward toward Pauline.
“I have something in my hands,” he said. “I wonder if you can tell me what it is.”
There was no answer. They listened and watched. Pauline never spoke. Already a smile was parting Rochester’s lips.
“I think, Lady Marrabel,” Saton said slowly, “that you can tell me, if you will. I think that you will tell me. I think that you must!”
Something that sounded almost like a half-stifled sob came to them from across the hall—and then Pauline’s voice.
“It is a small book,” she said—“a Testament.”
“Go on,” Saton said.
“A Greek Testament!” Pauline continued. “It is open at—at the sixth chapter of St. Mark.”
Saton passed it round. The Duchess beamed with delight upon everybody. Saton seemed only modestly surprised at the interest which everyone displayed.
“We are only doing something now,” he said, “which has already been done, and proved easy. The only trouble is, of course, that Lady Marrabel being a stranger to me, the effort is a little greater. If you will be content with one more test of this sort, I will try, if you like, something different—something, at any rate, which has not been done in a music-hall.”
A gold purse was passed to him, with a small monogram inscribed. Again Pauline slowly, and even as though against her will, described correctly the purse and its contents.
Saton brushed away the little murmurs of surprise and delight.
“Come,” he said, “this is all nothing. It really—as you will all of you know in a few years time—can be done by any one of you who chooses seriously to develop the neglected part of his or her personality. I should like to try something else which would be more interesting to you.”
The Duchess turned towards him with clasped hands.
“Can’t you,” she said, “make her say how Mr. Rochester met with his accident?”
There was a little thrill amongst everyone. Saton stood as though absorbed in thought.
“Why not?” he said softly to himself.
Rochester laughed hardly.
“Come,” he said, “we are getting practical at last. Let one thing be understood, though. If our young friend here is really able to solve this little mystery, he will not object to my making use of his discovery.”
“By no means,” Saton answered. “But I warn you that if the person is one unknown to Lady Marrabel or myself, I cannot tell you who it was. All that I can do is perhaps to show you something of how the thing was done.”
“It will be most interesting!” Rochester declared.
There was a subdued murmur of thrilled voices. One or two looked at each other uneasily. Even the Duchess began to feel a little uncomfortable. Saton was suddenly facing Pauline. He was standing a little nearer, with the fingers of his right hand resting upon the round oak table which stood in the centre of the hall. His figure had become absolutely rigid, and the color had left his cheeks. His voice seemed to them to come from some other person.
“Listen,” he said, bending even a little further toward the woman, who was leaning forward now from her chair, as though eager or compelled to hear what was being said to her. “A month—six weeks—some time ago, you were with Henry Rochester, a few minutes after his accident. He was shot—or he shot himself. He was shot by design or by misadventure. You were the first to find him. You came round the corner of the wood, and you saw him there, lying upon the grass. You heard a shot just before—two shots. You came round the corner of the wood, and you saw nothing except the body of Henry Rochester lying upon the ground.”
“Nothing!” she murmured. “Nothing!”
There was an intense silence. The little group of people were all leaning forward with eyes riveted uponPauline Marrabel. Even Rochester’s expression had become a little tense.
“Think again,” Saton said. “There was only a corner of the wood between you and that field when the shot was fired. You are walking there now, now, as the shots are fired. Bend forward. You can see through those trees if you try. I think that you do see through them.”
Again he paused. Again there were a few seconds’ silence—silence save for the quick breathing of the Duchess, who was crumpling her lace handkerchief into a little ball in her hands.
Then Pauline’s voice came to them.
“There is a gun laid against a gate which leads into the field,” she said—“a gun, and by its side a bag of cartridges. Someone has been hiding behind the wall. He has the gun in his hands. He looks along the path. There is no one coming.”
A woman from the little group of people commenced to sob softly. Pauline’s voice ceased. Someone put a hand over the mouth of the frightened woman.
“Go on,” Saton said.
“The man has the gun in his hand. He goes down on his knees,” Pauline continued. “The gun is pointed towards Mr. Rochester. There is a puff of smoke, a report, Mr. Rochester has fallen down. He is up again. Then he falls!—yes, he falls!”
Saton passed his hand across his forehead.
“Go on,” he said.
“The man is taking the cartridge from the gun,”Pauline said. “He slips in another from the bag. He has leaned the gun against the gate. He is stealing away.”
Saton leaned towards her till he seemed even about to spring.
“You could not see his face?” he said.
There was no answer. Two of the women behind were sobbing now. A third was lying back, half unconscious. Rochester had risen to his feet. The faces of all of them seemed suddenly to reflect a new and nameless terror.
Saton moved slowly towards Pauline. He moved unsteadily. The perspiration now was standing in thick beads upon his forehead. He suddenly realized his risk.
“You could not see his face?” he repeated. “You do not know who it was that fired that gun?”
“I could not see his face,” she repeated. “But I—I can see it now.”
“You do not recognise it?” he said, and his voice seemed to come tearing from his throat, charged with some new and compelling quality. “You cannot recognise it? You do not know whether you have ever seen it before?”
Pauline rose suddenly to her feet. Her bosom was heaving, her face was like a white mask. Her hands were suddenly thrown high above her head.