Out of a Labyrinth Part 28

"We must begin at once, trusting to our wits for ways and means. In some way we must see or know the contents of every barn, stable, granary, store-house, outbuilding, and abandoned dwelling, in and about Trafton.

No man's property, be he what he may, must be held exempt."

"Do you think, then, that the stolen horses, the last haul of course, are still in Trafton?"

"It is not quite a week since the horses were taken; the 'nine days'

wonder' is still alive. If my theory is correct, they are still in Trafton!"

CHAPTER XIX.

HAUNTED BY A FACE.

It was the day of Miss Manvers' garden party, and a brighter or more auspicious one could not have dropped from the hand of the Maker of days.

Never did the earth seem fairer, and seldom did the sun shine upon a lovelier scene than that presented to my gaze as I turned aside from the dusty highway, and paced slowly up the avenue leading to the Hill House.

Even now the picture and the scenes and incidents of the day, rise before my mental vision, a graceful, sunlit, yet fateful panorama.

I see the heiress, as she glides across the lawn to greet me, her brunette cheeks glowing, her lips wreathed in smiles. She wears a costume that is a marvel of diaphanous creamy material, lighted up here and there with dashes of vivid crimson. Crimson roses adorn the loops and rippling waves of her glossy hair, and nestle in the rich lace at her throat. And, as I clasp her little hand, and utter the commonplaces of greeting, I note that the eye is even more brilliant than usual, the cheek and lip tinged with the vivid hue left by excitement, and, underneath the gay badinage and vivacious hospitality, a suppressed something:--anxiety, expectation, displeasure, disappointment; which, I can not guess. I only see that something has ruffled my fair hostess, and given to her thoughts, even on this bright day, an under current that is the reverse of pleasant.

The grounds are beautiful and commodious, tastefully arranged and decorated for the occasion, and the _elite_ of Trafton is there; all, save Louise Barnard and Dr. Bethel.

"Have you heard from Dr. Barnard since noon?" queries my hostess, as we cross the lawn to join a group gathered about an archery target. "I have almost regretted giving this party. It seems unfeeling to be enjoying ourselves here, and poor Louise bowed down with grief and anxiety beside a father who is, perhaps, dying."

"Not dying, I hope."

"Oh, we all shall hope until hope is denied us. I suppose his chance for life is one in a thousand. I am so sorry, and we shall miss Louise and Dr. Bethel so much."

"Bethel is in close attendance?"

"Yes, Dr. Barnard has all confidence in him; and then--you know the nature of his relation with the family?"

"His relation; that of family physician, I suppose?"

Miss Manvers draws back her creamy skirts as we brush past a th.o.r.n.y rose tree.

"That of family physician; yes, and prospective son-in-law."

"Ah! I suspected an attachment there."

"It appears they have been privately engaged for some time, with the consent of the Barnards, of course. It has only just been publicly announced; rather it will be; I had it from Mrs. Barnard this morning.

Dr. Barnard desires that it should be made known. He believes himself dying, and wishes Trafton to know that he sanctions the marriage."

Her voice has an undertone of constraint which accords with her manner, and I, remembering the scene of a week before, comprehend and pity. In announcing her friend's betrothal she proclaims the death of her own hope.

I do not resume the subject, and soon we are in the midst of a gay group, chattering with a bevy of fair girls, and receiving from one or two Trafton gallants, glances of envious disfavor, which I, desiring to mortify vanity, attributed to my new Summer suit rather than to my own personal self.

Arch Brookhouse is the next arrival, and almost the last. He comes in among us perfumed and smiling, and is received with marked favor. My new costume has now a rival, for Arch is as correct a gentleman of fashion as ever existed outside of a tailor's window.

He is in wonderful spirits, too, adding zest to the merriment of the gay group of which he soon becomes the center.

After a time bows and quivers come more prominently into use. Archery is having its first season in Trafton. Some of the young ladies have yet to be initiated into the use of the bow, and presently I find myself instructing the pretty sixteen-year-old sister of my friend, Charlie Harris.

She manages her bow gracefully, but with a weak hand; her aim is far from accurate, and I find ample occupation in following the erratic movements of her arrows.

Brookhouse and Miss Manvers are both experts with the bow. They send a few arrows flying home to the very center of the target, and then withdraw from the sport, and finally saunter away together, the hand of the lady resting confidingly upon her escort's arm.

"Arn't they a pretty couple?" exclaims my little pupil, tw.a.n.ging her bow-string as she turns to look after them. "I do wonder if they are engaged."

"So do I," I answer, with much fervor.

She favors me with a quick roguish glance, and laughs blithely.

"I don't know," turning back to her momentarily forgotten pastime. "Mr.

Brookhouse has been very attentive, and for a long time we all thought him the favored one, until Dr. Bethel came, and since _you_ appeared in Trafton. Ah! I'm afraid Adele is a bit of a flirt."

And astute Miss sixteen shoots me another mischievous glance, and poises her arrow with all the _nonchalance_ of a veteran.

Again I glance in the direction taken by my hostess and her cavalier, but they have disappeared among the plentiful shrubbery.

I turn back to my roguish little pupil, now provokingly intent upon her archery practice.

Once more the arrow is fixed; she takes aim with much deliberation, and puts forth all her strength to the bending of the bow. Tw.a.n.g! whizz! the arrow speeds fast and far--and foul. It finds lodgment in a thicket of roses, that go clambering over a graceful trellis, full ten feet to the right of the target.

There is a shout of merriment. Mademoiselle throws down the bow with a little gesture of despair, and I hasten toward the trellis intent upon recapturing the missent arrow.

As I am about to thrust my hand in among the roses, I am startled by a voice from the opposite side; startled because the voice is that of my hostess, thrilling with intensest anger, and very near me.

"It has gone far enough! It has gone _too_ far. It must stop now, or--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It has gone far enough! It has gone _too_ far. It must stop now, or--" page 227.]

"Or you will make a confounded fool of yourself."

The voice is that of Arch Brookhouse, disagreeably contemptuous, provokingly calm.

"No matter. What will it make of you?"

The words begin wrathful and sibilant, and end with a hiss. Can that be the voice of my hostess?

Making a pretense of search I press my face closer to the trellis and peer through.

I see Adele Manvers, her face livid with pa.s.sion, her eyes ablaze, her lips twitching convulsively. There is no undercurrent of feeling now.

Rage, defiance, desperation, are stamped upon her every feature.