The Case of Richard Meynell Part 22

"You mean I suppose that Meynell--your precious guardian--my very amiable cousin--allows himself to make all kinds of impertinent statements about me. Well, you'll understand some day that there's no such bad judge of men as a clergyman. When he's not ignorant he's prejudiced--and when he's not prejudiced he's ignorant."

A sudden remorse swelled in Hester's mind.

"He's not prejudiced!--he's not ignorant! How strange that you and he should be cousins!"

"Well, we do happen to be cousins. And I've no doubt that you would like me to resemble him. Unfortunately I can't accommodate you. If I am to take a relation for a model, I prefer a very different sort of person--the man from whom I inherited Sandford. But Richard, I am sure, never approved of him either."

"Who was he?--I never heard of him." And, with the words, Hester carelessly turned her head to look at a squirrel that had run across the glade and was now peeping at the pair from the first fork of an oak tree.

"My uncle? Well, he was an awfully fine fellow--whatever Meynell may say.

If the Abbey wasn't taboo, I could show you a portrait of him there--by a Frenchman--that's a superb thing. He was the best fencer in England--and one of the best shots. He had a beautiful voice--he could write--he could do anything he pleased. Of course he got into sc.r.a.pes--such men do--and if Richard ever talked to you about him, of course he'd crab him. All the same, if one must be like one's relations--which is, of course, quite unnecessary--I should prefer to take after Neville than after Richard."

"What was his name?"

"Neville--Sir Neville Flood." Hester looked puzzled.

"Well!--if you want the whole genealogical tree, here it is: There was a certain Ralph Flood, my grandfather, an old hunting squire, a regular bad lot! Oh! I can tell you the family history doesn't give me much chance!

He came from Lincolnshire originally, having made the county there too hot to hold him, and bought the Abbey, which he meant to restore and never did. He worried his wife into her grave, and she left him three children: Neville, who succeeded his father; and two daughters--Meynell's mother, who was a good deal older than Neville and married Colonel Meynell, as he was then; and my mother, who was much the youngest, and died three years ago. She was Neville's favourite sister, and as he knew Richard didn't want the Abbey, he left it to me. A precious white elephant--not worth a fiver to anybody. I was only thirteen when Neville was drowned--"

"Drowned?"

Meryon explained that Neville Flood had lost his life in a storm on an Irish lough; a queer business, which no one had ever quite got to the bottom of. Many people had talked of suicide. There was no doubt he was in very low spirits just before it happened. He was unhappily married, mainly through his own fault. His wife could certainly have got a divorce from him if she had applied for it. But very soon after she separated from Flood she became a Catholic, and nothing would induce her to divorce him. And against her there was never a breath. It was said of course that he was in love with some one else, and broken-hearted that his wife refused to lend herself to a divorce. But n.o.body knew anything.

"And, by Jove, I wonder why I'm telling you all these shady tales. You oughtn't to know anything about such things," Meryon broke off suddenly.

Hester's beautiful mouth made a scornful movement.

"I'm not a baby--and I intend to know what's _true_. I should like to see that picture."

"What--of my Uncle Neville?"

Meryon eyed her curiously, as they strolled on through the arched green of the woodland. Every now and then there were openings through which poured a fiery sun, illuminating Hester's face and form.

"Do you know"--he said at last--"there is an uncommonly queer likeness between you and that picture?"

"Me?" Hester opened her eyes in half-indifferent astonishment.

"People say such absurd things. Heaps of people think I am like Uncle Richard--not complimentary, is it? I hope his uncle was better looking.

And, anyway, I am no relation of either of them."

"Neville and Richard were often mistaken for one another--though Neville was a deal handsomer than old Richard. However, n.o.body can account for likenesses. If you come to think of it, we are all descended from a small number of people. But it has often struck me--" He looked at her again attentively. "The setting of the ear--and the upper lip--and the shape of the brow--I shall bring you a photograph of the picture."

"What does it matter!" said Hester impatiently. "Besides, I am going away directly--to Paris."

"To Paris!--why and wherefore?"

"To improve my French--and"--she turned and looked at him in the face, laughing--"to make sure I don't go walks with you!"

He was silent a moment, twisting his lip.

"When do you go?"

"In a week or two--when there's room for me."

He laughed.

"Oh! come then--there's time for a few more talks. Listen--you think I'm such an idle dog. I'm nothing of the sort. I've nearly finished a whole new play. Only--well, I couldn't talk to you about it--it's not a play for _jeunes filles_. But after all I might read you a few scenes. That wouldn't do any harm. You're so deuced clever!--your opinion would be worth having. I can tell you the managers are all after it! I'm getting letters by every post asking for parts. What do you say? Can you meet me somewhere? I'll choose some of the best bits. Just name your time!"

Her face had kindled, answering to the vivacity--the peremptoriness--in his. Her vanity was flattered at last; and he saw it.

"Send me a word!" he said under his breath. "That little schoolroom maid--is she safe?"

"Quite!" said Hester, also under her breath, and smiling.

"You beautiful creature!" he spoke with low intensity. "You lovely, wild thing!"

"Take care!" Hester sprang away from him as he put out an incautious hand. "Come, Roddy! Goodnight!"

In a flash the gloom of the wood closed upon her, and she was gone.

Meryon walked on laughing to himself, and twisting his black moustache.

After some years of bad company and easy conquests, Hester's proud grace, her reckless beauty, her independent, satiric ways had sent a new stimulus through jaded nerves. Had he met her in London on equal terms with other men he knew instinctively that he would have had but small chance with her. It was the circ.u.mstances of this quiet country place, where young men of Hester's cla.s.s were the rarest of apparitions, and where Philip, flying from his creditors and playing the part of a needy Don Juan amid the picturesque dilapidations of the Abbey, was gravelled day after day for lack of occupation--it was these surroundings that had made the flirtation possible. Well, she was a handsome daredevil little minx. It amused him to make love to her, and in spite of his parsonical cousin, he should continue to do so. And that the proceeding annoyed Richard Meynell made it not less, but more, enticing. Parsons, cousins or no, must be kept in their place.

Hester ran home, a new laugh on her lip, and a new red on her cheek.

Several persons turned to look at her in the village street, but she took no notice of any one till, just as she was nearing the Cowroast, she saw groups round the door of the little inn, and a stream of men coming out.

Among them she perceived the Rector. He no sooner saw her than with an evident start he altered his course and came up to her.

"Where have you been, Hester?"

She chose to be offended by the inquiry, and answered pettishly that for once she had been out by herself without a keeper. He took no notice of her tone, and walked on beside her, his eyes on the ground. Presently she wondered whether he had heard her reply at all, he was so evidently thinking of something else. In her turn she began to ask questions.

"What's happening in the village? Why are those people coming out of the Cowroast?"

"There's been an inquest there."

"On that old woman who was once a servant of ours?"

The Rector looked up quickly.

"Who told you anything about her?"

"Oh, Sarah heard from Tibbald--trust him for gossip! Was she off her head?"

"She died of disease of the brain. They found her dead in her bed."

"Well, why shouldn't she? An excellent way to die! Good night, Uncle Richard--good night! You go too slow for me."

She walked away with a defiant air, intended to show him that he was in her black books. He stood a moment looking after her, compunction and sad affection in his kind eyes.