The Everlasting Arms Part 29

"But you'll stay for lunch? I'm not stinted in any way, and Mr. Bidlake sends me a liberal allowance for the expenses of the house. I can easily manage lunch, sir, and it would be such a joy to me."

"You are very kind, and I appreciate it very much; but I really couldn't--after what took place. I'll go to the Hare and Hounds and have some bread and cheese."

"Couldn't you, sir? I'm so sorry, and it's a long way to Lord Huntingford's."

"Yes, of course, that's out of the question."

"But you must have lunch somewhere, and you couldn't go to the Hare and Hounds."

"Oh yes, I could. I dare say Blacketter would give me some bread and cheese. That will be all I shall need."

The housekeeper began to rub her eyes. "It's just awful," she sobbed. "To think that you who were master here, and whom we all liked so much, should have to go to a place like that. But I know. Mr. Stanmore is at home; he'll be glad to welcome you there."

"Mr. Stanmore is at home, is he?"

"Yes, sir. He called here yesterday, and Miss Beatrice is at home too. They were both here. Mr. Stanmore brought Sir George Weston over to see the house."

"Sir George Weston?" and d.i.c.k felt a strange sinking at his heart as he heard the words. "I don't seem to remember the name."

"He's from the west, sir, from Devonshire, I think. It has been said that he came to see Miss Beatrice," and the housekeeper smiled significantly.

"You mean----"

"I don't know anything, sir; it may be only servants' gossip. He's said to be a very rich man, and has been serving in Egypt. Some say that he came to discuss something about Egypt with Mr. Stanmore; but it was noticed that he was very attentive to Miss Beatrice."

"He's been staying at the cottage, then?"

"For nearly a week, sir."

"Is he there now?"

"I don't know, sir. All I know is that he was here with them yesterday. Mr. Stanmore brought a letter from Mr. Bidlake authorising me to show them over the house."

"Is Sir George a young man? You said he was in the army, didn't you?" d.i.c.k could not understand why his heart was so heavy.

"About thirty, I should think, sir. Yes, I believe he had a high command in our Egyptian army. He's a great scholar too, and Mr. Stanmore said that this house was the finest specimen of an Elizabethan house that he knew of. A very pleasant gentleman too. It's not my business, but he'd be a good match for Miss Beatrice, wouldn't he? Of course Mr. Stanmore belongs to a very good family, but I suppose he's very poor, and Miss Beatrice has hardly a chance of meeting anyone. You remember her, sir, don't you? She was little more than a child when you were here, but she's a very beautiful young lady now."

The housekeeper was fairly launched now, and was prepared to discuss the Stanmores at length, but d.i.c.k hurried away. He would have loved to have gone over the house, but he dared not; besides, in a way he could not understand, he longed to get into the open air, longed to be alone.

"I hope, oh, I do hope that something'll happen," said the housekeeper as he left the house; but what she did not tell him.

A little later d.i.c.k found himself on the drive leading to Hugh Stanmore's cottage. He had not intended to take this road, but when he realised that he was in it, he did not turn back. Rather he hurried on with almost feverish footsteps.

Sir George Weston had been spending a week at the cottage, had he? Why? Was it because he was an Egyptologist, and interested in Hugh Stanmore's previous researches, or was he there because of Beatrice, as the servants' gossip said? It was nothing to him, but he had an overwhelming desire to know. Was Beatrice Stanmore a beautiful girl? She had not appealed to him in this light when her grandfather brought her to see him months before; but girls often blossomed into beauty suddenly. Still, wasn't it strange that Weston should stay at the cottage a week?

Of course he would not call. He was simply taking the longer road to the station. Yes, he could plainly see the house through the trees, and---- "Is that Mr. Faversham? Well, this is a surprise; but I am glad to see you."

It was old Hugh Stanmore who spoke, while d.i.c.k in a strangely nervous way took the proffered hand.

"Come to look at your old house, eh? I see you've come from that direction."

"Yes, I have been--talking with my old housekeeper," he stammered.

"And you've never been here before since--you left?"

d.i.c.k shook his head.

"Well, well, life's a strange business, isn't it? But come in, my dear fellow. You're just in time for lunch."

d.i.c.k began to make excuses, but the other refused to listen, and they entered the cottage together.

"I'm afraid I couldn't presume upon your kindness so far."

"Kindness! Nonsense. Of course you must. Besides, I see that you are a Member of Parliament, and a Labour Member too. I must talk with you about it. Lunch will be on the table in five minutes."

"You are sure I shouldn't be bothering you?" He had an overwhelming desire to stay.

"Bother! What bother can there be? I'm only too delighted to see you. Come in."

They entered the cottage together.

"Oh, by the way," went on Hugh Stanmore, as they entered a cosy sitting-room, "let me introduce you to Sir George Weston."

A strikingly handsome man of about thirty rose from an arm-chair and held out his hand. He was in mufti; but it was impossible to mistake him for anything but a soldier. Head erect, shoulders squared, and a military bearing proclaimed him to be what he was.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Faversham," said Sir George heartily "I suppose you've come down to see----" He stopped abruptly. He felt he had made a faux pas.

"It's all right," said d.i.c.k with a laugh. He felt perfectly at ease now. "Yes, I came to see the old place which years ago I thought was mine. You've heard all about it, I've no doubt?"

"Jolly hard luck," sympathised Sir George. "But anyhow you----"

"Ah, here's Beatrice," broke in Hugh Stanmore. "Beatrice, my dear, here's an old friend dropped in to lunch with us. You remember Mr. Faversham, don't you?"

The eyes of the two met, and then as their hands met d.i.c.k's friendly feeling towards Sir George Weston left him. He could not tell why.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

BEATRICE CONFESSES.

d.i.c.k Faversham saw at a glance that Beatrice Stanmore had ceased being a child. She was barely twenty. She was girlish in appearance, and her grandfather seemed to still regard her as a child. But her childhood had gone, and her womanhood had come. Rather tall, and with a lissom form, she had all a girl's movements, all a girl's sweetness, but the flash of her eyes, the compression of her lips, the tones of her voice, all told that she had left her childhood behind. But the first blush of her womanhood still remained. She retained her child's naturalness and winsomeness, even while she looked at the world through the eyes of a woman.

d.i.c.k was struck by her beauty too. When years before she had rushed into the library at Wendover, almost breathless in her excitement, she had something of the angularity, almost awkwardness, of half-development. That had all gone. Every movement was graceful, natural. Perfect health, health of body, health of mind had stamped itself upon her. She had no suggestion of the cigarette-smoking, slang-talking miss who boasts of her freedom from old-time conventions. You could not think of Beatrice Stanmore sitting with men, smoking, sipping liqueurs, and laughing at their jokes. She retained the virginal simplicity of childlikeness. All the same she was a woman. But not a woman old beyond her years. Not a woman who makes men give up their thoughts of the sacredness of womanhood.

No one could any more think of Beatrice Stanmore being advanced, or "fast," than one could think of a rosebud just opening its petals to the sun being "fast."

She had none of the ripe beauty of Lady Blanche Huntingford, much less the bold splendour of Olga Petrovic. She was too much the child of nature for that. She was too sensitive, too maidenly in her thoughts and actions. And yet she was a woman, with all a woman's charm.

Here lay her power. She was neither insipid nor a prude. She dared to think for herself, she loved beautiful dresses, she enjoyed pleasure and gaiety; but all without losing the essential quality of womanhood--purity and modesty. She reminded one of Russell Lowell's lines: "A dog rose blushing to a brook Ain't modester, nor sweeter."

That was why no man, however blase, however cynical about women, could ever a.s.sociate her with anything loud or vulgar. She was not neurotic; her healthy mind revolted against prurient suggestion either in conversation or in novels. She was not the kind of girl who ogled men, or practised unwomanly arts to attract their attention. No man, however bold, would dream of taking liberties with her. But she was as gay as a lark, her laughter was infectious, the flash of her eyes suggested all kinds of innocent mischief and fun. She could hold her own at golf, was one of the best tennis players in the district, and could ride with gracefulness and fearlessness.

Does someone say I am describing an impossible prodigy? No, I am trying to describe a sweet, healthy, natural girl. I am trying to tell of her as she appeared to me when I saw her first, a woman such as I believe G.o.d intended all women to be, womanly, pure, modest.

She was fair to look on too; fair with health and youth and purity. A girl with laughing eyes, light brown hair, inclined to curl. A sweet face she had, a face which glowed with health, and was unspoilt by cosmetics. A tender, sensitive mouth, but which told of character, of resolution and daring. A chin firm and determined, and yet delicate in outline. This was Beatrice Stanmore, who, reared among the sweet Surrey hills and valleys, was unsmirched by the world's traffic, and who recoiled from the pollution of life which she knew existed. A girl modern in many respects, but not too modern to love old-fashioned courtesies, not too modern to keep holy the Sabbath Day, and love G.o.d with simple faith. A religious girl, who never paraded religion, and whose religion never made her monkish and unlovely, but was the joy and inspiration of her life.

"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Faversham," she said. "I've often wondered why you never came to Wendover."

"In a way it was very hard to keep away," was d.i.c.k's reply. "On the other hand, I had a kind of dread of seeing it again. You see, I had learnt to love it."

"I don't wonder. It's the dearest old house in the world. I should have gone mad, I think, if I'd been in your place. It was just splendid of you to take your reverse so bravely."

"I had only one course before me, hadn't I?"

"Hadn't you? I've often wondered." She gave him a quick, searching glance as she spoke. "Are you staying here long?"

"No, only a few hours. I return to London this afternoon. I came down to-day just on impulse. I had no reason for coming."

"Hadn't you? I'm glad you came."

"So am I."

There was a strange intensity in his tones, but he did not know why he spoke with so much feeling.

"Of course Granddad and I have often talked of you," she went on. "Do you know when we called on you that day in London, I was disappointed in you. I don't know why. You had altered so much. You did not seem at all like you were when we saw you down here. I told Granddad so. But I'm so glad you are Member of Parliament for Eastroyd, and so glad you've called. There, the lunch is ready. Please remember, Mr. Faversham, that I'm housekeeper, and am responsible for lunch. If you don't like it, I shall be offended."

She spoke with all the freedom and frankness of a child, but d.i.c.k was not slow to recognise the fact that the child who had come to Wendover when Romanoff was weaving a web of temptation around him, had become a woman who could no longer be treated as a child.

"Are you hungry, Sir George?" she went on, turning to her other visitor. "Do you know, Mr. Faversham, that these two men have neglected me shamefully? They have been so interested in rubbings of ancient inscriptions, and writings on the tombs of Egyptian kings, that they've forgotten that I've had to cudgel my poor little brains about what they should eat. Housekeeping's no easy matter in these days."

"That's not fair," replied Sir George. "It was Mr. Stanmore here, who was so interested that he forgot all about meal-times."

The soldier was so earnest that he angered d.i.c.k. "Why couldn't the fool take what she said in the spirit of raillery?" he asked himself.

"Adam over again," laughed Beatrice. "'The woman tempted me and I did eat.' It's always somebody else's fault. Now then, Granddad, serve the fish."

It was a merry little party that sat down to lunch, even although d.i.c.k did not seem inclined for much talk. Old Hugh Stanmore was in great good-humour, while Beatrice had all the high spirits of a happy, healthy girl.

"You must stay a few hours now you are here, Mr. Faversham," urged the old man presently. "There's not the slightest reason why you should go back to town by that four something train. It's true, Sir George and I are going over to Pitlock Rectory for a couple of hours, but we shall be back for tea, and you and Beatrice can get on all right while we are away."

Sir George did not look at all delighted at the suggestion, but Beatrice was warm in her support of it.

"You really must, Mr. Faversham," she said. "I shall be alone all the afternoon otherwise, for really I can't bear the idea of listening to Mr. Stanhope, the Rector of Pitlock, prose about mummies and fossils and inscriptions."

"You know I offered to stay here," pleaded Sir George.

"As though I would have kept you and Granddad away from your fossils," she laughed. "Mr. Stanhope is a great scholar, a great Egyptologist, and a great antiquary, and you said it would be your only chance of seeing him, as you had to go to the War Office to-morrow. So you see, Mr. Faversham, that you'll be doing a real act of charity by staying with me. Besides, there's something I want to talk with you about. There is really."

Sir George did not look at all happy as, after coffee, he took his seat beside old Hugh Stanmore, in the little motor-car, but d.i.c.k Faversham's every nerve tingled with pleasure at the thought of spending two or three hours alone with Beatrice. Her transparent frankness and naturalness charmed him, the whole atmosphere of the cottage was so different from that to which for years he had been accustomed.

"Mr. Faversham," she said, when they had gone, "I want you to walk with me to the great house, will you?"

"Certainly," he said, wondering all the time why she wanted to go there.

"You don't mind, do you? I know it must be painful to you, but--but I want you to."

"Of course I will. It's no longer mine--it never was mine, but it attracts me like a magnet."

Five minutes later they were walking up the drive together. d.i.c.k was supremely happy, yet not knowing why he was happy. Everything he saw was laden with poignant memories, while the thought of returning to the house cut him like a knife. Yet he longed to go. For some little distance they walked in silence, then she burst out suddenly.

"Mr. Faversham, do you believe in premonitions?"

"Yes."

"So do I. It is that I wanted to talk with you about."

He did not reply, but his mind flashed back to the night when he had sat alone with Count Romanoff, and Beatrice Stanmore had suddenly and without warning rushed into the room.

"Do you believe in angels?" she went on.

"I--I think so."

"I do. Granddad is not sure about it. That is, he isn't sure that they appear. Sir George is altogether sceptical. He pooh-poohs the whole idea. He says there was a mistake about the Angels at Mons. He says it was imagination, and all that sort of thing; but he isn't a bit convincing. But I believe."

"Yes." He spoke almost unconsciously. He had never uttered a word about his own experiences to anyone, and he wondered if he should tell her what he had seen and heard.

"It was a kind of premonition which made me go to see you years ago," she said quietly. "Do you remember?"

"I shall never forget, and I'm very glad."

"Why are you very glad?"

"Because--because I'm sure your coming helped me!"

"How did it help you?"

"It helped me to see, to feel; I--I can't quite explain."

"That man--Count Romanoff--is evil," and she shuddered as she spoke.

"Why do you say so?"