The Missioner Part 14

"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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. 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 are free 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 n.o.ble, 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 wish to 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s-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 kind as 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s-grown lane beyond the gate. There was no one in sight--no sound.

She lifted the latch and pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s-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 no rain had fallen. She lifted the latch of the gate and pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s 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.

CHAPTER X

THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR

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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.terfly'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 few short 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."