Windyridge Part 34

"Certainly," said the squire with a smile, "if your engagements permit.

I think we must all realise that you seek to carry your theory of life into practice."

That was on Sat.u.r.day. The Cynic left by the early train this morning, and he had no sooner gone than the post brought me a letter from Rose.

It was short and sweet--very sweet indeed.

"MY DEAR GRACE,

"Congratulate me! I am engaged to be married to the best of men, _not excepting your Cynic_. You will blame me for keeping it quiet, but how can I tell what is going to happen beforehand? Besides, you don't tell me!

"I am to marry my chief, who is henceforward to be known to you and me as 'Stephen.' He is two or three years older than I am; good-looking, of course, or he wouldn't have appealed to me, and over head and ears in love with

"Your very affectionate and somewhat intoxicated

"ROSE.

"PS.--He has known your Cynic for years, but he (I mean your Cynic) is too good a sportsman to spoil the fun.

"PPS.--It is a beautiful ring--diamonds!"

I am delighted to think that Rose is so happy, and can excuse the brevity of the communication under the circ.u.mstances. But I _am_ surprised. I never dreamed that her chief was young and unmarried.

Why she should always say "your" Cynic, however, and underline it, too, I cannot understand. I wish ...

CHAPTER XXIX

THE GREAT STORM

My book is nearly full, and I do not think I shall begin another, for my time is likely to be fully occupied now. But I must set down the events of the last week-end and tell of the wonderful climacteric that I have pa.s.sed through. Then the curtain may be allowed to fall on my unimportant experiences.

They have not been unimportant to me, and my recent adventures have provided sufficient excitement to keep the tongues of the villagers busy for months.

Incidentally I have discovered that Windyridge does not belie its name, but that the storm fiend makes it the stage for some of his most outrageous escapades.

We had samples of all the different kinds of weather England provides last week--rain, snow, sleet, light breezes, fleecy clouds sailing slowly across the blue, dull and threatening times when the skies were leaden.

Sat.u.r.day was the gloomiest day of all. It was gusty from the beginning, but until the afternoon the wind was only sportive, and contented itself with rude schoolboy pranks. By five o'clock, however, its mood had changed and its force increased fourfold, and by six o'clock it had cast off all restraint and become a tempest.

Whilst I remained in the Hall I hardly realised its fury, for the house is well built and shielded from the full force of the northerly winds.

It was when I ventured out to visit Martha Treffit soon after dinner that I became aware of it.

The squire had left the table with a severe headache, and retired to his own room where, with drawn blinds and absolute quietude, he usually finds ease, and I was left to my own devices and the tender mercies of the Cynic, when he should arrive.

But his train was not due until eight, and it would take him a good thirty minutes to walk from the station, so I had more than an hour at my disposal, and I was anxious to find out how little Lucy was progressing. She had been under the care of the doctor for several days, and was still in bed and very feverish.

I put on my ulster, wound a wrap about my head, and stepped out on to the drive, and it was then that I became aware of the raging elements around me.

The wind blew bitingly from the north, charged with smarting pellets of sleet. I had known strong winds before, but never anything like this.

It howled and roared, it hissed and shrieked; it was as much as I could do to force my way forward against the pressure of its onrush; but though my head was bent I saw that every bush and shrub was shaken as by some gigantic t.i.tan, and that the tall and naked trees swayed towards me with groans that sounded human and ominous.

On the topmost branches, black bundles which I knew to be deserted nests were rocked violently to and fro, like anch.o.r.ed boats in the trough of a storm-lashed sea. The night was grim and black, save when for a brief moment the full moon gleamed down upon the angry scene from the torn rifts of the scurrying clouds.

The thought crossed my mind that it might be wiser to return, but Fate or Providence urged me forward, and I laughed at my fears and set my shoulder to the storm.

Phew! if it was a gale along the drive it was a hurricane in the village street, and a hot-headed, impetuous hurricane, too. Pausing for a second in its mad rush it leaped upon one the next moment with a sudden fury that seemed almost devilish and was well-nigh irresistible.

Twice I was flung against the wall, but as I was hugging it pretty closely I suffered no harm. As I struggled onward the wind was in my teeth; a dozen steps farther and it leaped the wall on my right with a roar, like a pack of hounds in full cry, and tore down the fields with reckless velocity to hurl itself into the black mystery of the wood.

Not a soul was to be seen, but the clatter of a dislodged slate upon the pavement brought a frightened woman to the door of one of the cottages, and I stepped inside for a moment's breathing-s.p.a.ce.

"Lord! Miss 'Olden, is it you?" she said. "I don't know how you dare stir out. I'm a'most flayed to death to stay in t' 'ouse by myself, but my master is off wi' most o' t' other men to Gordon's farm to give 'em a hand."

"What is the matter there?" I inquired.

"Ye 'aven't 'eard, then? They say 'at t' wind's uprooted t' big sycamore an' flung it again' one o' t' barns, or summat, an' it's like to fall in, so they've gone to see what can be done."

I did my best to encourage her and then made what haste I could to the house of Roger Treffit, which stood lank and dark against the black sky. As it was Sat.u.r.day night I hoped that Roger would be away, but it was his voice that bade me enter, and the dog rose to give me welcome.

The fire roared up the chimney and the wind met it there with answering roar. Roger was sitting with his feet stretched out to the blaze, one arm resting upon the table and encircling a half-empty whiskey bottle.

In his right hand he held a tumbler nearly full of spirits. I saw at a glance that he was very drunk, but I believed him to be harmless.

"Is Mrs. Treffit upstairs? may I go to her at once?" I asked.

"Quite all right, ma'am, quite all right. Show lady ... way, Miss T'ry.... Missis ill ... kid ill ... Miss T'ry ill ... ev'yb'dy ill.

Doctor says mus' keep kid quiet, mus'n' disturb 'er. Won't let 'em disturb 'er, I won't.... Go forw'd, ma'am."

He rose steadily enough, and held the door open for me to pa.s.s through, and I heard him mutter as he returned to his chair:

"Won't let 'em disturb 'er, I won't."

Martha greeted me in her usual sadly-cordial fashion, and motioned me to a chair near the bed where the little one lay, flushed and asleep.

"She's a bit better," she whispered, "but she's to be kept quiet, an'

whatever I do I haven't to miss 'er med'cine every hour. But he says wi' care an' good nursin' she'll pull through."

"And how is your cough?" I asked.

"Oh, about as usual," she replied indifferently. "I have to cough into my ap.r.o.n when Lucy's asleep, but I should soon be right enough if I'd nought to worrit about. It's yon chap downstairs 'at 'll be t' death of us both."

"Has he no engagement to-night? I thought he was never free on Sat.u.r.days."

"It's t' dog. She's poorly again, an' he can't work her. My opinion is 'at t' poor brute's about done, an' I believe Roger knows it an'

it's drivin' 'im mad. He drinks t' day through, an' in a bit there'll be nought for us but t' work'us, for I can't keep 'im i' whiskey; an'

whativver's goin' to come o' our poor little Lucy I don't know. I've been lookin' at her as she lay there, Miss 'Olden, so sweet an' pretty, like a little angel, an' I a'most asked the Lord to take 'er out of all t' trouble, but I couldn't bide to lose 'er."

The overwrought woman buried her face in her ap.r.o.n and sobbed convulsively--deep-drawn, quiet sobs which told of her soul's agony. A solitary candle was burning upon the dressing-table, and the room looked eerie in the half darkness. Outside the storm was at its height, and in the stillness which neither of us broke I heard it shriek with the shrillness which one a.s.sociates with spirits in torment.