by Anthony Hope
THE LADY OF THE POOL
CHAPTER I
A FIRM BELIEVER
"I see Mr. Vansittart Merceron's at the Court again, mamma."
"Yes, dear. Lady Merceron told me he was coming. She wanted to consulthim about Charlie."
"She's always consulting him about Charlie, and it never makes anydifference."
Mrs. Bushell looked up from her needlework; her hands were full withneedle and stuff, and a couple of pins protruded from her lips. Sheglanced at her daughter, who stood by the window in the bright blaze ofa brilliant sunset, listlessly hitting the blind-cord and its tassel toand fro.
"The poor boy's very young still," mumbled Mrs. Bushell through herpins.
"He's twenty-five last month," returned Millicent. "I know, becausethere's exactly three years between him and me."
The sinking rays defined Miss Bushell's form with wonderful clearness.She was very tall, and the severe well-cut cloth gown she wore set offthe stately lines of her figure. She had a great quantity of fair hairand a handsome face, spoilt somewhat by a slightly excessive breadthacross the cheeks; as her height demanded or excused, her hands andfeet were not small, though well shaped. Would Time have arrested hismarch for ever, there would have been small fault to find with Nature'sgifts to Miss Bushell; but, as her mother said, Millie was just whatshe had been at twenty-one; and Mrs. Bushell was now extremely stout.Millie escaped the inference by discrediting her mother's recollection.
The young lady wore her hat, and presently she turned away from thewindow, remarking:
"I think I shall go for a stroll. I've had no exercise to-day."
Either inclination, or perhaps that threatening possibility from whichshe strove to avert her eyes, made Millie a devotee of active pursuits.She hunted, she rode, she played lawn-tennis, and, when at the seaside,golf; when all failed, she walked resolutely four or five miles on thehigh-road, swinging along at a healthy pace, and never pausing save tocounsel an old woman or rebuke a truant urchin. On such occasions hermanner (for we may not suppose that her physique aided the impression)suggested the benevolent yet stern policeman, and the vicaracknowledged in her an invaluable assistant. By a strange coincidenceshe seemed to suit the house she lived in--one of those large whitesquare dwelling's, devoid of ornament, yet possessing every substantialmerit, and attaining, by virtue of their dimensions and simplicity, aneffect of handsomeness denied to many more tricked-out building's. Thehouse satisfied; so did Millie, unless the judge were very critical.
"I shall just walk round by the Pool and back," she added as she openedthe door.
"My dear, it's four miles!"
"Well, it's only a little after six, and we don't dine till eight."
Encountering no further opposition than a sigh of admiration--threehundred yards was the limit of pleasure in a walk to her mother--MillieBushell started on her way, dangling a neat ebony stick in her hand,and setting her feet down with a firm decisive tread. It did not takeher long to cover the two miles between her and her destination.Leaving the road, she entered the grounds of the Court and, following alittle path which ran steeply down hill, she found herself by thewillows and reeds fringing the edge of the Pool. Opposite to her, onthe higher bank, some seven or eight feet above the water, rose thetemple, a small classical erection, used now, when at all, as asummer-house, but built to commemorate the sad fate of Agatha Merceron.The sun had just sunk, and the Pool looked chill and gloomy; the deepwater under the temple was black and still. Millie's robust mind wasnot prone to superstition, yet she was rather relieved to think that,with the sun only just gone, there was a clear hour before AgathaMerceron would come out of the temple, slowly and fearfully descend theshallow flight of marble steps, and lay herself down in the water todie. That happened every evening, according to the legend, an hourafter sunset--every evening, for the last two hundred years, since poorAgatha, bereft and betrayed, had found the Pool kinder than the world,and sunk her sorrow and her shame and her beauty there--such shame andsuch beauty as had never been before or after in all the generations ofthe Mercerons.
"What nonsense it all is!" said Millie aloud. "But I'm afraid Charlieis silly enough to believe it."
As she spoke her eye fell on a Canadian canoe, which lay at the foot ofthe steps. She recognized it as Charlie Merceron's, and, knowing thatapproach to the temple from the other side was to be gained only by adifficult path through a tangled wood, and that the canoe usually layunder a little shed a few yards from where she stood, she concludedthat Charlie was in the temple. There was nothing surprising in that:it was a favorite haunt of his. She raised her voice; and called tohim. At first no answer came, and she repeated:
"Charlie! Charlie!"
After a moment of waiting a head was thrust out of a window in the sideof the temple--a head in a straw hat.
"Hullo!" said Charlie; Merceron in tones of startled surprise. Then,seeing the visitor, he added: "Oh, it's you, Millie! How did you know Iwas here?"
"By the canoe, of course."
"Hang the canoe!" muttered Charlie, and his head disappeared. A secondlater he came out of the doorway and down the steps. Standing on thelowest, he shouted--the Pool was about sixty feet across--"What do youwant?"
"How rude you are!" shouted Miss Bushell in reply.
Charlie got into the canoe and began to paddle across. He had justreached the other side, when Millie screamed:
"Look, look, Charlie!" she cried. "The temple!"
"What?"
"I--I saw something white at the window."
Charlie got out of the canoe; hastily.
"What?" he asked again, walking up to Miss Bushell.
"I declare I saw something white at the window. Oh, Charlie! But it'sall----"
"Bosh? Of course it is. There's nothing in the temple."
"Well, I thought--I wonder you like to be there."
"Why shouldn't I?"
The mysterious appearance not being repeated, Millie's courage returned.
"I thought you believed in the ghost," she said, smiling.
"So I do, but I don't mind it."
"You've never seen it?"
"Supposing I haven't? That doesn't prove it's not true."
"But you're often here at the time?"
"Never," answered Charlie with emphasis. "I always go away before thetime."
"Then you'd better come now. Put the canoe to bed and walk with me."
Charlie Merceron thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled at hiscompanion. He was tall also, and just able to look down on her.
"No," he said, "I'm not going yet."
"How rude--oh, there it is again, Charlie! I saw it! I'm--I'mfrightened," and her healthy color paled a trifle, as she laid a handon Charlie's arm.
"I tell you what," observed Charlie. "If you have fancies of this kindyou'd better not come here any more--not in the evening, at all events.You know people who think they're going to see things always do see'em."
"My heart is positively beating," said Miss Bushell. "I--I don't quitelike walking back alone."
"I'll see you as far as the road," Charlie conceded, and withremarkable promptitude he led the way, turning his head over hisshoulder to remark:
"Really, if you're so nervous, you oughtn't to come here."
"I never will again--not alone, I mean."
Charlie had breasted the hill with such goodwill that they were alreadyat the road.
"And you're really going back?" she asked.
"Oh, just for a few minutes. I left my book in the temple--I wasreading there. She's not due for half an hour yet, you know."
"What--what happens if you see her?"
"Oh, you die," answered Charlie. "Goodnight;" and with a smile and anod he ran down the hill towards the Pool.
Miss Bushell, cavalierly deserted, made her way home at something morethan her usual rate of speed. She had never believed in that nonsense,but there was certainly something white at that window--something whitethat moved. Under the circumstances, Charlie
really might have seen herhome, she thought, for the wood-fringed road was gloomy, and duskcoming on apace. Besides, where was the hardship in being her escort?
Doubtless none, Charlie would have answered, unless a man happened tohave other fish to fry. The pace at which the canoe crossed the Pooland brought up at its old moorings witnessed that he had no leisure tospend on Miss Bushell. Leaping out, he ran up the stops into thetemple, crying in a loud whisper:
"She's gone!"
The temple was empty, and Charlie, looking round in vexation, added:
"So has she, by Jingo!"
He sat down disconsolately on the low marble seat that ran round thelittle shrine.
There were no signs of the book of which he had spoken to MillieBushell. There were no signs of anybody whom he could have meant toaddress. Stay! One sign there was: a long hat-pin lay on the floor.Charlie picked it tip with a sad smile.
"Agatha's," he said to himself.
And yet, as everyone in the neighborhood knew, poor Agatha Merceronwent nightly to her phantom death bareheaded and with golden lockstossed by the wind. Moreover, the pin was of modern manufacture;moreover, ghosts do not wear--but there is no need to enter ondebatable ground; the pin was utterly modern.
"Now, if uncle Van," mused Charlie, "came here and saw this--!" Hecarefully put the pin in his breast-pocket, and looked at his watch.It was exactly Agatha Merceron's time; yet Charlie leant back on hiscold marble seat, put his hands in his pockets, and gazed up at theceiling with the happiest possible smile on his face. For one steepedin family legends, worshipping the hapless lady's memory with warmdevotion, and reputed a sincere believer in her ghostly wanderings, heawaited her coming with marvellous composure. In point of fact he hadforgotten all about her, and there was nothing to prevent her coming,slipping down the steps, and noiselessly into the water, all unnoticedby him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, the smile played on hislips, his ears were filled with sweet echoes, and his thoughts were faraway. Perhaps the dead lady came and passed unseen. That Charlie didnot see her was ridiculously slight evidence whereon to damn so ancientand picturesque a legend. He thought the same himself, for that nightat dinner--he came in late for dinner--he maintained the credit of thestory with fierce conviction against Mr. Vansittart Merceron'sscepticism.