Helena's Path

by Anthony Hope

  _Chapter Seven_

  ANOTHER WEDGE!

  Deprived of their leader's inspiration, the other two representatives ofScarsmoor did not brave the Passage Perilous to the sea that morning.Lynborough was well content to forego further aggression for the moment.His words declared his satisfaction----

  "I have driven a wedge--another wedge--into the Marchesa's phalanx. Yes,I think I may say a second wedge. Disaffection has made its entry intoNab Grange, Cromlech. The process of isolation has begun. Perhaps afterlunch we will resume operations."

  But fortune was to give him an opportunity even before lunch. Itappeared that Stabb had sniffed out the existence of two old brasses inFillby Church; he was determined to inspect them at the earliestpossible moment. Lynborough courteously offered to accompany him, andthey set out together about eleven o'clock.

  No incident marked their way. Lynborough rang up the parish clerk at hishouse, presented Stabb to that important functionary, and bespoke forhim every consideration. Then he leaned against the outside of thechurchyard wall, peacefully smoking a cigarette.

  On the opposite side of the village street stood the Lynborough Arms.The inn was kept by a very superior man, who had retired to thiscomparative leisure after some years of service as butler withLynborough's father. This excellent person, perceiving Lynborough,crossed the road and invited him to partake of a glass of ale in memoryof old days. Readily acquiescing, Lynborough crossed the road, sat downwith the landlord on a bench by the porch, and began to discuss localaffairs over the beer.

  "I suppose you haven't kept up your cricket since you've been in foreignparts, my lord?" asked Dawson, the landlord, after some conversationwhich need not occupy this narrative. "We're playing a team fromEasthorpe to-morrow, and we're very short."

  "Haven't played for nearly fifteen years, Dawson. But I tell you what--Idaresay my friend Mr. Wilbraham will play. Mr. Stabb's no use."

  "Every one helps," said Dawson. "We've got two of the gentlemen from theGrange--Mr. Stillford, a good bat, and Captain Irons, who can bowl abit--or so John Goodenough tells me."

  Lynborough's eyes had grown alert. "Well, I used to bowl a bit, too. Ifyou're really hard up for a man, Dawson--really at a loss, youknow--I'll play. It'll be better than going into the field short, won'tit?"

  Dawson was profuse in his thanks. Lynborough listened patiently.

  "I tell you what I should like to do, Dawson," he said. "I should liketo stand the lunch."

  It was the turn of Dawson's eyes to grow alert. They did. Dawsonsupplied the lunch. The club's finances were slender, and its ideascorrespondingly modest. But if Lord Lynborough "stood" the lunch----!

  "And to do it really well," added that nobleman. "A sort of little feastto celebrate my homecoming. The two teams--and perhaps a dozen placesfor friends--ladies, the Vicar, and so on, eh, Dawson? Do you see theidea?"

  Dawson saw the idea much more clearly than he saw most ideas. Almostcorporeally he beheld the groaning board.

  "On such an occasion, Dawson, we shouldn't quarrel about figures."

  "Your lordship's always most liberal," Dawson acknowledged in toneswhich showed some trace of emotion.

  "Put the matter in hand at once. But look here, I don't want it talkedabout. Just tell the secretary of the club--that's enough. Keep the tentempty till the moment comes. Then display your triumph! It'll be apleasant little surprise for everybody, won't it?"

  Dawson thought it would; at any rate it was one for him.

  At this instant an elderly lady of demure appearance was observed, towalk up to the lych-gate and enter the churchyard. Lynborough inquiredof his companion who she was.

  "That's Miss Gilletson from the Grange, my lord--the Marchesa'scompanion."

  "Is it?" said Lynborough softly. "Oh, is it indeed?" He rose from hisseat. "Good-by, Dawson. Mind--a dead secret, and a rattling good lunch!"

  "I'll attend to it, my lord," Dawson assured him with the utmostcheerfulness. Never had Dawson invested a glass of beer to betterprofit!

  Lynborough threw away his cigar and entered the sacred precincts. Hisbrain was very busy. "Another wedge!" he was saying to himself. "Anotherwedge!"

  The lady had gone into the church. Lynborough went in too. He camefirst on Stabb--on his hands and knees, examining one of the old brassesand making copious notes in a pocket-book.

  "Have you seen a lady come in, Cromlech?" asked Lord Lynborough.

  "No, I haven't," said Cromlech, now producing a yard measure andproceeding to ascertain the dimensions of the brass.

  "You wouldn't, if it were Venus herself," replied Lynborough pleasantly."Well, I must look for her on my own account."

  He found her in the neighborhood of his family monuments which, with hisfamily pew, crowded the little chancel of the church. She was notemployed in devotions, but was arranging some flowers in avase--doubtless a pious offering. Somewhat at a loss how to open theconversation, Lynborough dropped his hat--or rather gave it a dexterousjerk, so that it fell at the lady's feet. Miss Gilletson startedviolently, and Lord Lynborough humbly apologized. Thence he glided intoconversation, first about the flowers, then about the tombs. On thelatter subject he was exceedingly interesting and informing.

  "Dear, dear! Married the Duke of Dexminster's daughter, did he?" saidMiss Gilletson, considerably thrilled. "She's not buried here, is she?"

  "No, she's not," said Lynborough, suppressing the fact that the lady hadrun away after six months of married life. "And my own father's notburied here, either; he chose my mother's family place in Devonshire. Ithought it rather a pity."

  "Your own father?" Miss Gilletson gasped.

  "Oh, I forgot you didn't know me," he said, laughing. "I'm LordLynborough, you know. That's how I come to be so well up in all this.And I tell you what--I should like to show you some of our Scarsmoorroses on your way home."

  "Oh, but if you're Lord Lynborough, I--I really couldn't----"

  "Who's to know anything about it, unless you choose, Miss Gilletson?" heasked with his ingratiating smile and his merry twinkle. "There'snothing so pleasant as a secret shared with a lady!"

  It was a long time since a handsome man had shared a secret with MissGilletson. Who knows, indeed, whether such a thing had ever happened? Orwhether Miss Gilletson had once just dreamed that some day it might--andhad gone on dreaming for long, long days, till even the dream had slowlyand sadly faded away? For sometimes it does happen like that.Lynborough meant nothing--but no possible effort (supposing he made it)could enable him to look as if he meant nothing. One thing at least hedid mean--to make himself very pleasant to Miss Gilletson.

  Interested knave! It is impossible to avoid that reflection. Yet letladies in their turn ask themselves if they are over-scrupulous in theirtreatment of one man when their affections are set upon another.

  He showed Miss Gilletson all the family tombs. He escorted her from thechurch. Under renewed vows of secrecy he induced her to enter Scarsmoor.Once in the gardens, the good lady was lost. They had no such roses atNab Grange! Lynborough insisted on sending an enormous bouquet to theVicar's wife in Miss Gilletson's name--and Miss Gilletson grew merry asshe pictured the mystification of the Vicar's wife. For Miss Gilletsonherself he superintended the selection of a nosegay of the choicestblooms; they laughed again together when she hid them in a large bag shecarried--destined for the tea and tobacco which represented her littlecharities. Then--after pausing for one private word in his gardener'sear, which caused a boy to be sent off post-haste to the stables--he ledher to the road, and in vain implored her to honor his house by settingfoot in it. There the fear of the Marchesa or (it is pleasanter tothink) some revival of the sense of youth, bred by Lynborough'sdeferential courtliness, prevailed. They came together through his lodgegates; and Miss Gilletson's face suddenly fell.

  "That wretched gate!" she cried. "It's locked--and I haven't got thekey."

  "No more have I, I'm sorry to say," said Lynborough. He, on his part,had forgotten nothing.

  "It's ne
arly two miles round by the road--and so hot and dusty!--ReallyHelena does cut off her nose to spite her face!" Though, in truth, itappeared rather to be Miss Gilletson's nose the Marchesa had cut off.

  A commiserating gravity sat on Lord Lynborough's attentive countenance.

  "If I were younger, I'd climb that wall," declared Miss Gilletson. "Asit is--well, but for your lovely flowers, I'd better have gone the otherway after all."

  "I don't want you to feel that," said he, almost tenderly.

  "I must walk!"

  "Oh no, you needn't," said Lynborough.

  As he spoke, there issued from the gates behind them a luxuriousvictoria, drawn by two admirable horses. It came to a stand byLynborough, the coachman touching his hat, the footman leaping to theground.

  "Just take Miss Gilletson to the Grange, Williams. Stop a little wayshort of the house. She wants to walk through the garden."

  "Very good, my lord."

  "Put up the hood, Charles. The sun's very hot for Miss Gilletson."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Nobody'll see you if you get out a hundred yards from the door--andit's really better than tramping the road on a day like this. Of course,if Beach Path were open--!" He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly.

  Fear of the Marchesa struggled in Miss Gilletson's heart with the horrorof the hot and tiring walk--with the seduction of the shady, softlyrolling, speedy carriage.

  "If I met Helena!" she whispered; and the whisper was an admission ofreciprocal confidence.

  "It's the chance of that against the certainty of the tramp!"

  "She didn't come down to breakfast this morning----"

  "Ah, didn't she?" Lynborough made a note for his IntelligenceDepartment.

  "Perhaps she isn't up yet! I--I think I'll take the risk."

  Lynborough assisted her into the carriage.

  "I hope we shall meet again," he said, with no small _empressement_.

  "I'm afraid not," answered Miss Gilletson dolefully. "You see,Helena----"

  "Yes, yes; but ladies have their moods. Anyhow you won't think toohardly of me, will you? I'm not altogether an ogre."

  There was a pretty faint blush on Miss Gilletson's cheek as she gave himher hand. "An ogre! No, dear Lord Lynborough," she murmured.

  "A wedge!" said Lynborough, as he watched her drive away.

  He was triumphant with what he had achieved--he was full of hope forwhat he had planned. If he reckoned right, the loyalty of the ladies atNab Grange to the mistress thereof was tottering, if it had not fallen.His relations with the men awaited the result of the cricket match. Yetneither his triumph nor his hope could in the nature of the case existwithout an intermixture of remorse. He hurt--or tried to hurt--what hewould please--and hoped to please. His mood was mixed, and his smile notaltogether mirthful as he stood looking at the fast-receding carriage.

  Then suddenly, for the first time, he saw his enemy. Distantly--afaroff! Yet without a doubt it was she. As he turned and cast his eyes overthe forbidden path--the path whose seclusion he had violated, bold inhis right--a white figure came to the sunk fence and stood there,looking not toward where he stood, but up to his castle on the hill.Lynborough edged near to the barricaded gate--a new padlock and new_chevaux-de-frise_ of prickly branches guarded it. The latter, high ashis head, screened him completely; he peered through the interstices inabsolute security.

  The white figure stood on the little bridge which led over the sunkfence into the meadow. He could see neither feature nor color; only theslender shape caught and chained his eye. Tall she was, and slender, ashis mocking forecast had prophesied. More than that he could not see.

  Well, he did see one more thing. This beautiful shape, after a fewminutes of what must be presumed to be meditation, raised its arm andshook its fist with decision at Scarsmoor Castle; then it turned andwalked straight back to the Grange.

  There was no sort of possibility of mistaking the nature or the meaningof the gesture.

  It had the result of stifling Lynborough's softer mood, of reviving hispugnacity. "She must do more than that, if she's to win!" said he.