by Hugh Walpole
“Yes,” said Morelli, smiling a little, “we had some considerable talk.”
“Well, he told me, that he had said something to you about your daughter. You must forgive me if you think that I’m intrusive at all.”
Morelli waved a deprecating hand.
“But of course I’m a friend of the boy’s, very fond of him. He tells me that he spoke about your daughter. He loves Miss Morelli.”
Maradick stopped abruptly.
“Yes,” said Morelli gently, “he did speak to me about Janet. But of course you must look on it as I do; two such children. Mind you, I like the boy, I liked him from the first. He’s the sort of young Englishman that we can’t have too much of, you know. My girl wouldn’t be likely to find a better, and I think she likes him. But of course they’re too young, both of them. You must feel as I do.”
Could this be the mysterious terror who had frightened Tony out of his wits? This gentle, smiling, brown-faced little man lying back there so placidly in his chair with his eyes half closed? It was impossible on the face of it. Absurd! And perhaps, after all, who knew whether it wouldn’t be better to wait? If Morelli really felt like that about it and was prepared eventually to encourage the idea; and then after all Janet might be introduced gradually to the family. They would see, even Sir Richard must see at last, what a really fine girl she was, fine in every way. He saw her as she had stood up to meet him as he stepped across the lawn, slim, straight, her throat rising like a white stem of some splendid flower, her clear dark eyes pools of light.
Oh! they must see if you gave them time. And, after all, this was rather carrying the matter with a high hand, this eloping and the rest!
The garden had a soothing, restful effect upon him, so that he began to be sleepy. The high red walls rose about him on every side, the great tree flung its shadow like a cloud across, and the pleasant little man smiled at him with gentle eyes.
“Oh yes, of course, they are very young.”
“And then there’s another thing,” went on Morelli. “I don’t know, of course, but I should say that young Gale’s parents have something else in view for him in the way of marriage. They’re not likely to take some one of whom they really know nothing at all. . . . They’ll want, naturally enough, I admit, something more.” He paused for a moment, then he smiled. “But perhaps you could tell me,” he said.
Maradick had again the sensation that the man knew perfectly well about the whole affair, about the Gales and Alice and Tony, and even perhaps about himself. He also felt that whatever he could say would be of no use at all; that Morelli was merely playing with him, as a cat plays with a mouse.
Meanwhile he had nothing to say.
“Well, you see,” he began awkwardly, “as a matter of fact, they haven’t had the opportunity — the chance, so to speak, of knowing — of meeting Miss Morelli yet. When they do — —”
“They’ve been here,” broke in Morelli quietly, “some weeks now. Lady Gale could have called, I suppose, if she had been interested. But I gather that Gale hasn’t told her; hasn’t, indeed, told any of them. You see,” he added almost apologetically, “she is my only child; she has no mother; and I must, in a way, see to these things.”
Maradick agreed. There was really nothing to be said. It was perfectly true that the Gales didn’t want Janet, wouldn’t, in fact, hear of her. The whole affair seemed to lose a great deal of its immediate urgency in this quiet and restful place, and the fact that Morelli was himself so quiet and restful was another motive for waiting. The girl was in no danger; and, strangely enough, Maradick seemed to have lost for the first time since he had known Morelli the sense of uneasy distrust that he had had for the man; he was even rather ashamed of himself for having had it at all.
“Well,” he said slowly, “you don’t object to things being as they are for a time. I’m sure Tony will see it sensibly, and perhaps Miss Morelli might meet Lady Gale. It would be a pity, don’t you think, to put a stop altogether to the acquaintance?”
“Ah yes,” said Morelli, “certainly. We’ll say no more about it for the present. It was very pleasant as it was. As I told you, I like young Gale; and who knows? — perhaps one day — —”
Maradick sat back in his chair and looked up lazily at the sky. It was all very pleasant and comfortable here in this delicious old garden; let the matter rest.
And then Morelli proved himself a most delightful companion. He seemed to have been everywhere and to have seen everything. And it was not only knowledge. He put things so charmingly; he had a thousand ways of looking at things, a thousand ways of showing them off, so that you saw them from new points of view, and the world was an amusing, entertaining treasure-house of wonders.
The minutes slipped by; the sun went down the sky, the shadow of the tree spread farther and farther across the lawn, the pinks and roses lay in bunches of red and pink and yellow against the dark background of the wall.
Maradick got up to go and Morelli walked with him, his hat set back, his hands in his pockets. As they entered the house he said, “Ah, by the way, there was that Spanish sword that I promised to show you. It’s a fine thing and of some value; I’ll bring it down.”
He disappeared up the stairs.
Suddenly Janet was at Maradick’s elbow. He had not seen her coming, but she looked round with quick, startled eyes. Her white dress shone against the dark corners of the hall. He saw, too, that her face was very white and there were dark lines under her eyes; to his surprise she put her hand on his arm, she spoke in a whisper.
“Mr. Maradick, please,” she said, “I must speak to you. There is only a minute. Please listen, it’s dreadfully important. Tony says you want to help us. There isn’t anyone else;” she spoke in little gasps and her hand was at her throat as though she found it difficult to breathe. “I must get away somehow, at once, I don’t know what will happen if I don’t. You don’t know father, and I can’t explain now, but I’m terribly frightened; and he will suddenly — I can see it coming.” She was nearly hysterical; he could feel her whole body trembling. “Tony said something yesterday that made father dreadfully angry. Tony ought not to have come; anything might happen when father’s like that. If you can’t help me I will run away; but you must help.”
She grew calmer but still spoke very rapidly, still throwing frightened glances at the stairs. “Listen; on the twenty-seventh — that’s Thursday — father’s going away. He’s going to Pendragon for the whole day; it was arranged long ago. He was to have taken me, but he has decided not to; I heard him tell Miss Minns — I — —”
But suddenly she was gone again, as quietly as she had come. He saw now that there had been a door behind her leading to some room. He looked up and saw that Morelli was coming downstairs carrying the sword. Five minutes afterwards he had left the house.
It had all happened so suddenly, so fantastically, that it was some minutes before he could straighten it out. First he had the impression of her, very young, very frightened, very beautiful. But there was no question of the reality of her terror. All the feelings of danger that he had had with Tony last night came crowding back now. It was true then? It hadn’t only been Tony’s imagination. After all, Janet must know. She hadn’t lived with her father all those years without knowing more about it than he, Maradick, possibly could. She wouldn’t have been likely to have taken the risk of seeing him like that if there was nothing in it, if there was only the mere ordinary domestic quarrel in it. But above all, there was the terror in her eyes; that he had seen.
He could not, he must not, leave her then. There was danger threatening her somewhere. The whole business had entirely changed from his original conception of it. It had been, at first, merely the love affair of a boy and girl, and he, from a pleasant sense of romance and a comfortable conviction that it was all good for his middle-aged solidity, had had his share in it. But now it had become suddenly a serious and most urgent affair, perhaps even a matter of life and of death.
He turned, as
he had turned before, to Punch. There was no time to lose, and he was the man to see about it; he must find him at once.
The lights were coming out in the town as he passed through the streets; there were not many people about, and the twilight was lingering in the air so that all the colours of the sky and the houses and the white stretches of pavement had a faint pure light. The sky was the very tenderest blue, and the last gleam from the setting sun still lingered about the dark peaks and pinnacles of the houses.
He was soon on the outskirts of the town, and at last he trod the white high road. At the farther turn were Punch’s lodgings. There was a full round globe of a moon, and below him he could hear the distant beating of the sea.
Some one was walking rapidly behind him; he turned round, and to his astonishment saw, as the man came up to him, that it was the very person for whom he was looking.
“Ah! that’s splendid, Garrick,” he said, “I was just coming for you. I’m a bit worried and I want your advice.”
“I’m a bit worried too, sir, as a matter of fact,” said Punch, “but if there’s anything I can do — —”
Maradick saw now that the man was very different from his usual cheerful self. He was looking anxious, and his eyes were staring down the road as though he were expecting to see something.
“What’s the matter?” said Maradick.
“Well, it’s the dog,” said Punch, “Toby, you know. He’s missing, been gone all the afternoon. Not that there’s very much in that in the ordinary way. He often goes off by ‘imself. ’E knows the neighbourhood as well as I do; besides, the people round ’ere know him and know his mind. But I’m uneasy this time. It’s foolish, perhaps, but when a man’s got only one thing in the world — —” He stopped.
“But why should you be uneasy?” said Maradick. The loss of a dog seemed a very small thing compared with his own affairs.
“Well, as a matter of fact, it’s Morelli.” The lines of Punch’s mouth grew hard. “‘E’s owed me a grudge ever since I spoke to ’im plain about them animals. And ’e knows that I know a good bit, too. He passed me in the market-place two days back, and stopped for an instant and looked at the dog. To them that don’t know Morelli that’s nothing; but for them that do— ‘e’d think nothing of having his bit of revenge. And it’s late now, and the dog’s not home.” The little man looked at Maradick almost piteously, as though he wanted to be reassured.
“Oh, I expect it’s all right,” said Maradick. “Anyhow, I’ll come along with you and we can talk as we go.”
In a few words he explained what had happened that afternoon.
Punch stopped for a moment in the road and stared into Maradick’s face.
“Get ‘er away, sir,” he said, “whatever you do, get ‘er away. I know the girl; she wouldn’t have spoken to you like that unless there was something very much the matter. And I know the man; there’s nothing ‘e’d stop at when ‘e’s roused.”
“But why,” said Maradick, “if he feels like this about it did he let them go about together? He helped them in every way. He seemed to love to have Tony there. I can’t understand it.”
“Ah, sir, if you take Morelli as an ordinary man you won’t understand ’im. But ‘e’s a kind of survival. ’E loves to be cruel, as they did in the beginning of things when they didn’t know any better. It’s true. I’ve seen it once or twice in my life. It’s a lust like any other lust, so that your body quivers with the pleasure of it. But there’s more in it than that. You see ’e wants to have young things about ’im. ‘E’s always been like that; will play with kittens and birds and puppies, and then p’r’aps, on a sudden, kill them. That’s why he took to young Gale, because of ’is youth. And ’e liked to watch them together; but now, when young Gale comes and talks of marriage, why, that means that they both leave ’im and ’e can’t play with them any more, so ‘e’ll kill them instead. Take ‘er away, sir, take ‘er away.”
They were out now upon the moor that ran between the woods and the sea; the world was perfectly still save for the distant bleating of some sheep and the monotonous tramp of the waves on the shore far below them. There was no sign of any other human being; the moon flung a white unnatural light about the place.
Punch walked with his eyes darting from side to side; every now and again he whistled, but there was no answering bark.
“It may seem a bit absurd to you, sir,” Punch said almost apologetically, “to be fussing this way about a dog, but ‘e’s more to me than I could ever explain. If I hadn’t got ’im to talk to and have about at nights and kind o’ smile at when you’re wanting company the world would be another kind of place.”
Maradick tried to fix his mind on Punch’s words, but the ghostliness of the place and the hour seemed to hang round him so that he could not think of anything, but only wanted to get back to lights and company. Every now and again he turned round because he fancied that he heard steps. Their feet sank into the soft soil and then stumbled over tufts of grass. Faint mists swept up from the sea and shadowed the moon.
Behind them the lights of the town twinkled like the watching eye of some mysterious enemy. A bird rose in front of them with shrill protesting cries, and whirled, screaming, into the skies.
Punch seemed to be talking to himself. “Toby, boy, where are you? Toby, old dog. You know your master and you wouldn’t hide from your master. It’s time to be getting home, Toby. Time for bed, old boy. Damn the dog, why don’t ’e come? Toby, old boy!”
Every few minutes he started as though he saw it, and he would run forward a few paces and then stop. And indeed, in the gathering and shifting mist that went and came and took form and shape, there might have been a thousand white dogs wandering, an army of dogs, passing silently, mysteriously across the moor.
“Toby, old boy, it’s time to be getting back. ’E was that used to the place you couldn’t imagine ’is being lost anywhere round about. ’E was that cunning . . .”
But the army of dogs passed silently by, curving with their silent feet in and out of the mists. One new dog had joined their ranks. He fell in at the rear and went by with the others; but his master did not see them.
Suddenly the mists broke and the moon shone out across the moor like a flame. The moon leapt into the light. A little to the right on a raised piece of ground lay something white.
The army of dogs had vanished. The woods, the moor, the sea, were bathed in white colour.
Punch ran forward with a cry; he was down on his knees and his arms were round the dog’s body.
He bent down, and for a moment there was perfect silence, only, in a far distant field, some sheep was crying. Then he looked up.
The tears were rolling down his face; he lifted his hand and brushed them back. “It’s Toby. My dog! ‘E’s been killed. Something’s torn ’im. . . .”
He bent down and picked it up and held it in his arms. “Toby, old dog, it’s time to go back. It’s all right; ’e hasn’t hurt you, old boy. It’s all right.” He broke off. “Curse him,” he said, “curse him! ’E did it — I know his marks — I’ll kill ’im for it.” His hands fell down to his side. “Toby, old dog! Toby. . . .”
The moon crept back again behind the mist. In the shadow the man sat nursing the dog in his arms.
Far below him sounded the sea.
PART III. THE TOWER
CHAPTER XVI. MRS. LESTER, TOO, WOULD LIKE IT TO BE THE TWENTY-SEVENTH
BUT MARADICK IS AFRAID OF THE DEVIL
On Monday the 24th the weather broke. Cold winds swept up from the sea, mists twisted and turned about the hotel, the rain beat in torrents against the panes. In all the rooms there were fires, and it seemed impossible that, only the day before, there should have been a burning, dazzling sun.
It was after lunch, and Lady Gale and Tony were sitting over the fire in the drawing-room. Tony had been obviously not himself during these last few days, and his mother felt that her silence could last a very little time longer. However, matters were at length
approaching a crisis. Things must decide themselves one way or the other in a day or two, for Sir Richard had, at lunch, announced his intention of departing on Saturday the 29th; that is, they had the inside of a week, and then Treliss, thank Heaven, would be left behind. Surely nothing very much could happen in a week.
Her earlier feeling, that above all she did not want Tony to miss this girl if she were the right one for him, had yielded now to a kind of panic. All that she could think of now was to get him away. There was a look in his eyes that she had never seen in his face before. It was a look that aged him, that robbed him altogether of that delightful youth and vitality that had been his surprising, his charming gift! But there was more than a look of weariness and distress, there was positive fright there!
She watched him when he was in the room with her, and she had seen him suddenly start and tremble, fling back his head as though he expected to find some one behind him. He, her boy Tony, who had never been afraid of anyone or anything. And then, too, she had seen a new look of determination in his mouth and eyes during these last days. His mind was made up to something, but to what she was too afraid to think!
She must get him away, and she had heard her husband’s decision about Saturday with tremendous relief. She had watched Tony’s face at the announcement. But it had not changed at all; only, for a moment he had looked quickly across at Maradick; it had apparently not startled him.
His indifference frightened her. If he was taking it so calmly then he must have decided on something that this date could not affect, on something probably before the date? But what could he do before Saturday? She seemed to miss altogether the obvious thing that he could do.
But it had been seldom enough that she had had him to herself during these last weeks, and now she snatched eagerly at her opportunity. She sat on one side of the fire, one hand up to shield her face, her rings glittering in the firelight; her brown dress stood out against the white tiles of the fireplace and her beautiful snow-white hair crowned her head gloriously.