Someone was coming to see what had happened to her: not openly, with appalled exclamations, but quietly, secretly, nearer and nearer through the little wood. He was coming, as the shot had, from ahead of her, cutting her off from Maulever Hall. Suddenly it was the terror all over again, and she reacted by throwing herself off the path into the thickest of the wood. Even as she did so, she told herself that she was absurd. Of course, she had disturbed a poacher who had taken advantage of the sudden mist to try and add a rabbit or a pheasant to his family’s meager diet. She always, secretly, sympathized with the villagers who were reduced to this, and was sure that none of them would harm her—if they knew who she was. And yet—terror bade her be still, shivering, huddled among the thick branches of a yew tree she had come on in her panic-stricken flight from the path. She could hear nothing now, which probably meant that the poacher was coming along the path, expecting, no doubt, to find her lying there injured. Or had he heard her flight? Probably ... In which case, surely, he would thank his lucky stars and go quietly home rather than risk being identified. The penalty for armed poaching was seven years’ transportation; it would be a brave man indeed who would risk that merely to make sure that she was not hurt. Ridiculous to have been so frightened. She was just going to emerge from her hiding place and make her way back to the path when, once more, she heard stealthy movement. It was very near now. Someone was moving cautiously, quietly, to and fro among the bushes. They were looking for her, but not with any idea of succor. She was certain now that the shot that had missed her so narrowly had been no accident. Someone had lain in wait for her and would have killed her if it had not been for her fall. And he was searching, quietly, systematically through the bushes for her. He was very close now and she buried her head in her arms in one swift silent movement so that the whiteness of her face should not betray her. Hardly breathing, she heard him go past, almost within reach. Then he was moving away again and she allowed herself a little breathless sigh of relief. He was quartering systematically through the wood on this side of the path; only the panicky impulse that had driven her deep into the prickly yew had saved her. Gradually the sound of movement died away, but still she stayed where she was. Suppose he had only pretended to move away? He might be waiting on the path, listening for the first movement that would betray her.
It was darker and very cold. She had no idea how long she had huddled in the yew tree’s uncomfortable safety, but she knew that she was stiff and chilled to the bone. Her ankle hurt where she had twisted it in the fall that had saved her life. Her back was aching from the crouched position into which the unknown’s approach had frozen her. How long must she stay here? Suddenly she lifted her head to listen eagerly. Yes, footsteps were approaching from the direction of the house. And this time there was nothing secret about them, they were quick, definite. She heard a dog bark and a moment later Mauleverer’s favorite spaniel, Trixie, had burst into her hiding place and begun a very thorough job of licking her face.
She put her arms round the dog and burst into almost hysterical laughter, then heard Mauleverer’s voice: “Here, Trixie, heel, you brute—” And then: “What’s that? Miss Lamb?”
“Here.” It was more difficult to get out of the yew tree than it had been to force her way in, and Mauleverer had found her by the time she emerged, with a last rending tear of calico skirts.
“Good God.” He saw her white face by the light of the lantern he carried, then caught her in his left arm as her bad foot gave way under her, and she swayed toward him. For a moment she lay there, half conscious against him, grateful for the strength and safety of him, then felt, exquisitely, amazingly, his lips against the hair above her forehead. It was momentary, a butterfly touch, no more, but sent a thrill through her that brought astonished enlightenment. How long had she loved him? She stirred a little, then wished she had not, as he helped her gently to stand up.
“You are hurt?” His voice was anxious, but otherwise just as usual. Could she have imagined that lightning, magic touch? “What in the world is the matter, Miss Lamb?”
She must seem lunatic, hiding here. “Someone shot at me!”
“A poacher? I heard the shot and thought I had best come to meet you, but, surely, not ‘at you,’ Miss Lamb.” He was helping her gently back to the path as he spoke.
Already, in the safety of his arm, the terror seemed absurd, and yet—“I ... I do not know,” she said. “He only missed me because I tripped as he fired. And”—she shivered—“then he came looking for me, very quietly, in the darkness.”
“To see what he had done, no doubt. Can you manage to walk, with my arm?” They were on the path now and she contrived to hobble along beside him. “I expect he wanted to see what harm he had done without being seen—none of the villagers would willingly hurt you, I am sure. They seem to love you. But—it would mean death to have wounded you...”
“I know ... I suppose that must be it ... and yet ...” Memory of the terror was all about her still, and she shivered against the warmth and comfort of his arm.
“Not much farther now.” He must have felt the tremor that ran through her. And then: “Lady Heverdon! You should not be out in this mist.”
“I could not contain my anxiety any longer.” Her figure loomed toward them. “Have you really found her?” And then: “Good gracious, Miss Lamb, what can be the matter?”
“She has had a close shave of it with a poacher, but is none the worse, I hope, or will not be when once we get her safely indoors and to a fire.”
“A poacher! I told you it was not safe to be walking through the woods alone. But, poor Miss Lamb. Come, lean on me.” And she took Marianne’s other arm to help her into the house.
Once indoors, Lady Heverdon listened to Marianne’s story with exclamations of horror, hardly allowing Mauleverer to fit in his brief, pertinent questions. No, Marianne answered him, she had not the slightest idea of the identity of her assailant, nor could she be absolutely certain that he had fired at her on purpose; it could easily be, as Lady Heverdon insisted, a poacher’s accidental shot. “There’s not much we can do about it, in that case,” said Mauleverer at last, “but I will at least have a few enquiries made in the village.” And he left them alone to give his orders.
Lady Heverdon hung over Marianne anxiously as she lay on a sofa. “You look worse and worse,” she said. “You must let me help you to bed.”
“I must first thank Mr. Mauleverer properly.”
“Be advised by me, and leave that till tomorrow, my dear. There will be time enough then, and, frankly, your appearance, though I hesitate to mention it, is not quite the thing for the drawing room.”
Thus reminded of her disheveled state, Marianne submitted, though not with a very good grace to being helped upstairs. Once in her room, and suitably horrified by the white and scratched face in the mirror, she tried another protest: “But I shall be quite well enough to come down to dinner,” she said.
“Nonsense. Your ankle is swollen already; if you use it any more tonight you may well be laid up for weeks, and I know that would not suit you, so active as you are. No, no, let me be your messenger to Mauleverer tonight. I will thank him as prettily as possible on your behalf—though mind you I cannot think how he came to take so long to find you. I was getting quite anxious about both of you, he had been gone an age when I started out to meet you. I suppose he must have missed his way in the fog ... or perhaps he had too much to think about. You are my good friend, are you not, Miss Lamb?”
“Why, yes?” She did not try to conceal surprise at the sudden question.
“I know you are, and shall therefore trust you with what must remain a secret to the rest of the world—and even to Mrs. Mauleverer for some time longer. But I do not believe I even need to tell you; I have thought that your sharp eyes had pierced our secret this long time past, and, oh, it has been a relief not to have to act the indifferent in front of you.”
Marianne’s face had been white before, now it was chalky. “I do n
ot understand you.”
“Discreet Miss Lamb! I knew I could count on you. But between us it shall be no longer a secret, and, since I know how thoroughly you respect my beloved Mauleverer, I shall allow myself the luxury of talking freely to you about him. We dare not trust his mother with our secret, poor creature that she is, but you are another matter.”
It must be true. And she—she must have imagined that brief, miraculous moment in the wood. Color flooded her face. The wish, no doubt, had fathered the thought. But Lady Heverdon was gazing at her expectantly. She must say something. “But why the need for secrecy?”
“Can you ask that? And I so recently widowed, and then, so dreadfully afflicted by poor little Lord Heverdon’s ghastly death? I cannot be talking of love and marriage for months yet; I am almost ashamed to be thinking of them, but how can I help myself? And, besides, Mauleverer is so masterful ... so passionate ... I do not know how I shall contrive to make him wait until I am out of mourning. You must help me, Miss Lamb, with your cool common sense; he has, he has told me, the greatest respect for your judgment. But what a selfish brute I am to stay prattling of my happiness when I can see you are fit for nothing but bed. Sleep well, my dear, and keep my secret for me. You are the only person in the world, besides us two, who knows it.”
Marianne could eat none of the food that was brought her, and did not expect to be able to sleep either, but about nine o’clock Gibbs came tapping at her door with a mug of warm milk: “It will give you a good night’s rest,” she said. “Lady Heverdon thought you might need it.”
It tasted strange—bitter—but Marianne drank it eagerly. She did not care what it contained, whether opium or laudanum. Lady Heverdon had been right; more than anything she needed the oblivion of sleep. In the morning, she would face her wretchedness.
VIII
Marianne slept long and dreamlessly and woke at last feeling wonderfully revived. Whatever the drug that Lady Heverdon had sent her, it had done its work well. She lay for a few moments, regardless of the household sounds that told her how late it was, and tried to grapple with last night’s events. Mauleverer and Lady Heverdon were engaged—she must have imagined that swift touch of his lips ... And yet, how hard it was to believe ... Could Lady Heverdon possibly have been lying? No, the suggestion was absurd ... And there was something else; another uncomfortable memory that must be faced. Lady Heverdon had been surprised that Mauleverer had taken so long to find her, had given her a strange look when she said so. Could she possibly have meant to hint that he himself might have been her attacker? Everything in her revolted at the idea ... and yet ... and yet ... Against her will, she remembered that other story of Lady Heverdon’s—the Countess of Lashton’s suggestion that she had been Mauleverer’s mistress and had been on the way to Maulever Hall with his child. Intolerable, impossible thought ... She jumped out of bed with surprising vigor, found her ankle much better and dressed hurriedly.
Downstairs, the house was oddly quiet for so late an hour. Marianne looked in to the morning room, expecting to find Lady Heverdon, and was amazed to find Mrs. Mauleverer, for whom it was not late but very early indeed.
“Ah there you are, my dear,” said the old lady with touching pleasure. “How glad I am to see you better. The house seems sadly dull and quiet, does it not, without them? They were disappointed not to see you before they went, and Mark left his particular commands that you were to take care of yourself and not be rambling about in the woods alone.”
“They are gone?” Marianne controlled her voice with an effort.
“Yes, to London. Mark had letters from Lord Grey yesterday that made it essential he return at once, and Lady Heverdon decided to avail herself of his escort for the first part of her journey home. To tell you the truth, my dear, I am not altogether sorry to see her go. I am afraid it was sadly dull for her here, with Mark away so much of the time on his election business. I expect it will be easier...” She let the sentence drag, but Marianne understood perfectly what she meant, and wondered whether she was right. It seemed to her highly unlikely, from remarks that Lady Heverdon had let drop, that she would be any satisfaction to Mrs. Mauleverer as a daughter-in-law. Indeed, the old lady would be lucky if she contrived to avoid being put away in some asylum for the elderly. Pity for her kind friend made her almost forget her own misery and she devoted the morning to making her more cheerful, being rewarded, as they took their light luncheon together, by Mrs. Mauleverer’s remark that it was “very pleasant and quite like old times.”
For Marianne, in the quiet misery of that morning, it was hard to believe that anything would ever be pleasant again, but she was not one to sit down under misfortune. More than ever it was essential that she find some other shelter for herself and the child—and, if necessary, for Mrs. Mauleverer too. Relieved that her ankle was so much better, she put on her riding habit after luncheon and descended on the stables.
Jim Barnes met her with a knowing look. “So he gave permission, did he, miss, before he left?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I am here, am I not? Saddle her up for me, Jim.”
“Shan’t I ride with you, miss?”
“Good gracious no; you have other things to do than that.”
“But what about the poachers?”
So the story was all about; she might have known it. She shrugged. “Lightning never strikes twice in the same place you know.” She hoped she was right. “Besides, you can tell everyone, Jim, that I have not the slightest idea of who shot at me, so I am a danger to no one.”
“You’re a brave girl, miss, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”
Absurdly, she rode out of the stable yard with her eyes full of tears.
It was a hot still day with nothing stirring on the moor save sheep, and, high above her, noisily cheerful skylarks, but she noticed neither sunlight nor birdsong. She was free, at last, to give rein to the misery that had lain, all morning, heavy and cold about her heart. She had taken, hardly thinking about it, the way that Mauleverer must have ridden, earlier today, beside Lady Heverdon’s coach. Or, more likely, would he not have let his groom ride Prince, exchanging the pleasures of the fresh, bright morning for those of a tete a tete with his beloved? If Lady Heverdon’s confidences last night had left any room for doubt as to their being engaged, his joining her for the long, leisurely journey she had planned to London would have settled the question. Of course they were engaged, had been for the entire duration of her visit. It was absurd not to have realized this sooner, and as for that moment of delusion in the wood last night ... she colored crimson merely at the recollection, her only consolation the thought that there was no way in which Mauleverer should have guessed at her shameful mistake.
As for her, perhaps she should be grateful for it, since it had taught her, however late in the day, the true state of her feelings toward him. And how grateful, too, she should be that he had left so suddenly for London, thus sparing her the misery of an encounter. At least, she ought to be grateful for this, she knew, but somehow could not manage it. Instead, she tormented herself with thoughts of that snug, sociable journey, the meals taken together at little country inns, the long evenings with no chaperone but Lady Heverdon’s maid. There had been a moment, after the unlucky episode of the Lashtons’ visit, when she had wondered if Mauleverer was not shaking off the yoke of his passion, but, even if she had been right, this romantic journey should do his business for him all over again. By the time they reached London, Lady Heverdon would doubtless have settled everything to please herself. Poor old Mrs. Mauleverer would be doomed to some genteel asylum for the aged and unreliable, and as for herself— she remembered Lady Heverdon’s words: “I do not know how we shall manage without you.” After such clear notice given, how had she managed to indulge herself in last night’s moment of madness?
It was unlucky for her that she should have reached this nadir of misery and let herself slump, self-condemned in the saddle, at the moment when an adder reared up in the path in front
of Sadie. So far, the bay mare had borne her rider’s inattentiveness tolerably enough, but she had always been terrified of snakes. Now she started, shied, and bolted.
Jerked suddenly into wakefulness, Marianne hung on, but that was about all she could do. For a mad twenty minutes or so she forgot misery, terror, everything in her determination not to be thrown. It was, in a curious way, exhilarating to have life suddenly simplified into this wild struggle merely for survival and when at last Sadie slowed from her mad gallop to a weary canter and then, at last, to a walk, Marianne’s first feeling was almost one of disappointment. For a while, back there, in her terror of death, she had really been alive...
She bent to pat the terrified and sweating horse and murmur soothing endearments to her. Then she looked around. It had been impossible, during their wild flight through the heather, to do more than realize that, mercifully, Sadie was keeping to one moorland path after another. Now she was completely lost. The moor rolled away on all sides; the sheep grazed, the larks sang. She had not the slightest idea which way to turn for home. Nor had she much inkling as to how far they had come in that wild rush, but it seemed unlikely that either of them would have the strength to get home without resting first. If Sadie was sweating and trembling, so, she now noticed, was she.
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