“You have done your duty, then,” she said softly. “Why not let the rest go? As you told us just now, this is not a personal matter, and there are reasons why he did not wish the Prince to leave suddenly.”
I was staggered. I held my peace, and the two stood watching me. Then I heard footsteps approaching us, and a familiar voice.
“What trio of conspirators is this talking so earnstly in the shadows? Ah!”
The Prince had seen me, and he stood still. I faced him at once.
“Prince,” I said, “it has been suggested to me that my eyesight is probably defective. It is possible in that case that I have not seen you before to-day, that the things with which I charge you are false, that in all probability you were in some other place altogether. If this is so, I apologize for my remarks and behaviour towards you.”
He bowed with a faint mirthless smile.
“It is finished, my young friend,” he declared. “I wipe it from my memory.” It seemed to me that I could hear Blenavon’s sigh of relief, that the shadow had fallen from Lady Angela’s face. There was a little murmur of satisfaction from both of them. But I turned abruptly, and with scarcely even an attempt at a conventional farewell I left the house, and walked homewards across the Park.
XV. TWO FAIR CALLERS
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After three days the house party at Rowchester was somewhat unexpectedly broken up. Lord Chelsford departed early one morning by special train, and the Duke himself and the remainder of his guests left for London later on in the day. I remained behind with three weeks’ work, and a fear which never left me by day or by night. Yet the relief of solitude after the mysteries of the last few days was in itself a thing to be thankful for.
For nine days I spoke with no one save Grooton. For an hour every afternoon, and for rather longer at night, I walked on the cliffs or the sands. Here on these lonely stretches of empty land I met no one, saw no living thing save the seagulls. It was almost like a corner of some forgotten land. These walks, and an occasional few hours’ reading, were my sole recreation.
It was late in the afternoon when I saw a shadow pass my window, and immediately afterwards there was a timid knock at the door. Grooton had gone on his daily pilgrimage with letters to the village, so I was obliged to open it myself. To my surprise it was Blanche Moyat who stood upon the threshold. She laughed a little nervously.
“I’m no ghost, Mr. Ducaine,” she said, “and I shan’t bite!”
“Forgive me,” I answered. “I was hard at work and your knock startled me. Please come in.”
I ushered her into my sitting-room. She was wearing what I recognized as her best clothes, and not being entirely at her ease she talked loudly and rapidly.
“Such a stranger as you are, Mr. Ducaine,” she exclaimed. “Fancy, it’s getting on for a month since we any of us saw a sign of you, and I’m sure never a week used to pass but father’d be looking for you to drop in. We heard that you were living here all by yourself, and this morning mother said, perhaps he’s ill. We tried to get father to come up and see, but he’s off to Downham market to-day, and goodness knows when he’d find time if we left it to him. So I thought I’d come and find out for myself.”
“I am quite well, thanks, Miss Moyat,” I answered, “but very busy. The Duke has been giving me some work to do, and he has lent me this cottage, so that I shall be close at hand. I should have looked you up the first time I came to Braster, but as a matter of fact I have not been there since the night of my lecture.”
She was nervously playing with the fastening of her umbrella, and it seemed to me that her silence was purposeful. I ventured some remark about the weather, which she interrupted ruthlessly.
“It’s a mile and a half to our house from here,” she said, “not a step farther. I don’t see why you shouldn’t have made a purpose journey.”
I ignored the reproach in her eyes, as I had every right to do. But I began to understand the reason of her nervousness and her best clothes, and I prayed for Grooton’s return.
“If I had had an evening to myself,” I said, “I should certainly have paid your father a visit. But as it happens, the Duke has required me at the house every night while he was here, and he has left me enough work to do to keep me busy night and day till he comes back.”
She looked down upon the floor.
“I had to come and see you,” she said in a low tone. “Sometimes I can’t sleep for thinking of it. I feel that I haven’t done right.”
I knew, of course, what she meant.
“I thought we had talked all that out long ago,” I answered, a little wearily. “You would have been very foolish if you had acted differently. I don’t see how else you could have acted.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “We were always brought up very particular—especially about telling the truth.”
“Well, you haven’t said anything that wasn’t the truth,” I reminded her.
“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t said what I ought to say,” she declared. “It seems all right when you are with me, and talk about it,” she continued slowly, raising her eyes to mine. “It’s when I don’t see you for weeks and weeks that it seems to get on my mind, and I get afraid. I don’t understand it, I don’t understand it even now.”
“Don’t understand what?” I repeated.
She looked around. Her air of troubled mystery was only half assumed.
“How that man died!” she whispered.
“I can assure you that I did not kill him, if that is what you mean,” I told her coolly. “The matter is over and done with. I think that you are very foolish to give it another thought.”
She shuddered.
“Men can forget those things easier,” she said. “Perhaps he had a wife and children. Perhaps they are wondering all this time what has become of him.”
“People die away from their homes and families every day, every hour,” I answered. “It is only morbid to brood over one particular example.”
“Father would never forgive me if he knew,” she murmured, irrelevantly. “He hates us to do anything underhand.”
I heard Grooton return with a sigh of relief.
“You will have some tea,” I suggested.
She shook her head and stood up. I did not press her.
“No, I won’t,” she said. “I am sorry I came. I don’t understand you, Mr. Ducaine. You seem to have changed altogether just these last few weeks. I can see that you are dying to get rid of me now, but you were glad enough to see me, or at any rate you pretended to be, once.”
My breath was a little taken away. I looked at her in surprise. Her cheeks were flushed, her voice had shaken with something more like anger than any form of pathos. I was at a loss how to answer her, and while I hesitated the interruption which I had been praying for came, though from a strange quarter. My door was pushed a few inches open, and I heard Lady Angela’s clear young voice.
“Are you there, Mr. Ducaine? May I come in?”
Before I could answer she stood upon the threshold, I saw the delightful little smile fade from her lips as she looked in. She hesitated, and seemed for a moment about to retreat.
“Please come in, Lady Angela,” I begged, eagerly.
She came slowly forward.
“I must apologize for my abominable country manners,” she said, resting the tips of her fingers for a moment in mine. “I saw your door was not latched, and it never occurred to me to knock.”
“It was not necessary,” I assured her. “A front door which does not boast a knocker or a bell must expect to be taken liberties with. But it is a great surprise to see you here. I had no idea that any one was at Rowchester, or expected there, except Lord Blenavon. Has the Duke returned?”
She shook her head.
“I came down alone,” she answered. “I found London dull. Let me see, I am sure that I know your face, do I not?” she added, turning to Blanche Moyat with a smile. “You live in Braster, surely?”
> “I am Miss Moyat,” Blanche answered quietly.
“Of course. Dear me! I ought to have recognized you. We have been neighbours for a good many years.”
“I will wish you good-afternoon, Mr. Ducaine,” Blanche said, turning to me. “Good-afternoon—your Ladyship,” she added a little awkwardly.
I opened the door for her.
“I will come down and see your father the first evening I have to spare,” I said. “I hope you will tell him from me that I should have been before, but for the luxury of having some work to do.”
“I will tell him,” she said almost inaudibly.
“And thank you very much for coming to inquire after me,” I added. “Good-afternoon.”
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Ducaine.”
I closed the door. Lady Angela was lounging in my easy chair with a slight smile upon her lips.
“Two lady callers in one afternoon, Mr. Ducaine,” she remarked quietly. “You will lose your head, I am afraid.”
“I can assure you, Lady Angela,” I answered, “that there is not the slightest fear of such a catastrophe.”
She sat looking meditatively into the fire, swinging her dogskin gloves in her hands. She wore a plain pearl grey walking dress and deerstalker hat with a single quill in it. The severe but immaculate simplicity of her toilette might have been designed to accentuate the barbarities of Blanche Moyat’s cheap finery.
“I understood that you would be in town for at least three weeks,” I remarked. “I trust that his Grace is well.”
“I trust that he is,” she answered. “I see nothing of him in London. He has company meetings and political work every moment of his time. I do not believe that there is any one who works harder.”
“He has, at least,” I remarked, “the compensation of success.”
“You are wondering, I suppose,” she said, looking up at me quickly, “what has brought me back again so soon.”
“I certainly did not expect you,” I admitted.
She rose abruptly.
“Come outside,” she said, “and I will show you. Bring your hat.”
We passed into the March twilight. She led the way down the cliff and towards the great silent stretch of salt marshes. An evening wind, sharp with brine, was blowing in from the ocean, stirring the surface of the long creeks into silent ripples, and bending landwards the thin streaks of white smoke rising amongst the red-tiled roofs of the village. I felt the delicate sting of it upon my cheeks. Lady Angela half closed her eyes as she turned her face seawards.
“I came for this,” she murmured. “There is nothing like it anywhere else.”
We stood there in silence for several long minutes. Then she turned to me with a little sigh.
“I am content,” she said. “Will you come up and dine with us to-night? Blenavon will be there, you know.” I hesitated.
“I am afraid it is rather a bother to you to leave your work,” she continued, “but I am not offering you idle hospitality. I really want you to come.”
“In that case,” I answered, “of course I shall be delighted.”
She pointed to Braster Grange away on the other side of the village. I noticed for the first time that it was all lit up.
“Have you heard anything of our new neighbours?” she asked.
“Only their names,” I answered. “I did not even know that they had arrived.”
“There is only a woman, I believe,” she said. “I have met her abroad, and I dislike her—greatly. I hear that my brother spends most of his time with her, and that he has dined there the last three nights. It is not safe or wise of him, for many reasons. I want to stop it. That is why I have asked you to come to us.”
“It is quite sufficient,” I told her. “If you want me for any reason I will come. I am two days ahead of my work.”
We threaded our way amongst the creeks. All the time the salt wind blew upon us, and the smell of fresh seaweed seemed to fill the air with ozone. Just as we came in sight of the road we heard the thunder of hoofs behind. We turned around. It was Blenavon, riding side by side with a lady who was a stranger to me. Her figure was slim but elegant. I caught a glimpse of her face as they flashed by, and it puzzled me. Her hair was almost straw coloured, her complexion was negative, her features were certainly not good. Yet there was something about her attractive, something which set me guessing at once as to the colour of her eyes, the quality of her voice, if she should speak. Blenavon reined in his horse.
“So you have turned up, Angela,” he remarked, looking at her a little nervously. “You remember Mrs. Smith-Lessing, don’t you—down at Bordighera, you know?”
Angela shook her head, but she never glanced towards the woman who sat there with expectant smile.
“I am afraid that I do not,” she said. “I remember a good many things about Bordighera, but—not Mrs. Smith-Lessing. I shall see you at dinner-time, Blenavon. I have some messages for you.”
I saw the whip come down upon the woman’s horse, but I did not dare to look into her face. Blenavon, with a smothered oath and a black look at his sister, galloped after her. I rejoined Lady Angela, who was already in the road.
“Dear me,” she said, “what a magnificent nerve that woman must have! To dare to imagine that I should receive her! Why, she is known in every capital in Europe—a police spy, a creature whose brains and body and soul are to be bought by any one’s gold.”
“What on earth can such a woman want here?” I remarked.
“In hiding, very likely,” Lady Angela remarked. “Or perhaps she may be an additional complication for you.”
I laughed a little scornfully.
“You, too, are getting suspicious,” I declared. “The Prince and Mrs. Smith-Lessing are a strong combination.”
“Be careful then that they are not too strong for you,” she answered, smiling. “I have heard a famous boast of Mrs. Smith-Lessing’s, that never a man nor a lock has yet resisted her.”
I thought of her face as I had seen it in the half light—a faint impression of delicate colourlessness, and for the life of me I could not help a little shiver. Lady Angela looked at me in surprise.
“Are you cold?” she asked. “Let us walk more quickly.”
“It is always cold at this time in the evening,” I remarked. “It is the mist coming up from the marshes. One feels it at unexpected moments.”
“I am not going to take you any farther,” she declared, “especially as you are coming up to-night. Eight o’clock, remember. Go and salve your conscience with some work.”
I protested, but she was firm. So I stood by the gate and watched her slim young figure disappear in the gathering shadows.
XVI. LADY ANGELA’S ENGAGEMENT
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I dined that night at Rowchester. Lord Blenavon was sulky, and Lady Angela was only fitfully gay. It was not altogether a cheerful party. Lady Angela left us the moment Blenavon produced his cigarette-case.
“Do not stay too long, Mr. Ducaine,” she said, as I held the door open for her. “I want a lesson at billiards.”
I bowed and returned to my seat. Blenavon was leaning back in his chair, smoking thoughtfully.
“My sister,” he remarked, looking up at the ceiling and speaking as though to himself, “would make an admirable heroine for the psychological novelist. She is a bundle of fancies; one can never rely upon what she is going to do. What other girl in the world would get engaged on the Thursday, and come down here on the Friday to think it over—leaving, of course, her fiancé in town? Doesn’t that strike you as singular?”
“Is it,” I asked calmly, “a genuine case?”
Lord Blenavon nodded.
“I do not think that it is a secret,” he said, helping himself to wine and passing the decanter. “She has made up her mind at last to marry Mostyn Ray. The affair has been hanging about for more than a year. In fact, I think that there was something said about it before Ray went abroad. Personally, I think that he is too old. I do
n’t mind saying so to you, because that has been my opinion all along. However, I suppose it is all settled now.”
I kept my eyes fixed upon the wineglass in front of me, but the things which I saw, no four walls had ever enclosed. One moment the rush of the sea was in my ears, another I was lying upon the little horsehair couch in my sitting-room. I felt her soft white fingers upon my pulse and forehead. Again I saw her leaning down from the saddle of her great brown horse, and heard her voice, slow, emotionless, yet always with its strange power to play upon my heartstrings. And yet, while the grey seas of despair were closing over my head, I sat there with a stereotyped smile upon my lips, fingering carelessly the stem of my wineglass, unwilling guest of an unwilling host. I do not know how long we sat there in silence, but it seemed to me an eternity, for all the time I knew that Blenavon was watching me. I felt like a victim upon the rack, whilst he, the executioner, held the cords. I do not think, however, that he learnt anything from my face.
With a little shrug of the shoulders he abandoned the subject.
“By-the-bye, Ducaine,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind my asking you a rather personal question.”
“If it is only personal,” I answered quietly, “not at all. As you know, I may not discuss any subject connected with my work.”
“Quite so! I only want to know whether your secretarial duties begin and end with your work on the Council of Defence, or are you at all in my father’s confidence as regards his private affairs?”
“I am temporary secretary to the Council of Defence only, Lord Blenavon,” I answered. “I know nothing whatever of your father’s private affairs. He has his own man of business.”
I am not sure whether he believed me. He cracked some walnuts and commenced peeling them.
“My father will never listen to me,” he said, “but I feel sure that he makes a mistake in becoming a director of all these companies. Politics should be quite sufficient to engross his time, and the money cannot be so much of an object to him. I don’t suppose his holdings are large, but I am quite sure that one or two of those Australian gold mines are dicky, and you know he was an enormous holder of Chartereds, and wouldn’t sell, worse luck! Of course I’m not afraid of his losing in the long run, but it isn’t exactly a dignified thing to be associated with these concerns that aren’t exactly A1. His name might lead people into speculations who couldn’t altogether afford it.”
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