Marlstone allowed his physiognomy to express itself according to its natural bent, but hesitated over what to do next, first pursing his lips and then chewing them reflectively. “I’ve given you fair warning, have I not?” he said, finally. “You do understand that anything that might befall you is none of my responsibility?”
“Entirely mine,” Michael agreed. “I shall simply have to hope that my surroundings do not become so blurred that I can no longer obtain an accurate representation of their contours.”
“You might faint,” Marlstone advised him, grudgingly.
“Did you faint during one of your earlier trials?” Michael queried.
“Briefly. You might also find that your thought-processes are disrupted to an extent that, in combination with visual distortions, might make it rather difficult for you to work efficiently.”
It was Michael’s turn to frown. “I’ll do my best to cope with any disturbance,” he said.
“If all goes well, there’ll be no problem,” Marlstone told him, “but as you pointed out, the entire house-party will be here at noon tomorrow. I need to be as certain as I can be that my machine is in perfect order, and that she can set up a safe and stable field at that time.”
She? Michel thought, briefly bewildered—but then he remembered that the engineer in charge of the Sir Richard Trevithick had also referred to his machine, quite tenderly, as “she”.
“I understand,” Michael assured him. “If some unexpected disturbance does occur, better that it occurs today instead of tomorrow, just to the two of us. As you say, though, it might be helpful to obtain a second opinion regarding the nature of any disturbance that does occur. I’m only too happy to volunteer my services.”
At that moment, Gregory Marlstone did not have the appearance of a man who attributed much weight to the opinions of others, but he did owe Michael a debt of gratitude, however small, and he was compelled to recognize that he could not force or persuade Michael to leave. “Very well, Mr. Laurel,” he said, attempting to be gracious. “I accept your generous offer. I look forward to hearing your report—if, indeed, there is anything for you to report.”
Marlstone made as if to turn on his heel and march back into the Keep, but he checked the movement as his gaze was attracted to something away to Michael’s right. Michael resisted the temptation to turn his own head to follow the direction of the inventor’s stare, concentrating hard on capturing the exact shape and dimensions of what his private thoughts still insisted on calling “the door to the Folly”. It was not until he heard another voice calling his name that he started slightly and allowed his concentration to be broken.
Cecilia was wearing a pretty pale-blue dress. It was she who had called his name, and he had no doubt that it was she who had taken the initiative in coming to visit him after breakfast—but propriety had demanded that she could not do that without mounting a pretence that she merely intended to take a random stroll and inviting at least one other person to accompany her. Unfortunately, even if the initial invitation had been selective, it had obviously been passed on in a generous manner. Not only was Lord Langstrade walking by his daughter’s side, but he had a very considerable company in his wake, comprising his wife—who was clutching the hand of an eleven-year-old boy—Mr. Escott, Mr. Hope, and Lady Phythian. Lord Langstrade seemed to be in a buoyant mood, to judge by the way he was swinging the sturdy walking-stick he was carrying in his right hand: a masterpiece in polished mahogany, with an ivory pommel shaped like the hilt of a dagger.
In spite of the unwelcome presence of this veritable crowd, Michael’s heart leapt. There had been a slim chance, the previous evening, that the force of his desire might have led him to mistake mere friendly politeness for something more, but the fact that Cecilia had no sooner finished breakfast than she had been impelled to search him out, at whatever cost in terms of dragging excess baggage behind her, left no conceivable room for doubt as to the depth of her fondness. She loved him! The enigmatic caprice had taken her in its grip as firmly as it had seized him.
“You two haven’t met my younger brother, Jack, I believe,” Cecilia said, brightly. “Jack, this is Mr. Laurel, the painter, and Mr. Marlstone, the inventor.
Jack bowed, rather clownishly. He had a catapult stuck in the back pocket of his short trousers, whose elastic slingshot was dangling awkwardly down, like an ill-placed tail.
Michael was tongue-tied by the sight of Cecilia’s warm smile, so Marlstone had no difficulty seizing the initiative. “I must protest, my lord,” he said. “I specifically requested that I was to have the Keep to myself this morning, and you agreed that I should be left alone.”
“Oh, absolutely!” Lord Langstrade replied, cheerily. “No one shall so much as set foot on the drawbridge, or they’ll answer to me. Remember that, everyone! Mr. Marlstone is to have the Keep entirely to himself!”
“Perhaps I would have made myself clearer if I had said the Keep and the Maze,” Marlstone said, regretfully.
“Mr. Marlstone is worried about leakage,” Michael put in, making a sincere attempt to be helpful in spite of his emotional rapture. “Leakage and overtones, which might cause dizziness and confusion to anyone caught within the field of his apparatus. The effect might extend as far as my station, I fear—but I was just explaining that my task is of the highest importance, and that it would be a pleasure and a privilege to share his perils, minuscule as they might be.”
“Bravo!” said Escott. “Stout fellow. Don’t you think so, Hope?”
Hope, for once, made no reply. His physiognomy, unlike Marlstone’s, was ill-designed for scowling, but Michael had no doubt that the famous optimist was not in a good mood. He had evidently perceived Michael’s response to Cecilia’s appearance, and had deduced the reason for Cecilia’s desire to explore the Maze.
“Mr. Laurel has refused to retire to an adequate distance while I conduct the crucial trials of my time machine,” Marlstone told Lord Langstrade. “Any risk will, indeed, be minuscule, but I really do think it might be best if everyone else took care to remain outside the Maze until tomorrow’s demonstration at noon.”
“But won’t the risks—whatever they might be—be even greater then?” Escott asked.
“I believe that they will be considerably less,” Marlstone hastened to say. “At that particular moment, the range and power of the field ought to prohibit all short-range self-interference, thus dispelling confusion and making sure that if we are privileged to see our past and future selves, the images will be as clear and distinct as possible. I’ll explain it all in greater detail in my lecture tonight.”
“Lecture?” queried Lord Langstrade, letting the tip of his walking-stick fall to the ground and leaning on it, although he was not really in need of its support. “What lecture?”
“Mr. Hope and Mr. Escott asked me last evening to explain the theoretical principles of my time machine. The explanation need not be as formal as a lecture, of course.…”
“I should hope not,” Lord Langstrade said. “We’ve got a full evening’s…er…entertainment ahead of us, and I’m not at all sure that we’ll have time for a lecture.”
Michael could not help wondering whether Dr. Carp would be content to have his own experiment classified as “entertainment”, but he let the thought pass across his consciousness fleetingly, in order that he could focus once again on the firm confidence that Cecilia loved him, and that all was well with the world.
“We’re in no particular hurry,” Hope assured the Earl and Gregory Marlstone, having recovered his voice. “Tomorrow night, after the demonstration, might be a better time anyway. Mind you, Marlstone’s got a point about being let alone. If he wants us out of range, I think we owe it to him to take ourselves out of range—everyone but Laurel, of course. Laurel has his work to do, and we shouldn’t be interrupting him any more than we should be interrupting Marlstone. The
rest of us really ought to take a turn through the rose-garden instead—don’t you agree, Miss Cecilia?”
It was Michael’s turn to frown. Hope seemed to be intent on separating him from Cecilia as soon as possible. He became suddenly certain that Hope really might take it into his head to ask Lord Langstrade for her hand before the house-party came to an end, and might well make his bid urgently, for fear of emergent competition. Unfortunately, he had already taken his stand, and could not possibly allow any of the newcomers to stay and share his “minuscule risk”—Cecilia least of all.
Lord Langstrade had been measuring the distance between Michael and the moat, holding up his walking stick as if it were a yardstick. “Seems a perfectly adequate margin to me, Marlstone,” he opined, gruffly, “but if you want the entire Maze to yourself, I suppose you’d better have it—except for young Laurel, of course. He has a job to do, as he says, and if he’s willing to remain.…”
“I’m willing to allow him to do so,” Marlstone agreed, bowing to the inevitable.
“How brave you are, Mr. Laurel!” Cecilia was quick to exclaim. “I shall feel so much safer tomorrow, when I have your assurance as well as Mr. Marlstone’s that I shall not be in any danger within the time machine’s field of influence.”
“I don’t doubt that we’ll all be perfectly safe,” Escott muttered, so softly that only Michael and Hope could hear him, “unless we’re bored to death by the absence of any effect at all. The crowd at Chatsworth was exceedingly disappointed.”
“Mr. Marlstone has certainly shown a wise discretion in opting to make his third experiment in the presence of such a small and select audience,” Hope murmured in reply.
“I agree with Lord Langstrade,” Lady Phythian declared, loudly. “Mr. Marlstone has his trials to conduct, and Mr. Laurel his sketches to make. The rest of us should be kind enough to leave them to it—provided that we can find our way out of the Maze, now that the hedges have grown so oppressively tall. Will you guide us again, Cecilia?”
“I can do it!” Jack proclaimed. “I know the way.” His mother made a gesture instructing him to be quiet, but there was a certain pride in her expression.
Cecilia had made no move to set off, but Jack had no reason to linger. He grabbed his father’s hand and set about dragging both his parents back into the gap in the hedge. Lord Langstrade allowed himself to be drawn, and Lady Phythian immediately followed the family group.
Hope extended his own arm to Cecilia. “May I?” he asked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of separating you from Mr. Escott,” Cecilia replied. “You look so well together.”
Escott guffawed, but Hope did not.
“If you take a break at lunch-time, Mr. Laurel,” Cecilia said, as she set off on her own, leaving Hope and Escott stranded, “You’ll probably find us picnicking on the front lawn, or in the rose-garden—it’s far too stuffy indoors when the sun’s like this.” She did not even glance at Marlstone, who had already turned his back in order to return to the Keep.
“Unless, of course, you’re dizzy and confused,” said Hope to Laurel, taking up where Cecilia had left off. “We wouldn’t want you making a fool of yourself, would we?”
“Of course we would,” Escott put in, though not unkindly. “We love to see people making fools of themselves—but I think you’re right, Laurel; the danger’s probably minuscule. Lovely word, that.”
“Only a pessimist could possibly think so,” said Hope, with a sigh, reluctantly falling into step with his old friend as Escott moved away.
CHAPTER TEN
A PICNIC IN THE ROSE-GARDEN
After all the fuss that Marlstone had kicked up, which had seriously impeded the progress of his work of art, Michael was almost disappointed that he did not suffer the slightest side-effect of anything that happened inside the Keep before the distant bell of Cribden Church chimed twelve.
Marlstone’s assistants had completed their work by nine-thirty, and had dutifully made their way back to the servants’ quarters at the Hall. Michael heard periodic sounds of muffled cursing for a full hour thereafter while they failed to find their way out of the Maze, in spite of being equipped with one of Lady Langstrade’s maps. They wandered past his station, separated by one, two or three hedges, at least half a dozen times, but they had obviously succeeded in making their escape in the end. Occasional clangs, creaks and clattering sounds emerged from the Keep thereafter, but Marlstone did not appear again, and time—at least so far as Michael could tell—remained completely undisturbed.
At noon, satisfied with his progress and having applied the first washes to the surfaces of his canvas representing the blue background of the sky, the black rock-faces of Bancroft Scar, the straw-colored stonework of the Keep and the greens of the hedges and lawns, Michael laid his palette down, appraised his work, and decided to take a lunch-break. He considered the possibility of knocking on the door of the Folly to enquire whether Marlstone wanted to accompany him, but decided that it was better to honor the inventor’s request to be left alone. He took off his smock and hung it on the easel.
He walked into the Maze, confident that he could make his exit without taking a single wrong turn—and so he did, although his roundabout journey was not without incident. In the third of the seven rings he came across Jeanne Evredon, standing at a junction on her own, weeping quietly. He thought at first that she might have come into the Maze simply to obtain a little privacy while she wept for some reason of her own, but when she saw him coming along the path between the tall hedges she acquired such an expression of relief that he could not doubt that she was lost, and frustrated by her inability to find her way. She had a copy of the map in her hand, but she obviously could not work out exactly where she was, and thus could not determine which way she ought to turn.
“May I be of assistance, Mademoiselle,” Laurel asked.
“You certainly may, Mr. Laurel,” she said. “I began by trying to find my way to the center, but I confess now that I shall be only too glad to find the exit again.”
“Mr. Marlstone asked Lord Langstrade to ensure that no one else came into the Maze today,” Michael told her, as he offered her his arm. “Did the news of the prohibition not reach you?”
“Oh!” said the Frenchwoman, in evident surprise, as she took his arm and fell into step with him. “No, it did not. I only wish it had—but I confess that I have been avoiding the company of others all morning. News of all kinds has had a great deal of trouble in reaching me, of late.” She sniffed as she came to that conclusion, but she had contrived to stop weeping, and she used her free hand to mop her cheeks with a handkerchief.
“I noticed that you seemed unhappy last night, at dinner,” Michael admitted, trying his utmost to be tactful. “It must be very difficult for you, attempting to form a fruitful partnership with Dr. Carp, when he had become so used to working with his previous somniloquist.”
“Oh, the fault is not Dr. Carp’s,” she said, woefully. “He’s right to be disappointed in me—even to scold me, although I truly can’t help my inadequacies.”
“You mustn’t lose heart,” Michael told her. “I dare say that a somniloquist’s gift is not unlike an artist’s—a trifle unsteady and subject to occasional depletions. There have been times when I have almost convinced myself that I am devoid of talent, and should never have ventured to pick up a brush. The feeling passes, though, with the whims of circumstance.”
“It’s not my gift that I doubt,” she told him, dolefully. “It’s…well, I fear that I have somehow become the victim of some malicious agency in the world beyond.”
Michael was so startled by that that he almost—but not quite—took a wrong turn. “An evil spirit, you mean?” he queried.
“I suppose so,” she said. “Nothing human, at any rate. I have sensed its presence now for a fortnight and more, but it has been increasingly e
vident with every passing day…and night. On the train, yesterday, its imminence was so fearful that I wanted to abandon the journey and turn back. Had I been on the mail-coach, I would have disembarked at the next Coaching Inn and refused to go a single step further—but that terrible steam locomotive gave me no such option. I begged Dr. Carp to cancel the séance, but he would not hear of it. He promised me instead that it will be his last, but I can’t believe that—and if it were true, it would only make me regret my treason more. I’m frightened, Mr. Laurel, I admit…and the fact that I have no idea what I’m frightened of makes the fear seem even worse. And then, to make things even worse, I tried to hide away from everything in the heart of the Maze and got lost. What a fool I am!”
Michael felt that that the young woman—who could not have been much older than himself—was being a trifle over-confidential, but he put that down to her emotional anguish and her French parentage. He felt sorry for her, and wanted to comfort her as best he could, but he could not help thinking that if anyone were to see the two of them arm in arm, the news might fly back to Cecilia within the blink of an eye. He suspected that Quentin Hope would be only too eager to pour oil on any flickering flame of jealousy that was thus inspired. He therefore stopped well short of the exit and released her, pretending that he was doing so in order to look her squarely in the face.
“You have nothing to fear, Mademoiselle Evredon,” he said to her, trying to sound firm and compassionate at the same time. “Dr. Carp is a good man, and so is Lord Langstrade. If you really do not want to attempt a somniloquistic performance this evening, they should certainly be prepared to release you from the commitment, however reluctantly. If you would like me to speak to Dr. Carp in private on your behalf, I will do so.”
Prelude to Eternity: A Romance of the First Time Machine Page 11