“They will all go up to Khamballa Hill,” he said. “I have no other address.”
The next day, however, a little note of gratitude came to Thresk through the post. It was unsigned and without any address. But it was in Stella Ballantyne’s handwriting and the post-mark was Kurrachee. That she did not wish to see him he could quite understand; Kurrachee was a port from which ships sailed to many destinations; he could hardly set out in a blind search for her across the world. So here, it seemed, was that chapter closed. He took the next steamer westwards from Bombay, landed at Brindisi and went back to his work in the Law Courts and in Parliament.
CHAPTER XIII
LITTLE BEEDING AGAIN
BUT THOUGH SHE disappeared Stella Ballantyne was not in flight from men and women. She avoided them because they did not for the moment count in her thoughts, except as possible hindrances. She was not so much running away as running to the place of her desires. She yielded to an impulse with which they had nothing whatever to do, an impulse so overmastering that even to the Reptons her precipitancy wore a look of ingratitude. She drove home with Jane Repton as soon as she was released, to the house on Khamballa Hill, and while she was still in the carriage she said:
“I must go away to-morrow morning.”
She was sitting forward with a tense and eager look upon her face and her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
“There is no need for that. Make your home with us, Stella, for a little while and hold your head high.”
Jane Repton had talked over this proposal with her husband. Both of them recognised that the acceptance of it would entail on them some little sacrifice. Prejudice would be difficult. But they had thrust these considerations aside in the loyalty of their friendship and Jane Repton was a little hurt that Stella waved away their invitation without ceremony.
“I can’t. I can’t,” she said irritably. “Don’t try to stop me.”
Her nerves were quite on edge and she spoke with a greater violence than she knew. Jane Repton tried to persuade her.
“Wouldn’t it be wiser for you to face things here, even though it means some effort and pain?”
“I don’t know,” answered Stella, still in the quick peremptory tone of one who will not be argued with. “I don’t care either. I have nothing to do with wisdom just now. I don’t want people at all. I want — oh, how I want—” She stopped and then she added vaguely: “Something else,” and her voice trailed away into silence. She sat without a word, all tingling impatience, during the rest of that drive and continued so to sit after the carriage had stopped. When Jane Repton descended, and she woke up with a start and looked at the house, it was as though she brought her eyes down from heaven to earth. Once within the house she went straight up to Repton. He had left his wife behind with Stella at the Law Courts and had come home in advance of them. He had not spoken a word to Stella that day, and he had not the time now, for she began immediately in an eager voice and a look of fever in her eyes:
“You won’t try to stop me, will you? I must go away to-morrow.”
Repton used more tact now than his wife had done. He took the troubled and excited woman’s hand and answered her very gently:
“Of course, Stella. You shall go when you like.”
“Oh, thank you,” she cried, and was freed to remember the debt which she owed to these good friends of hers. “You must think me a brute, Jane! I haven’t said a word to you about all your kindness. But — oh, you’ll think me ridiculous, when you know” — and she began to laugh and to sob in one breath. Stella Ballantyne had remained so sunk in apathy through all that long trial that her friends were relieved at her outburst of tears. Jane Repton led her upstairs and put her to bed just as if she had been a child.
“There! You can get up for dinner if you like, Stella, or stay where you are. And if you’ll tell us what you want to do we’ll make the arrangements for you and not ask you a question.”
Jane Repton kissed her and left her alone; and it was while Stella was sleeping upstairs that Henry Thresk called at the house and was told that there was no news for him.
“No doubt she will write to you, Mr. Thresk, if she wishes you to know what she is doing. But I should not count upon it if I were you,” said Jane Repton, in a sweet voice and with eyes like pebbles. “She did not mention you, I am sorry to say, when the trial was over.”
She could not forgive him because of her own share in what she now called his “treachery” towards Stella. She had no more of the logician in her composition than Thresk had of the hero. He had committed under a great stress of emotion and sympathy what the whole experience and method of his life told him was one of the worst of crimes. And now that its object was achieved, and Stella Ballantyne free, he was in the mood to see only the harm which he had done to the majesty of the law; he was uneasy; he was not troubled by the thought that discovery would absolutely ruin him. That indeed did not enter into his thoughts. But he could not but make a picture of himself in the robe of a King’s Counsel, claiming sternly the anger of the Law against some other man who should have done just what he had done, no more and no less. And so when Mrs. Repton’s door was finally closed upon him, and no message was given to him from the woman he had saved, he was at once human and unheroic enough to visit a little of his resentment upon her. He had not spoken to her at all since the night at Chitipur; he had no knowledge of the stupor and the prostration into which, after her years of misery, she had fallen; he had no insight into the one compelling passion which now had her, body and soul, in its grip. He turned away from the door and went back to the Taj Mahal. A steamer would be starting for Port Said in two days and by that steamer he would travel. That Stella was in the house on the Khamballa Hill he did not doubt, but since she had no word or thought to spare for him he could not but turn his back and go.
Stella herself got up to dinner, and after it was over she told her friends of the longing which filled her soul.
“All through the trial,” she said shyly, with the shrinking of those who reveal a very secret fancy and are afraid that it will be ridiculed, “in the heat of the court, in the close captivity of my cell, I was conscious of just one real unconquerable passion — to feel the wind blowing against my face upon the Sussex Downs. Can you understand that? Just to see the broad green hills with the white chalk hollows in their sides and the forests marching down to the valleys like the Roman soldiers from Chichester — oh! I was mad for the look and the smell and the sounds of them! It was all that I thought about. I used to close my eyes in the dock and I was away in a second riding through Charlton Forest or over Farm Hill, or looking down to Slindon from Gumber Corner, and over its woods to the sea. And now that I am free” — she clasped her hands and her face grew radiant— “oh, I don’t want to see people.” She reached out a hand to each of her friends. “I don’t call you people, you know. But even you — you’ll understand and forgive and not be hurt — I don’t want to see for a little while.”
The beaten look of her took the sting of ingratitude out of her words. She stood between them, her delicate face worn thin, her eyes unnaturally big; she had the strange transparent beauty of people who have been lying for months in a mortal sickness. Jane Repton’s eyes filled with tears and her hand sought for her handkerchief.
“Let’s see what can be done,” said Repton. “There’s a mail-steamer of course, but you won’t want to travel by that.”
“No.”
Repton worked out the sailings from Bombay and the other ports on the western coast of India while Stella leaned over his shoulder.
“Look!” he said. “This is the best way. There’s a steamer going to Kurrachee to-morrow, and when you reach Kurrachee you’ll just have time to catch a German Lloyd boat which calls at Southampton. You won’t be home in thirteen days to be sure, but on the other hand you won’t be pestered by curious people.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Stella eagerly. “I can go to-morrow.”
“Very well.”
Repton looked at the clock. It was still no more than half-past ten. He saw with what a fever of impatience Stella was consumed.
“I believe I could lay my hand on the local manager of the line to-night and fix your journey up for you.”
“You could?” cried Stella. He might have been offering her a crown, so brightly her thanks shone in her eyes.
“I think so.”
He got up from the table and stood looking at her, and then away from her with his lips pursed in doubt.
“Yes?” said she.
“I was thinking. Will you travel under another name? I don’t suggest it really, only it might save you — annoyance.”
Repton’s hesitation was misplaced, for Stella Ballantyne’s pride was quite beaten to the ground.
“Yes,” she said at once. “I should wish to do that”; and both he and his wife understood from that ready answer more completely than they ever had before how near Stella had come to the big blank wall at the end of life. For seven years she had held her head high, never so much as whispering a reproach against her husband, keeping with a perpetual guard the secret of her misery. Pride had been her mainspring; now even that was broken. Repton went out of the house and returned at midnight.
“It’s all settled,” he said. “You will have a cabin on deck in both steamers. I gave your name in confidence to the manager here and he will take care that everything possible is done for you. There will be very few passengers on the German boat. The season is too early for either the tourists or the people on leave.”
Thus Stella Ballantyne crept away from Bombay and in five weeks’ time she landed at Southampton. There she resumed her name. She travelled into Sussex and stayed for a few nights at the inn whither Henry Thresk had come years before on his momentous holiday. She had a little money — the trifling income which her parents had left to her upon their death — and she began to look about for a house. By a piece of good fortune she discovered that the cottage in which she had lived at Little Beeding would be empty in a few months. She took it and before the summer was out she was once more established there. It was on an afternoon of August when Stella made her home in it again. She passed along the yellow lane driven deep between high banks of earth where the roots of great elm-trees cropped out. Every step was familiar to her. The lane with many twists under overarching branches ran down a steep hill and came out into the open by the big house with its pillared portico and its light grey stone and its wonderful garden of lawn and flowers and cedars. A tiny church with a narrow graveyard and strange carefully-trimmed square bushes of yew stood next to the house, and beyond the church the lane dipped to the river and the cottage.
Stella went from room to room. She had furnished the cottage simply and daintily; the walls were bright, her servant-girl had gathered flowers and set them about. Outside the window the sunlight shone on a green garden. She was alone. It was the home-coming she had wished for.
For three or four months she was left alone; and then one afternoon as she came into the cottage after a walk she found a little white card upon the table. It bore the name of Mr. Hazlewood.
CHAPTER XIV
THE HAZLEWOODS
IN THE QUIET country town obvious changes had taken place during the eight years of Stella’s absence. They were not changes of importance, however, and one sentence can symbolize them all — there was now tarmac upon its roads. But in the cluster of houses a mile away at the end of the deep lane the case was different. Mr. Harold Hazlewood had come to Little Beeding. He now lived in the big house to which the village owed its name and indeed its existence. He lived — and spread consternation amongst the gentry for miles round.
“Lord, how I wish poor Arthur hadn’t died!” old John Chubble used to cry. He had hunted the West Sussex hounds for thirty years and the very name of Little Beeding turned his red face purple. “There was a man. But this fellow! And to think he’s got that beautiful house! Do you know there’s hardly a pheasant on the place. And I’ve hashed them down out of the sky in the old days there by the dozen. Well, he’s got a son in the Coldstream, Dick Hazlewood, who’s not so bad. But Harold! Oh, pass me the port!”
Harold indeed had inherited Little Beeding by an accident during the first summer after Stella had gone out to India. Arthur Hazlewood, the owner and Harold’s nephew, had been lost with his yacht in a gale of wind off the coast of Portugal. Arthur was a bachelor and thus Harold Hazlewood came quite unexpectedly into the position of a country squire when he was already well on in middle age. He was a widower and a man of a noticeable aspect. At the first glance you knew that he was not as other men; at the second you suspected that he took a pride in his dissimilarity. He was long, rather shambling in his gait, with a mild blue eye and fair thin hair now growing grey. But length was the chief impression left by his physical appearance. His legs, his arms, his face, even his hair, unless his son in the Coldstream happened to be at home at the time, were long.
“Is your father mad?” Mr. Chubble once asked of Dick Hazlewood. The two men had met in the broad street of Great Beeding at midday, and the elder one, bubbling with indignation, had planted himself in front of Dick.
“Mad?” Dick repeated reflectively. “No, I shouldn’t go as far as that. Oh no! What has he done now?”
“He has paid out of his own pocket the fines of all the people in Great Beeding who have just been convicted for not having their babies vaccinated.”
Dick Hazlewood stared in surprise at his companion’s indignant face.
“But of course he’d do that, Mr. Chubble,” he answered cheerfully. “He’s anti-everything — everything, I mean, which experience has established or prudence could suggest.”
“In addition he wants to sell the navy for old iron and abolish the army.”
“Yes,” said Dick, nodding his head amicably. “He’s like that. He thinks that without an army and a navy we should be less aggressive. I can’t deny it.”
“I should think not indeed,” cried Mr. Chubble. “Are you walking home?”
“Yes.”
“Let us walk together.” Mr. Chubble took Dick Hazlewood by the arm and as they went filled the lane with his plaints.
“I should think you can’t deny it. Why, he has actually written a pamphlet to enforce his views upon the subject.”
“You should bless your stars, Mr. Chubble, that there is only one. He suffers from pamphlets. He writes ’em and prints ’em and every member of Parliament gets one of ’em for nothing. Pamphlets do for him what the gout does for other old gentlemen — they carry off from his system a great number of disquieting ailments. He’s at prison reform now,” said Dick with a smile of thorough enjoyment. “Have you heard him on it?”
“No, and I don’t want to,” Mr. Chubble exploded.
He struck viciously at an overhanging bough, as though it was the head of Harold Hazlewood, and went on with the catalogue of crimes. “He made a speech last week in the town-hall,” and he jerked his thumb backwards towards the town they had left. “Intolerable I call it. He actually denounced his own countrymen as a race of oppressors.”
“He would,” answered Dick calmly. “What did I say to you a minute ago?
He’s advanced, you know.”
“Advanced!” sneered Mr. Chubble, and then Dick Hazlewood stopped and contemplated his companion with a thoughtful eye.
“I really don’t think you understand my father, Mr. Chubble,” said Dick with a gentle remonstrance in his voice which Mr. Chubble was at a loss whether to take seriously or no.
“Can you give me the key to him?” he cried.
“I can.”
“Then out with it, my lad.”
Mr. Chubble disposed himself to listen but with so bristling an expression that it was clear no explanation could satisfy him. Dick, however, took no heed of that. He spoke slowly as one lecturing to an obtuse class of scholars.
“My father was born predestined to believe that all the people whom he knows are invariab
ly wrong, and all the people he doesn’t know are invariably right. And when I feel inclined to deplore his abuse of his own country I console myself with the reflection that he would be the staunchest friend of England that England ever had — if only he had been born in Germany.”
Mr. Chubble grunted and turned the speech suspiciously over in his mind.
Was Dick poking fun at him or at his father?
“That’s bookish,” he said.
“I am afraid it is,” Dick Hazlewood agreed humbly. “The fact is I am now an Instructor at the Staff College and much is expected of me.”
They had reached the gate of Little Beeding House. It was summer time. A yellow drive of gravel ran straight between long broad flower-beds to the door.
“Won’t you come in and see my father?” Dick asked innocently.
“He’s at home.”
“No, my lad, no.” Mr. Chubble hastened to add: “I haven’t the time. But I am very glad to have met you. You are here for long?”
“No. Only just for luncheon,” said Dick, and he walked along the drive into the house. He was met in the hall by Hubbard the butler, an old colourless man of genteel movements which seemed slow and were astonishingly quick. He spoke in gentle purring tones and was the very butler for Mr. Harold Hazlewood.
“Your father has been asking for you, sir,” said Hubbard. “He seems a little anxious. He is in the big room.”
“Very well,” said Dick, and he crossed the hall and the drawing-room, wondering what new plan for the regeneration of the world was being hatched in his father’s sedulous brains. He had received a telegram at Camberley the day before urgently calling upon him to arrive at Little Beeding in time for luncheon. He went into the library as it was called, but in reality it was the room used by everybody except upon ceremonial occasions. It was a big room; half of it held a billiard table, the other half had writing-tables, lounges, comfortable chairs and a table for bridge. The carpet was laid over a parquet floor so that young people, when they stayed there, rolled it up and danced. There were windows upon two sides of the room. Here a row of them looked down the slope of the lawn to the cedar-trees and the river, the other, a great bay which opened to the ground, gave a view of a corner of the high churchyard wall and of a meadow and a thatched cottage beyond. In this bay Mr. Hazlewood was standing when Dick entered the room.
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