CHAPTER XIX.
HAUNTED BY A FACE.
It was the day of Miss Manvers' garden party, and a brighter or moreauspicious one could not have dropped from the hand of the Maker ofdays.
Never did the earth seem fairer, and seldom did the sun shine upon alovelier scene than that presented to my gaze as I turned aside from thedusty highway, and paced slowly up the avenue leading to the Hill House.
Even now the picture and the scenes and incidents of the day, risebefore my mental vision, a graceful, sunlit, yet fateful panorama.
I see the heiress, as she glides across the lawn to greet me, herbrunette cheeks glowing, her lips wreathed in smiles. She wears acostume that is a marvel of diaphanous creamy material, lighted up hereand there with dashes of vivid crimson. Crimson roses adorn the loopsand rippling waves of her glossy hair, and nestle in the rich lace ather throat. And, as I clasp her little hand, and utter the commonplacesof greeting, I note that the eye is even more brilliant than usual, thecheek and lip tinged with the vivid hue left by excitement, and,underneath the gay badinage and vivacious hospitality, a suppressedsomething:--anxiety, expectation, displeasure, disappointment; which, Ican not guess. I only see that something has ruffled my fair hostess,and given to her thoughts, even on this bright day, an under currentthat is the reverse of pleasant.
The grounds are beautiful and commodious, tastefully arranged anddecorated for the occasion, and the _elite_ of Trafton is there; all,save Louise Barnard and Dr. Bethel.
"Have you heard from Dr. Barnard since noon?" queries my hostess, as wecross the lawn to join a group gathered about an archery target. "I havealmost regretted giving this party. It seems unfeeling to be enjoyingourselves here, and poor Louise bowed down with grief and anxiety besidea father who is, perhaps, dying."
"Not dying, I hope."
"Oh, we all shall hope until hope is denied us. I suppose his chance forlife is one in a thousand. I am so sorry, and we shall miss Louise andDr. Bethel so much."
"Bethel is in close attendance?"
"Yes, Dr. Barnard has all confidence in him; and then--you know thenature of his relation with the family?"
"His relation; that of family physician, I suppose?"
Miss Manvers draws back her creamy skirts as we brush past a thorny rosetree.
"That of family physician; yes, and prospective son-in-law."
"Ah! I suspected an attachment there."
"It appears they have been privately engaged for some time, with theconsent of the Barnards, of course. It has only just been publiclyannounced; rather it will be; I had it from Mrs. Barnard this morning.Dr. Barnard desires that it should be made known. He believes himselfdying, and wishes Trafton to know that he sanctions the marriage."
Her voice has an undertone of constraint which accords with her manner,and I, remembering the scene of a week before, comprehend and pity. Inannouncing her friend's betrothal she proclaims the death of her ownhope.
I do not resume the subject, and soon we are in the midst of a gaygroup, chattering with a bevy of fair girls, and receiving from one ortwo Trafton gallants, glances of envious disfavor, which I, desiring tomortify vanity, attributed to my new Summer suit rather than to my ownpersonal self.
Arch Brookhouse is the next arrival, and almost the last. He comes inamong us perfumed and smiling, and is received with marked favor. My newcostume has now a rival, for Arch is as correct a gentleman of fashionas ever existed outside of a tailor's window.
He is in wonderful spirits, too, adding zest to the merriment of the gaygroup of which he soon becomes the center.
After a time bows and quivers come more prominently into use. Archeryis having its first season in Trafton. Some of the young ladies have yetto be initiated into the use of the bow, and presently I find myselfinstructing the pretty sixteen-year-old sister of my friend, CharlieHarris.
She manages her bow gracefully, but with a weak hand; her aim is farfrom accurate, and I find ample occupation in following the erraticmovements of her arrows.
Brookhouse and Miss Manvers are both experts with the bow. They send afew arrows flying home to the very center of the target, and thenwithdraw from the sport, and finally saunter away together, the hand ofthe lady resting confidingly upon her escort's arm.
"Arn't they a pretty couple?" exclaims my little pupil, twanging herbow-string as she turns to look after them. "I do wonder if they areengaged."
"So do I," I answer, with much fervor.
She favors me with a quick roguish glance, and laughs blithely.
"I don't know," turning back to her momentarily forgotten pastime. "Mr.Brookhouse has been very attentive, and for a long time we all thoughthim the favored one, until Dr. Bethel came, and since _you_ appeared inTrafton. Ah! I'm afraid Adele is a bit of a flirt."
And astute Miss sixteen shoots me another mischievous glance, and poisesher arrow with all the _nonchalance_ of a veteran.
Again I glance in the direction taken by my hostess and her cavalier,but they have disappeared among the plentiful shrubbery.
I turn back to my roguish little pupil, now provokingly intent upon herarchery practice.
Once more the arrow is fixed; she takes aim with much deliberation, andputs forth all her strength to the bending of the bow. Twang! whizz! thearrow speeds fast and far--and foul. It finds lodgment in a thicket ofroses, that go clambering over a graceful trellis, full ten feet to theright of the target.
There is a shout of merriment. Mademoiselle throws down the bow with alittle gesture of despair, and I hasten toward the trellis intent uponrecapturing the missent arrow.
As I am about to thrust my hand in among the roses, I am startled by avoice from the opposite side; startled because the voice is that of myhostess, thrilling with intensest anger, and very near me.
"It has gone far enough! It has gone _too_ far. It must stop now, or--"
"It has gone far enough! It has gone _too_ far. It muststop now, or--" page 227.]
"Or you will make a confounded fool of yourself."
The voice is that of Arch Brookhouse, disagreeably contemptuous,provokingly calm.
"No matter. What will it make of you?"
The words begin wrathful and sibilant, and end with a hiss. Can that bethe voice of my hostess?
Making a pretense of search I press my face closer to the trellis andpeer through.
I see Adele Manvers, her face livid with passion, her eyes ablaze, herlips twitching convulsively. There is no undercurrent of feeling now.Rage, defiance, desperation, are stamped upon her every feature.
Opposite her stands Arch Brookhouse, his attitude that of carelessindifference, an insolent smile upon his countenance.
"If I were you, I would drop that nonsense," he says, coolly. "You mightmake an inning with this new city sprig, perhaps. He looks like an easyfish to catch; more money than brains, I should say."
"I think his brains will compare favorably with yours; he is nothing tome--"
Brookhouse suddenly shifts his position.
"Don't you see the arrow?" calls a voice behind me, and so near that Iknow Miss Harris is coming to assist my search.
I catch up the arrow and turn to meet her.
No rustle of the leaves has betrayed my presence; the sound of ourvoices, and their nearness, is drowned by the general hilarity.
We return to our archery, and the two behind the screen finish theirstrange interview. How, I am unable to guess from their faces, when,after a time, they are once more among us, Brookhouse as unruffled asever, Miss Manvers flushed, nervous, and feverishly gay.
Throughout the remainder of the _fete_, the face of my hostess iscontinually before me; not as her guests see it, fair, smiling, andserene, but pallid, passionate, vengeful, as I saw it from behind therose thicket. And I am haunted by the thought that somewhere, sometime,I have seen just such a face; just such dusky, gleaming, angry eyes;just such a scornful, quivering mouth; just such drawn and desperatefeatures.
Now and then I find time to chuc
kle over the words, uncomplimentary inintent, but quite satisfactory to me--"a city sprig with more money thanbrains."
So this is the ultimatum of Mr. Brookhouse? Some day, perhaps, he maycherish another opinion, at least so far as the money is concerned.
Then, while the gayety goes on, I think of Groveland and its mystery; ofthe anonymous warning, the album verse, the initials A. B. Again I takemy wild John Gilpin ride, with one arm limp and bleeding.
"Ah," I say to myself, thinking wrathfully of his taunting words andinsolent bearing, which my hostess had seemed powerless to resent, "Ah,my gentleman, if I _should_ trace that unlucky bullet to you, then shallMiss Manvers rejoice at your downfall!"
What was the occasion of their quarrel? What was the meaning of theirstrange words?
Again and again I ask myself the question as I go home through theAugust darkness, having first seen pretty Nettie Harris safely insideher father's cottage gate.
But I find no satisfactory answer to my questions. I might havedismissed the matter from my thoughts as only a lover's quarrel, savefor the last words uttered by Brookhouse. But lovers are not apt toadvise their sweethearts to "make an inning" with another fellow. Ifjealousy existed, it was assuredly all on the side of the lady.
Having watched them narrowly after their interview behind the rosetrellis, I am inclined to think it was not a lover's quarrel; and if notthat, what _was_ it?
I give up the riddle at last, but I can not dismiss the scene from mymental vision, still less can I banish the remembrance of the white,angry face, and the tormenting fancy that I have not seen it to-day forthe first time.
I am perplexed and annoyed.
I stop at the office desk to light a cigar and exchange a word with"mine host." Dimber Joe is writing ostentatiously at a small table, andBlake Simpson is smoking on the piazza.
The sight of the two rogues, so inert and mysterious, gives me an addedtwinge of annoyance. I cut short my converse with the landlord and go upto my room.
Carnes is sitting before a small table, upon which his two elbows areplanted; his fingers are twisted in his thick hair, and his head is bentso low over an open book that his nose seems quite ready to plow up thepage.
Coming closer, I see that he is glowering over a pictured face in histreasured "rogues' gallery."
"If you want to study Blake Simpson's cranium," I say, testily, "whydon't you take the living subject? He's down-stairs at this moment."
"I've been studying the original till my head got dizzy," repliesCarnes, pushing back the book and tilting back in his chair. "The factis, the fellow conducts himself so confoundedly like a decent mortal,that I have to appeal to the gallery occasionally to convince myselfthat it _is_ Blake himself, and not his twin brother."
I laugh at this characteristic whim, and, drawing the book toward me,carelessly glance from page to page.
Carnes prides himself upon his "gallery." He has a large and motleycollection of rogues of all denominations: thieves, murderers, burglars,counterfeiters, swindlers, fly crooks of every sort, and of both sexes.
"They've been here four days now," Carnes goes on, plaintively, "andnothing has happened yet. It's enough to make a man lose faith in 'BeneCoves.' I wonder--"
"Ah!" The exclamation falls sharply from my lips, the "gallery" almostfalls from my hands.
"Ah!" The exclamation falls sharply from my lips, the"gallery" almost falls from my hands.--page 233.]
Carnes leaves his speech unfinished and gazes anxiously at me, while Isit long and silently studying a pictured face.
By-and-by I close the book and replace it upon the table.
One vexed question is answered; I know now why the white, angry face ofAdele Manvers has haunted me as a shadow from the past.
I arise and pace the floor restlessly; like Theseus, I have grasped theclue that shall lead me from the maze.
After a time, Carnes goes out to inform himself as to the movements ofBlake and Dimber Joe.
Midnight comes, but no Carnes.
The house is hushed in sleep. I lock the door, extinguish my light, and,lowering myself noiselessly from the window to the ground, turn my stepstoward the scene of the afternoon revel.
In the darkness and silence I reach my destination, and scaling ahigh paling, stand once more in the grounds of The Hill.
Out of a Labyrinth Page 19