Philip Lancaster had gone to bed early this night; he sat up all the
night before, trying to compel unwilling rhymes to agree with one
another, and was now resolved to discover what poetic virtue lay in
sleep. But sleep proved as unaccommodating as rhyme. He could not
discharge his brain of the crowd of importunate and unfruitful thoughts
sufficiently to attain the calm necessary for repose. In fact, he had
more than loose ends of poetry to disturb him; his relations with Marion
had not been in tune since the mishap in Richmond Park, and she had, up
to this time, avoided explanations with a feminine ingenuity that was
not to be outmanœuvred. He understood, of course, that a lady who has
allowed herself to betray special regard for a man may feel offended by
the discovery that the man has had intimate relations with another lady;
but, as between himself and Marion, matters had not gone so far as an
explicit declaration, on her side at all events; and it was therefore
peculiarly difficult to accomplish a reconciliation. Not less difficult
was it, apparently, to begin over again at the beginning, and persuade
her to love him on a new basis, as it were. Her position was this--that
she would not yield as long as any ambiguity remained touching the past
relations of himself and Perdita; and that her pride or perversity would
not suffer her to let that ambiguity be cleared up. Possibly, moreover,
Philip may have felt that, even were the opportunity given, the
ambiguity in question might not be easily removed. In these
circumstances his most prudent course, as a man of the world, would
have been to renounce Marion altogether. She was not, indeed, from any
worldly point of view, a desirable match. More than this she was
chargeable with certain faults of temper and temperament--faults which
she herself was at no pains to disguise. She was not even beautiful in
the conventional sense: Philip had seen many women far more generally
attractive. Finally, he could not so much as be certain that she had
ever positively loved him; her regard for him may have been no more than
a fancy, which no longer swayed her.... But, when all was said, Philip
knew that there was something about Marion--something rare, tender and
noble--which he had never found elsewhere, and which he would never find
save in her. And that he had found this and recognized it, was to him
reason for believing that Marion must also have perceived something
worthy of love in him. Their hands, whose clasp had been severed once,
would yet find one another again. Nevertheless, in more despondent
moods, Philip would remind himself that love often ended in loss, and
that we never reach the happiness we had imagined. It was into such a
mood that he had fallen to-night.
At one time, as he lay on his bed, encompassed by darkness on which his
weary mind could paint no cheerful image, he thought he heard light
noises in the house, as if some one were still stirring. Had Mr. Grant
returned home? No; his firm and precise step, ascending the stair, would
have been unmistakable. It could not be Mrs. Lockhart, either; she was
of a placid constitution, and reposed peacefully and long. Presumably,
therefore, the author of the sounds was Marion, who was quite as apt to
be awake at night as in the daytime, and who might have gone down stairs
to get a book. A door down stairs seemed to open and shut softly, and a
draft of air came up the staircase and rattled the latch of Philip’s
room. Could Marion have gone out? Philip was half inclined to get up and
investigate. But the house was now quite still; and by-and-by, as he
became more drowsy, he began to think that his imagination had probably
played him a trick. There were always noises in old houses, at night,
that made themselves. Philip was falling asleep.
But all at once he found himself wide awake, and sitting up in bed. Had
he dreamed it, or was there really a knock and a voice at his door--a
voice that went further into his heart than any other? There again--
“Philip Lancaster!”
He was on his feet in a moment. “Yes, Marion. What is it?”
“I want your help. Get ready and come quickly.”
“Yes,” he said, speaking low as she had done: and in a few minutes he
had dressed himself and opened the door. She was standing there with
bonnet and cloak.
“What has happened?” he asked in a whisper.
“Have you your pistol? We may need it.”
“It is here,” he said, stepping back to the wardrobe and taking the
weapon from a drawer. At the same time he nerved himself as a man of
courage who is called upon to face an unknown danger. For there was
something in Marion’s manner and in the silent influence emanating from
her presence that impressed him more than any words could have done with
a conviction of the nearness of peril, and of intense purpose on her
part to meet and avert it. For a moment the suddenness of the summons
and its mysterious import had sent the blood tremulously to Philip’s
heart. But as he crossed the threshold of his room Marion put out her
hand and touched and clasped his own. Her touch was warm and firm, and
immediately a great surge of energy and strength went through Philip’s
body, making him feel doubly himself and ready to face and conquer all
the evil and wickedness of the world. The spiritual sympathy between
Marion and himself, which had been in abeyance, was re-awakened by that
touch and rendered deeper and more powerful than before. Their will and
thought were in accord, vitalizing and confirming each other. And in the
midst of his suspense and of the hardening of his nerves to confront an
external demand he was conscious inwardly of a great softening and
exaltation of his spirit, which, however, enhanced his external firmness
instead of detracting from it. It was the secret might of love, which
enters into all faculties of the mind and heart, purifying and enlarging
them. Love is life, and is capable of imparting force to the sternest as
well as to the tenderest thoughts and deeds.
Marion now led the way down stairs, and Philip followed her, treading
lightly and wondering at what moment his strength and valor would be
called upon. Marion opened the outer door, and when it closed behind
them the strange blackness of the night pressed upon their eyes like a
material substance. At the gate, however, appeared a small light,
seemingly proceeding from a lantern, but it had very little power to
disperse its rays. Nevertheless, Philip was able dimly to perceive a
large white object outside the gate, which, by the aid of mother-wit, he
contrived to identify as a horse. And the lantern in Marion’s hand
presently revealed that the horse was attached to a wagon. She hung the
lantern on the side of the wagon and loosed the horse’s rein.
“Get in after me,” she said, “and then I’ll tell you which way to
drive.”
“Well?” said Philip, when he had taken his place.
“When we get to the highway keep to the right and cross the bridge.
After that I’ll tell you more.”
“How did the horse and wagon come here?” Philip inquired.
“I got them just now from Jebson, the baker. He is an obliging man, and
I knew he would let me have them without asking what I wanted them for.”
“Then ’twas you I heard go out awhile ago?”
“Yes. I’ve been feeling it coming all the afternoon. At last I could
bear it no longer. If it had been anything else I would have done
nothing. But to risk his life, merely for fear of being mistaken, was
too much.”
“Whose life, Marion?”
She made no answer at first, but, when he turned toward her and sought
to read her face in the darkness, she said reluctantly:
“Mr. Grant’s.”
“His life in danger?” Philip exclaimed, greatly surprised. “How do you
know?”
Again the girl was silent. But after a minute she said: “You remember
Tom Bendibow’s being here this afternoon.... You told him Mr. Grant was
at Twickenham. He was coming home late. The road isn’t safe on a night
like this, and he carried no arms.”
“Oh! then all you fear is that he may be attacked by footpads?” said
Philip, feeling relieved. He had apprehended something more definite.
“I fear he will be attacked,” was her reply.
“But, in that case,” rejoined Philip, after a few moments’ reflection,
“we ought to turn to the left. The road from Twickenham lies through
Richmond.”
“We should not find him there,” said Marion. “He will come through
Isleworth.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“No. I didn’t know that he was going to Twickenham until you said so.”
“Then why should you.... The Isleworth road is at least a mile longer.”
“We shall find him there,” she repeated, in a low voice. And presently
she added, with a manifest effort, “I will tell you--something. You may
as well know.”
“You may trust me,” said Philip, strangely moved. He could not conceive
what secret there could be, connecting her with Grant, and indicating
danger to the latter; and the thought that she should be involved in so
sinister a mystery filled him with a tender poignancy of solicitude.
“You may not think it much--it is something about myself,” she said,
partly turning away her head as she spoke. “I’ve never said anything
about it to any one; mother would not understand, and father--he would
have understood, perhaps, but it would have troubled him. Indeed, I
don’t understand it myself--I only know it happens.”
“It’s something that keeps happening, then?” demanded Philip, more than
ever perplexed.
As Marion was about to reply, the left side of the wagon lurched
downwards, the horse having, in the darkness, taken them over the side
of the road. Philip pulled his right rein violently, and it gave way,
Mr. Jebson’s harness being old and out of repair. Philip jumped down to
investigate the damage by the aid of the lantern.
“If I can find a bit of string I can mend it,” he reported to Marion.
“I’ll give you my shoe-strings,” she said, stooping to unfasten them.
“They are of leather and will hold. But be quick, Philip, or we shall be
too late!”
There was such urgency in her tone, that had Philip needed any stimulus,
it would have been amply provided. He repaired the break with as much
despatch as was consistent with security and then resumed his seat
beside Marion.
“I fear we shall be too late,” she repeated; “we should have started
earlier. It’s my fault; I waited too long.”
“Are you so certain”--began Philip; but she interrupted him.
“Do you remember the time Mr. Grant came home before, when they tried to
shoot him and he fell from his horse?”
“Yes; you went out and met him.”
“Yes, because I knew he was coming; when we were standing there by the
open window, and the flash of lightning came, I knew he was hurt. I
would have gone then, only I tried to think it was my fancy; I was
afraid to find I was mistaken. And when I think of it in one way--as
other people would--it always seems as if it could not be true--until it
happens. It has been so ever since I was a little girl.”
“Oh, a presentiment!” murmured Philip, beginning to see light.
“The name makes no difference,” returned Marion, seeming to shiver a
little. “The day my father was killed, I saw him. I saw him, with the
wound in his breast. I said to myself, if that turned out to be true, I
should know always afterward that I must believe. When you came and told
how you found him, you only told what I had seen. I could have corrected
you, if you had made a mistake.”
“You saw him!” echoed Philip.
“I saw him--something in me saw him; just as I saw Mr. Grant this
evening. But it wasn’t that he came to me--that he appeared before me
like a ghost; but I was where he was, and saw the place as well as him.
It is at the bend of the road, not far from the little brook that runs
into the river.”
“I have heard of such a power, but I never knew what to think of it,”
Philip said. “But, Marion, if this peril to Mr. Grant has not happened
yet, you must have seen not merely what was beyond your sight, but what
was in the future. How could that be?”
“I don’t know; it’s no use trying to know. It can’t be reasoned about,
unless you can tell what time and space are. When such things happen to
me, there seems to be no future and no past; it is all the same--all one
Now. And no good ever comes of my seeing; the things come to pass, and I
cannot help it. It has been a curse to me: but if we could only save Mr.
Grant, I would thank God!”
“We shall soon know about that,” said Philip; “as near as I can make out
in this blackness, we must be pretty near the place you spoke of, by
this time.”
Marion made no reply, save by a slight movement, as if she were drawing
herself together, and they drove on in silence. Their conversation had
been carried on in low tones, but with deep and tremulous emphasis on
Marion’s part; she was aroused and moved in a way that Philip had never
seen before; the activity of the singular power which she believed
herself to possess had caused the veil which usually obscured her
character to roll back; and Philip was conscious of the immediate
contact, as it were, of a nature warm, deep, passionate, and intensely
feminine. The heavy darkness and silence of night that enveloped him and
her was made, in a sense, luminous by this revelation, and the
anticipation of the adventure which lay so short a distance before them
overcame the intellectual coldness which was the vice of his character,
and kindled the latent energies of his soul. How incongruous sounded the
regular and methodical footfall of the old white horse, duskily visible
in the gloom as he plodded between the shafts.
A few minutes passed thus; and then a hard, abrupt noise rang out,
ending flatly, without an echo. The distance from which it came seemed
not more than a hundred yards. The horse threw up his head and partly
halted, but immediately resumed his jog-trot. Philip, holding the reins
in his left hand, grasped his pistol with his right, and cocked it.
Marion rose to her feet, and sent forth her voice, with an astonishing
volume of sound, leaping penetratingly into the night. Another shout
answered hers more faintly from the blind region beyond. It was not
repeated. The wagon jolted roughly over a narrow bridge that spanned a
still-flowing brook. Then, like a sudden portentous birth out of sable
chaos, sprang the scrambling speed of a horse’s headlong gallop, and a
dark mass hurtled by, with fiery sparks smitten from the flinty road by
iron-shod hoofs. It passed them and was gone, plunging into invisibility
with a sort of fury of haste, as of a lost spirit rushing at
annihilation.
Philip had raised his weapon to fire, but a shade of doubt made him
forbear to pull the trigger. This man might not be the guilty one, and
to kill an innocent man would be worse than to let a guilty man escape.
Marion, who was looking straight forward, had not seemed to notice the
figure at all as it swept past. All her faculties were concentrated
elsewhere. The old white horse, apparently startled out of his customary
impassivity, lifted up his nose and rattled the wagon along at a
surprising rate. But the journey was nearly at an end.
A little way beyond the bridge, the road, which had heretofore lain
between hawthorn hedges, out of which, at intervals, grew large elm or
lime trees, suddenly spread out to three or four times its general
breadth, forming a sort of open place of oval shape, and about half an
acre in area. The road passed along one side of this oval; the rest was
turf, somewhat marshy toward the left. Philip stopped the horse and he
and Marion got down. He took the lantern, and they went forward on foot.
The narrow rays of the lantern, striking along the ground in front,
rested flickeringly upon a dark object lying near the edge of the road,
next the turf. They walked up to the object and Philip stooped to
examine it, Marion standing by with her head turned away. But, at an
exclamation from Philip, she started violently and began to tremble.
“There are two here!” he said.
Marion’s teeth chattered. “Dead?” she said, in a thin voice.
“No. At least, one of them is not. His heart beats, and.... Yes, he’s
trying to say something.” Philip stooped lower, and let all the light of
the lantern fall on this man’s face. “I don’t recognize him--or--why,
it’s Bendibow!”
Marion caught her breath sharply. “Sir Francis?”
“No, no--Tom Bendibow.”
Marion said nothing, but knelt down beside the other figure, which was
lying prostrate, and turned it over, so that the face was revealed. It
was Mr. Grant, and he was dead, shot through the heart. After a few
moments she looked up at Philip and said huskily:
“You should have fired at him.”