THE LADY FROM BEYOND
The morning was sultry, brooding, steamy. Antonia was at her music, and
from the room where Shelton tried to fix attention on a book he could
hear her practising her scales with a cold fury that cast an added gloom
upon his spirit. He did not see her until lunch, and then she again
sat next the Connoisseur. Her cheeks were pale, but there was something
feverish in her chatter to her neighbour; she still refused to look at
Shelton. He felt very miserable. After lunch, when most of them had left
the table, the rest fell to discussing country neighbours.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Dennant, “there are the Foliots; but nobody calls
on them.”
“Ah!” said the Connoisseur, “the Foliots--the Foliots--the
people--er--who--quite so!”
“It's really distressin'. she looks so sweet ridin' about. Many people
with worse stories get called on,” continued Mrs. Dennant, with that
large frankness of intrusion upon doubtful subjects which may be made by
certain people in a certain way, “but, after all, one couldn't ask them
to meet anybody.”
“No,” the Connoisseur assented. “I used to know Foliot. Thousand pities.
They say she was a very pretty woman.”
“Oh, not pretty!” said Mrs. Dennant! “more interestin than pretty, I
should say.”
Shelton, who knew the lady slightly, noticed that they spoke of her
as in the past. He did not look towards Antonia; for, though a little
troubled at her presence while such a subject was discussed, he hated
his conviction that her face, was as unruffled as though the Foliots had
been a separate species. There was, in fact, a curiosity about her eyes,
a faint impatience on her lips; she was rolling little crumbs of bread.
Suddenly yawning, she muttered some remark, and rose. Shelton stopped
her at the door.
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
“May n't I come?”.
She shook her head.
“I 'm going to take Toddles.”
Shelton held the door open, and went back to the table.
“Yes,” the Connoisseur said, sipping at his sherry, “I 'm afraid it's
all over with young Foliot.”
“Such a pity!” murmured Mrs. Dennant, and her kindly face looked quite
disturbed. “I've known him ever since he was a boy. Of course, I think
he made a great mistake to bring her down here. Not even bein' able
to get married makes it doubly awkward. Oh, I think he made a great
mistake!”
“Ah!” said the Connoisseur, “but d' you suppose that makes much
difference? Even if What 's--his-name gave her a divorce, I don't think,
don't you know, that--”
“Oh, it does! So many people would be inclined to look over it in time.
But as it is it's hopeless, quite. So very awkward for people, too,
meetin' them about. The Telfords and the Butterwicks--by the way,
they're comin' here to dine to-night--live near them, don't you know.”
“Did you ever meet her before-er-before the flood?” the Connoisseur
inquired; and his lips parting and unexpectedly revealing teeth gave him
a shadowy resemblance to a goat.
“Yes; I did meet her once at the Branksomes'. I thought her quite a
charmin' person.”
“Poor fellow!” said the Connoisseur; “they tell me he was going to take
the hounds.”
“And there are his delightful coverts, too. Algie often used to shoot
there, and now they say he just has his brother down to shoot with him.
It's really quite too melancholy! Did you know him, Dick?”
“Foliot?” replied Shelton absently. “No; I never met him: I've seen her
once or twice at Ascot.”
Through the window he could see Antonia in her scarlet Tam-o'-shanter,
swinging her stick, and he got up feigning unconcern. Just then Toddles
came bounding up against his sister. They went off arm in arm. She had
seen him at the window, yet she gave no friendly glance; Shelton felt
more miserable than ever. He stepped out upon the drive. There was a
lurid, gloomy canopy above; the elm-trees drooped their heavy blackish
green, the wonted rustle of the aspen-tree was gone, even the rooks were
silent. A store of force lay heavy on the heart of nature. He started
pacing slowly up and down, his pride forbidding him to follow her, and
presently sat down on an old stone seat that faced the road. He stayed a
long time staring at the elms, asking himself what he had done and what
he ought to do. And somehow he was frightened. A sense of loneliness was
on him, so real, so painful, that he shivered in the sweltering heat. He
was there, perhaps, an hour, alone, and saw nobody pass along the road.
Then came the sound of horse's hoofs, and at the same time he heard
a motor-car approaching from the opposite direction. The rider made
appearance first, riding a grey horse with an Arab's high set head
and tail. She was holding him with difficulty, for the whirr of the
approaching car grew every moment louder. Shelton rose; the car flashed
by. He saw the horse stagger in the gate-way, crushing its rider up
against the gatepost.
He ran, but before he reached the gate the lady was on foot, holding the
plunging horse's bridle.
“Are you hurt?” cried Shelton breathlessly, and he, too, grabbed the
bridle. “Those beastly cars!”
“I don't know,” she said. “Please don't; he won't let strangers touch
him.”
Shelton let go, and watched her coax the horse. She was rather tall,
dressed in a grey habit, with a grey Russian cap upon her head, and he
suddenly recognised the Mrs. Foliot whom they had been talking of at
lunch.
“He 'll be quiet now,” she said, “if you would n't mind holding him a
minute.”
She gave the reins to him, and leaned against the gate. She was very
pale.
“I do hope he has n't hurt you,” Shelton said. He was quite close to
her, well able to see her face--a curious face with high cheek-bones
and a flatfish moulding, enigmatic, yet strangely passionate for all its
listless pallor. Her smiling, tightened lips were pallid; pallid, too,
her grey and deep-set eyes with greenish tints; above all, pale the ashy
mass of hair coiled under her grey cap.
“Th-thanks!” she said; “I shall be all right directly. I'm sorry to have
made a fuss.”
She bit her lips and smiled.
“I 'm sure you're hurt; do let me go for--” stammered Shelton. “I can
easily get help.”
“Help!” she said, with a stony little laugh; “oh, no, thanks!”
She left the gate, and crossed the road to where he held the horse.
Shelton, to conceal embarrassment, looked at the horse's legs, and
noticed that the grey was resting one of them. He ran his hand down.
“I 'm afraid,” he said, “your horse has knocked his off knee; it's
swelling.”
She smiled again.
“Then we're both cripples.”
“He'll be lame when he gets cold. Would n't you like to put him in the
stable here? I 'm sure you ought to drive home.”
“No, thanks; if I 'm able to ride him he can carry me. Give me a hand
up.”
Her voice sounded as though something had offended her. Rising from
inspection of the horse's leg, Shelton saw Antonia and Toddles standing
by. They had come through a wicketgate leading from the fields.
The latter ran up to him at once.
“We saw it,” he whispered--“jolly smash-up. Can't I help?”
“Hold his bridle,” answered Shelton, and he looked from one lady to the
other.
There are moments when the expression of a face fixes itself with
painful clearness; to Shelton this was such a moment. Those two faces
close together, under their coverings of scarlet and of grey, showed a
contrast almost cruelly vivid. Antonia was flushed, her eyes had grown
deep blue; her look of startled doubt had passed and left a question in
her face.
“Would you like to come in and wait? We could send you home, in the
brougham,” she said.
The lady called Mrs. Foliot stood, one arm across the crupper of her
saddle, biting her lips and smiling still her enigmatic smile, and it
was her face that stayed most vividly on Shelton's mind, its ashy hail,
its pallor, and fixed, scornful eyes.
“Oh, no, thanks! You're very kind.”
Out of Antonia's face the timid, doubting friendliness had fled, and was
replaced by enmity. With a long, cold look at both of them she turned
away. Mrs. Foliot gave a little laugh, and raised her foot for Shelton's
help. He heard a hiss of pain as he swung her up, but when he looked at
her she smiled.
“Anyway,” he said impatiently, “let me come and see you don't break
down.”
She shook her head. “It 's only two miles. I'm not made of sugar.”
“Then I shall simply have to follow.”
She shrugged her shoulders, fixing her resolute eyes on him.
“Would that boy like to come?” she asked.
Toddles left the horse's head.
“By Jove!” he cried. “Would n't I just!”
“Then,” she said, “I think that will be best. You 've been so kind.”
She bowed, smiled inscrutably once more, touched the Arab with her whip,
and started, Toddles trotting at her side.
Shelton was left with Antonia underneath the elms. A sudden puff of
tepid air blew in their faces, like a warning message from the heavy,
purple heat clouds; low rumbling thunder travelled slowly from afar.
“We're going to have a storm,” he said.
Antonia nodded. She was pale now, and her face still wore its cold look
of offence.
“I 've got a headache,” she said, “I shall go in and lie down.”
Shelton tried to speak, but something kept him silent--submission to
what was coming, like the mute submission of the fields and birds to the
menace of the storm.
He watched her go, and went back to his seat. And the silence seemed to
grow; the flowers ceased to exude their fragrance, numbed by the weighty
air. All the long house behind him seemed asleep, deserted. No noise
came forth, no laughter, the echo of no music, the ringing of no bell;
the heat had wrapped it round with drowsiness. And the silence added to
the solitude within him. What an unlucky chance, that woman's accident!
Designed by Providence to put Antonia further from him than before! Why
was not the world composed of the immaculate alone? He started pacing up
and down, tortured by a dreadful heartache.
“I must get rid of this,” he thought. “I 'll go for a good tramp, and
chance the storm.”
Leaving the drive he ran on Toddles, returning in the highest spirits.
“I saw her home,” he crowed. “I say, what a ripper, isn't she? She 'll
be as lame as a tree to-morrow; so will the gee. Jolly hot!”
This meeting showed Shelton that he had been an hour on the stone seat;
he had thought it some ten minutes, and the discovery alarmed him. It
seemed to bring the import of his miserable fear right home to him. He
started with a swinging stride, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, the
perspiration streaming down his face.