There had been an air of haste, almost of furtiveness, about this swift
appearance and more swift vanishing of Ella, that made Dunn ask himself
uneasily what errand she could have been on.
He hesitated for a moment, half expecting to see her return again,
or that there would be some other development, but he heard and saw
nothing.
He caught no further glimpse of Ella, whom the green depths of the
spinney hid well; and he heard no more shots.
After a little, he left the spot where he had been waiting and went
across to where he had seen her.
The exact spot where she had entered the spinney was marked, for she
had broken the branch of a young tree in brushing quickly by it, and a
bramble she had trodden on had not yet lifted itself from the earth to
which she had pressed it.
By other signs like these, plain enough and easy to read--for she had
hurried on in great haste and without care, almost, indeed, as one who
fled from some great danger or from some dreadful sight, and who had no
thought to spare save for flight alone--he followed the way she had gone
till it took him to a beaten public path that almost at once led over a
stile to the high road which passed in front of Bittermeads. Along this
beaten path, trodden by many, Ella's light foot had left no perceptible
mark, and Dunn made no attempt to track her further, since it seemed
certain that she had been simply hurrying back home.
“She was badly frightened over something or another,” he said to
himself. “She never stopped once, she went as straight and quick as she
could. I wonder what upset her like that?”
He went back the way he had come, and at the spot where he had seen her
enter the spinney he set to work to pick up her trail in the direction
whence she had appeared, for he thought that if he followed it he might
find out what had been the cause of her evident alarm.
The ground was much more open here, and the trail correspondingly more
difficult to follow, for often there was little but a trodden blade of
grass to show where she had passed; and sometimes, where the ground was
bare and hard, there was no visible sign left at all.
Once or twice at such places he was totally at fault, but by casting
round in a wide circle like a dog scenting his prey he was able to pick
up her tracks again.
They seemed to lead right into the depths of the wood, through lonely
spots that only the keepers knew, and where others seldom came.
But that he was on the right trail he presently had proof, for on
the bank of a lovely and hidden dell he picked up a tiny embroidered
handkerchief with the initials “E. C.” worked in one corner.
It had evidently been lying there only a very short time, for it was
perfectly clean and fresh, and he picked it up and held it for a moment
in his hands, smiling to himself with pleasure at its daintiness and
smallness, and yet still uneasily wondering why she had come here, and
why she had fled away again so quickly.
The morning was very fine and calm, though in the west heavy clouds were
gathering and seemed to promise rain soon. But overhead the sun shone
brightly, the air was calm and warm, and the little dell on whose verge
he stood a very pretty and pleasant place.
A small stream wandered through it, the grass that carpeted it was
green and soft, near by a great oak stood alone and spread its majestic
branches far out on every side to give cool shelter from the summer
heat.
The thought occurred to Dunn that this was just such a pretty and
secluded spot as two lovers might choose to exchange their vows in, and
the thought stung him intolerably as he wondered whether it was for such
a reason that Ella had come here.
But if so, why had she fled away again in such strange haste?
He walked on slowly for a yard or two, not now attempting to follow
Ella's trail, for he had the impression that this was her destination,
and that she had gone no further than here.
All at once he caught sight of the form of a man lying hidden in
the long grass that nearly covered him from view just where the
far-spreading branches of the great oak ceased to give their shade.
At first Dunn thought he was sleeping, and he was just about to call
out to him when something in the rigidity of the man's position and his
utter stillness struck him unpleasantly.
He went quickly to the man's side, and the face of dead John Clive,
supine and still, stared up at him from unseeing eyes.
He had been killed by a charge of small shot fired at such close
quarters that his breast was shot nearly in two and his clothing and
flesh charred by the burning powder.
But Dunn, standing staring down at the dead man, saw not him, but Ella.
Ella fleeing away silently and furtively through the trees as from some
sight or scene of guilt and terror.
He stooped closer over the dead man. Death had been instantaneous. Of
course there could be no doubt. From one hand a piece of folded paper
had fallen.
Dunn picked it up, and saw that there was writing on it, and he read it
over slowly.
“Dear Mr. Clive,--Can you meet me as before by the oak
tomorrow at eleven? There is something I very much want to
say to you.--Yours sincerely,
“ELLA CAYLEY.”
Was that, then, the lure which had brought John Clive to meet his
death? Was this the bait that had made him disregard the warnings he had
received, and come alone to so quiet and solitary a spot?
Dunn had a moment of quick envy of him; he lay so quiet and still in
the warm sunshine, with nothing to trouble or distress him any more for
ever.
Then, stumblingly and heavily, Dunn turned an went away, and his eyes
were very hard, his bearded face set like iron.
Like a man in a dream, or one obsessed by some purpose before which all
other things faded into nothingness, he went his way, the way Ella had
taken in her flight--through the wood, through the spinney to the public
foot-path, and then out on the road that led to Bittermeads.
When he entered the garden there, he saw Ella sitting quietly on a
deck-chair close to her mother, quietly busy with some fancy work.
He could not believe it; he stood watching in bewilderment, appalled and
wondering, watching her white hands flashing busily to and fro, hearing
the soft murmur of her voice as now and then she addressed some remark
to her mother, who nodded drowsily in the sunshine over a book open on
her knees.
Ella was dressed all in white; she had flung aside her hat, and the
quiet breeze played in her fair hair, and stirred gently a stray curl
that had escaped across her broad low brow.
The picture was one of gentleness and peace and an innocence that
thought no wrong, and yet with his own eyes he had seen her not an hour
ago fleeing with hurried steps and fearful looks from the spot where lay
a murdered man.
Somewhat unsteadily, for he felt so little master of himself, it was
as though he had no longer even control of his own limbs, Dunn stumbled
forward, and Ella looked up and saw him, and saw also that he was
looking at her very strangely.
She rose and came towards him, her needlework still in her hands.
“What is the matter?” she said in a voice of some concern. “Are you
ill?”
“No,” he answered. “No. I've been looking for Mr. Clive.”
“Have you?” she said, a little surprised apparently, but in no way
flustered or disturbed. “Did you find him?”
Dunn did not answer, for indeed he could not, and she said again:
“Did you find him?”
Still he made no answer, for it seemed to him those four words were
the most awful that any one had ever uttered since the beginning of the
world.
“What is the matter?” she said again. “Is anything the matter?”
“Oh, no, no,” he said, and he gave himself a little shake like a man
wakening from deep sleep and trying to remember where he was.
“Well, then,” she said.
“I found Mr. Clive,” he said hardly and abruptly. And he repeated again:
“Yes, I found him.”
They remained standing close together and facing each other, and he saw
her as through a veil of red, and it was as though a red mist enveloped
her, and where her shadow lay the earth was red, he thought, and where
she put her foot it seemed to him red tracks remained, and never before
had he understood how utterly he loved her and must love her, now and
for evermore.
But he uttered no sound and made no movement, only stood very still,
thinking to himself how dreadful it was that he loved her so greatly.
She was not paying him, any attention now. A rose bush was near by, and
she picked one of the flowers, and arranged it carefully at her waist.
She said, still looking at him:
“Do you know--I wish you would shave yourself?”
“Why?” he mumbled.
“I should like to see you,” she answered. “I think I have a curiosity to
see you.”
“I should think you could do that well enough,” he said in the same low,
mumbled tones.
“No,” she answered. “I can only see some very untidy hair and a pair of
eyes--not very nice eyes, rather frightening eyes. I should like to see
the rest of your face some day so as to know what it's like.”
“Perhaps you shall--some day,” he said.
“Is that a threat?” she asked. “It sounded like one.”
“Perhaps,” he answered.
She laughed lightly and turned away.
“You make me very curious,” she said. “But then, you've always done
that.”
She went back to her seat by her mother, and he walked on moodily to the
house.
Mrs. Dawson said to Ella:
“How can you talk to that man, my dear? I think he looks perfectly
dreadful--hardly like a human being.”
“I was just telling him he ought to shave himself,” said Ella. “I told
him I should like to know what he was really like.”
“I shall ask father,” said Mrs. Dawson sternly, “to make it a condition
of his employment here.”