Every one, on looking back at the past, even from the near standpoint of
a few months, realizes how it falls into separate phases, unnoticed at
the time, but nevertheless distinct. When she had reached her apex,
Sophie saw how that night by the mill-dam had shut down one phase for
ever, and ushered in a new one. Deceptions, and constant evading of her
father's suspicions, secret meetings, to connive at which it became a
bitter necessity to bribe the servants, hard Lylie and slow-tongued
James--while at the same time instinct warned her to keep the thing from
Hester Keast--all these were wearisome and galling, but by the quality
of affairs with Crandon fell into insignificance, merely an added
irritation, flies on a wound.
What first suggested to Crandon his idea of the love-potion was the
discovery of Sophie's credulousness. Like all West Country folk,
especially in those days, she was a firm believer in witches and spells,
to an extent incredible to a Saxon. As late as the latter half of the
nineteenth century an old woman was accused by a farmer of ill-wishing
his bullocks and was brought to trial; while a "cunning man," or
"white-witch," lived until lately in the northern part of the Duchy. A
century earlier, therefore, when Cornwall was practically cut off from
England, when even the coach came no further than Saltash, and
travellers continued on horseback or in a "kitterine"; when newspapers
were unknown, and books only found in parsonages or the biggest of the
country houses; when animals were burned alive as sacrifices to fortune,
and any man out at night went in fear of ghosts and the devil, then
there was no one, of whatever rank, who did not believe in witchcraft.
That Sophie, lonely, romantic, with the superstitious blood of the Celt
unadulterated in her veins, should give credence to such things, was
inevitable; and when Crandon suggested giving a love-potion to the
Squire, so that he might feel his heart warmed towards his would-be
son-in-law, she seized at what was to her more a certainty than a hope.
It was an afternoon in late September, and she and Crandon had met in a
wood about a mile away from Troon, when he first mooted his plan; she
sat beside him on one of the great grey boulders with which the sloping
floor of the wood was covered, and listened with growing eagerness. It
was a damp, steamy day, gold and tawny leaves, blown down in one night's
gale, were drifted thickly in the fissures of the rocks and over the
patches of vividly green moss; and livid orange fungi grew on the
tree-boles. Sophie, always affected by externals, shuddered a little and
drew closer to Crandon. Slipping his hand under the heavy knot of her
hair, he laid it against the nape of her neck, and as she closed her
eyes in the pleasure of his touch he looked down at her with a queer
expression on his narrow face.
"You have the loveliest neck in the world, my Sophie," he said, making
his hands meet round it as he spoke, "see--I make you a living necklace
for it."
Sophie tucked in her chin, and bending her head, kissed the clasping
fingers. Although he was not of those men to whom the attained woman
gains in attractions, yet there were still things about Sophie--little
flashes and gleams, swift touches, that fired him afresh. She stirred
him now, yet he was cold enough to be glad of the stir because it gave
him added eloquence for his purpose.
"I will get you a better necklace," he told her. "Nothing very fine, or
what would the Squire think? I have been collecting choice bits of
serpentine, and had them cut out and polished, and you shall have a
necklace of them--the stones of your own country. Your throat will warm
them, my Sophie, as it would warm my hands if they were cold in death."
"Death!" murmured Sophie, shuddering again, "we should not speak of it,
lest it hear us."
"Then we will talk of love instead--of our love, Sophie."
"Alas, that way too lies sorrow! Lucius, what is the end to be? My
father would kill me if he knew."
"Does he hate me so?"
She nodded, with the look of dumb fear in her eyes that thought of the
Squire always brought there.
"Dear heart, we will change his hate to love. There is a way--if you
will trust me and obey me."
A tremor of exquisite delight thrilled through her at the words. She had
no arts of allurement, no strength of will to make her play the coquette
with him, and she was unable, for the purpose of leading him on and
tantalizing him to fresh excitement, to deny herself the joy of being
his slave.
"Obey you!" she said, slipping a little lower on her rock so that her
back-tilted head lay against his knee as she looked up at him, "I am
yours for you to do with as you will."
Stooping, he kissed the swelling curve of her throat, and privately
marvelled at her for being such a fool.
"Sweetheart," he began softly, "we will call in the aid of higher powers
than our own. You know my mother was a Scotswoman, and she had the
second sight, like your old Madgy Figgy of the Men-an-tol. She was
learned in all kinds of charms, too. Well I remember as a child seeing
her staunch the flow of blood from an old servant by crossing two
charmed sticks from the hearth over him and saying a charm."
"It was Madgy Figgy who told about my ladder," Sophie said, "she has
many charms, I know. She carries the water from St. Annan's spring to
the church whenever there's to be a christening. No one baptized in
water from St. Annan's spring can die by hanging, every one knows
that. Was your mother as learned in charms as old Madgy?"
"She was a wise woman in more than mere charms, yet we will not slight
her knowledge of them, since through that we will win your father's
affection for me."
"If it could be!" cried Sophie.
"It can be. Listen, my sweet. My dear mother, in dying, left me, among
books of the craft of healing and suchlike things, an old love-charm she
had had from a Wise Woman in the Highlands. It is nothing but a little
white powder, yet it affects the very heart-strings of him who takes
it."
"Could it turn my father's heart towards you? Lucius, how happy we
should all be. . . . But surely it might make him love some one else
instead--Mr. Le Petyt, perhaps?"
"You should know better than that, my foolish Sophie. These things all
depend on the intention of he who gives them. You have but to
concentrate on me while you give it him, and all will be well."
"He would be furious if he guessed," objected Sophie.
"Neither he nor anyone else must guess, or the charm will fail. I will
send it to you in packets with the serpentine beads, and mark it 'Powder
to clean the pebbles.'"
"Why not give it to me?" asked Sophie.
"Because I have to go away for a time, my sweet. Not for very long--" as
Sophie made a movement of distress, "but I have business I must see to
in town. I will send you the beads to remember me by in my absence. Will
you wear them for my sake, Sophie."
"I will wear them night and day, but I need no reminders of you, Lucius.
But you--will you forget me in London? It is so big and far away and
full of great ladies who will put your poor Sophie out of remembrance.
Lucius, Lucius. . . ."
"My sweet, silly little Sophie," he whispered, soothing her as she clung
to him, "how can you misjudge me so? Is not one black hair from your
head, one glance from your blue eyes, dearer to me than all the women in
the world? What have I done that you should think so ill of me?"
"Forgive me, dear. I know men are not like women, and I cannot see what
there is in me to hold you--except my love for you. No other women could
love you half so well, Lucius. It is my only gift, but it at least could
not be bettered by anyone."
"I know it, my sweet," he told her, "and when your father is of a better
mind towards me you shall give me your love before all the world, and
then I need no longer travel alone. Would you like to see London, heart
of mine?"
"Ah, with you!" breathed Sophie. "Once, before I met you, I thought of
nothing but London, and how I meant some day to be a great lady there,
but now I think of nothing but to be with you. Perhaps, after all, this
is what the Wise Woman meant and my golden ladder is my love for you,
and I've climbed on it from loneliness to joy."
"A Jacob's ladder, for the feet of an angel, then, my Sophie."
"If it could only reach from here to London! Oh, Lucius, need you go?"
"I must, my sweet. Don't make it harder for me."
That checked her plaint at once, as he knew it would.
"When do you go?" she asked quietly.
"In a day or two, sweetheart. Ah, Sophie, how shall I live without you?"
While she comforted him, forgetting self, he made a mental calculation
as to how soon he could get away. He kissed Sophie's hair somewhat
absently.
"I will write to you, heart of mine," he murmured, "and I will contrive
so that he finds I have gone completely away, and that will lull any
suspicion he may have against us. And while I am gone you will be
working for us, my Sophie. Do not be alarmed if at first the powder
seems to cause an indisposition. It has to expel the evil humours from a
man before it can turn his nature to good. Give it to him in a small
quantity once or twice, and he will vomit and be rid of this
disaffection towards me, and the rest will work beneficially. Your
father will arise and call you blessed, my Sophie, for having sworn him
the evil of his own heart. Do not write me word when anything definite
happens--I am leaving my servant at Penzance, and he will post up to me
at once when you give him news."
"And then--then you will come down again, and we shall all be able to be
happy. Perhaps my father will even dismiss Lylie Ruffiniac when his
heart is turned towards you. That woman frightens me, Lucius. She is
always looking at me as though she wished me away. No one loves me
except yourself--and poor Charles. Hester avoids me, and James never did
speak a word to me that he could avoid. Lucius, sometimes it seems to me
that he and Lylie and Hester have all grown to hate me, that they would
harm me if they could. It frightens me--Lucius, Lucius, what shall I do
when you have left me?"
Crandon fought down his boredom and gave himself over to consoling her,
with now and again a surreptitious glance at the watch dangling from his
fob. He had another interview to go through--with Lylie Ruffiniac. She
had to be fostered in the belief that he was going to take Sophie away
as soon as possible, leaving the housekeeper free to influence the
Squire--for Lylie's ambition rose to being legitimate mistress of the
Manor, and Sophie once gone, she saw no reason why she should not attain
her end. She knew that the ten thousand pounds was a mere myth, but that
she kept hidden from Crandon, even bringing forward, as women can,
apparently casual little pieces of information that would all tend to
fix him in his belief. Crandon had been wise to impress on Sophie the
necessity for keeping the love-potion hidden from every one--Lylie, who
had a fine nose for a rogue, would have been in possession of his
scheme--a scheme so devastating to her own--at once. As soon as safety
and decency permitted he would carry Sophie off, go through the ceremony
of marriage with her in a place where he was not known, gain possession
of the money--and clear out of England for good. This was his last throw
of the dice in his own country--let him but win the stake and he would
disappear and enjoy his fortune elsewhere.
He took a last glance at his watch, a last kiss of Sophie's mouth, and
scrambled to his feet. He walked back with Sophie as near Troon as was
safe, then took an affectionate good-night of her, and started off for
the cove to meet Lylie Ruffiniac.
"Thank the gods, that hard-headed vixen of a Lylie won't want me to kiss
her!" he reflected as he went. "Ah, there's a woman might have been some
help to me if I'd met her in the shoes of Isabel or of this Sophie.
Lucius, my son, you are playing a very risky game, but the stakes are
worth it. Ten thousand pounds, a fresh country--and entirely new women!"
V