A WAY OUT OF THE TRAP
Mr. Hazlewood was very glad that Richard was away in London during this
week. Excitement kept him feverish and the fever grew as the number of
days before Thresk was to come diminished. He would never have been able
to keep his secret had every meal placed him under his son's eyes. He was
free too from Stella herself. He met her but once on the Monday and then
it was in the deep lane leading towards the town. It was about five
o'clock in the evening and she was driving homewards in an open fly. Mr.
Hazlewood stopped it and went to the side.
"Richard is away, Stella, until Wednesday, as no doubt you knew," he
said. "But I want you to come over to tea when he comes back. Will Friday
suit you?"
She had looked a little frightened when Mr. Hazlewood had called to the
driver and stopped the carriage; but at his words the blood rushed into
her cheeks and her eyes shone and she pushed out her hand impulsively.
"Oh, thank you," she cried. "Of course I will come."
Not for a long time had he spoken to her with so kind a voice and a face
so unclouded. She rejoiced at the change in him and showed him such
gratitude as is given only to those who render great service, so intense
was her longing not to estrange Dick from his father.
But she had become a shrewd observer under the stress of her evil
destiny; and the moment of rejoicing once past she began to wonder what
had brought about the change. She judged Mr. Hazlewood to be one of those
weak and effervescing characters who can grow more obstinate in
resentment than any others if their pride and self-esteem receive an
injury. She had followed of late the windings of his thoughts. She put
the result frankly to herself.
"He hates me. He holds me in horror."
Why then the sudden change? She was in the mood to start at shadows and
when a little note was brought over to her on the Friday morning in Mr.
Hazlewood's handwriting reminding her of her engagement she was filled
with a vague apprehension. The note was kindly in its terms yet to her it
had a menacing and sinister look. Had some stroke been planned against
her? Was it to be delivered this afternoon?
Dick came at half-past four from a village cricket match to fetch her.
"You are ready, Stella? Right! For we can't spare very much time. I have
a surprise for you."
Stella asked him what it was and he answered:
"There's a house for sale in Great Beeding. I think that you
would like it."
Stella's face softened with a smile.
"Anywhere, Dick," she said, "anywhere on earth."
"But here best of all," he answered. "Not to run away--that's our policy.
We'll make our home in our own south country. I arranged to take you over
the house between half-past five and six this evening."
They walked across to Little Beeding and were made welcome by Mr.
Hazlewood. He came out to meet them in the garden and nervousness made
him kittenish and arch.
"How are you, Stella?" he inquired. "But there's no need to ask. You look
charming and upon my word you grow younger every day. What a pretty hat!
Yes, yes! Will you make tea while I telephone to the Pettifers? They seem
to be late."
He skipped off with an alacrity which was rather ridiculous. But Stella
watched him go without any amusement.
"I am taken again into favour," she said doubtfully.
"That shouldn't distress you, Stella," replied Dick.
"Yet it does, for I ask myself why. And I don't understand this
tea-party. Mr. Hazlewood was so urgent that I should not forget it.
Perhaps, however, I am inventing trouble."
She shook herself free from her apprehensions and followed Dick into the
drawing-room, where the kettle was boiling and the tea-service spread
out. Stella went to the table and opened the little mahogany caddy.
"How many are coming, Dick?" she asked.
"The Pettifers."
"My enemies," said Stella, laughing lightly.
"And you and my father and myself."
"Five altogether," said Stella. She began to measure out the tea into the
tea-pot but stopped suddenly in the middle of her work.
"But there are six cups," she said. She counted them again to make sure,
and at once her fears were reawakened. She turned to Dick, her face quite
pale and her big eyes dark with forebodings. So little now was needed to
disquiet her. "Who is the sixth?"
Dick came closer to her and put his arm about her waist.
"I don't know," he said gently; "but what can it matter to us, Stella?
Think, my dear!"
"No, of course," she replied, "it can't make any difference," and she
dipped her teaspoon once more into the caddy. "But it's a little
curious, isn't it?--that your father didn't mention to you that there
was another guest?"
"Oh, wait a moment," said Dick. "He did tell me there would be some
visitor here to-day but I forgot all about it. He told me at luncheon.
There's a man from London coming down to have a look at his miniatures."
"His miniatures?" Stella was pouring the hot water into the tea-pot. She
replaced the kettle on its stand and shut the tea-caddy. "And Mr.
Hazlewood didn't tell you the man's name," she said.
"I didn't ask him," answered Dick. "He often has collectors down."
"I see." Her head was bent over the tea-table; she was busy with her brew
of tea. "And I was specially asked to come this afternoon. I had a note
this morning to remind me." She looked at the clock. "Dick, if we are to
see that house this afternoon you had better change now before the
visitors come."
"That's true. I will."
Dick started towards the door, and he heard Stella come swiftly after
him. He turned. There was so much trouble in her face. He caught her
in his arms.
"Dick," she whispered, "look at me. Kiss me! Yes, I am sure of you," and
she clung to him. Dick Hazlewood laughed.
"I think we ought to be fairly happy in that house," and she let him
go with a smile, repeating her own words, "Anywhere, Dick, anywhere
on earth."
She waited, watching him tenderly until the door was closed. Then she
covered her face with her hands and a sob burst from her lips. But the
next moment she tore her hands away and looked wildly about the room. She
ran to the writing-table and scribbled a note; she thrust it into an
envelope and gummed the flap securely down. Then she rang the bell and
waited impatiently with a leaping heart until Hubbard came to the door.
"Did you ring, madam?" he asked.
"Yes. Has Mr. Thresk arrived yet?"
She tried to control her face, to speak in a careless and indifferent
voice, but she was giddy and the room whirled before her eyes.
"Yes, madam," the butler answered; and it seemed to Stella Ballantyne
that once more she stood in the dock and heard the verdict spoken. Only
this time it had gone against her. That queer old shuffling butler became
a figure of doom, his thin and piping voice uttered her condemnation. For
here without her knowledge was Henry Thresk and she was bidden to meet
him with the Pettifers for witnesses. But it was Henry Thresk who had
saved her before. She clung to that fact now.
"Mr. Thresk arrived a few minutes ago."
Just before old Hazlewood had come forward out of the house to welcome
her! No wonder he was in such high spirits! Very likely all that great
show of kindliness and welcome was made only to keep her in the garden
for a few necessary moments.
"Where is Mr. Thresk now?" she asked.
"In his room, madam."
"You are quite sure?"
"Quite."
"Will you take this note to him, Hubbard?" and she held it out to
the butler.
"Certainly, madam."
"Will you take it at once? Give it into his hands, please."
Hubbard took the note and went out of the room. Never had he seemed to
her so dilatory and slow. She stared at the door as though her sight
could pierce the panels. She imagined him climbing the stairs with feet
which loitered more at each fresh step. Some one would surely stop him
and ask for whom the letter was intended. She went to the door which led
into the hall, opened it and listened. No one was descending the
staircase and she heard no voices. Then above her Hubbard knocked upon a
door, a latch clicked as the door was opened, a hollow jarring sound
followed as the door was sharply closed. Stella went back into the room.
The letter had been delivered; at this moment Henry Thresk was reading
it; and with a sinking heart she began to speculate in what spirit he
would receive its message. Henry Thresk! The unhappy woman bestirred
herself to remember him. He had grown dim to her of late. How much did
she know of him? she asked herself. Once years ago there had been a month
during which she had met him daily. She had given her heart to him, yet
she had learned little or nothing of the man within the man's frame. She
had not even made his acquaintance. That had been proved to her one
memorable morning upon the top of Bignor Hill, when humiliation had so
deeply seared her soul that only during this last month had it been
healed. In the great extremities of her life Henry Thresk had decided,
not she, and he was a stranger to her. She beat her poor wings in vain
against that ironic fact. Never had he done what she had expected. On
Bignor Hill, in the Law Court at Bombay, he had equally surprised her.
Now once more he held her destinies in his hand. What would he decide?
What had he decided?
"Yes, he will have decided now," said Stella to herself; and a certain
calm fell upon her troubled soul. Whatever was to be was now determined.
She went back to the tea-table and waited.
Henry Thresk had not much of the romantic in his character. He was a busy
man making the best and the most of the rewards which the years brought
to him, and slamming the door each day upon the day which had gone
before. He made his life in the intellectual exercise of his profession
and his membership of the House of Commons. Upon the deeps of the
emotions he had closed a lid. Yet he had set out with a vague reluctance
to Little Beeding; and once his motor-car had passed Hindhead and dipped
to the weald of Sussex the reluctance had grown to a definite regret that
he should once more have come into this country. His recollections were
of a dim far-off time, so dim that he could hardly believe that he had
any very close relation with the young struggling man who had spent his
first real holiday there. But the young man had been himself and he had
missed his opportunity high up on the downs by Arundel. Words which Jane
Repton had spoken to him in Bombay came back to him on this summer
afternoon like a refrain to the steady hum of his car. "You can get what
you want, so long as you want it enough, but you cannot control the price
you will have to pay."
He had reached Little Beeding only a few moments before Dick and Stella
had crossed into the garden. He had been led by Hubbard into the library,
where Mr. Hazlewood was sitting. From the windows he had even seen the
thatched cottage where Stella Ballantyne dwelt and its tiny garden bright
with flowers.
"It is most kind of you to come," Mr. Hazlewood had said. "Ever since we
had our little correspondence I have been anxious to take your opinion on
my collection. Though how in the world you manage to find time to have an
opinion at all upon the subject is most perplexing. I never open the
_Times_ but I see your name figuring in some important case."
"And I, Mr. Hazlewood," Thresk replied with a smile, "never open my mail
without receiving a pamphlet from you. I am not the only active man in
the world."
Even at that moment Mr. Hazlewood flushed with pleasure at the flattery.
"Little reflections," he cried with a modest deprecation, "worked out
more or less to completeness--may I say that?--in the quiet of a rural
life, sparks from the tiny flame of my midnight oil." He picked up one
pamphlet from a stack by his writing-table. "You might perhaps care to
look at _The Prison Walls_."
Thresk drew back.
"I have got mine, Mr. Hazlewood," he said firmly. "Every man in England
should have one. No man in England has a right to two."
Mr. Hazlewood fairly twittered with satisfaction. Here was a notable man
from the outside world of affairs who knew his work and held it in
esteem. Obviously then he was right to take these few disagreeable
twists and turns which would ensure to him a mind free to pursue his
labours. He looked down at the pamphlet however, and his satisfaction
was a trifle impaired.
"I am not sure that this is quite my best work," he said timidly--"a
little hazardous perhaps."
"Would you say that?" asked Thresk.
"Yes, indeed I should." Mr. Hazlewood had the air of one making a
considerable concession. "The very title is inaccurate. _The Prison Walls
must Cast no Shadow_." He repeated the sentence with a certain unction.
"The rhythm is perhaps not amiss but the metaphor is untrue. My son
pointed it out to me. As he says, all walls cast shadows."
"Yes," said Thresk. "The trouble is to know where and on whom the shadow
is going to fall."
Mr. Hazlewood was startled by the careless words. He came to earth
heavily. All was not as yet quite ready for the little trick which had
been devised. The Pettifers had not arrived.
"Perhaps you would like to see your room, Mr. Thresk," he said. "Your bag
has been taken up, no doubt. We will look at my miniatures after tea."
"I shall be delighted," said Thresk as he followed Hazlewood to the door.
"But you must not expect too much knowledge from me."
"Oh!" cried his host with a laugh. "Pettifer tells me that you are a
great authority."
"Then Pettifer's wrong," said Thresk and so stopped. "Pettifer? Pettifer?
Isn't he a solicitor?"
"Yes, he told me that he knew you. He married my sister. They are both
coming to tea."
With that he led Thresk to his room and left him there. The room was over
the porch of the house and looked down the short level drive to the iron
gates and the lane. It was all familiar ground to Thresk or rather to
that other man with whom Thresk's only connection was a dull throb at his
heart, a queer uneasiness and discomfort. He leaned out of the window. He
could hear the river singing between the grass banks at the bottom of the
garden behind him. He would hear it through the night. Then came a
knocking upon his door, and he did not notice it at once. It was repeated
and he turned and said:
"Come in!"
Hubbard advanced with a note upon a salver.
"Mrs. Ballantyne asked me to give you this at once, sir."
Thresk stared at the butler. The name was so apposite to his thoughts
that he could not believe it had been uttered. But the salver was held
out to him and the handwriting upon the envelope removed his doubts. He
took it up, said "Thank you" in an absent voice and waited until the door
was closed again and he was alone. The last time he had seen that writing
was eighteen months ago. A little note of thanks, blurred with tears and
scribbled hastily and marked with no address, had been handed to him in
Bombay. Stella Ballantyne had disappeared then. She was here now at
Little Beeding and his relationship with the young struggling barrister
of ten years back suddenly became actual and near. He tore open the
envelope and read.
"Be prepared to see me. Be prepared to hear news of me. I will have a
talk with you afterwards if you like. This is a trap. Be kind."
He stood for a while with the letter in his hand, speculating upon its
meaning, until the wheels of a car grated on the gravel beneath his
window. The Pettifers had come. But Thresk was in no hurry to descend. He
read the note through many times before he hid it away in his letter-case
and went down the stairs.