HESTER OF THE SCARLET CLOAK
Great was the rejoicing in the home of the field mouse on the return
of the prodigal. Merle, happy in the success of his mission, watched
the little fellow scamper off among the barley stalks and made no
attempt to follow his course or intrude upon the welcoming
festivities.
His errand of mercy accomplished, the curate's path of duty now led
directly back to Ipping House, back to the prison cell where Roget
and Cruden and all the police platoon of beetle-colored books and the
funereal inkstand and the penholder of evil tasting wood grimly
awaited him. A straight and narrow path between the high hedge and
cornfields, over the meadow, across the old stone bridge, down the
lane to the park gate on the Ippingford road--all to be drearily
retraced. In the opposite direction lay a new and untrod path, a
woodland way that whispered invitingly with mysterious darknesses and
possibilities of adventure.
The process of reasoning by which the Reverend Horatio Merle
convinced himself that a woodland path, starting in exactly the
opposite direction was a short cut to Ipping House was anything but
satisfactory when he afterward attempted to reveal it to Mrs. Merle.
Indeed, but for the ready tact of Martin Luther on this occasion, he
would have been left entirely without an audience, as, in the middle
of his explanation, the door was slammed indignantly by the departing
Harriet.
"In any case," he told himself, as he turned his back upon the
cornfield, "I can think about Progressive Mothers just as well in
this wood as I can shut up in my study."
Strange to relate, that was the last thought on the subject of
Progressive Mothers that visited the curate for many hours. It was
as if the spirit of the wood had overheard his rash boast and
summoned all its forces to teach Horatio a lesson. Never was there
such a conspiracy. With one accord birds, trees, flowers,
butterflies, and all the creeping things of the wood united to
compass the downfall of Horatio Merle. His surrender was complete
and, from the moment of his entrance into the wood, the all-important
matter of the address passed completely from the clergyman's mind.
The Bishop of Bunchester was right when he said that Merle was a born
naturalist.
At the end of two hours Horatio sat down to rest on the bank of a
rocky brook, tired and happy, without the least idea where he was.
His hat was gone, his feet were wet through, owing to the treachery
of a moss-covered stone, and his coat was torn and smeared with leaf
mold. Earlier in his wanderings the joyful curate had fallen into a
deep saw-pit concealed by tall bracken and he bore upon his person
the marks of his struggles to extricate himself.
Merle looked at his watch. The hands pointed to a quarter past one,
indicating to Horatio that it was exactly five minutes to two. The
original walk from Ipping House to the cornfield had taken him
fifteen minutes, and this was the short cut home!
What would Harriet think? The thought of what Harriet would think
brought Harriet's husband to his feet and approximately to his
senses. The first rational idea since his unhappy inspiration of the
short cut now came to him. He would follow the brook. "A brook
can't go round in a circle, so it must lead somewhere," he reasoned,
"and anywhere is better than nowhere."
Comforted by this logic, Horatio followed the course of the brook.
If it did not go in a circle, there were times when Merle was not
sure whether it was the same brook or another one going in the
opposite direction.
"It must go somewhere," he repeated firmly when, for the second time,
he passed the chimney of a ruined paper mill he had left behind
several minutes before. And, sure enough, another turn of the brook
brought him to the edge of the wood. Here the brook surpassed all
its previous feats of contortion and doubled back, growling and
grumbling, as if to say it had come miles out of its way and missed
an appointment with a most important river, all on account of an
absent-minded curate.
Emerging from the wood and descending a steep bank, Merle found
himself in a narrow lane which he recognized as a tributary of the
Ippingford road. On the other side of the lane at the top of the
bank was a thick hedge which formed one of the boundaries of the
Millbrook golf course. Here the wanderer had a choice of two ways.
The lane, though a trifle the longer, was easier walking than the
golf course. On the other hand, it was the more frequented, the golf
course at this season being often quite deserted, which was an
important consideration in Horatio's hatless and earth-stained
condition.
The sound of a distant auto horn decided the wavering curate and he
scrambled up the bank, trusting to luck to find an opening in the
hedge. The only opening provided by the playful goblin who was
conducting Merle's fortunes was scarcely more than a thinness, but
Horatio plunged into it, appalled by the thought that Harriet might
be in the approaching vehicle. She sometimes went for a ride with
the Winkles in their big car, and if Harriet should see him now, if
anyone should see him now!
As the automobile shot past, Merle crouched motionless, safely
obliterated by the hedge whose color scheme matched his own. Then,
as he tried to push on through the branches, he was suddenly
restrained, not by ordinary thorns, but by the uncompromising pull of
a rope of barbed wire that formed an extra barrier along the top of
the hedge and that now had hooked itself firmly into Horatio's coat.
Squirm and struggle as he would, the agitated naturalist could not
free himself, and, to make matters worse, as he reached his left leg
forward and tried to brace himself for a better pull by digging his
boot into the turf of the golf course, he felt his toe violently
caught in a fierce grip and so powerfully held that he was now
literally anchored in the middle of the hedge, unable to move a
single inch forward by reason of the cruel barbed wire or a single
inch backward on account of whatever savage creature had seized his
extended toe--a most painful and embarrassing position for this
kindly Christian gentleman!
Horatio's first effort was to get rid of the animal that was holding
his left foot. It must be a dog, he reasoned, yet it was strange
that he had heard no growl. What else but a dog could it be? He
peered through the branches, but could distinguish nothing except the
green of the turf.
"Whoa, doggy! Good boy!" he called out caressingly, at the same time
trying discreetly to withdraw his leg; but the grip held firmly.
"A most extraordinarily steady dog," reflected Merle. "And a silent
dog." He wondered if it was possible that he had been bitten by a
canine deaf mute. There was no question that he had been bitten by
something, for he could feel the teeth on the toe of his boot.
At this moment Horatio was conscious of footsteps approaching along
the path outside the hedge and, screwing his head around, he made out
the figure of a woman in a brilliant red cloak. There was no longer
any question of concealment. He must get out of this painful
position and, in his most conciliatory tone, he addressed the lady
from the depths of the hedge.
"My dear madam, I regret exceedingly the necessity that compels
me----"
"Oh!" cried the lady, and Merle observed that the scarlet cloak had
stopped, while a pair of lustrous, dark eyes gazed suspiciously in
his direction. "Don't be alarmed, my friend," he begged. "I wish
you no harm. On the contrary, I need help. The fact is, some
animal, a dog, I think, has hold of my left foot."
"A dog!" exclaimed the other, stepping back.
"He won't hurt you," said Merle reassuringly. "He's on the other
side of the hedge. Can you see him, my dear?"
Encouraged by these words, the lady, now seen by Merle to be young
and dark and decidedly good looking (although plainly dressed), drew
nearer to the mysterious voice and was presently searching among the
leaves and branches for an explanation of this singular summons.
"I don't see anything," she said.
"Perhaps if you threw a stone, or--could you go through the hedge?
You see, I am caught on this barbed wire."
"Wait! It's your coat sleeve," exclaimed the young woman. "There!"
and with a quick turn of her hand she released the impaled garment.
"Thank you," he murmured. "Be careful of the dog! I'm going at him
now. Hey, there! Good heaven!"
As he spoke Horatio, loosed from the restraining wire, stumbled on
through the hedge, while the young woman stared apprehensively after
him. There was a clank of metal, a few muttered words, and then
Merle came struggling back, scratched, torn, and panting, but full of
eager interest.
"What do you suppose had hold of my toe?" he burst out.
For a moment Hester (for it was she) surveyed him in silence, then
she let herself go in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, while Merle
looked at her in pained surprise.
"But it's true," he insisted, "something did have hold of my toe. It
wasn't a dog, but--look! You can see where its tooth went through my
boot. It's lucky I wear long ones, isn't it? Otherwise it might
have gone through my foot. Do you see?"
"Yes, sir, I see," answered the girl, checking her hilarity as she
recognized, in spite of his battered condition, a wearer of the
cloth. And, sure enough, there in the toe of his left boot was a
small, round hole to which the curate pointed proudly.
"You couldn't possibly guess what made that hole," he declared, "not
in a hundred guesses, so I'll tell you. It was a mole trap. Fancy
that! You know, they set them on the golf course and I poked my toe
right into one. A mole trap, of all things!" Then, glancing
anxiously at his watch, "Half past three! Bless my soul! I can't
possibly get back to Ipping House before four o'clock."
At the mention of Ipping House the Storm girl looked at him with
startled interest and forthwith her whole manner changed.
"Is that where you live?" she asked.
"That's where I am visiting," answered Merle, and his face clouded as
he thought of Harriet. "Ah, well, we must make the best of it," he
sighed. "That little field mouse is happy and--my dear young lady, I
cannot express to you my gratitude for the admirable way in which you
came to my rescue."
"Oh, that's all right."
"Allow me to present myself. I am the Reverend Horatio Merle. I
judge by your appearance and--er--accent that you are a stranger in
this region?"
"Yes," answered Hester, with a quiver of hesitation, "I--I just got
off the train."
Horatio was immediately interested. "The train from London?"
"Yes. I was never here before and----" the pathetic note sounded in
her rich, low voice, "I'll be very grateful, sir, if you will advise
me where to go."
"Why--haven't you friends in Ippingford?" asked Horatio in surprise.
The girl shook her head and her dark eyes rested on the curate with
such an expression of sadness and sweet resignation that he felt
inexpressibly touched.
"My dear young lady," he said in ready sympathy, "my dear
Miss--er----" he paused to give her an opportunity to tell him her
name, but this was precisely what the adroit young woman was not yet
prepared to do. She was not sure what name to give him.
Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, the name she had given to the
police, and it was in pursuit of Miss Thompson (and her golf bag)
that she had come to Ippingford. On the other hand, various
newspapers had chronicled the fact that a young woman named Jenny
Regan was implicated in the robbery of the bishop's purse, and to
give that name here might make trouble for her. And yet if she gave
her real name, Hester Storm, what would Miss Thompson think?
"I have had such a hard time, especially this last year," she
murmured, avoiding the difficulty.
"You must tell me all about it," said the curate kindly. "Come--as
we walk along--all about it."
So it befell that Hester Storm, having started out aimlessly along a
country road, her mind filled with schemes for getting at Miss
Elizabeth Thompson, had, by a lucky chance, fallen in with this
guileless and amiable party who actually lived at Ipping House and
who might be of the greatest use to her.
As they strolled on, side by side, the girl elaborated for Horatio's
benefit the same hard luck story that she had invented for Betty on
the train, the same nursery governess struggles, the same
disappointments and humiliations, only she did the thing much better
for Horatio, having had more practice, and, as she finished, the
curate's eyes were filled with tears.
"My dear young lady, I am inexpressibly touched by your misfortunes,
believe me, I am deeply affected." The intensity of his emotion, as
he spoke these words, caused the reverend gentleman to open his pale
blue eyes very wide (and his powerful glasses magnified them still
farther) so that Hester thought of him suddenly as a strange,
blue-eyed owl bending over her and, to hide her merriment, was forced
to turn away.
"Look at that queer old girl coming down the road," she tittered,
feeling that she must laugh at something.
"Queer old girl!" repeated Horatio, focusing his vision in this new
direction. "Why, bless my soul, it's Harriet!"
A moment later Mrs. Merle joined them, stern of aspect, a female
inquisitioner, with power of life or death, her husband felt, over
wayward though well meaning naturalists.
"Horatio!" breathed the lady, and that one word held such depths of
scorn and menace that the curate never again doubted the possibility
of eternal punishment.
"My dear Harriet," he began weakly, but she cut him short.
"Who is this person?" she demanded, with a freezing glance at Hester.
Then came Horatio's great moment when, inspired with the courage of
despair, he rallied against the breaking storm and, for once in his
life, as Hiram Baxter would have expressed it, played Harriet to a
standstill. Not one instant did he give his wife to press her
attack, not one word of explanation or apology did he vouchsafe, but,
by a masterly use of the feminine method, he put the astounded lady
at once on the defensive, then held her there with admirable
strategy, then drove her back, point by point, until she was utterly
and ignominiously vanquished.
"I have just been in great peril, my dear," he answered gravely. "In
my stained and disordered garments you may see evidence of
the--er--struggle."
"The struggle? Horatio? You have been attacked?" his wife cried in
alarm.
Realizing the value of this suggestion and gaining confidence with
every word, the curate continued, facing Harriet almost sternly now.
"You may see for yourself, my dear, where the weapon penetrated."
"The weapon? Oh, Horatio!" She trembled.
With accusing forefinger, as if Harriet herself were to blame, the
curate pointed to the sinister hole in his boot. "There!" he said.
"And if this young lady had not rushed to my assistance with a
courage and resourcefulness that I have rarely seen equaled----" he
paused to control his emotion, while Mrs. Merle wrung her hands in
distress.
"I have been so hasty, so inconsiderate," she wailed. "I shall never
forgive myself. And you, my dear young lady," she turned her
brimming eyes to Hester, whose face was averted, "what must you think
of me? Horatio, introduce us," she whispered.
"Certainly, my dear, this is my young friend, Miss--er----"
Then the adventuress decided. "Miss Hester Storm," she said simply
and, with her wonderful, wistful smile, she held out her hand to Mrs.
Merle.
"I'm sure I'm very grateful for what you've done, Miss Storm," said
Harriet graciously.
And presently these three, such was the effectiveness of Merle's new
diplomacy, were walking on most amicably toward Ipping House, the
subject of conversation being the wrongs suffered by Hester in a
thankless world and the obligation of the Merles to now, in some
measure, relieve these wrongs. It may be added that never, to the
end of her days, did Harriet Merle fully and clearly grasp the
details of the terrible danger from which this dark-eyed damsel had
saved her husband.
As a turn in the road brought into view the tiny gable of the gray
stone lodge of Ipping House, Harriet saw an opportunity to prove the
genuineness of her penitence and gratitude.
"I have it," she exclaimed with a pleased look. "The very thing,
Horatio!"
"What, my dear?"
"Old Mrs. Pottle!"
"You mean----" he glanced benevolently at Hester.
"I mean that Miss Storm has no place to go in Ippingford, no friends
except ourselves and--there are two spare rooms at the lodge. I am
sure Cousin Hiram would have no objections, and poor Mrs. Pottle
needs some one to help her. Would you mind helping at the lodge, my
dear?"
"No, indeed," answered Hester sweetly. "I am only too glad to help.
It's so kind of you and your husband to give me the opportunity."
Thus it came about that, on the following evening, Hester of the
scarlet cloak was watching eagerly near the lodge when Hiram Baxter's
big automobile swung in through the gate and moved swiftly up the
drive with a musical murmur of its smooth running engine. On the
back seat was Miss Elizabeth Thompson, and Hester thrilled with
excitement as she recognized the fair American, the lady of the golf
bag. Here was her chance, her great chance, but--she had one
misgiving. Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, and now she had
given the curate and his wife her real name, Hester Storm.