MR. DERMOT
“My father!” said Arthur Dermot.
The old man had reached them. He stood, leaning on a knotted stick,
looking at her. Again she marvelled, for it was the face of a scholar—a
dreamer—that she beheld. It had the grey hue of one who seldom moves in
the sunshine. The eyes were drawn as if they did not see very clearly or
were continually looking for something beyond their range of vision. His
hair was snowy white. She thought he must be very old.
“Is this our visitor from the moors?” he asked, in a feeble tenor voice
that somehow stirred her compassion.
“Yes,—Miss Thorold.” Arthur’s reply was curt, almost as if he resented
the old man’s presence. His whole attitude was uncompromising.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Dermot courteously addressing
Frances. “I was so grieved to hear of the unfortunate result of your
adventure. I trust you are now nearly restored to your normal health?”
“I am much better,” Frances said. “I have been telling your son how
very, very grateful I am for all the kindness that has been shown me
here.”
“Not at all—not at all,” said Mr. Dermot. “It has been a great pleasure
to us all to be of any service to you. You are a stranger in this part
of this world, I hear?”
“Yes. I came here for a rest. It was foolish of me to get lost on the
moor,” said Frances, smiling ruefully. “I shall never do that again.”
“Ah! It must have been a very unpleasant experience. It is strange that
you should have been found at the Stones.” The tired old face reflected
her smile. “There is a tradition hereabouts that the devil walks there
at night. You did not meet him by any chance?”
“No,” Frances said. “I did not meet him. Curiously enough, I have never
even seen the Stones. I did not know they were there. The night was so
dark and misty.”
“It is a very interesting spot,” said Mr. Dermot. “A Druidical
circle—according to some—though others believe it to be the result of
a volcanic upheaval many thousands of years ago. I myself held the
former theory. There are certain marks which in my opinion can only have
been made by iron staples. This supports the current belief that
Druidical victims were chained there previous to sacrifices. Hence the
name of Tetherstones.”
He uttered the word deliberately, with a smile towards his son, who
stood on one side moodily fidgeting with the riding-whip he held.
“What a ghastly idea!” said Frances.
“It is somewhat gruesome certainly, but it holds considerable interest
for the student. If you are at all attracted by this type of research I
shall be very pleased to conduct you to the Stones one day and to point
out all the features which in my opinion tend to support this theory. My
son Arthur,” again he smiled, “has no use for relics of any description.
He is too busy tilling the ground to give his attention to the study of
mere stones.”
“Too busy grinding his bread from them!” put in Arthur with a cynical
twist of the lips. “Miss Thorold will not be equal to a climb to the
Stones for some time yet. And I doubt if they would interest her very
greatly when she got there.”
“Indeed they would interest me,” Frances said. “I have always been
attracted by the study of old things. I hope Mr. Dermot will one day be
kind enough to show me what he has just been describing.”
“With pleasure—with pleasure,” said the old man, evidently gratified by
her sympathy. “Sunset is a very favourite time for seeing them. The
evening shadows are very beautiful up there.”
“Little Ruth has been telling me about them,” Frances said.
“Ah! The child! The little blind child who lives with us! Yes, yes, of
course, the child!” The old man’s voice was suddenly vague. He frowned a
little as one who seeks to capture an elusive memory. “It is strange how
little her infirmity hampers her,” he said, after a moment. “I sometimes
think she has an inner vision that serves her more effectually than
physical sight. The brain of a blind person must be a very interesting
study.”
“She seems wonderfully happy,” Frances said.
“Yes, yes, she is always happy—like—like—another child I used to
know.” Old Mr. Dermot’s eyes took a sudden pathetic look. “I lost that
child,” he said. “There are a great many others—a great many others;
but she was the darling of them all.” He turned with sudden
querulousness upon the younger man standing silently by. “Why are you
waiting here? Why don’t you go back to the grinding of your stones?”
“I am waiting for Ruth,” his son made quiet rejoinder, without the
movement of a muscle. “I have sent her to fetch something.”
Mr. Dermot’s fine mouth curved satirically. “My son likes to be waited
upon,” he observed to Frances. “When you are well enough, he will make
use of you too. We all have to work for him. He is a hard taskmaster.”
Frances smiled. “I shall be only too glad to be of use to any of you,”
she said. “I am very much in your debt at present.”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” he returned paternally. “We do not talk of
debts at Tetherstones. Nor do we let our visitors work. Unless,” he
smiled back at her with a kindliness that won its way to her heart, “you
would like to help me perhaps. I am writing a book on the Stones.”
“Miss Thorold is not well enough to do anything at present,” said Arthur
with brief decision. “We must not worry her. Remember, she is an
invalid, and she must be treated as such.”
“Oh, but I am much stronger,” Frances said quickly, for it hurt her to
see the sudden animation fade from the grey old face. “I should love to
help you if I could. Do you think I can?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Dermot, and she was surprised by an odd
hopeless ring in his voice. “A great many have tried to help me, but it
is a very difficult matter, and no one has succeeded yet.”
“You must let me try,” Frances said gently, with the feeling that she
was comforting a child. “I should like to try.”
She uttered the last words with a glance towards Arthur and was
surprised by the sternness of his expression. He was not looking at her,
but at the old man who stood leaning on his stick with his faded blue
eyes gazing sadly before him.
“You may try if you like,” said Mr. Dermot. “But my moments of
inspiration are getting rare. Yet I should like to have finished that
book when I come to die. It is good to leave something behind to mark
where one fell.”
The dreaminess of tone and words smote upon her senses like a knell.
Again she tried to find some comforting words, but they were checked by
the sight of Ruth coming across the grass in her light, confident
fashion. They all watched her, as it were by common consent. She was
singing to herself, her little tuneless song.
“Strange!” said the old man suddenly. “They say that blind birds always
have the sweetest notes.”
He moved to meet the child, and she put out her hand to him with a
smile.
“Oh, Grandpa, are you back again? I am so glad you are back.”
“Are you glad, little one?” He stooped to kiss the upturned face. “Have
you missed the old man all this time?”
“I like it best when you are here,” she answered. “We all do. Shall we
go for a walk now, Grandpa? My dear Granny said I might go to the
Stones. I want to gather some giant harebells for Miss Thorold.”
“May I have my pouch?” said Arthur.
She had it in her hand. She turned and gave it to him. “And there is a
letter for Miss Thorold Aunt Maggie told me to bring out. Old Mrs.
Trehearn has just brought it.”
“A letter!” said Frances, and felt her heart jerk upon the word.
Silently Arthur handed it to her. One glance at the address was enough.
She could not control the swift tremor that went through her as she
murmured her thanks.
“And Dr. Square is here,” said Ruth. “He is drinking elder-flower wine
in the kitchen. He told me to say he is just coming out to see Miss
Thorold.”
“Then we will go,” said Mr. Dermot, turning towards the couch with a
courteous gesture. “Miss Thorold, I hope I have not tired you. You are
very pale. Give Dr. Square my compliments, Arthur! Tell him I am back
again and feeling much better. Good-bye, Miss Thorold! When next I have
the pleasure of seeing you, I shall be bringing you my book to read.”
He went, Ruth treading lightly by his side, noiseless and dainty as a
scrap of thistledown.
Arthur had not stirred from his post by the foot of the couch. He stood
there, massively, filling his pipe. And Frances lay, breathing quickly,
her letter unopened in her hand.
Suddenly the man’s eyes looked across at her, straight and challenging.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” he said.
She quivered at the abrupt question. She knew that she could not open
that letter in his presence.
He realized the fact instantly, and she saw an odd gleam of triumph in
his eyes. He turned and picked up his cap.
“All right. I’m going. But don’t forget—whatever he has to say—you’ve
promised to stay here for the present!”
He was gone with the words, striding away towards the house, leaving her
oddly disconcerted and unsure of herself.
Yes, she had promised to stay. At the bidding of this man whom she
scarcely knew, she had yielded the point and she knew that he would keep
her to it. His attitude was wholly incomprehensible to her, convinced as
she was that he had wished her gone. But in his taciturn, ungracious
fashion he had somehow made it impossible for her to go. She wondered,
as she watched him depart, if he were pleased—or otherwise—with his
morning’s work. Even with his last words vibrating in her mind, she
greatly doubted if he had acted in accordance with his own inclination.
She knew he had meant to be kind, but was it under pressure perhaps from
someone else—Dolly, his mother, or the old tired man his father, who
had evidently but just returned to the farm after a prolonged absence?
It was impossible to tell. She was bound to suspend judgment. And
meantime—meantime that second letter from Montague Rotherby was yet
unopened in her trembling hand.