THE LETTER
“At the Stones again to-night.” All through that morning in the
corn-field the words were running in Frances’ brain. She tried to
sketch, but her hand seemed to have lost its cunning, and there were
times when a great trembling seized her. His letter she had thrust out
of her mind. She had not read it, nor had she greatly desired to know
what it contained. But his message was different, and again with the
words she seemed to hear that rushing of an unseen car, and recalled the
man, his bearing half-insolent, half-cynical, the curious persistence
with which he had pursued her, the nameless attraction of his
personality. She did not want to answer his message. She did not want to
meet him. But yet—but yet—deep in the very heart of her she knew that
a meeting was inevitable. A reckoning must come, and she was bound to
face it. She might, if she so chose, avoid him now, but she could not
avoid him always. Sooner or later she would have to endure her ordeal,
and tell him—plainly tell him—that the madness was over and her eyes
were open. She was not, and never had been, the type of woman which
apparently he had taken her to be. And if he could not learn this by her
silence she must summon strength to put the matter baldly into words.
She shrank from the thought, but brought herself back to it again and
again. The idea of writing to him presented itself, but she discarded it
with an even greater distaste. When the ordeal was over, she
desired—earnestly desired—that no trace of it should be left behind.
No written word from her was in his possession now, nor should it ever
be. She wanted to thrust away this unclean thing that had come into her
life so that no vestige of it remained. And not until she had done this
would she feel free.
So she argued with herself all through the long sunny morning, while the
bundles of corn fell in ever-increasing numbers, and little Ruth flitted
to and fro playing with the long golden strands that she drew from them.
After a while Oliver came up with a smile on his merry face to talk to
her, but he had scarcely reached her when there came the sound of a
horse’s feet in the lane, and Dr. Square appeared at the gate.
“They told me I should find you here,” he said, and came in and sat down
beside her, while Oliver saluted and went away.
She told the doctor of her drive in the dog-cart to the Stones, and he
expressed some surprise that Arthur had taken her there.
“He usually avoids the place like the plague,” he said.
Her curiosity awakened. “Do you know why?” she said.
“Yes, I know,” said Dr. Square.
She looked at him. “Is it a secret?”
She thought his red, wholesome face had a dubious look, but he answered
her without actual hesitation. “Not that I know of. Naturally they don’t
talk about it here at Tetherstones. It was the scene of a very unhappy
tragedy some six years ago.” His eyes rested upon Ruth busy among the
corn-sheaves at a little distance. “It was one of the sisters,” he said,
“the child’s mother,—a lovely girl—a lovely girl. She died up there in
a blizzard one winter night. She was out of her mind at the time. She
took the little one with her. When we found them, she was frozen stiff,
but the child still lived. Poor mite—poor little girl! She’d better
have gone with her mother.”
“Oh, why do you say that?” Frances said. “She is happy. There are plenty
to love her.”
The doctor’s eyes dwelt very tenderly upon the little figure. “I say it
because it is true,” he said. “She is not like other children, Miss
Thorold. She never will be. She is just—‘a little bit of heaven’
strayed down to earth. She is one of those the gods love.”
“Oh, do you mean that?” Frances said.
He nodded. “I mean it—yes. I told them long ago—the child won’t live
to grow up. They all know it.”
“But they take so little care of her!” said Frances.
“It is far better she should lead a natural life,” he said. “She is just
like a flower of the field. She will have her day—her little day, Miss
Thorold. They are wise to leave her alone. Cooped up within four walls
she would never have lived so long. Freedom is life to her.”
“I often wonder that they dare to let her wander as she does,” Frances
said.
“It is far better,” said Dr. Square. He turned to her with a smile. “Has
it never occurred to you that she is under special protection? I have
often thought it. They are all too busy to look after her, yet she is
safe and happy. I think she is one of the happiest little souls I have
ever met. I have never seen her cry. We need not pity her too much. In
fact, I sometimes think she is hardly to be pitied at all.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Frances said.
The doctor’s philosophy appealed to her. She liked the simple fashion
with which he regarded life. She would not question him further
concerning the Dermot family, for some sense of loyalty restrained her.
But when he was gone, she pondered over the matter. Why did they stay in
a place that contained such painful associations for them? She had
Arthur’s word for it that he had made a success of the farm, and every
indication pointed to the fact. But it had been an uphill fight. Why had
he chosen to make it there?
Midday came, and with it Lucy and Nell to take her back to the house. It
was no great distance across the field to the garden, but it taxed her
powers somewhat, for the ground was rough. She was glad when they
reached the shade of the cedar-tree and she could sit down on the bench
beneath it to rest.
“You had better not go to the corn-field again,” said Nell.
And she acquiesced. She would not do anything strenuous for the rest of
the day. The thought of her letter recurred to her, and she looked about
but saw nothing of it. Evidently it had blown away.
After a brief interval she continued her journey to the house where
Maggie joined them with kindly concern on her rosy face.
“You do look tired,” she said. “Come and sit down in the kitchen for a
little and see Mother scalding the cream!”
The kitchen was oak-raftered and possessed an immense open fire-place
with a brick oven at the side. Frances went in and was welcomed by Mrs.
Dermot in her gentle, tired fashion, and made to sit down in a
high-backed, wooden arm-chair.
The girls buzzed around her, and she had almost begun to forget her own
pressing problem in the homely atmosphere when a sudden angry shout rang
through the house, and in a moment every voice in the kitchen was
hushed.
Frances, who was speaking to Mrs. Dermot at the moment saw her put her
hand to her heart. Maggie came to her quickly and put an arm about her.
But she spoke no word, and the silence was terrible.
Then from the stone passage outside came a voice, Arthur’s voice, short
and peremptory.
“I’ll stand no more of this, and you know it. Let me pass!”
There was a brief pause, then an answering voice—the broken, quavering
voice of an old man. “I have no wish to keep you here. You come into my
room, tamper with my belongings, threaten me. I only ask you to go. What
have I done that I should be treated like this?”
“What have you done?” A sound that was inexpressibly bitter followed the
words. “Well, not much on this occasion perhaps. But I warn you, it had
better not happen again. I will have no more of it. You understand?”
“No.” Sudden dignity dispelled all agitation in the rejoinder. “I do not
understand how my son who, if he is not a gentleman, has at least had
the upbringing of one, as well as the advantage of good birth, can bring
himself to treat his father with a brutality that he would not display
towards the dog in the stable. I protest against your behaviour, though
I am as fully aware as you are that I have no remedy.”
“None, sir, none.” Again that horrible jarring note was in Arthur’s
voice. “It would be as well if you always bore that in mind. I am the
master here, as I have told you before.”
“You are a damned blackguard,” said the old man in a voice that was
deadly cold. “Now leave my room!”
There came the instant closing of a door, a step outside, and Arthur
entered. The veins stood out on his forehead; his face was terrible. He
looked round the kitchen, paused for a moment with his eyes upon Frances
as if he would speak; then, without a word, took a glass from the
dresser, and went out to a pump in the yard.
Mrs. Dermot drew a deep breath and gently released herself from Maggie’s
arm. She turned as if to follow her son, but in a moment checked the
impulse and busied herself over the fire.
He entered again almost immediately, the tumbler half full in his hand.
He went straight to his mother and murmured something in a low voice.
She shook her head in silence. He drained the glass and set it down.
Again his look went to Frances, and again he seemed on the verge of
speech. Then a faint sob came from Lucy, and he swung round upon her
with a scowl.
She recoiled from him, and instantly Nell the valiant sprang into the
breach. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Arthur, stop ramping!” she said. “Go
away if you can’t control yourself, and come back when you feel better!
We’ll have dinner ready in twenty minutes.”
“Then you can send mine out to the farm-yard,” he rejoined curtly. “I’ll
wait for it there.”
He was gone with the words, and there went up a breath of relief from
the kitchen at his exit.
“Hadn’t we better get to work?” said Mrs. Dermot in her weary, subdued
voice. “Father will be wanting his dinner too.”
Frances stood up. “I will go up to my room,” she said.
“Shall I come?” said Elsie.
“No, please don’t! I can manage quite well alone.” She passed the girl
with a smile, intent upon removing herself before they should discover
her presence to be an embarrassment. As she left the kitchen she heard a
buzz of talk arise among the girls, and one very audible remark from
Nell pursued her as she went. “Oh, we’ll get his dinner for him. It’s a
pity he doesn’t always feed among the pigs.”
Frances passed on, feeling oddly shaken. As she rounded the corner of
the stairs, Oliver came clattering in from the back premises and
overtook her. He stopped her without ceremony.
“I just want a word with you, Miss Thorold. Do you mind? Don’t think
it’s cheek on my part. It’s too urgent for that.”
She stood and faced him. “Oliver, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, don’t worry!” he said. “Don’t be scared! It’s just this. A friend
of yours was just outside here to-day, asking for you. That is to say,
he asked Ruth about you, for I asked her what he wanted and she said he
gave her a message for you.”
“Yes; that is so,” Frances said. “But what—what——”
“What business is it of mine?” he said. “It isn’t my business, that’s
straight. But you just listen a minute! I’m not rotting. You get that
friend of yours out of the way—quick! Understand? There’s no time to be
lost. If he stays in the neighbourhood there’ll be trouble. You tell him
to go, Miss Thorold! It’s a friend’s advice, and for heaven’s sake, take
it!”
He spoke with great earnestness, and she saw that there were beads of
perspiration on his forehead.
“It’s true as gospel,” he said. “He’s in danger. I can’t tell you what
it is. But I’ll take my dying oath it’s true. It’s up to you to warn
him, and if you don’t—well, you’ll regret it all your life, that’s
all.”
He paused and wiped his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. She stood and
looked at him, conscious of a feeling of dread that made her physically
cold. What was the meaning of these tumults and warnings, these
mysterious under-currents that seemed to be perpetually drawing her
towards tragedy? What was the direful secret of this sinister house?
Oliver saw her distress, and dismissed his own with a jerk. “Don’t be
upset!” he said. “There’s no harm done yet—not so far as I know. But
don’t let him hang round any longer! If Arthur were to get a sight of
him—” He broke off. “That’s all. Hope we shall see you in the field
again to-morrow. It’s good weather for harvesting. We ought to be
carrying by the end of the week if it lasts.”
She knew from his tone that he was speaking for the benefit of a third
person, but she did not turn her head to look. She knew without that
that Arthur was standing at the end of the passage, and she began to
ascend the stairs with a distinct feeling that escape was imperative.
Oliver went away into the kitchen, and she rounded the curve of the old
staircase and began to quicken her pace. But her knees were so weak and
her breathing so short that she thought she would never reach the top.
Then, with a sudden start of consternation, she heard the tread of
Arthur’s feet below, and knew that he was coming up behind her.
She mustered all her strength then in desperation, for she felt she
could not face him at that moment; and gasping, stumbling, unnerved, she
practically fled before him.
The door of her room stood open, but she lacked the power to close it as
she entered. She could only stagger to the nearest chair and fall into
it, panting.
He came on up the stairs. She heard his feet upon the bare oak. He
reached the open door and stopped.
“Miss Thorold!” he said.
Then he must have seen her condition, for he came in without further
ceremony.
“You’ve been frightened,” he said.
She could not answer him because of the wild palpitation of her heart.
He bent over her; then suddenly knelt beside her, and she felt the
strong grip of his hand on hers.
“There’s nothing to frighten you,” he said, in his deep voice, and she
knew that for some reason he was moved.
She leaned her head against the back of the chair, battling with her
weakness. “I am not very strong yet,” she managed to say.
“I know—I know! You’ll be better presently. Don’t take any notice of
these trifles!”
The gentleness of his voice amazed her; it had the sound of a
half-suppressed appeal, and something within her stirred in answer.
“You are very good to me,” she said.
“Good! To you!” There was almost a passionate note in his reply. His
grip upon her hand tightened, and then in a moment he seemed to control
himself, and very slowly he set her free and rose. “What I wanted to say
to you,” he said, “is just that I am sorry that you should have been
upset in any way by any unfortunate family disagreements. I don’t know
what Oliver was saying to you on the subject; he probably told you that
they are by no means unusual. But please take my word for it that it
shall not happen again if I can possibly prevent it, and make allowances
where you can!”
The appeal was unmistakable this time, and again that sense of
comradeship possessed her in spite of all misgiving. She smiled at him
without speaking, and somehow his answering smile sent a quick thrill to
her heart.
He turned to go, then abruptly wheeled back to her. “One thing more!
I’ve found your letter—the one you lost in the garden. Do you want it
back, or may I destroy it?”
She gave a gasp of surprise. “You have found it? Where—where was it?”
“In the garden,” he repeated, with a certain doggedness.
She looked up at him. “Where is it now?”
“In my pocket,” he said. “Do you want it?”
“I think I had better have it,” she said.
“You are sure?” His eyes met hers with the old challenging look, and her
own fell beneath them.
Nevertheless she held out her hand. “Please!” she said.
The next moment she found the missing letter thrust into her fingers,
but she did not even look at it. She was staring at his retreating
figure as he went out and closed the door sharply behind him.