FAILURE
Well as she knew the way to the Stones from the farm, she had never
trodden it save on that one occasion in the fog when Ruth had been her
guide. They were approached by a steep and winding lane that led up
between high banks to the still steeper track on the open moor that ran
directly to them. The whole distance could not be more than half-a-mile,
she reflected, as she sat in her room that evening, considering the task
that lay before her.
She hoped to accomplish it unobserved, for she knew that the entire
household retired by nine, and some of its members even before that hour
in view of the early rising that the farm work entailed; and since she
had no intention of allowing her interview with Rotherby to be unduly
prolonged, she anticipated that the whole adventure need not take more
than half-an-hour or at the most three-quarters. She intended to assume
an attitude so prosaically business-like that he would find it
impossible to return, or even to attempt to return, to their former
relations. In fact, she felt herself to be armed at every point and
ready for him. For she felt neither attraction nor repulsion for him
now, merely a sort of cold-blooded, wholly impersonal, interest in him
as a stepping-stone to that independence which was the dream of her
life. It seemed he could help her; therefore she was not in a position
to throw him aside. But as a man she scarcely regarded him at all. He
had become no more than the medium for the attainment of her
ambition—the stepping-stone to ambition—no more than that. How often
in life do we thus deceive ourselves, imagining ourselves free and not
discerning the bonds of our slavery?
The coming of Dolly at nine o’clock was usually the signal of the
general retirement of the rest of the family, but Dolly was a little
late that night. She and Milly had been absent for the whole day and
they evidently had a good deal to talk about. When Dolly came to her
eventually, it was nearly half-an-hour later than usual. Frances was
sitting by her open window, watching the moon rise.
“So you’re not in bed yet!” said Dolly. “I was afraid you would be tired
of waiting.”
“Oh, no,” Frances said. “I can quite easily put myself to bed, thank
you. Have you had a good day? Has all gone well?”
“Oh, yes, on the whole. We were rather surprised to come upon Oliver in
Fordestown on our way back. It isn’t like him to absent himself without
permission, especially at such a time as harvest. Of course we thought
Arthur had given him leave. Did you know he was going?”
“I?” said Frances, and stared for a moment in amazement; then suddenly
remembered the reason of his going and felt the unwelcome knowledge burn
her. “What makes you ask?” she said, after a moment.
“Oh, nothing.” Dolly came to her to take down her hair. “Ruth said he
was talking to you just before he went, that was all. I wondered if
possibly he might have mentioned what he was going to do and why. It
doesn’t matter in the least. There will probably be a row when he comes
back, that’s all. He generally manages to get round Arthur, but I don’t
think he will this time.”
“I should like to do my hair myself to-night,” said Frances. “Thank you
very much. I am really strong enough now, and I am sure you must be very
tired after your long day.”
“Just as you like,” said Dolly. “I am not tired at all. In fact, if it
weren’t for getting up in the morning, I should feel inclined to sit up
and see what happens.”
“But what can happen?” questioned Frances quickly.
Dolly laughed briefly. “Well, he can find himself locked out for the
night, that’s all—unless Arthur sits up for him. But I should hardly
think he’ll do that. He has got to be up early himself.”
“What will he do if he is locked out?” asked Frances.
“Probably one of the girls—Maggie—would let him in if the coast were
clear. If not, he would have to sleep out somewhere. That wouldn’t kill
him,” said Dolly cheerfully. “Well, if you are sure you can manage all
right—Have you had a good day?”
“Quite, thank you,” said Frances. “Good night! I am feeling much
stronger than I was and quite able to put myself to bed.”
“That’s all right,” said Dolly. “It’s much pleasanter to do for oneself,
isn’t it?”
She went, and Frances was once more alone. She blew out the candle that
Dolly had lighted and settled down again to wait.
Dolly’s news was disquieting. She had hoped that all the household would
have been wrapped in slumber before the time arrived for her own
expedition, but it seemed that this was not to be. She wondered how she
would manage to elude observation. She hated the thought of creeping out
by stealth, but there seemed to be no help for it. Time was getting
short, and if Arthur proposed to sit up for the defaulter she would have
no choice but to risk it.
Slowly the harvest moon mounted in the sky. The boughs of the cedar-tree
stood out black against the radiance. She rose at last and wrapped her
shawl about her. The night was warm, and she would not be long. She had
not heard Arthur pass her door, so she concluded that he was still in
the kitchen. She had thought the whole matter out and decided upon her
plan of action. There was a casement window in the parlour, easily
opened and near the ground. She would not need to pass the kitchen to
reach this room, and only the window of the old man’s study overlooked
that corner of the garden. She felt sure that he would have retired long
since, and even if he had not, he was the last person in the world to
act the spy.
She smiled to herself as cautiously she opened her door. A certain
spirit of adventure had entered into her; her brain was cool, her nerves
steady. She was even conscious of a mischievous feeling of elation. It
seemed so long since she had taken any step on her own initiative. She
realized that the general sense of bondage had begun to oppress her
also.
The passage was in darkness, but a light was dimly burning at the foot
of the stairs. Arthur was sitting up, then. She wondered what would
happen when Oliver returned, if there would be high words between the
two men, if Oliver would manage to vindicate himself, or carry the
situation with a high hand as on the previous occasion which she had
witnessed. Then Oliver’s warning came back upon her, his urgent words,
his barely disguised agitation. He had been very much in earnest when he
had counselled her to dismiss Rotherby. What did it all mean, she
wondered? Perhaps Rotherby himself might be able to throw light upon the
mystery.
She crept to the head of the stairs and paused. As she did so, she heard
the soft opening of a door a few yards behind her, and a chink of light
gleamed along the passage. It was impossible to return to her room
unobserved, but she was dressed in grey and the shawl she wore was a
dark one. She knew herself to be invisible against the wall in the
gloom, and she stood up against it and waited.
In a second or two a white-clad figure stole out, came bare-footed
almost as far as her hiding-place, but stopped just short of it and hung
over the banisters to listen. Frances stood rigid, not daring to
breathe. In a moment there came a faint sob from the bending figure so
close to her, and a sharp dart of compassion went through Frances. She
was actually on the verge of betraying herself when there came another
sound from along the passage, the creak of footsteps, a piercing
whisper—Elsie’s:—“Maggie, what are you doing there? Maggie, come back
to bed! We’ll never wake in time to get the cows milked if you don’t.”
Another figure came sturdily into view with the words, and Maggie turned
sharply back to meet it.
“Oh, Elsie, I thought you were asleep!” she said.
“I was,” said Elsie. “And then I found you weren’t there. For goodness’
sake, be sensible and come to bed! What is the good of hanging about out
here?”
“I’m worried about Oliver,” Maggie said rather piteously. “Will there be
a row, do you think?”
“Good gracious, I don’t know,” said Elsie. “Don’t care either. Oliver’s
quite capable of taking care of himself. If he isn’t—well, I’ve no use
for him. Come along to bed, do, and don’t make a fuss about nothing!”
“Arthur was in a bad mood this evening,” protested Maggie. “I expect
that’s why Oliver went without asking. He knew it wouldn’t be any good.
Oh, I wish he hadn’t done it. I’m so afraid——”
She left the sentence unfinished, for suddenly there sounded a movement
from below, followed by the tread of a man’s feet on the stairs.
“Come on!” said Elsie, and the two girls fled back to their room.
The impulse to follow their example seized upon Frances, but in a moment
she restrained it. The chances were very much against his seeing her,
and she had fled from him once that day. Pride came to the aid of her
courage, and she remained where she was.
He came up the stairs heavily, as if weary. He carried no light, but he
had not extinguished the glimmer below. Presumably he had left this for
Oliver’s benefit. Further along the passage, the moonlight filtered in
through a latticed window, but the stairs themselves were in almost
complete darkness.
Slowly he ascended them. He was close to her now, and involuntarily she
shrank from him, pressing harder against the wall. She felt her heart
begin to beat fast and loud, and wondered if he would hear it in the
silence. But he came on and passed her without a sign. Then, as she
still stood there palpitating against the wall, she heard him go
deliberately along the passage to the door through which the two girls
had just retreated, and open it without ceremony.
His voice come to her where she stood. “If either of you comes out again
to-night, there’ll be trouble, so take warning and stay where you are!”
He shut the door again without waiting for any reply and turned aside
into his own room.
It was her opportunity and she seized it. Swiftly she gathered herself
together, stood a second poised and listening, then, hearing nothing,
began to descend the stairs.
They creaked beneath her feet notwithstanding her utmost caution, but no
sound came to her from above, and she went on with increasing rapidity.
Reaching the foot, she discovered that the glimmer of light came from
the half-open kitchen door. Evidently a lamp was burning within, and
that seemed to indicate that Arthur meant to return. But her way lay in
the opposite direction, and she slipped into the dark passage that led
to the parlour.
She thought she knew the place by heart, but there was one thing she had
forgotten. Half-way to the parlour, in an angle of the wall, there stood
an old oak settle, and into this she suddenly ran headlong. The settle
scraped on the stone floor with the force of the impact, and she herself
fell over it with arms outstretched, bruised and half-stunned with the
violence of the collision. It all took place so rapidly, and her dismay
was such, that she scarcely knew what had happened to her ere the sound
of feet on the stairs told her that she was discovered. She sank down in
a quivering heap on the floor, gasping and helpless, no longer
attempting any concealment. And in another moment Arthur had reached
her, was bending over her, feeling for her, lifting her.
She gave herself into his hold with a curious sense of fatalism.