AN ENCOUNTER BY NIGHT
At Evenden Priory the preparations were complete for the first
shooting party of the season. Jill Kilby for several days had been
engaged altogether in writing letters of invitation, interviewing
tradesmen on her mistress’s behalf, arranging accommodation for the
servants of the expected guests, and the thousand and one other duties
that fell to her lot; for, she acted as secretary, as well as
companion, to Lady Evenden.
Jill was glad of the distraction, because it freed her, in great
degree, from the attentions of Frank Gough, who still remained at the
Priory.
For Jack, when he arrived, the Prior’s Room had been prepared. This
was a room seldom used; it stood in a tower at the extreme eastern
gable of the Priory. Tradition had it that it was the room occupied,
in the old days, by the Lord Prior himself; and, for several hundred
years, generation after generation of Evendens had declared it
haunted. It was said that on the eve of the feast of St. Michael and
All Angels, the day on which Cromwell’s soldiers had arrived long ago
to work their havoc, the ghost of the last prior, John Paseley,
appeared and sadly walked his ancient haunts.
Certainly many tales were told of members of the family and their
guests who had braved the alleged terrors of the Prior’s Room on that
fateful day, and had experienced some nameless horror. All had
hurriedly left the room, unable to describe the experience, yet
determined never to set foot in it again.
As, however, the house was full, and Jack was the least superstitious
man in the world, Sir Michael laughingly gave his consent to the room
being prepared for his eldest son.
Meanwhile, Jack had left Portsmouth for London, _en route_ for Evenden
Priory, with a mind still troubled by the disclosure of his friend,
Basil Towers, about the earlier life of his beautiful stepmother.
As he lay back in the corner of his compartment, he turned over, and
over again, the details of that tragedy on the shores of Loch Lomond,
and wondered if it could be possible that his stepmother, with her
sweet nature, possibly could have been associated with an act of such
unspeakable horror. Jack refused to believe it. There must be, he
felt, some good explanation.
He determined to ask her about it; and, if she told him that his
father knew all about it--well, then, he would let it go at that. His
father probably knew best.
He had several purchases to make in London; so, he drove first of all
to Liverpool Street Station and deposited his luggage in the
cloakroom. Then he set off on a round of shopping. He made a call at
his tailor’s in Savile Row; then he called at a shop in the Burlington
Arcade to buy a present for his stepmother. It was when he emerged
from that shop that he encountered a figure that caused him to halt
for a second and catch his breath.
The girl--for it was a girl--was tall, slim, clad in a closely-fitting
fashionable black tailored suit; her face was pale, her lips--rather
generous lips--were a deep red, and her eyes, large, violet-hued, and
wonderfully expressive. Jack would have remained silent and allowed
her to pass. But, the girl also caught sight of him at the same time
and immediately stopped.
“Hello, Jack!” she exclaimed. “Wonders will never cease. Imagine
meeting you in the Burlington Arcade!”
“How are you, Brenda?” Jack responded, taking her proffered hand. It
was no other than Brenda Trenchard, the companion of his mother of
three years ago, whose rejection of him had caused him to declare
himself a bachelor for life.
“I’m very well, Jack, and I see you look well. I am glad to see you.
Do tell me all the news. How long have you been married, Jack?” She
smiled roguishly as she asked the question.
“I am not married--why should you imagine such a stupid thing?” Jack
asked rather seriously.
The girl laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “when a man says to a girl
that he will never marry because she refuses him, watch the papers!
You will possibly see his engagement announced within three weeks!”
“You’ll have to watch the papers a long time before you see my
engagement announced,” Jack responded rather bitterly. “Did you think
me the type to change much, Brenda?”
“Well, I don’t know--you never can tell.” The girl spoke
half-seriously, half-mockingly; then, with a laugh, she shrugged her
shoulders. “But, my dear Jack, we’re getting quite serious, and that
will never do. Do you want to take me to tea?”
“I should be delighted,” Jack eagerly replied. “Where shall we go?”
Brenda laughed. “I really do believe you are, after all, a confirmed
bachelor, Jack. Imagine a man not asking a girl to tea, and not
knowing where to take her!”
“Well,” Jack began, in some confusion, “I hardly know--I stay at the
Charing Cross Hotel myself when in London, but----”
“Poor, dear old Jack!” (Brenda looked charming as she laughed, Jack
thought.) “Take me to Rumpelmyer’s if you like, or the Piccadilly.”
“Very well, let’s go to the Piccadilly,” Jack agreed.
Arrived at the Piccadilly, they had tea, and, as he watched Brenda in
charge of the cups, Jack thought how much more beautiful she was than,
even in the old days, when she represented to him the most beautiful
thing on earth. They chatted lightly of the events of the years that
had passed since they had parted.
It appeared that Brenda had inherited a small competency from an aunt,
and was secretary to a Cabinet Minister. Two hours slipped by very
quickly; and, as Brenda rose, Jack felt once more all the power of the
love he once had declared to her. He determined to make one more
attempt to win her. Fearful that she would laugh at him--Brenda seemed
to laugh at everything now--awkwardly, self-consciously, he began.
“Brenda, Brenda--I--do you think---- I----”
“Yes?” Brenda interrupted his stammering with a sweet smile. “What is
it, Jack?”
“Forgive me, Brenda.” Jack’s confusion was pitiful; his honest face
was flushed, but Brenda gave him no help. Had he noticed it, however,
a very tender smile played about the corners of her mobile lips.
“I---- oh, don’t laugh at me too much, Brenda, darling, I can’t help
it. I used to love you and I do love you. Do you think there will ever
be a chance?”
“I’m certainly not going to allow any scenes in this lounge, if that’s
what you mean,” Brenda replied, with a glance about her. “Get a taxi,
you old chump, and drive me to my flat--Sloane Street, Knightsbridge.
Come along.” As she spoke, she arose and led the way out of the
lounge. Like a man in a dream, Jack followed her, hailed the taxi,
assisted Brenda in, and automatically got in himself. For a moment or
two he did not speak. Brenda watched him with a little smile from her
corner. He turned to her.
“Brenda--you heard what I said. I’m not good at this sort of
thing----”
“You certainly are not,” Brenda agreed.
“But I love you, Brenda, I----”
Then happened the most wonderful thing which had ever come to Jack.
Two arms were wound about his neck, and kisses were rained upon him.
Lips that he had loved to kiss were pressed to his--this time in
complete and happy yielding. A little voice, very sweet, with a sob in
it, said ever so gently:
“Dear, dear old Jack--I’ve wanted you all the time. Why have you been
so long?”
Then Jack knew that fairy tales were actualities, and that dreams do
come true.
* * * * * * * *
Dinner was in process of being served at Evenden Priory that night
when a telegram arrived which Sir Michael opened and read. He frowned,
then handed it to Lady Evenden. It merely said:
“Delayed in London on most urgent business for at least three days;
expect me about Friday. Don’t be surprised if I bring some one else.
Love.--Jack.”
“Fancy that,” said Sir Michael in some annoyance. “I wonder what can
have detained him. I was counting upon him to-morrow. We’re a gun
short now.”
Several of the guests, who knew Jack well, expressed their polite
disappointment. But, soon the talk spread to other topics, and the
dinner went merrily on.
After dinner, when the ladies, taking their cue from Lady Evenden, had
withdrawn, chairs were moved up and port was served. Sir Michael
always sat for three quarters of an hour after the ladies had gone,
and many a good joke, that set those at the table in a roar of
laughter, was told, many a tale of prowess in the shooting-field, and
many a local anecdote was dished up by the same old squires, in the
same old way, that they had been since Sir Michael could remember.
He did not mind that. It was music to his ears. A great sense of
security came to him as he sat there in the center of his friends. The
Evenden estates were more soundly endowed than they had been in any
period of their history. The oft-told tales of some of his guests were
not boring to Sir Michael; they were part of the Priory--part of the
home he had always loved so well, worked for so hard to get back--aye,
he thought as he sat there, even sinned to get back.
As the thought occurred to him, Sir Michael shuddered, but quickly
recovered himself, shrugged his shoulders, helped himself to another
glass of the famous ’34 port, and joined in the laughter that followed
a tale of Frank’s.
Immediately after telling it, Frank excused himself and left the room.
He made his way direct to the drawing-room in search of Jill; but she
was not there. The night was warm for September, and one of the French
windows stood wide open; so, thinking that perhaps Jill had stepped
out, on to the lawn to take the air, Frank followed.
There was an autumn nip in the air, and a slight mist had spread over
the park. In the distance an owl hooted; while, nearby, he saw the
erratic flight of a couple of bats. He threw away the stump of his
cigar the better to enjoy the scented air; then he walked slowly
across the lawn.
Arrived at the point where the lawn joined a shrubbery bordering the
main carriage drive, he halted, discerning two figures--a man and a
woman. Wondering who they were, he approached more closely, being
careful not to be observed. From the shadow of a tree he recognized
them. They were members of the house party, and he smiled to think of
what the wife of the one and the husband of the other would say if
they had the view he had. But, the girl was not Jill; so, he passed
on.
Giving up all hope of meeting her, he walked along the shrubbery path
to where it joined the drive. There, to his astonishment, he found
that the small wicket gate was open. This gate invariably was kept
locked, and all members of the household had a latchkey to fit it.
Frank walked through and continued down the drive.
He walked on, until in the distance the lights of the lodge-keeper’s
place twinkled, then, about to return, he again changed his mind. He
decided he would stroll down and have a word with old Middlemas, at
the lodge. With this intention he proceeded, but he had not gone far
when he heard voices quite close at hand. He stopped, withdrew into
the shadow of a huge oak tree, and listened. Unmistakably there were
two voices--a man’s and a woman’s. He started--the woman’s voice was
Jill Kilby’s--and she was here--talking to a man!
Frank stood, silent as a statue, and listened. At first, the faint
breeze, ruffling the leaves, interfered with his hearing. But,
presently he accustomed his ears to the sound, and distinctly heard
Jill speaking.
“But I don’t like to tell his mother, Wilfred. I can manage him quite
well. If I were to tell his mother I should certainly lose my
position. And I don’t want to do that. I like Lady Evenden and I like
Sir Michael, and I like the life. Don’t be silly, dear. I know best.”
“What the devil’s this?” muttered Frank to himself.
“Oh, I wish you would let me speak to Lady Evenden, Jill darling,” the
man replied. “I am sure if she is the decent woman you say she is, she
would listen to reason, and stop that young cad of hers from pestering
you.”
“By all the gods, that’s a bit hot,” Frank again muttered. “So, this
is the other man she mentioned, is it?” His ruminations were cut
short, for Jill was talking again.
“You must be content to leave things to my judgment, Wilfred,” she
said. “I told you before you came down that you were taking a great
risk by coming and staying at the village inn. That was bad enough in
all conscience, but to expect me to meet you in the very grounds is
positively stupid, you dear old thing. You know, I have already told
you that Lady Evenden hates you for some reason. What would happen if
she found out that you were here?”
“This is all very interesting, I’m sure,” said Frank to himself. “I
seem to have stumbled on a pretty little intrigue.”
“Well, darling, you know how I long to be beside you,” the man
replied. “Do you blame me very much, Jill dear?”
“N-o,” Jill replied, and there was a sound of kissing. Frank ground
his teeth in fury. Very little more was said, and the lovers
separated.
It took a great effort on Frank’s part not to come out and declare
himself, but prudence dictated his silence for the time being. He
would find out a little more about this astonishing affair, and then
decide what course to pursue. He waited in the shadow of the oak until
he saw Wilfred Barlow stride off down the drive in the direction of
the lodge, and Jill, after waiting a moment, walk hurriedly towards
the house. Then he followed.
“I wonder what it all means,” he mused. “That she has a lover is
simple enough. But what do they mean by the tale about my mother
hating him, whoever he is? I must find out something about that. What
interest can my mother have in the confounded man, anyhow? I shall
find some way of dealing with both, or my name isn’t what it is.”
Still deep in thought, Frank returned to the house and, after glancing
in the drawing-room and seeing Jill there, made for the billiard room,
played one or two games, then went to bed. Before he slept he had
decided on a plan of action. He would find out the identity of the
stranger at the inn, then find out from his mother what she thought of
him, and why. If only he could get Jill away somewhere. Then an idea
came, and Frank chuckled with delight. He had decided on a course that
was unscrupulous, but what matter? Was not all fair in love?
The next day he found out, by careful inquiry, the identity of Dr.
Wilfred Barlow, and for the next two or three days he set himself to
watch the movements of Jill. With wicked cunning he managed, without
raising his mother’s suspicions, to invent duties which kept Jill busy
all day long, and every evening as she left the drawing-room to walk
on the lawn, he intercepted her and talked to her until, in despair,
she was glad to get back into the room under the protection of Lady
Evenden.
Such was the position on Friday when a telegram came announcing the
near arrival of Jack Evenden. He came just before five o’clock, while
Lady Evenden was dispensing tea in the huge hall-lounge.
Very affectionately did his stepmother greet him. Jack hated the task
he had set himself. Nevertheless he firmly believed it his duty to
speak to her on the subject, and he could not conceive of a better
opportunity. His father was out with the guns, and only two or three
ladies were present. After drinking his tea and eating a toasted
muffin, Jack said he had a letter to write and retired to the library,
which he knew would be unoccupied at that hour.
He seated himself at a desk and wrote a little note to his stepmother,
begging her to join him in the library, as he had something of
importance to tell her. He dispatched the note with a servant, and in
a moment or so his mother appeared.
“You wanted to see me, Jack?” she smilingly asked. “I am glad you sent
for me like that. How clever you are. I had been wondering how we
could have a little chat before dinner, and you’ve managed it
splendidly. Now tell me all about yourself, dear. How did you leave
your friends aboard ship? And, Jack, you dreadful boy, tell me why you
spent all those days in London, when we were waiting for you here.”
His stepmother was so transparently glad to see him--so unaffectedly
sincere in her motherly love for him--that Jack quailed again at the
dreadful task his conscience dictated. Almost, he decided to cut the
whole thing out; then, stubbornly fighting down sentiment and giving
rein to what he considered his duty, he began:
“Mum, dear, I can’t put this thing as it ought to be put. A friend of
mine aboard ship, Basil Towers is his name, told me he knew you when
you were Mrs. Gough, and said there was a row when your husband died.
He said the doctors said your husband was paralyzed--unable to walk,
and you and two maids were alone with him and---- Good heavens! What’s
the matter, mum?”
The last words were spoken in pitiful anxiety, and Jack rushed forward
just in time to catch his stepmother before she struck the floor, for
Lady Evenden had fainted.