If ever a country ramble was a success, a grand success, that one was.
In the gnarled oak-wood dim in cool gloom, comparative, as regarded the
flood of sunshine outside, the girl would let imagination run riot, and
as she rattled on--fitting this and that vista into the scenes of her
favourite romance--her companion listened, enjoying the extraordinary
naturalness of her. And he entered into it all, adding here and there
an apposite suggestion, which thoroughly appealed. Then, too, when they
got out upon open heathland, though the time of its crimsoning had not
yet come--and a wide sweep of rolling valley, and dark belts of firwoods
contrasting with the brighter, richer green of oak, she would point him
out this or that old church tower in the distance, and expatiate upon
the archaeological treasures contained within the same, and her wide
eyes would go bright with love of her subject, and her cheeks glow with
the soft sun-kiss and the bracing upland air--even her words would trip
each other up in her anxiety to get out a description. And then Helston
Varne would decide to himself that it was just as well he was
strong-headed beyond the ordinary, for anything approaching the perfect
charm of this girl at his side, he, with a large and varied experience
of every conceivable shade and phase of life, had certainly never
encountered.
She was so natural, so intensely and confidingly natural--and therein
lay a large measure of her charm. There was not a grain of
self-consciousness about her, and she talked to him throughout as though
she had known him all her life. It was not often he had struck anything
approaching such an experience. So the morning wore on--fled, rather--
all too quickly for him at any rate; for he was enjoying this experience
as he could not quite remember ever having enjoyed an experience before.
They were near home now, threading a narrow keeper's path, through the
thick covert. Once she laid a light hand on his sleeve to stop him, as
a cuckoo suddenly gurgled forth his joyous call right overhead, so near,
in fact, as to be almost startling.
"Look. There he is. You can see him," she whispered, gazing upward.
"Ah, he's gone," as the bird dashed away. "But, did you notice--he's
got the treble note. I don't like that. When they get on the treble
note it means that we'll soon hear no more of them."
"Well, now you've told me something I didn't know. Yes--I noticed the
treble call, but I'll be hanged if I've ever noticed it before."
Melian laughed--that clear, rich, joyous laugh of hers. Incidentally he
had noticed that before.
"And I've actually been able to tell you some thing you never knew
before. You! Well, Mr Varne, I do feel proud.--Wait--look."
Again she laid a restraining hand upon his sleeve. They had reached the
pond head, and on the long expanse of glowing surface the perfect
reflection of the tossing greenery overhanging it lay outlined as though
cut in silver. A waterhen with her brood was swimming across, and at
the shrill, grating croak of the parent bird, alarmed by human
proximity, a dozen tiny black specks rushed with hysteric flappings
through the surface to bunch around her.
"Aren't they sweet?" whispered Melian. "Such jolly little black things!
I've caught them two or three times when we've been out in the boat
fishing, but they get so horribly scared that I've never done it again.
I'm so fond of all these birds and beasts, you know, that I hate to
think I am bothering any of them."
Helston Varne merely bent his head in assent. Curiously enough, just
then he did not feel as if he could say anything. A wave of thought--or
was it a consciousness--such as he never remembered to have experienced
before, had come over him. He just let her talk, and was content to
watch her. He wanted to absorb this picture and carry it away with him
in his mind's eye; and somehow the idea of having to go away at all, for
a long period at any rate, had suddenly become utterly distasteful to
him.
He watched her, radiant, animated, lighthearted. He remembered their
talk on the road in the evening's dusk, on the last occasion of his
visit. He had intended to revert to it, to find out whether he could do
anything to help in relieving her mind. But now, looking at her, the
idea seemed out of place. She seemed so utterly happy, lighthearted,
and without a care.
And she? She had wished for his presence so that she could put to him
the matters that were troubling her, yet now that it was here, somehow
or other she could not. But as they wandered homeward through the
shaded woodland path, she told him something about her past experiences,
and he listened sympathetically, careful not to betray that he already
knew all that she was telling him. Then--for the path skirted the
pond--they came to the scene of the midnight rescue in the ice; and
suddenly Melian stopped, for an idea had struck her.
"Mr Varne," she said, her eyes fixed full upon his face. "Do you know
that the police suspected my uncle of killing the man he had just
saved?"
"Yes. I know."
"I ask you--_you_--had they the slightest reason for that suspicion?"
"Why do you ask it?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it's because you are you; and if any one
can see through a thing, you can."
"Thanks greatly for that compliment. I shall treasure it," he answered,
glad of the pretext for turning a lighter vein on to what was becoming
somewhat tense. "Wait now,"--seeing a spasm of disappointment begin to
flit over her face, at the fancied consciousness that she was not being
taken seriously. "What I was going to say is this: All tragical
happenings of this nature, involving mystery, are bound to convey a
certain element of suspicion. Very well then. This affair answers
exactly to these conditions. The local police, therefore, did no more
than their duty in watching it. But they have now realised the futility
of doing so any longer."
Melian looked up quickly.
"Have they?" she said.
"Yes. You may take it from me."
A breath of relief escaped her, but it was not wholehearted relief.
This assuredly did not escape her companion's keen perception.
"Tell me another thing," she said swiftly, and again looking him full in
the face. "I hardly like to ask it, but I will. Was it not the
investigation of this--mystery, that brought you down here in the first
instance?"
This was hitting straight out and no mistake. But Helston Varne did not
for a moment hesitate.
"Yes. It was," he said.
"Ah!"
For a moment neither spoke. She was still looking him straight in the
face, but what she read there was hardly disquieting.
"And--what conclusion have you arrived at?" she went on, slowly.
"The conclusion that I might just as well have remained away--but for
one thing."
The relief which had sprung to her animated, speaking face, died down
suddenly.
"And--that one thing?"
"That one thing? Why, then I should never have met you; should never
have known such a delightful time as I have enjoyed this morning for
instance."
That killed the tragic element in the atmosphere. Melian broke into a
peal of clear, wholehearted laughter, not more than a third due to
reaction, for she had a very complete sense of humour. Her companion
was smiling too, perfectly at ease and natural, as though he had stated
a mere obvious fact. There was no consciousness of having paid a
pointed compliment about his manner, nor any manifestation of a desire
to carry it further.
"Well--it's very nice of you to say so," answered the girl, all her easy
lightheadedness apparently restored, "because I thought I'd been talking
your head off all the time we've been out; and if it wasn't that we seem
to have a lot of ideas in common, should have thought I'd been boring
you to death. But, here we are at home again, and--I don't care how
soon old Judy turns on lunch. Do you?"
"Candidly, I don't. This gorgeous country air makes all that way."
It is not strange that, seated opposite each other at table, in the
cool, old-world room, the June sunlight slanting through the creepers
which partly shaded the wide open window, Helston Varne should have let
his imagination run riot. In fact, he was picturing to himself this
girl, in her uncommon beauty, her complete naturalness, her quick,
unfeigned interest in everything, her grace of movement even in the
smallest of things--seated thus with him--always. Albeit those who knew
him--even the very few who really knew him--would have reckoned it
strange. For since his salad days he could not call to mind any woman
he had ever been acquainted with who could be capable of calling up such
a suggestion. And the two of them were there alone together; the glow
of sunlight outside, the fragrant breaths of glorious summer wafting in
from without. Even a straggling wasp or two winnowing down over the
table, was not unwelcome, as a sure guarantee that summer was here:
rich, glowing, vernal, English summer.
He talked to her--easy, very contented with the hour--and interested her
more and more. He told her a few strange, out of the way, bizarre
experiences--and the girl listened, almost entranced. This was the sort
of thing that appealed, and she contrasted it with the boredom of
commonplace, which she was as capable of appreciating--on the wrong
side--as she was of appreciating these cullings from a life of action;
of keen, intricate, intellectual unravellings of strange occurrences
almost unimaginable in their surroundings of weird mystery. Yet he so
talked in no wise for the sake of talking, or to glorify himself, but
simply and solely because it interested her; and to see that face lit up
with vivid interest was sheer enjoyment to Helston Varne at that stage.
And the little black fluffy kitten, as though cunningly appreciating the
situation, was taking its toll, jumping up first upon one, then upon the
other, nibbling daintily at this or that tidbit bestowed upon it, quite
unrestrained by Melian, who had always set her face against spoiling it.
"What a life you must have had," she said. "But--what made you take to
it?"
"I don't know. The sheer sporting instinct, I suppose," he answered.
But he did not tell her as much as he had told Nashby, as to its
perils--its continuing perils. Then he deftly switched the conversation
on to her own particular interests, in the result of which, when they
got up from table, Melian said:
"There's some queer old oak stuff in one of the lumber rooms upstairs if
you'd like to look at it. It's all jolly dusty though."
"Certainly I would," he answered. "I really do like that sort of
thing." And with the remark came the thought of how cheaply he had
purchased his hour and a half's imprisonment in that ghastly ice-house
of a vault, what time he had introduced himself here--under false
pretences.
"Come along then."
She led the way upstairs. Now by some curious instinct, Helston Varne's
professional faculties became on the alert. It was as though some
mysterious instrument string had suddenly been tuned in his ear.
She opened a door, and the atmosphere, albeit it was nearly midsummer,
struck a chill through them both. The one window was clouded up with
cobwebs, and the dust lay thick upon everything.
"We don't use this part of the house," she explained, "and we've only
enough hands to take care of the part we do use. Look, this is the best
thing in the room," putting a hand upon an old sideboard of well nigh
black oak, and then withdrawing it. "Wait a bit. I'll go down and get
a duster. This isn't fit to be touched as it is, and I want to open it
and show you."
She turned and went out of the room. Left alone, Helston Varne set to
while away the time by examining the old oak sideboard, and his all
round mind at once convinced him that it would fetch a fabulous sum if
put upon the market. Then he went round to examine it from behind, and
with this intent, pushed it a little away from the wall. What was this?
Something gleamed at him from the dust beneath--something bright,
staring like an eye. He bent down. It was a small, star-shaped disc--a
pentacle in fact--but on one of the points a small, triangular piece had
been, as it were, cut out. It was a strange object, and gazing at it,
somehow, all sorts of queer ideas began to chase each other more or less
confusedly through his brain. He forgot where he was, forgot about the
impending immediate return of Melian. All he could do was to stare at
the thing, and it--seemed to stare at him.
What was this? Again those ideas seemed to rush and rampage, and the
worst of it was he could not marshal them--could not docket them. He
reached down to pick the thing up, and then--something seemed to hold
him back from touching it. Yes, there was no mistake about it. It was
as if a voice--a very distinct voice--were whispering in his ear.
"Unless you are tired of life--leave it."
This would never do. With an effort of will he pulled himself together.
Again he reached out his hand--and again more forcibly came that chill
feeling of an unmistakable warning, and again he withdrew it. And then,
as though breaking the spell, the clear, sweet, fluty voice of Melian,
returning along the passage, came to his ears.
Helston Varne was conscious that a clammy perspiration had broken out
upon his forehead. Brushing a hand rapidly over this, he turned to face
the door. Then he was conscious that another voice was mingling with
that of the girl--a male voice. Again acting under some strange
instinct, he moved the heavy sideboard back to its place against the
wall, and had just done so when Melian entered, followed by her uncle.
The latter, he thought, looked perturbed, nor did he fail to notice the
swift, furtive, enquiring glance, which lighted upon the heavy piece of
furniture.
"Ah, how are you, Varne? Been looking at musty old oak things this
little girl tells me. Yes, well--I dare say they're worth a lot of
money, only they ain't mine, worse luck. I'd jolly well send them to
Christie's if they were, I can tell you. I don't care for dismal old
stuff about me. Give me something cheerful and up-to-date and
comfortable. The other thing gives you the holy blues. So does this
room by the way,"--and he shivered. "So if you've seen what you want,
come down and join me in a whisky and soda."
"Delighted. Yes, that certainly must be very valuable old stuff,"
answered the other. "I thought it was yours."
"No. It's old Tullibard's, but it's left here to save the trouble of
moving it anywhere else. Well, and so you're off on another of your
mysterious expeditions, the child tells me. Look out, Varne. The
bucket that goes down the well too often--you know the old copybook
chestnut."
"Yes, and like all others of its kind, there's a fallacy behind it,"
laughed Varne.
"Perhaps. Come along then. This infernal room's giving me the cold
shivers. I believe I got a touch of the sun on the way back. Anyhow,
I'm not feeling at all the thing."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After their guest had left, the remainder of the day, radiant, golden,
cloudless as it was, seemed to take on a gloom to one of them. What a
very perfect companion he was, thought Melian. She wished he were a
near neighbour instead of putting in sporadic appearances, and then
vanishing for ever so long. She had refrained from telling him her
troubles, not wanting to spoil their splendid morning ramble; now he was
gone, for a long time perhaps, she regretted her reticence. Later she
had reason to regret it more.
They were seated at supper. The blinds were down and the lamp burned
cheerfully. Outside, a sudden gust swirled round the corner of the
house, setting the woodland trees rustling.
"Ah--ah!" said Melian. "That spells change. I thought it was too
perfectly clear to last."
Another gust stronger than the first, followed upon her words.
"Why, it is coming on to blow," she went on. "And look; it has blown
the old cellar door open."
She was sitting so as to face this. Mervyn with his back to it. She
could not fail to notice the sudden, almost startled look as he turned
quickly to follow the direction of her glance.
_The door was open_.
About one quarter open it stood, framing a black gash, whence the cold
chill of a draught came pouring into the room--open, just as it had
stood six months ago. And now, as then, it had been fast locked.