OUT OF DANGER
I went straight to my father’s room, with only a very confused sense
of what I wanted to say to him floating in my mind. But to my
amazement, when I had softly opened the door and stood inside the
room, he was not upon the bed, or on the couch. The room was empty. I
passed through into the drawing room with the same result. Then I
retraced my steps down into the hall and saw that his hat was gone
from the stand and also his overcoat.
I called to Alice, and she came out to me from our little drawing
room.
“Where is father?” I cried, breathlessly. “He is not upstairs!”
She drew me into the room. Her round face was very sober, and her eyes
were grave.
“He left for London a quarter of an hour ago,” she declared,
impressively.
“Left for London!” I repeated, bewildered. “Why, he was scarcely well
enough to stand. Did he dress himself?”
“He was very weak, but he seemed perfectly well able to take care of
himself,” she answered. “A telegram came for him about half an hour
ago. I took it up to his room, and he opened and read it without
remark. He asked where you were, but I could only tell him that you
were out. Directly afterwards I heard him getting up, and I went to
the door of his room to see if I could help him. He told me that I was
to order the dog cart, and that he was going away. I was too surprised
to say a word.”
My first impulse was unmistakable. It was a sense of great
relief. Then I began to wonder what this Berdenstein girl would
think. Would she connect it with her presence here? Would she think
that he had gone away to avoid her? There was that risk, but it was
no greater than the risk of her coming here some day and meeting him
face to face. On the whole it was good news. It was a respite at any
rate.
In the morning came a letter from him, dated simply London. He had
been called away, he said, on some business, the details of which
would not interest us, but it was a call which it would not have been
his duty to have neglected. Immediately he had concluded it, he went
on to say, he proposed to take a short vacation by the sea
somewhere. Accordingly he had engaged a _locum tenens_, who was now on
his way down, and he would write us again as soon as he had definitely
decided where to go.
Alice and I laid down the letter with varying thoughts. To her,
ignorant of any reasons for conduct which was on the face of it
somewhat eccentric, it brought some concern. With me it was
different. I was at once relieved and glad. I had arrived at that
acutely nervous and overwrought state when even a respite is
welcome. The explanations between us were for the present necessarily
postponed, and, at any rate, I could meet Olive Berdenstein now
without trembling. It was the truth which I had to tell. My father was
not here. I did not know where he was. She could come and search for
him.
Yet that was a time of fierce disquiet with me. To settle down to any
manner of work seemed impossible. Later in the day I went out into the
garden, and the cool touch of the soft, damp wind upon my face tempted
me past the line of trees which hemmed in our little demesne out into
the muddy road and across to the broad expanse of green common which
was really a part of the Deville home park. As I stood there,
bareheaded, with the wind blowing through my hair and wrapping my
skirts around me, I could see in the distance a man coming on
horseback from the Court. I stood still and watched him. There was no
mistaking man or horse--Bruce Deville on his great chestnut--though
they were half a mile away. Then, as I stood there waiting for him, a
sudden darkness came into the faintly sunlit air, a poisoned
darkness--the poison of a hideous thought. I turned away and plunged
into the plantation on my left, flying along the narrow footpath as
though the thought had taken to itself the shape of some loathsome
beast and was indeed pursuing me, close on my heels. In less than five
minutes I was standing breathless before Adelaide Fortress. She was
looking white and ill. When she came into the room she threw across at
me a glance which was almost supplicatory. Her firm lips trembled a
little. Her eyes were soft and full of invisible tears.
“Is it bad news?” she faltered. “You have been running. Sit down.”
I shook my head.
“No. Another question, that is all. Mr. Deville?”
She looked puzzled for a moment. Then she drew herself up and stood a
little away from me. Her firm, dark eyebrows resolved themselves into
a frown. Some subtle instinct, quick to fly backwards and forwards
between us two, had helped her towards the meaning of my words.
“Mr. Bromley Deville, Mr. Deville’s father, was my father’s oldest
friend,” she said, slowly. “Bruce and I were children together, and
except that I, of course, was five years the elder, we were great
friends. Mr. Bromley Deville was my father’s executor, and since his
death Bruce has taken his place.”
A great relief had suddenly eased my heart. I drew a little breath,
but she looked as if I had struck her a blow.
“How is your father?” she asked. “Is there any news?”
I nodded.
“He is better; he is gone away.”
She started.
“Gone away? Where to?” she added, quickly.
“To London, and from there he is going to the sea,” I told her. “He
does not say where. He is sending a _locum tenens_. I do not think
that he will return here at all. We want him to go straight to
Eastminster.”
She too seemed to share my relief, but my first thoughts were hers
too.
“What will that girl say?”
“I cannot tell,” I answered; “she may be suspicious. At any rate we
have a reprieve.”
“You have not spoken--to him yet.”
“No; he had gone when I returned last night. I was glad of it.”
We stood face to face looking at one another in silence. The faint
color was coming and going in her cheeks, and her hands were nervously
clasping the back of a chair. Where she stood the few days of wintry
sunlight which had found their way into the room were merciless to
her. They showed up the little streaks of grey in her hair and the
hollows in her cheeks. The lines of acute and bitter heartpain were
written into her worn face. My heart grew soft for the first time. She
had suffered. Here was a broken life indeed. Her dark, weary eyes were
raised eagerly to mine, yet I could not offer her what I knew so well
she desired.
I was forced to speak. Her silence was charged with eloquent
questioning.
“Won’t you--give me a little time to realize what you have told me?” I
said, hesitatingly. “I have grown so used to think that Alice’s
mother was mine--that she was dead--that I cannot realize this all at
once. I don’t want to be cruel, but one has instincts and feelings,
and one can’t always control them. I must wait.”
So I went away, and in the Vicarage lane I met Bruce Deville walking
towards me with his horse’s bridle through his arm. He was carrying a
fragrant bunch of violets, which he held out a little awkwardly.
“I don’t know whether you will care for these,” he said; “I don’t know
much about flowers myself. The gardener told me they were very fine,
so I thought you may as well have them as----”
“As let them spoil,” I laughed. “Thank you very much,
Mr. Deville. They are beautiful.”
He frowned for a moment, and then, meeting my eye, laughed.
“I am afraid I am awfully clumsy,” he said, shortly. “Let me tell you
the truth. I went all through the houses to see if I could find
anything fit to bring you, and I knew you preferred violets.”
“It was very nice of you,” I said; “but what about Olive Berdenstein?
Doesn’t she like violets?”
He opened his mouth, but I held up my hand and stopped him; he had so
much the look of a man who is about to make a momentary lapse into
profanity.
“Don’t say anything rude, please. Where is she this morning?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, grimly. “Somewhere about, no doubt.”
“It should be a lesson to you,” I remarked, smiling up at him, “not to
go about indulging in romantic adventures. They generally have a
tiresome ending, you know. Do you always make such easy conquests, I
wonder?”
He stopped short, and looked at me with darkened face.
“Is there any necessity,” he asked, “for you to go out of your way to
irritate and annoy me?”
I ignored him for a moment or two.
“She is very rich,” I remarked. “Have you seen her diamonds?”
He rested his hand upon his horse and sprang into the saddle. From his
great height there he looked down upon me with a dark frown and angry
eyes.
“I will wish you good morning, Miss Ffolliot,” he said. “My company is
evidently distasteful to you.”
I laughed at him, and laid my hand upon his horse’s bridle. “I can
assure you that it isn’t,” I declared. “I was very glad to see you
indeed. Please get down, you have too much an advantage of me up
there.”
He got down at once, but his face had not altogether cleared.
“Look here, Miss Ffolliot,” he said, looking at me steadfastly out of
his keen, grey eyes, “I do not wish to have you talk to me in that way
about that young woman. I do not think it is quite fair. I suppose it
is what girls call chaff, but you will kindly remember that I am too
stupid, if you like, always to know when you are in earnest and when
you are not, so please don’t do it. If I am with Miss Berdenstein at
all please remember that it is for your sake. I hate reminding you of
it, but you make me.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Deville,” I said. “Please do not think that
I am not grateful. Now let me tell you the news. My father has gone
away.”
“Gone away! Where? For how long?” he said, quickly.
“He has gone first to London,” I answered; “where he was going to
afterwards he did not seem absolutely sure himself. He spoke of going
to the sea somewhere for a vacation. We are trying to arrange for him
not to come back here at all. I should like him to go straight to
Eastminster.”
“It is a great relief,” he said, promptly; “it was the very best thing
he could do. He did not even tell you that he was going then?”
“I had no idea of it. He went quite suddenly while I was out. We had a
letter from him this morning. I wonder--what she will say?”
“I do not think that she will trouble to go in search of him,” he
answered. “I do not think that her suspicions are really aroused in
connection with your father. She is an odd, changeable sort of girl. I
daresay she will give up this quest before long.”
“I hope so,” I answered. “It would be a great relief to have her go
away.”
There was a short silence between us. We were standing by the Vicarage
gate, and my hand was upon the latch.
“I wonder,” he said, abruptly, “whether you would not walk a little
way with me. It is such a fine day, and you look a little pale.”
I hesitated.
“But you are riding,” I said.
“That is nothing,” he answered, briskly. “Diana follows me like a
lamb. We will walk along the avenue. I want you to see the elm trees
at the top.”
We started off at once. There was nothing very remarkable about that
walk, and yet I have always thought of it as a very memorable one. It
gave a distinct color to certain new ideas of mine concerning my
companion. We talked all the time, and that morning confirmed my
altering impressions of him. Lady Naselton had spoken of him as rough
and uncultured. He was neither. His lonely life and curious
brusqueness were really only developed from mannerism into something
more marked by a phase of that intellectual tiredness which most men
ape but few feel. He had tried life, and it had disappointed him, but
there was a good deal more of the cosmopolitan than the “yokel” in
him.
For me it was a delightful time. He talked of many books and countries
which had interested me with a perfectly bewildering familiarity. The
minutes flew along. I forgot all these troubles which had come so
thick upon me as we walked side by side over the soft, spongy turf,
sometimes knee deep amongst the bracken, sometimes skirting clumps of
faded heather. But our walk was not to terminate altogether without
incident. As we turned the corner, and came again within sight of the
Vicarage gate, we found ourselves face to face with Olive Berdenstein.
She stopped short when she saw us, and her face grew dark and
angry. She was a strange-looking figure as she stood there in the
middle of the lane waiting for us--a little over-dressed for Sunday
morning parade in the Park. For a country walk her toilette was only
laughable. The white lace of her skirt was soiled, and bedraggled
with mud. One of her little French shoes had been cut through with a
stone, and when we came in sight she was limping painfully. Her black
eyes flashed upon us with a wicked fire. Her lips trembled. The look
she darted upon me was full of malice. She was in a furious temper,
and she had not the wit to hide it. It was to him she spoke first.
“You said that you would call for me--that we would walk together this
morning,” she said to him in a low, furious tone. “I waited for you
one, two hours. Why did you not come?”
He answered her gruffly.
“I think that you must be mistaken,” he said. “There was no
arrangement. You asked me to call; I said I would if I could. As it
happened, I could not; I had something else to do.”
“Something else! Oh, yes! so I see,” she answered, with a short,
hysterical little laugh, and a glance of positive hatred at
me. “Something more pleasant! I understand; we shall see. Miss
Ffolliot, you are on your way home now, I presume. I will, with your
very kind permission, accompany you. I wish to see your father. I will
wait in your house until he can see me. If you deny me permission to
enter, I will wait for the doctor. He shall tell me whether your
father is not strong enough to answer me one single question, and if
the doctor, too, be in your plot, and will not answer me reasonably, I
will go to a magistrate at once. Oh! it will not be difficult. I will
go to a magistrate. You see I am determined. If you would like to
finish your amiable conversation, I will walk behind--or in
front--whichever you like. Better in front, no doubt. Ha! ha! But I
will come; I am determined.”
She ceased breathless, her eyes on fire, her lips curled in a
malicious smile. It was I on whom she had vented her passion. It was I
who answered her.
“You can come with me to the Vicarage if you like,” I said, coldly;
“but you will not find my father. He has gone away.”
“Gone away!” she repeated, incredulously. For a moment she looked
black.
“Gone away! Oh, indeed! That is good; that is very clever! You have
arranged that very well. Yesterday he was too ill to see me--to answer
one little question. To-day he is well enough to travel--he is gone
away. Good! he has gone. I can follow.”
She pursed up her lips and nodded her head at me vigorously. She was
white with rage.
“You are welcome to do anything which seems reasonable to you,” I
answered, with at any rate a show of firmness. “Mr. Deville, I will
say good afternoon. It is time I was at home.”
He kept by my side with the obvious intention of seeing me to the
gate; but as we passed the girl she took hold of his arm.
“No! I say no! You shall not leave me like this! You are treating me
shamefully, Mr. Deville. Am I not right? That girl is hiding her
father from me. She is helping him away that he may not tell me of the
man who killed my brother! You will take my part; you have always said
that you were sorry for me. Is every one to be my enemy? You too! It
is justice that I want! That is all!”?
He threw her delicately gloved hand off roughly.
“What nonsense!” he declared. “I have been sorry for you, I am sorry
for you now; but what on earth is the good of persecuting Miss
Ffolliot in this manner? Her father has been ill, and of course he has
not desired to be bothered by strangers. You say you wanted to ask him
a question. Be reasonable; he has answered it by letter. If you saw
him, he could only repeat his answer. He has only been here for a few
months. I have lived here all my life, and I tell you that there is no
one by the name of Maltabar in the county.”
“There was the photograph in that cabinet,” she persisted--”within a
few yards of the spot where he was killed. I know that Philip Maltabar
hated him. I know that he would have killed him if he could.”
“But what has all this to do with Mr. Ffolliot?” he persisted.
“Well, I begged him to see me,” she urged, doggedly. “He is the
clergyman of the parish, and he certainly ought to have seen me if I
wished it. I don’t understand why he should not. I want advice; and
there are other things I wanted to see him about. I am sure that he
was kept away from me.”
“You are very silly indeed,” Bruce Deville said, emphatically. “Surely
his health was more important than the answering a question for you
which has already been answered by people in a much better position to
know. As to advice, mine has always been at your service. I have been
ready to do anything for you in reason.”
“You have been very good,” she said, with trembling lips, “but----”
“You must excuse me now,” he interrupted, “I have something to say to
Miss Ffolliot.”
“I am going in,” I answered. “Please do not come any
further. Goodbye.”
I nodded to him, the girl I ignored. If a glance could have killed me,
I should have been a dead woman. I left them alone and went on up to
the house. Somehow I did not envy her Mr. Deville’s society for the
next quarter of an hour.