LADY ANNE sat gazing absently into the heart of the fire, watching the
restless leap of the flames and the little scattered handfuls of sparks,
like golden star dust, tossed upward into the dark hollow of the chimney
by the blazing logs. The “warm and sunny south”--at least, that part
of it within a twelve-mile radius of Dartmoor--is quite capable, on
occasion, of belying its guide-book designation, particularly towards
the latter end of summer, and there was a raw dampness in the atmosphere
this evening which made welcome company of a fire.
It seemed a little lonely without Jean’s cheery presence, and Lady Anne,
conscious of a craving for human companionship, glanced impatiently at
the clock. Blaise should surely have returned by now from his all-day
conference with the estate agent.
She had not much longer to wait. The quick hoof-beats of a trotting
horse sounded on the drive outside, and a few minutes later the door of
the room was thrown open and Blaise himself strode in.
“Well, madonna?” He stooped and kissed her. “Been a lonely lady to-day
without all your children?”
She smiled up at him.
“Just a little,” she acknowledged. “When I came back from those stupid
committees, which are merely an occasion for half the old tabbies in the
village to indulge in a squabble with the other half, I couldn’t help
feeling it would have been nice to find Jean here to laugh over them
with me. Jean’s sense of humour is refreshing; it never lets one down.
However, I suppose she’s enjoying her beloved Moor by moonlight, so I
mustn’t grumble.”
Blaise shook his head.
“Much moonlight they’ll see!” he observed. “I rode through a thick
mist coming hack from Hedge Barton. It’ll he a blanket fog on Dartmoor
to-night.”
“Oh, poor Jean! She’ll he so disappointed.”
Tormarin sat down on the opposite side of the hearth and lit a
cigarette. The dancing firelight flickered across his face. He was
thinner of late, his mother thought with a quick pang. The lines of the
well-beloved face had deepened; it had a worn--almost ascetic--look,
like that of a man who is constantly contending against something.
Lady Anne looked across at him almost beseechingly.
“Son,” she said, “have you quite made up your mind to let happiness pass
you by?”
He started, roused out of the reverie into which he had fallen.
“I don’t think I’ve got any say in the matter,” he replied quietly.
“I’ve forfeited my rights in that respect. You know that.”
“And Jean? Are you going to make her forfeit her rights, too?”
“She’ll find happiness--somehow--elsewhere. It would be a very
short-lived affair with me”--bitterly. “After what has happened, it’s
evident I’m not to be trusted with a woman’s happiness.”
There were sounds of arrival in the hall. Nick’s voice could be heard
issuing instructions about the bestowal of his fishing tackle. Lady Anne
spoke quickly.
“I don’t think so, Blaise. Not with the happiness of the woman you
love.” She laid her hand on his shoulder as she passed him on her
way into the hall to welcome the wanderer returned. “Tell Jean,” she
advised, “and see what she says. I think you’ll find she’d be willing to
risk it.”
When she had left the room Blaise remained staring impassively into the
fire. His expression gave no indication as to whether or not Lady Anne’s
advice had stirred him to any fresh impulse of decision, and when,
presently, his mother and Nick entered the room together, he addressed
the latter as casually as though no emotional depths had been stirred by
the recent conversation.
“Hullo, Nick! Had good sport?”
“Only so-so. We had a jolly time, though--out at Het-worthy Bridge. But
I had the deuce of a business getting back from Exeter this evening. It
was so misty in places we could hardly see to drive the car.”
Blaise nodded.
“Yes, I know. I found the same. It’s a surprising change in the
weather.”
“Poor Jean will have had a disappointing trip to Dartmoor,” put in Lady
Anne. “The mist is certain to be bad up there.”
“Dartmoor? But she didn’t go--surely?” And Nick glanced from one to the
other questioningly.
“Oh, yes, she did. It was quite clear in the afternoon when she
started--looked like being a lovely night.”
“But--but----”
Nick stammered and came to a halt. There was a look of bewilderment in
his eyes.
“But who’s she gone with?” he demanded at last. “I thought she said she
intended stopping the night with Judith and Burke at their bungalow?”
“So she did,” replied Blaise. “Why? Have you any objection?”--smiling.
“No. Only”--Nick frowned--“I don’t quite understand it Judith isn’t _on_
the Moor.”
“Not on the Moor?” broke simultaneously from Lady Anne and Blaise.
“How do you know, Nick?” added the latter gravely.
“Why, because”--Nick’s face wore an expression of puzzled
concern--“because I saw Judith in Newton Abbot late this evening.”
Blaise leaned forward, a sudden look of concentration on his face.
“You saw Judith?” he repeated. “What time?”
“It must have been nearly eight o’clock. I was buzzing along in Jim
Cresswell’s car to catch the seven forty-five up train, and I saw Judith
with one of the Holfords--you know, those people from London--turning
into the gateway of a house. I expect it was the place the Holfords are
stopping at. They didn’t see me.”
“You’re quite certain? You’ve made no mistake?” said Blaise sharply.
“Of course I’ve made no mistake. Think I don’t know Judy when I see her?
But what’s the meaning of it, Blaise?”
Tormarin rose to his feet, tossing the stump of his cigarette into the
fire.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “But I’m going to find out.
Madonna”--turning to his mother--“did Jean tell you just exactly what
Judith said when she rang her up on the’phone about this moonlight
plan?”
“It wasn’t Judith who rang up,” replied Lady Anne, a faint misgiving
showing itself in her face. “It was Geoffrey who gave the message.”
Tormarin looked at her with a sudden awakened expression in his eyes.
There was dread in them, too--keen dread. The expression of a man who,
all at once, sees the thing he values more than anything in the whole
world being torn from him--dragged forcibly away from the shelter he
could give into some unspeakable darkness of disaster.
“That settles it.” He pressed his finger against the bell-push and held
it there, and when Baines came hurrying in response to the imperative
summons, he said curtly: “Order me a fresh horse round at once--_at
once_, mind--tell Harding to saddle Orion, and to look sharp about it.”
“Blaise”--Lady Anne’s obvious uneasiness had deepened to a sharp
anxiety--“Blaise, what are you going to do? What--what are you afraid
of?”
He looked her straight in the eyes.
“I’m afraid of just what you are afraid of, madonna--of the devil let
loose in Geoffrey Burke.”
“And--and you’re going to look for her--for Jean?”
“I’m going to find her,” he corrected quietly.
Gravity had set its seal on all three faces. Each was conscious of the
same fear--the fear they could not put into words.
“But why do you take Orion?” asked Nick. “The little thoroughbred
mare--Redwing--would do the journey quicker and he lighter of foot over
any marshy ground on the Moor.”
“Orion can go where he chooses,” returned Tormarin. “And he’ll choose
to-night. Redwing is a little bit of a thing, though she’s game as a
pebble. But she couldn’t carry--two.”
The significance of Tormarin’s choice of his big roan hunter,
three-parts thoroughbred and standing sixteen hands, came home to Nick.
He nodded without comment.
Silently he and Lady Anne accompanied Blaise into the hall. From the
gravelled drive outside came the impatient stamping of Orion’s iron-shod
hoofs. Just at the last Lady Anne clung to her son’s arm.
“You’ll bring her back, Blaise?” she urged, a quiver in her voice.
“I’ll bring her back, madonna,” he answered quietly. “Don’t worry.”
A minute later he and the great roan horse were lost to sight in the
mirk of the night. Only the beat of galloping hoofs was flung back to
the two who were left to watch and wait, muffled and vague through the
shrouding mist like the sound of a distant drum.