THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
But all other considerations were as nothing beside the mystery of
Jerry's manner and appearance, and his sudden flight filled me with
the gravest fears. What had he done at Briar Hills, what horrible
thing? Could it be that the boy had--? I shrank in dismay from the
terrible thought that came into my mind. I went hurriedly into the
house and without ceremony waked the sleeping Jack. He aroused himself
with difficulty but when I told him what had happened he came quickly
to life.
"You--you're sure you're not mistaken?" he asked, still bewildered.
"Haven't I told you that I saw the boy with my own eyes, that
something dreadful has happened today at Briar Hills and that he's
flying from the results of it? Come, Jack. We must go there at once."
"By all means," he said, springing up with an air of decision. "My
car," and then as we started for the garage, "you don't mean to say
that you believe the boy has--?"
The terrible words would not come. The mere thought of mentioning them
frightened him as they had done me.
"How can I tell?" I said irritably.
"God knows," he muttered miserably. "Violence--but not--not that."
"Hurry," I muttered. "Hurry."
In a moment we were in the car, rushing through the night toward the
lower gate. Briar Hills was not more than four miles from the Manor as
the crow flies, but fully twelve by the lower road. Jack wasted no
time and we sped along the empty driveways of the estate at a furious
pace. The cool damp air of the lowlands refreshed and stimulated us
and we were now keenly alert and thinking hard. The lodge gates were
kept open now and we went roaring through them and out into the
country roads where the going was not so good. Neither of us had dared
to repeat our former questions which were still uppermost in our
minds. The topic was prohibitive and until we knew something silence
were better.
It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, twenty-five at the
most, before we reached the gates of the Van Wyck place, though it
seemed an age to me. Then at my suggestion Jack slowed down and we
went up the drive as quietly as possible. I don't know what we
expected to see when we got there, but the sight of the house with
lights burning in the windows here and there did something to reassure
us. After debating a plan of action we drove boldly up to the house
and got out. The front door upon the veranda was wide open but there
was no sound within or without. Jack was for dashing in at once and
searching the premises but I took him by the arm.
"Wait," I said, "listen."
Somewhere within I thought I made out the sound of footsteps. "At
least someone is about. Where's the bell? We'll ring."
I found it and though the hour was late a maid answered. She came to
the door timidly, uncertainly, as though a little frightened.
"This is Mr. Canby," I explained. "I would like to see Miss Gore,
please."
"I don't know, sir," she paused and then: "Wait a moment. I'll see--"
and went upstairs.
We had been prepared for a wait but Miss Gore appeared almost
immediately. She came down calmly, and asked us into the drawing-room.
"I was expecting you," she said with great deliberateness, "and
wondered if you'd come."
"Then something--something _has_ happened," I broke in hurriedly.
"I don't know what, exactly," she said. "I can't understand. I've
thought several things--"
"Is Channing Lloyd here?" I asked excitedly.
"No. He was here to luncheon and went out with Marcia, but he didn't
come back--to the house, I mean."
"But you know that he has been seen--since?"
I asked the question in terror and trembling.
"Oh, yes," she said. "One of the gardeners saw him and--"
"And Marcia?" I questioned again.
She pointed upward, where we were conscious again of the steadily
moving footsteps.
"She's upstairs in her room."
I think the gasps of relief that came from each of us at this welcome
news must have given Miss Gore the true measure of our anxiety, for a
thin smile broke on her lips.
"Thank God," I said feelingly. "Then they're safe. What has happened,
Miss Gore? Can you tell me? Jerry has gone, fled from Horsham Manor.
We feared--the worst."
"I don't know what has happened, Mr. Canby," she admitted. "But it's
very strange. I will tell you what I know. Marcia and Mr. Lloyd went
out together after luncheon, not in a motor but afoot. I was in the
garden in the afternoon cutting roses for the dinner table when I saw
a figure skulking near the hedge which leads to the main drive. I
wasn't frightened at all, for Dominick, the man who attends to the
rose garden, was nearby, but the man's actions were queer and I sent
the gardener to inquire. He went and I followed, curiously. Dominick
cut across behind the hedges and came out on the lawn quite near the
man, who walked with his body slightly inclined and one arm upraised
and bent across his face, his hand holding a red handkerchief. I could
make out his figure now. I remembered the suit of shepherd's plaid
that Channing Lloyd had been wearing. There is no doubt of his
identity, for Dominick confirmed me. It was Mr. Lloyd."
"But what was he bending over for?" I asked.
"I can't imagine. When Dominick spoke to him, he merely cursed the man
and went on."
"Curious," said Jack thoughtfully.
"Isn't it? I can't make it out at all."
"And Marcia?" I asked.
"She came back much later. I didn't see her for she rushed into her
room and locked the door. She's there now. I've tried to get to her.
But she won't let me in, won't even answer me. Listen," and she
pointed upward. "She's been doing that for hours. I've taken her food.
She won't eat or reply. Nothing except, 'Go,' or 'Go away.' I'm at my
wit's ends. I seem to be sure, Mr. Canby, that Jerry--"
"Yes," I put in. "You're right, Jerry--was here. Something has
happened."
"But what?" she asked.
"He saw them together in the red motor."
"Kissing," put in Jack rather brutally.
"Ah," she said composedly. And then, "Ah, yes, I see, but why Lloyd's
curious behavior and Jerry's flight?"
"It's very mysterious."
"Yes, very." Here she rose as with a sudden sense of responsibility
and brought the interview to an end. I think she read farther than I
did. "At all events we know that they are all alive," she said with a
smile. "Perhaps no great damage is done after all."
It seemed as though she were trying to deceive herself or us, but we
made no comment, presently taking our departure.
It was not until many months later that I learned what had happened on
that dreadful day. Jack Ballard and the Habbertons left Horsham Manor
the following afternoon and it was many weeks before I saw Una in New
York, for some instinct had restrained me; not until some time after I
had Jerry's first letter, just a few lines written from somewhere in
Manitoba, merely telling me that he was in good health and asking me
not to worry. But brief as it was, this message cheered me
inexpressibly.
I could not bring myself to go to Briar Hills again, but managed a
meeting with Miss Gore, who told me that Marcia was in a more than
usually fiendish temper most of the time--quite unbearable, in fact.
She was going away to Bar Harbor, she thought, and the certainty of
Miss Gore's tenure of office depended much upon Marcia's treatment of
her. They had quarreled. To be a poor relation was one thing, to be a
martyr another.
She couldn't understand Marcia's humor, moody and irascible by turns,
and once when Miss Gore had mentioned Jerry's name she flew into a
towering rage and threw a hair brush through a mirror--a handsome
mirror she particularly liked.
Jerry's affair with Marcia was ended. There could be no possible doubt
about that. Further than this Miss Gore knew nothing. It was enough. I
was content, so content that in my commiseration I held her hand
unduly long and she asked me what I was going to do with it, and not
knowing I dropped it suddenly and made my exit I fear rather
awkwardly. What could I have done with it? A fine woman that, but
cryptic.
It was June when Jerry left, not until midwinter that he returned to
Horsham Manor. He was very much changed, older-looking, less
assertive, quieter, deeper-toned, more thoughtful. It was as though
the physical Jerry that I knew had been subjected to some searching
test which had eliminated all superfluities, refined the good metal in
him, solidified, unified him. And the physical was symbolic of the
spiritual change. I knew that since that night in July the world had
tried him in its alembic with its severest tests and that he had
emerged safely. He was not joyous but he seemed content. Life was no
longer a game. It was a study. Bitter as experience had been, it had
made him. Perfect he might not be but sound, sane, wholesome. Jerry
had grown to be a man!
But Jerry and I were to have new moments of _rapprochement_. As the
days of his stay at the Manor went on, our personal relations grew
closer. He spoke of his letters to Una and of hers to him, but his
remarks about her were almost impersonal. It seemed as though some
delicacy restrained him, some newly discovered embarrassment which
made the thought of seeing her impossible and so he did not go to pay
his respects to her. Indeed, he was content just to stay at the Manor
with me. It seemed that the bond between us, the old brotherly bond
that had existed before Jerry had gone forth into the world, had been
renewed. I would have given my life for him and I think he understood.
He was still much worried and talked of doing penance. Poor lad! As
though he were not doing penance every moment of his days! I know that
he wanted to talk, to tell me what had happened, to ask my advice, to
have my judgment of him and of her. But something restrained him,
perhaps the memory of the girl he had thought Marcia to be, that
sublimated being, in whose veins flowed only the ichor of the gods,
the goddess with the feet of clay. I told him that she had been at Bar
Harbor with Channing Lloyd and that Miss Gore had told me that the two
were much together in town.
"Oh, yes," he said slowly, "I know. They're even reported engaged.
Perhaps they are."
There was a long silence. We were sitting in the library late one
night, a month at least after he had returned, reading and talking by
turns.
"She wasn't worthy of you. Jerry," I remarked.
"No, that's not true," he said, a hand shading his eyes from the
lamplight. "It would be a poor creature that wouldn't be worthy of
such a beast as I. But she tried me, Roger, terribly."
"She tempted you purposely. It was a game. I saw it. But you, poor
blind Jerry--"
"Yes, blind and worse than blind, deaf to the appeals of my
friends--you and--and Una, who saw where I did not. Marcia had
promised to marry me, Roger, to be my wife. Do you understand what
such a promise meant to me then? All ideals and clean thoughts. I
worshiped her, did not even dare to touch her--until--Oh, I kissed
her, Roger. She taught me--many things, little things, innocent they
seemed in themselves at the time, but dangerous to my body and to my
soul. I knew nothing. I was like a new-born babe. My God! Roger--if
only you had told me! If you had told me--"
"I couldn't then, Jerry," I said softly. "It would have been too late.
You wouldn't have believed--"
"No," he muttered, "you're right. I wouldn't have believed anything
against her at the time or found a real meaning in the truth. She
could have done no wrong. Then I saw her kissing that fellow--you
remember? I think the change came in me then, my vision. I seemed to
see things differently without knowing why. Rage possessed me, animal
rage. I saw red. I wanted to kill."
He rose and paced the length of the room with great strides.
"I mustn't, Roger. I can't say more. It's impossible."
I was silent. A reaction had come.