TWO or three weeks had passed since the concert on the Low Wood lawn,
and Therese Clavier had gone back into the obscurity she came from, when
Nettie Harding once more stood beside the effigy in Northrop church. It
was then late in the afternoon, and the little ancient building was
growing shadowy. Hester Earle and Violet Wayne were moving about the
aisle with bundles of wheat-ears and streamers of ivy, for the harvest
thanksgiving was shortly to be celebrated, while the vicar stood waiting
their directions on the chancel steps with a great handful of crimson
gladioli.
Nettie, however, noticed none of them. She was lost in reflection, and
her eyes were fixed on the grim stone face. She had gazed at it often
with a vague sense of comprehension and a feeling that the contemplation
of it brought within her grasp the spirit of the chivalrous past.
Loyalty, she felt, was the predominative motive in the sculptured face,
though it bore the stamp of stress and weariness; and she stood very
still struggling with a half-formed resolution as she gazed at it.
Hester's voice rose softly from the aisle, and there was a patter of
feet and swish of draperies, but it was low, as though the girl who made
it felt the silence of the place. The door beside the organ was open
wide, and Nettie could hear a faint rustle of moving leaves, and the
sighing of a little warm wind about the church, while, lifting her head,
she caught a brief glimpse of the dusky beech woods and sunlit valley.
It was all very still, impressively quiet, and she felt the peace of it;
but it was not peace, but something born of strife and yet akin to it
her fancy strained after, and once more she seemed to hear the strident
crackle of riflery and the shouts of the Sin Verguenza. The green
English valley faded, and she saw in place of it the white walls of the
Cuban town rise against the dusky indigo. Then once more she could dimly
realize the calm that came of a high purpose, and was beyond and greater
than the peace of prosperity. She had seen it beneath the stress and
weariness in the faces of the marble knight and a living man.
Then with a little swift move of her shoulders she shook off the
fancies, and fell to considering the task which it seemed was laid
before her. She had made a friend of Bernard Appleby and that meant much
with her; while ever since she had heard Miss Clavier's story the desire
to right him had been growing stronger, but she had unpleasant
misgivings. She felt the responsibility of breaking the smooth course of
other lives almost too great for her, and wondered vaguely whether if
she declared the truth in that sheltered land where nothing that was
startling or indecorous ever seemed to happen anybody would believe her.
She might even have kept silent had Violet Wayne been different, but
Nettie already entertained an affection that was largely respectful for
her, and determined that if she married Tony Palliser she should at
least do so knowing what kind of man he was. Once more, however, her
resolution almost failed her, and she glanced at the great glittering
angel in the west window with a sense of her presumption in venturing to
meddle with the great scheme of destiny. Still, Nettie was daring, and
turning suddenly she looked down into the stone face again.
"I think you would understand, and at least you would not be afraid.
Well, the man who is very like you shall have his rights," she said.
The stillness seemed to grow more intense, the calm face more resolute,
while the spirit of the dead sculptor's conception gripped the girl as
it had never done before. She felt that her duty was plain before her,
and that fears and misgivings must be trampled on. Then there was a step
behind her, and she saw Hester looking at her with a little smile.
"Were you talking to the effigy, Nettie?" she said.
"Yes," said Nettie quietly. "I think I was. There is no reason you
shouldn't laugh if you want to, but I seem to fancy that man understands
me. What you will not believe, however, is that he answered me."
Hester appeared a trifle astonished, but she smiled again. "I saw you
turn and look at the figure in the west window," she said. "Were you
holding communion with the angel too?"
"No," said Nettie with a curious naive gravity. "I'm quite open to admit
I don't know much about angels--I've only seen pictures of them. Still, I
sometimes think there's a little of their nature in the hearts of men.
That man must have had it, and the Palliser who was killed in Africa had
it too. Of course, that's not the kind of talk you would expect from an
American."
Hester realized by the last trace of irony that Nettie did not desire to
pursue the topic, and looking round saw that the vicar had joined them
unobserved. He was a quiet man with an ascetic face, but there was a
little twinkle in his eyes.
"Yes," he said. "I admit I overheard. It seems to me that Miss Harding's
attitude is perfectly comprehensible."
Hester laughed. "That," she said, "is convincing, coming from you. In
the meanwhile I am positively thirsty, and tea will be waiting at Low
Wood. You may as well come over with us now since we expect you at
dinner."
It was, however, half an hour later when they left the rectory and
walked through the fields to Low Wood with Tony, who had been waiting
them. Nettie laughed and talked to the vicar with her usual freedom, but
she was also sensible of a quiet resolution. Violet Wayne should know
the truth and Appleby's name be cleared, but she was shrewd, and saw the
difficulty of attesting it convincingly. She was also very fair, and
decided that Tony must have an opportunity of defending himself or
admitting his offence. Now and then she felt her heart throbbing as she
wondered whether she would fail at her task, but she shook off her
misgivings, and it was only afterwards the vicar guessed at the struggle
that went on within his companion.
They were sitting about the little table on the lawn when an opportunity
was made for her, and the scene long remained impressed on Nettie's
memory. The old house showed cool and gray between its wrappings of
creepers that were flecked with saffron now, while here and there a
tendril gleamed warm crimson against the stone. Its long shadow lay
black upon the velvet grass, and there were ruddy gleams from the
woodlands from which the yellow light was fading beyond the moss-crusted
wall. Still, the river shone dazzlingly where it came rippling out of
the gloom of a copse, and a long row of windows blinked in the building
beside its bank.
Nettie noticed this vacantly, for it was Tony and Violet Wayne she was
looking at. The man lay with a curious languid gracefulness in his
chair, his straw hat on the back of his head and a smile on his lips,
though Nettie fancied that she saw care in his face. Violet sat erect
looking down the valley with thoughtful eyes, and though every line of
her figure suggested quiet composure it seemed to Nettie that her face
was a trifle too colorless, and that her big gray eyes lacked
brightness. She could almost fancy that the shadow of care which rested
on Tony had touched his sweetheart too. Opposite them sat the vicar, who
had, Nettie understood, been a close friend of the Pallisers, and Hester
Earle was busy with her spirit kettle close beside him. The latter
looked up suddenly.
"I can't help thinking that the Americans are a somewhat inconsistent
people," she said. "It is only a little while since Nettie fancied
herself a torpedo, and yet I found her explaining her sentiments to the
marble knight this afternoon."
"Well," said Nettie with a little smile, though she could feel her heart
beating, "I feel more like a torpedo than ever just now."
Hester nodded. "That is more or less comprehensible," she said. "A
torpedo is an essentially modern thing stored with potential activities
and likely to go off and startle everybody when they least expect it,
all of which is characteristically American. The marble knight--and I
fancy some people would include the angel--belongs to the past, to the
old knightly days when women were worshipped, men believed in saints and
guardian angels, and faith wrought miracles."