IN WHICH A STRONG MAN ADOPTS A VERY SIMPLE METHOD
OF CLEARING HIS OWN PATH OF THORNS
Challoner stood turning up the collar of his mackintosh. Looking back
between the lines of dark, wind-agitated trees, the red mass of the
house, through a dull whiteness of driving rain, showed imposing both
in height and in extent. Challoner measured it with a satisfied, even
triumphant, eye. Its large size suited his own large proportions
capitally. This evening, though early and still light, all the blinds
were drawn down. This was as it should be. He favored the observance
of such outward conventional decencies. Then, as he moved away with
his heavy, lunging tread, the rain and wind took him roughly on the
quarter.
This rearward onslaught caused him no annoyance, however, since his
thoughts were altogether self-congratulatory. Circumstance had played,
and was playing, into his hands in the handsomest fashion. Well, every
one gets his deserts in the long run; so he could but suppose he
deserved his present good fortune! Only in this case the run had
proved such an unexpectedly short and easy one. For hadn't he arrived,
practically arrived, feeling every bit as fresh as when he
started?--Here a turn of half-superstitious, half-cynical piety took
him. The Lord helps those who have the nous to help themselves. He
praised the Lord! Having offered which small tribute, or bribe, to the
Judge of all the Earth who cannot do other than right, he proceeded to
check off a few of his well-earned blessings.
The announcement of his engagement to Margaret Smyrthwaite had
appeared, about three weeks previously, in the society columns of local
and London papers. Stourmouth buzzed with the news, to a loudness
which he found both humorous and flattering. In private Challoner
laughed a horse-laugh more than once at thus finding how he had made
his fellow-townsmen "sit up." He enjoyed the joke of his own social
elevation and prospective wealth hugely. And Mrs. Gwynnie had been
quite good, thank the Powers! If the rest of his acquaintance had been
made to "sit up" by the news, she--to quote his own graceful manner of
speech--had "taken it lying down." Really he felt very kindly toward
her. She'd given no trouble. But then the world was going a lot
better with Mrs. Gwyn than she'd any right to expect. Her rent and her
quarterly allowance were paid with absolute regularity. Not every man
would have done as much for her after the dance she'd led him! Beattie
Stacey was safely married last week to her young R.M.S. second officer.
And, so Challoner heard, mainly on the strength of the said young
officer's excellent reputation, Gwynnie herself had taken out a new
lease of social life since her installation in the white house opposite
the Marychurch Borough Recreation Ground. She'd been cute enough to
throw herself into that department of Anglican religio-parochial
activity which busies itself with variety entertainments, rummage
sales, concerts, "happy evenings," bazaars, and such-like contrivances
for providing--under cover of charity--audiences for idle amateurs
ambitious of publicity. Curates waxed enthusiastic over "Mrs.
Spencer's splendidly unselfish helpfulness" and "wonderful organizing
power."--The thought of that poor little, earnest, light-weight,
impecunious baggage of an Anglo-Indian widow in the character of a
church-worker tickled her ex-lover consumedly.
But now Challoner felt constrained to put a term to the slightly ribald
mirth induced by this checking of his well-deserved blessings, and
bestow himself within the four corners of an appropriately black-edged
manner. For, as he turned out of the gates at the end of the
carriage-drive, he caught sight of Col. Rentoul Haig's unmistakable
figure, pompous and dapper even when clothed in an "aquascutum" and
carrying a streaming umbrella, walking briskly down The Avenue. Making
a pretense of deep abstraction, Challoner passed him; then, drawing up
suddenly, wheeled round.
"You, Colonel?" he said. "I beg your pardon. For the minute I didn't
recognize you. My thoughts were elsewhere."
He looked on the ground, as one who struggles with manly pride against
strong emotion.
"You may have heard of the trouble we are in at the Tower House?" he
added.
Rentoul Haig disapproved the "we"; but then he warmly and articulately
disapproved the whole matter of the Challoner-Smyrthwaite alliance.
Nevertheless he hungered for first-hand news, thirsted for retailable
detail; and who could supply these better than Challoner? He pocketed
disapproval, and answered with fussy alacrity, peering upward, into the
younger man's curiously non-committal countenance, from beneath the
shelter of his umbrella.
"Very fortunate to run across you like this, Challoner," he said. "I
was coming to leave cards and inquire. Shocking news this, most
shocking. I heard the report from Woodford, at the Club, after
luncheon, and, I give you my word, it quite upset me."
"I'm not surprised, Colonel," Challoner put in gloomily.
"Why, only yesterday morning I saw her out driving between twelve and
one--just upon the half-hour it must have been--as I was crossing The
Square on my way to the Club. When Woodford told me, I said, 'God
bless my soul, it's incredible!'"
Challoner's lips parted with an unctuous smack.
"Incredible or not, Colonel, it is only too sadly true. In the midst
of life we are in death, you know. I don't set up to be a serious man,
but an event like this does bring the meaning of those words home to
you--makes you think a bit, reminds you what an uncommonly slippery
hold even the healthiest of us has on life."
Watching the effect of these lugubrious moralizings upon his auditor,
Challoner had the pleasure of seeing the latter's face grow small and
blue in the shade of the wet umbrella.--"Looks like a sick frog under a
toadstool," he reflected. "Well, let snobby old froggy turn blue, feel
blue--the bluer the better." It served him jolly well right. Hadn't
he said no end of nasty things about his, Challoner's, coming marriage?
Then he proceeded with the amiable operation commonly known as "rubbing
it in."
"Ah! yes," he said, "I knew how you'd feel it, Colonel. Without being
oversentimental, it is a thing to break up one's sense of personal
security. And a relation of yours too! Only nine-and-twenty--a mere
child compared to you, of course, Colonel. It's always painful to see
the younger generation go first. Yes, I knew how you'd feel it. Kind
of you to come off at once like this to make inquiries. It will please
Margaret, poor, dear girl. She sent for me directly they made the
discovery this morning, and I've been with her ever since, looking
after her and putting things through. You see, Joanna always kept the
management of the establishment in her own hands, and the whole
household fell to pieces like a bundle of sticks to-day. All the
servants lost their heads. Somebody had to step in and lay hold.
Margaret is behaving beautifully. This bearing up is all very well at
first, but I'm afraid she's bound to pay later. However, thank God!
I've the right, now, to take care of her."
"Quite so--no doubt--yes, exactly," Haig responded, in rather chilly
accents. "Of course. But I have heard nothing but the bare fact,
Challoner. Quite sudden, was it--quite unexpected?"
"Yes, and no." He spoke slowly, as one weighing his words.
"I sincerely trust there isn't any question of an inquiry?"
From his superior height Challoner looked down at the speaker in
momentary and sharp suspicion. What story was current in Stourmouth,
he wondered? Could the servants have talked? Had the empty tabloid
bottle and the tumbler with a film of white sediment clouding the
inside of it, become a matter of common knowledge? He found Rentoul
Haig's expression reassuring.
"Certainly not--quite uncalled for, I am thankful to say," he replied
largely. "No, no, Colonel, nothing of that sort. An inquest is a
pretty sickening business under ordinary circumstances; but it amounts
to a positive insult, in my opinion, in the case of a refined,
sensitive gentlewoman."
Rentoul Haig came near dancing with impatience.
"True, true," he murmured.
"So, pray put that idea out of your head, and out of everybody else's
head, Colonel. You'll be doing Margaret a kindness, doing poor Joanna
a kindness too. People are awfully unscrupulous in the reports they
circulate. But then, of course, I know we can count on your
gentlemanly feeling and good taste."
A moment more and Colonel Haig believed he should burst. He was being
patronized--patronized, he the bright, particular star of the most
elect circle of Stourmouth society, and by Joseph Challoner!
"The fact is she hasn't been in a good state of health for some time.
Margaret has spoken to me about it and a lot of people have remarked
upon it. Her peculiarities seemed to grow upon her lately. And she
was not an easy person to deal with--in some ways very like our poor
friend her father. Margaret hasn't said much to me, but I fancy she's
found her sister's temper a little trying. Health, I dare say, as much
as anything. Norbiton has been treating her for sleeplessness and
general debility--nerves, you know. She always was highly strung.
Yesterday morning, they tell me, she looked appallingly ill and
complained of having fainted in the night. They had Norbiton in, and
he sounded her--was not at all satisfied with the heart's action. I am
not surprised at that. You remember how peculiar her eyes
were--globular--"
Challoner looked down with rich enjoyment at the "pop-eyes," so he
gracefully phrased it, staring eagerly, angrily up from beneath the
streaming umbrella.
"Globular," he repeated; "and with that pale circle round the edge of
the iris, which invariably, in my experience, indicates a weak heart.
Norbiton prescribed for her, and told her to keep quiet. Margaret,
poor, dear girl, did her best; but Joanna insisted on driving out. I
was dining there last night, and she didn't come down. They told me
Norbiton's opinion, but I supposed it was just a case for care. And
then, when her maid went to call her this morning, she found her stone
cold. She must have been dead several hours--died in her sleep."
And both men stood silent, awed in spite of themselves, by the thought
of Joanna Smyrthwaite lying dead.
"Shocking occurrence, very shocking indeed!" Colonel Haig remarked
presently, fussily clearing his throat. "You say peculiarities had
grown upon poor Miss Smyrthwaite recently. One would be glad to know
why--to have some clue to the reason for that. There were rumors, I
believe, a few months back of an--er--of an attachment on her part,
which--it is a delicate subject to approach--was, in fact, rather
misplaced. And--well--you know, one cannot help putting two and two
together."
"Oh, as to anything of that sort," Challoner returned somewhat roughly,
throwing his big body back from the hips and moving a step aside, as
though to conceal justifiable annoyance,--"you really must excuse me,
Colonel. Standing in the relation I do to both the Smyrthwaite ladies,
it is a subject I hardly care to discuss. I can't help knowing a good
deal, and I can't help what I've noticed; but I don't feel at liberty
to speak. Mr. Savage stayed twice at the Tower House this year, as you
are aware; and--people have eyes in their heads. I don't mind telling
you, he and I came to loggerheads over the division of the property.
That's what first really brought Margaret and me together. I had to
protect her interests, or she would have come off a very bad second.
And, though it's early days to mention it, I don't mind telling you in
confidence--the strictest confidence, you understand, Colonel--"
"You know by this time, I hope, Challoner, how entirely you can trust
me?" the other remonstrated, at once famished for further information
and bristling with offended dignity.
"To be sure I do.--Well, then, it may interest you to hear that
Margaret has the old home secured to her. I am pleased on her account,
for she's fond of the place. Personally, there are several houses in
Baughurst Park I prefer. However, that's neither here nor there. If
she's pleased I'm pleased, naturally. But, exclusive of the house and
its contents, she hardly benefits at all under her sister's will."
In his excitement Rentoul Haig lost control of his umbrella, which,
tilting in a gust of wind, discharged a small cataract of water down
the back of his neck.
"Bless my soul," he exclaimed, "you don't say so! What ungodly
weather! Where on earth does all her money go to?"
"You may well ask," Challoner replied grimly. "In the case of her
dying unmarried her share in the mills and the rest of the Yorkshire
property is left to Mr. Andrew Merriman, the partner and manager--a
self-made man, who had the wit to get round old Mr. Smyrthwaite. He's
feathered his own nest very tidily, it strikes me, one way and another.
And the bulk of the invested property--prepare yourself for a pleasant
surprise, Colonel--Joanna leaves, on trust, to her scrapegrace,
rascally brother."
A flashlight hope of a solid legacy had momentarily illuminated Rentoul
Haig's horizon. But the light of hope was extinguished almost as soon
as kindled, giving him just time to be mortally disappointed. His face
fell, while Challoner, watching, could barely repress his glee.
"But, but," he bubbled, "every one has been assured for years that the
good-for-nothing boy was dead!"
"I don't want to be inhuman, but I can only say that, for the sake of
my future wife's peace of mind, I most sincerely and cordially trust he
is dead--dead and done with. Judging by what you told me yourself,
Colonel, from a child he has been a downright bad lot, a regular
waster. You may also be interested to hear we owe this precious bit of
business to Mr. Adrian Savage. He came to Joanna, when he was over
last, with some cock-and-bull story about young Smyrthwaite's turning
up, half-starved, in Paris last winter. Worked upon her feelings no
end with a whole lot of Frenchified false sentiment--brother and
sister, the sacredness of family, and that sort of fluff-stuff. I am
bound to say plainly I date the break-up of her health from that
moment. He spoke to me about young Smyrthwaite, but, of course, I
refused to touch it. Gave him a piece of my mind which I fancy he
didn't quite relish, as he packed up and took himself off, on the
quiet, next morning. As I told him, if he and Merriman wanted to dump
the young scoundrel upon his two unfortunate sisters they mustn't look
to me for assistance--the job, as I told him, wasn't in Joseph
Challoner's line, not at all. Now, Colonel, I ought not to detain you
any longer. I'm pleased to have had the chance to set your mind at
ease on one or two points. And you'll do both Margaret and myself a
favor if you will tell every one it was heart, just simply heart--a
thing that might happen to any one of us, you or me, for instance, any
day. Margaret will feel it very kind and thoughtful of you to call,
like this at once, to inquire. Now I really must be off. Good-evening
to you. Let you know the date of the funeral? Of
course--good-evening."
And he swung up The Avenue, in the shrinking light, under the swaying,
dripping trees, highly elate.
"Choked old froggy off neatly," he said to himself, "and got my knife
into highty-tighty Cousin Adrian too. I wonder if he did carry on with
Joanna. I'd give something to know--dare say it'll come out in time.
Anyhow, he wouldn't touch her money; though it would have been bad
policy to acquaint old Haig with that little fact. Better take the
short-cut home. Stiff from standing so long in the wet; but it's worth
while, if only for the fun of making old Haig feel so confoundedly
cheap."
Supported by these charitable reflections, he turned off the main road
into a footpath which, after skirting the gardens of a large villa
facing on to The Avenue, struck northwestward across an as yet
unreclaimed portion of the Baughurst Park Estate. By following this
route Challoner took the base instead of the two sides of a triangle,
thus saving about a quarter of a mile in his walk home to Heatherleigh.
A dark plain of high, straggling heather, broken here and there by a
thicker darkness of advancing ranks of self-sown firs, lay on either
side the grayness of the sand and flint strewn track. Even in sunshine
the region in question was cheerless, and, as seen now, in the driving
rain and fading daylight, it bore a positively forbidding aspect. But
to this Challoner, having returned to enumeration of his well-deserved
blessings, was sublimely indifferent.
And among those blessings--here, alone, free to disregard conventional
black-edged decencies and be honest with himself--Joanna Smyrthwaite's
death, although an ugly suspicion of suicide did hang around it, might,
he felt, be counted. Making the admission, he had the grace to feel
slightly ashamed of his own cynicism. In the first shock of the
tragedy, when Marion Chase sent for him in the morning, he had been
genuinely troubled and overset. But, as the day wore on, the
advantages of the melancholy event disclosed themselves more and more
clearly. Joanna Smyrthwaite never liked him, considered him her social
inferior, didn't mince matters in expressing her objection to her
sister's engagement. Ignored him, when she got the chance, or snubbed
him. Distinctly she'd done her best to make him feel awkward; and
there was bound to be friction in the future both in their family
relation and in the management of the Smyrthwaite property. Joanna was
uncommonly strong. He, for one, had never underrated the force of her
character. He even owned himself a trifle afraid of her, afraid of
some pull--as he expressed it--that she might have over Margaret. Now
he would have Margaret to himself, exclusively to himself--and
Challoner's blood grew hot, notwithstanding the chill dreariness of
wind and wet, thinking of that.
For his feeling toward Margaret Smyrthwaite had come to be the master
power of his life, of all his schemes of self-aggrandizement. After
the somewhat coarse and primitive manner of his kind, he was over head
and ears in love with her. He was proud of her, almost sensitively
anxious to please her; ready, for all his burly, bullying roughness, to
play faithful dog, fetch and carry and slave for her. No woman had
ever affected him or excited his passions as she did. In food he
relished highly seasoned dishes to apprehend the flavor of which you do
not need to shut your eyes and listen. And Margaret Smyrthwaite's
attractions were of the highly seasoned order, the effect of her
full-fleshed, slightly overdressed and overscented person presenting
itself without any baffling reserve, frankly assailing and provoking
the senses.--Oh! he'd treat her like a queen; work for her; buy her
jewels, motor-cars, aeroplanes if she fancied them; pet, amuse, make
Stourmouth bow down to, make himself a great man, for her!--Sir Joseph
and Lady Challoner--a loftier flight than that--who could tell? Maybe
a peerage. Lord and Lady Baughurst--why not? After all, if you play
your cards cleverly enough such apparently improbable things do happen,
particularly in this blessed twentieth century, when money is the prime
factor.
And there was money in plenty, would be more, unless he was uncommonly
out of his reckoning. At the start, so he calculated, their united
incomes--his own and Margaret's--would amount to getting on for twelve
thousand. All to the good, too, since there was no drain of a large
landed estate absorbing more than half its yearly revenue in compulsory
outgoings. They would be married soon, quite soon. Her sister's death
and her present loneliness supplied ample reason for pushing on the
wedding. It must be a quiet one, of course, out of respect for
black-edged decencies. But he didn't object to that. The thing was to
get her.--And then he'd carry her away, right away, shaking her free of
the dismal, old-fashioned, Smyrthwaite rut altogether. They'd take a
three months' honeymoon and travel somewhere, anywhere; go a yachting
trip, say, up the Mediterranean. Never since he was a boy at school
had he taken a holiday. It had been grind, grind, scheme, scheme,
climb, climb without intermission. Not but what he'd climbed to some
purpose, since he'd got high enough at forty to pluck such a luscious
mouthful as Margaret off the apple-tree against which he'd set up his
ladder! Now he would take a holiday, if only to show other men what a
prize Joseph Challoner had won in the shape of a woman.
Amorous, uxorious, his whole big body tingling with emotion, he forged
along the path across the darkling moorland, breasting the wind-driven
sheets of cold rain.
"Hi! slow up there, you great, lumbering, greasy-skinned elephant, and
tell me where the devil I've got to in this blasted old wilderness!" a
voice shouted.
At the same time he was aware that a narrow strip of the gray pathway
in front of him reared itself up on end, assuming human form--a human
form, moreover, oddly resembling that of Adrian Savage.
The style of the address was scarcely mollifying, and Challoner had all
a practical man's hatred both of being taken by surprise and of
encountering phenomena which he could not account for at once in a
quite satisfactory and obvious manner. He came straight to the
baffling apparition, and looked it steadily, insolently, up and down,
the bully in him stirred into rather dangerous activity. The ridicule
of his personal appearance wounded his vanity. The interruption of his
dreams of love and glory infuriated him; while the fancied likeness of
the speaker to Adrian Savage sharpened the edge of both offenses.
"I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head, or you may happen to
find this wilderness an even more blasted and blasting locality than
will at all suit you," he said threateningly.
At close quarters the slouching figure was certainly not that of Adrian
Savage, nor was the weak, dissolute, blue-eyed face. Yet, although
seen indistinctly in the waning light, the said face struck Challoner
as unaccountably familiar. What on earth, who on earth was the fellow?
Not an ordinary tramp, for his speech, though thick with drink, and his
clothes, though ill-kept and dirty, were those of a man of education
and position. Challoner continued to scrutinize him. And under that
unfriendly and menacing scrutiny the young man's tone changed,
declining to petulant almost whining apology.
"You needn't bluster," he said. "I meant no harm; and you know you did
look awfully funny and shiny! I want to know where I am. I came
across from Havre to Barryport in an onion-boat, because it was
cheapest. I'm not overflush of cash. So I've come to look up some of
my people who live about here."
"Charming surprise for them," Challoner said.
"And it blew like blazes all last night. Between the motion and the
stench of the onions I was as sick as Jonah's whale. Nothing left
inside of me except just myself. One of those Breton sailor chaps,
hawking his beastly vegetables, came a bit of the way from Barryport
with me. He told me to cut across these commons and I should be sure
to come out all right; but I expect he lied just to get quit of me."
"More than possible," Challoner said.
"I ought to have stuck to the tram-lines, but my head's rather light.
I haven't got over the Jonah business yet. I lost my bearings
altogether somehow, through feeling so awfully slack. I've been
sheltering in under those mangy old fir-trees for I don't know how
long, hoping somebody might pass. And I'm wet to the skin, and as cold
as charity."
"Very interesting indeed, but no earthly concern of mine. So if you've
got to the end of your tale I'll continue my walk. Good-day,"
Challoner commented, preparing to resume his homeward journey.
The young man caught him by the arm.
"Say, but you can't leave me alone in this God-forsaken hole?"
"Oh yes, I can," Challoner answered. "Kindly take your dirty paw off
my sleeve, will you? else I may be compelled to have a word with the
local authorities about a case of assault, attempted robbery with
violence, and such sweet little games. However, it wouldn't be the
first time you've made acquaintance with the inside of a police cell,
unless I'm much mistaken."
"I don't mean any harm. I only want you to tell me the way. I can't
lie out here in the wet all night. It would rot me with chills and
fever."
The wind had increased in force. Now the tumult of it was loud. It
rushed through the firs, bending them low, tearing off dry branches and
tufted tassels; then fled on, screaming, across the dark plain of
heather like some demented thing let loose. The speaker craned his
neck upward and raised his voice to a quavering shout in the effort to
make himself heard. His face was close to Challoner's; and again the
latter was puzzled by something unaccountably familiar in the features
and general effect of it. Whereupon the bullying instinct gave place
to caution.
"See here," he said, "you must behave like a reasonable being, not like
a driveling sot, if you want me to take any trouble about you. Tell
you your way, you young fool, your way where?"
"To the Tower House, something Park--Baughurst Park--that's the
blooming name of it, where my people live."
Challoner started; he could not help it. Then he waited till the next
gust of wind had spent its fury, and, in the lull which followed, spoke
very slowly.
"So that's the blooming name of the blooming place where your people
live, is it? And who may your people be, if you please, and what is
your business with them?"
"What, the deuce, does that matter to you?" the other answered, trying
to ruffle, yet shrinking away nervously, while the wind, gathering
force again, whipped his legs and back, showing the lines of his
wasted, large-boned frame through his thin, light-colored clothing.
"As it happens, it matters very much to me," Challoner retorted,
"because some very particular friends of mine live at the Tower House.
It may amuse you to hear I have just come from there, and that you very
certainly can't gain access to the Tower House without my permission,
and that I very certainly shall not give that permission. Young
gentlemen of your particular kidney aren't required there. The
men-servants would kick you out, and quite properly. We know how to
treat loafers and tippling impostors who try to sponge upon gentlewomen
here in England.--Now come along with me. I'll see you as far as the
tram-line, and pay your fare to Barryport, and you can go on board your
onion-boat again. Also I'll telephone through to the central police
station directly I get home and give the Stourmouth and Barryport
police a little description of you. So step out, if you please. No
malingering."
As he finished speaking Challoner grasped the young man solidly by the
shoulder, propelling him forward, but the latter, slippery as an eel,
wriggled himself free.
"Let go, you great hulking beast!" he cried. "I'm not an impostor.
I'm William Smyrthwaite, and my sister Joanna means to provide for me.
I know all about that. A chap who I ran across three days ago in Rouen
told me. We always were chummy in the old days, Nannie and I. She'll
tell you I'm speaking the truth fast enough, and make you look d--d
silly. She'll recognize and acknowledge me, see if she don't!"
"Upon my word, I'm afraid she's not likely to have an opportunity of
doing anything of the kind, poor lady," Challoner returned; and he
laughed at his own rather horrible joke. "So come along, Mr.
Who-ever-you-are, alias William Smyrthwaite, Esq. I begin to think I'd
better see you safe on board your precious onion-boat myself, and have
you affectionately looked after till she sails. It may save both of us
trouble."
"You beast, you cursed, great, shiny, black devil!" Bibby shouted. And
he clawed and struck at his tormentor passionately.
The first touch of those striking, clawing hands let the underlying
wild animal loose in Challoner. A primitive lust of fight took him,
along with a savage joy in the act of putting forth his own immense
physical strength. Still, at first, his temper remained fairly under
control, and he played with his adversary, feinted and parried. But
the wretched boy did not fight fair. He indulged in sneaking, tricky
dodges learned amid the moral and social filth of the Paris under-world
and in South American gambling hells and doss-houses. Soon Challoner
lost his temper, saw his chance, took it; delivered one blow, straight
from the shoulder, which, landing on Bibby's temple, dropped him like
so much lead on the rain-washed flints of the crown of the pathway.
Then he stood breathing heavily, his eyes bloodshot, the veins standing
out like cords on his forehead, the intoxication of battle at once
stupefying and maddening him.
Presently Bibby's limbs twitched; and, as though moved by a spring, he
sat bolt upright, his elbows set back, his hands, the thick-jointed
fingers wide apart, raised to the level of his shoulders.
"He's done me in, the clumsy, murderous brute!" he panted. Then
childishly whimpering--"Nannie," he wailed, "poor old Nannie, so you're
dead too. Golly, what a sell! Never mind. I'm just coming."
He lurched and fell sideways, rolling over face downward into a long,
sandy puddle edging the pathway.
Five minutes, nearly ten minutes passed, while Challoner remained
standing stock-still in the volleying wind and blinding rain and
forlorn fading light of the moorland. At last he shook himself, went
forward and knelt beside the motionless Thing lying close against the
black ragged fringe of heath, upon its stomach, in the sandy wetness.
For some time he couldn't bring himself to touch it. Then putting
strong constraint upon himself, he turned it over and bent low, staring
at it. It reminded him of the big, white, yellow-headed maggots he
used to pick out of the decaying wood of the old summer-house in the
little garden at home as a boy, and use for bait when he went fishing
in the river at Mary church. Yes--it was queerly like those maggots.
But somehow it wore the clothes of Adrian Savage. And its poor face
was that of Joanna Smyrthwaite as he had seen her this morning in the
agitated silence of her room, stretched cold and lifeless beneath the
fine lace coverlet of her satin wood bed. Only her eyes were shut, and
this Thing's eyes were wide, wide open. Now its loose lips parted.
Its mouth opened too, while a dark thread trickled slowly down its chin
into the hollow of its throat inside its dirty, crumpled collar.
Challoner tumbled up hastily and waited, breathing hard and brushing
the rain and sweat off his face with the back of his hand. Gradually
his mind began to work clearly. His sense of ordinary every-day
happenings, their correlation and natural consequences, of his own
identity, his business, his hopes of worldly advancement, wealth and
titles, came back to him. He understood that he must decide, act,
cover up what he had done, get rid of this accusing, motionless Thing
lying open-eyed, open-mouthed in the pathway.
He knelt down again, put his arms round the limp body, with a mighty
lift and heave flung it sack-like across his shoulder, staggered on to
his feet, and, heading southwestward in the teeth of the gale, laboring
under the weight of that which he carried, plowed his way doggedly
across the desolate outstretch of rough, resilient heather, down into
the heart of the straining, bellowing, storm-swept woodland.
It was late, long past his usual dinner-hour, when Challoner reached
Heatherleigh. To his own surprise, he accounted for himself to his
servant as the man helped him off with his mackintosh. He'd been
detained, had got a chill, he believed; didn't know that he wanted any
dinner. Yes--let them send whatever they'd got ready--hot, and the
plainer the better. He'd have it when he came down--in ten minutes.
He must change first, he was so confoundedly wet.
For the sake of appearances he made an effort to eat; but the sight and
smell of food turned his stomach. Still complaining of chill, he left
the table and went into the smoking-room. Though an abstemious man,
both from habit and policy, he mixed himself a remarkably stiff brandy
and soda, set it down on the large writing-table--loaded with bundles
of folded papers, documents engrossed on vellum and tied with pink
tape--and forgot to drink it. Went round the room turning all the
incandescent gas-lamps full on. The chocolate-colored imitation
leather paper with which the walls were hung made the room dark; and
Challoner felt a strong aversion to the dark. He wanted to see every
object quite plainly and in its entirety. He took a cigar from the
cedar-lined silver box Margaret Smyrthwaite had given him, standing on
the revolving bookcase--looked at it and put it back. Somehow he
couldn't smoke. Sank down in an arm-chair and sat glowering, like some
sullen, savage, trapped animal, into the empty grate.
More than once, fatigue overcoming him, he dozed, only to wake, with a
start, crying out loud:
"It wasn't my fault. I didn't begin it. He hit me first."
Then, clearer understanding returning, he continued:
"I struck him in self-defense--before God--as I hope to be saved, I
did. At most they could bring it in manslaughter. I did it for
Margaret's sake, to save her from being exploited and sponged on by the
drunken young rotter. Ah! my God--but if it was true, if, as he
claimed to be, he was her brother, how can I go to her with his blood
on my hands? Margaret--I'm in hell. Forgive me--don't believe it!
Never know--my own poor, splendid darling--God, how I love
her--Margaret--Margaret--never know--I can't, I can't lose you."
And Challoner broke down, sobs shaking his great, amorous body and
tearing his bull throat.
Toward morning at the turn of the tide the gale abated and the rain
ceased. When daylight came, but not until then, Challoner went
up-stairs to his bedroom, the windows of which faced east. He drew
back the curtains, pulled up the wooden-slatted Venetian blinds and
watched the brightness widen outward and upward behind the ragged
crests of the stone pines. As a rule he had not time or care to waste
on the beauties of nature, but he found vague, inarticulate solace in
the gaudy colors of this wild sunrise. He was calmer now, and the
strong daylight helped to drive out exaggerations of sentiment and
fearful fancies. In short, his impregnable health and physical
courage, his convenient coarseness of moral fiber and indomitable
tenacity of purpose, began to assert themselves. He began to argue and
not unably to plead his own cause to himself.
For, look at the ghastly episode what way you pleased, how could he be
blamed for it? The whole thing was accident, accident pure and simple,
which he could not foresee, and equally could not prevent. It had been
sprung on him out of a clear sky. He was rushed, not given an
instant's breathing space for consideration. And that was manifestly
unfair. Any man might lose his head and be betrayed into violence by
such vile provocation.
His spirits revived.
And, when all came to all, there was not a tittle of evidence against
him! After parting with Haig he had not met a soul. He could swear no
one had seen him turn out of The Avenue into the footpath. The rain
would have obliterated all traces of the struggle by this time, and wet
heather, thank goodness, doesn't show tracks. Though why he should
trouble about such details he didn't know. It was blitheringly silly,
for, who the devil would be on the lookout for tracks? A thousand to
one the body would not be found until the estate foresters cut the
bracken in November; and by then--
Sweat broke out on Challoner's forehead, and he was not sorry the sun
stood high behind the pines, throwing slanting shafts of light between
their dark stems across the rain-swamped garden, where the blackbirds
and thrushes patroled, worm-hunting, on the turf.
By that time, whatever was left would be in no condition to tell tales.
"Painful discovery in the Baughurst Park Woods"--he could see the
headlines in the local papers--"Mysterious death"--"No clue to the
identity of the remains"--None, thank the Lord, none, none! But for a
couple of francs and a few English coppers the boy's pockets were
empty. Challoner, praise to God! had mustered sufficient spunk to
ascertain that.
All the same--and here callousness failed him a little--his and
Margaret's honeymoon should be a long one, long enough to insure their
being far away from Stourmouth when the foresters cut the bracken in
November. Distance, travel, new scenes and new interests, are said to
draw the sting of remembrance. And it was best, immeasurably best, not
only for himself, but indirectly for Margaret also, that remembrance
should be blunted, that he should--if he only could--forget.
For, after all--his spirits in the honest sunshine reviving yet
further--what proof had he the miserable drink and vice corrupted
wastrel had spoken the truth? Wasn't it much more probable Haig's
story was the right one, and that this was some low, blackmailing
scoundrel trading upon scraps of hearsay information he'd happened to
pick up? A lying, misbegotten whelp, in short, of whom society at
large was extremely well rid--really, to expend sentiment upon the
summary removal of such refuse came near being maudlin. As to any
fancied resemblance he bore to Joanna Smyrthwaite, one couldn't attach
any serious importance to that. In the ghostly twilight it was
impossible to see distinctly. And, after the uncommonly nasty upset of
the morning and the bullying he'd been obliged to give that old
grannie, Norbiton, before the latter would consent to ignore the empty
tabloid bottle, and certify the cause of death simply as syncope, it
was hardly surprising if he'd got poor Joanna's personal appearance a
little upon his brain. No--it is an awful misfortune, no doubt, to be,
however accidentally, the means of taking a fellow-creature's life;
but, looking at the whole occurrence coolly, he--Challoner--came to the
comforting conclusion that he was hardly more to blame, more
responsible, than he would be if some reckless fool had blundered
across the road under the nose of his motor and got run down.
Whereupon, the sun having now cleared the crests of the pines and it
being imperative not to give the servants any handle for gossip,
Challoner undressed and went to bed.
He succeeded in advancing the date of the wedding; but during the five
weeks which elapsed before it took place his moods caused some
perplexity and no small discomfort to his poorer clients, junior
partners, and clerks. At moments he indulged in boisterous mirth; but
for the most part was abominably bad-tempered, irritable, and morose.
Colonel Haig, however, noted unexpected signs of grace in him,
concerning which he spoke to Mr. Woodford one day at the Club.
"Challoner's coming more into line," he said; "he is less noisy and
self-assertive--very much less so. A good deal of the improvement in
his manner is due to me, I flatter myself. I have been at the trouble
of giving him some very strong hints. If you propose to associate with
gentlemen you must learn to behave like a gentleman. His election to
the Club vexed me at the time. Too much country-attorney sharp
practice in the methods he employed, I thought. So I am relieved,
greatly relieved, he has taken my friendly admonitions to heart. It
would have annoyed me extremely if his membership had lowered the
social tone of the Club. Too, it's pleasanter for me personally, as I
am bound, I suppose, to see a good deal of him in the future, on my
cousin, Margaret Smyrthwaite's, account."
When alone with his _fiancée_ during this period of waiting Challoner's
attitude alternated between anxious, almost servile, humility and
extravagant making of love. Margaret, however, being a young woman of
limited imagination, put down both humility and "demonstrations" to the
potent effect of her own charms, thus remaining altogether sensible,
self-complacent, outwardly composed, inwardly excited, and, in fine,
very well content. While unknown to her, unknown, indeed, to all save
the man who so slavishly obeyed and fiercely caressed her, the
unsightly Thing, which had once been her playmate and brother, lay out,
below the ever-talking trees, among the heath, and sedge-grass, and
bracken, the tragedy and unspeakable disgrace of its decomposition not
hidden by so much as a pauper's deal coffin-lid.