Callander was in the hall when they went down, and he took Deborah
home. He wondered a little at the ceremoniousness with which Christian
took leave of them at the door, but he was often puzzled by the mixture
of boyishness and dignity in the young man, and thought no more of it.
As for Deb, she was too busy holding to her hat in the teeth of the now
flying gale to yield any satisfactory psychological impression. He had
long since realised the affinity between the two, but exactly where
they stood he could not guess.
As they left the park by the lower lodge, the Whyterigg car turned in
at the gates, and roared past them in the fading light.
“There’s Rishwald,” Callander remarked, looking after it. “Christian
will be late. Mrs. Stanley was ready for dinner long since, and kept
coming out of her room and signalling me with hair-brushes to know
whether you were still in the house.”
“It was good of you to wait,” Deb replied mechanically. Her brain was
still numb after the late strain, and she felt dazed by the rushing
tumult around her.
“I wanted to walk home with you,” he said simply. “I knew Christian
was engaged, and it isn’t a night for a lady to be out alone,” and put
his arm before her as he spoke, for a torn branch came whirling heavily
to the ground at their very feet.
She could hear the big tide filling the river, and wondered if the
sheep were safe on the mosses, and whether the low-lying farms were
trembling for the sea-wall. She could not help remembering that on such
a night Slinker had gone to his account. On such a night Christian had
come into her life; and on this, its counterpart, he was going out of
it. A thought struck her, and she half-stopped, looking back to Crump.
“What is it?” Callander asked. “Have you forgotten something? I will go
back for it.” But she turned again, shaking her head.
“It was only an old superstition that came into my mind,” she
explained, when they came under the lee of the Kilne wall, and she
could get her breath. “They say Lyndesays of Crump always die in a
gale. I suppose it’s absurd, but it’s a fact that Stanley died on a
night like this, and William Lyndesay, too. Of course there is many a
storm which brings no disaster, and it can’t be anything but a curious
coincidence, but Crump has many a frowning fate against it, as you must
have found, by now.”
“Yes, the estate seems to reek with ill-luck,” Callander said
thoughtfully. “I’m always running up against samples. And how
firmly everybody believes in it, too! This field must not be
ploughed--nothing would spring in it. Sheep can’t be heafed on that
fell--they would die in a week. In a certain shippon the dobbie milks
first; and so on. It has a certain charm for an outsider, but it is
awkward from a business point of view, and must be decidedly trying if
you take it all to heart.”
“There’s a big wrestling-match on at the Academy, to-night,” he added
presently, “and Christian has promised to look in. I’m going up for
him, so can keep an eye open to see that the gale does him no harm!” he
ended laughingly, as they reached the gate.
“Thanks!” Deb returned, smiling. “It’s all nonsense, I suppose, and
you must think me very silly, but I’m just as governed by the old
traditions as all the rest.”
“I’m glad you came here,” she added, on a sudden impulse. “I’m glad
you’ll have Kilne when we’re gone. It knows you already--don’t you feel
it when you come in? I couldn’t have gone away, leaving the house to a
stranger.”
“There is no need for you ever to go away,” he answered quietly. “This
isn’t the time for speaking, but you may as well know it. Think it
over, my Lady of the Land!”
He went away without waiting for an answer, and she stood in the porch,
looking across to the lights of Crump starred steadfast on the frantic
night, and her heart reached piteously across the cleaving water. Then,
conscious of a great unwillingness to leave the wildness without, she
went wearily into the house.
* * * * *
Even the most perfect of servants has his moments of temporary
aberration, and when Mrs. Slinker came lightly down the stairs in
clinging, gleaming, ivory satin, with pearls twisted round her head
and pearls shining from her throat, it was scarcely surprising that
the first footman should drop the steel poker and stare like a very
kitchen-maid.
“She’s a bloomin’ bride!” he informed the underworld, when he had
got himself (furtively staring to the furthest limit) safely out of
reach. “A bloomin’ bride--that’s what she looked, and no mistake about
it! Satin and ropes of pearls, and twinkly things on her shoes, and
a colour like the light shining through that there ruby sugar-bowl!
You take my word for it, she’s making up her mind to get married
again--_soon_!”
“Then it’s Whyterigg,” announced the second, who had just reached the
blissful stage at which he was permitted to make observations without
being unduly snubbed. “I hung up his coat when he came, and there was a
hard thing with corners in his pocket that couldn’t have been anything
else but chocolates. _He_ has a kind of white satin and ruby look about
him, too. Bet you what you like it’s Whyterigg!”
“Rishwald’s running her hard,” the cook agreed. “My young man says
his car’s always in the village, and Rishwald peering into shops and
looking lost, and then rushing inside to buy things he can’t want
anyhow if he thinks folks is looking at him. And last time he came
he never touched that vol-o-vong I sent up extra-special. There’s
bound to be something at the back of _that_. My aunt! she’s doing
well for herself--first Crump and then Whyterigg! None so dusty for a
horse-dealer’s daughter, is it?”
“I don’t believe she’ll take Whyterigg,” a quiet, refined-looking girl
spoke up from beside the fire. “She’s only cared for one man all her
life, and we all know who that is! I used to see a lot of Nettie Stone
before she was sent away to finish her education, and she was in love
with Anthony Dixon even then.”
“Go on--you and your Anthony Dixon!” the cook sniffed contemptuously.
“As if anybody with a chance of Whyterigg would be cracked enough to
give Dockerneuk a second thought! She’s travelled far enough from
her Dockerneuk days, I’ll be bound. Satin for Anthony Dixon! Pearls!
Twinkly things on her toes! A fat lot _you_ know about it, to be sure.
Rishwald it’ll be, you’ll see, and another slap in the eye for their
precious county!”
Rishwald was distinctly of the same opinion, judging from the
atmosphere of tender possession with which he instantly surrounded the
bridal vision. He even forgot certain tea-spoons of quite historic
importance, and was content to whisper illiterate nothings into a
charming ear, while the footmen eyed him through the open dining-room
door, and laid bets as to his probable chances.
Christian was late, as Callander had prophesied, and when he entered at
last it was with a double apology.
“You’ll think me frightfully rude, of course, and I’m wretchedly
ashamed, but I was unexpectedly detained; and to make matters worse,
I’m afraid I shall have to go down into the village, later on. I
suppose you wouldn’t care to come along?--a wrestling-match, you
know--some of your men are down,--yes, yes, you’d rather stop here, of
course--I quite understand! I seem to have made a muddle of things,
somehow--I’ve rather a knack that way,” he added, with a sudden little
laugh, at which Nettie looked up quickly.
Something had happened, she knew, upstairs in that detestable little
room which had never harboured anything but trouble; something that
had sent Deborah away without a word to herself, and set that hurt,
puzzled look in Christian’s kind eyes. To-morrow she would find out,
and by hook or crook things should be put right; but to-night was
_her_ night, and she could spare no thought for any one else. The gale
had set her blood racing in her veins--wild blood that came through a
questionable pedigree from lawless Border thieves of the North; and the
interview with Roger Lyndesay had carried her back with a rush to the
happy days of her early girlhood, when she and Dixon were stepping on
the borderland of love, and the shadow of Crump was far enough from
their young glamour. The old man’s courtly action had given her back
her self-respect as nothing else could have done, setting her free,
it seemed, for the future. For the second time she shook off her dead
husband’s clasp, and deliberately took her life in both hands, calling
on the gods of field and fold.
Dinner was a rapid meal, and when the ladies rose, the men followed
very shortly. Rishwald drew Nettie to the piano, but though she played
when he asked her, she would not sing, for in her ears was a rioting
song of hope and fear, so tempestuous that she marvelled others could
not hear it. His head swam as he bent over her flushed cheek and
shining gown, hungering for some response to his passion, and nearer
complete abstraction from self than he had ever been in his life, or
would be again.
Christian sat by the fire, sunk in a deep chair, his face hidden in a
cloud of smoke. Near him, his mother bent closely over a fine square of
lace, her thin, powerful fingers moving lightly among the threads. They
never looked at each other--these two. The veil of bitterness between
them was stretched to-night as far as the stars.
“If you would give us a week at Whyterigg,” Rishwald was saying quite
humbly, “I should be honoured to arrange an old-time concert in the
musician’s gallery. A harpsichord--viola da gamba, and so on--the
musicians in costume, of course. Does the idea please you?”
He bent nearer, and at that moment a bell rang, far at the back of the
house. Nettie started violently, her hands dropping from the keys, and
she half-rose, looking at the stairs, but before she could move, one of
the men entered with the message that Anthony Dixon wished to see Mrs.
Stanley.
Slinker’s wife came out from behind the piano.
“Bring him here, please,” she said quickly. “I will see him here. That
is, if you will excuse me!” she added, turning apologetically to her
hosts.
“My dear Nettie!” Mrs. Lyndesay’s eyebrows went up in cold disapproval.
“If you must see the man--and surely it cannot be necessary, at this
hour?--the hall is scarcely the place for an interview. The steward’s
room, Matthew, or the east parlour.”
The servant bowed and was turning away when Mrs. Slinker checked him.
She stood in the middle of the hall, a radiant, gleaming figure,
scattering the gloom of Crump like a high-held lamp, showing beside the
rigid blackness of her mother-in-law like a shining lily beside a bough
of yew.
“No--wait!” she said clearly, putting out her hand, and Christian,
through the smoke, saw that her wedding-ring had disappeared. “I prefer
to have him brought here--if you will forgive me. Do as I say, please!”
and the startled footman threw a frightened glance at the older woman,
and fled. For the first and last time in her life, Nettie Stone was
absolute mistress of Crump, and she never forgot it.
Anthony came into the hall shyly, but with his beautiful dignity
unimpaired. His hat was off, and his hand went up in salute as his
tranquil eyes travelled deferentially round the circle. Christian
nodded cordially through his screen of smoke, and Rishwald, though
deeply annoyed by the interruption, acknowledged his greeting with a
stiff bend of the head; but Mrs. Lyndesay merely stared at him in cold
surprise, and the quick blood rushed to his tanned face as he realised
her resentment at his presence.
“I’m sorry if I’m intruding, ma’am,” he said quietly. “I’m here by
order. Mrs. Stanley sent me word she had something to ask me.” And
Slinker’s wife, her face all laughter and tears, walked up to him and
said--“That’s so, Anthony! Will you marry me?” and laid her hands on
his breast.
In the mighty pause that followed they were still as stone, spectators
as well as actors in the swift little scene; and then came a soft,
final sound--the closing of the library door. Even Rishwald saw clear
at that moment, and he knew that he had lost. There was one thing at
least Whyterigg would never take from Crump.
Mrs. Lyndesay stood up and reached for the bell, but Christian slid his
fingers over the ivory knob before she could press it.
“Leave that, Mother!” he said with gentle force. “This matter is for
ourselves only. I’ll not have Anthony turned like a dog from Crump.”
He dropped his hand and stood up beside her, staring at the still,
concentrated figures, conscious only of themselves.
“Turn them out!” Mrs. Lyndesay said in a low, harsh voice, and suddenly
she began to shake like a leaf in the wind of her wounded pride. “Turn
them both out--the woman as well--the low-born thing that in my folly I
raised to our level! She shows her breeding at last, insulting us under
our very roof. Turn them out! If William Lyndesay were alive, he would
have them whipped from the door!”
The fierce words reached the culprit, and Slinker’s wife dropped her
hands and turned towards the furious voice, paling a little, though her
eyes were full of soft light.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently, “but I had to do it--it was the only way
to make Anthony believe I cared. Yes, turn me out--_please_ turn me
out--quick!--and then--he’ll take me in!”
She stretched out her hands, half-laughing, half-crying, and Christian
went across to her and caught them in his own.
“Oh, Nettie, how mad you are!” he exclaimed, divided himself between
laughter and tears. “You foolish, ridiculous, utterly adorable thing!
As if you’d ever be turned from here while Crump is Christian’s roof!”
But Anthony stepped forward with a certain dogged resentment, his quiet
face working painfully.
“All the same, it’s done, sir, asking your pardon! It’s not true that
William Lyndesay would have turned me out. He never gave me a wrong
word. But neither Anthony Dixon nor aught that belongs to him needs
telling to go more than once. Nettie comes home with me to-night to my
mother, and while I live she never crosses the door again!”
“Come, Anthony--take time to think----!” Christian expostulated, hurt
yet conciliatory, but Dixon waved him aside.
“Where’s your cloak, lass?” he said to Slinker’s wife, and with a low
laugh of pure happiness she caught up a rug that Christian had given
her at Christmas, and threw it round her, following Dixon to the door.
As he opened it, she turned abruptly, and took a last look at the rigid
figure by the fire, its scornful eyes following her with open hatred,
and for a long moment the two women stood staring at each other across
the hall. Then Slinker’s wife uttered a passionate little sound, part
sorrow and part justified relief.
“You never really loved me,” she said, “never, never--except as
Stanley’s chattel! I’m sorry, I think, but it makes things easier.”
Then she stepped back to Christian, caught his hand and kissed it.
“Good-bye, Youngest One! Don’t forget me. I’d stay with you if I could,
but I’m called home, and you won’t grudge me that. Oh, Laker dear, at
least there’s one lost dog no more a-seeking!”
At the foot of the steps he saw Anthony throw his arm around her,
and Nettie lay her face on his breast; and his eyes were wet when he
stepped inside and shut them out.