It was early on a dark November day that the prison gate at Barren Hill
opened to allow a convict who had just completed twelve years' penal
servitude to pass out a free man.
A motor car was drawn up at the side of the kerb as he emerged, and a
man in a long overcoat, with another slung on his arm, was pacing up and
down.
He wheeled at the closing of the gate, and they stood face to face.
There was a moment's difficult silence; then the man with the motor
spoke.
"Mr. West, I think?"
The other looked him up and down in a single comprehensive glance that
was like the flash of a sword blade.
"Certainly," he said curtly, "if you prefer it."
He was a short, thick-set man of past forty, with a face so grimly lined
as to mask all expression. His eyes alone were vividly alert. They were
the bluest eyes that Babbacombe had ever seen.
He accepted the curt acknowledgment with grave courtesy, and made a
motion toward the car.
"Will you get in? My name is Babbacombe. I am here to meet you, as no
doubt you have been told. You had better wear this"--opening out the
coat he carried.
But West remained motionless, facing him on the grey, deserted road.
"Before I come with you," he said, in his brief, clipped style, "there
is one thing I want to know. Are you patronising me for the sake of
philanthropy, or for--some other reason?"
As he uttered the question, he fixed Babbacombe with a stare that was
not without insolence.
Babbacombe did not hesitate in his reply. He was not a man to be lightly
disconcerted.
"You can put it down to anything you like," he said, "except
philanthropy."
West considered a moment.
"Very well, sir," he said finally, his aggressive tone slightly
modified. "In that case I will come with you."
He turned about, and thrust his arms into the coat Babbacombe held for
him, turned up the collar, and without a backward glance, stepped into
the waiting motor.
Babbacombe started the engine, and followed him. In another moment they
had glided away into the dripping mist, and the prison was left behind.
Through mile after mile they sped in silence. West sat with his chin
buried in his coat, his keen eyes staring straight ahead. Babbacombe, at
the wheel, never glanced at him once.
Through villages, through towns, through long stretches of open country
they glided, sometimes slackening, but never stopping. The sun broke
through at length, revealing a country of hills and woods and silvery
running streams. They had been travelling for hours. It was nearly noon.
For the first time since their start Babbacombe spoke.
"I hope I haven't kept you going too long. We are just getting in."
"Don't mind me," said West.
Babbacombe was slackening speed.
"It's a fine hunting country," he observed.
"Whose is it?" asked West.
"Mine, most of it." They were running smoothly down a long avenue of
beech trees, with a glimpse of an open gateway at the end.
"It must take some managing," remarked West.
"It does," Babbacombe answered. "It needs a capable man."
They reached the gateway, passing under an arch of stone. Beyond it lay
wide stretches of park land. Rabbits scuttled in the sunshine, and under
the trees here and there they had glimpses of deer.
"Ever ridden to hounds?" asked Babbacombe.
The man beside him turned with a movement half savage.
"Set me on a good horse," he said, "and I will show you what I can do."
Babbacombe nodded, conscious for the first time of a warmth of sympathy
for the man. Whatever his sins, he must have suffered infernally during
the past twelve years.
Twelve years! Ye gods! It was half a life-time! It represented the whole
of his manhood to Babbacombe. Twelve years ago he had been an
undergraduate at Cambridge.
He drove on through the undulating stretches of Farringdean Park, his
favourite heritage, trying to realise what effect twelve years in a
convict prison would have had upon himself, what his outlook would
ultimately have become, and what in actual fact was the outlook and
general attitude of the man who had come through this long purgatory.
Sweeping round a rise in the ground, they came into sudden sight of the
castle. Ancient and splendid it rose before them, its battlements
shining in the sun--a heritage of which any man might be proud.
Babbacombe waited for some word of admiration from his companion. But he
waited in vain. West was mute.
"What do you think of it?" he asked at last, determined to wring some
meed of appreciation from him, even though he stooped to ask for it.
"What--the house?" said West. "It's uncommonly like a primeval sort of
prison, to my idea. I've no doubt it boasts some very superior
dungeons."
The sting in the words reached Babbacombe, but without offence. Again,
more strongly, he was conscious of that glow of sympathy within him,
kindling to a flame of fellowship.
"It boasts better things than that," he said quietly, "as I hope you
will allow me to show you."
He was conscious of the piercing gaze of West's eyes, and, after a
moment, he deliberately turned his own to meet it.
"And if you find--as you probably soon will--that I make but a poor sort
of host," he said, "just remember, will you, that I like my guests to
please themselves, and secure your own comfort?"
For a second, West's grim mouth seemed to hesitate on the edge of a
smile--a smile that never developed.
"I wonder how soon you will tell me to go to the devil?" he said
cynically.
"Oh, I am a better host than that," said Babbacombe, with quiet humour.
"If you ever prefer the devil's hospitality to mine, it won't be my
fault."
West turned from him with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as if he
deemed himself to be dealing with a harmless lunatic, and dropped back
into silence.