It was not till the middle of December that the new bailiff moved into
his own quarters, but he had assumed his duties some weeks before that
time, and Babbacombe was well satisfied with him. The man's business
instincts were unusually keen. He had, moreover, a wonderful eye for
details, and very little escaped him. It soon came home to Babbacombe
that the management of his estate was in capable hands, and he
congratulated himself upon having struck ore where he had least expected
to find it. He supervised the whole of West's work for a time, but he
soon suffered this vigilance to relax, for the man's shrewdness far
surpassed his own. He settled to the work with a certain grim relish,
and it was a perpetual marvel to Babbacombe that he mastered it from the
outset with such facility.
Keepers and labourers eyed him askance for awhile, but West's
imperturbability took effect before very long. They accepted him without
enthusiasm, but also without rancour, as a man who could hold his own.
As soon as he was installed in the bailiff's house, Babbacombe left him
to his own devices, and departed upon a round of visits. He proposed to
entertain a house-party himself towards the end of January. He informed
West of this before departing, and was slightly puzzled by a certain
humourous gleam that shone in the steely eyes at the news. The matter
went speedily from his mind. It was not till long after that he recalled
it.
West wrote to him regularly during his absence, curt, businesslike
epistles, which always terminated on a grim note of irony: "Your
faithful steward, N. V. West." He never varied this joke, and Babbacombe
usually noted it with a faint frown. The fellow was not a bad sort, he
was convinced, but he would always be more or less of an enigma to him.
He returned to Farringdean in the middle of January with one of his
married sisters, whom he had secured to act as hostess to his party. He
invited West to dine with them informally on the night of his return.
His sister, Lady Cottesbrook, a gay and garrulous lady some years his
senior, received the new agent with considerable condescension. She
bestowed scant attention upon him during dinner, and West presented his
most impenetrable demeanour in consequence, refusing steadily to avail
himself of Babbacombe's courteous efforts to draw him into the
conversation.
He would have excused himself later from accompanying his host into the
drawing-room, but Babbacombe insisted upon this so stubbornly that
finally, with his characteristic lift of the shoulders, he yielded.
As they entered, Lady Cottesbrook raised her glasses, and favoured him
with a close scrutiny.
"It's very curious," she said, "but I can't help feeling as if I have
seen you somewhere before. You have the look of some one I knew years
ago--some one I didn't like--but I can't remember who."
"Just as well, perhaps," said Babbacombe, with a careless laugh, though
a faint flush of annoyance rose in his face. "Come over here, West. You
can smoke. My sister likes it."
He seated himself at the piano, indicated a chair near him to his guest,
and began to play.
West, with his back to the light, sat motionless, listening. Lady
Cottesbrook took up a book, and ignored him. There was something
unfathomable about her brother's bailiff to which she strongly objected.
An hour later, when he had gone, she spoke of it.
"That man has the eyes of a criminal, Jack. I am sure he isn't
trustworthy. He is too brazen. Where in the world did you pick him up?"
To which Babbacombe made composed reply:
"I know all about him, and he is absolutely trustworthy. He was
recommended to me by a friend. I am sorry you thought it necessary to be
rude to him. There is nothing offensive about him that I can see."
"My dear boy, you see nothing offensive in a great many people whom I
positively detest. However, he isn't worth an argument. Only, if you
must ask the man to dine, for goodness' sake another time have some one
else for me to talk to. I frankly admit that I have no talent for
entertaining people of that class. Now tell me the latest about Cynthia
Mortimer. Of course, she is one of the chosen guests?"
"She has promised to spend a week here," Babbacombe answered somewhat
reluctantly. "I haven't seen her lately. She has been in Paris."
"What has she been doing there? Buying her trousseau?"
"I really don't know." There was a faint inflection of irritation in his
voice.
"Doesn't her consenting to come here mean that she will accept you?"
questioned Lady Cottesbrook. She never hesitated to ask in plainest
terms for anything she wanted.
"No," Babbacombe said heavily. "It does not."
Lady Cottesbrook was silenced. After a little she turned her attention
to other matters, to her brother's evident relief.
V
It was on a still, frosty evening of many stars that Cynthia came to
Farringdean Castle. A young moon was low in the sky, and she paused to
curtsey to it upon descending from the motor that had borne her thither.
She turned to find Babbacombe beside her.
"I hope it will bring you luck, Cynthia," he said.
She flashed a swift look at him, and gave him both her hands.
"Thank you, old friend," she said softly.
Her eyes were shining like the stars above them. She laughed a little
tremulously.
"I couldn't get to the station to meet you," he said. "I wanted to. Come
inside. There is no one here whom you don't know."
"Thank you again," she said.
In another moment they were entering the great hall. Before an immense
open fireplace a group of people were gathered at tea. There was a
general buzz of greeting as Cynthia entered. She was always popular,
wherever she went.
She scattered her own greetings broadcast, passing from one to another,
greeting each in her high, sweet drawl--a gracious, impulsive woman whom
to know was to love.
Babbacombe watched her with a dumb longing. How often he had pictured
her as hostess where now she moved as guest! Well, that dream of his was
shattered, but the glowing fragments yet burned in his secret heart. All
his life long he would remember her as he saw her that night on his own
hearth. Her loveliness was like a flower wide open to the sun. He
thought her lovelier that night than she had ever been before. When she
flitted away at length, he felt as if she took the warmth and brightness
of the fireside with her.
There was no agreement between them, but he knew that she would be down
early, and hastened his own dressing in consequence. He found her
waiting alone in the drawing-room before a regal fire. She wore a
splendid star of diamonds in her dark hair. It sparkled in a thousand
colours as she turned. Her dress was black, unrelieved by any ornament.
"Cynthia," he said, "you are exquisite!"
The words burst from him almost involuntarily. She put out her hand to
him with a gesture half of acknowledgment, half of protest.
"I may be good to look at," she said, with a little whimsical smile.
"But--I tell you, Jack--I feel a perfect reptile. It's heads I win,
tails you lose; and--I just can't bear it."
There was a catch in the high voice that was almost a sob. Babbacombe
took her hand and held it.
"My dear," he said, "it's nothing of the sort. You have done me the very
great honour of giving me your full confidence, and I won't have you
abusing yourself for it."
She shook her head. "I hate myself--there! And--and I'm frightened too.
Jack, if you want me to marry you--you had better ask me now. I won't
refuse you."
He looked her closely in the eyes. "No, Cynthia," he said very gravely.
"I am not laughing," she protested.
He smiled a little. "It would be easier for me if you were," he said.
"No, we will go through with this since we have begun. And you needn't
be scared. He is hardly a ladies' man, according to my judgment, but he
is not a bounder. I haven't asked him to meet you to-night. I thought it
better not. In fact, I----"
He broke off at the sound of a step behind him. With a start Cynthia
turned.
A short, thick-set man in riding-dress was walking up the room.
"I beg your pardon," he said formally, halting a few paces from
Babbacombe. "I have been waiting for you in the library for the last
hour. I sent you a message, but I conclude it was not delivered. Can I
speak to you for a few seconds on a matter of business?"
He spoke with his eyes fixed steadily upon Babbacombe's face, ignoring
the woman's presence as if he had not even seen her.
Babbacombe was momentarily disconcerted. He glanced at Cynthia before
replying; and instantly, in her quick, gracious way, she came forward
with extended hand.
"Why, Mr. West," she said, "don't you know me? I'm Cynthia Mortimer--a
very old friend of yours. And I'm very glad to meet you again."
There was a quiver as of laughter in her words. The confidence of her
action compelled some species of response. West took the outstretched
hand for a single instant; but his eyes, meeting hers, held no
recognition.
"I am afraid," he said stonily, "that your memory is better than mine."
It was a check that would have disheartened many women; not so Cynthia
Mortimer.
She opened her eyes wide for a second, the next quite openly she laughed
at him.
"You are not a bit cleverer than you used to be," she said. "But I
rather like you for it all the same. Come, Mr. West, I'm sure you will
make an effort when I tell you that I want to be remembered. You once
did a big thing for me which I have never forgotten--which I never shall
forget."
West was frowning. "You have made a mistake," he said briefly.
She laughed again, softly, audaciously. There was a delicate flush on
her face, and her eyes were very bright.
"No, Mr. Nat Verney West," she said, sinking her voice. "I'm a lot
cleverer than you think, and I don't make mistakes of that sort."
He shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. She was laughing still.
"Why can't we begin where we left off?" she asked ingenuously. "Back
numbers are so dull, and we were long past this stage anyway. Lord
Babbacombe," appealing suddenly to her host, "can't you persuade Mr.
West to come to the third act? I always prefer to skip the second. And
we finished the first long ago."
Babbacombe came to her assistance with his courteous smile. "Miss
Mortimer considers herself in your debt, Mr. West," he said. "I think
you will hurt her feelings if you try to repudiate her obligation."
"Yes, of course," laughed Cynthia. "It was a mighty big debt, and I have
been wondering ever since how to get even with you. Oh, you needn't
scowl. That doesn't hurt me at all. Do you know you haven't altered a
mite, you funny English bulldog? Come, you know me now?"
"Yes, I know you," West said. "But I think it is a pity that you have
renewed your acquaintance with me, and the sooner you drop me again the
better." He spoke briefly and very decidedly, and having thus expressed
himself he turned to Babbacombe. "I am going to the library. Perhaps you
will join me there at your convenience."
With an abrupt bow to Cynthia, he turned to go. But instantly the high
voice arrested him.
"Mr. West!"
He paused.
"Mr. West!" she said again, her voice half-imperious, half-pleading.
Reluctantly he faced round. She was waiting for him with a little smile
quivering about her mouth. Her grey eyes met his with perfect composure.
"I want to know," she said, in her softest drawl, "if it is for my sake
or your own that you regret this renewal of acquaintance."
"For yours, Miss Mortimer," he answered grimly.
"That's very kind of you," she rejoined. "And why?"
Again he gave that slight lift of the shoulders that she remembered so
well.
"You know the proverb about touching pitch?"
"Some people like pitch," said Cynthia.
"Not clean people," threw back West.
"No?" she said. "Well, perhaps not. Anyway, it doesn't apply in this
case. So I sha'n't drop you, Mr. West, thank you all the same!
Good-night!"
She offered him her hand with a gesture that was nothing short of regal.
And he--because he could do no less--took it, gripped it, and went his
way.
"Isn't he rude?" murmured Cynthia; and she said it as if rudeness were
the highest virtue a man could display.