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Magda hardly knew what impulse had bidden her save Dan Storran from
himself--check the hot utterance to which he had so nearly given voice
and which to a certain extent she had herself provoked. Driven by the
bitterness of spirit which Michael’s treatment of her had engendered,
she knew that she had flirted outrageously with Dan ever since she
had come to Stockleigh. She had bestowed no thought on June--pretty,
helpless June, watching with distressed, bewildered eyes while Dan
unaccountably changed towards her, his moods alternating from sullen
unresponsiveness to a kind of forced and contrite tenderness which she
had found almost more difficult to meet and understand.
It was indeed something altogether apart from any sympathy for June
which had prompted Magda to leave Storran before he uttered words that
he might regret, but which no power on earth could ever recall. Still
beneath the resentment and wounded pride which Michael’s going had
caused her flickered the spark of an ideal utterly at variance with the
whole tenor of the teaching of poor Diane’s last embittered days--the
ideal of womanhood which had been Michael’s. And the impulse which had
bade her leave Storran so abruptly was born of the one-time resolution
she had made to become the sort of woman Michael would wish his wife to
be.
She felt oddly perturbed when at last she reached the seclusion of her
chintzy bedroom underneath the sloping roof. A vague sense of shame
assailed her. The game, as between herself and Dan, was hardly a
fair one, after all, and she could well picture the cold contempt in
Michael’s eyes had he been looking on at it.
Though he had no right to disapprove of her now! He had forfeited
that right--if he had ever had it--when he went away without a word
of farewell--without giving her even the chance to appeal against the
judgment which, by his very going, he had silently pronounced against
her.
For months, now, she had been a prey to a conflicting jumble of
emotions--the pain and hurt pride which Michael’s departure had
occasioned her, the craving for anything that might serve to distract
her thoughts and keep them from straying back to those few vibrant
meetings with him, and deep down within her an aching, restless wonder
as to whether she would ever see him again.
With an effort she dismissed the fresh tangle of thought provoked by
the morning’s brief scene with Dan Storran, and, dressing quickly,
went downstairs to the mid-day dinner which was the order of things at
Stockleigh.
At first the solid repast, with its plentitude of good farmhouse fare
partaken of during the hottest hour of the day, had somewhat appalled
Magda. But now she had grown quite accustomed to the appearance of a
roast joint or of a smoking, home-cured ham, attended by a variety of
country vegetables and followed by fruit tart and clotted cream.
Although she herself, as befitted a woman whose “figure was her
fortune” according to Lady Arabella, partook extremely sparingly of this
hospitable meal, it somehow pleased her to see big Dan Storran come in
from his work in the fields and do full justice to the substantial
fare. To Magda, ultra-modern and over-civilised as she was, there was
something refreshing in the simple and primitive usages of Stockleigh
Farm and its master--this man who toiled, and satisfied his hunger, and
rested from toil, just as his fathers had done before him, literally
fulfilling the law: In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.
And perhaps if Magda had never crossed his path Dan Storran might have
gone his way contentedly, toiling from sun-up to sun-down till all his
days were finished.
Even although she had crossed it, she might still have left him pretty
much as she found him--unawakened to the deeps of his own nature--if
she had remained in her present ambiguous mood, half-remorseful, half
indifferent. But it was precisely at this particular juncture that it
pleased Fate to give a fresh twist to her swiftly turning wheel.
Storran did not come in until dinner was half over, and when finally he
appeared he was somewhat taciturn and avoided meeting Magda’s eyes. June
got up from the table and went dutifully into the kitchen to fetch the
joint of meat and vegetables which she had been keeping hot for him
there. Abruptly Dan followed her.
“Sorry I’m late, June,” he said awkwardly. “Here, give the tray to me;
I’ll carry it in.”
June paused in the middle of the kitchen, flushing right up to the soft
tendrils of hair that curled about her forehead. It was weeks since Dan
had offered to relieve her of any of her housewifely tasks, although at
one time he had been wont to hurry home, if he could manage to do so, on
purpose to help her. Dozens of times they had laid the table together,
punctuating the process with jokes and gay little bursts of laughter and
an odd kiss or two thrown in to sweeten the work. But not lately--not
since the visitors from London had come to Stockleigh Farm.
So June blushed and looked at her husband with eyes that were suddenly
sweet and questioning. She knew, though she had not told him yet, that
there was a reason now why he should try to save her when his greater
strength could do so, and for a moment she wondered shyly if he had
guessed.
“Why, Dan, Dan----” she stammered.
His face darkened. Her obvious surprise irritated him, pricking his
conscience.
“It’s not very complimentary of you to look so taken aback when I offer
to carry something for you,” he said. “Anyone might think I never did
wait on my wife.”
The blood drained away from June’s face as suddenly as it had rushed
there.
“Well, you don’t often, do you?” she returned shortly.
They re-entered the sitting-room together and Magda glanced up, smiling
approval. She, too, was feeling somewhat conscience-stricken, and to see
Dan helping his wife in this everyday, intimate sort of fashion seemed
to minimise the significance of that little incident which had occurred
by the river’s edge.
“What a nice, polite husband!” she commented gaily. “Mr. Storran, you
really out to come up to London and give classes--‘Manners for Men,’ you
know. Very few of them wait on their wives these days.”
June upset the salt and busied herself spooning it up again from the
cloth. There was no answering smile on her face. She was not quite clear
_why_ Dan had followed her out into the kitchen so unexpectedly, but she
sensed that it was not the old, quick impulse to wait upon her which had
actuated him.
Had she but known it, it was the same instinct, more primitively
manifested, which induces a man whose conscience is not altogether clear
respecting his loyalty towards his wife to bring her home an unexpected
gift of jewellery.
The disturbing memory of a lithe, scarlet-sheathed figure had been with
Dan all morning as he went about his work, and he was sullenly ashamed
of the riot which the vision occasioned within him and of his own utter
helplessness to master it. It--it was damnable! So he accompanied his
wife to the kitchen and offered to carry in the joint.
Following upon this incident the atmosphere seemed to become all at once
constrained and difficult. June sat very silent, her eyes holding that
expression of pain and bewilderment which was growing habitual to them,
while Storran hurried through his meal in the shortest possible time.
As soon as he had finished he pushed back his chair abruptly and, with
a muttered apology, quitted the room and went out again on to the farm.
June rose and began clearing the table mechanically.
“Can’t I help you?” Gillian paused as she was about to follow Magda out
of the room. “You look so tired to-day.”
June’s lip quivered sensitively. She was in the state of nerves when a
little unexpected sympathy is the most upsetting thing imaginable.
“Oh, I can’t let you!” she answered hastily. “No--really!”--as Gillian
calmly took the tray she was carrying out of her hands.
“Supposing you go and lie down for a little while,” suggested Gillian
practically. “And leave the washing-up to Coppertop and me!”
The tears suddenly brimmed up into the wide-open blue eyes.
“Oh, I couldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t you like a little rest?” urged Gillian persuasively. “I
believe you’d be asleep in two minutes!”
“I believe I should,” acknowledged June faintly. “I--I haven’t been
sleeping very well lately.”
A little shudder ran through her as she recalled those long hours each
night when she lay at Dan’s side, staring wide-eyed into the darkness
and wondering dully what it was that had come between herself and her
husband--come just at the time when, with his unborn child beneath her
heart, they two should have been drawn together in to the most wonderful
and blessed comradeship and understanding. Only Dan didn’t know
this--didn’t know that before the snowdrops lifted their white heads
again from the green carpet of spring there would be a little son--June
was sure it would be a son, to grow up tall and strong like Dan
himself!--born of the love which had once been so sweet and untroubled
by any creeping doubts.
“I assure you”--Gillian broke in on the miserable thoughts that were
chasing each other through June’s tired brain--“I assure you, Coppertop
and I are very competent people. We won’t break a single dish!”
“But you’ve never been used to that kind of thing--washing-up!”
protested June, glancing significantly at Gillian’s white hands and
soft, pretty frock of hyacinth muslin.
“Haven’t I?” Gillian laughed gaily. “I haven’t always been as well off
as I am not, and I expect I know quite as much about doing ‘chores’ as
you! Come now!” She waited expectantly.
“Dan would be awfully angry if he knew--it’s my duty, you see,” objected
June, visibly weakening.
“If he knew! But what a husband doesn’t know his heart doesn’t grieve
over,” replied Gillian sagely. “There, that’s settled. Come along
upstairs and let me tuck you up in your bed, and leave the rest to
Coppertop and me.”
And June, with her heart suddenly warmed and comforted in the way in
which an unexpected kindness does warm and comfort, went very willingly
and, tired out in body and mind, fell asleep in ten minutes.
Meanwhile Magda had established herself in the hammock slung from the
boughs of one of the great elms which shaded the garden. She had brought
a book with her, since her thoughts were none too pleasant company just
at the moment, and was speedily absorbed in its contents.
It was very soothing and tranquil out there in the noonday heat. The
gnats hovered in the sunlight, dancing and whirling in little transient
clusters; now and again a ladybird flickered by or a swallow swooped so
near that his darting shadow fell across her book; while all about her
sounded the pleasant hum of a summer’s day--the soft susurration of the
pleasant hum of a thousand insect voices blending into an indefinite,
murmurous vibration of the air.
Occasionally the whir of a motor-car sweeping along the adjacent road
broke harshly across the peaceful quiet. Magda glanced up with some
annoyance as the first one sped by, dragging her back to an unwilling
sense of civilisation. Then she bent her head resolutely above her
book and declined to be distracted any further, finally losing herself
completely in the story she was reading.
So it came about that when a long, low, dust-powdered car curved in
between the granite gateposts of Stockleigh Farm and came abruptly to a
standstill, she remained entirely oblivious of its advent. Nor did
she see the tall, slender-limbed man who had been driving, and whose
questing hazel eyes had descried her almost immediately, slip from his
seat behind the steering-wheel and come across the grass towards her.
“_Antoine!_”
The book fell from her hand and she sat up suddenly in the hammock.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she demanded. There was no welcome
in her tone.
For a moment Davilof remained watching her, the sunshine, slanting
between the leaves of the trees, throwing queer little flickering lights
into the hazel eyes and glinting on his golden-brown hair and beard.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated.
“I came--to see you,” he said simply.
There was something disarming in the very simplicity of his reply. It
seemed to imply an almost child-like wonder that she should ask--that
there could possibly be any other reason for his presence.
But it failed to propitiate Magda in the slightest degree. She felt
intensely annoyed that anyone from the outside world--from her world of
London--should have intruded upon her seclusion at Ashencombe, nor could
she imagine how Davilof had discovered her retreat.
“How did you learn I was here?” she asked.
“From Melrose.”
Magda’s eyes darkened sombrely.
“Do you mean you bribed him?” she asked quickly. “Oh, but surely
not!”--in dismayed tones. “Melrose would go to the stake sooner than
accept a bribe!”
Davilof’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile.
“I’m sure he would! I tried him, but he wouldn’t look at a bribe of any
sort. So I had to resort to strategy. It was one evening, when he was
taking your letters to post, and I waited for him at the pillar-box.
I came up very quietly behind him and just nipped one of the letters,
readdressed to you, out of his hand. I read the address and then posted
the letter for him. It was very simple.”
He recounted the incident with a little swaggering air of bravado,
boyishly delighted at the success of his small ruse. Vexed as she
was Magda could hardly refrain from smiling; the whole thing was so
eminently un-English--so exactly like Davilof!
“Well, now that you have seen me, will you please go away again?” she
said coolly, reopening her book as though to end the conversation.
He regarded her with unqualified reproach.
“Won’t you even ask me to tea?” he said plaintively.
“Certainly not,” Magda was beginning. But precisely as she spoke June
Storran, looking more herself again after her short sleep, came towards
them from the house.
Her face brightened as she caught sight of Davilof. Even to June’s
inexperienced eyes it was quite obvious that he admired the woman
with whom he was talking. The very way he looked at her told her
that. Presumably he was one of her London friends who had motored
to Devonshire to see her. No man--within the limited scope of June’s
knowledge of men--did that deliciously absurd, extravagant kind of thing
unless he was tremendously in love. Nor would any nice woman let a man
take such a journey on her behalf unless she reciprocated his feelings.
Of this June--whose notions were old-fashioned--felt assured. So her
spirits rose accordingly. Since, if these two were on the verge of
becoming engaged, the mere fact would clear away the indefinable shadows
which seemed to have been menacing her own happiness from the time Miss
Vallincourt had come to Stockleigh.
“Tea is just ready,” she announced, approaching. “Will you come in? And
perhaps your friend will have tea with us?” she added shyly.
Davilof was presented and June repeated her invitation. He shot a glance
of triumph at Magda.
“I shall be delighted, madame,” he said, giving June one of his quaint
little foreign bows. “But--the sun is shining so gloriously--might we
not have it out here?”
June looked round her doubtfully. As is often the case with people born
and bred in the country, it never occurred to the Storrans to have the
family meals out-of-doors, and June felt considerable misgiving as to
whether Dan would appreciate the innovation.
“Ah, please, madame!” pleaded Davilof persuasively. “Let us have it
here--under this tree. Why, the tree grows here expressly for the
purpose!”
Davilof had all the charm of his nationality, and June capitulated,
retreating to make the necessary arrangements.
“I don’t fancy Dan Storran will at all approve of the alteration from
his usual customs which you’ve engineered,” observed Magda when they
were again alone.
“Dan Storran?” Davilof’s glance flashed over her face, searching,
questioning.
“The owner of the place. He’s been teaching me to ride,” she added
inconsequently.
“Who is he?”--with swift jealousy. “The little fair-haired lady’s
brother?”
“No, her husband. I said _Mrs._ Storran.”
Davilof’s interest waned suddenly.
“Did you?”--indifferently. “I didn’t notice. She’s a pretty little
person.”
Magda agreed absently. A fresh difficulty had occurred to her; Davilof
might chance to give away to the Storrans the secret of her identity.
“Oh, by the way,” she said hurriedly. “They don’t know me here as Magda
Wielitzska. I’m plain Miss Vallincourt to them--enjoying the privileges
of being a nobody! You’ll be sure to remember, won’t you?” He nodded,
and she pursued more lightly: “And now, as you insist on having your tea
here, you might begin to earn it by telling me the latest London gossip.
We hear nothing at all down here. We don’t even get a London newspaper.
“I don’t think there is much news. There never is at this time of the
year. Everybody’s out of town.”
He vouchsafed one or two items concerning mutual friends--an engagement
here, a forthcoming divorce there. So-and-so was in Italy and Mrs.
Somebody Else was said to have eloped with a well-known actor-manager
to America--all the odds and ends of gossip that runs like wildfire over
the social prairie.
“Oh, by the way,” he went on, “your artist friend--”
“Which artist friend?” Magda interrupted almost rudely. She was moved by
a perfectly irrational impulse to stop him, to delay what he had to say.
“Why, Quarrington--Michael Quarrington. It seems he has married a
Spanish woman--a rather lovely person who had been sitting to him for
one of his pictures. That’s the latest bit of news.”
For an instant it seemed to Magda as though the whole world stood
still--gripped in a strange, soundless stillness like the catastrophic
pause which for an infinitesimal space of time succeeds a bad accident.
Then she heard herself saying:
“Really? Where did you hear that?”
“Oh, there’ve been several rumours of a beautiful Spaniard whom he has
been using as a model. The Arlingtons were travelling in Spain and saw
her. Mrs. A. said she was a glorious creature--a dancer. And the other
day I saw in one of the papers--the _Weekly Gossip_ I think it was--that
he’d married her.”
The carelessly spoken words drove at Magda with the force of utter
certainty. It was true, then--quite true! The fact that the Spaniard
had been a dancer gave an irrefutable reality to the tale; Michael so
worshipped every form of dancing.
“Never give your heart to any man.” Her mother’s last cynical warning
beat in Magda’s brain with a dull iteration that almost maddened her.
She put her hand up to her throat, feeling as if she were choking.
Then, dimly, as though from a great way off, she heard Antoine’s voice
again:
“I’m glad Quarrington’s married. He was the man who saved you in the
fog--you remember?--and I’ve always been afraid you might get to care
for him.”
Magda was conscious of one thing and one thing only--that somewhere,
deep down inside her, everything had turned to ice. She knew she would
never feel anything again--much. . . . She thought death must come like
that sometimes--just one thrust of incredible, immeasurable agony, and
then a dull, numbed sense of finality.
“. . . afraid you might get to care for him.” The meaning of Antoine’s
last words slowly penetrated her mind. She gave a hard little laugh.
“Why should I? Does one ‘get to care’ for a man just because he does the
only obvious thing there is to do in an emergency?”
She was surprised to hear how perfectly natural her voice sounded. It
was quite steady. Reassured, she went on, shrugging her shoulders:
“Besides--do I ever care?”
Antoine, sitting on the grass at her feet, suddenly raised himself a
little and put his hand over hers as they lay very still and folded on
her lap.
“You shall care--some time,” he said in a low, tense voice. “I swear
it!”