The sunlight beat down fiercely on the shaven grass, and a drowsy hum of
bees stole through the stillness of the Sunday afternoon when Grace
Coulthurst and Geoffrey Esmond strolled across the lawn at Holtcar
Grange. There were at least two acres of it, flanked by dusky firs and
relieved on two sides by patches of graduated colour, while on the third
side one looked out towards the blue hills across the deep hollow of
Willow Dene into which the beech woods rolled down. A low wall, along
which great urns of scarlet geraniums were set, cut off the lawn from
the edge of the descent, and Grace, seating herself on the broad coping,
glanced down into the cool shadow, out of which the sound of running
water came up.
"It really looks very enticing on a day like this. Don't you think it is
a little hard on the Hoddam people to shut them out of it?" she said.
Her companion, who leaned, with his straw hat tilted back, against one
of the flower-filled urns, smiled as he glanced down at her. He was a
young man of slender, wiry frame, with an air of graceful languidness
which usually sat well upon him, though there were occasions on which it
was not readily distinguished from well-bred insolence.
"I suppose it is, but they brought it upon themselves," he said. "Nobody
would mind their walking quietly through the Dene, even if they did
leave their sandwich papers and their bottles behind them."
"I have seen wire baskets provided in such places," said Grace.
The young owner of Holtcar Grange laughed. "So have I. In fact, I tried
it here, and put up a very civil notice pointing out what they were for.
The Hoddam people, however, evidently considered it an unwarrantable
interference with their sacred right to make as much mess of another
person's property as they pleased, for soon after the baskets arrived we
found that somebody had taken the trouble to collect them and deposit
them in the lake."
"A gardener could, however, pick up a good many papers in an afternoon."
"It would naturally depend upon how hard he worked, and, as you may have
noticed, undue activity is not a characteristic of anybody at the
Grange. Still, it would be several years before he made a young holly
from which the leading stem had been cut out grow again; besides which
the proletariat apparently consider themselves entitled to dig up the
primroses and daffodils by basketfuls with spades."
Grace was not greatly interested in the subject, but it at least was
safe, and Geoffrey Esmond's conversation had hitherto taken a rather
more personal turn than she cared about.
"Still, you could spare them a few wild flowers," she said.
She turned and glanced across the velvet lawn towards the old grey house
flanked by its ancient trees. The sunlight lay bright upon its
time-mellowed facade, and was flung back from the half-hidden orchid
houses and vineries. Esmond apparently understood her, and for a moment
his eyes rested curiously upon her face.
"You mean I have rather more than my share of what most people long for?
Still, you ought to know that nobody is ever quite content, and that
what one has only sets one wishing for more."
Grace laughed. "One would certainly fancy that you had quite enough
already--but I wonder if one might ask you if you have heard from Reggie
lately?"
Esmond's face hardened a trifle. "You, at least, might. He does not
write often--naturally--though I always had a fancy that Reggie
mightn't, after all, have been so very much to blame as most people seem
to think. Anyway, we had a letter a few weeks ago, and he had got his
commission in the Canadian mounted police. He ought to be thankful--in
the circumstances."
"I am pleased to hear it," and a just perceptible trace of colour showed
in Grace's cheeks. "It is rather a coincidence that my father, who went
up to London a week ago, came back with the expectation of obtaining a
Government post in Western Canada, a Crown Commissioner on the new
gold-fields I think. He was in charge of a mining district in Western
Africa, you know. I should probably go to Canada with him."
"Then one would sincerely hope that Major Coulthurst will get a post at
home."
He stopped, perhaps warned by something in his companion's attitude, and
she deftly turned the subject back to the grievance the Hoddam people
thought they had against him. The fact that they had apparently a good
deal to say to each other had in the meanwhile not escaped attention. A
few lounge chairs had been laid out about a little table in the shadow
of a big chestnut, and from one of them a lady of some importance in
that vicinity watched the pair with distinct disapprobation. Holtcar
Grange was but a portion of young Esmond's inheritance, and she had
several daughters of her own. She frowned as she turned to the lady
nearest her.
"That girl," she said acidly, "is making excellent use of her
opportunities. It does not appear to matter which one it is, so long as
he belongs to the family."
Her companion looked up languidly. "The drift of that last remark is not
especially plain."
"It would have been if you had seen what went on before Reggie Esmond
went, or rather was sent, out to Canada. The major was in Africa then,
and the girl was staying here. She was only just out of the schoolroom,
but that did not prevent her attaching herself to Reggie. It was only
when he was no longer worth powder and shot that she turned her
attention to his cousin."
This, as it happened, was very little nearer the truth than such
statements usually are, when made by a matron who has an unappreciated
daughter's future to provide for; but the lady who heard it understood
the reason for her companion's rancour.
"Grace Coulthurst," she said, "is pretty, and has really an excellent
style. Besides, her father evidently has means of his own."
The first speaker smiled compassionately. "Major Coulthurst thrives upon
his debts; he threw away what little money he had in speculation. Then
he got himself sent out to West Africa, and either allowed the niggers
too much of their own way or worried them unnecessarily, for they turned
out and killed some of their neighbours who worked at the mines. That
resulted in black troops being sent up, and Coulthurst, who led them
into a swamp they couldn't get across, was afterwards quietly placed
upon the shelf. In fact, I believe he pins his hopes upon the men
appointed by the new Government remembering their unfortunate friends."
"That," remarked her companion drily, "is, after all, what a good many
of us seem to think the Government is there for."
She might have said more, but a little, black-robed lady and a burly
red-faced man with a merry twinkle in his eyes and a tinge of grey in
his hair, appeared just then. The latter held himself well, and did not
in the least look like a man who had borne much responsibility in
pestilential Africa. As a matter of fact, Major Coulthurst, who was by
no means brilliant either as administrator or soldier, took his cares
lightly.
"And you fancy you will get the appointment?" asked Mrs. Esmond, looking
up at him.
"I hope so," said Coulthurst. "I really think the people in office ought
to do something for me. I contrived to save them a good deal of trouble
with the French on the frontier. Still I don't know what to do with
Grace if I get it, though I had thoughts of taking her out to Canada."
Mrs. Esmond appeared to reflect for a moment or two.
"Is there any reason why you shouldn't leave her here?" she said. "I
think I took good care of her before."
They had almost reached the table where the others sat, and Coulthurst
stopped with a shadow of perplexity in his sunburnt face. He was a
widower with insufficient means, and had one or two somewhat pointed
letters from importunate creditors in his pocket then. He had also been
a friend of Mrs. Esmond's for more than twenty years, but, though by no
means fastidious in some respects, there were points on which he
possessed a certain delicacy of sentiment.
"I almost think there is. Grace, you see, is older now," he said.
Mrs. Esmond looked up, and, as it happened, Grace Coulthurst and
Geoffrey Esmond came slowly towards them across the lawn just then. The
young man's gaze was fixed upon the girl, but she was looking away from
him, which increased the suggestiveness of his attitude and expression,
for both of those who watched them could see his face. Grace was indeed
distinctly pretty, and that afternoon the indefinite but unmistakable
attribute which the woman who had defended her termed good style was
especially noticeable. It was expressed in the poise of the little head,
the erect carriage, and even the fashion in which the light draperies
hung in flowing lines about the shapely figure. Then the black-robed
lady turned, and looked at Coulthurst steadily.
"Yes," he said, though she had not spoken. "Her mother would have known
what was right--and fitting, but since she was taken from me I feel
it--a responsibility, to say the least."
"Could you not trust me?"
"In everything. That is, unless it was to your own disadvantage--or what
would certainly be regarded so. You mean me to be frank, I think?"
"Of course! In any case, I am not sure that you are capable of
concealing your sentiments."
"Then," said Coulthurst gravely, "I should like you to remember that
Grace has nothing."
Mrs. Esmond smiled. "And Geoffrey has a good deal? Still, we have it on
excellent authority that the value of a good woman is above rubies."
Major Coulthurst was red-faced and burly, and usually abrupt in his
movements; but his attitude became him as he made his companion a little
grave inclination.
"Grace is very like her mother--I cannot say more than that."
Perhaps it was not very tactful; though he did not know what the gossips
had whispered when he was a reckless subaltern long ago. In any case, he
had married a woman with as few possessions as he himself had, and his
life had been a hard one ever since. His companion, however, smiled
somewhat curiously.
"I think she is in many ways like her father too; but that is scarcely
the point," she said. "I have offered to take care of her for you."
"Well," said Coulthurst quietly, "when the time comes we will try to
decide, and in the meanwhile I can only thank you."
Then they joined the others, and for awhile sat talking in the shade,
until Geoffrey Esmond, who had taken his place beside them, looked up
suddenly with a curious contraction of his face.
"I am almost afraid we are going to have some undesirable visitors," he
said.
From beyond the trees that shut the lawn off from the village there rose
the tooting of a cornet, which was followed by a cheer and a rattle of
wheels. Then there was a murmur of harsh voices which broke portentously
through the slumbrous quietness, and Esmond, rising abruptly, glanced at
the major, who walked a little apart with him. Esmond looked worried.
"Yes," he said in answer to the major's questioning glance, "I fancy
they are coming to pull my gates and fences down. Roberts, the groom,
heard enough in Hoddam to suggest that they were plotting something of
the kind, and I told him to have a horse saddled, though I didn't quite
believe it myself. There are, however, evidently several wagonette-loads
of them yonder."
"The question is," said Coulthurst sharply, "do you mean to let them
in?"
The young man laughed. "I should almost have fancied it was unnecessary.
Including the keepers, I can roll up six men. That makes eight with you
and me, while Leslie, who is a magistrate, as you know, lives scarcely
two miles away."
"Then you had better send for him. Eight men with the law behind them
should be quite enough to hold off the rabble--that is, so long as no
blow is struck; but you will excuse my mentioning that you will require
to keep a firm hand on your temper."
"I'll try, though I have been told it isn't a very excellent one," said
the younger man. "Now, if you will beguile the women into the house,
I'll make arrangements."
Coulthurst was not a clever man, but he contrived to accomplish it; and
it was some twenty minutes later when he and Esmond walked down a path
beneath the beeches with four or five men behind them. The major
carried a riding whip, and there was a curious little smile in his eyes,
while the rest had sticks, though in accordance with his instructions
they made no display of them. The wood was shadowy and very still, and
there was no sound but that made by startled rabbits, until they came
out into the sunlight, where a spiked railing crossed a narrow glade.
There was a mossy path beyond it chequered with patches of cool shadow,
and a group of dusty men were moving down it towards the padlocked gate.
The foremost of them stopped when they saw the party from the Grange,
and then after a whispered consultation came on again.
"Where are you going?" asked Esmond.
"Into the Dene," said one of the strangers.
"You have been to the lodge to ask permission?"
"No," said another hot and perspiring man, "we haven't. It isn't
necessary."
"I'm afraid it is," said Esmond quietly. "In fact, there is a board to
that effect a few yards back. No doubt you noticed it."