Val Lessing's thirtieth birthday found him strong, handsome, prosperous,
and--discontented. This is unfortunately a common combination, but Val
acknowledged to himself that if other men in like position had small
cause to grumble, he himself had less, for while they ungraciously
demanded of fate still more than they had received, his one annoyance
was that he had enjoyed so much.
He had never desired to find himself at thirty a director of a
prosperous City firm; the thing had come about through a succession of
unforeseen events. The death of his father had made it necessary that
he should take up business immediately after leaving Oxford; that was
blow number one, for he had been promised a tour round the world before
settling down to work, and in its place found himself obliged to look
forward to yearly fortnights lengthening, as a reward of merit, to a
possible three weeks.
Val hated the work, but he set himself to it with characteristic dash
and energy. He possessed a bull-dog inability to let go of any scheme
once undertaken, which marked him out sharply from the ordinary more or
less mechanical employees, and endeared him to the principals of the
firm.
The "Chief" singled him out for special service. His salary rose
steadily year by year, and on the date on which this history begins, he
had been formally presented with a proportion of shares, and advanced to
the dignity of a Director in the Company.
"And now," said the Chief in congratulation, "your foot is safely
planted on the ladder of fortune. You can count on at least fifteen
hundred a year."
Walking towards his home that night Val grudgingly considered those
words. As a sane, sensible man, he must of course rejoice that his work
had brought him so good a reward, yet there was something in the wording
of that sentence which chafed an old sore. _Safe_! That was the sting.
A man of thirty years, and--_safe_! Secured from anxiety, lapped round
with comforts--nothing to do now but keep steadily along the beaten rut.
Eight-fifty Tube in the morning; six o'clock Tube at night; two-thirty
Tube on Saturday afternoons, always the same black-coated, tall-hatted
figure growing, with the passage of years, a thought heavier, a thought
wider, but always sleek, always composed--always _safe_!
Val Lessing reviewed the prospect, and once again, more wildly than
ever, his vagrant heart cried out in protest. Oh! it had been a
different life to which he had looked forward in the days that were
gone--the mad, glad, foolhardy days when all he had asked of fate was a
passage through that highway of adventure, where a thrill lay behind
every bush, and a danger at every turn.
Danger--danger--the very word brought exhilaration; the ring of it, the
thrill of it, the wild, sweet savour which it bore! Oh, to be out on
the highway, away from the treadmill of City life; oh, to wake in the
morning, to pull aside a flapping canvas, inhale the clean air blowing
over great plains, and across frowning ridges of mountains, to step
forth on the day's quest, sure of nothing, nothing in all the world, but
of danger to overcome!
Val Lessing's home was represented by a bachelor flat, presided over by
a respectable middle-aged couple. The mother for whose sake he had
resigned himself to a business career had died some years before, but he
was still responsible for a young brother and sister, and obliged to
make a home for them during holiday seasons. The noisy incursion was
not always welcome, all the same the flat became a very dreary place
when the lively pair had taken themselves schoolwards once more, and a
solitary dinner was a thing to be avoided.
Lessing, as a bachelor, had grown into the habit of taking the evening
meal in town, and had discovered a certain very Bohemian restaurant
where most excellent cooking was supplied to as odd a looking company as
ever assembled within four walls. He found a never-ending interest in
watching his fellow diners and pondering over the secrets of their
existence. It was at least safe to conclude that they did not share his
own ground for complaint! Dinner over, Lessing frequently succumbed to
an impulse which drew him towards a large corner house in a square
adjoining his flat, wherein a particularly happy family party lived, and
loved, and laughed, and extended the most cordial of welcomes to
uninvited guests.
Mr Gordon was a business man, who, having accumulated a modest "pile,"
had promptly retired from the City, and now devoted himself to the
performance of good works for the benefit of others, and the collection
of old china for the satisfaction of himself. Mrs Gordon was a matron
of the plump and complacent order, an excellent manager, who did not
know the meaning of fuss, and whose servants invariably stayed with her
for years, and then departed, laden with spoils, to espouse a local
baker or grocer, and live happily ever afterwards.
Delia, the daughter, was a minx. She was slim and tall, and had crinkly
dark eyebrows, and an oval face, and misty grey eyes with a dreamy,
faraway expression, and fringed with a double row of preposterously long
eyelashes. She looked particularly dreamy and inaccessible when young
men came in to call, and they mentally abased themselves before her,
gazing with dazzled eyes at the pinnacle on which she stood, in maiden
meditation,--exquisitely, wondrously, crystally unconscious of their own
rough existence. And all the time there was not a line of their
features, not a kink in their neckties, that that minx Delia did not see
with the minuteness of a microscope!
Terence, the son, was walking the hospitals, kept a collection of bones
in his coat pocket, and looked upon life as a huge jest organised for
his special benefit; loyally returning the compliment by playing jests
himself on every available opportunity. In holiday time, he was most
useful as a companion to the two scholars with whom he was a prime
favourite, but in term time Lessing regarded him with mitigated favour.
As a conversationalist he preferred the father; as a confidante, the
mother; where Delia was concerned he preferred a _tete-a-tete_. Terence
was a very good sort, but he was apt to be decidedly _de trop_.
On the evening of the day on which he had been made a director of his
company, Lessing took his way to the corner house, and found the amiable
quartette disporting themselves after their separate ways in the
comfortable sitting-room which was their favourite evening resort. Mr
Gordon was reading the latest treatise on Oriental china. Mrs Gordon
was knitting mufflers for deep-sea fishermen, and lending an
appreciative ear to Delia, who, seated at the grand piano, was singing
ballads in a very small but penetratingly sweet voice. It was part of
Delia's minxiness that she elected to sing songs intended for masculine
lovers, wherein were set forth panegyrics which might most aptly be
applied to herself. On this occasion she was declaiming that "My love
is like a red, red rose that's newly blown in June. Oh, my love's like
a mel-o-dy that's sweetly played in tune"; and so sweet was the air, so
sweet the rose-like bloom of her own youth, that her father's eyes
strayed continuously from his pages, and rested on her with an
admiration reverent in its intensity. "She is too beautiful, too pure
for this world"; his eyes seemed to say. "Can it be possible that she
is really my own daughter?" The mother's eyes strayed also, but there
was no reverence in her gaze. She had been a minx herself.
Terence was reading the latest popular thriller, and from time to time
diversifying the entertainment by kicking one of his patent leather
pumps into the air, and adroitly fitting his toes into it on its return
journey, an accomplishment on which he had wasted golden hours.
They all looked up and smiled a welcome as Val Lessing entered and went
round the room greeting each member of the family in turn.
"Good evening, Mrs Gordon. Good evening, sir. Delia, please! Don't
let me interrupt."
Delia smiled absently, and crossed the room to a deep chair which was
supplied with an admirable foil for white shoulders in the shape of a
black satin cushion. She had the air of being only partially aware of
Lessing's presence, but in reality she was acutely conscious of
everything concerning him, even to a certain air of impatience which was
due to the importance of the news which he had to communicate. Delia
was in love with Val Lessing, and was uncomfortably aware of the fact.
Val was in love with Delia, but remained as yet in comfortable
ignorance. Delia had always planned that it should be the other way
about. She had pictured herself being wooed with assiduous devotion by
a lover who refused to be daunted by a dozen noes. It was ignominious
to realise that she was now waiting impatiently for the chance to cry,
"Yes, please!"
Val seated himself, nodding carelessly at Terence, who greeted him by a
brilliant example of slipper catching, and cried genially:
"Well, old Tomkins, what's the matter with you? You look as if
something was sitting pretty heavy on your chest!"
"It is!" said Val, and Delia's heart went a little excursion on its own
accord. _Was_ he going to say that he was _engaged_?
"Good news, I hope, eh, Lessing?" cried Mr Gordon, and for the fraction
of a second Val hesitated.
"Er--yes. I suppose--that is, of course, it is very good indeed. I've
been made a director."
Everybody exclaimed, everybody enthused, everybody congratulated, with
the exception of Delia, who asked lazily: "What is a director?" and
yawned when she was told. Mr Gordon showed the sympathy of
understanding, but after putting many questions, and listening to
halfhearted replies, he frowned, and delivered himself of an honest
criticism.
"You're not half as pleased as you ought to be, Lessing! A man of your
age ought to be thankful to be in such a position. A start of fifteen
hundred a year--in such a firm too. Good, safe, solid people. No fear
of them going in for speculation and landing you in the bankruptcy
court. Humanly speaking you're safe from anxiety for the rest of your
life."
"Er--yes. That's just it." Lessing said vaguely, but his friends
understood. It was not the first time that he had rebelled in their
hearing; not the first time by many that he had sighed for the vagrant's
lot.
"He doesn't want to be safe, bless you! That's just what gets him on
the raw!" Terence said grinning. "He wants to be a fire-and-thunder
swashbuckler, out on the pathless wilds."
"What is a swashbuckler?" asked Delia, and Val laughed, and said:
"The very opposite to a director in a black coat and tall hat, Delia.
Think it out for yourself! I only wish I had the chance."
Delia looked thoughtful. She was apportioning fifteen hundred pounds on
the upkeep of her future home. She decided on a small flat and a
runabout car, and rather thought that the drawing-room should be pink.
Mrs Gordon said seriously:
"Dear Val, you must get the better of these foolish ideas! They are
spoiling your life. You have so much that other men want, that it seems
really wicked to be discontented because you have not--trouble! Oh, my
dear boy, it will come soon enough! You ought to be thankful!"
"But it's not trouble, Mrs Gordon! I want trouble no more than any
other man. It's danger that fascinates me--adventure--the thrill of the
unknown. It was born in me, I suppose. My ancestors were a race of
explorers. If I had been able to have a fling in my youth, I might have
been able to settle down, but I went straight from Oxford to the City,
and a longing that is bottled up doesn't diminish, it goes on growing
all the time. When Mr Baron told me the news to-day, I felt--you'll be
horrified at my ingratitude!--as if a halter had been slipped round my
neck."
Mr Gordon shook his head.
"It's a thousand pities that you could not take that trip! If you'd
been my son I'd have packed you off with five pounds in your pocket, to
work your own way round the world. You'd have had enough excitement to
last you for the rest of your life--and danger into the bargain. You'd
be thankful _then_ to settle down to your present life."
"Oh, I'm thankful enough now. It's quite a good life as things go, but
just a bit boring."
Terence kicked his slipper once more.
"Well--what price the hospital ball next week? _That_ won't be boring,
I give you my word. We're having a party to dinner here, and going on
together. If you like to chip in--"
"Terence! Don't be cruel. We really must not add to his boredom!"
cried Delia, smiling, but there was an edge in her smile.
Terence grimaced expressively at Lessing, a grimace which said, "Now
you've done it! She's got her knife into you for that remark!"
Kindly Mrs Gordon sensed the strain in the atmosphere, and said
quickly:
"Do sing something more to us, Delia darling. You had only begun. A
few more of those dear old ballads!"
Delia was like her mother, she never made a fuss, so she rose with a
slow, graceful gesture, seated herself in her old place, and sang one
strain after another with the utmost good humour. The last of all was
that delightful ballad entitled "Phillida flouts me," and this she
delivered with much energy and verve, throwing aside her languid airs to
adopt the very attitude of the damsel of the song.
Lessing loved to hear Delia sing, and to-night he laughed with the rest,
at the pretty by-play of tossing head and curling lips, but he was not
altogether happy in his mind. He remembered the chill of the girl's
voice a few minutes before, as she said: "We mustn't bore him still
more!" and he felt uncomfortable as if it were he himself who was being
flouted.
As he walked down the quiet streets on his way home, the words repeated
themselves in his brain:
"Oh, what a plague is love! I cannot bear it. Alack and well a-day.
Phillida flouts me!"
It was the night after the hospital ball, and Lessing was dining at his
favourite restaurant, hoping thereby to counteract a fit of unusual
depression. He had not enjoyed that ball; it was borne in upon him that
Delia had not intended him to enjoy it. She had deliberately filled her
programme before the night, and vouchsafed him only one extra, and
during the dancing thereof had stopped three times over to inquire if he
were _quite_ sure he was not bored! Delia was angry with him. Delia
most pronouncedly was disposed to "flout." There was an ache at
Lessing's heart which seemed ludicrously out of proportion with the
cause.
For the first half of his meal he sat alone at his table, then the seat
opposite him was taken by one of the swarthy bearded foreigners with
which the place abounded. He was a man of early middle age, with a mop
of black hair slightly tinged with grey, overhanging eyebrows, and a
general air of poverty and Bohemianism. He ate hungrily, as though such
good food did not often come his way, and as he ate his eyes roamed
stealthily round the room. Lessing decided that he was in search of a
confederate--the man's appearance suggested the word--and that he was
puzzled and alarmed by the absence of what he sought. He decided to
dally with his own meal so as to see this thing out. Many a time he had
longed for an opportunity of adventure. Now it might be at hand. If
the two men met, he would leave the restaurant in their wake and track
them through the narrow streets! He recalled written scenes concerning
open doorways, fights on staircases, and the like, and thrilled with
anticipation.
Throughout his meal the Bearded One continued his scrutiny, and Lessing
noticed that his glance lingered tentatively on one or two men present
as though uncertain of their identity. It was not entirely by
appearance, then, that he could distinguish his confederate! There was
evidently a sign which would expose one to the other, and then suddenly,
with his eyes fixed on a diner at an adjacent table, the Bearded One
raised his knife, and with a clean, incisive movement swept the salt
from his plate on to the table.
The other diner ate on undisturbed, but an electric shock of excitement
tingled through Lessing's veins. More than once before he had observed
this deliberate spilling of the salt on the round-topped tables of that
restaurant, so often, indeed, that he had made sure in his own mind that
it was in the nature of a signal from one member of a fraternity to
another. The spilling of the salt--symbol from all ages of disaster, a
meet signal indeed for these dark and dangerous men!
With an impulse which crystallised the longings of years, Lessing
attracted his companion's attention by a hasty movement, and then,
lifting high his knife, swept his own salt on to the cloth so that the
white dust scattered and mingled with the dust already spread.
The effect was instantaneous. The swarthy face bent forward to meet his
own, the eyes gleamed, the guttural voice breathed a deep, low word:
"_Brother_!"
"_Brother_!" whispered Lessing in return. His pulses were racing, but
he held himself resolutely in hand. A false move might spoil all. He
must be silent, and let the other man do the talking. He sat in an
attitude of attention while the Bearded One crouched over the table,
speaking in baited tones. His accent was rather Jewish than foreign, a
thick, ugly voice, thickened as though by some physical obstruction.
"I have been waiting. The time is short. I must be hurrying on. There
are many places where I must carry the news!" His voice sank to an
almost unhearable depth. "_It is for to-night_!"
"To-night!" gasped Lessing in return. His real dismay at the nearness
of the unknown happening supplied a genuine note to his exclamation, and
it appeared that surprise was expected.
"To-night! To-night! The chief has given the order. It is his way to
make all ready, and at the last to give but a few hours' notice. It is
safer so. He has a wise head. All is arranged, and to-morrow, by this
time to-morrow--" His lips rolled back, the large prominent teeth
gleamed in a smile of diabolic delight. "London, the city of the
oppressors--what will be left of the great London then? Nothing but a
wilderness of fire and ruin!"
Lessing's blood ran cold. An adventurer at heart, he yet had the true
Englishman's love of the metropolis. At the thought of danger to London
he winced as at a personal wound; in his heart dawned the surprising
conviction that he would risk his own life, not once, but a dozen times
over, to avert the destruction of that grey old pile.
The destruction of London--mad words! Mad fancy! Was this man a maniac
that he spoke of such an impossible feat? Agitated, almost gasping for
breath, Lessing heard himself stammer detached words of inquiry:
"When? Where? Where--How do they start--?"
The answer came back in a low hissing whisper:
"The oil tanks on the Thames! Ah-ha, it is a great scheme, a fine
scheme. The fuel is lying there, ready to our hands. Three Brothers
have volunteered for the bomb throwing. They will die for a great
cause. Their names will be remembered as martyrs among us. The burning
oil will flare out to the Thames. Think of it! Think of it! A river
of flaming oil, joined by other rivers; all the tanks exploded, one by
one; the stream of fire flowing along, leaving behind burning shipping,
burning banks, spreading ruin to right and left. Think of it, Brother,
think of it! Think of the dark stairways and passages, where a man may
creep, a man with a torch helping the work, sending the sparks to a
fresh home. Who can guard miles of river bank? Who can distinguish one
worker from another? Ah, it will be a brave night, a brave night. We
have waited, Brother, we have appeared to submit, but now--now--"
His voice grew hoarse with excitement. Lessing pressed his knee gently
beneath the table.
"Careful. Be careful. We are observed. Give me my orders!"
The Bearded One drew himself up, and made a pretence of continuing his
meal. His voice sank to its old, guttural tones.
"To stay here, and pass round the word. All the Brothers to be on duty,
except those watched by the police. Red Fist and Wharbuton to leave by
the nine o'clock train from Charing Cross, and cross to Paris. Their
departure is to be as public as possible. It would be well if they were
given a send-off. If they are out of the way the watch will be relaxed.
At all costs they must be found. I go on to other places, you stay
here, meet other Brothers, give them all this message. Red Fist and
Wharbuton to be found and sent off. All others on duty to-night. Not a
moment to waste."
"Right," said Lessing quickly, and the Bearded One rose from his seat.
Then followed a moment of tension, for suddenly, as if in default of a
parting signal, the beetling brows frowned upon him, and a glance of
indecision swept across the face. Lessing sensed the danger, and leaped
to avert it. Touching the salt with his fingers, he said meaningly: "We
are watched, Brother. We are watched!" and bent his head over his
plate.
There was a breathless silence, then the thick voice bade him good
night, and he knew that the danger was past. The next moment the swing
doors of the restaurant opened and shut. The Bearded One had
disappeared.
For an endless five minutes Lessing forced himself to sit still, then he
paid his account, put on his hat, and opening the door, stood on the
outer step of the restaurant looking anxiously to right and to left. He
had purposely left behind his coat, since in the event of finding the
Bearded One still hanging about, he could then be able to assert that he
was impatiently waiting for the arrival of more Brothers. The night was
chill and there were but few pedestrians in the narrow street. Running
his eye to right and left he could count a dozen in all, no one of whom
bore any resemblance in figure or clothing to his late companion.
A better moment for escape could not be desired, and as if sent by
Providence a taxi suddenly came into sight, and the chauffeur held up an
inquiring hand. In another second Lessing was seated inside, and had
given an address in Mayfair. He did not risk returning for his coat, a
telephone message to the manager would possibly secure it from theft, if
not the coat must go. This was not a moment for considering coats.
Lessing sat motionless on his seat until the taxi had covered a couple
of miles westwards, when he touched the communicating cord and startled
the chauffeur by an imperative order:
"Scotland Yard. And as quick as you can go!"
Throughout the years that followed Lessing remembered his interview with
the Scotland Yard officials with a smarting indignation. To his excited
senses the calmness, the stolidity, the insistent incredulity which
greeted his story, were exasperating to the last degree. He discovered
to his dismay that the first impression left on his hearers was that he
himself was drunk, but the realisation forced him to a composure which
won an eventual grudging attention. The officials reiterated that the
scheme propounded was impracticable, but a minute description of the
Bearded One, together with the signal of the spilling of salt, made an
undoubted effect. It was known to the police that such a signal did
indeed exist among certain societies, and its usage on the present
occasion was of evident weight. Lessing was assured that immediate
steps should be taken to ensure the safety of the oil tanks. He had the
satisfaction of hearing telephonic messages dispatched to various police
centres, giving instructions for largely increased guard. There was
nothing more to be done. He had given the alarm; had held to his point
until he had succeeded in securing immediate help. Sleep was impossible
for him that night, but he would return to his rooms, pass the time with
a book and a pipe, until the fateful hour had passed. He passed out
into the street, and looked round for the taxi which he had instructed
to wait. To his annoyance it was not to be seen, but after a momentary
hesitation it occurred to him that there might be some rule forbidding
vehicles to remain before the entrance, as in the crowded thoroughfares
of the west, and that he might find the man waiting round one of the
nearest turnings. He strode on therefore, but without success, till
finally he decided to take the nearest cut which should lead him to a
Tube station. The cut was represented by a narrow lane, lined on either
side with small shops. Lessing walked sharply, looking neither to right
nor left. The interview had left him nervously exhausted, and he
shivered in the chill night air; he was irritated with the recalcitrant
chauffeur, irritated with himself for failing to do the one sensible
thing under the circumstances--turn back into the office, and telephone
for another car. To walk through the streets in the vicinity of
Scotland Yard, a noticeable figure without outer coat or wrapping, was
the last thing in the world which he should have done on such an
occasion.
But it was too late to turn back. A few more minutes would take him to
the Tube station, or better still to a thoroughfare where he could pick
up another car.
By this time Lessing had reached the end of the cross-road, at which was
situated an eating-house of a rough and unsavoury appearance. As he
approached the door it opened, and a group of men streamed into the
street, talking together in some eager unintelligible patois, at the
sound of which a shiver of impending danger shot through Lessing's
veins. Instinctively he averted his head, and quickened his pace, but
instinct was a true prophet, it projected the coming event upon his
brain, so that he knew what was before him, before the dark, bearded
face glared into his, and the thick voice hissed the eloquent word into
his ear:
"_Traitor_!"
Lessing did not stop to think. He was one to six, and escape was the
necessity of the moment. He took to his heels, ran at full speed until
the narrow lane was left behind, and the lights of Trafalgar Square
shone around him, when following his first impulse he leaped into a
taxi, and told the man to drive to Oxford Circus.
He had behaved like a fool, and like a fool he had been trapped, but the
game was not yet up. His identity was unknown, and by avoiding the
neighbourhood of the restaurant he could with ease cut himself off from
all likelihood of encountering the Brethren. Lessing's blood tingled in
his veins, his whole being was flooded with exhilaration. Here was
life, here was excitement, here, at long last, within the confines of
the grey city itself, was the thrill of pursuit! For they would be
after him, following him no doubt in one of the numerous cars blocking
the roads, with intent to track him to his lair, but Lessing laughed at
the thought with glad youthful confidence. He was not to be caught
twice over. He would give them a run--such a run as they had not known
for many a long day, but he would slip them in the end!
It was two hours later when Lessing let himself into his rooms, but he
entered with the smiling face of the man who wins; and in good truth he
had reason to be proud. He had dodged, he had evaded, he had doubled
back on his own tracks with an almost incredible celerity. He had left
crowded Tube carriages, lost himself in the crowd on the platform, and
jumped back into the same carriage, the last passenger to enter before
the door was closed. He had changed from taxi to train, from train to
taxi, and once, finding himself in a stationary block, had deposited
half a crown on the seat of his own car, stepped deftly on to an
adjacent "island," and opening the door of an empty growler, hunched
himself up on the floor, and remained concealed until it suited his
convenience to descend. Oh! he had been swift, he had been cunning;
always he had acted on the assumption that the pursuer was at hand;
never for one moment had he relaxed guard, or allowed himself to slow
down. Now he was tired, dog tired, but with a glorious fatigue. Not
for the world would he have foregone one incident of that most thrilling
dash!
Lessing slept, and woke to a fine spring morning. He rang for his
newspaper, and turned rapidly over the pages. Nothing had happened.
The warning had been delivered in time; the grey old city was
undisturbed.
But that night when Lessing returned to his chambers he found a letter
awaiting him, addressed in an unknown handwriting. He tore it open, and
read the few words which it contained:
"Traitor,--The doom which you have delayed, will now fall on your own
head. Do not think to escape. The world itself would not be wide
enough to hide you. At the moment when you least expect it, your call
will come--"
Lessing stood, staring at the written words, and the little room seemed
suddenly cold as a cave. He had wished, and his wish had been granted
to him. Henceforth, till he died, danger must be his bride!
A man may be brave to the superlative of bravery, yet almost inevitably
he will weaken at the consciousness of hidden danger, pursuing him
stealthily day after day, week after week, playing with him with
ruthless deliberation, as a cat plays with a mouse, setting him free,
only to realise that his torture has been in vain, and the day of
reckoning is still to come.
For the first few days after his receipt of the fateful letter, Lessing
went about his work with a grim, but not altogether unpleasant,
excitement. He realised once for all that it was hopeless to try to
hide himself from the Brethren, but he determined to sell his life
dearly. He carried a policeman's whistle, and a walking-stick with a
large and roughly-cut head, which on occasion could be a formidable
weapon. The question of a revolver had been dismissed after the
shortest hesitation, seeing that Lessing's inexperience with firearms
made such a possession rather an extra danger than a protection. He put
his affairs in order, and, like every other man under sentence of death,
woke to a smarting consciousness of the sweetness of life. Life and--
Delia! Delia of the rose bloom and the misty eyes. Delia, who on
occasion could be so maddeningly, tantalisingly alive! Lessing did not
realise his own changed looks, and it seemed to him the cruellest
contrariety of fate that Delia should show herself at her sweetest and
most womanly at this moment when he knew himself separated from her by
the most impenetrable of barriers.
A fortnight of incessant, imminent anxiety passed slowly by; then came a
night when, taking his way to the corner house after dinner, Lessing
experienced his first tangible alarm. The square was empty of
pedestrians; he was walking on the farther side, close to the tall
shuttered houses, when through the shrubs behind the railing of the
centre enclosure, the lamplight showed a glimpse of a white face peering
towards him. The next second it had disappeared, but even as he walked
he had a conviction that a crouching figure kept pace behind that leafy
screen. He hurried his steps, the figure kept pace; he could hear the
rustle of the boughs as it passed, leaping across the intervening spaces
with swift, ape-like bounds. Presently, when it reached that thick
clump of trees, it would leap ahead, crouch, and take aim. Lessing
acted on the impulse of the moment. A doctor's plate shone bright on a
doorway--he pealed the electric bell, and a moment later stood safe
within the entrance hall.
The doctor found his patient wanting in nervous force, prescribed a
tonic, and rose to intimate that the interview was over; then, as the
patient failed to take the hint, explained that he himself was obliged
to go out at once. His opinion of the gravity of the case was increased
when the patient first expressed a wish to accompany him on his walk,
and then bade him good night at the first corner!
And that night Delia was kinder than ever and the savour of life more
alluringly sweet!
During the days that followed Lessing developed a horror of solitude.
The old evenings with a pipe and a book became abhorrent, and on the
nights when he did not go to the corner house, he either dined in town
or invited a friend to share his home repast. It was therefore with
real relief that one Saturday morning he received a telegraphic
invitation from a leisured friend who diversified a roving existence by
flying visits to his country home. The telegram showed the
expansiveness of the man of means, and ran as follows:
"Returning to Moat this afternoon. Try to join me for a week-end.
Car will meet four-thirty on chance.--
"Blakeney."
It was impossible to reply, since Blakeney had dispatched his wire
from Crewe, and was presumably already travelling southwards. The
form of the message showed that no answer was expected, but Lessing
had not the shadow of a doubt as to his own acceptance. He was
thankful for the chance of leaving London behind, and spending the
next two days in Blakeney's cheerful society. He sent a boy home to
get his bag, and carry it to the station, and when the hour for
departure approached, followed by a long and devious route, coming on
the platform just in time to jump into a moving carriage. By this
time he retained little hope of avoiding the espionage of the
Brethren, but as his life grew more precious so did his precautions
increase, and his determination to fight to the last. The smoking
carriage contained the usual contingent of comfortable middle-aged
citizens, and the hour's journey passed without incident. It was a
stopping train, and the passengers descended in great numbers at the
nearer suburbs, and in scattered units once the hour's limit had
passed. Lessing counted six men besides himself who descended at
Evershaw, one old, three middle-aged, a young man in seedy brown
overcoat, and a workman carrying a bag of tools. They looked one and
all reassuringly English and commonplace, and Lessing heaved a sigh of
relief. For once he had really escaped the scent! He hurried through
the booking office, to find himself confronted by the collection of
somewhat broken-down looking gigs and pony carts to be seen at most
country stations. There was no sign of Lessing's luxurious car, only
a powerful-looking mud-bespattered taxi, beside which stood a man in
leather gaiters and a driving-coat. He touched his cap as Lessing
approached, saying in an interrogative tone:
"Beg pardon, sir--Mr Lessing?"
"Yes."
"I have instructions to meet you, sir. From the Moat."
"Right," said Lessing, and handed over his bag. He realised at once
that Blakeney had probably wired for his own car to meet him some
distance down the line; and he seated himself in the capacious tonneau
of the taxi with an agreeable rising of spirits. The little station
was gay with spring flowers, and the scent of wallflowers floated
refreshingly on the cool clean breeze. Lessing stretched his tired
limbs, and drew a deep, grateful breath. He was just in the mood for
a spin through country lanes, and for once was tempted to wish that
the Moat was situated at a greater distance from the station. Then in
a moment his mood changed, and a cloud of anxiety descended. Already
the car had made its first movement forward, when the man with the
brown coat sprang to the front, and leaped to the seat beside the
chauffeur. Scrambling, clutching, he righted himself, steadied his
hat on his head, and pressed a tentative touch on a side pocket, and
all the time the driver vouchsafed not one glance, but devoted himself
to his wheel, as quietly as if it were an everyday occurrence to be
boarded at the last moment by an uninvited "fare." There was
something in that stolidity which chilled the blood in Lessing's
veins, for it seemed to infer that the incident was _expected_; that
the man in the brown coat had travelled down from town for no other
purpose than to occupy that special seat.
For the next few minutes Lessing alternated between fear and
composure. In the latter condition he told himself that it was a
usual occurrence for a country driver to give a "lift" to a friend,
and that such an action was tacitly sanctioned by his patrons.
Probably the man in the brown coat was so accustomed to avail himself
of his friend's hospitality, that to both the action had become
automatic. The more Lessing dwelt on this explanation, the more
satisfactory did it appear; it supported him to the end of the
straggling village, and only lost its power when the car failed to
turn up the lane leading to the Moat. He leaned forward, tapped at
the dividing glass, and called through the tube, but neither man moved
the fraction of an inch. He called again, more loudly than before,
and as if answering a signal, the car leaped forward, leaped again,
and with ever-mounting speed dashed down the empty lane.
Then the truth could no longer be disguised. These men were in league
against him; they had laid a trap, and he had walked into it with
credulous ease. The telegram had been a fraud, sent with no other
purpose than to lure him from town, into the solitude of these lonely
lanes. The Brethren's knowledge of Blakeney and his ways seemed at
first an incredible feat, but a moment's consideration went far to
remove the mystery. Blakeney had passed through town only a week
before, and had dined with Lessing at his club. Nothing more easy
than to discover his name from the porter, and to follow up the scent.
At that moment Lessing would have given much for the feel of a
revolver in his coat pocket. Given such a weapon he might have "held
up" the two men on the front seat, and forced them to obey his orders;
as it was, he was powerless as a child. For another ten minutes the
car pursued its headlong rush; the two men sitting silent, immovable,
looking neither to right nor left; the man inside crouched forward in
an attitude of defence. And once again Lessing was conscious of that
tingling in his veins which was rather exhilaration than dread. Pace
to face with danger he had no lack of courage, rather did every
faculty of his being rouse itself to an added fullness of life. The
tangible had no terror, it was the passive waiting which played havoc
with his nerves.
The car was still racing forward, plunging deeper and deeper into the
heart of the country. Lessing studied the road on either side,
searching for landmarks which might be registered for future use. He
had by now concluded that he was being conveyed to some stronghold of
the Brethren where he would meet the fate allotted to him for his
betrayal, and he reflected that it would be days if not weeks before
his disappearance would attract serious attention. By way of
precaution he had burnt Blakeney's telegram as soon as read; while the
boy who carried his bag to the station had departed immediately after
his own arrival and could give no clue as to his destination.
To-night might see the close of his own life, but his friends would
pursue the even tenor of their way without a fear for his welfare.
Even Delia... With the thought of Delia came a knife-like pang; a
determination to strain every nerve and faculty to outwit his enemies.
Another five minutes, and he became aware that the car was slacking
speed, that the men on the front seat were looking ahead, as though on
the watch for an expected signal. Presumably it came, for with
skilful turns of the wheel the chauffeur steered the car down a narrow
lane, and, with a second lurching curve, into a gateway which stood
half-way down its length.
So far the manipulation of the car had borne testimony to the skill of
the chauffeur, but two sharp turnings so quickly succeeding each other
were a severe test, and terminated in a momentary skid over a grassy
bank, during which the car tilted violently to the side.
The swing was severe enough to throw Lessing sideways on the seat, and
before he had time to right himself, the two men had leaped off the
box, the one to the right and the other to the left, and had appeared
simultaneously at either door. There was nothing precisely
threatening in their demeanour, but they had the air of men who knew
their duty, and were prepared to do it. The chauffeur had an
appearance of bull-dog strength, but little sign of intelligence. The
man in the brown coat had a narrow, hatchet-like face, with keen,
alert eyes. The hand which lay on the door of the car was white and
well shaped. One glance at him showed that he was the real master of
the situation. Lessing looked from one to the other with an air of
haughty displeasure.
"May I inquire the explanation of this extraordinary behaviour! I
gave instructions to be driven to the Moat."
"Our instructions were to bring you here. You are expected. I must
ask you to get out, and come up to the house."
It was the man in the brown coat who spoke. He came a step nearer as
he spoke, blocking the doorway; the chauffeur held open the farther
door, his great bulk outlined against the green of the trees. It
seemed to Lessing that for the moment his best policy was to obey,
since, if it came to a fight, he preferred the open to his present
cramped position. He alighted then without demur, and, stood on the
path stretching himself, and looking around with an air of assurement
which he was far from feeling. He saw a garden which even in its
spring freshness looked desolate and neglected, and, some forty yards
from the gate, a low house of grey stone, thickly covered with
creepers, the branches of which had been allowed to drape the windows
so heavily that in many cases the glass was almost entirely concealed.
Lessing looked at it and felt a creeping of the blood. There was
only one word which could fitly describe the appearance of that house,
and it was a word of which he did not care to think. It was a dead
house.
Lessing had been under the impression that while he had been studying
his surroundings he had been standing still, but it now appeared that
unconsciously to himself, and impelled by the movements of the men on
either side, he had been slowly approaching nearer and nearer the open
door of the windowless house. Instantly he halted and put a sharp
inquiry:
"What is this house? Who is it that is `expecting' me, as you say?"
"You will recognise him when you meet," said the man in brown, and
pursing his lips gave a soft, prolonged whistle, repeated three times
over, with a perceptible pause between each. He looked towards the
house meantime, and in imagination Lessing filled the blank space of
the doorway with a dreaded figure, the figure of a man with black hair
turning to grey, a shaggy beard, and large prominent teeth. He had
need of all his courage at that moment, but he made no resistance as
the men by his side steadily guided him forward; for just as a short
time before he had preferred to fight in the open, now he was
possessed with a desire to find himself in a room where he might take
his stand against the wall, and so force his enemies to a frontal
attack.
The three men entered a narrow, absolutely bare hallway, from which an
uncarpeted staircase rose sharply to the left. From the first glance
around, and even more from the dank and mouldy atmosphere, Lessing
divined that the house had long been unoccupied, and that a deed of
violence committed therein might remain undiscovered for an indefinite
period. The conclusion did not help to raise his spirits as he
entered a long narrow room facing the back of the house, his
companions meantime pressing hard on his wake.
The room was as empty as the hall; the man in the brown coat walked
quickly to the nearer of the two windows, gave a searching glance
around, then turned to the chauffeur with a significant shake of the
head. There followed a moment's pause, as though both men were
puzzled by the absence of someone confidently expected. Then the man
with the brown coat turned once more to Lessing.
"I must ask you to wait for us here for a few minutes," he said
courteously. "We will not keep you longer than is necessary. I am
sorry that I cannot offer you a chair. This house is, as you see,
unfurnished."
Lessing did not condescend to reply. He hailed the departure of the
two men as giving him an opportunity to examine his surroundings and
find a possible way of escape. The room was on the ground floor, the
windows were unbarred, surely then it would be easy.
The next moment the blood rushed to his face, as his ears caught the
turn of a rusty key, followed by the drawing of a bolt, and hurrying
across the floor he found that the door leading into the passage had
been doubly secured. The two men were determined to keep him a
prisoner while they waited for the appearance of one who was evidently
their chief; he could hear their footsteps ascending the stairs,
tramping over the bare floors above; once and again the sound of the
long thrice-repeated whistle came to his ears, but to his relief there
came no answer to the signal.
Lessing stood with his ears to the chink of the door listening
intently. Presently he heard the two men descend to the hall, linger
for a minute as if undecided, then pass out of the front door.
Another minute and a new sound broke the stillness; he listened
acutely, and had little difficulty in divining its meaning; the men
were endeavouring to move the car out of the rut, so that at any
moment it might be ready to bear them away.
Instantly Lessing darted to the nearer of the two windows, and looking
out experienced an unwelcome surprise. The house was evidently built
on shelving ground, for though the room in which he stood was level
with the entrance, it was yet raised by a good twenty feet from the
ground at the back. Now twenty feet is not a great depth, but it is
too far for a man to drop without risk of at least spraining an ankle,
and thereby leaving himself helpless in the hands of his enemies,
especially when, as was the case in this instance, the ground is paved
with rough, uneven flags. Lessing drew back in disgust, and darted to
the window on the farther end of the room. Here, if anything, the
drop was greater, but the position was improved, inasmuch as a tangle
of grass took the place of the jagged flags. The window was of the
old-fashioned casement description, and to prise open the rusty latch
was no light task even for strong fingers, but it was done at last,
and Lessing hung forward, listening breathlessly to the sounds from
the front of the house. The car was evidently still refusing to
budge; he could hear the voice of the chauffeur instructing the man in
the brown coat as to his share in the work, and the thud of the engine
as once and again it strained to the task.
Now was his time, while the two men were engaged; while as yet the
third man had not appeared! Lessing hung out of the window, his eyes
sweeping the wall to right and left. He had a strong head, and given
so much as a drain pipe would have no hesitation in essaying the
descent, but the mass of ivy hid everything from view. Lessing
hoisted himself on the window-sill, and creeping first to one side and
then the other, groped among the leaves. He found no pipe, but a
moment's searching discovered what was quite as useful for his
purpose, a central branch of the ivy itself, thick as a man's fist,
strong enough to support a dozen climbers. Lessing gave himself no
time to think, but lowered himself from the sill, grasped the branch
in both hands, and began his descent. It was not as easy as he had
expected, for the branch scalloped along the walls, in a somewhat
disconcerting manner, but given a steady head, and a body in
reasonable training, there were no serious difficulties to encounter,
and a point was soon reached when he could relax his hold, and drop
softly to the ground.
So far all had gone with almost incredible ease, but Lessing was aware
that he was not yet out of the wood. At any moment his escape might
be discovered, and his pursuers would have a double advantage in their
possession of the car and their knowledge of the country itself. It
was the work of a few minutes to dart down the overgrown path, scale
the wall at the end of the garden, and drop upon the grass below, but
the next step was more difficult to decide. Looking around him he
perceived a white roadway curling like a ribbon round a sweep of
meadow land, and realised how easily his escape might be cut off. It
flashed into his mind that his best chance was to lie low until his
pursuers had started on their chase, and even as the thought passed
through his brain, his eye fell on a straggling growth of barberry
against the outer side of the wall he had just scaled. The bushes
were small and by no means thick, so that at first sight they offered
no promise of shelter, but on further examination Lessing discovered
that the ground between them and the wall was hollowed to the depth of
a foot or more, and covered with a mass of tall grasses. Here, then,
was an ideal hiding-place, where he could lie low and know all that
was happening around.
Without a moment's hesitation Lessing laid himself down in the hollow,
pressing back the grasses that he might creep close to the shelter of
the wall, then allowing them to spring back to their original
position. His tweed suit was of a nondescript tint, the shade least
likely to catch the eye, but for greater safety he picked handfuls of
leaves and grass, and scattered them over his clothes, then lying flat
with face hidden on his folded arms, he awaited the discovery of his
escape.
He had time to grow cramped and chill before the sound of loud raised
voices and the heavy tramp of feet over wooden floors warned him that
the search had begun. Almost immediately afterwards someone came
racing down the garden path, circled round once and again, and finally
clambered to the top of the wall, to obtain a view over the outlying
country. Lessing knew by the distinctness of the sound that the
ascent had been made at but a short distance from where he lay, and
the knowledge sent a chill through his blood. It had not occurred to
him that his hiding-place could be viewed from above, and he waited in
the keenest suspense, prepared to take to his feet and make a dash for
it, at the first hint of discovery. But the man on the wall made no
such sign. He breathed in short, gasping breaths, as a man would
breathe under stress of agitation, and between his breaths once and
again he sent out the old whistling summons, then scrambling,
clutching, he fell back into the garden, and again raced to and fro
among the curving paths.
For the next ten minutes the sounds of the search continued to reach
Lessing's ears, then came the welcome thudding of the engine, as the
car swept out of the gate, showing that the men had abandoned the
search of the premises. Another ten minutes, and the thudding sounded
again, but from another direction, and peering cautiously between the
branches, Lessing could watch the car approach down the long curve of
the road encircling the meadows. It was running slowly now, its
occupants no doubt engaged in searching the flat stretch of land,
making sure of one direction after another in which their prisoner
could not have escaped. Presently it turned and slowly traversed the
same space, before it finally returned to the high road and
disappeared from sight.
The dusk had fallen before Lessing crept out of his hiding-place, and
dragged his stiffened limbs across the meadows. He had determined to
avoid the highways, and so wandered on without any idea of the
direction in which he was going, but after half an hour's walking, to
his joy and relief he struck a railway line, and following it soon
arrived at a country station.
At ten o'clock that night Lessing let himself into his rooms, dusty,
dirty, incredibly fatigued, the poorer by the loss of a bag containing
two quite admirable suits of clothes, but full of thankfulness and
relief.
For once at least he had beaten the Brethren on their own ground!
"It's no good pretending. It's no good trying to deceive me. You
_are_ changed!" Delia declared, nodding her pretty head with solemn
emphasis. "You are changing more and more every single day. And it
doesn't suit you. Hollows in the cheeks! What business has a man of
thirty with hollows in his cheeks? And a different expression in your
eyes. Worried, absent, scared. Valentine Lessing,--what have you
been and gone and done?"
Lessing was seated once more in the delightfully homely room at the
corner house, enjoying the rare treat of a _tete-a-tete_ with Delia.
The men of the family were out, and two minutes before the maid had
announced "Mrs Wright from the District," and "Could the mistress
possibly see her?" whereupon Mrs Gordon had sighed, and said: "He is
out of work again, and she _is_ such a talker! Delia, dear, will you
go? Give her half-a-crown, and say I'm tired." But Delia, as a rule
the most helpful of daughters, resolutely refused.
"No, mother; it's your duty. The vicar says you give far too much.
It's pandering, and makes it hard for the other visitors. Besides,
I'd _never_ get rid of her! Be a good, brave lady, and do your duty."
So Mrs Gordon had departed, when Delia immediately turned to Lessing,
and announced triumphantly:
"She won't be back for a good half-hour! I've been longing for a
chance of talking to you alone," and proceeded to cross-question as
before stated. "Yes, you _are_ scared." Delia repeated. "When
anyone enters the room suddenly you jump and look round as if you
expected to see a policeman and a pair of handcuffs. It makes me
quite nervous even to watch you. And," her voice sank to a deeper
note, "you look ill, Val! _What is it_?"
Lessing bent forward in his chair, his hands clasped loosely together
between his knees; there was a look in his eyes which brought the
colour surging into Delia's cheeks.
"I can tell you honestly, Delia, that I have done nothing to make me
fear a policeman or handcuffs, but--I _am_ worried!" For a passing
moment he struggled with the temptation to confess the truth, but this
point had been mentally argued time and again, always with the same
conclusion. To confide his story would be to include his confidante
in his own danger, since it was hardly possible that he would not feel
called upon to take active steps against the Brethren. "I can't tell
you the why and wherefore, I wish I could, but I can assure you that I
have no cause to be ashamed."
"Oh, bother ashamed!" cried Delia hotly. "_Why_ are you scared? Has
anyone been--er--nasty to you, Val? A man in the office--jealous of
you because you have got on so well. Forged a cheque and pretended it
was you, or put money in your drawer like they do in books, you know,
when they have a grudge? Is it something like that, and you are
afraid in case they suspect you and send you away?"
The words were so deliciously naive and girlish that Lessing was
obliged to laugh; they were also so transparently eloquent of the
speaker's interest and concern for himself that a great pang rent his
heart at the vision of life as it might be. Life with Delia--with
Delia's children, a happy, breezy, family life, repeating the
atmosphere of the corner house in some flowery suburban cottage. Oh,
how good it seemed, how full and satisfying! What a joy to a tired
man to have that haven to which to return at the close of his day's
work. Time had been when he had scoffed at the smug security of
suburban life; had pitied the lot of the man who spent his evenings
playing with his children and mowing a miniature lawn, but in the
light of the last month's experience, he asked nothing better of fate
than to find himself in a precisely similar position.
"No, Delia, no!" he cried ardently, "there is no business trouble.
It's--er--something outside. Don't speak of it, please. I want to
tell you, and I ought not. It's dear and sweet of you to care. I
can't tell you how much it has meant to me the last few weeks, just to
be able--"
Delia interrupted hurriedly, after the manner of young women who
ardently long to hear a declaration of love, yet take fright at the
first symptom of its approach.
"Anyway," she said decisively, "you have _got_ to come to the cottage
over Whitsuntide. I insist upon it, so it's no use trying to escape.
Three whole days in the country will steady your nerves. It's not at
all _comme il faut_ for a director to have jumpy nerves. If I were a
shareholder I'd sell out at once. You will travel down with us on
Friday afternoon, and stay as long as you can the next week.
Understand?"
Lessing thankfully accepted the invitation, which was duly confirmed
by Mrs Gordon upon her return to the sitting-room, and a week later
he arrived at the week-end cottage, after a safe and comfortable
journey in the company of his cheerful friends.
During that week only one disquieting incident had happened, but that
was ominous enough. A typed envelope lying among other letters on the
breakfast-table was left carelessly until the others had been read and
digested, and then torn open with the scant courtesy shown to notes of
the circular type; but the folded slip bore no printed words, and as
Lessing jerked it apart there floated downward on to the carpet a thin
powdery stream, at sight of which the blood mounted in his face.
Moistening one finger, he bent and applied the tip to the scattered
grains, then lifted it to his lips. Salt! There was no mistaking the
sharp clean savour, and on a corner of the paper he beheld the rough
amateur drawing of a knife.
The Brethren had sent him a reminder that they were still waiting for
their revenge!
That year Whitsuntide fell in a spell of warm and settled weather, and
a more charming retreat than the Gordons' week-end cottage it would be
difficult to find. The house was a type of simple comfort, the garden
a delicious riot of colour and fragrance. None of the Gordons knew
anything about the science of gardening, but they considered it "fun"
to attend to their own garden, sent wholesale orders to advertising
seedsmen, and begged shamelessly from gardening friends. The friends
responded with sacks of mysterious-looking roots which the Gordons
proceeded to plump indiscriminately into the first vacant space which
came handy. Everything flourished, for the soil was new and rich, and
the sun blazed upon it from morning till night; and the result was as
delightful as it was unorthodox.
After a day spent in the cottage, Lessing began to feel that the
happenings of the last weeks must surely be the creation of his own
brain. The mental atmosphere by which he was surrounded was so kindly
and wholesome, so pre-eminently _sane_, that, in contrast, the wild
deeds of the Brethren seemed more the vagaries of a dream than cold
actual fact. Most thankfully he accepted the peaceful breathing
space, and for the first time since the incident of the spilling of
the salt went about his way free from apprehension. It seemed to him
in the last degree unlikely that the Brethren would choose a time when
he was in close contact with friends for the execution of their
revenge.
Lessing had made a compact with himself that under no circumstances
would he speak of love to Delia Gordon. He knew now that he had loved
her for years, he realised that under his present circumstances it
would be a despicable act to seek to bind her in any way, but, with
the extraordinary logic practised by men in affairs of the heart, he
believed that so long as he refrained from an actual declaration he
was acting as an honourable man. It did not occur to him that in the
event of his own sudden death a woman who loved him would find her
best comfort in the knowledge that her love had been returned!
But the days passed pleasantly. Mr and Mrs Gordon were the kindest
of hosts, Terence showed himself at his best, and Delia, in her light
dresses and flower-wreathed hats, was the most tantalisingly pretty
creature in the world. Lessing found it very difficult to keep his
resolve as he sat by her side in a summer-house situated at a discreet
distance from the house, and screened by the thick belt of trees which
formed the end of the shrubbery; and, if the truth is to be told,
Delia intended him to find it difficult, and made special play with
her eyelashes to that effect. Val was looking infinitely better, but
when he returned to town that tiresome "worry" would begin again, and
she wanted, as any nice, right-minded girl would have wanted, to have
the right to comfort and support.
"So sorry you can't stay over to-morrow! It's so stupid to rush back
to town just when you are beginning to get good. Why can't you make a
week of it while you are here? Only three more days."
"I'm afraid I can't. It's been awfully jolly. I've enjoyed every
minute of the time, but--er--I don't think I ought. Business, you
know!"
Delia was annoyed, and showed it.
"Awfully boring it must be, to be a City man," said she with her nose
in the air. "Always having to keep your nose to the grind. That's
why I like army men. You can depend upon them. I shall telegraph to
Captain Rawle, and ask him to take your place. He'll jump at it."
"Conceited ass!" muttered Lessing under his breath. He looked at
Delia and saw beneath her pretence of indifference a mistiness of eye,
a tremor at the corner of the lips, the meaning of which was plain
even to his obtuse masculine senses, and at the sight his prudence
fled to the winds.
"Delia!" he cried rapturously. "Delia! Oh, my darling, do you mean
to say that you _care_? Delia, does it matter to you whether I go or
stay? Do you really, really mean to say--"
"I--I didn't say anything--I--I--_of course_, I care! Oh, Val, you
_are_ stupid!" cried Delia, putting up two white hands to hide an
exceedingly red face. Val knew a rapturous moment as he bent to take
those hands in his, but, even as he moved, a warning rustle sounded
from the bushes ahead, and he straightened himself in expectation of
the advent of an intruder. And then, at that moment, with a spasm of
fear freezing his hot blood, he saw once more the face of his enemy.
While one might have counted six, it glared at him from between the
branches--the swarthy, bearded face, with the tufted eyebrows, and the
strong, protuberant teeth. For six long seconds the eyes gazed
mockingly into his own.
Poor palpitating Delia, peeping between her fingers, beheld her lover
of a moment transformed into a stricken, grey-faced man, who sat
huddled up on his seat, staring before him with a gaze of helpless
despair. There was no more blushing and trembling after that--Delia
simply wrapped her arms round his neck, and crooned over him with
tender, loving words.
"Val, my own Val. What is it? I'm here. Delia's here. Nobody shall
hurt you, dearest; no one shall harm you. Delia's here. Look at me,
Val--my own, own Val!"
The words pierced. Through all the horror and the fear, their
sweetness reached to the brain, and turned the current of his
thoughts. One look he gave her, a look of passionate gratitude and
love, then to her utter bewilderment he lifted her to her feet and
drew her to the entrance of the summer-house.
"Go, darling--go! Go quickly! You can help me best that way. Go
quickly!"
Delia stared at him, and a sudden explanation leaped into her brain.
Heart disease! Val had discovered that his heart was affected, that
was the reason of his changed looks. At the moment he was threatened
with a spasm of pain, and man-like preferred to be alone. Obediently
Delia walked away, her heart torn with sympathy. But when they were
married she would take such good care of him, such incessant,
all-encompassing care, that he must, he should get well!
Lessing watched her go, and then deliberately moved a chair to the
centre of the entrance to the summer-house, seated himself astride,
and bent his head on the rail.
He had no longer the wish to fight for his life. Better a thousand
times that the end should come now, rather than later on. He was
ready. He was waiting. He prayed that there would not be long to
wait. At the hour when he least expected it his call had come!
"Now then, old fellow, now then! Sit up, will you? What's the matter
with you? That's right--that's right. Keep your hair on, old man.
You're not half as bad as you think you are!"
Terence Gordon's breezy voice boomed in Lessing's ear. Terence's big
hands laid hold of him, turned him round on his chair, and pressed him
back against its rails. His good-humoured face puckered with concern
as he met the blank stare in the man's eyes, and he continued to pour
forth a stream of slangy reassurements, the while Lessing slowly
regained his composure. He could not have told whether it was ten
seconds or ten hours during which he had sat waiting for death, but so
utterly had he lost touch with the things of earth that it was only by
degrees that he could realise that he was still alive and unharmed,
and that this singularly earthly young man was seated by his side,
ragging him for his mysterious exhibition of funk.
"Got 'em again--eh, what?" said Terence severely. "Tell you what, you
gave me a touch myself, when you leaped upon me like that. Steady,
old man. Steady! What's it all about?"
"Terence," said Lessing thickly, "go back to the house. Look after
your sister. I--I am going away. I can't stay. I'm bringing danger
upon her, upon you all--I can't explain. I--I've been warned--"
"Strikes me," said Terence slowly. "Strikes me, if there's any taking
care of Delia to be done, it's your business to do it. Hardly playing
the game is it, to run away just at this point?"
"For Heaven's sake, don't torture me," cried Lessing wildly. "How can
you judge? You don't understand. You don't understand--"
"Strikes me very forcibly, my dear fella," said Terence once more,
"that it's _you_ that don't understand!" He thrust his arm round the
corner of the summer-house, and produced the small black bag, which he
was wont to carry on his expeditions to hospital. He placed the bag
on the table, and seated himself before it with an air of intense
enjoyment. "Just keep your eye on your uncle, my lad, and we'll see
if he can help you to understand!"
And then, calmly, complacently, in the full light of day, that medical
student produced from that bag--first, a wig of black hair powdered
with grey; secondly, a beard; thirdly, a pair of tufted eyebrows;
fourthly a curious arrangement of wire clips connecting four large
teeth; and fifthly, a bottle containing a brown fluid or dye.
Calmly, composedly, in the full light of day, did that medical student
don one after the other: the wig, beard, eyebrows, and teeth, and dab
an illustrative patch of brown on either cheek. Then folding his arms
after the manner of the villain in British melodrama, he hissed forth
the words which had rung ceaselessly in Lessing's ears for the last
six weeks:
"Tr-r-r-aitor! The doom which you have postponed shall fall upon your
own head. At the hour when you least--"
Lessing seized his arm in a grip of steel.
"Silence! Terence, what does this mean? Do you dare to tell me that
it was _you_ who has made my life a torture all these--"
But Terence was not to be daunted. He twitched his arm away, and
defended himself with his usual energy.
"What's that--_torture_? What do _you_ mean by talking of torture?
Weren't you forever grousing about the dullness of life, and bemoaning
yourself because you couldn't have a taste of excitement? Weren't you
forever gassing about the thrill of danger, and boasting of your
adventurer's blood? Ought to be jolly thankful to me for giving you a
taste of the real gen-u-ine article! I dare you to say I didn't do it
uncommonly well, too. Very friendly action, I call it. You needed
someone to bring you to your senses. Mooning along, spoiling your own
life, and er--er--Hang it all--she _is_ my sister!" concluded Terence
with a touch of righteous indignation.
Lessing sat staring, a picture of stupefaction. The words were
understandable enough; he heard them with his ears, but his brain
refused to take in the meaning.
"_You_! It was you? _You_ came into that restaurant, sat at my
table--spilled that salt?"
"I did. I'd had one or two shots before that, but they didn't come
off, but the salt was a fair catch. You'd spun us that yarn more than
once--forgot that, didn't you? So I tried it, and you caught on like
an eel. The rest was as easy as falling off a log. Where else should
you go but Scotland Yard? I went on in advance, watched you out, and
trotted along in the rear, waiting for a suitable moment to give you
another thrill. Then I went home to bed! Got home a little quicker
than you did that night, sonny, I fancy! What?"
The rush of anger and humiliation which came at the remembrance of
that two hours of laborious dodging and turning did more to revive
Lessing than any amount of reassurement. He set his teeth, and
continued the cross-examination.
"And that night in the Square."
"Hang it, yes! That was me, all right. I'd wasted four evenings
hanging about, so I felt pretty murderous that night. Pretty good
sport, though, to see you bolt into that doctor's place. How I _did_
laugh! By the way, did you take the physic he ordered?"
Lessing gave him a steely glance.
"And the message, the telegram from Blakeney? You sent that, of
course, and arranged with that car."
"Just so. Ye-es. That was, as you might say, my _tour de force_!"
said Terence, smirking. "Cost me a lot of fag, that did, to say
nothing about coin of the realm. Thought you were fairly caught that
time, didn't you? What about `The Thrill' when you heard the sound of
the key in the lock? Eh, what?"
Lessing gave him a murderous glance.
"How would you have felt if I had injured myself for life, climbing
down from that window?"
"Oh, shucks!" Terence shrugged with easy assurance. "Any juggins
could have got down over that ivy, easy as walking downstairs. And
you have done a bit of climbing in your day. Did you get very much
stung by the nettles lying down by that wall?"
Lessing's jaw fell; the blood buzzed in his ears. An intolerable
humiliation encompassed him. Had he been _seen_?
Terence burst into a great roar of laughter.
"Oh, bless you, yes! He saw you right enough. It was Jeffries, you
know. G.P. Jeffries, sharpest fellow we have at hospital. He said he
had the time of his life, sitting upon that wall, watching you quaking
among those nettles. By the way, the bag's all right. I've got it
locked away in my cupboard. I suppose you wouldn't be willing, as a
slight acknowledgment of my trouble, and in gratitude for an
uncommonly useful lesson, to regard the outlay on that day's
expedition as a--er, fee?"
Lessing stared, glared, opened his lips to pour out heated words,
stopped short, and expanded his chest in a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, overpoweringly, the consciousness of safety rushed through
his being, and swept before it all petty considerations for his own
dignity and self-esteem. He was free, he was safe; his life was
unthreatened, he was free to plan ahead, to take upon himself new
claims, new responsibilities. He felt again the touch of Delia's
arms, and knew an irresistible impatience to continue the interrupted
scene.
He rose from his seat, and addressed a few dignified words to the lad
by his side.
"Another time, Terence, we'll thrash this matter out. You meant well,
no doubt, but--"
"Just so. I was sorry to interrupt, but it was all done for the best.
She's in the rose garden. She's crying!" volunteered Terence,
grinning.
"Is it your heart? _Is_ it your heart?" cried Delia clinging to his
arm. "Oh, Val, is your heart really affected?"
Lessing clasped her to him, laughing a big, glad laugh, full of the
joy and wonder of life.
"It is, darling!" he cried. "It is! _You_ have affected it. Oh,
Delia, Delia, let's be married, let's be married at once, and--keep a
chicken farm!"