THE STAINED FLOWERS
"What do you think of our acquaintance?" Gifford said as they settled
down in the private room of Kelson, who made the _Golden Lion_ his
hunting quarters.
"Not much. In fact, I took a particular dislike to the fellow. Wrong type
of sportsman, eh?"
"Decidedly. Fine figure of a man and good-looking enough, but spoilt by
that objectionable, cock-sure manner."
"And I should say a by no means decent character."
"A swanker to the finger-tips. And that implies a liar."
"Not worth discussing," Kelson said. "He goes to-morrow. I made a point
of inquiring how long he had engaged his room for. One night."
"Good. Then we shan't be under the ungracious necessity of shaking him
off. I can't tell you how sick I am, Harry, at the loss of my things."
"No more than I am, my dear fellow. If only a suit of mine would fit you.
But that's hopeless."
They both laughed ruefully at the idea, for Captain Kelson looked nearly
twice the size of his friend.
"We'll hope they'll arrive in time for you to see something of the fun at
any rate," Kelson said. "I'm in no hurry; I'll wait with you."
"You will do nothing of the sort, Harry," Gifford protested. "Do you
think I can't amuse myself for an hour or two alone? You'll go off at the
proper time. Absurd to wait till every decent girl's card is full."
"I don't like it, Hugh."
"Nor do I. But it is practically my fault in not looking sharper after my
luggage, and better one should suffer than two."
So it was arranged that Captain Kelson should go on alone and his
guest should follow as soon as his clothes turned up and he could
change into them.
That settled, they sat down to dinner.
"Tell me about the Morristons, Harry," Gifford said. "He is a very good
fellow, isn't he?"
"Dick Morriston? One of the best. Straight goer to hounds and straight in
every other capacity, I should say. You know they used to live at Friar's
Norton, near here, before they bought your uncle's place."
"Yes, I know. What is the sister like?"
"A fine, handsome girl," Kelson answered, without enthusiasm. "Rather too
cold and statuesque for my taste, although I have heard she has a bit of
the devil in her. Quite a sportswoman, and as good after hounds as her
brother. They say she had a thin time of it with her step-mother, and has
come out wonderfully since the old lady died. Lord Painswick, who lives
near here, is supposed to be very sweet on her. Perhaps the affair will
develop to-night. The ball will be rather a toney affair."
"Morriston has plenty of money?"
"Heaps. And the sister is an heiress too. The old man did not nearly live
up to his income and there were big accumulations."
"Which enabled the son to buy our property," Gifford said with a tinge
of bitterness. "Well, it might have been worse. Wynford has not passed
into the hands of some Jew millionaire or City speculator, but has gone
to a gentleman, a good fellow and a sportsman, eh?"
"Yes; Dick Morriston is all that. As the place had to go, you could not
have found a better man to succeed your people."
When the time came to start for the ball Gifford went down to see his
friend off and to repeat his orders concerning the immediate delivery of
his suit-case when it should arrive. Henshaw was in the hall, bulking big
in a fur coat and complaining in a masterful tone of the unpunctuality of
his fly. A handsome fellow, Gifford was constrained to acknowledge, and
of a strong, positive character; the type of man, he thought, who could
be very fascinating to women--and very brutal.
He dropped his rather bullying manner as he caught sight of the two
friends; and, noticing Gifford's morning clothes, made a casually
sympathetic remark on his bad luck.
"Oh, I shall come on when my things arrive, which ought to be soon,"
Gifford responded coldly, disliking the man and his rather obvious
insincerity.
"We might have driven over together," Henshaw said, addressing
Kelson. "But I hardly cared to propose it after the line you took at
the station."
There was an unpleasant curl of the lip as he spoke the words almost
vindictively, as though with intent to put Kelson in the wrong.
But his sneer had no effect on the ex-Cavalryman.
"I am driving over in my own trap," he replied coolly, ignoring the
other's intent. "You will be a good deal more comfortable in a closed
carriage."
"Decidedly," Henshaw returned with a laugh. "I am not so fond of an east
wind as to get more of it than can be helped. And, after all, it is best
to go independently to an affair of this sort. One may get bored and want
to leave early."
Kelson nodded with a grim appreciation of the man's trick of argument,
and went out to his waiting dog-cart. Henshaw's fly drove up as Gifford
turned back from the door.
"I suppose we shall see you towards midnight," he said lightly as he
passed Gifford, his tone clearly suggesting his utter indifference in
the matter.
"I dare say," Gifford replied, and as he went upstairs he heard an
order given for "Mr. Henshaw's fire in number 9 to be kept up against
his return."
Alone in the oak-panelled sitting-room Gifford settled down to wait for
his clothes. He skimmed through several picture-papers that were lying
about, and then took up a novel. But a restless fit was on him, and he
could not settle down to read. He threw aside the book and began thinking
of the old property which his uncle had muddled away, and recalling the
happy times he had spent there from his schooldays onwards. Memories of
the rambling old house and its park crowded upon him. By force of one
circumstance or another he had not been there for nearly ten years, and a
great impatience to see it again took hold of him. He looked at the
clock. At the best, supposing there were no hitch, his suit-case could
hardly arrive for another hour and a half. Wynford Place was a bare mile
away, perhaps twenty minutes' walk; the night was fine and moonlight, he
was getting horribly bored in that room; he would stroll out and have a
look at the outside of the old place. After all, it was only the exterior
that he could expect to find unaltered; doubtless the Morristons with
their wealth had transformed the interior almost out of his knowledge.
Anyhow he would see that later. Just then he simply longed for a sight of
the ancient house with its detached tower and the familiar landmarks.
Accordingly he filled a pipe, put on a thick overcoat and a golf cap and
went out, leaving word of his return within the hour.
But it was a good two hours before he reappeared, and the landlord, who
met him with the news that the missing suit-case had been awaiting him in
his room since twenty minutes past ten, was struck by a certain
peculiarity in his manner. It was nothing very much beyond a suggestion
of suppressed excitement and that rather wild look which lingers in a
man's eyes when he is just fresh from a dispute or has experienced a
narrow escape from danger. Then Gifford ordered a stiff glass of spirits
and soda and drank it off before going up to change.
"Shall you be going to Wynford Place, sir?" the landlord inquired as he
glanced at the clock.
Gifford hesitated a moment. "Yes. Let me have a fly in a quarter of an
hour," he answered.
But it was more than double that time when he came down dressed for
the dance.
The old house looked picturesque enough in the moonlight as he approached
it. All the windows in the main building were lighted up, and there was a
pleasant suggestion of revelry about the ivy-clad pile. Standing some
dozen yards from the house, but connected with it by a covered way, was a
three-storied tower, the remains of a much older house, and from the
lower windows of this lights also shone.
Gifford entered the well-remembered hall and made his way, almost in a
dream, to the ball-room, where many hunting men in pink made the scene
unusually gay. Unable for the moment to catch sight of Kelson, he had to
introduce himself to his host, who had heard of his mishap and gave him a
cheerily sympathetic welcome. Richard Morriston was a pleasant-looking
man of about five or six-and-thirty, the last man, Gifford thought, he
would bear a grudge against for possessing the old home of the Giffords.
"I'm afraid you must look upon me rather in the light of an intruder
here," Morriston said pleasantly.
"A very acceptable one so far as I am concerned," Gifford responded with
something more than empty civility.
"It is very kind of you to say so," his host rejoined. "Anyhow the least
I can do is to ask you with all sincerity to make yourself free of the
place while you are in the neighbourhood. Edith," he called to a tall,
handsome girl who was just passing on a man's arm, "this is Mr. Gifford,
who knows Wynford much better than we do."
Miss Morriston left her partner and held out her hand. "We were so
sorry to hear of your annoying experience," she said. "These railway
people are too stupid. I am so glad you retrieved your luggage in time
to come on to us."
Gifford was looking at her with some curiosity during her speech, and
quickly came to the conclusion that Kelson's description of her had
certainly not erred on the side of exaggeration. She looked divinely
handsome in her ball-dress of a darkish shade of blue, relieved by a
bunch of roses in her corsage and a single diamond brooch. Statuesque,
too statuesque, Kelson had called her; certainly her manner and bearing
had a certain cold stateliness, but Gifford had penetration enough to
see that behind the reserve and the society tone of her welcome there
might easily be a depth of feeling which his friend with a lesser
knowledge of human nature never suspected. An interesting girl,
decidedly, Gifford concluded as he made a suitable acknowledgment of her
greeting, and, I fancy, my friend Harry takes a rather too superficial
view of her character, he thought, as strolling off in search of
Kelson, he found himself watching his hostess from across the room with
more than ordinary interest.
He soon encountered Kelson coming out of a gaily decorated passage which
he knew led to the old tower. He had a pretty girl on his arm, tall and
fair, but with none of Miss Morriston's dignified coldness. This girl had
a sunny, laughing face, and Gifford thought he understood why his friend
had not been enthusiastic over the probable Lady Painswick.
Kelson, receiving him with delight, introduced him, with an air of
proprietorship it seemed, to his companion, Miss Tredworth.
"Have you been exploring the old tower?" Gifford asked.
"We've been sitting out there," Kelson answered with a laugh. "They have
converted the lower rooms into quite snug retreats."
"In my uncle's day they were anything but snug," Gifford observed. "I
remember we used to play hide-and-seek up there."
He spoke with preoccupation, his eyes fixed on a bunch of white flowers
which the girl wore on her black dress. They were slightly blotched and
sprinkled with a dark colour in a way which was certainly not natural,
and Gifford, held by the peculiar sight, looked in wonder from the
flowers to the girl's face.
"You must give Gifford a dance," Kelson said, breaking up the rather
awkward pause.
"I'm afraid my card is full," Miss Tredworth said, holding it up.
Kelson laughed happily. "Then he shall have one of mine."
But Gifford protested. "Indeed I won't rob you, Harry," he declared. "I'm
tired, and should be a stupid partner."
"Tired?" Kelson remonstrated. "Why, you have been resting at the _Lion_
waiting for your things while we have been dancing our hardest."
"Resting? No; I went out for a walk," Gifford replied.
"The deuce you did! Where did you go to?"
"Oh, nowhere particular," Gifford answered rather evasively. "Just about
the town."