TWO TO ONE
I looked across at the woman, who was waiting my answer with every
appearance of feverish interest.
"What should I know about him?" I said slowly. "I have been told that
he is dead. I know no more than that."
She started as though my words had stung her.
"It is not possible!" she exclaimed. "I must have heard of it. When he
left me--it was less than three months ago--he seemed better than I had
known him for years."
"All my life," I said, "I have understood that my father died by his own
hand after his disgrace. To-night for the first time I was told that
this was not the fact. I understood, from what my informant said, that
he had died recently."
She drew a sharp breath between her teeth, and suddenly struck the
cushioned arm of the carriage by her side with her clenched hand.
"It is a lie!" she declared. "Whoever told you so, it is a lie!"
"Do you mean that he is not dead?" I exclaimed. "Do you mean that you
have not seen him yourself--within the last few months?" she demanded
fiercely. "He left me to come to you on the first day of the New Year."
"I have never seen him to my knowledge in my life," I answered.
She leaned back in her seat, murmuring something to herself which I
could not catch. Past-mistress of deceit though she may have been, I
was convinced that her consternation at my statement was honest. She
did not speak or look at me again for some time. As for me, I sat
silent with the horror of a thought. Underneath the rug my limbs were
cold and lifeless. I sat looking out of the rain-splashed window into
the darkness, with fixed staring eyes, and a hideous fancy in my brain.
Every now and then I thought that I could see it--a white evil face
pressed close to the blurred glass, grinning in upon me. Every shriek
of the engine--and there were many just then, for we were passing
through a network of tunnels--brought beads of moisture on to my
forehead, made me start and shake like a criminal. Surely that was a
cry! I started in my seat, only to see that my companion, now her old
self again, was watching me intently.
"I am afraid," she said softly, "that you are not very strong. The
excitement of talking of these things has been too much for you."
"I have never had a day's illness in my life," I answered. "I am
perfectly well."
"I am glad," she said simply. "I must finish what I was telling you.
Your father was continually talking and thinking of you. He knew all
about you at college. He knew about your degree, of your cricket and
rowing. Lately he began to get restless. He lost sight of you after
you left Oxford, and it worried him. There were reasons, as you know,
why it was not well for him to come to England, but nevertheless he
determined to brave it out. It was to find you that he risked so much.
He left me on New Year's Day, and I have never heard a word from him
since. That is why I came to England."
"The whole reason?" I asked, like a fool.
"The whole reason," she affirmed simply.
"I do not wish to see my father," I said. "If he comes to me I shall
tell him so."
"He wants to tell you his story himself," she murmured.
"I would never listen to it," I answered. She sighed.
"You are very young," she said. "You do not know what temptation is.
You do not know how badly he was treated. You have heard his history,
perhaps, from his enemies. He is getting old now, Guy. I think that if
you saw him now you would pity him."
"My pity," I answered, "would never be strong enough to suffer me to
open the door to him--if he should come. He has left me alone all these
years. The only favour I would ever ask of him would be that he
continues to do so."
"You will believe the story of strangers?"
"No one in the world could be a greater stranger to me than he." She
sighed.
"You will not even let me be your friend," she pleaded. "You are young,
you are perhaps ambitious. There may be many ways in which I could help
you."
"As you helped my father, perhaps," I answered bitterly. "Thank you, I
have no need of friends--that sort of friends."
Her eyes seemed to narrow a little, and the smile upon her lips was
forced.
"Is that kind of you?" she exclaimed. "Your father was in a position of
great trust. It is different with you. You are idle, and you need a
career. England has so little to offer her young men, but there are
other countries--"
I interrupted her brusquely.
"Thank you," I said, "but I have employment, and such ambitions as I
have admit of nothing but an honest career."
Again I saw that contraction of her eyes, but she never winced or
changed her tone.
"You have employment?" she asked, as though surprised.
"Yes. As you doubtless know, I am in the service of the Duke of
Rowchester," I told her.
"It is news to me," she replied. "You will forgive me at least for
being interested, Guy. But when you say in the service of the Duke of
Rowchester you puzzle me. In England what does that, mean?"
"I am one of the Duke's secretaries," I answered.
"Is the Duke, then, a politician?" she asked, "that he needs
secretaries?"
"Not at all," I answered drily. "His Grace is President of the Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, or Children, whichever you
like. We have a large correspondence."
She picked up her book.
"I am afraid that I understand you," she said. "You have a good deal of
the brutality of youth, Guy, and, I might add, of its credulity also.
Whose word is it, I wonder, that you have taken so abjectly--with such
an open mouth? If I have enemies I have not deserved them. But, after
all, it matters little."
We did not speak again until we neared the junction. Then she began to
gather up her things.
"How are you getting home?" she asked. "It is two o'clock, and
raining."
"I am going to walk," I answered.
"But that is absurd," she protested. "I have a closed carriage here. I
insist that you let me drive you. It is only common humanity; and you
have that great box too."
I buttoned up my coat.
"Mrs. Smith-Lessing," I said, "you perhaps wish to force me into
seeming ungracious. You have even called me brutal. It is your own
fault. You give me no chance of escape. You even force me now to tell
you that I do not desire--that I will not accept--any hospitality at
your hands."
She fastened her jacket with trembling fingers. Her face she kept
averted from me.
"Very well," she said softly, "I shall not trouble you any more."
At the junction I fetched the sleepy-looking porter to see to her
luggage, and then left her. My rug I left in the station-master's
office, and with the dispatch-box in my hand I climbed the steps from
the station, and turned into the long straight road which led to
Braster. I had barely gone a hundred yards when a small motor brougham,
with blazing lights and insistent horn, came flying past me and on into
the darkness. I caught a momentary glimpse of Mrs. Smith-Lessing's
pale face as the car flashed by, a weird little silhouette, come and
gone in a second. Away ahead I saw the mud and rain from the pools fly
up into the air in a constant stream caught in the broad white glare of
the brilliant search-lamps. Then the car turned a corner and vanished.
I was tired, yet I found the change from the close railway carriage, and
the tension of the last few hours, delightful. The road along which I
trudged ran straight to the sea, the distant roar of which was already
in my ears, and the wet wind which blew in my face was salt and
refreshing. It was a little after two in the morning, and the darkness
would have been absolute, but for a watery moon, which every now and
then gave a fitful light. For a mile or more I walked with steady,
unflagging footsteps. Then suddenly I found myself slackening my pace.
I walked slower and slower. At last I stopped.
About fifty yards farther on my left was Braster Grange. It stood a
little way back from the road. Its gardens were enclosed by a thin
storm-bent hedge, just thick enough to be a screen from the road. The
entrance was along a lane which branched off here from the main road,
and led on to the higher marshes, and thence on to the road from Braster
village to Rowchester and my cottage. Straight on, the road which I was
following led into Braster, but the lane to the left round past the
Grange saved me fully half a mile. In an ordinary way I should never
have hesitated for a moment as to my route. I knew every inch of the
lane, and though it was rough walking, there were no creeks or obstacles
of any sort to be reckoned with. And yet, as I neared the corner, I
came to a full stop. As I stood there in the road I felt my heart
beating, I seemed possessed by a curious nerve failure. My breath came
quickly. I felt my heart thumping against my side. I stood still and
listened. Down on the shingles I could hear the sea come thundering in
with a loud increasing roar, dying monotonously away at regular
intervals. I could hear the harsh grinding of the pebbles, the backward
swirl of long waves thrown back from the land. I heard the wind come
booming across the waste lands, rustling and creaking amongst the few
stunted trees in the grounds of Braster Grange. Of slighter sounds
there seemed to be none. The village ahead was dark and silent, the
side of the house fronting the road was black and desolate. It was a
lonely spot, a lonely hour. Yet as I stood there shivering with
nameless apprehensions, I felt absolutely certain that I was confronted
by some hidden danger.
In a moment or two, I am thankful to say, my courage returned. I struck
a match and lit a cigar, one of a handful which Ray had forced upon me.
Then I crossed stealthily to the other side of the road, and felt for
the hedge. I pricked my hands badly, but after feeling about for some
moments I was able to cut for myself a reasonably thick stick. With
this in my right hand, and the dispatch-box under my left arm I
proceeded on my way.
I walked warily, and when I had turned into the lane which passed the
entrance to Braster Grange I walked in the middle of it instead of
skirting the wall which enclosed the grounds. I passed the entrance
gates, and had only about twenty yards farther to go before I emerged
upon the open marshland. Here the darkness was almost impenetrable, for
the lane narrowed. The hedge on the left was ten or twelve feet high,
and on the right were two long barns. I clasped my stick tightly, and
walked almost stealthily. I felt that if I could come safely to the end
of these barn buildings I could afford to laugh at my fears.
Suddenly my strained hearing detected what I had been listening for all
the time. There was a faint but audible rustling in the shrubs
overgrowing the wall on my left. I made a quick dash forward, tripped
against some invisible obstacle stretched across the lane, and went
staggering sideways, struggling to preserve my balance. Almost at the
same moment two dark forms dropped from the shelter of the shrubs on to
the lane by my side. I felt the soft splash of a wet cloth upon my
cheeks, an arm round my neck, and the sickening odour of chloroform in
my nostrils. But already I had regained by balance. I wrenched myself
free from the arm, and was suddenly blinded by the glare of a small
electric hand-light within a foot of my face. I struck a sweeping blow
at it with my stick, and from the soft impact it seemed to me that the
blow must have descended upon the head of one of my assailants. I heard
a groan, and I saw the shadowy form of the second man spring at me.
What followed was not, I believe, cowardice on my part, for my blood was
up and my sense of fear gone. I dashed my stick straight at the
approaching figure, and I leaped forward and ran. I had won the hundred
yards and the quarter of a mile at Oxford, and I was in fair training.
I knew how to get off fast, and after the first dozen yards I felt that
I was safe. The footsteps which had started in pursuit ceased in a few
minutes. Breathless, but with the dispatch-box safe under my arm, I
sprinted across the marsh, and never paused till I reached the road.
Then I looked back and listened. I could see or hear nothing, but from
one of the top rooms in the Grange a faint but steady light was shining
out.