LADY ANGELA APPROVES
It was the only breath of fresh air which I had allowed myself all the
morning, though the dazzling sunlight and the soft west wind had tempted
me all the time. And now, as ill luck would have it, I had walked
straight into the presence of the one person in the world whom I wished
most earnestly to avoid. She was standing on the edge of the cliff, her
hands behind her, gazing seawards, and though I stopped short at the
sight of her, and for a moment entertained wild thoughts of flight, it
was not possible for me to carry them out. A dry twig snapped beneath
my feet, and, turning quickly round, she had seen me. She came forward
at once, and for some reason or other I knew that she was glad. She
smiled upon me almost gaily.
"So this sunshine has even tempted you out, Sir Hermit," she exclaimed.
"Is it not good to feel the Spring coming?"
"Delightful," I answered.
She looked at me curiously.
"How pale you are!" she said. "You are working too hard, Mr. Ducaine."
"I came down from London by the mail last night," I said. "I saw
Colonel Ray--had dinner with him, in fact."
She nodded, but asked me no questions.
"I think," she said abruptly, "that they are all coming down here in a
few days. I heard from my father this morning."
I sighed.
"I have been very unfortunate, Lady Angela," I said. "Your father is
displeased with me. I think that but for Colonel Ray I should have been
dismissed yesterday."
"Is it about--the Prince of Malors?" she asked in a low tone.
"Partly. I was forced to tell what I knew." She hesitated for a moment,
then she turned impulsively toward me.
"You were right to tell them, Mr. Ducaine," she said. "I have hated
myself ever since the other night when I seemed to side against you.
There are things going on about us which I cannot fathom, and sometimes
I have fears, terrible fears. But your course at least is a clear one.
Don't let yourself be turned aside by any one. My father has prejudices
which might lead him into grievous errors. Trust Colonel Ray--no one
else. Yours is a dangerous position, but it is a splendid one. It
means a career and independence. If there should come a time even--"
She broke off abruptly in her speech. I could see that she was
agitated, and I thought that I knew the cause.
"Lady Angela," I said slowly, "would it not be possible for you and
Colonel Ray to persuade Lord Blenavon to go abroad?"
She swayed for a moment as though she would have fallen, and her eyes
looked at me full of fear.
"You think--that it would be better?"
"I do."
"It would break my father's heart," she murmured, "if ever he could be
brought to believe it."
"The more reason why Lord Blenavon should go," I said. "He is set
between dangerous influences here. Lady Angela, can you tell me where
your brother was last night?"
"How should I?" she answered slowly. "He tells me nothing."
"He was not at home?"
"He dined at home. I think that he went out afterwards."
I nodded.
"And if he returned at all," I said, "I think you will find that it was
after three o'clock."
She came a little nearer to me, although indeed we were in a spot where
there was no danger of being overheard.'
"What do you know about it?"
"Am I not right?" I asked.
"He did not return at all," she answered. "He is not home yet."
I had believed from the first that Blenavon was one of my two
assailants. Now I was sure of it.
"When he does come back," I remarked grimly, "you may find him more or
less damaged."
"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "you must explain yourself."
I saw no reason why I should not do so. I told her the story of my
early morning adventure. She listened with quivering lips.
"You were not hurt, then?" she asked eagerly.
"I was not hurt," I assured her. "I was fortunate."
"Tell me what measures you are taking," she begged.
"What can I do?" I asked. "It was pitch dark, and I could identify no
one. I am writing Colonel Ray. That is all."
"That hateful woman," she murmured. "Mr. Ducaine, I believe that if
Blenavon is really concerned in this, it is entirely through her
influence."
"Very likely," I answered. "I have heard strange things about her. She
is a dangerous woman."
We were both silent for a moment. Then Lady Angela, whose eyes were
fixed seawards, suddenly turned to me.
"Oh," she cried, "I am weary of all these bothers and problems and
anxieties. Let us put them away for one hour of this glorious morning.
Dare you play truant for a little while and walk on the sands?"
"I think so," I answered readily, "if you will wait while I go and put
Grooton in charge."
"I will be scrambling down," she declared. "It is not a difficult
operation."
I joined her a few minutes later, and we set our faces toward the point
of the bay. Over our heads the seagulls were lazily drifting and
wheeling, the quiet sea stole almost noiselessly up the firm yellow
sands. Farther over the marshes the larks were singing. Inland, men
like tiny specks in the distance were working upon their farms. We
walked for a while in silence, and I found myself watching my companion.
Her head was thrown slightly back, she walked with all the delightful
grace of youth and strength, yet there was a cloud which still lingered
upon her face.
"These," I said abruptly "should be the happiest days of your life, Lady
Angela. After all, is it worth while to spoil them by worrying about
other people's doings?"
"Other people's doings?" she murmured.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Selfishness, you know, is the permitted vice of the young--and of
lovers."
"Blenavon can scarcely rank amongst the other people with me," she said.
"He is my only brother."
"Colonel Ray is to be your husband," I reminded her, "which is far more
important."
She turned upon me with flaming cheeks.
"You do not understand what you are talking about, Mr. Ducaine," she
said, stiffly. "Colonel Ray and I are not lovers. You have no right to
assume anything of the sort."
"If you are not lovers," I said, "what right have you to marry?"
She seemed a little staggered, as indeed she might be by my boldness.
"You are very mediaeval," she remarked.
"The mediaeval sometimes survives. It is as true now as then that
loveless marriages are a curse and a sin," I answered. "It is the one
thing which remains now as it was in the beginning."
She looked at me furtively, almost timidly.
"I should like to know why you are speaking to me like this," she said.
"I do not want to seem unkind, but do you think that the length of our
acquaintance warrants it?"
"I do not know how long I have known you," I answered. "I do not
remember the time when I did not know you. You are one of those people
to whom I must say the things which come into my mind. I think that if
you do not love Colonel Ray you have no right to marry him."
She looked me in the face. Her cheeks were flushed with walking, and
the wind had blown her hair into becoming confusion.
"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "do you consider that Colonel Ray is your
friend?"
"He has been very good to me," I answered.
"There is something between you two. What is it?"
"It is not my secret," I told her.
"There is a secret, then," she murmured. "I knew it. Is this why you
do not wish me to marry him?"
"I have not said that I do not wish you to marry him," I reminded her.
"Not in words. You had no need to put it into words."
"You are very young," I said, "to marry any one for any other reason
save the only true one. Some day there might be some one else."
She watched the flight of a seagull for a few moments--watched it till
its wings shone like burnished silver as it lit upon the sun-gilded sea.
"I do not think so," she said, dreamily. "I have never fancied myself
caring very much for any one. It is not easy, you know, for some of
us."
"And for some," I murmured, "it is too easy."
She looked at me curiously, but she had no suspicion as to the meaning
of my words.
"I want you to tell me something," she said, in a few minutes. "Have
you any other reason beyond this for objecting to my marriage with
Colonel Ray?"
"If I have," I answered slowly, "I cannot tell it you. It is his
secret, not mine."
"You are mysterious!" she remarked.
"If I am," I objected, "you must remember that you are asking me strange
questions."
"Colonel Ray is too honest," she said, thoughtfully, "to keep anything
from me which I ought to know."
I changed the conversation. After all I was a fool to have blundered
into it. We talked of other and lighter things. I exerted myself to
shake off the depression against which I had been struggling all the
morning. By degrees I think we both forgot some part of our troubles.
We walked home across the sandhills, climbing gradually higher and
higher, until we reached the cliffs. On all sides of us the coming
change in the seasons seemed to be vigorously asserting itself. The
plovers were crying over the freshly-turned ploughed fields, a whole
world of wild birds and insects seemed to have imparted a sense of
movement and life to what only a few days ago had been a land of
desolation, a country silent and winterbound. Colour was asserting
itself in all manner of places--in the green of the sprouting grass, the
shimmer of the sun upon the sea-stained sands, in the silvery blue of
the Braster creeks. Lady Angela drew a long breath of content as we
paused for a moment at the summit of the cliffs.
"And you wonder," she murmured, "that I left London for this!"
"Yes, I still wonder," I answered. "The beauties of this place are for
the lonely--I mean the lonely in disposition. For you life in the busy
places should just be opening all her fascinations. It is only when one
is disappointed in the more human life that one comes back to Nature."
"Perhaps then," she said, a little vaguely, "I too must be suffering
from disappointments. I have never realized--"
We had taken the last turn. My cottage was in sight. To my surprise a
man was standing there as though waiting. He turned round as we
approached. His face was very pale, and the back of his head was
bandaged. He carried his arm, too, in a sling. It was Colonel Mostyn
Ray!