FIRST BLOOD
Lois came walking down the green path that led to the wood, her head a
little tilted back to watch the delicate tracery of the green leaves
against the sky, her thoughts apparently far away. Suddenly she came
to a standstill, the color rushed into her cheeks, her eyes danced
with pleasure. Saton had come suddenly round the corner, and was
already within a few feet of her.
"You?" she exclaimed. "Really you? I had no idea that you had left
London."
He smiled as he took her hands.
"London was a desert," he said. "I have finished my work for a few
days, and I have brought my writing down here."
"When did you come?" she asked.
"Last night," he answered. "I was just wondering how I could send a
note up to you. Fortunately, I remembered your favorite walk."
"Did you really come to see me?" she murmured.
He laughed softly, and bent towards her. All her hesitation and
mistrust seemed to pass away. She lay quietly in his arms, with her
face upturned to his. He kissed her on the lips. All the time his eyes
were watching the path along which he had come.
"Let us sit down," she said at last, gently disengaging herself from
him. "There are so many things I want to ask you."
"And I too," he answered. "I have something to say--something I cannot
keep to myself any longer."
He led the way to a fallen tree, a little removed from the footpath.
They were scarcely seated, however, before he turned his head sharply
in the direction from which he had come. His whole frame seemed to
have become suddenly rigid with an intense effort of listening. He
raised his finger with a warning gesture.
"Sit still," he whispered. "Don't say anything. There is someone
coming."
Her hand fell upon his. They sat side by side in an almost breathless
silence, safely screened from observation unless the passers-by,
whoever they might be, should be unusually curious.
It was Pauline and Rochester who came--Pauline in a tailor-made gown
of dark green cloth--Pauline, slim, tall and elegant. Rochester was
bending toward her, talking earnestly. He wore a tweed shooting suit,
and carried a gun under either arm.
"You see who it is?" Lois whispered.
Saton nodded. His face had darkened, his cheeks were almost livid. His
eyes followed the two with an expression which terrified the girl who
sat by his side.
"Bertrand," she whispered, "why do you look like that?"
"Like what?" he asked, without moving his eyes from the spot where
those two figures had disappeared.
She shivered a little.
"You looked as though you hated Mr. Rochester. You looked angry--more
than angry. You frightened me."
"I do hate him," Saton answered slowly. "I hate him as he hates me. We
are enemies."
"Yet you were not looking at him all the time," she persisted. "You
looked at Pauline, too. You don't hate her, do you?"
He drew a little breath between his clenched teeth. If only this child
would hold her peace!
"No!" he said. "I do not hate Lady Marrabel."
"Is it because he has interfered between us," she asked timidly, "that
you dislike Mr. Rochester so much? Remember that very soon I shall be
of age."
"He has no right to interfere in my concerns at all," Saton answered,
evasively. "Hush!"
The two had halted at a little wooden gate which led into the strip of
field dividing the two plantations. Rochester was looking back along
the footpath by which they had come. They could hear his voice
distinctly.
"Johnson must have got lost," he remarked, a little impatiently. "I
will leave my second gun here for him. It is quite time I took up my
place. The beaters will be in the wood directly."
He leaned one of the guns against the stone wall, and with the other
under his arm, opened the gate for Pauline to pass through. They
crossed the field diagonally, and came to a standstill at a spot
marked by a tiny flag.
All the time Saton watched them with fascinated eyes. The thoughts
were rushing through his brain. He turned to Lois.
"Dear," he said, "I think that you had better run along home. I will
come up to the shrubbery after dinner, if you think that you can get
out."
"But there is no hurry," she whispered. "Can't we sit here and talk
for a little time, or go further back into the wood? I know a most
delightful little hiding-place just at the top of the slate pit--an
old keeper's shelter."
Saton shook his head. He avoided looking at her.
"The beaters are in the other part of the wood already," he said.
"Very likely they will come this way, too. If they see us together,
they will tell Mr. Rochester. I don't want him to know that I am here
just yet."
She rose reluctantly.
"Dear me," she said, sighing, "and I thought that we were going to
have such a nice long talk!"
"We will have it very soon," he whispered, a little unsteadily. "We
must, dear. Remember that I have only come down here so that we may
see a little more of one another. I will arrange it somehow. Only just
now I think that you had better run away home."
He kissed her, and she turned reluctantly away. She stole through the
undergrowth back into the green path. Saton watched her with fixed
eyes until she had turned the corner and disappeared. Then he seemed
at once to forget her existence. He too rose to his feet, and stole
gently forward, moving very slowly, and stooping a little so as to
remain out of sight. All the time his eyes were fixed upon the gun,
whose barrel was shining in the sunlight.
From the other side of the wood there commenced an intermittent
fusilade. The shots were drawing nearer and nearer. Rochester stood
waiting, his gun held ready. Pauline had retreated round the corner of
the further wood, beyond any possible line of fire.
Saton had reached the gate now, and was within reach of the gun and
the bag of cartridges, which were hanging by a leather belt from the
gate-post. He turned his head, and looked stealthily along the path by
which Rochester had come. There was no one in sight, no sound except
the twittering of birds overhead, and the rustling of the leaves. He
sank on one knee, and his hand closed upon the gun. The blood surged
to his head. There was a singing in his ears. He felt his heart
thumping as though he were suddenly seized with some illness.
Rochester's figure, tall, graceful, debonair, notwithstanding the
looseness of his shooting clothes, and his somewhat rigid attitude,
seemed suddenly to loom large and hateful before his eyes. He saw
nothing else. He thought of nothing else. It was the man he hated. It
was the man who understood what he was, the worst side of him--the man
whom his instincts recognised as his ruthless and dangerous enemy.
The rush of a rabbit through the undergrowth, startled him so that he
very nearly screamed. He looked around, pallid, terrified. There was
no one in sight, no sign of any life save animal and insect life in
the wood behind.
The stock of the gun came to his shoulder. His fingers sought the
trigger. Cautiously he thrust it through the bars of the gate. Bending
down, he took a long and deliberate aim. The fates seemed to be on his
side. Rochester suddenly stiffened into attention, his gun came to his
shoulder, as with a loud whir a pheasant flew out of the wood before
him. The two reports rang out almost simultaneously. The pheasant
dropped to the ground like a stone. Rochester's arms went up to the
skies. He gave a little cry and fell over, a huddled heap, upon the
grass.
Saton, with fingers that trembled, tore out the exploded cartridge,
seized another from the bag, thrust it in, and replaced the gun
against the wall. His breath was coming in little sobs. Trees and sky
danced before his eyes. Once he dared to look--only once--at the spot
where Rochester was lying. His hands were outstretched. Once he half
raised himself, and then fell back. From round the corner of the wood
came Pauline. Saton heard her cry--a cry of agony it seemed to him. He
bent low, and made his way back into the plantation, plunging through
the undergrowth until he reached a narrow and little frequented
footpath. He was deaf to all sounds, for the thumping in his ears had
become now like a sledge-hammer beating upon an anvil. He was not sure
that he saw anything. His feet fled over the ground mechanically. Only
when he reached the borders of the wood, and crossed the meadow
leading to the main road, he drew himself a little more upright. He
must remember, he told himself fiercely. He must remember!
He paused in the middle of the field, and looked back. He was out of
sight now of the scene of the tragedy. Nothing was to be seen or heard
but the low, musical sounds of the late summer afternoon--the beat of
a reaping-machine, the humming of insects, the distant call of a
pigeon, the far-away bark of a farmhouse dog. The shooting had ceased.
By this time they must all know, he reflected. He lit a cigarette, and
inhaled the smoke without the slightest apprehension of what he was
doing. He took a book from his pocket, held it before him, and glanced
at the misty page of verse. Then he made his way out on to the
highroad, sauntering like a man anxious to make the most of the
brilliant sunshine, the clear air.
There was no one in sight anywhere along the white, dusty way. He
crossed the road, and opened another gate. A few minutes' climb, a
sharp descent, and he was safe within the gate of his own abode. He
looked behind. Still not a human being in sight--no sound, no note of
alarm in the soft, sunlit air. He set his teeth and drew a long
breath. Then he closed the gate behind him, and choosing the back way,
entered the house without observation.