AFRAID!
Saton wondered afterwards many times at the extraordinary nonchalance
with which he faced the remainder of that terrible day. He wrote
several letters, and was aware that he wrote them carefully and well.
He had his usual evening bath and changed his clothes, making perhaps
a little more careful toilet even than usual.
Rachael, who was waiting for him when he descended to dinner, even
remarked upon the lightness of his step.
"The country suits you, Bertrand," she said. "It suits you better than
it does me. You walk like a boy, and there is color in your cheeks."
"The sun," he muttered. "I always tan quickly."
"Where have you been to?" she asked.
"I have been walking with Miss Champneyes," he answered.
Rachael nodded.
"And your friend at Beauleys?" she asked, with a little sneer. "What
if he had seen you, eh? You are very brave, Bertrand, for he is a big
man, and you are small. I do not think that he loves you, eh? But what
about the girl?"
A servant entered the room, and Saton with relief abandoned the
conversation. She returned to it, however, the moment they were alone.
"See here, my son," she said, "remember what I have always told you.
One can do without anything in this world except money. We have plenty
for the moment, it is true, but a stroke of ill-fortune, and our
income might well vanish. Now listen, Bertrand. Make sure of this
girl's money. She is of age, and she will marry you."
"Her guardian would never give his consent," Saton said.
"It is not necessary," his companion answered. "I have been to
Somerset House. I have seen the will. One hundred thousand pounds she
has, in her own right, unalienable. For the rest, let her guardian do
what he will with it. With a hundred thousand pounds you can rest for
a while. We might even give up----"
Saton struck the table with his clenched fist.
"Be careful," he said. "I hate to hear these things mentioned. The
windows are open, and the walls are thin. There might be listeners
anywhere."
Her withered lips drew back into a smile. She was not pleasant just
then to look upon.
"I forgot," she muttered. "We are devotees of science now in earnest.
You are right. We must run no risks. Only remember, however careful we
are, you are always liable to--to the same thing that happened before.
It took a thousand pounds to get you off then."
Saton rose from his seat impatiently. He walked restlessly across the
room.
"Don't!" he exclaimed. "Can't we live without mentioning those
things? I am nervous to-night. Hideously nervous!" he added, under his
breath.
He stood before the open window, his face set, his eyes riveted upon a
spot in the distance, where the great white front of Beauleys flashed
out from amongst the trees. Its windows had caught the dying sunlight,
and a flood of fire seemed to be burning along its front. The flag
floated from the chimneys. There was no sign of any disturbance. The
quiet stillness of evening which rested upon the landscape, seemed
everywhere undisturbed. Yet Saton, as he looked, shivered.
Down in the lane a motor-car rushed by. His eyes followed it,
fascinated. It was one of the Beauleys cars, and inside was seated a
tall, spare man, white-faced and serious, on whose knees rested a
black case. Saton knew in a moment that it was one of the doctors who
had been summoned to Beauleys, by telephone and telegraph, from all
parts.
"You are watching the house of your patron," she said, drily.
"Patron no longer!" Saton exclaimed, rolling himself another
cigarette. "We are enemies, declared enemies--so far as he is
concerned, at any rate."
"You are a fool!" the woman said. "He might still have been useful.
You quarrel with people as though it were worth the trouble. To speak
angry words is the most foolish thing I know."
Saton glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece.
"I am going out for an hour," he said.
"To Beauleys?" she asked, mockingly.
"Somewhere near there," he answered. "Good night!"
He strolled out, hatless, and with no covering over his thin black
dinner-coat. He crossed the meadow, and climbed the little range of
broken, rocky hills, from which one could see down even into the
flower-gardens of Beauleys. He could see there no sign of disturbance,
save that there were two motor-cars before the door. Slowly he made
his way to the lodge gates, and passing through approached the house.
There were many lights burning. A certain repressed air of excitement
was certainly visible. Saton longed, yet dared not, to ask for news
from the people at the lodge. At any rate, the blinds were still up,
and the doctors there. Probably the man was alive. Perhaps, even, he
might recover!
He struck off from the drive, and followed a narrow path, which led at
first between two great banks of rhododendrons, and finally wound a
circuitous way through an old and magnificent shrubbery. He reached a
path whence he could command a view of the house, and where he was
himself unseen. He looked at his watch. He was five minutes late, but
as yet there was no sign of Lois. He composed himself to wait,
watching the birds come home to roost, and the insects, whom the heat
had brought out of the earth, crawl away into oblivion. The air was
sweet with the smell of flowers. From a little further afield came the
more pungent odor of a fire of weeds. The great front of the house,
ablaze though it was with lights, seemed almost deserted. No one
entered or issued from the hall door.
Half an hour passed. There was no sign of Lois. Then he saw her come,
very slowly--walking, as it seemed to him, like one afraid of the
ground upon which she trod. As she came nearer, he saw that her face
was ghastly pale. Her eyes, which wandered restlessly to the right and
to the left, were frightened, dilated. The thing had been a shock to
her, of course.
He stepped a little way out from the shrubs, showing himself
cautiously. She stopped short at the sight of him.
"Lois!" he called softly.
She looked at him, and a sudden wave of terror passed across her face.
She made no movement towards him. He himself was wordless, struck dumb
by her appearance. She gave a little cry. What the word was that she
uttered, he could not tell. Then suddenly turning round, she fled
away.
He watched her with fascinated eyes, watched her feet fly over the
lawns, watched her, without a single backward glance, vanish at last
through the small side door from which she had first issued. He wiped
the moisture from his forehead, and a little sob broke from his
throat. The vision of her face was still before him. He knew for a
certainty what it was that had terrified her. She had started to keep
her engagement, but she was afraid. She was afraid of him. Something
that he had done had betrayed him. She knew! His liberty--perhaps his
life--was in this girl's hands!
He crept out of the shrubbery and staggered down the drive, making his
way homeward across the hills as swiftly as his uncertain footsteps
would take him. It was dusk now, and he met no one. Yet his heart beat
at every sound--the clanking of a chain, attached to the fetlock of a
wandering horse, the still, mournful cry of an owl which floated out
from the plantation, the clatter of the small stones which his own
feet dislodged as he feverishly climbed the rocks. Above him, on the
other side of the road, towered the hill where he had sat and dreamed
as a boy, where Rochester had come and encouraged him to prate of his
ambitions.
He looked away from its dark outline with a little groan. Up on the
hillside flashed the lights of Blackbird's Nest. He stretched out his
hands and groped onwards.