WILDSHOTT
Wildshott, the Hampshire seat of the Kennetts, stands off the
Winton-Sarum road, at a distance of some six miles from the former,
and some three and a half from the sporting town of Longbridge, on the
way to the latter. The house is lonely situated in wild but beautiful
country, lying as it does in the trough of the great downs whose
summits hereabouts command some of the most spacious views in the
County. A mile north-east, footing a gentle incline, shelters the
village of Leighway; less than a mile away, in a hollow of the main
road, stands a wayside tavern called the Bit and Halter; and, with
these two exceptions, no nearer neighbour has Wildshott than the tiny
Red Deer inn, which perches on a high lift of the downs a mile and a
half distant, rising north.
The stately, wrought-iron gates of Wildshott open from the main road.
Thence a drive of considerable extent reaches to the house, which is a
rectangular red-brick Jacobean structure, with stone string-courses
and a fine porch, having a great shell over it. There are good stables
contiguous, and the grounds about are ample and well timbered--almost
too well timbered, it might be thought by some people, since the
closeness of the foliage gives an effect of gloom and solemnity to a
building which, amid freer surroundings, should have nothing but grace
and frankness to recommend it. But settled as it is in the wash of the
hills, with their moisture draining down upon it, growth and greenness
have become a tradition of its life, and as such not to be
irreverently handled by succeeding generations of Kennetts.
All down the west boundary of the upper estate--which, to its
northernmost limit, breaks upon that bare hill on whose summit, at
closer range now, the little Red Deer inn sits solitary--runs a wide
fringe of beech-wood, which is continued to the high road, and thence,
on the further side, dispersed among the miscellaneous plantations
which are there situated. The highway itself roughly bisects the
property--the best of whose grass and arable lands are contained in
the southern division--and can be reached from the house, if one
likes, through the long beech thicket by way of a narrow path, which,
entering near the stables, runs as far as the containing hedge, in
which, at some fifty yards from the main entrance, is a private
wicket, leading down by a couple of steps to the road. This path is
known, through some superstitious association, as the Bishop’s Walk,
and is little used at any time, the fact that it offers a short cut
from the house to the lower estate being regarded, perhaps, as
inadequate compensation for its solitariness, its dankness, and the
glooms of the packed foliage through which it penetrates. Opposite the
wicket, across the road, an ordinary bar-gate gives upon a
corresponding track, driven through the thick of a dense coppice,
which, at a depth of some two hundred feet, ends in the open fields.
It is useful to bear in mind these local features, in view of the
event which came presently to give them a tragic notoriety.
At Winton a wagonette met the two gentlemen, and they were landed at
Wildshott soon after four o’clock. Bickerdike was interested to
discover that they were the only guests. He was not surprised for
himself, since he and Hugo Kennett were on terms of unceremonial
intimacy. He _did_ wonder a little what qualities he and the Baron
could be thought to possess in common that they should have been
chosen together for so exclusive an invitation. But no doubt it was
pure accident; and in any case there was his friend to explain. He was
a bit down in the mouth, was Hugo--for any reason, or no reason, or
the devil of a reason; never mind what--and old Viv was always a tower
of strength to him in his moods--hence old Viv’s citation to come and
“buck” his friend, and incidentally to enjoy a few days’ shooting,
which accounted for one half of the coincidence. Old Viv accepted his
part philosophically; it was not the first time he had been called
upon to play it with this up and down young officer, whose temporal
senior he was by some six years, and whose elder, in all questions of
sapience and self-sufficiency, he might have been by fifty. He did not
ask what was the matter, but he said “all right,” as if all right were
all reassurance, and gave a little nod to settle the matter. He had a
well-looking, rather judicial face, clean shaven, a prim mouth, a
somewhat naked head for a man of thirty, and he wore eyeglasses on a
neatly turned nose, with a considerable prominence of the organ of
eventuality above it. The complacent bachelor was writ plain in his
every line. And then he inquired regarding the Baron.
“O! I know very little about him,” was young Kennett’s answer. “I
believe the governor picked him up in Paris originally, but how or
where I can’t say. He’s a marvel at chess; and you remember that’s the
old man’s obsession. They’re at it eternally while he’s down here.”
“This isn’t his first visit then?”
“No, I believe not; but it’s the first time I’ve seen him. I’m quoting
Audrey for the chess. Why, what’s the matter? Is anything wrong with
him?”
“There you go, you rabbit! Who said anything was wrong with him? I’ve
met him before, that’s all.”
“Have you? Where?”
“Why, in Paris. You remember the Montesquieu, and my French Baron?”
“I remember there _was_ a Baron. I don’t think you ever told me his
name.”
“Well, it was Le Sage, and this is the man.”
“Is it? That’s rather queer.”
“What is?”
“The coincidence of your meeting again like this.”
“O, as to that, coincidence, you know, is only queer till you have
traced back its clues and found it inevitable.”
“Well, that’s true. You can trace it in his case to the governor’s
being down with the gout again, and confined to the house, and wanting
something and somebody to distract him.”
“There you are, you see. He thought of chess, and thought of this Le
Sage, and wrote up to him on the chance. Your father probably knows
more about his movements than we do. So we’re both accounted for. No,
what _is_ queer to me is the man’s confounded habit of secrecy. Why
didn’t he say, when I met him in Paris, that the friend I was waiting
for was known to him? Why didn’t he admit yesterday, admit until we
actually met on the platform to-day, that we were bound for the same
place? I hate a stupidly reticent man.”
Kennett laughed, and then frowned, and turned away to chalk his cue.
The two men were in the billiard-room, playing a hundred up before
dinner.
“Well,” he said, stooping to a losing hazard, “I hope a fellow may be
a good fellow, and yet not tell all that’s in him.”
“Of course he may,” answered Bickerdike. “Le Sage, I’m sure, is a very
good fellow, a very decent old boy, and rare company when he
chooses--I can answer for that. But there’s a difference between
telling all that’s in one and not telling anything.”
“Well, perhaps he thinks,” said the other impatiently, “that if he
once opened the sluice he’d drain the dammed river. Do let him alone
and attend to the game.”
Bickerdike responded, unruffled. He had found his friend in a
curiously touchy state--irritable, and nervous, and moody. He had
known him to be so before, though never, perhaps, so conspicuously.
Hugo was temperamentally high-strung, and always subject to
alternations of excitement and despondence; but he had not yet
exhibited so unbalanced a temper as he seemed inclined to display on
this occasion. He was wild, reckless, dejected, but seldom normal,
appearing possessed by a spirit which in turns exalted or depressed
him. What was wrong with the boy? His friend, covertly pondering the
handsome young figure, found sufficient solution in the commonplace.
He was in one of his nervous phases, that was all. They would afflict
men subject to them at any odd time, and without apparent provocation.
It was one of the mysteries of our organic being--a question of misfit
somewhere between spirit and matter. No one looking at the young
soldier would have thought him anything but a typical example of his
kind--constitutionally flawless, mentally insensitive. He belonged to
a crack regiment, and was popular in it; was tall, shapely-built,
attractive, with a rather girlish complexion and umber-gold hair--a
ladies’ man, a pattern military man, everything nice. And yet that
demon of nerve worked in him to his perfection’s undoing. Perhaps it
was the prick of conscience, like a shifting grit in one’s shoe, now
here, now there, now gone--for the boy had quite fine impulses for a
spoilt boy, a spoilt child of Fortune--and spoilt, like Byron by his
mother, in the ruinous way. His father, the General, alternately
indulgent and tyrannical, was the worst of parents for him; he had
lost his mother long ago; his one sister, flippant,
independent--undervalued, it may be, and conscious of it--offered no
adequate substitute for that departed influence. And so the good in
Hugo was to his own credit, and stood perhaps for more than it might
have in another man.
His father, Sir Calvin--he had got his K.C.B., by the way, after
Tel-el-Kebir in ’82, in reward for some signal feat of arms, and at
the expense of his trigger-finger--was as proud as sin of his comely
lad, and blind to all faults in him which did not turn upon opposition
to himself. He designed great connexions for the young man, and
humoured his own selfishness in the prospect. He was a martinet of
fifty-five, with a fine surface polish and a heart of teak beneath it,
a patrician of the Claudian breed, irascible, much subject to gout for
his past misdeeds, and an ardent devotee of the game of chess, at
which he could hold his own with some of the professed masters. It was
that devotion which had brought him fortuitously acquainted with the
French Baron--a sort of technical friendship, it might be called--and
which had procured the latter an occasional invitation of late to
Wildshott. Le Sage came for chess, but he proved very welcome for
himself. There was a sort of soothing tolerance about him, the
well-informed urbanity of a polished man of the world, which was as
good as a lenitive to the splenetic invalid. But nobody, unless it
were Sir Calvin himself, appeared to know anything concerning him;
whether he were rich or indigent; what, if dependent on his wits, he
did for a living; what was the meaning or value of his title in an
Englishman, if English he were; whether, in short, he were a shady
Baron of the _chevalier d’industrie_ order, or a reputable Baron, with
only some eccentricities to mark him out from the common. One of
these, not necessarily questionable, was his sly incommunicativeness;
another was his fondness for half-crowns. He invariably, whether with
Sir Calvin or others, made that stake, no more and no less, a
condition of his playing at all, and for the most part he carried it
off. Vivian Bickerdike soon learned all that there was to be told
about him, and he was puzzled and interested--“intrigued,” as they
would say in the horrible modern phrase. But being a young man of
caution, in addition to great native curiosity, he kept his wits
active, and his suspicions, if he had any, close.
The game proceeded--badly enough on the part of Hugo, who was
generally a skilful player. He fouled or missed so many shots that his
form presently became a scandal. “Phew!” whistled his opponent, after
a peculiarly villainous attempt; “what’s gone wrong with you?”
The young man laughed vexedly; then, in a sudden transition to
violence, threw his cue from him so that it clattered on the floor.
“I can’t play for nuts,” he said. “You must get somebody else.”
“Hugh,” said his friend, after a moment or two of silence, “there’s
something weighing on your mind.”
“Is there?” cried the other jeeringly. “I wonder.”
“What is it? You needn’t tell me.”
“O! thank you for that. I tell you what, Viv: I dreamed last night I
was sitting on a barrel of gunpowder and smoking a cigarette, and the
sparks dropped all about. Didn’t I? That’s what I feel, anyhow.
Nerves, all nerves, my boy. O! shut up that long mug, and talk of
something else. I told you I was off colour when I wrote.”
“I know you did, and I came down.”
“Good man. You’ll be in at the kill. There’s going to be a most
infernal explosion--pyrotechnics galore. Or isn’t there? Never mind.”
He appeared to Bickerdike to be in an extraordinary state, verging on
the hysterical. But no more was said, and in a few moments they parted
to dress for dinner.
M. le Baron, coming up to his room about the same time and for the
same purpose, was witness of a little stage comedy, which, being for
all his bulk a light treader, he surprised. The actors were his valet
Louis and an under-housemaid, the latter of whom was at the moment
depositing a can of hot water in the washing basin. He saw the lithe,
susceptible little Gascon steal from his task of laying ready his
master’s dress clothes, saw him stalk his quarry like a cat, pounce,
enfold the jimp waist, heard the startled squeal that followed, a
smack like a hundred kisses, a spitting _sacré chien!_ from the
discomfited assailant, as he staggered back with a face of fury and a
hand held to his ear, and, seeing, stood to await the upshot, a
questioning smile upon his lips. Both parties realised his presence at
the same instant, and checked the issue of hot words which was
beginning to join between them. The girl, giving a defiant toss to her
chin, hurried past Le Sage and out of the room; M. Louis Cabanis
returned to his business with the expression of a robbed wild-cat.
Le Sage said nothing until he was being presently helped on with his
coat, and then suddenly challenging the valet, eye to eye, he nodded,
and congratulated him:--
“That is better, my friend. It is not logical, you know, for the
injurer to nurse the grievance.”
The Gascon looked at his master gravely.
“Will you tell me who is the injurer, Monsieur?”
“Surely,” answered Le Sage, “it cannot be she, in these first few
hours of your acquaintance?”
“But if she had appeared to encourage me, Monsieur?”
The Baron laughed.
“The only appearance to be trusted in a pretty woman, Louis, is her
prettiness.”
“Monsieur, is her ravishing loveliness.”
“Well, well, Louis, as you will. Only bear it no grudge.”
He turned away from a parting keen scrutiny of the dark, handsome
face, and left the room, softly carolling. The little episode had
amused rather than surprised him. Certainly it had seemed to point, in
respect of time, to a quite record enslavement on the Gascon’s part;
but then the provocation to that passionate impressionable nature! For
the girl had been really amazingly pretty, with that cast of feature,
that Hebe-like beauty of hair and eye and complexion about whose
fascination no two properly constituted minds could disagree. She was
a domestic servant--and she was a young morning goddess, fresh from
the unsullied dawn of Nature, a Psyche, a butterfly, a Cressid like
enough. “If I were younger,” thought Le Sage, “even I!” and he
carolled as he went down to dinner.