"I don't think it would be possible, sir," he said.
This annoyed me and I asked to see Sir Richard, and insisted until he
came. Then I apologised and explained the situation. He looked only
fifty, but a 'Varsity oar on the wall with the date of the early
seventies, made him older than that; his face had something of the shy
look of the hermit; he regretted that he had not room to put me up. I
was sure that this was untrue, also I had to be put up there, there
was nowhere else within miles, so I almost insisted. Then to my
astonishment he turned to the butler and they talked it over in an
undertone. At last they seemed to think that they could manage it,
though clearly with reluctance. It was by now seven o' clock and Sir
Richard told me he dined at half past seven. There was no question of
clothes for me other than those I stood in, as my host was shorter and
broader. He showed me presently to the drawing-room and there he
reappeared before half past seven in evening dress and a white
waistcoat. The drawing-room was large and contained old furniture but
it was rather worn than venerable, an Aubusson carpet flapped about
the floor, the wind seemed momently to enter the room, and old
draughts haunted corners; the stealthy feet of rats that were never at
rest indicated the extent of the ruin that time had wrought in the
wainscot; somewhere far off a shutter flapped to and fro, the
guttering candles were insufficient to light so large a room. The
gloom that these things suggested was quite in keeping with Sir
Richard's first remark to me after he entered the room: "I must tell
you, sir, that I have led a wicked life. O, a very wicked life."
Such confidences from a man much older than oneself after one has
known him for half an hour are so rare that any possible answer merely
does not suggest itself. I said rather slowly, "O, really," and
chiefly to forestall another such remark I said "What a charming house
you have."
"Yes," he said, "I have not left it for nearly forty years. Since I
left the 'Varsity. One is young there, you know, and one has
opportunities; but I make no excuses, no excuses." And the door
slipping its rusty latch, came drifting on the draught into the room,
and the long carpet flapped and the hangings upon the walls, then the
draught fell rustling away and the door slammed to again.
"Ah, Marianne," he said, "we have a guest to-night. Mr. Linton. This
is Marianne Gib." And everything became clear to me. "Mad," I said to
myself, for no one had entered the room.
The rats ran up the length of the room behind the wainscot
ceaselessly, and the wind unlatched the door again and the folds of
the carpet fluttered up to our feet and stopped there, for our weight
held it down.
"Let me introduce Mr. Linton," said my host--"Lady Mary Errinjer."
The door slammed back again. I bowed politely. Even had I been invited
I should have humoured him, but it was the very least that an
uninvited guest could do.
This kind of thing happened eleven times, the rustling, and the
fluttering of the carpet and the footsteps of the rats, and the
restless door, and then the sad voice of my host introducing me to
phantoms. Then for some while we waited while I struggled with the
situation; conversation flowed slowly. And again the draught came
trailing up the room, while the flaring candles filled it with
hurrying shadows. "Ah, late again, Cicely," said my host in his soft,
mournful way. "Always late, Cicely." Then I went down to dinner with
that man and his mind and the twelve phantoms that haunted it. I found
a long table with fine old silver on it and places laid for fourteen.
The butler was now in evening dress, there were fewer draughts in the
dining-room, the scene was less gloomy there. "Will you sit next to
Rosalind at the other end," Richard said to me. "She always takes the
head of the table, I wronged her most of all." I said, "I shall be
delighted."
I looked at the butler closely, but never did I see by any expression
of his face or by anything that he did any suggestion that he waited
upon less than fourteen people in the complete possession of all their
faculties. Perhaps a dish appeared to be refused more often than taken
but every glass was equally filled with champagne. At first I found
little to say, but when Sir Richard speaking from the far end of the
table said, "You are tired, Mr. Linton," I was reminded that I owed
something to a host upon whom I had forced myself. It was excellent
champagne and with the help of a second glass I made the effort to
begin a conversation with a Miss Helen Errold for whom the place upon
one side of me was laid. It came more easy to me very soon, I
frequently paused in my monologue, like Mark Anthony, for a reply, and
sometimes I turned and spoke to Miss Rosalind Smith. Sir Richard at
the other end talked sorrowfully on, he spoke as a condemned man might
speak to his judge, and yet somewhat as a judge might speak to one
that he once condemned wrongly. My own mind began to turn to mournful
things. I drank another glass of champagne, but I was still thirsty. I
felt as if all the moisture in my body had been blown away over the
downs of Kent by the wind up which we had galloped. Still I was not
talking enough; my host was looking at me. I made another effort,
after all I had something to talk about, a twenty-mile point is not
often seen in a lifetime, especially south of the Thames. I began to
describe the run to Rosalind Smith. I could see then that my host was
pleased, the sad look in his face gave a kind of a flicker, like mist
upon the mountains on a miserable day when a faint puff comes from the
sea and the mist would lift if it could. And the butler refilled my
glass very attentively. I asked her first if she hunted, and paused
and began my story. I told her where we had found the fox and how fast
and straight he had gone, and how I had got through the village by
keeping to the road, while the little gardens and wire, and then the
river, had stopped the rest of the field. I told her the kind of
country that we crossed and how splendid it looked in the Spring, and
how mysterious the valleys were as soon as the twilight came, and what
a glorious horse I had and how wonderfully he went. I was so fearfully
thirsty after the great hunt that I had to stop for a moment now and
then, but I went on with my description of that famous run, for I had
warmed to the subject, and after all there was nobody to tell of it
but me except my old whipper-in, and "the old fellow's probably drunk
by now," I thought. I described to her minutely the exact spot in the
run at which it had come to me clearly that this was going to be the
greatest hunt in the whole history of Kent. Sometimes I forgot
incidents that had happened as one well may in a run of twenty miles,
and then I had to fill in the gaps by inventing. I was pleased to be
able to make the party go off well by means of my conversation, and
besides that the lady to whom I was speaking was extremely pretty: I
do not mean in a flesh and blood kind of way but there were little
shadowy lines about the chair beside me that hinted at an unusually
graceful figure when Miss Rosalind Smith was alive; and I began to
perceive that what I first mistook for the smoke of guttering candles
and a table-cloth waving in the draught was in reality an extremely
animated company who listened, and not without interest, to my story
of by far the greatest hunt that the world had ever known: indeed I
told them that I would confidently go further and predict that never
in the history of the world would there be such a run again. Only my
throat was terribly dry. And then as it seemed they wanted to hear
more about my horse. I had forgotten that I had come there on a horse,
but when they reminded me it all came back; they looked so charming
leaning over the table intent upon what I said, that I told them
everything they wanted to know. Everything was going so pleasantly if
only Sir Richard would cheer up. I heard his mournful voice every now
and then--these were very pleasant people if only he would take them
the right way. I could understand that he regretted his past, but the
early seventies seemed centuries away and I felt sure that he
misunderstood these ladies, they were not revengeful as he seemed to
suppose. I wanted to show him how cheerful they really were, and so I
made a joke and they an laughed at it, and then I chaffed them a bit,
especially Rosalind, and nobody resented it in the very least. And
still Sir Richard sat there with that unhappy look, like one that has
ended weeping because it is vain and has not the consolation even of
tears.
We had been a long time there and many of the candles had burned out,
but there was light enough. I was glad to have an audience for my
exploit, and being happy myself I was determined Sir Richard should
be. I made more jokes and they still laughed good-naturedly; some of
the jokes were a little broad perhaps but no harm was meant. And
then--I do not wish to excuse myself--but I had had a harder day than
I ever had had before and without knowing it I must have been
completely exhausted; in this state the champagne had found me, and
what would have been harmless at any other time must somehow have got
the better of me when quite tired out--anyhow I went too far, I made
some joke--I cannot in the least remember what--that suddenly seemed
to offend them. I felt all at once a commotion in the air, I looked up
and saw that they had all arisen from the table and were sweeping
towards the door: I had not time to open it but it blew open on a
wind, I could scarcely see what Sir Richard was doing because only two
candles were left, I think the rest blew out when the ladies suddenly
rose. I sprang up to apologise, to assure them--and then fatigue
overcame me as it had overcome my horse at the last fence, I clutched
at the table but the cloth came away and then I fell. The fall, and
the darkness on the floor and the pent up fatigue of the day overcame
me all three together.
The sun shone over glittering fields and in at a bedroom window and
thousands of birds were chanting to the Spring, and there I was in an
old four-poster bed in a quaint old panelled bedroom, fully dressed
and wearing long muddy boots; someone had taken my spurs and that was
all. For a moment I failed to realise and then it all came back, my
enormity and the pressing need of an abject apology to Sir Richard. I
pulled an embroidered bell rope until the butler came. He came in
perfectly cheerful and indescribably shabby. I asked him if Sir
Richard was up, and he said he had just gone down, and told me to my
amazement that it was twelve o'clock. I asked to be shown in to Sir
Richard at once. He was in his smoking-room. "Good morning," he said
cheerfully the moment I went in. I went directly to the matter in
hand. "I fear that I insulted some ladies in your house--" I began.
"You did indeed," he said, "You did indeed." And then he burst into
tears and took me by the hand. "How can I ever thank you?" he said to
me then. "We have been thirteen at table for thirty years and I never
dared to insult them because I had wronged them all, and now you have
done it and I know they will never dine here again." And for a long
time he still held my hand, and then he gave it a grip and a kind of a
shake which I took to mean "Goodbye" and I drew my hand away then and
left the house. And I found James in the stables with the hounds and
asked him how he had fared, and James, who is a man of very few words,
said he could not rightly remember, and I got my spurs from the butler
and climbed on to my horse and slowly we rode away from that queer old
house, and slowly we wended home, for the hounds were footsore but
happy and the horses were tired still. And when we recalled that the
hunting season was ended we turned our faces to Spring and thought of
the new things that try to replace the old. And that very year I
heard, and have often heard since, of dances and happier dinners at
Sir Richard Arlen's house.