I delayed my departure for nearly a fortnight in an endeavour to learn
something of Bethune but could glean no tidings, so at last went down to
the home of my childhood. My grandfather had purchased it in the early
part of the century because the county was a hunting one and the
neighbours a good set. I had spent the greater part of my youth there,
and my parents still resided there at frequent intervals. Situated
midway between Oundle and Deenethorpe, near Benefield village, Wadenhoe
Manor was a great rambling old place, a typical English home, half
hidden by ivy, with quaint gables and Elizabethan chimneys. As in the
fading sunlight I drove up to it I thought I had never seen the old
place looking so peaceful. Perhaps it was because my own mind was so
perturbed by recent events that the solitude seemed complete. From the
old mullioned windows the yellow sunset flashed back like molten gold
and the birds in the chestnuts were chattering loudly before roosting.
On the hill-slope farther down lay the quiet hamlet, a poem in itself.
By the grey tower of its church stood two tall poplars, like guardian
angels, the golden green of their young foliage all a-shimmer in the
sunlight Beneath them was the sombre shade of one old yew, while a line
of dark cypress trees, marshalled like a procession of mourners, stood
along the grey old wall, and here and there showed the brown thatch of
cottage roofs.
At home I found quite a party of visitors and the warmest welcome
awaited me. My parents, who had not enjoyed good health, had remained
there nearly all the winter, my father only coming to town now and then
on pressing business, so I had not seen my mother for several months.
The visitors, mostly friends from London, were a gay and pleasant
company and dinner was bright and enjoyable, while there was plenty of
brilliant chatter in the drawing-room afterwards.
Every one was full of expectancy of the meet on the morrow at Glapthorn,
and the ball that was to be given by Lady Stretton at Blatherwycke in
the evening, therefore all retired early, and were about again betimes.
The meet was a great success, and at night I accompanied our party to
the dance, not because I felt in any mood for dancing, but because I
wanted to get a chat with Dora and hear if she had received news of her
lover.
Blatherwycke Hall was situated at a beautiful spot. I knew the place
almost from the time I could toddle. It was a very ancient house. Its
massive walls and dark oak timbers, its open hearths and spacious
chimneys, its heavy doors with their antique locks and bars and hinges
went back to the Armada days when the Stretton who held it was, in the
words of a ballad of the time, "A hard-riding devil." As old as the
Hall, too, were the barns that clustered around it, the thatch of whose
pointed gables was weathered to every shade of brown and grey, green
with moss and golden with clinging lichens. Beyond was the green
woodland, musical with streams, its stately pine trees springing
straight and tall, its noble oaks just breaking into leaf, its larch and
elm and hawthorn in all the pride of their young beauty.
From without it looked warm and cheerful with its brightly-lit windows,
and within all was warm, comfortable, and brilliant. The party was a
large one, for all the best people in the county came to Lady Stretton's
dances, and as I entered the great oak-panelled ballroom with its stands
of armour and its quaint old chiming clock, I looked eagerly around and
saw Dora in a ravishing toilette with skirt and sleeves of soft white
satin, a bodice of rose-pink velvet, with the front lightly traced with
jet, talking to several men, while at that moment I heard my name
uttered by a well-known voice and turned to greet Mabel who, standing
with her husband, the Earl, was attired in a marvellous gown of palest
heliotrope.
As soon as dancing commenced, however, I managed to speak with Dora, and
found she had saved me several dances. Many of the guests were my
friends, and we spent altogether a most delightful night. Lady Stretton
always entertained in first-rate style, and this was no exception.
Outside, in the old-world garden, Chinese lanterns were hung in the
arched walks, and in the smaller paths similarly arched crossing the
central one at intervals those who desired air could find cool alleys,
where the starlight filtered through the trees.
Along one of these I wandered with Dora after we had been waltzing, and
finding a seat, we sat down to rest heedless of the chill air.
"Well," I exclaimed at length, "have you heard from him?"
"Yes," she answered rather gloomily. "Only three lines. I have brought
it in my pocket so that you may see," and producing a crumpled envelope,
she handed it to me.
Striking a vesta I opened the note and read the few words it contained,
written hurriedly in pencil; the message ran: "I cannot return yet, but
tell no one you have heard from me. I still love you, darling, better
than my life. Jack." Then I looked at the postmark, and found it had
been posted at Bardonnechia, an obscure village on the Italian frontier.
"He reassures you," I said, after a moment's silence. "We must wait."
"Wait," she echoed, sadly. "We can do nothing else. It is strange that
he desires his absence to be concealed," she continued. "Curiously
enough only this morning a well-dressed man called just as I was going
to the meet and saw me privately. He gave his name as Captain Allen, of
Jack's regiment, and said he had come from London to ask me his address,
as he wished to send him a telegram on some important business. I told
him I did not know. Then he asked if I had heard from him, and I told
him--"
"You told him what?" I gasped, starting up.
"I told him that the letter I received yesterday was posted at
Bardonnechia."