A STRANGE MANIA.
Chris Abercarne had had sweethearts at every period of her young
life--little boys of eight and nine had presented her, when she was of
a similar age, with bull’s-eyes, half-apples, pieces of sealing-wax,
and odds and ends of string and slate-pencil; in fact, with the best
and most treasured of their worldly goods. Later than this, boys of a
larger growth had written her notes on pink paper, couched in tender
terms, and doubtful orthography; while, later still, offerings of
flowers and sweets, of sighs and pretty speeches, had been laid freely
at her feet.
While complacently sensible that these contributions were not to be
despised, Chris had become so used to tributes of admiration of all
sorts as to be hard to impress, and to have earned the reputation of
coldness. When, therefore, as she held the arms of Mr. Richard to
prevent his making an attack on his guardian, she was conscious of a
sensation that was not cold, the experience was so new and strange that
it frightened her.
Her success had been immediate and remarkable. He had at once desisted
from his intention of making an onslaught upon Mr. Bradfield, and had
stood quite still and submissive under the gentle touch of her hands.
Chris glanced up in his face, which was bent towards hers. She
withdrew her eyes at once, glad that it was too dark for him to see the
blush which she could feel rising hot in her cheeks; and as her eyelids
fell, after one glance at Mr. Richard’s impassioned face, she knew,
with a woman’s quick, intuitive knowledge which could give no very good
reason for itself, that the reputed maniac was sane.
But this thought she found quite as alarming as, and even more exciting
than, her previous belief that Mr. Richard was mad. For to struggle
with a madman is one thing, and to find oneself in the arms of a lover
is another; and this latter was undoubtedly the situation in which her
own action had placed her.
Mr. Richard’s arms, instead of remaining passive under her touch, had,
for a moment, closed round her--only for a moment--then, in response to
her look of alarm, to her movement to free herself, he had let her go.
But the moment had been long enough for each of the two young people to
make a discovery. Mr. Richard had found out that he was possessed by
a mad hope: Chris, that he was dominated by a sane one. She drew back
from him modestly, and not without a touch of maidenly fear; but Mr.
Richard saw clearly enough that her alarm was neither very deep nor
very wounding to his self-esteem. Still, he did not speak, but stood
before her with a contrite expression on his face; and at last when,
Mr. Bradfield having disappeared into the house, Chris made a movement
in that direction, he felt bold enough to hold out both his hands
towards her with a gesture which seemed to entreat forgiveness, if he
had offended her.
For answer, Chris, who was getting used to this courtship without
words, put out her hand as she said, “Good-bye.”
Mr. Richard took it in his at first with just the measure of sedate
courtesy which was conventionally correct; but the moment she tried to
withdraw her fingers from his grasp, he seemed to realise suddenly that
he was losing her, that the joy he felt in her presence might never be
given him again. With rapid and passionate action, his left hand also
had closed upon hers; and, before she realised what he was going to do,
he had seized both her hands and pressed them to his lips.
Chris, much agitated, snatched away her hands, the more quickly,
perhaps, that Stelfox at that moment became visible to her, standing
motionless at a little distance, close to the evergreens which bordered
the copse. He made a sign to Mr. Richard, who, raising his hat to
Chris, followed his custodian in the direction of the house, which they
entered by a side door.
Chris went slowly towards the principal entrance. She wanted to speak
to Stelfox, and she wanted to avoid Mr. Bradfield, whose head, bending
over the desk in his study, she could see _en silhouette_ against the
lamp-light. The blind had not been drawn down. Just before she reached
the steps, Chris saw Mr. Bradfield rise from his chair; and by the time
she reached his study door, on her way upstairs, he was standing there
waiting for her. He scanned her face narrowly as she came up. Chris,
having lost the flush of intense excitement brought into her cheeks by
her interview with Mr. Richard, was again looking pale and over-tired.
“They’ve worked you to death over their tomfoolery at the barn,”
he exclaimed, angrily, as she came up the stairs. “Why did you have
anything to do with it?” Before she could answer he went on, in a more
inquisitive tone, “But where have you been? All the others have been
back an hour or more. I’ve been looking out for you.”
“I’ve been at the barn clearing up, putting things straight, and seeing
that the lights were put out,” answered Chris, looking down rather
guiltily.
“Didn’t they send someone to help you?” inquired Mr. Bradfield,
sharply. “Harriet said she put out the lights.”
“So she did.”
“But that’s a quarter of an hour ago. What have you been doing with
yourself since? You have not been staying at the barn in the dark--by
_yourself_?”
There flashed quickly through the mind of Chris a kaleidoscopic view of
the question whether or not she should tell Mr. Bradfield with whom she
had been. In that brief moment of hesitation she saw the matter in all
its bearings, and repugnant as the idea of concealment was to her, she
decided, for Mr. Richard’s sake, not to betray the fact that she had
been with him.
She answered, therefore:
“No, I was not alone,” and as she said this she unceremoniously ran
away up the stairs, with the hurried excuse that she should be late for
dinner.
“Are you letting that young fool of a Shute boy worry you to death?”
Mr. Bradfield called out after her, in displeased tones.
“Oh, he doesn’t worry me,” replied Chris, disingenuously as she
disappeared into the corridor.
Chris was angry and puzzled with herself. It was quite right and
proper that she should feel sorry for Mr. Richard, seeing, as she
believed, that he was not being quite fairly treated by his guardian.
But why should she feel more than this for him? Why should she, Chris
Abercarne, who had been so cold to all men, and so proud of her
coldness, feel in this poor fellow an interest more tender than any
she had felt before for any man--an interest so strong, that she was
ashamed of it, and could not think of it without feeling her cheeks
flush, and her heart beat faster?
She hurried to her dressing-room and changed her gown for dinner,
delighted to find that her mother had already dressed and gone
downstairs. For she wanted to have time to exchange a few words before
dinner with Stelfox. This man, she felt sure, knew more about his
patient’s case than he chose to admit. It was he who had given Mr.
Richard his liberty on that day; he whose influence over the young man
was strong enough to induce the poor prisoner to return to his prison
without a protest.
Chris, who knew that this was about the time when Stelfox would be
coming out from the east wing with a tray to fetch Mr. Richard’s
dinner, waited in one of the alcoves in the long corridor, and at the
first sound of the key turning in the lock of the shut-up apartments,
she ran to meet him.
But Stelfox, who was always cautious, glanced towards the door of the
study, and then at her without a word, but with a gesture of warning
to her to hold her peace for a while. Then, while the young lady
waited, mute as a mouse, with her eyes fixed on the study door, Stelfox
very deliberately locked the door through which he had just come,
and walked towards a small apartment on the right, which contained
a telescope and a cupboard full of chemicals, used by Mr. Bradfield
when the whim took him, either as an observatory or a laboratory.
Chris followed him with noiseless steps. When she had entered the room
Stelfox shut the door.
“You wish to speak to me, ma’am?” he asked, looking straight at her,
and putting the question with his usual directness of manner.
“Yes,” answered Chris, softly; “and I’m quite sure you know what it is
about.”
“I suppose, ma’am,” he answered, without any fencing, “it is about Mr.
Richard.”
“Yes. You let him come out to-day. Surely you would not let a madman go
about by himself, and expect him to come back quietly as Mr. Richard
did? It seems to me, Stelfox, that his only mania is a great dislike to
Mr. Bradfield.”
A little gleam of surprise, or of amusement, Chris hardly knew which,
shot out of the man’s steady eyes. But the next moment he looked drier,
he spoke more cautiously than ever.
“They do take fancies into their heads, ma’am, people that are not
quite right do,” he answered.
“But _is_ he not quite right? Isn’t he only pretending? And isn’t that
why he will not speak?” asked Chris, running the questions one into
another in her eagerness. “The more I see of him the more absurd it
seems to suppose that he is not in his right senses. Do, Stelfox, tell
me all about him, and why he is shut up here.”
“I give you my word, ma’am,” answered Stelfox at once and
straightforwardly, “that I know no more than the dead.”
Chris was petrified with astonishment.
“You don’t know why he is shut up?” she repeated, slowly.
“No, ma’am. I do know a little more than you do, though I don’t want to
tell it yet. But why he is shut up here is more than I can tell you.”
Chris was utterly bewildered. Before she could recover sufficiently
from her astonishment to put another question, Stelfox went on:
“And now, ma’am, I believe you’re interested enough in the poor
gentleman to do just one thing for him?”
“Yes, oh, yes. What is it?” asked Chris, eagerly. “Is it to speak to
Mr. Bradfield? Is it to try to persuade him to let Mr. Richard come
out? Is it----”
Stelfox shook his head with a dry smile.
“No, ma’am, it’s precisely the opposite of that. What I wish to ask you
is not to speak to Mr. Bradfield at all about him, and, above all, not
to let him know that you have seen him anywhere but at the windows of
the east wing.”
Chris was much troubled by this request, and after a few moments spent
in thought, she said, earnestly:
“But, Stelfox, I think you are doing Mr. Bradfield a great injustice.
He is a very kind-hearted man, and if he were once persuaded that it
would do his ward good to come out----”
“He would keep him in all the more securely,” said Stelfox, with a dry
laugh.
And before Chris could recover from the horror she felt at these words,
Stelfox had disappeared from the room in his usual noiseless manner.