Mrs. Greatorex was, in a ladylike sort of way, a confirmed
gossip. To have told her so personally would have been to make
her your enemy for life. The way she looked at it was far more
Christian--she said "she took a kindly interest in her
neighbours."
To-day her interest was particularly strong, if not very kindly;
and she was now, from the depths of her low lounging chair,
catechising Agatha about the dance last night. She was always
very keen about any news that concerned the Firs-Robinsons, who
were really nobodies, whilst she---
Her grandfather had been an earl--out-at-elbows, it was true,
but yet an earl. She laid great store by this, and periodically
reminded her acquaintances of it. Her mother, Lady Winifred, had
married (badly from a moneyed point of view) a young and reckless
guardsman, who died three years after her marriage, leaving her
all his debts and an infant daughter. But then he was one of the
Engletons of Derbyshire, and would have come into a baronetcy if
three uncles and five cousins had been removed.
Unfortunately, her husband predeceased his father! And when the
old man (who detested her) followed him to the family vault three
months later, it was found that she was not as much as mentioned
in his will.
There had been no settlements. As there were no children, all the
property went to the second son, Reginald Greatorex.
The sorest subject with Agatha's aunt was this brother-in-law.
She had treated him very cavalierly during her short reign at
Medlands, as wife of the elder son; and when Reginald came in for
the property he remembered it. He portioned her off with as small
a dowry as decency would allow.
He was testy, self-contained old bachelor--and the last of his
race--though with a good point here and there. He had a been
good, at all events, to John Dillwyn, whose father was the rector
of his parish, and whose mother, some said, had been the one love
of old Reginald's life. Both father and mother were dead now, and
the young man, after a fierce struggle for existence in town, had
passed all his exams, and was free to kill or cure, anywhere. It
was when he stood triumphant, but friendless, that Mr. Greatorex
had come forward, and got him his post at Rickton, where the
former had a good deal of property, though Medlands itself lay in
an adjoining county.
Mrs. Greatorex had received the young man coldly. Any one
connected with Reginald must be distasteful to her. To do her
justice, she had never truckled to her brother-in-law in any way,
and had contented herself with undisguised hatred of him. Agatha
had nothing to do with him, she thanked Heaven--otherwise she
could not have supported existence with her. She came from _her_
side of the house, where people had been officers and---
"Mrs Darkham looked frightful," said Agatha. "She really did,
poor woman! Fancy, such a gown--red satin and black velvet--
and her face---"
"As red as the satin, no doubt. But is it possible, Agatha, what
you tell me--that Richard Browne is staying with those people?"
"Those people" were always the Firs-Robinsons with Mrs.
Greatorex. The fact that they could have bought her up a thousand
times over at any moment rankled in her mind. She could not
forgive them that.
Still in some queer way she hankered after the Robinsons--
desiring to know this and that about them, and being, as has been
hinted, of a parsimonious turn of mind, did not refrain from
accepting from them fruits and flowers and vegetables. Indeed,
face to face with them she was delightful. She justified herself
over this hypocritical turn, and explained herself to Agatha, by
quoting St. Paul. "All things to all men" was a motto of his.
"Richard?" questioned Agatha, as if surprised. Indeed, Mrs.
Greatorex was perhaps the only person of his acquaintance who
called Mr. Browne "Richard." "Dicky, you mean?"
"Yes, of course. He was christened Richard, Agatha. That ought to
count. His father's name is Richard."
"It is so funny to think of Dicky's having a father," said
Agatha, laughing. "What kind is he, auntie?"
"A mummy! A modern mummy," said Mrs. Greatorex, laying down her
sock. "A dandified mummy. All paint and wig and teeth---"
"But a mummy! It wouldn't have---"
"Yes, I know. But there's nothing in him! Nothing that is his
own. He is padded and stuffed and perfumed! He"--indignantly--
"ought to have died ten years ago, and yet now he goes about the
world rejuvenated yearly. Only last month I had a letter from a
friend of mine, saying Richard's father had come back from the
German spas describing himself as 'a giant refreshed.' Just fancy
that, at seventy-eight!"
"I always feel I could love old Mr. Browne," said Agatha,
laughing still.
"You must have precious little to love," said her aunt, knitting
vigorously. She had known old Mr. Browne in her youth.
Agatha's laughter came to a sudden end. She sprang to her feet.
"Here is Edwy Darkham," said Agatha, moving to the window--"and
looking so wild! Aunt Hilda, do come here! Oh!"--anxiously--
"surely there is something wrong with him."
Across the lawn, running uncouthly, hideously--rolling from
side to side--yet with astonishing speed, the idiot came. His
huge head was thrown up, and the beauty that was in his face when
it was in repose was now all gone. He was mouthing horribly, and
inarticulate cries seemed to be bursting from his lips.
Agatha struck by the great terror that so evidently possessed
him, conquered all fear, and springing out of the low French
window, ran to meet him.
At times she shrank from him--not always. Deep pity for him lay
within her heart, because he was so docile, and because he clung
to her so, poor thing! and seemed to find such comfort in her
presence. She had been specially kind in her manner to his mother
often because of him, and perhaps that kindness to her--the
mother--whom the poor, handsome, ill-shapen idiot adored, had
been the first cause of his affection for Agatha. She had always
been good to Edwy, in spite of her detestation of his father, and
now, when the unhappy creature was in such evident trouble--a
trouble that rendered him a thousand times more repulsive than
usual--she lost her fear of him, and ran down the balcony steps
to meet him.
He was unhappy--this poor boy, whose soul was but an empty
shell! What ailed him? All her young, strong, gentle heart went
out to him.
"Edwy! Edwy!" cried she, as eloquently as though he could hear
her.
He rushed to her, and caught her arm, and sank on his knees
before her.
"Sho! Sho! Sho!" he yelled.
It was his one word. To him it meant "mother."
Agatha understood him. She pressed his poor head against her arm.
"What is it? What is it, Edwy?" asked she. There was quick
anxiety in her tone.
Her voice was unheard by him, but his eyes followed hers and the
movement of her lips. Some thread in his weak brain caught at the
meaning of her words. His fingers clutched her and closed upon
both her arms. The pain was excessive, almost beyond bearing, and
Agatha tried to shake herself free. But after a first effort she
checked herself. The agony in the poor boy's face, usually so
expressionless, moved her so powerfully that she stood still,
bearing the pain courageously.
She managed to lay her hand, however, on the large bony one (so
singularly muscular) that was grasping her right arm, and after a
moment or two Edwy relaxed his hold.
"Aunt Hilda," cried Agatha, turning to the window. "What _can_ be
the matter?" But Mrs. Greatorex, who had carefully taken refuge
behind the window curtains, from which safety point she could see
without being seen, declined to leave her shelter to solve the
problem offered her.
"Send him away! send him away!" she screamed dramatically, safe
in the knowledge that the idiot could not hear her. "He is going
mad. I can see it in his eyes. He'll murder you if you encourage
him any further. Get rid of him, Agatha, I implore you, before he
does any mischief."
"Oh no, it isn't that. It is only that he is in terrible distress
about something."
At this moment Edwy rose to his feet, and, approaching her, began
to gesticulate violently and make loud guttural sounds. In vain
Agatha tried to understand him. Finally, as if dimly aware that
his cries and gestures conveyed no meaning to her, the idiot
seized her by both arms and turned her in the direction from
which he had just come. Then he waited a moment, but seeing her
immovable, an access of fury seemed to take hold of him, and
catching her by her arm and shoulder, he began to drag her
forcibly along with him, so forcibly that Agatha felt she had no
power to battle with him, and that it would be useless to resist.
She did resist, however, with all her might, useless as it was.
She herself was young, strong, and lithe, but this squat, broad
creature, over whose head she could look, held her powerless in
his grasp.
With fierce impatience he hurried her forward, in spite of her
now almost frantic struggles to free herself from the clasp of
his long arms.
His eyes were always staring straight before him as though he
were looking at something that affrighted him. His strength was
superhuman, and he had now dragged Agatha with him half across
the lawn. She could not reason with him, as he could not hear,
and she felt her strength grow less every moment. Where was he
going? Where was he taking her?
She looked down at the stunted figure beside her, at the rough,
unkempt head. She felt the long, sinewy arms tighten round her,
and suddenly a sensation of faintness overcame her. What was it
her aunt had said? That he was mad! That he would murder
somebody! Was he going to murder _her_?
By this time Mrs. Greatorex's terrified shrieks were resounding
across the lawn. But the servants, two small maidens, were
evidently too frightened to attempt a rescue. They hung back, and
clung to each other, and whimpered sympathetically.
In the meantime Agatha had been dragged to the borders of the
wood. Another minute would take her out of the view of those
watching from the windows.