AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC
A great dinner party had come to an end, and the Lord-Lieutenant of the
county bowed low over the cold hand of his departing guest, in whose
honour it had been given. A distant relationship gave Lord Westerdean
privileges upon which he would willingly have improved.
"You are leaving us early, Wilhelmina," he murmured reproachfully. "How
can I expect to keep my other guests if you desert us?"
Wilhelmina withdrew the hand and nodded her other farewells. The heat of
the summer evening had brought every one out from the drawing-room. The
hall doors stood open. Those of the guests who were not playing bridge
or billiards were outside upon the terrace--some had wandered into the
gardens.
"My dear Leslie," she said, as she stood upon the broad steps, "you are
losing your habit of gallantry. A year ago you would not have ventured
to suggest that in my absence the coming or going of your other guests
could matter a straw."
"You know very well that it doesn't," he answered, dropping his voice.
"You know very well----"
"To-night," she interrupted calmly, "I will not be made love to! I am
not in the humour for it."
He looked down at her curiously. He was a man of exceptional height,
thin, grey, still handsome, an ex-diplomat, whose career, had he chosen
to follow it, would have been a brilliant one. Wealth and immense
estates had thrust their burdens upon him, however, and he was content
to be the most popular man in his county.
"There is nothing the matter?" he asked anxiously.
She shook her head.
"You are well?" he persisted, dropping his voice.
"Absolutely," she answered. "It is not that. It is a mood. I used to
welcome moods as an escape from the ruts. I suppose I am getting too old
for them now."
He shook his head.
"I wonder," he said, "if the world really knows how young you are."
"Don't," she interrupted, with a shudder, "I have outlived my years."
A motor omnibus and a small victoria came round from the stables. The
party from Thorpe began slowly to assemble upon the steps.
"I am going in the victoria--alone," she said, resting her fingers upon
his arm. "Don't you envy me?"
"I envy the vacant place," he answered sadly. "Isn't this desire for
solitude somewhat of a new departure, though?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "I am rather looking forward to my drive.
To-night, as we came here, the whole country seemed like a great garden
of perfumes and beautiful places. That is why I had them telephone for a
carriage. There are times when I hate motoring!"
He broke off a cluster of pink roses and placed them in her hands.
"If your thoughts must needs fill the empty seat," he whispered, as he
bent over her for his final adieux, "remember my claims, I beg. Perhaps
my thoughts might even meet yours!"
She laughed under her breath, but the light in his eyes was unanswered.
"Perhaps!" she answered. "It is a night for thoughts and dreams, this.
Even I may drift into sentiment. Good night! Such a charming evening."
The carriage rolled smoothly down the avenue from the great house, over
which she might so easily have reigned, and turned into the road. A few
minutes later the motor-car flashed by. Afterwards there was solitude,
for it was already past midnight. Gilbert Deyes looked thoughtfully out
at the carriage from his place in the car. He had begged--very hard for
him--for that empty seat.
"Of what is it a sign," he asked, "when a woman seeks solitude?"
Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders.
"Wilhelmina is tired of us all, I suppose," she remarked. "She gets like
that sometimes."
"Then of what is it a sign," he persisted, "when a woman tires of
people--like us?"
Lady Peggy yawned.
"In a woman of more primitive instincts," she said, "it would mean an
affair. But Wilhelmina has outgrown all that. She is the only woman of
our acquaintance of whom one would dare to say it, but I honestly
believe that to Wilhelmina men are like puppets. Was she born, I wonder,
with ice in her veins?"
"One wonders," Deyes remarked softly. "A woman like that is always
something of a mystery. By the bye, wasn't there a whisper of something
the year she lived in Florence?"
"People have talked of her, of course," Lady Peggy answered. "In
Florence, a woman without a lover is like a child without toys. To be
virtuous there is the one offence which Society does not pardon."
"I believe," Deyes said, "that a lover would bore Wilhelmina terribly."
"Why the dickens doesn't she marry Leslie?" Austin asked, opening his
eyes for a moment.
"Too obvious," Deyes murmured. "Some day I can't help fancying that she
will give us all a shock."
A mile or more behind, the lady with ice in her veins, leaned back
amongst the cushions of her carriage, drinking in, with a keenness of
appreciation which surprised even herself, the beauties of the still,
hot night. The moon was as yet barely risen. In the half light, the
country and the hills beyond, with their tumbled masses of rock, seemed
unreal--of strange and mysterious outline. More than anything, she was
conscious of a sense of softness. The angles were gone from all the
crude places, it was peace itself which had settled upon the land.
Peace, and a wonderful silence! The birds had long ago ceased to sing,
no breath of wind was abroad to stir the leaves of the trees. All the
cheerful chorus of country sounds which make music throughout the long
summer day had ceased. Once, when a watch-dog barked in the valley far
below, she started. The sound seemed unreal--as though, indeed, it came
from a different world!
The woman in the carriage looked out with steady tireless eyes upon this
visionary land. The breath of the honeysuckle and the pleasant odour of
warm hay seemed to give life to the sensuous joy of the wonderful night.
She herself was a strange being to be abroad in these quiet lanes. Her
only wrap was a long robe of filmy lace, which she had thrown back, so
that her shoulders and neck, with its collar of lustrous pearls, were
bare to the faint breeze, which only their own progress made. Her
gleaming dress of white satin, undecorated, unadorned, fell in delicate
lines about her limbs. No wonder that the only person whom they passed,
a belated farmer, rubbed his eyes and stared at her as at a ghost!
It seemed to her that something of the confusion of this delightful,
half-seen world, had stolen, too, into her thoughts. All day long she
had been conscious of it. There was something alien there, something
wholly unrecognizable. She felt a new light falling upon her life. From
where? She could not tell. Only she knew that its pitiless routine, its
littleness, its frantic struggle for the front place in the great
pleasure-house, seemed suddenly to stand revealed in pitiful colours.
Surely it belonged to some other woman! It could not be she who did
those things and called them life. She, who scarcely knew what nerves
were, was suddenly afraid. Some change was coming upon her; she felt
herself caught in a silent, swift-flowing current. She was being carried
away, and she had not strength to resist. And all the time there was an
undernote of music. That was what made it so strange. The light that was
falling was like summer rain upon the bare, dry places. She was
conscious of a new vitality, a new life, and she feared it. Fancy being
endowed with a new sense, in the midst of an ordinary work-a-day
existence! She felt like that. It was unbelievable, and yet its tumult
was stirring in her heart, was rushing through her veins. Often before,
her tired eyes had rested unmoved upon a country as beautiful as this,
even the mystery of this half light was no new thing. To-night she saw
farther--she felt the throbbing, half-mad delight of the wanderer in the
enchanted land, the pilgrim who hears suddenly the Angelus bell from the
shrine he has journeyed so far to visit. What it meant she could not,
she dared not ask herself. She was content to sit there, her eyes wide
open now, the tired lines smoothed from her forehead, her face like the
face of an eager and beautiful child. No one of her world would have
recognized her, as she travelled that night through the perfumed lanes.
It was when they were within a mile or two of home that an awakening
came. They had turned into a lonely lane leading to one of the back
entrances to Thorpe, and were climbing a somewhat steep hill. Suddenly
the horses plunged and almost stopped. She leaned forward.
"What is it, Johnson?" she asked.
The man touched his hat.
"The 'osses shied, madam, at the light in the trees there. Enough to
frighten 'em, too."
Her eyes followed his pointing finger. A few yards back from the
roadside, a small, steady light was burning amongst the trees.
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"I can't say, madam," the man answered. "It looks like a lantern or a
candle, or something of that sort."
"There is no cottage there?" she asked.
The man shook his head.
"There's none nearer than the first lodge, madam," he answered. "There's
a bit of a shelter there--Higgs, the keeper, built it for a watchman."
"Can I take care of the horses for a moment, while you go and see what
it is?" she asked.
"They take a bit of holding, madam," the man answered doubtfully. "We
got your message so late at the stables, or I should have had a second
man."
Wilhelmina stepped softly out into the road.
"I will go myself," she said. "I daresay it is nothing. If I call,
though, you must leave the horses and come to me."
She opened the gate, and raising her skirts with both hands, stepped
into the plantation. Her small, white-shod feet fell noiselessly upon
the thick undergrowth; she reached the entrance of the shelter without
making any sound. Cautiously she peeped in. Her eyes grew round with
surprise, her bosom began rapidly to rise and fall. It was Macheson who
lay there, fast asleep! He had fallen asleep evidently whilst reading.
A book was lying by his side, and a covered lantern was burning by his
left shoulder. He was dressed in trousers and shirt; the latter was open
at the throat, showing its outline firm and white, and his regular
breathing. She drew a step nearer, and leaned over him. Curiously
enough, in sleep the boyishness of his face was less apparent. The
straight, firm mouth, rigidly closed, was the mouth of a man; his limbs,
in repose, seemed heavy, even massive, especially the bare arm upon
which his head was resting. His shirt was old, but spotlessly clean; his
socks were neatly darned in many places. He occupied nearly the whole of
the shelter, in fact one foot was protruding through the opening. In the
corner a looking-glass was hanging from a stick, and a few simple toilet
articles were spread upon the ground.
She bent more closely over him, holding her breath, although he showed
no signs of waking. Her senses were in confusion, and there was a mist
before her eyes. An unaccountable impulse was urging her on, driving
her, as it seemed, into incredible folly. Lower and lower she bent, till
her hot breath fell almost upon his cheek. Suddenly he stirred. She
started back. After all he did not open his eyes, but the moment was
gone. She moved backwards towards the opening. She was seized now with
sudden fright. She desired to escape. She was breathless with fear, the
fear of what she might not have escaped. Yet in the midst of it, with
hot trembling fingers she loosened the roses from her dress and dropped
them by his side. Then she fled into the semi-darkness.
The habits of a lifetime die hard. They are proof, as a rule, against
these fits of temporary madness.
Wilhelmina stepped languidly into her carriage, and commanded her
coachman's attention.
"Johnson," she said, "I found a poor man sleeping there. There is no
necessity for him to be disturbed. It is my wish that you do not mention
the occurrence to any one--to any one at all. You understand?"
The man touched his hat. He would have been dull-witted, indeed, if he
had not appreciated the note of finality in his mistress' tone. His
horses sprang forward, and a few minutes later turned into the dark
avenue which led to the house.