SUMMER LIGHTNING
Stephen Hurd walked into the room which he and his father shared as a
sanctum, half office, half study. Mr. Hurd, senior, was attired in his
conventional Sabbath garb, the same black coat of hard, dull material,
and dark grey trousers, in which he had attended church for more years
than many of the villagers could remember. Stephen, on the other hand,
was attired in evening clothes of the latest cut. His white waistcoat
had come from a London tailor, and his white tie had cost him
considerable pains. His father looked him over with expressionless face.
"You are going to the House again, Stephen?" he asked calmly.
"I am asked to dine there, father," he answered. "Sorry to leave you
alone."
"I have no objection to being alone," Mr. Hurd answered. "I think that
you know that. You lunched there, didn't you?"
Stephen nodded.
"Miss Thorpe-Hatton asked me as we came out of church," he answered.
"You play cards?"
The directness of the question allowed of no evasion. Stephen flushed as
he answered.
"They play bridge. I may be asked to join. It--is a sort of whist, you
know."
"So I understand," the older man remarked. "I have no remark to make
concerning that. Manners change, I suppose, with the generations. You
are young and I am old. I have never sought to impose my prejudices upon
you. You have seen more of the world than I ever did. Perhaps you have
found wisdom there."
Stephen was not at his ease.
"I don't know about that, sir," he answered. "Of course, Sunday isn't
kept so strictly as it used to be. I like a quiet day myself, but it's
pretty dull here usually, and I didn't think it would be wise to refuse
an invitation from Miss Thorpe-Hatton."
"Perhaps not," Mr. Hurd answered. "On the other hand, I might remind you
that during the forty years during which I have been agent to this
estate I have never accepted--beyond a glass of wine--the hospitality
offered to me by Miss Thorpe-Hatton's father and grandfather, and by the
young lady herself. It is not according to my idea of the fitness of
things. I am a servant of the owner of these estates. I prefer to
discharge my duties honestly and capably--as a servant."
Stephen frowned at his reflection in the glass. He did not feel in the
least like a servant.
"That's rather an old-fashioned view, dad," he declared.
"It may be," his father answered. "In any case, I do not seek to impose
it upon you. You are free to come and go according to your judgment.
But you are young, and I cannot see you expose yourself to trouble
without some warning. Miss Thorpe-Hatton is not a lady whom it is wise
for you to see too much of."
The directness of this speech took the young man aback.
"I--she seems very pleasant and gracious," he faltered.
"Not even to you," his father continued gravely, "can I betray
the knowledge of such things as have come under my notice as the
servant of these estates and this young lady. Her father was a fine,
self-respecting gentleman, as all the Thorpe-Hattons have been; her
mother came from a noble, but degenerate, French family. I, who live
here a life without change, who mark time for the years and watch the
striplings become old men, see many things, and see them truthfully. The
evil seed of her mother's family is in this young woman's blood. She
lives without a chaperon, without companionship, as she pleases--and to
please herself only."
Stephen frowned irritably. His father's cold, measured words were like
drops of ice.
"But, father," he protested, "she is a leader of Society, she goes to
Court and you see her name at the very best places. If there was
anything wrong about her, she wouldn't be received like that."
"I know nothing about Society or its requirements," his father answered.
"She has brains and wealth, and she is a woman. Therefore, I suppose the
world is on her side. I have said all that I wish to say. You can
perhaps conjecture the reason of my speaking at all."
"She wouldn't take the trouble to make a fool of me," Stephen answered
bitterly. "I just happen to make up a number, that's all."
"I am glad that you understand the young lady so well," his father
answered. "Before you go, will you be good enough to pass me the Bible
and my spectacles, and let Mary know that Mr. Stuart will be in to
supper with me."
Stephen obeyed in silence. He remembered the time, not so long ago, when
he would have been required to seat himself on the opposite side of the
fireplace, with a smaller Bible in his hand, and read word for word with
his father. His mind went back to those days as he walked slowly up the
great grass-grown avenue to the house, picking his steps carefully, lest
he should mar the brilliancy of his well-polished patent-leather boots.
He compared that old time curiously with the evening which was now
before him; the round table drawn into the midst of the splendid
dining-room, an oasis of exquisitely shaded light and colour; Lady
Peggy with her daring toilette and beautiful white shoulders; Deyes
with his world-worn face and flippant tongue; the mistress of Thorpe
herself, more subdued, perhaps, in dress and speech, and yet with the
ever-present mystery of eyes and lips wherein was always the fascination
of the unknown. More than ever that night Stephen Hurd felt himself to
be her helpless slave. All his former amours seemed suddenly empty and
vulgar things. She came late into the drawing-room, her greeting was as
carelessly kind as usual, there was no perceptible difference in her
manner of speech. Yet his observation of her was so intense that he
found readily the signs of some subtle, indefinable change, a change
which began with her toilette, and ended--ah! as yet there was no
ending. Her gown of soft white silk was daring as a French modiste could
make it, but its simplicity was almost nun-like. She wore a string of
pearls, no earrings, no rings, and her hair was arranged low down,
almost like a schoolgirl's. She had more colour than usual, a temporary
restlessness seemed to have taken the place of her customary easy
languor. What did it mean? he asked himself breathlessly. Was it Deyes?
Impossible, for Deyes himself was a watcher, a thin smile parting
sometimes the close set lips of his white, mask-like face. After all,
how hopelessly at sea he was! He knew nothing of her life, of which
these few days at Thorpe were merely an interlude. She might have lovers
by the score of whom he knew nothing. He was vain, but he was not wholly
a fool.
She talked more than usual at dinner-time, but afterwards she spoke of a
headache, and sat on the window-seat of the library, a cigarette between
her lips, her eyes half closed. When the bridge table was laid out, she
turned her head languidly.
"I will come in in the next rubber," she said. "You four can start."
They obeyed her, of course, but Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders
slightly. She had no fancy for Stephen's bridge, and they cut together.
Wilhelmina waited until the soft fall of the cards had ceased, and the
hands were being examined. Then, with a graceful movement, she slipped
out of the window and away into the shadows. No signs of her headache
were left. She passed swiftly along a narrow path, bordered by gigantic
shrubs, until she reached a small iron gate. Here for the first time she
paused.
For several moments she listened. There was no sound from the great
house, whose outline she could barely see but whose long row of lights
stretched out behind her. She turned her head and looked along the
grass-grown lane beyond the gate. There was no one in sight--no sound.
She lifted the latch and passed through.
For a summer night it was unusually dark. All day the heat had been
almost tropical, and now the sky was clouded over, and a south wind, dry
and unrefreshing, was moving against the tall elms. Every few seconds
the heavens were ablaze with summer lightning; once the breathless
silence was broken by a low rumble of distant thunder.
She reached the end of the lane. Before her, another gate led out on to
a grass-covered hill, strewn with fragments of rocks. She paused for a
moment and looked backwards. She was suddenly conscious that her heart
was beating fast; the piquant sense of adventure with which she had
started had given place to a rarer and more exciting turmoil of the
senses. Her breath was coming short, as though she had been running.
The silence seemed more complete than ever. She lifted her foot and felt
the white satin slipper. It was perfectly dry, there was no dew, and as
yet no rain had fallen. She lifted the latch of the gate and passed
through.
The footpath skirted the side of a plantation, and she followed it
closely, keeping under the shelter of the hedge. Every now and then a
rabbit started up almost from under her feet, and rushed into the hedge.
The spinney itself seemed alive with birds and animals, startled by her
light footsteps in the shelter which they had sought, disturbed too by
their instinct of the coming storm. Her footsteps grew swifter. She was
committed now to her enterprise, vague though it had seemed to her. She
passed through a second gate into a ragged wood, and along a winding
path into a country road. She turned slowly up the hill. Her breath was
coming faster than ever now. What folly!--transcendental!--exquisite!
Her footsteps grew slower. She kept to the side of the hedge, raising
her skirts a little, for the grass was long. A few yards farther was the
gate. The soft swish of her silken draperies as she stole along, became
a clearly recognizable sound against the background of intense silence.
Macheson had been leaning against a tree just inside. He opened the
gate. She stepped almost into his arms. Her white face was suddenly
illuminated by the soft blaze of summer lightning which poured from the
sky. He had no time to move, to realize. He felt her hands upon his
cheek, his face drawn downwards, her lips, soft and burning, pressed
against his for one long, exquisite second. And then--the darkness once
more and his arms were empty.