IV

There was some rough shooting on the estate which Mrs. Crowley had

rented, and next day Dick went out to see what he could find. Alec

refused to accompany him.

'I think shooting in England bores me a little,' he said. 'I have a

prejudice against killing things unless I want to eat them, and these

English birds are so tame that it seems to me rather like shooting

chickens.'

'I don't believe a word of it,' said Dick, as he set out. 'The fact is

that you can't hit anything smaller than a hippopotamus, and you know

that there is nothing here to suit you except Mrs. Crowley's cows.'

After luncheon Alec MacKenzie asked Lucy if she would take a stroll with

him. She was much pleased.

'Where would you like to go?' she asked.

'Let us walk by the sea.'

She took him along a road called Joy Lane, which ran from the fishing

town of Blackstable to a village called Waveney. The sea there had a

peculiar vastness, and the salt smell of the breeze was pleasant to the

senses. The flatness of the marsh seemed to increase the distances that

surrounded them, and unconsciously Alec fell into a more rapid swing. It

did not look as if he walked fast, but he covered the ground with the

steady method of a man who has been used to long journeys, and it was

good for Lucy that she was accustomed to much walking. At first they

spoke of trivial things, but presently silence fell upon them. Lucy saw

that he was immersed in thought, and she did not interrupt him. It

amused her that, after asking her to walk with him, this odd man should

take no pains to entertain her. Now and then he threw back his head with

a strange, proud motion, and looked out to sea. The gulls, with their

melancholy flight, were skimming upon the surface of the water. The

desolation of that scene--it was the same which, a few days before, had

rent poor Lucy's heart--appeared to enter his soul; but, strangely

enough, it uplifted him, filling him with exulting thoughts. He

quickened his pace, and Lucy, without a word, kept step with him. He

seemed not to notice where they walked, and presently she led him away

from the sea. They tramped along a winding road, between trim hedges and

fertile fields; and the country had all the sweet air of Kent, with its

easy grace and its comfortable beauty. They passed a caravan, with a

shaggy horse browsing at the wayside, and a family of dinglers sitting

around a fire of sticks. The sight curiously affected Lucy. The

wandering life of those people, with no ties but to the ramshackle

carriage which was their only home, their familiarity with the fields

and with strange hidden places, filled her with a wild desire for

freedom and for vast horizons. At last they came to the massive gates of

Court Leys. An avenue of elms led to the house.

'Here we are,' said Lucy, breaking the long silence.

'Already?' He seemed to shake himself. 'I have to thank you for a

pleasant stroll, and we've had a good talk, haven't we?'

'Have we?' she laughed. She saw his look of surprise. 'For two hours

you've not vouchsafed to make an observation.'

'I'm so sorry,' he said, reddening under his tan. 'How rude you must

have thought me! I've been alone so much that I've got out of the way of

behaving properly.'

'It doesn't matter at all,' she smiled. 'You must talk to me another

time.'

She was subtly flattered. She felt that, for him, it was a queer kind-of

compliment that he had paid her. Their silent walk, she did not know

why, seemed to have created a bond between them; and it appeared that he

felt it, too, for afterwards he treated her with a certain intimacy. He

seemed to look upon her no longer as an acquaintance, but as a friend.

* * *

A day or two later, Mrs. Crowley having suggested that they should drive

into Tercanbury to see the cathedral, MacKenzie asked her if she would

allow him to walk.

He turned to Lucy.

'I hardly dare to ask if you will come with me,' he said.

'It would please me immensely.'

'I will try to behave better than last time.'

'You need not,' she smiled.

Dick, who had an objection to walking when it was possible to drive, set

out with Mrs. Crowley in a trap. Alec waited for Lucy. She went round to

the stable to fetch a dog to accompany them, and, as she came towards

him, he looked at her. Alec was a man to whom most of his fellows were

abstractions. He saw them and talked to them, noting their

peculiarities, but they were seldom living persons to him. They were

shadows, as it were, that had to be reckoned with, but they never became

part of himself. And it came upon him now with a certain shock of

surprise to notice Lucy. He felt suddenly a new interest in her. He

seemed to see her for the first time, and her rare beauty strangely

moved him. In her serge dress and her gauntlets, with a motor cap and a

flowing veil, a stick in her hand, she seemed on a sudden to express the

country through which for the last two or three days he had wandered. He

felt an unexpected pleasure in her slim erectness and in her buoyant

step. There was something very charming in her blue eyes.

He was seized with a great desire to talk. And, without thinking for an

instant that what concerned him so intensely might be of no moment to

her, he began forthwith upon the subject which was ever at his heart.

But he spoke as his interest prompted, of each topic as it most absorbed

him, starting with what he was now about and going back to what had

first attracted his attention to that business; then telling his plans

for the future, and to make them clear, finishing with the events that

had led up to his determination. Lucy listened attentively, now and then

asking a question; and presently the whole matter sorted itself in her

mind, so that she was able to make a connected narrative of his life

since the details of it had escaped from Dick's personal observation.

* * *

For some years Alec MacKenzie had travelled in Africa with no object

beyond a great curiosity, and no ambition but that of the unknown. His

first important expedition had been, indeed, occasioned by the failure

of a fellow-explorer. He had undergone the common vicissitudes of

African travel, illness and hunger, incredible difficulties of transit

through swamps that seemed never ending, and tropical forest through

which it was impossible to advance at the rate of more than one mile a

day; he had suffered from the desertion of his bearers and the perfidy

of native tribes. But at last he reached the country which had been the

aim of his journey. He had to encounter then a savage king's determined

hostility to the white man, and he had to keep a sharp eye on his

followers who, in abject terror of the tribe he meant to visit, took

every opportunity to escape into the bush. The barbarian chief sent him

a warning that he would have him killed if he attempted to enter his

capital. The rest of the story Alec told with an apologetic air, as if

he were ashamed of himself, and he treated it with a deprecating humour

that sought to minimise both the danger he had run and the courage he

had displayed. On receiving the king's message, Alec MacKenzie took up a

high tone, and returned the answer that he would come to the royal kraal

before midday. He wanted to give the king no time to recover from his

astonishment, and the messengers had scarcely delivered the reply before

he presented himself, unarmed and unattended.

'What did you say to him?' asked Lucy.

'I asked him what the devil he meant by sending me such an impudent

message,' smiled Alec.

'Weren't you frightened?' said Lucy.

'Yes,' he answered.

He paused for a moment, and, as though unconsciously he were calling

back the mood which had then seized him, he began to walk more slowly.

'You see, it was the only thing to do. We'd about come to the end of our

food, and we were bound to get some by hook or by crook. If we'd shown

the white feather they would probably have set upon us without more ado.

My own people were too frightened to make a fight of it, and we should

have been wiped out like sheep. Then I had a kind of instinctive feeling

that it would be all right. I didn't feel as if my time had come.'

But, notwithstanding, for three hours his life had hung in the balance;

and Lucy understood that it was only his masterful courage which had won

the day and turned a sullen, suspicious foe into a warm ally.

He achieved the object of his expedition, discovered a new species of

antelope of which he was able to bring back to the Natural History

Museum a complete skeleton and two hides; took some geographical

observations which corrected current errors, and made a careful

examination of the country. When he had learnt all that was possible,

still on the most friendly terms with the ferocious ruler, he set out

for Mombassa. He reached it in one month more than five years after he

had left it.

The results of this journey had been small enough, but Alec looked upon

it as his apprenticeship. He had found his legs, and believed himself

fit for much greater undertakings. He had learnt how to deal with

natives, and was aware that he had a natural influence over them. He had

confidence in himself. He had surmounted the difficulties of the

climate, and felt himself more or less proof against fever and heat. He

returned to the coast stronger than he had ever been in his life, and

his enthusiasm for African travel increased tenfold. The siren had taken

hold of him, and no escape now was possible.

He spent a year in England, and then went back to Africa. He had

determined now to explore certain districts to the northeast of the

great lakes. They were in the hinterland of British East Africa, and

England had a vague claim over them; but no actual occupation had taken

place, and they formed a series of independent states under Arab emirs.

He went this time with a roving commission from the government, and

authority to make treaties with the local chieftains. Spending six years

in these districts, he made a methodical survey of the country, and was

able to prepare valuable maps. He collected an immense amount of

scientific material. He studied the manners and customs of the

inhabitants, and made careful observations on the political state. He

found the whole land distracted with incessant warfare, and broad tracts

of country, fertile and apt for the occupation of white men, given over

to desolation. It was then that he realised the curse of slave-raiding,

the abolition of which was to become the great object of his future

activity. His strength was small, and, anxious not to arouse at once the

enmity of the Arab slavers, he had to use much diplomacy in order to

establish himself in the country. He knew himself to be an object of

intense suspicion, and he could not trust even the petty rulers who were

bound to him by ties of gratitude and friendship. For some time the

sultan of the most powerful state kept him in a condition bordering on

captivity, and at one period his life was for a year in the greatest

danger. He never knew from day to day whether he would see the setting

of the sun. The Arab, though he treated him with honour, would not let

him go; and, at last, Alec, seizing an opportunity when the sultan was

engaged in battle with a brother who sought to usurp his sovereignty,

fled for his life, abandoning his property, and saving only his notes,

his specimens, and his guns.

When MacKenzie reached England, he laid before the Foreign Office the

result of his studies. He pointed out the state of anarchy to which the

constant slave-raiding had reduced this wealthy country, and implored

those in authority, not only for the sake of humanity, but for the

prestige of the country, to send an expedition which should stamp out

the murderous traffic. He offered to accompany this in any capacity;

and, so long as he had the chance of assisting in a righteous war,

agreed to serve under any leader they chose. His knowledge of the

country and his influence over its inhabitants were indispensable. He

guaranteed that, if they gave him a certain number of guns with three

British officers, the whole affair could be settled in a year.

But the government was crippled by the Boer War; and though,

appreciating the strength of his arguments, it realised the necessity of

intervention, was disinclined to enter upon fresh enterprises. These

little expeditions in Africa had a way of developing into much more

important affairs than first appeared. They had been taught bitter

lessons before now, and could not risk, in the present state of things,

even an insignificant rebuff. If they sent out a small party, which was

defeated, it would be a great blow to the prestige of the country

through Africa--the Arabs would carry the news to India--and it would be

necessary, then, to despatch such a force that failure was impossible.

To supply this there was neither money nor men.

Alec was put off with one excuse after another. To him it seemed that

hindrances were deliberately set in his way, and in fact the relations

of England with the rest of Europe made his small schemes appear an

intolerable nuisance. At length he was met with a flat refusal.

But Alec MacKenzie could not rest with this, and opposition only made

him more determined to carry his business through. He understood that it

was hard at second hand to make men realise the state of things in that

distant land. But he had seen horrors beyond description. He knew the

ruthless cruelty of the slave-raiders, and in his ears rang, still, the

cries of agony when a village was set on fire and attacked by the Arabs.

Not once, nor twice, but many times he had left some tiny kraal nestling

sweetly among its fields of maize, an odd, savage counterpart to the

country hamlet described in prim, melodious numbers by the gentle

Goldsmith: the little naked children were playing merrily; the women sat

in groups grinding their corn and chattering; the men worked in the

fields or lounged idly about the hut doors. It was a charming scene. You

felt that here, perhaps, one great mystery of life had been solved; for

happiness was on every face, and the mere joy of living was a sufficient

reason for existence. And, when he returned, the village was a pile of

cinders, smoking still; here and there were lying the dead and wounded;

on one side he recognised a chubby boy with a great spear wound in his

body; on another was a woman with her face blown away by some clumsy

gun; and there a man in the agony of death, streaming with blood, lay

heaped upon the ground in horrible disorder. And the rest of the

inhabitants had been hurried away pellmell on the cruel journey across

country, brutally treated and half starved, till they could be delivered

into the hands of the slave merchant.

Alec MacKenzie went to the Foreign Office once more. He was willing to

take the whole business on himself, and asked only for a commission to

raise troops at his own expense. Timorous secretaries did not know into

what difficulties this determined man might lead them, and if he went

with the authority of an official, but none of his responsibilities, he

might land them in grave complications. The spheres of influence of the

continental powers must be respected, and at this time of all others it

was necessary to be very careful of national jealousies. Alec MacKenzie

was told that if he went he must go as a private person. No help could

be given him, and the British Government would not concern itself, even

indirectly, with his enterprise. Alec had expected the reply and was not

dissatisfied. If the government would not undertake the matter itself,

he preferred to manage it without the hindrance of official restraints.

And so this solitary man made up his mind, single handed, to crush the

slave traffic in a district larger than England, and to wage war,

unassisted, with a dozen local chieftains and against twenty thousand

fighting men The attempt seemed Quixotic, but Alec had examined the

risks and was willing to take them. He had on his side a thorough

knowledge of the country, a natural power over the natives, and some

skill in managing them. He was accustomed now to the diplomacy which was

needful, and he was well acquainted with the local politics.

He did not think it would be hard to collect a force on the coast, and

there were plenty of hardy, adventurous fellows who would volunteer to

officer the native levies, if he had money to pay them. Ready money was

essential, so he crossed the Atlantic and sold his estate in Texas; he

made arrangements to raise a further sum, if necessary, on the income

which his colliery in Lancashire brought him. He engaged a surgeon, whom

he had known for some years, and could trust in an emergency, and then

sailed for Zanzibar, where he expected to find white men willing to take

service under him. At Mombassa he collected the bearers who had been

with him during his previous expeditions, and, his fame among the

natives being widely spread, he was able to take his pick of those best

suited for his purpose. His party consisted altogether of over three

hundred.

When he arrived upon the scene of his operations, everything for a time

went well. He showed great skill in dividing his enemies. The petty

rulers were filled with jealousy of one another and eager always to fall

upon their friends, when slave-raiding for a season was unsuccessful.

Alec's plan was to join two or three smaller states in an attack upon

the most powerful of them all, to crush this completely, and then to

take his old allies one by one, if they would not guarantee to give up

their raids on peaceful tribes. His influence with the natives was such

that he felt certain it was possible to lead them into action against

their dreaded foes, the Arabs, if he was once able to give them

confidence. Everything turned out as he had hoped.

The great state which had aimed at the hegemony of the whole district

was defeated; and Alec, with the method habitual to him, set about

organising each strip of territory which was reclaimed from barbarism.

He was able to hold in check the emirs who had fought with him, and a

sharp lesson given to one who had broken faith with him, struck terror

in the others. The land was regaining its old security. Alec trusted

that in five years a man would be able to travel from end to end of it

as safely as in England. But suddenly everything he had achieved was

undone. As sometimes happens in countries of small civilisation, a

leader arose from among the Arabs. None knew from where he sprang, and

it was said that he had been a camel driver. He was called Mohammed the

Lame, because a leg badly set after a fracture had left him halting, and

he was a shrewd man, far-seeing, ruthless, and ambitious. With a few

companions as desperate as himself, he attacked the capital of a small

state in the North which was distracted by the death of its ruler,

seized it, and proclaimed himself king.

In a year he had brought under his sway all those shadowy lands which

border upon Abyssinia, and was leading a great rabble, mad with the lust

of conquest, fanatic with hatred of the Christian, upon the South.

Consternation reigned among the tribes to whom MacKenzie was the only

hope of salvation. He pointed out to the Arabs who had accepted his

influence, that their safety, as well as his, lay in resistance to the

Lame One; but the war cry of the Prophet prevailed against the call of

reason, and he found that they were against him to a man. His native

allies were faithful, with the fidelity of despair, and these he brought

up against the enemy. A pitched battle was fought, but the issue was

undecided. The losses were great on both sides, and Alec was himself

badly wounded.

Fortunately the wet season was approaching, and Mohammed the Lame, with

a wholesome respect for the white man who for the moment, at least, had

checked his onward course, withdrew to the Northern regions where his

power was more secure. Alec knew that he would resume the attack at the

first opportunity, and he knew also that he had not the means to

withstand a foe who was astute and capable. His only chance was to get

back to the coast, return to England, and try again to interest the

government in the undertaking; if they still refused help he determined

to go out once more himself, taking this time Maxim guns and men capable

of handling them. He knew that his departure would seem like flight, but

he could not help that. He was obliged to go. His wound prevented him

from walking, but he caused himself to be carried; and, firing his

caravan with his own indomitable spirit, he reached the coast by forced

marches.

His brief visit to England was already drawing to its close, and, in

less than a month now, he proposed to set out for Africa once more. This

time he meant to finish the work. If only his life were spared, he would

crush for ever the infamous trade which turned a paradise into a

wilderness.

Alec stopped speaking as they entered the cathedral close, and they

paused for a moment to look at the stately pile. The trim lawns that

surrounded it, in a manner enhanced its serene majesty. They entered the

nave. There was a vast and solemn stillness. And there was something

subtly impressive in the naked space; it uplifted the heart, and one

felt a kind of scorn for all that was mean and low. The soaring of the

Gothic columns, with their straight simplicity, raised the thoughts to a

nobler standard. And, though that place had been given for three hundred

years to colder rites, the atmosphere of an earlier, more splendid faith

seemed still to cling to it. A vague odour of a spectral incense hung

about the pillars, a sweet, sad smell, and the shadows of ghostly

priests in vestments of gold, and with embroidered copes, wound in a

long procession through the empty aisles.

Lucy was glad that they had come there, and the restful grandeur of the

place fitted in with the emotions that had filled her mind during the

walk from Blackstable. Her spirit was enlarged, and she felt that her

own small worries were petty. The consciousness came to her that the man

with whom she had been speaking was making history, and she was

fascinated by the fulness of his life and the greatness of his

undertakings. Her eyes were dazzled with the torrid African sun which

had shone through his words, and she felt the horror of the primeval

forest and the misery of the unending swamps. And she was proud because

his outlook was so clear, because he bore his responsibilities so

easily, because his plans were so vast. She looked at him. He was

standing by her side, and his eyes were upon her. She felt the colour

rise to her cheeks, she knew not why, and in embarrassment looked down.

By some chance they missed Dick Lomas and Mrs. Crowley. Neither was

sorry. When they left the cathedral and started for home, they spoke for

a while of indifferent things. It seemed that Alec's tongue was

loosened, and he was glad of it. Lucy knew instinctively that he had

never talked to anyone as he talked to her, and she was curiously

flattered.

But it seemed to both of them that the conversation could not proceed on

the strenuous level on which it had been during the walk into

Tercanbury, and they fell upon a gay discussion of their common

acquaintance. Alec was a man of strong passions, hating fools fiercely,

and he had a sardonic manner of gibing at persons he despised, which

caused Lucy much amusement.

He described interviews with the great ones of the land in a broadly

comic spirit; and, when telling an amusing story, he had a way of

assuming a Scottish drawl that added vastly to its humour.

Presently they began to speak of books. Being strictly limited as to

number, he was obliged to choose for his expeditions works which could

stand reading an indefinite number of times.

'I'm like a convict,' he said. 'I know Shakespeare by heart, and I've

read Boswell's _Johnson_ till I think you couldn't quote a line which I

couldn't cap with the next.'

But Lucy was surprised to hear that he read the Greek classics with

enthusiasm. She had vaguely imagined that people recognised their

splendour, but did not read them unless they were dons or

schoolmasters, and it was strange to find anyone for whom they were

living works. To Alec they were a deliberate inspiration. They

strengthened his purpose and helped him to see life from the heroic

point of view. He was not a man who cared much for music or for

painting; his whole aesthetic desires were centred in the Greek poets and

the historians. To him Thucydides was a true support, and he felt in

himself something of the spirit which had animated the great Athenian.

His blood ran faster as he spoke of him, and his cheeks flushed. He felt

that one who lived constantly in such company could do nothing base. But

he found all he needed, put together with a power that seemed almost

divine, within the two covers that bound his Sophocles. The mere look of

the Greek letters filled him with exultation. Here was all he wanted,

strength and simplicity, and the greatness of life, and beauty.

He forgot that Lucy did not know that dead language and could not share

his enthusiasm. He broke suddenly into a chorus from the _Antigone_; the

sonorous, lovely words issued from his lips, and Lucy, not

understanding, but feeling vaguely the beauty of the sounds, thought

that his voice had never been more fascinating. It gained now a peculiar

and entrancing softness. She had never dreamed that it was capable of

such tenderness.

At last they reached Court Leys and walked up the avenue that led to the

house. They saw Dick hurrying towards them. They waved their hands, but

he did not reply, and, when he approached, they saw that his face was

white and anxious.

'Thank God, you've come at last! I couldn't make out what had come to

you.'

'What's the matter?'

The barrister, all his flippancy gone, turned to Lucy.

'Bobbie Boulger has come down. He wants to see you. Please come at

once.'

Lucy looked at him quickly. Sick with fear, she followed him into the

drawing-room.

V

Mrs. Crowley and Robert Boulger were standing by the fire, and there was

a peculiar agitation about them. They were silent, but it seemed to Lucy

that they had been speaking of her. Mrs. Crowley impulsively seized her

hands and kissed her. Lucy's first thought was that something had

happened to her brother. Lady Kelsey's generous allowance had made it

possible for him to hunt, and the thought flashed through her that some

terrible accident had happened.

'Is anything the matter with George?' she asked, with a gasp of terror.

'No,' answered Boulger.

The colour came to Lucy's cheeks as she felt a sudden glow of relief.

'Thank God,' she murmured. 'I was so frightened.'

She gave him, now, a smile of welcome as she shook hands with him. It

could be nothing so very dreadful after all.

Lucy's uncle, Sir George Boulger, had been for many years senior partner

in the great firm of Boulger & Kelsey. After sitting in Parliament for

the quarter of a century and voting assiduously for his party, he had

been given a baronetcy on the celebration of Queen Victoria's second

Jubilee, and had finished a prosperous life by dying of apoplexy at the

opening of a park, which he was presenting to the nation. He had been a

fine type of the wealthy merchant, far-sighted in business affairs and

proud to serve his native city in every way open to him. His son,

Robert, now reigned in his stead, but the firm had been made into a

company, and the responsibility that he undertook, notwithstanding that

the greater number of shares were in his hands, was much less. The

partner who had been taken into the house on Sir Alfred Kelsey's death

now managed the more important part of the business in Manchester, while

Robert, brought up by his father to be a man of affairs, had taken

charge of the London branch. Commerce was in his blood, and he settled

down to work with praiseworthy energy. He had considerable shrewdness,

and it was plain that he would eventually become as good a merchant as

his father. He was little older than Lucy, but his fair hair and his

clean-shaven face gave him a more youthful look. With his spruce air and

well-made clothes, his conversation about hunting and golf, few would

have imagined that he arrived regularly at his office at ten in the

morning, and was as keen to make a good bargain as any of the men he

came in contact with.

Lucy, though very fond of him, was mildly scornful of his Philistine

outlook. He cared nothing for books, and the only form of art that

appealed to him was the musical comedy. She treated him as a rule with

pleasant banter and refused to take him seriously. It required a good

deal of energy to keep their friendship on a light footing, for she knew

that he had been in love with her since he was eighteen. She could not

help feeling flattered, though on her side there was no more than the

cousinly affection due to their having been thrown together all their

lives, and she was aware that they were little suited to one another. He

had proposed to her a dozen times, and she was obliged to use many

devices to protect herself from his assiduity. It availed nothing to

tell him that she did not love him. He was only too willing to marry her

on whatever conditions she chose to make. Her friends and her relations

were anxious that she should accept him. Lady Kelsey had reasoned with

her. Here was a man whom she had known always and could trust utterly;

he had ten thousand a year, an honest heart, and a kindly disposition.

Her father, seeing in the match a resource in his constant difficulties,

was eager that she should take the boy, and George, who was devoted to

him, had put in his word, too. Bobbie had asked her to marry him when he

was twenty-one, and again when she was twenty-one, when George went to

Oxford, when her father went into bankruptcy, and when Hamlyn's Purlieu

was sold. He had urged his own father to buy it, when it was known that

a sale was inevitable, hoping that the possession of it would incline

Lucy's heart towards him; but the first baronet was too keen a man of

business to make an unprofitable investment for sentimental reasons.

Bobbie had proposed for the last time when he succeeded to the baronetcy

and a large fortune. Lucy recognised his goodness and the advantages of

the match, but she did not care for him. She felt, too, that she needed

a free hand to watch over her father and George. Even Mrs. Crowley's

suggestion that with her guidance Robert Boulger might become a man of

consequence, did not move her. Bobbie, on the other hand, had set all

his heart on marrying his cousin. It was the supreme interest of his

life, and he hoped that his patience would eventually triumph over every

obstacle. He was willing to wait.

When Lucy's first alarm was stayed, it occurred to her that Bobbie had

come once more to ask her the eternal question, but the anxious look in

his eyes drove the idea away. His pleasant, boyish expression was

overcast with gravity; Mrs. Crowley flung herself in a chair and turned

her face away.

'I have something to tell you which is very terrible, Lucy,' he said.

The effort he made to speak was noticeable. His voice was strained by

the force with which he kept it steady.

'Would you like me to leave you?' asked Alec, who had accompanied Lucy

into the drawing-room.

She gave him a glance. It seemed to her that whatever it was, his

presence would help her to bear it.

'Do you wish to see me alone, Bobbie?'

'I've already told Dick and Mrs. Crowley.'

'What is it?' she asked.

Bobbie gave Dick an appealing look. It seemed too hard that he should

have to break the awful news to her. He had not the heart to give her so

much pain. And yet he had hurried down to the country so that he might

soften the blow by his words: he would not trust to the callous cruelty

of a telegram. Dick saw the agitation which made his good-humoured mouth

twitch with pain, and stepped forward.

'Your father has been arrested for fraud,' he said gravely.

For a moment no one spoke. The silence was intolerable to Mrs. Crowley,

and she inveighed inwardly against the British stolidity. She could not

look at Lucy, but the others, full of sympathy, kept their eyes upon

her. Mrs. Crowley wondered why she did not faint. It seemed to Lucy

that an icy hand clutched her heart so that the blood was squeezed out

of it. She made a determined effort to keep her clearness of mind.

'It's impossible,' she said at last, quietly.

'He was arrested last night, and brought up at Bow Street Police Court

this morning. He was remanded for a week.'

Lucy felt the tears well up to her eyes, but with all her strength she

forced them back. She collected her thoughts.

'It was very good of you to come down and tell me,' she said to Boulger

gently.

'The magistrate agreed to accept bail in five thousand pounds. Aunt

Alice and I have managed it between us.'

'Is he staying with Aunt Alice now?'

'No, he wouldn't do that. He's gone to his flat in Shaftesbury Avenue.'

Lucy's thoughts went to the lad who was dearest to her in the world, and

her heart sank.

'Does George know?'

'Not yet.'

Dick saw the relief that came into her face, and thought he divined what

was in her mind.

'But he must be told at once,' he said. 'He's sure to see something

about it in the papers. We had better wire to him to come to London

immediately.'

'Surely father could have shown in two minutes that the whole thing was

a mistake.'

Bobbie made a hopeless gesture. He saw the sternness of her eyes, and he

had not the heart to tell her the truth. Mrs. Crowley began to cry.

'You don't understand, Lucy,' said Dick. 'I'm afraid it's a very serious

charge. Your father will be committed for trial.'

'You know just as well as I do that father can't have done anything

illegal. He's weak and rash, but he's no more than that. He would as

soon think of doing anything wrong as of flying to the moon. If in his

ignorance of business he's committed some technical offence, he can

easily show that it was unintentional.'

'Whatever it is, he'll have to stand his trial at the Old Bailey,'

answered Dick gravely.

He saw that Lucy did not for a moment appreciate the gravity of her

father's position. After the first shock of dismay she was disposed to

think that there could be nothing in it. Robert Boulger saw there was

nothing for it but to tell her everything.

'Your father and a man called Saunders have been running a bucketshop

under the name of Vernon and Lawford. They were obliged to trade under

different names, because Uncle Fred is an undischarged bankrupt, and

Saunders is the sort of man who only uses his own name on the charge

sheet of a police court.'

'Do you know what a bucketshop is, Lucy?' asked Dick.

He did not wait for a reply, but explained that it was a term used to

describe a firm of outside brokers whose dealings were more or less

dishonest.

'The action is brought against the pair of them by a Mrs. Sabidon, who

accuses them of putting to their own uses various sums amounting

altogether to more than eight thousand pounds, which she intrusted to

them to invest.'

Now that the truth was out, Lucy quailed before it. The intense

seriousness on the faces of Alec and Dick Lomas, the piteous anxiety of

her cousin, terrified her.

'You don't think there's anything in it?' she asked quickly.

Robert did not know what to answer. Dick interrupted with wise advice.

'We'll hope for the best. The only thing to do is to go up to London at

once and get the best legal advice.'

But Lucy would not allow herself, even for a moment, to doubt her

father. Now that she thought of the matter, she saw that it was absurd.

She forced herself to give a laugh.

'I'm quite reassured. You don't think for a moment that father would

deliberately steal somebody else's money. And it's nothing short of

theft.'

'At all events it's something that we've been able to get him released

on bail. It will make it so much easier to arrange the defence.'

A couple of hours later Lucy, accompanied by Dick Lomas and Bobbie, was

on her way to London. Alec, thinking his presence would be a nuisance to

them, arranged with Mrs. Crowley to leave by a later train; and, when

the time came for him to start, his hostess suddenly announced that she

would go with him. With her party thus broken up and her house empty,

she could not bear to remain at Court Leys. She was anxious about Lucy

and eager to be at hand if her help were needed.

* * *

A telegram had been sent to George, and it was supposed that he would

arrive at Lady Kelsey's during the evening. Lucy wanted to tell him

herself what had happened. But she could not wait till then to see her

father, and persuaded Dick to drive with her from the station to

Shaftesbury Avenue. Fred Allerton was not in. Lucy wanted to go into the

flat and stay there till he came, but the porter had no key and did not

know when he would return. Dick was much relieved. He was afraid that

the excitement and the anxiety from which Fred Allerton had suffered,

would have caused him to drink heavily; and he could not let Lucy see

him the worse for liquor. He induced her, after leaving a note to say

that she would call early next morning, to go quietly home. When they

arrived at Charles Street, where was Lady Kelsey's house, they found a

wire from George to say he could not get up to town till the following

day.

To Lucy this had, at least, the advantage that she could see her father

alone, and at the appointed hour she made her way once more to his flat.

He took her in his arms and kissed her warmly. She succumbed at once to

the cheeriness of his manner.

'I can only give you two minutes, darling,' he said. 'I'm full of

business, and I have an appointment with my solicitor at eleven.'

Lucy could not speak. She clung to her father, looking at him with

anxious, sombre eyes; but he laughed and patted her hand.

'You mustn't make too much of all this, my love,' he said brightly.

'These little things are always liable to happen to a man of business;

they are the perils of the profession, and we have to put up with them,

just as kings and queens have to put up with bomb-shells.'

'There's no truth in it, father?'

She did not want to ask that wounding question, but the words slipped

from her lips against her will. He broke away from her.

'Truth? My dear child, what do you mean? You don't suppose I'm the man

to rob the widow and the orphan? Of course, there's no truth in it.'

'Oh, I'm so glad to hear that,' she exclaimed, with a deep sigh of

relief.

'Have they been frightening you?'

Lucy flushed under his frank look of amusement. She felt that there was

a barrier between herself and him, the barrier that had existed for

years, and there was something in his manner which filled her with

unaccountable anxiety. She would not analyse that vague emotion. It was

a dread to see what was so carefully hidden by that breezy reserve. She

forced herself to go on.

'I know that you're often carried away by your fancies, and I thought

you might have got into an ambiguous position.'

'I can honestly say that no one can bring anything up against me,' he

answered. 'But I do blame myself for getting mixed up with that man

Saunders. I'm afraid there's no doubt that he's a wrong 'un--and heaven

only knows what he's been up to--but for my own part I give you my

solemn word of honour that I've done nothing, absolutely nothing, that I

have the least reason to be ashamed of.'

Lucy took his hand, and a charming smile lit up her face.

'Oh, father, you've made me so happy by saying that. Now I shall be able

to tell George that there's nothing to worry about.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Dick. Fred Allerton

greeted him heartily.

'You've just come in time to take Lucy home. I've got to go out. But

look here, George is coming up, isn't he? Let us all lunch at the

_Carlton_ at two, and get Alice to come. We'll have a jolly little meal

together.'

Dick was astounded to see the lightness with which Allerton took the

affair. He seemed unconscious of the gravity of his position and

unmindful of the charge which was hanging over him. Dick was not anxious

to accept the invitation, but Allerton would hear of no excuses. He

wanted to have his friends gathered around him, and he needed relaxation

after the boredom of spending a morning in his lawyer's office.

'Come on,' he said. 'I can't wait another minute.'

He opened the door, and Lucy walked out. It seemed to Dick that Allerton

was avoiding any chance of conversation with him. But no man likes to

meet his creditor within four walls, and this disinclination might be

due merely to the fact that Allerton owed him a couple of hundred

pounds. But he meant to get in one or two words.

'Are you fixed up with a solicitor?' he asked.

'Do you think I'm a child, Dick?' answered the other. 'Why, I've got the

smartest man in the whole profession, Teddie Blakeley--you know him,

don't you?'

'Only by reputation,' answered Dick drily. 'I should think that was

enough for most people.'

Fred Allerton gave that peculiarly honest laugh of his, which was so

attractive. Dick knew that the solicitor he mentioned was a man of evil

odour, who had made a specialty of dealing with the most doubtful sort

of commercial work, and his name had been prominent in every scandal for

the last fifteen years. It was surprising that he had never followed any

of his clients to the jail he richly deserved.

'I thought it no good going to one of the old crusted family solicitors.

I wanted a man who knew the tricks of the trade.'

They were walking down the stairs, while Lucy waited at the bottom. Dick

stopped and turned round. He looked at Allerton keenly.

'You're not going to do a bolt, are you?'

Allerton's face lit up with amusement. He put his hands on Dick's

shoulders.

'My dear old Dick, don't be such an ass. I don't know about

Saunders--he's a fishy sort of customer--but I shall come out of all

this with flying colours. The prosecution hasn't a leg to stand on.'

Allerton, reminding them that they were to lunch together, jumped into a

cab. Lucy and Dick walked slowly back to Charles Street. Dick was very

silent. He had not seen Fred Allerton for some time and was surprised to

see that he had regained his old smartness. The flat had pretty things

in it which testified to the lessee's taste and to his means, and the

clothes he wore were new and well-cut. The invitation to the _Carlton_

showed that he was in no want of ready money, and there was a general

air of prosperity about him which gave Dick much to think of.

Lucy did not ask him to come in, since George, by now, must have

arrived, and she wished to see him alone. They agreed to meet again at

two. As she shook hands with Dick, Lucy told him what her father had

said.

'I had a sleepless night,' she said. 'It was so stupid of me; I couldn't

get it out of my head that father, unintentionally, had done something

rash or foolish; but I've got his word of honour that nothing is the

matter, and I feel as if a whole world of anxiety were suddenly lifted

from my shoulders.'

* * *

The party at the _Carlton_ was very gay. Fred Allerton seemed in the

best of spirits, and his good-humour was infectious. He was full of

merry quips. Lucy had made as little of the affair as possible to

George. Her eyes rested on him, as he sat opposite to her, and she felt

happy and proud. Now and then he looked at her, and an affectionate

smile came to his lips. She was delighted with his slim handsomeness.

There was a guileless look in his blue eyes which was infinitely

attractive. His mouth was beautifully modelled. She took an immense

pride in the candour of soul which shone with so clear a light on his

face, and she was affected as a stranger might have been by the

exquisite charm of manner which he had inherited from his father. She

wanted to have him to herself that evening and suggested that they

should go to a play together. He accepted the idea eagerly, for he

admired his sister with all his heart; he felt in himself a need for

protection, and she was able to minister to this. He was never so happy

as when he was by her side. He liked to tell her all he did, and, when

she fired him with noble ambitions, he felt capable of anything.

They were absurdly light-hearted, as they started on their little jaunt.

Lady Kelsey had slipped a couple of banknotes into George's hand and

told them to have a good time. They dined at the _Carlton_, went to a

musical comedy, which amused Lucy because her brother laughed so

heartily--she was fascinated by his keen power of enjoyment--and

finished by going to the _Savoy_ for supper. For the moment all her

anxieties seemed to fall from her, and the years of trouble were

forgotten. She was as merry and as irresponsible as George. He was

enchanted. He had never seen Lucy so tender and so gay; there was a new

brilliancy in her eyes; and, without quite knowing what it was that

differed, he found a soft mellowness in her laughter which filled him

with an uncomprehended delight. Neither did Lucy know why the world on a

sudden seemed fuller than it had ever done before, nor why the future

smiled so kindly: it never occurred to her that she was in love.

When Lucy, exhausted but content, found herself at length in her room,

she thanked God for the happiness of the evening. It was the last time

she could do that for many weary years.

* * *

A few days later Allerton appeared again at the police court, and the

magistrate, committing him for trial, declined to renew his bail. The

prisoner was removed in custody.