“WAITING”
Hugh Alston had certainly not attempted anything in the way of
picturesque disguise. There was nothing brigandish or romantic about
the appearance of the very ordinary-looking young man who put in an
appearance at Starden village.
Quite what his plans were, what he proposed doing and how he should do
it, Hugh had not the slightest idea. He mistrusted Slotman. He
experienced exactly the same feelings as would a man who, hearing that
there was a savage wild beast let loose where an immense amount of harm
may be done, puts a gun under his arm and sallies forth.
Even if Joan had not the immense claim on him that she had, he believed
he would do exactly what he was doing now. He might be wrong about
Slotman, of course. The man might have cleared out and left the
country, but Hugh fancied that he had not. Here was a little gold-mine,
a young girl, rich and unprotected, a girl of whom this villain
believed certain things, which if true would give him a great power
over her. That they were not true, Slotman did not know, and he would
use his fancied knowledge to obtain his ends and to make Joan’s life
unbearable.
So Hugh Alston was here in rough, shaggy tweeds, sitting on the
self-same seat beside the old stocks where most mornings Ellice Brand
came.
“I’m here,” he said to himself, and pulled hard on his pipe. “I am
here, and here I am going to stay. Sooner or later, unless I am dead
out in my reckonings, that brute will turn up, and when he does he’ll
find me here ahead of and waiting for him.”
“The Meredyths,” said Mrs. Bonner, “hev lived at Starden”—she called it
‘Sta-a-arden’—“oh, I wouldn’t like to say for how long, centuries
anyhow. Then for a time things got despirit with them, and the place
was sold. Bought it was by Mr. Gorridge, a London gentleman. Thirty
years he lived here. I remember him buying it; I would be about
eighteen then, just before I married Bonner. Master Roger I think it
was, anyhow one of ’em—the Meredyths I mean—went to Australia and kep’
sheep or something there, and made money, and he bought the old place
back, Mr. Gorridge being dead and gone. You’ll see ’is tomb in the
church, Mr. Alston.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said. “I’ll be sure to look for it.”
“A wonderful expensive tomb, and much admired,” said Mrs. Bonner.
“I am sure it must be in the best taste. And then?”
“Oh, then Mr. Roger died at sea and left it all, Starden Hall and his
money, to Miss Joan Meredyth. And she lives there now, and I suppose
she’ll go on living there when she is married.”
“When she is married,” he repeated.
“To Mr. John Everard of Buddesby, a rare pleasant-spoken, nice
gentleman as no one can speak a word against. Passes here most days in
his car, he does—always running over from Buddesby, as is but
natcheral.”
Starden Hall gates stood about a quarter of a mile out of Starden
village, and midway between the village and the Hall gates was Mrs.
Bonner’s clean, typically Kentish little cottage.
Artists were Mrs. Bonner’s usual customers. The cottage was old,
half-timbered and hipped-roofed. The roof was clad with Sussex stone,
lichen-covered, and a feast of colour from grey and vivid yellow to the
most tender green. Mrs. Bonner herself was a comfortable body, built on
ample and generous lines, a born house manager, a born cook, and of a
cleanliness that she herself described as “scrutinous.”
So Hugh, casting about for a retreat, had happened on Mrs. Bonner’s
cottage and had installed himself here—for how long he knew not, for
what purpose he scarcely even guessed at. Yet here he was.
Mrs. Bonner had seen Philip Slotman, as she saw most things and people
that at one time or another passed within range of her windows.
She recognised him from Hugh’s description.
“It would be about best part of a fortnight ago,” she said. “He had
shammy leather gloves on, and was in Hickman’s cab. Hickman waited for
him at the hall gates and then took him back.”
“And he’s not been here since?”
“I fancy, but I ain’t sure, that I did see him one day in a car,” said
Mrs. Bonner; “but I couldn’t swear to it.”
Twice he had seen “Her” from the window of Mrs. Bonner’s little
cottage, once a mere glimpse as she had flashed by in a car; the other
time she had been afoot, walking and alone. He had gazed on the slim
grace of her figure, himself hidden behind Mrs. Bonner’s spotless white
lace curtains. He had watched her, his soul in his eyes, the woman he
loved and who was not for him, could never be for him now, and there
fell upon him a sense of desolation, of loneliness, of utter
hopelessness.
Three days had passed since his coming to Starden. He had seen Joan
twice, he had seen the man she was to marry. Once he had caught a
glimpse of John Everard hurrying to Starden Hall in his little car, he
himself had been standing by Mrs. Bonner’s gate. Everard had turned his
head and glanced at him, with that curiosity about strangers that all
dwellers in rustic places feel.
“An artist, I suppose,” Johnny thought as he drove on.
Hugh watched him down the road; he had seen Everard’s glance at him,
and had summed him up. The man was just what he would have imagined, a
man of his own stamp, no Adonis—just an ordinary, healthy, clean-living
Englishman.
“I rather like the look of him,” thought Hugh. “He seems all right.”
And then he smiled at his thoughts a trifle bitterly. “By every right
on earth I ought to hate him.”
Johnny drove his small car to the doors of the Hall.
“Joan,” he said, “come out. Come out for a spin—the car’s running
finely to-day. Come out, and we’ll go and have lunch at Langbourne or
somewhere. What do you say?” His face was eager. “You know,” he added,
“you have never been out with me in my car yet.”
“If you would like me to.”
“Go and get ready then, and I’ll tell Helen,” he said. “We shan’t be
back to lunch.”
Hugh had been on his way to the village when he saw Everard in his
little car. He went to the village because, if he went in the opposite
direction, it would take him to the Hall gates, and he did not wish to
go there. He did not wish her to see him, to form the idea that he was
here loitering about for the purpose of seeing her.
Sooner or later he knew she must be made aware of his presence, then he
hoped for an opportunity to explain, but he would not seek it yet. So
he made his way to the village, stopped to give pennies to small
white-haired children, patted the shaggy dusty heads of vagrant dogs,
and finally came to anchor on the seat beside the railed-in stocks.
And there on that same seat sat a small, dark-eyed maiden, whose rusty
bicycle reclined against the railings. She had been here yesterday for
fifteen minutes or so. He and she had occupied the seat without the
exchange of a word, according to English custom.
Hugh looked at her. Because he regarded one woman as the embodiment of
all that was perfect and graceful and beautiful, it did not blind him
to beauty in others. He saw in this girl what those blinder than he had
not yet recognised—the dawning of a wonderful, a radiant and glowing
beauty. And because he had a very sincere and honest appreciation of
the beautiful, she interested him, and he smiled. He lifted his hat.
The girl stared at him; she started a little as he raised his hat. She
gave the slightest inclination of her head. It was not encouraging.
Hugh sat down. He was thinking of the man he had seen a while ago—a
clean, honest, open-faced man, a man he felt he could like, and yet by
every reason ought to hate.
The girl was studying his profile.
She had the suspicion that is inherent in all shy wild things, and yet,
looking at him, she felt that this man was no dangerous animal to be
feared and avoided.
Turning suddenly, he caught her glance and smiled.
“You live here?”
“No!”
“Yet you—oh, I see, you are staying here—”
“No, I live at Little Langbourne.”
He smiled, having no idea where Little Langbourne might be.
They talked—of nothing, of the ducks and geese on the green, of the
weather, of the sunshine, of the ancient stocks.
“You are staying here?” she asked.
“Yes, at Mrs. Bonner’s.”
“Oh, then you are an artist?”
“Nothing so ornamental, I am afraid. No—quite a useless person.”
“If you are not an artist, and have no friends here, do you not find it
a little dull?”
“Yes, but I am a patient animal. I am waiting, you see.”
“Waiting—for what?”
Hugh smiled. “For something that may happen, and yet may not. I am
waiting in case it does. Of course you don’t understand, little girl,
I—I mean—I am sorry,” he apologised. “I was forgetting, thinking of a
friend, another girl I know.”
“I am not offended. Why should I be? I am a girl and—and not very big,
am I?” She rose and smiled at him, and held out her hand.
“Thank you,” Hugh said. He took her hand and held it. “I think you are
generous.”
“For not being offended by a silly thing like that!” She laughed and
turned to get the bicycle. But it had slipped, the handle-bar had
become wedged in the railings; it took all Hugh’s strength to persuade
the handle-bar to come out.
“I am afraid you can’t ride it like this, the bar’s got twisted. If you
have a spanner—”
“I haven’t,” said Ellice.
“Then if you will permit I will wheel it into the village. There’s a
cycle shop there, and I’ll fix it up for you.”
So, he wheeling the bicycle, and she beside him, they crossed the green
and came to the village street. And down the road came a little
grey-painted car, which Johnny Everard was driving with more pride than
he had ever experienced before.
“Why, hello!” thought Johnny. “What on earth is Ellice doing here, and
who is the fellow she is with? He’s the man I saw at Mrs. Bonner’s gate
and—”
He turned his head and glanced at Joan. He was going to say something
to her, something about the unexpectedness of seeing Ellice here, but
Johnny Everard said nothing. He was startled, for Joan’s face was
white, and her lips were compressed. And in Joan’s brain was dinning
the question. “He here—what does he do here? Has he come here to
torment me further, to pester and plague and annoy me with his speeches
that I will never listen to? How dare he come here?”
He had seen her, had paused. He lifted his hand to his hat and raised
it, but Joan stared straight before her.
It was the cut direct, and there came a dusky red into Hugh’s face as
he realised the fact.