TUROY GRANGE.
The address Lady Teignmouth had given Colonel Dacre was Turoy Grange,
near Westhampton, Yorkshire; and after looking out for Westhampton on
the map, and settling the route he ought to take, he rang the bell, and
told the butler to pack his traveling-bag and order the carriage for
the four-o’clock train.
“I sha’n’t be gone more than three or four days,” added the colonel,
seeing the other looked surprised. “You may confidently expect me by
Saturday at the latest.”
It was to be hoped Graham did not take his master quite at his word,
for a great many Saturdays would come and go before Colonel Dacre would
cross his own threshold again.
Indeed, he little suspected what this journey was to bring forth, or
he would have counter-ordered his dog-cart assuredly, tossed Lady
Teignmouth’s card into the waste-basket, and made up his mind to await
calmly the issue of events, and abide by the result.
However, four o’clock saw the “gallant colonel”--as the local newspaper
always designated him--stepping into a first-class carriage at Borton
Station, bound for “fair London town,” en route for Turoy Grange, near
Westhampton, Yorkshire.
He remembered as he went along that he had often heard Lady Gwendolyn
speak, half jestingly, of her “mansion” at Turoy, and declare it to be
such a “ghostly place that only a person with a very clear conscience
could venture to stay there even for a night.”
She and Lord Teignmouth had often spent their holidays there when
children; but then their mother was alive, and the place had been made
bright for their occupation.
The last four years it had been seldom inhabited, although it was one
of Lady Gwendolyn’s caprices to have it kept in perfect order and
repair, that it might be available, supposing she cared to run down
there at any time.
An old nurse of hers, with her husband, lived in the house--that
Colonel Dacre also remembered to have heard; and had been pleased at
Lady Gwendolyn’s thoughtful provision for one who had been good to her
when she was a child. But from the description given him of Turoy it
was the last place for a spoiled beauty to take refuge in, unless she
had some reason at the moment to feel disgusted with the world and her
friends, and needed a spell of solitude to get her into a better mood.
“If I could believe that she had run away to Turoy on my account I
should be the happiest man alive,” Colonel Dacre said to himself, with
a wild thrill, for it seemed to him that this would be sure proof that
he was not indifferent to her. “Otherwise, what could there be in my
secret to pain and annoy her?”
And then he set himself to work out the problem how she could have
found anything in his mother’s boudoir to enlighten her on this point.
He had not solved it to his satisfaction when the train whistled its
way into London, and he was obliged to attend to the more practical
details of his journey. He found, on consulting the time-table, that
there was no train which stopped at Westhampton until the morning
express, and, therefore, he decided to go to a hotel, and get a few
hours’ rest.
He was not naturally vain, but it did strike him that he should gain
in the end by this delay, as a battered-looking, travel-stained,
wobegone man would not make his appearance on the Turoy scene with much
effect. And he could not afford to dispense with a single advantage in
the contest before him, for he knew the adversary he had to deal with,
and that if once he gave Lady Gwendolyn the chance of making a jest at
his expense he was undone.
She was one of those women who would forgive a lover for having
committed a crime, but would never pardon him if he made himself
ridiculous. So that Colonel Dacre gave himself seven good hours’ sleep,
and started the next morning in excellent health and spirits.
The journey was a long one, but with hope for a companion time passes
so quickly, and whenever he was beginning to grow weary he refreshed
himself by picturing Lady Gwendolyn’s blush and smile, her well-feigned
surprise, her delicious embarrassment, her mutinous grace, as she
welcomed him to her “mansion.”
The train only stopped at a few of the largest stations; but at Preston
there was a halt of ten minutes, and he went to get himself a biscuit
and a glass of sherry. As he returned to the platform to regain his
carriage, he ran up against a lady whose figure struck him as familiar.
Nothing could be simpler than this lady’s dress, and yet it was worn
with an elegance that suggested strange possibilities to his mind, and
made him follow the owner curiously. She seemed startled and annoyed by
his scrutiny, although the thick Shetland veil she was wearing not only
concealed, but distorted her features so much that it was impossible
to recognize her, supposing even she had been the person he had come
northward to seek.
But his suspicions had never taken that direction for a moment. This
lady was taller than Lady Gwendolyn by at least a couple of inches,
and there was a sort of insolence in her bearing which Colonel Dacre
seemed to know only too well.
In spite of himself, he thought of Lady Teignmouth, and, wondering
what mischief was hidden under this disguise, kept close to her heels.
She quickened her pace, and presently, to his surprise, jumped into a
third-class carriage.
A common man in the corner moved forward to make room for her, and
evidently recognized her superiority, for he said, almost respectfully:
“Won’t you come here, miss? you’ll find it more comfortable.”
“Thank you, zir, I am sure,” answered the other, with an abominable
accent. “Although, for the matter of that, bad’s the best.”
Colonel Dacre waited to hear no more. He was quite satisfied now
that the young person in the Shetland veil was some lady’s-maid, who
had learned to copy her mistress successfully enough to deceive an
outsider, until she opened her mouth. Then there could be no doubt
about her social status whatever; and it quite amused him to picture
Lady Teignmouth’s horror, supposing she had been told that he had taken
a third-class passenger, with a northern burr, for her aristocratic
self.
The rest of the journey passed without further incident.
On getting down at Westhampton, Colonel Dacre found himself looking out
rather curiously for the heroine of his little adventure at Preston;
but she was not there, nor in the third-class carriage where he had
seen her last, so that either she had changed her seat, or had got down
at one of the intermediate stations.
“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter to me,” he said to himself. “I have had
abundant proof that it is not Lady Teignmouth, and that was all I
wanted to know.”
There was one rickety fly waiting outside the station, and Colonel
Dacre engaged it at once, and told the man to drive direct to Turoy
Grange. It was only four miles off, but the roads were so bad, the
country so hilly, and the poor horse so groggy, that it was an hour
and a half before they came in sight of Turoy, a little cluster of
cottages, with a small, gray church tower rising out of their midst.
Another steep ascent brought them into the village; they stopped in
front of a low, old-fashioned house.
“This is the Grange, zurr,” said the coachman; and Colonel Dacre jumped
out gladly.
Then he rang the bell, and as he heard it echo through the silent
house, a sudden nervous fear seized him lest he should have done ill in
coming.
Lady Gwendolyn was so peculiar that the thing which would have helped
him with another woman might ruin him with her. Nobody answered his
first summons, nor his second; but when he rang a third time he
heard a step along the hall, and the door opened at last--slowly and
reluctantly.
A respectable-looking middle-aged woman presented herself, and
evidently regarded Colonel Dacre with great disfavor.
“What may you be pleased to want?” she asked, with cold civility.
“I want to see Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur.”
“She isn’t at home,” replied the woman, and she was about to shut the
door again in his face.
But he was prepared for this movement, and had inserted his knee in the
aperture, that he might have time for parley.
“I suppose she is staying at Turoy? Lady Teignmouth gave me this
address.”
But even the countess’ name and authority could not soften the woman,
who seemed to take her post as door-keeper much too strictly, unless
she had received stringent orders.
“Whether she is or she isn’t staying at Turoy, she isn’t in this house
now,” was the reply, spoken with great determination.
“Perhaps she has gone out for a walk?” the colonel observed, trying an
indirect question.
“Perhaps she has.”
“In that case, I think I had better call again later, don’t you?”
“Just as you like; it’s no affair of mine.”
Colonel Dacre’s temper was naturally good, but it began to fail him a
little now.
“I should have fancied you were left in the house on purpose to give
information,” he said. “Anyhow, you might as well give a civil answer
to a civil question. I am sure Lady Gwendolyn would not consider that
you served her interests by being rude to her visitors.”
“Her ladyship knows too well about me for anything people might say to
trouble her,” answered the woman quietly. “I do my duty, so far as I
know how; and I can’t help the rest. If her ladyship came down here it
is because she wants rest and quiet; but, of course, if she told me to
let in a whole regiment I should obey her.”
“Then she has told you not to admit any one?”
“I never said so, sir.”
“At any rate, I shall return in a couple of hours,” responded Colonel
Dacre, irritated almost beyond endurance, and he turned on his heel and
marched briskly away.
He looked back when he reached the gate, and caught just one glimpse of
a graceful dark head at one of the windows; but it was withdrawn before
he had time to identify it. And he went on his way, wondering if Lady
Gwendolyn was as false as her sister-in-law, or if she was one of those
women who love to torture those in their power.
He adjourned to the village inn, and ordered a bottle of wine, simply
for the sake of getting into conversation with the landlord, who seemed
much gratified when he was told to bring a second glass and help
himself. The sherry was potent, and loosened mine host’s tongue.
What sort of a neighborhood was it? Why, as poor as poor could be. He
never got any genteel custom from week’s end to week’s end, and that
was very trying to a man who had lived in good families before he took
up with the public line, and liked to keep in his own set.
“I suppose you don’t supply the Grange, then?” said Colonel Dacre,
looking as innocent as a dove.
“Bless you, sir, there’s no supplying as far as the Grange goes. The
lady it belongs to doesn’t come to Turoy more than once a year, and
then she is a teetotaller.”
“That is very unfortunate,” returned Colonel Dacre sympathetically. “I
suppose she isn’t here now?”
“That I can’t tell you, sir. Her coming or going doesn’t make much
difference to me, although some people are delighted enough.”
“Perhaps she is good to the poor?”
“Well, I believe she is that,” he admitted. “But I am afraid you don’t
like the wine, sir. You see, having so little trade in that way, I
can’t afford to keep much of a stock.”
“Oh, no; you are quite right,” answered the colonel. “Have you a decent
bed for me, supposing I decide to remain at Turoy to-night?”
“The best in the world, sir; I’ll answer for that,” responded mine
host. “And I shall be proud of your patronage and recommendation.”
Colonel Dacre strolled out into the village to pass away the time,
and it was growing dusk when he presented himself once more at
Lady Gwendolyn’s door. This time it was answered by a stalwart,
weather-beaten man of about fifty, who, in reply to his question, said,
civilly, that her ladyship was not at home.
“Could I see her if I called in the morning?” pursued the colonel.
“I doubt if she’ll be at home then; but, of course, you must do as you
like about the calling.”
“The fact is, I want to see Lady Gwendolyn upon particular business,”
added Colonel Dacre impressively. “I am sure she would not refuse to
receive me if she knew this, and I should be really obliged if you
would mention it to her. Or would it be better if I wrote a line, and
explained matters myself?”
“I should almost think it would, sir.”
“Yes, but is she sure to get my letter?”
“I don’t fancy anybody would steal it, sir,” replied the man shortly.
“I didn’t mean that, of course; but if she is not here it could be
forwarded, I suppose?”
“There would be no difficulty about that.”
Colonel Dacre tried to slip a sovereign into his hand, but the man was
evidently obtuse, for he let it drop, and seemed quite surprised when
he heard it ring on the stone floor.
“You are losing your money, sir,” he said; and, having picked it up,
he handed it back with such a virtuously reproachful air that Colonel
Dacre dared not so much as hint that it was for him, and restored it to
his pocket in rather a crestfallen way.
He went back to the inn to secure his bed, and then he returned to the
charge. Seating himself on a bank just outside the gate of the Grange,
he watched the house and garden both.
Half an hour passed without incident. The evening began to darken
perceptibly, and he saw a light in one of the lower windows, and the
outline of the female dragon’s head, but she was evidently a discreet
woman, for she quickly drew down the blind, and raised it no more.
But though it must have been quite dark indoors by this time, there was
no other sign of the house being inhabited.
He was beginning to think that he had come on a wild-goose chase, and
that Lady Gwendolyn might be at the other end of England, after all,
when suddenly his heart began to tremble and his pulses to quicken. He
had caught sight of a white figure standing in the porch, and fancied
he knew that this was Lady Gwendolyn.
She stepped daintily out from under a trellis-work of roses and
clematis, and looked from side to side, as if she were in search of
some one.
“Does she regret her cruelty just now?” he asked himself, his breath
coming short and fast from an intense eagerness of expectancy, while
the wild longing within him almost frightened him, as a sign of the
terrible empire this passion was gaining.
It might be so, for she glided forward to the gate like a spirit; and,
standing there, looked down the road with something wistful in her
attitude, as it seemed to him. He had almost decided to step forward
and accost her, when she drew back suddenly, as if something had
frightened her, and turned down a little path with shrubs on either
side.
He had not seen her face distinctly, for she had a white shawl over her
head, and was holding it close under her chin to protect her from the
night air; but he could have no doubt that this was Lady Gwendolyn.
He got up and followed.
He saw her walking slowly, and looking about her with the expectant
air he had noticed at first; then suddenly she paused, a dark figure
stepped out of the shadow of the trees, and Colonel Dacre, with a
jealous thrill, saw Lady Gwendolyn’s creamy fingers pressed fervently
against the newcomer’s black mustache.
How he restrained himself from rushing forward and confronting the pair
he never knew. At this moment he felt like a murderer, and thirsted for
the blood of this rival, whom Lady Gwendolyn preferred to himself.
She had carried her coquetry cruelly far, for she had won his whole
heart, and had left him only just sense enough to suffer and regret.
So false and yet so fair. Oh! why had he not been warned in time? He
could have given her up easily in the first days. Now, although he
knew all her perfidy, and believed her to have neither conscience nor
feeling, he could not drag his love up by the roots, although it must
needs be his sorrow and shame. When she passed her arm through the
man’s, with a few soft words he could not catch, and they moved away
together, Colonel Dacre did not follow.
He was too honorable to seek to surprise their confidence, and,
moreover, he was afraid of himself. If he met this man face to face he
should kill him like a dog, for the old Cain was rampant in him at the
moment, and he felt that his only chance was flight.
With a few bounds he reached the open space in front of the house,
dashed through the gate, and hurried back to the Sun. He ordered
something to be cooked for his supper, in order that he might not be
disturbed just yet and then he shut himself in his own room--out of
temptation’s way--thank Heaven for that! for it made him tremble to
think how near he had been that night to committing a terrible crime.
When the fowl was ready, it was necessary to go down, and make a
pretense of eating--of course. The landlord waited on him himself, and
as he removed the cover, with a flourish, he said:
“You were asking if her ladyship was at the Grange, sir, this
afternoon----”
“Well?” exclaimed Colonel Dacre, turning sharply round in his eagerness.
“I have ascertained that she arrived to-day.”
Colonel Dacre could not answer for a minute, he felt as if he were
choking. He began to carve the fowl to gain time; and, having divided
every joint, and distributed the pieces over the dish for mine host to
hand round to some imaginary guest, he managed to say at last, with
well-feigned indifference:
“Indeed; I suppose she came alone?”
“I suppose so, sir--she always does.”
There was a moment’s pause; and then he added cheerfully:
“This has been a stirring day, sir; it isn’t often we have two bedrooms
occupied, and two suppers to cook. I wish it would occur oftener, I am
sure. Sherry, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the colonel feverishly; and he pushed forward his
tumbler instead of his wine-glass; emptying it at a draft, as if it
contained water, as soon as it was filled.
He was a very abstemious man generally, but he did not know what he was
drinking to-night. His one thought was to slake his consuming thirst
with whatever came easiest to hand.
“I am afraid you have a poor appetite, sir,” observed mine host, after
watching him toy with a merrythought, like a delicate girl, and he
filled up the tumbler again.
Colonel Dacre lifted it to his lips once more, and set it down half
empty this time. He had fasted all day, and felt strangely excited by
what he had taken, although it would have had no effect under different
circumstances. Ordering the table to be cleared, he lighted a cigar,
and began to smoke it slowly, his somber glance fixed on the open
window, while he listened for every sound.
Presently the church clock struck twelve solemnly out in the darkness,
making him start in his chair, and recalling him to the fact that
his cigar had gone out. He tossed it through the window, and lighted
another. He was in that nervous, overwrought state when his whole body
seemed full of pulses, and his temples kept up a measured, oppressive
beat.
Colonel Dacre fancied he knew who mine host’s other guest would be;
but he had sworn to himself only to listen for his step. Though he was
calm now, and could trust himself, it would be a terrible risk to see
the face of Lady Gwendolyn’s lover, lest they should meet again one day
when he was not master of himself.
Presently a step came along the road--a firm, brisk step, which had a
cheerful sound--the step of a happy lover, who had brought away tender
memories with him, and still feels the sweetness of a timid parting
kiss lingering on his lips.
Colonel Dacre sat back firmly in his chair, and covered his eyes. But
when the door opened he glanced up mechanically, and there stood the
man he had sworn not to look upon for his soul’s sake.
The other drew back at once, with a hurried apology for his mistake,
and a courteous bow; but Colonel Dacre knew that wherever they might
meet he should recognize him again, and that the cool, proud face, with
its insolent beauty, would be from henceforth imprinted on his brain.