RED EVE
Over the remainder of that afternoon I will pass in silence. Indeed,
looking backward now, I cannot recollect that it afforded one incident
worthy of record. But because great things overshadow small, so it may
be that whereas my recollections of quite trivial episodes are sharp
enough up to a point, my memories from this point onward to the horrible
and tragic happening which I have set myself to relate are hazy and
indistinct. I was troubled by the continued absence of Val Beverley.
I thought that she was avoiding me by design, and in Harley’s gloomy
reticence I could find no shadow of comfort.
We wandered aimlessly about the grounds, Harley staring up in a vague
fashion at the windows of Cray’s Folly; and presently, when I stopped to
inspect a very perfect rose bush, he left me without a word, and I found
myself alone.
Later, as I sauntered toward the Tudor garden, where I had hoped to
encounter Miss Beverley, I heard the clicking of billiard balls; and
there was Harley at the table, practising fancy shots.
He glanced up at me as I paused by the open window, stopped to relight
his pipe, and then bent over the table again.
“Leave me alone, Knox,” he muttered; “I am not fit for human society.”
Understanding his moods as well as I did, I merely laughed and withdrew.
I strolled around into the library and inspected scores of books without
forming any definite impression of the contents of any of them. Manoel
came in whilst I was there and I was strongly tempted to send a message
to Miss Beverley, but common sense overcame the inclination.
When at last my watch told me that the hour for dressing was arrived,
I heaved a sigh of relief. I cannot say that I was bored, my ill-temper
sprang from a deeper source than this. The mysterious disappearance of
the inmates of Cray’s Folly, and a sort of brooding stillness which lay
over the great house, had utterly oppressed me.
As I passed along the terrace I paused to admire the spectacle afforded
by the setting sun. The horizon was on fire from north to south and the
countryside was stained with that mystic radiance which is sometimes
called the Blood of Apollo. Turning, I saw the disk of the moon coldly
rising in the heavens. I thought of the silent birds and the hovering
hawk, and I began my preparations for dinner mechanically, dressing as
an automaton might dress.
Paul Harley’s personality was never more marked than in his evil moods.
His power to fascinate was only equalled by his power to repel. Thus,
although there was a light in his room and I could hear Lim moving
about, I did not join him when I had finished dressing, but lighting a
cigarette walked downstairs.
The beauty of the night called to me, although as I stepped out upon the
terrace I realized with a sort of shock that the gathering dusk held a
menace, so that I found myself questioning the shadows and doubting
the rustle of every leaf. Something invisible, intangible yet potent,
brooded over Cray’s Folly. I began to think more kindly of the
disappearance of Val Beverley during the afternoon. Doubtless she, too,
had been touched by this spirit of unrest and in solitude had sought to
dispel it.
So thinking. I walked on in the direction of the Tudor garden. The place
was bathed in a sort of purple half-light, lending it a fairy air of
unreality, as though banished sun and rising moon yet disputed for
mastery over earth. This idea set me thinking of Colin Camber, of
Osiris, whom he had described as a black god, and of Isis, whose silver
disk now held undisputed sovereignty of the evening sky.
Resentment of the treatment which I had received at the Guest House
still burned hotly within me, but the mystery of it all had taken the
keen edge off my wrath, and I think a sort of melancholy was the keynote
of my reflections as, descending the steps to the sunken garden, I saw
Val Beverley, in a delicate blue gown, coming toward me. She was the
spirit of my dreams, and the embodiment of my mood. When she lowered her
eyes at my approach, I knew by virtue of a sort of inspiration that she
had been avoiding me.
“Miss Beverley,” I said, “I have been looking for you all the
afternoon.”
“Have you? I have been in my room writing letters.”
I paced slowly along beside her.
“I wish you would be very frank with me,” I said.
She glanced up swiftly, and as swiftly lowered her lashes again.
“Do you think I am not frank?”
“I do think so. I understand why.”
“Do you really understand?”
“I think I do. Your woman’s intuition has told you that there is
something wrong.”
“In what way?”
“You are afraid of your thoughts. You can see that Madame de Stämer and
Colonel Menendez are deliberately concealing something from Paul Harley,
and you don’t know where your duty lies. Am I right?”
She met my glance for a moment in a startled way, then: “Yes,” she said,
softly; “you are quite right. How have you guessed?”
“I have tried very hard to understand you,” I replied, “and so perhaps
up to a point I have succeeded.”
“Oh, Mr. Knox.” She suddenly laid her hand upon my arm. “I am oppressed
with such a dreadful foreboding, yet I don’t know how to explain it to
you.”
“I understand. I, too, have felt it.”
“You have?” She paused, and looked at me eagerly. “Then it is not
just morbid imagination on my part. If only I knew what to do, what to
believe. Really, I am bewildered. I have just left Madame de Stämer--”
“Yes?” I said, for she had paused in evident doubt.
“Well, she has utterly broken down.”
“Broken down?”
“She came to my room and sobbed hysterically for nearly an hour this
afternoon.”
“But what was the cause of her grief?”
“I simply cannot understand.”
“Is it possible that Colonel Menendez is dangerously ill?”
“It may be so, Mr. Knox, but in that event why have they not sent for a
physician?”
“True,” I murmured; “and no one has been sent for?”
“No one.”
“Have you seen Colonel Menendez?”
“Not since lunch-time.”
“Have you ever known him to suffer in this way before?”
“Never. It is utterly unaccountable. Certainly during the last few
months he has given up riding practically altogether, and in other ways
has changed his former habits, but I have never known him to exhibit
traces of any real illness.”
“Has any medical man attended him?”
“Not that I know of. Oh, there is something uncanny about it all.
Whatever should I do if you were not here?”
She had spoken on impulse, and seeing her swift embarrassment:
“Miss Beverley,” I said, “I am delighted to know that my company cheers
you.”
Truth to tell my heart was beating rapidly, and, so selfish is the
nature of man, I was more glad to learn that my company was acceptable
to Val Beverley than I should have been to have had the riddle of Cray’s
Folly laid bare before me.
Those sweetly indiscreet words, however, had raised a momentary barrier
between us, and we walked on silently to the house, and entered the
brightly lighted hall.
The silver peal of a Chinese tubular gong rang out just when we reached
the veranda, and as Val Beverley and I walked in from the garden, Madame
de Stämer came wheeling through the doorway, closely followed by Paul
Harley. In her the art of the toilette amounted almost to genius, and
she had so successfully concealed all traces of her recent grief that I
wondered if this could have been real.
“My dear Mr. Knox,” she cried, “I seem to be fated always to apologize
for other people. The Colonel is truly desolate, but he cannot join us
for dinner. I have already explained to Mr. Harley.”
Harley inclined his head sympathetically, and assisted to arrange Madame
in her place.
“The Colonel requests us to smoke a cigar with him after dinner, Knox,”
he said, glancing across to me. “It would seem that troubles never come
singly.”
“Ah,” Madame shrugged her shoulders, which her low gown left daringly
bare, “they come in flocks, or not at all. But I suppose we should feel
lonely in the world without a few little sorrows, eh, Mr. Harley?”
I loved her unquenchable spirit, and I have wondered often enough what
I should have thought of her if I had known the truth. France has bred
some wonderful women, both good and bad, but none I think more wonderful
than Marie de Stämer.
If such a thing were possible, we dined more extravagantly than on
the previous night. Madame’s wit was at its keenest; she was truly
brilliant. Pedro, from the big bouffet at the end of the room,
supervised this feast of Lucullus, and except for odd moments of silence
in which Madame seemed to be listening for some distant sound, there was
nothing, I think, which could have told a casual observer that a black
cloud rested upon the house.
Once, interrupting a tête-à-tête between Val Beverley and Paul Harley:
“Do not encourage her, Mr. Harley,” said Madame, “she is a desperate
flirt.”
“Oh, Madame,” cried Val Beverley and blushed deeply.
“You know you are, my dear, and you are very wise. Flirt all your
life, but never fall in love. It is fatal, don’t you think so, Mr.
Knox?”--turning to me in her rapid manner.
I looked into her still eyes, which concealed so much.
“Say, rather, that it is Fate,” I murmured.
“Yes, that is more pretty, but not so true. If I could live my life
again, M. Knox,” she said, for she sometimes used the French and
sometimes the English mode of address, “I should build a stone wall
around my heart. It could peep over, but no one could ever reach it.”
Oddly enough, then, as it seems to me now, the spirit of unrest seemed
almost to depart for awhile, and in the company of the vivacious
Frenchwoman time passed very quickly up to the moment when Harley and I
walked slowly upstairs to join the Colonel.
During the latter part of dinner an idea had presented itself to me
which I was anxious to mention to Harley, and:
“Harley,” I said, “an explanation of the Colonel’s absence has occurred
to me.”
“Really!” he replied; “possibly the same one that has occurred to me.”
“What is that?”
Paul Harley paused on the stairs, turning to me.
“You are thinking that he has taken cover from the danger which he
believes particularly to threaten him to-night?”
“Exactly.”
“You may be right,” he murmured, proceeding upstairs.
He led the way to a little smoke-room which hitherto I had never
visited, and in response to his knock:
“Come in,” cried the high voice of Colonel Menendez.
We entered to find ourselves in a small and very cosy room. There was a
handsome oak bureau against one wall, which was littered with papers
of various kinds, and there was also a large bookcase occupied almost
exclusively by French novels. It occurred to me that the Colonel spent a
greater part of his time in this little snuggery than in the more formal
study below. At the moment of our arrival he was stretched upon a
settee near which stood a little table; and on this table I observed the
remains of what appeared to me to have been a fairly substantial repast.
For some reason which I did not pause to analyze at the moment I noted
with disfavour the presence of a bowl of roses upon the silver tray.
Colonel Menendez was smoking a cigarette, and Manoel was in the act of
removing the tray.
“Gentlemen,” said the Colonel, “I have no words in which to express
my sorrow. Manoel, pull up those armchairs. Help yourself to port, Mr.
Harley, and fill Mr. Knox’s glass. I can recommend the cigars in the
long box.”
As we seated ourselves:
“I am extremely sorry to find you indisposed, sir,” said Harley.
He was watching the dark face keenly, and probably thinking, as I was
thinking, that it exhibited no trace of illness.
Colonel Menendez waved his cigarette gracefully, settling himself amid
the cushions.
“An old trouble, Mr. Harley,” he replied, lightly; “a legacy from
ancestors who drank too deep of the wine of life.”
“You are surely taking medical advice?”
Colonel Menendez shrugged slightly.
“There is no doctor in England who would understand the case,” he
replied. “Besides, there is nothing for it but rest and avoidance of
excitement.”
“In that event, Colonel,” said Harley, “we will not disturb you for
long. Indeed, I should not have consented to disturb you at all, if
I had not thought that you might have some request to make upon this
important night.”
“Ah!” Colonel Menendez shot a swift glance in his direction. “You have
remembered about to-night?”
“Naturally.”
“Your interest comforts me very greatly, gentlemen, and I am only
sorry that my uncertain health has made me so poor a host. Nothing
has occurred since your arrival to help you, I am aware. Not that I
am anxious for any new activity on the part of my enemies. But almost
anything which should end this deathly suspense would be welcome.”
He spoke the final words with a peculiar intonation. I saw Harley
watching him closely.
“However,” he continued, “everything is in the hands of Fate, and
if your visit should prove futile, I can only apologize for
having interrupted your original plans. Respecting to-night”--he
shrugged--“what can I say?”
“Nothing has occurred,” asked Harley, slowly, “nothing fresh, I mean,
to indicate that the danger which you apprehend may really culminate
to-night?”
“Nothing fresh, Mr. Harley, unless you yourself have observed anything.”
“Ah,” murmured Paul Harley, “let us hope that the threat will never be
fulfilled.”
Colonel Menendez inclined his head gravely.
“Let us hope so,” he said.
On the whole, he was curiously subdued. He was most solicitous for our
comfort and his exquisite courtesy had never been more marked. I often
think of him now--his big but graceful figure reclining upon the settee,
whilst he skilfully rolled his eternal cigarettes and chatted in that
peculiar, light voice. Before the memory of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento
Menendez I sometimes stand appalled. If his Maker had but endowed him
with other qualities of mind and heart equal to his magnificent courage,
then truly he had been a great man.