|Westwood Court had been in the possession of the family of bankers
since the days of George II. It had been built by that Stephen Westwood
whose portrait was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. In the picture the
man's right hand carries a scroll bearing a tracing of the plans of the
house. Before it had been completed, however, Sir Thomas Chambers
had something to say in regard to the design, the result being sundry
additions which were meant to impart to the plain English mansion the
appearance of the villa of a Roman patrician.
It was a spacious house situated in the midst of one of the loveliest
parks in Brackenshire--a park containing some glorious timber, some
brilliant spaces of greensward, and a trout stream that was never known
to disappoint an angler, however exacting he might be. It was scarcely
surprising that love for this home was the most prominent of the
characteristics of the Westwood family. Every member of the family,
with but one exception, seemed to have inherited this trait. The one
exception was Claude Westwood, the younger brother of Richard.
During his father's lifetime he had been in a cavalry regiment, and
while serving in India, had taken part in a rather perilous frontier
campaign against a strange set of tribesmen in the northwest. He had
become greatly interested in the opening up of the conquered territory,
and as soon as his father died he had left the regiment and had done
some remarkable exploration work on his own account, both in the
northwest of India and in the borderland of Persia.
He returned to England to recover from the effects of a snake-bite,
and to stay for a month or two with his brother, to whom he was deeply
attached. But when in Brackenshire he had formed another attachment
which threatened to interfere with the Future he had mapped out for
himself as an explorer. He did not notice any change in his brother's
demeanour the day he had gone to him confiding in him that he had fallen
in love with Agnes Mowbray, the beautiful daughter of Admiral Mowbray,
who had bought a small property known as The Knoll, a mile from the
gates of the Court. Richard Westwood had found it necessary for the
successful carrying on of the banking business, which he had inherited,
to keep himself always well in hand. If his feelings were not invariably
under control, his expression of those feelings certainly was so; and
this was how it came that, after a pause of only a few seconds, he
was able to offer his brother his hand and to say in a voice that was
neither husky nor tremulous:
“Dear old chap, you have all my good wishes.”
“I knew that you would be pleased,” Claude had said. “She is the sort
of girl one only meets once in a lifetime. I have lived for a good many
years in the world now, and yet I never met any girl worthy of a thought
alongside Agnes. How on earth you have remained in her neighbourhood for
a year without falling in love with her yourself is a mystery to me.”
A sudden flash came to Dick's eyes, and he was at the point of crying
out, “Have I so remained?” But his usual habits of self-control
prevented his showing to his brother what was in his heart He had merely
given a laugh as he said:
“I suppose it must always seem mysterious to a man in love that every
one else in the world does not display symptoms of the same malady.”
“I daresay you are right,” Claude had answered, after a pause. “Yes, I
daresay--only--ah!--Agnes is very different from all the other girls in
the world.”
“You recollect Calverley's lines:
“'I did not love as others do--
None ever did that I've heard tell of?
Ah! you lovers are all cast in the same mould. But how about your
projected exploration--you can scarcely expect her to rough it with you
at the upper reaches of the Zambesi?”
Claude Westwood looked grave. For some weeks he had talked about
nothing else except the splendid possibilities of the Upper Zambesi
to explorers; and his brother had offered to share the expenses of
an expedition thoroughly well-equipped to do all that Livingstone and
Baines left undone in that fascinating quarter of Africa.
“Perhaps she will refuse me,” said Claude.
“Ah! perhaps; but if she does not refuse you?”
There was a long pause. Claude rose from his chair and walked to the
window. He looked out over the sloping lawns and the terraced Italian
garden; the blue swallows were skimming the surface of the huge marble
basin where the water-lilies floated. He seemed greatly interested in
the movements of the birds.
At last he turned suddenly round to his brother, and laid his hand on
his shoulder, saying:
“Dick, I should like to win her. I should like to offer her a name--the
name of a man who has done something in the world. Whatever happens I am
bound to make the expedition to the Zambesi.”
*****
Dick Westwood had, while sitting before the empty grate, recalled all
the incidents of eight years before--he recollected how a level ray of
the red sunlight had flickered through the leaves of the copper beech
and made rosy his brother's face--he could still feel the strong clasp
of his hand as they had separated to dress for the dinner which Admiral
Mowbray was giving that evening. He remembered how Agnes had looked at
the head of the table--oh, he had felt even then that she was not for
him, but for his brother--how could he have fancied for a moment that he
would have a chance of her love when Claude was near?
The expression on Claude's face when they met to go home together told
him all; but he did not need to be told anything. He knew that it was
inevitable. Agnes had accepted Claude: she had accepted him and told him
to go out to Africa; she would wait for him to return, even though he
might not return for ten years, she had said, laughingly.
Alas! alas! the lover had gone at the head of his expedition to the
Zambesi, and for seven months news had come from him at irregular
intervals--for seven months only; after that--silence. No line came from
him, no rumour of the fate of the expedition had reached England, though
at the end of the second year a large reward had been offered to any one
who could throw light on the mystery.
Eight years had now passed since the expedition had set out from
Zanzibar, and there was only one person alive who rejected every
suggestion that disaster had overtaken Claude Westwood and his
companions. It had become an article of faith with Agnes that her lover
would return. The lapse of years seemed to strengthen rather than to
attenuate her hope. Her father had died when Claude had been absent for
two years, and almost his last words to her had been of hope.
“Fear nothing for him; he will return to you. I know what manner of man
it is that succeeds in the world, and Claude Westwood is not the man
to fail. I shall not see him, but you will. Whatever happens, whatever
people round you may say, don't relinquish hope for him.”
Those had been her father's words, and she had obeyed their injunction.
She had not given up hope, although no one in the neighbourhood ever
thought of mentioning the name of Claude Westwood in her hearing. It
seemed that the very memory of the man had died out in Brackenhurst. She
had not given up hope although now and again she had been startled to
see a grey hair where a brown one had been.
And for eight years Richard Westwood had watched her, wondering what
would be the end of her devotion--what would be the end of his own
devotion. People in the neighbourhood could not understand him. They
took the trouble every now and then to invent a theory to account for
his singular rejection of the delicate hints that had been thrown out
to him by mothers of many daughters--hints that the head of the house
of Westwood had certain duties in life--social duties--to discharge.
The theories were more or less ingenious; but even when some of them had
come to his ears he remained as obdurate as ever. He merely laughed, and
the man who laughs is well known to be the most discouraging of men.
But Cyril Mowbray did not find him very discouraging as he sat with him
on this evening after dinner, for the dinner had been an excellent one
and his cigars were unexceptional. They were in their easy-chairs in
front of a French window, the leaves of which were open. The square
of the window enclosed as in a frame an exquisite picture of the dim
garden. The sound of cawing rooks in the distant elms was borne through
the tranquil air. The scents of the earliest roses stole within the room
at mysterious intervals. It was a perfect summer's night, and Cyril felt
that though there were troubles in the world, yet on the whole it was a
very pleasant place to live in.
There had been a pause in the conversation, which had related mainly to
a very pretty young girl named Lizzie Dangan, the daughter of the head
gamekeeper at Westwood Court--the man who had touched his hat as the
dog-cart drove through the entrance gates. The silence was suddenly
broken by Cyril's exclaiming:
“You are a first-rate chap, Dick. Why shouldn't you marry Agnes?”
Dick's eyes flashed upon him for a moment, and it seemed to Cyril that
he detected a certain curious drawing in of his breath that sounded like
the stifling of a sigh. The exclamation which came from him immediately
afterwards seemed incongruous--it was an exclamation that suggested the
putting aside of an absurdity.
“Oh, you may say 'psha!' as often as you please,” said Cyril; “it will
not alter the fact that Agnes and you would get on very well together. I
know that she thinks a lot of you--so do I.”
“That's very kind of you,” said Dick. “But you're talking
nonsense--worse than nonsense. Agnes has given her promise to marry my
brother Claude. Let us say no more about it.”
“It's all very well for you to say, 'We'll say no more about it,”' cried
Cyril, with an air of responsibility--the responsibility of a brother
who refuses to allow the affections of his sister to be trifled with.
“It's all very well for you to say that; but when I think how long this
sort of shilly-shallying has been going on--well, it makes me wild.
Agnes is now over thirty--think of that--over thirty, and what's more,
she's not getting any younger. I'm anxious to see her settled. I think
I've a right to ask if she's engaged to marry Claude. Where's Claude
now? Does any sane person believe that he is still in the land of the
living?”
“Your sister believes it, and she is sane enough. However, I'm not going
to discuss the question with you, my friend; or, for that matter, with
anybody else.”
“That's all very well; the fact remains the same. Here's a fine house
thrown away upon a bachelor, and there's Agnes, who would suit you down
to the ground, waiting”--
“Waiting--waiting--that is exactly her position.”
“Waiting--yes; but for what? For what, I ask you as a man of the world?
Your brother is dead, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and here you are alive
and hearty. Doesn't it say something in the Bible that when a chap's
brother dies”--
“Cyril,” said Dick Westwood, rising with an impatient jesture, “we'll
have no more of this. I won't allow you to talk any longer in this
strain. Shall we finish our cigars in the garden?”
“All right,” said Cyril, rising. But before they had taken a step toward
the open French window, there seemed to arise from the earth the figure
of a man, and he stood in the window space looking eagerly at each of
them in turn.