|Some days had passed before Claude Westwood was able to return to the
Court. He seemed now to be as anxious for publicity as on his landing
in England he had been to avoid it. He was daily with Messrs. Shekels &
Shackles completing his arrangements with them for the production of his
book, so as to preclude the need for another visit until he had written
the last page of the manuscript. He did not want to be disturbed,
he said, while engaged at the work; and Messrs. Shekels & Shackles
cordially agreed with him in thinking that he should be allowed to give
all his attention to the actual writing of his narrative, without being
worried by any of the technical incidents of presenting it in book form
to the public.
They urged upon him the advisability of losing no moment of time in
settling down to his work. Already a valuable month had been thrown
away, they reminded him; and although, happily, the reports from the
North were to the effect that the winter had set in with such severity
as to make it practically impossible for Mr. Glasnevin, the Arctic
explorer, to free himself from his ice-prison before the spring, so that
his formidable rivalry would not interfere with the popularity of Mr.
Westwood, still they had heard that another gentleman might be expected
any day from the Amazon. This gentleman, in addition to a narrative
of two years' residence among the Indians of the Pampas, would, it was
reported, be able to give the public photographs of the injuries which
had been inflicted on him by his captors, who were known to be the most
ingenious torturers in the world. They feared that if this gentleman got
home during the winter his arrival would seriously interfere with the
sale of Mr. Westwood's book. They could only hope, however, that the
Foreign Office would take up the case of the traveller at the Amazon,
for that would mean the indefinite postponement of his liberation, so
that Mr. Westwood would have the field to himself.
Without waiting to say whether or not he took the same bright and cheery
view of the freezing in of the Arctic explorer or of the operation of
the British consular system in regard to the tortured gentleman in South
America, Mr. Westwood promised to do his best for his optimistic if
anxious publishers, and so departed.
He regretted, however, that he could not see his way to dictate to a
shorthand writer a dozen or so interviews with himself which could be
judiciously distributed among the newspapers at intervals, so as to keep
his name prominently before a public who are ever ready to throw over
one idol for another.
It was probably his strong sense of what was due to his publishers,
that caused him to hasten to The Knoll on the very day of his return to
Brackenshire. It was perfectly plain from the comments on his lecture,
which had already appeared and were appearing daily in the newspapers,
that the discoveries made by him in Central Africa had become the topic
of the hour. Why, even Brackenhurst had awakened to find that a famous
man was residing in its neighbourhood, and when one's native place is
brought to acknowledge one's fame, which all the rest of the world is
talking about, one may rightly feel that one is famous. Therefore, as
Mr. Westwood explained to Agnes and Clare, it was necessary for him to
start upon his book at once.
He wasted as much time explaining this as would have been sufficient
to write a chapter; and in the end he did nothing except invite them to
dine at the Court on the following night, in order that they might talk
more fully on the question of the need for haste.
“Do you think that it is necessary to waste time discussing the
advisability of not wasting time?” asked Agnes; and immediately Clare
turned her large eyes reproachfully upon her; there was more of sorrow
than reproach in Claude's eyes as he looked at her. She met their eyes
without changing colour.
“Oh, of course, I know that I am quite outside the plans of you
workers,” she continued. “It is somewhat presumptuous for me to assume
the position of your adviser on a purely literary question, so I shall
be very happy to dine at the Court.”
“Thank you,” said Claude. “I have been out of touch for so long with
English society I have almost forgotten their traditions; but I don't
think that I am wrong in assuming that no work of any importance,
either charitable or social, can be begun without a dinner. Now, without
venturing to suggest that our work--Clare's and mine--is one of supreme
importance, I do not think that it would be wise for us to ignore the
custom which tradition has almost made sacred--especially when it is
in sympathy with our own inclinations. We'll take care not to bore you,
Agnes,” he added. “I met Sir Percival Hope just now, and he promised to
be of our party.”
“Now!” cried Clare, in a tone that seemed to suggest that Agnes could
not possibly have further ground for objection.
Agnes raised her hands.
“I am overwhelmed with remorse for having made any suggestion that was
not quite in keeping with your inclinations,” she said.
She and Clare accordingly drove to the Court on the next evening, and
found Sir Percival in one of the drawing-rooms talking to his host on
the subject of the recent poaching in the coverts of the Court and also
on Sir Percival's property. The poachers were getting more daring every
day, it appeared, and Ralph Dangan's vigilance seemed overmatched by
their cunning so far as Sir Percival's preserves were concerned. Sir
Percival said that his new gamekeeper accounted for the recent outbreak
on the ground that neither of the proprietors had displayed the sporting
tastes of the previous holders of the property, and the poachers thought
it a pity that the pheasants should become too numerous.
Claude smiled as Sir Percival made him acquainted with his late
gamekeeper's theory.
“It is very obliging on their part to undertake the thinning down of my
birds,” said he, “and if I could rely on their discretion in the matter
all would be well. I am afraid, however, that one cannot take their
judgment for granted; so that whenever Dangan thinks that our forces
should be joined to make a capture of the gang, I'll give instructions
for my keepers to coôperate with him.”
At dinner, too, the conversation, instead of flowing in literary
channels, was never turned aside from the question of poaching and
poachers. Sir Percival's experiences in Australia had no more changed
his views than Claude Westwood's experiences of Central Africa had
altered his, on the subject of the English crime of poaching.
Agnes had not been within the house since the week preceding the tragedy
that had taken place in the grounds surrounding it. She had had no idea
that she would be so deeply affected on entering the drawing-room.
But the instant she found herself in the midst of the beautiful old
furniture that had been familiar to her for so many years, she was
nearly overcome by the crowd of recollections that were brought back to
her. She put out her hand nervously to a sofa and grasped the back of it
for an instant before moving round it to seat herself.
She felt herself staggering, but hoped that no one had noticed her
apprehension, and when she had seated herself she closed her eyes. It
seemed to her that she was in a dream. She heard the sound of voices,
but not the voices of any one present, only the voices of those who were
far away; and it seemed to her that among them was the Claude Westwood
whom she had known and loved so many years ago. She had suddenly become
possessed of the strange dream fancy that the man who had taken her hand
on her entering the room was the man who had killed both Dick Westwood
and his brother Claude.
Happily the conversation was only about the poachers, so that she could
not be expected to take part in it; and during the five minutes that
elapsed before dinner was announced, she partly recovered herself. But
the shiver which came over her when she opened her eyes was noticed by
Clare.
“What, you are cold?” she whispered. “Come to the fire; you can pretend
to be pointing out the carving of the mantel to me.”
Agnes shook her head and smiled. She knew that just at that moment
she had not strength to walk to the fireplace, and she did not
under-estimate her own powers; when, however, the butler appeared at
the door, and Claude came in front of her, she was able to rise and walk
into the diningroom by his side.
After dinner Clare showed the greatest possible interest in the
drawing-rooms and their contents, and Agnes, who was, of course,
familiar with everything, told her much about the furniture and the
pictures. For a century and a half the Westwoods had been a wealthy
family, and many treasures had been accumulated by the successive owners
of the Court. But there was one picture on an easel which Agnes had not
seen before. It was a portrait of Dick Westwood, and it had been painted
by a great painter.
Agnes and Clare were standing opposite to it when Claude and Sir
Percival entered the room; they had only remained for a few minutes over
their wine. Claude came behind Agnes, saying:
“You did not see that until now? I am sure that it is an excellent
likeness, and the face is not, after all, so different from poor Dick's
as I remember him.”
“It is a perfect likeness,” said Agnes. “But I cannot understand how you
got it. It is not the sort of portrait that could be painted only from a
photograph.”
“He did not tell you that he was giving sittings to the painter when he
was last in London?” said Claude.
“He never mentioned it,” said Agnes.
“I brought it with me from the painter's studio the day before
yesterday,” said Claude. “He wrote to me the day before I left for
London, explaining that Dick had given him a few sittings in May, and
had promised to return to the studio in July. He said he should like me
to see the portrait in its unfinished condition. Judge of my feelings
when I found myself facing that fine work. I carried it away with me at
once.” Then he turned to Clare, saying, “Look at it; it is the portrait
of the best fellow that ever lived--that ever died by the hand of a
wretch whom he had never injured--a wretch who is alive to-day.”
Agnes moved away from the picture with Sir Percival; but Clare remained
by the side of Claude looking at the face on the easel.
“How you loved him!” Agnes heard her say in a low voice.
“Loved him--loved him!” said Claude Westwood. He gave a little laugh as
he took a step or two away from the picture. “Loved him! I love him so
dearly that”--
Agnes looked with eager eyes across the room. She waited for Clare to
say a word of pity for the man whose life had been spared, who had
been given time to repent of his dreadful deed, but that word remained
unspoken.
For the second time that evening a shiver went through Agnes. Sir
Percival watched her as she watched the others across the room. There
was a long interval of silence before Claude began to talk to the
girl In a low voice, and shortly afterwards went with her through the
_portière_ that divided the two drawing-rooms.
“I want Clare to see the picture of Dick and myself taken when he was
ten and I was eight--you know it, Agnes,” he said, as he followed Clare.
The next minute the sound of his voice and Clare's came from the other
room.
Sir Percival had been examining the case containing the poisoned arrows
which lay on a table; but now he stood before Agnes.
“You have seen it,” he said. “I know that you have seen it as well as I.
Is it too late to send her away?”
Agnes started.
“It cannot be possible that you, too, know it,” she said. “Oh no; you
cannot have become acquainted with that horrible thing.”
“I must confess that I never suspected it before this evening,” said he.
“But what I have seen here has been enough to tell me all that there is
to be told.”
She stared at him in silence for a few moments. “What have you been
told?” she asked at last. “You cannot have failed to learn the truth,”
said he. “You cannot have failed to see that Claude Westwood is in love
with that girl.”
With a little cry she had sprung to her feet and grasped his arm.
“No, no; not that--not that!” she whispered. “Oh no; that would be too
horrible!”
“It is horrible to think that a man can forget all that he has
forgotten. Good heavens! After eight years! Was ever woman so true? Was
ever man so false?”
“I have been blind--blind! Whatever I may have thought, I never imagined
this. He met her aboard the steamer--he must have become attached to her
before he saw her with me.”
She was speaking in a low voice and without looking at him. He remained
silent. She walked across the room with nervous steps. Several times she
passed and repassed the picture on the easel, her fingers twitching at
the lace of her dress.
Gradually then her steps became firmer and more deliberate. The sound of
a rippling laugh came from the other room. She stopped suddenly in her
restless pacing of the floor. She looked at the portrait on the easel,
and after a short space, she too laughed.
“It is a just punishment!” she said. “He loves her and she loves
another--she confessed it to me. He will be punished, and no one will
pity him.”
Then Clare reappeared in the arch from which the curtain had been drawn,
and Claude followed her.
Agnes glanced first at the girl, then at the man. She looked toward Sir
Percival and smiled.