Chapter X

It was the forenoon of the second day after the picnic. There was thunder in the air, but the storm had not yet broken. Any moment the clouds might part and the first bolt fall. What might have been the result of the collision between Laroche and Colonel Woodruffe on the day of the picnic, but for the opportune invasion of the glen by a number of excursionists, who put privacy to flight, it is of course impossible to say. It may be also that the Frenchman read something in the colonel’s eye which warned him not to proceed too far. No sooner, therefore, had the remark last recorded passed his lips, than he turned abruptly on his heel, and striking into the same winding pathway that Mora had taken earlier in the day, became at once lost to view in the depths of the shrubbery.

‘Had you not better let me take you back to the hotel at once?’ said the colonel to Mora after a little pause. ‘You can easily make an excuse to your party for leaving them. There is an inn at the foot of the valley at which we can hire a fly.’

Mora at once assented. Now that the worst was known, now that everything had been told, her heart cried out for solitude: she wanted to be alone with her despair.

On their way they encountered Miss Gaisford, to whom Mora made some kind of an excuse. An hour later they alighted at the Palatine. As they stood for a moment at the door, the colonel said: ‘I shall remain here at the hotel for the present, in case you should need me. No one can tell what may happen. Night or day I am at your service.’

She gazed into his eyes for a moment, pressed his hand tenderly, and was gone.

From that hour, Madame De Vigne had ceased to appear in the general sitting-room down-stairs. The bedrooms occupied by the sisters were separated by a small boudoir. In this latter room Madame De Vigne now passed her time, and here she and Clarice partook of their meals. Miss Penelope and Nanette alone had access to their room.

Of all the people in the hotel Colonel Woodruffe alone was aware that the polite and good-looking French gentleman who called himself M. De Miravel had any acquaintance with Madame De Vigne, or had as much as spoken a word to that lady. De Miravel, to all appearance, did not know a soul in the place. He was very smiling and affable to every one, but seemed to have no acquaintances. His sole occupation—if occupation it could be called—seemed to be to lounge about the grounds and smoke. Once, it is true, he went for an hour’s row on the lake, but that was all. When he and Colonel Woodruffe chanced to meet, they passed each other like utter strangers.

Another visitor who appeared not to care to make acquaintances was Mr Santelle. He took his breakfast in the public coffee-room, and dined at the table-d’hôte; his keen, watchful eyes saw everything and everybody, but he rarely addressed himself to any one. He was not so much en évidence as M. De Miravel; but with a guide-book under his arm and a field-glass slung over his shoulder, he took the steamer from place to place, and seemed bent upon seeing all that there was to be seen. Jules kept a furtive eye upon him at meal-times, but not the slightest sign of recognition passed between the two men.

When Clarice got back to the hotel on the evening of the picnic, she found a telegram from Archie awaiting her. ‘Governor not yet to hand,’ ran the message. ‘Probably fatigue of travelling has been too much for him. May have broken journey somewhere. Can only await his arrival. Hope he will turn up in the morning. Will telegraph again to-morrow.’

Clarice handed the telegram to Mr Etheridge. That gentleman read it slowly and carefully, and handed it back with a smile. ‘I think it very likely, as Mr Archie suggests, that Sir William has broken his journey,’ he observed. ‘But I have long thought that Sir William fancies himself more of an invalid than he really is, and that if he chose to exert himself a little more, it might perhaps be all the better for his health. But there is no accounting for the whims of these rich people. I sometimes think that a little poverty would be a good thing for some of them.’

There was more cynicism in this speech than in any that Clarice had hitherto heard from the old gentleman’s lips. But it was not in her province to make any reply to it. She had never even seen Sir William, whereas Mr Etheridge had known him for years.

When not with her sister—and Mora seemed to prefer to be as much alone as possible—Clarice spent most of her time with the old man. She could talk to him about Archie, whom he seemed to have known from childhood, and could listen with unfailing interest to all that he had to tell about the eccentric baronet; while Mr Etheridge seemed quite as fond of her society as she was of his. No message, either by telegram or letter, had yet arrived for him, but he never failed to ransack the letter-rack three or four times a day. ‘We can only wait,’ he said once or twice to Clarice, as he turned from the rack with that faint, patient smile which she was beginning to know so well. ‘Sir William is a man who can never bear to be hurried in anything.’

Next afternoon there came a second telegram addressed to Miss Loraine: ‘No news of the governor yet. Most extraordinary. Would have started back to-day, but Blatchett strongly advises to remain till morning. Should there be no news by ten A.M., you may expect me at the Palatine in time for dinner.’

‘Just like Sir William—just like him; I’m not a bit surprised,’ was Mr Etheridge’s curt comment when he had read the telegram.

‘He must indeed be a singular man,’ said Clarice. Then her eyes began to sparkle, and a lovely colour flushed her cheeks. ‘Perhaps by this time to-morrow Archie may be back again,’ she said, more as if speaking to herself than addressing Mr Etheridge.

In the course of these two days Colonel Woodruffe and Mr Etheridge met more than once. They talked together, walking side by side on the lawn of the hotel. The chief part of the talking, however, seemed to be done by the colonel, his companion’s share of it being mostly confined to ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ a confirmatory nod of the head, or now and then a brief question.

When Lady Renshaw got back from the picnic on Wednesday evening, and was in a position to have a quiet chat with her niece, she declared that she had not spent so pleasant a day for a long time. Dr M‘Murdo was really a most agreeable, well-informed man—a man whose talents ought to make him a position in the world; and as for the poor, dear vicar, he was nothing less than charming. ‘So simple-minded and unworldly, my dear. He quite puts me in mind of the Vicar of Wakefield.’ Then she added by way of after-thought: ‘But I cannot say that I care greatly for that sister of his. There is something about her excessively flippant and satirical—and I do dislike satirical people, above all others.’

But Lady Renshaw’s real enjoyment—of which she said nothing to her niece—arose from her thorough belief that both the doctor and the vicar had been irresistibly smitten by her charms. If they were not in love, or close on the verge of it, why had they followed her about all day like two spaniels, each of them jealously afraid to leave her alone with the other? It was delightful! As she sipped a cup of tea after her return, she began to ask herself whether she might not do worse than accept this clever, well-preserved Scotch doctor. She had no doubt in her own mind that he would propose in the course of a few days. With the help of her money, he might buy a first-class West-end practice; and after that, there was no knowing what he might not rise to in the course of a few years. Seven to ten thousand a year, so she had been given to understand, was by no means an uncommon income for a fashionable doctor to make nowadays. She would think the matter over in the quietude of her own room, so that she might be prepared with her answer, when the inevitable moment should arrive.

The fact was that Dr Mac had fooled her to the top of her bent, as Miss Gaisford had prophesied he would do. Her vanity, as he soon found, was insatiable; no compliment was too egregious for her to swallow. ‘I’ve done my duty like a man,’ he remarked with grim humour to Miss Pen at the close of the day; ‘but I hope you will never set me such a task again: the creature’s self-conceit is stupendous—stupendous!’

The picnic took place on Wednesday. Thursday was ushered in with wind and rain. The hills had wrapped thick mantles of mist about them, and had retired into private life. Visitors shook their heads as they peered out of the rain-streaked windows, and made up their minds to settle down for the day to novels, gossip, and letter-writing. Despite the wind and rain, Dr Mac set out for Kendal at an early hour with the avowed intention of hunting up some old friends. The vicar, too timid to tackle the widow by himself, kept to his own room, on the plea of having a sermon to compose. Miss Wynter might have been justified that day in her belief that her aunt’s temper was not invariably the most angelic in the world.

Bella had enjoyed her picnic more, far more than her aunt was aware of. And yet the girl was troubled in her secret heart. Dick had never made love to her so audaciously before; in fact, the opportunity had never been afforded him; while she herself had never quite known till that day how dear he had become to her. Her training, almost from childhood, and her mode of life since her aunt had taken charge of her, had all tended to stifle the feelings natural to her age and sex, and to induce her to regard the sacrament of marriage as a mere question of pounds, shillings, and pence. Yet here, almost to her dismay, and very much to her mortification, because she felt that she could not help it, she found herself hopelessly in love with a man the amount of whose income seemed in her eyes little more than an equivalent for semi-genteel pauperism. What was to be done? Should she treat Dick after the fashion in which she had treated more than one man already? Now that she had brought him to her feet, should she turn her back on him with a little smile of triumph, and bid him farewell for ever? But then, she had never cared for those other men; while for Dick she did care very much. Whatever she might decide to do must be decided quickly. Dick, easy-going and full of fun as he might seem to be, was not a man to stand any shilly-shallying nonsense. As he stood for a moment or two on the dusky lawn with her hand in his after their return from the picnic, he had given her plainly to understand that he should expect a categorical ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ from her on Friday. And now Friday was here, and her mind was no nearer being made up than it had been on Wednesday. Not much appetite for her breakfast had Miss Wynter that morning.

As a matter of course, Mr Etheridge was introduced to Lady Renshaw. Her ladyship was very gracious indeed, when she found in what relation the pleasant-voiced, white-haired gentleman stood to Sir William Ridsdale, and that he was the bearer of a letter all the way from Spa for Mr Archie. With her usual penetration, her ladyship at once concluded in her own mind that the story about a letter for Archie was a mere blind, and that the real object of Mr Etheridge’s journey was to spy out the weakness of the land. In other words, Sir William had deputed him to ascertain all that could be ascertained respecting Madame De Vigne and her sister, their mode of life, antecedents, &c.; which, under the circumstances, was no doubt a laudable thing to do. In fact, all her ladyship’s sympathies were on the side of Mr Etheridge, and she would most gladly have assisted him in his task, had she only seen her way clearly how to do so. She smiled to herself more than once, as she remarked how innocently all these good people around her accepted Mr Etheridge’s version of the reason of his visit to Windermere, not one of them seeming to dream that there could possibly be anything in the background. But then, it is not given to all of us to be so far-seeing as the Lady Renshaws of this world.

As she rose from the breakfast-table this Friday morning she chanced to spy Mr Etheridge pacing the lawn in front of the windows with his hands clasped behind him. He was waiting for Clarice. The two were going on a little excursion together; but not to any distance, as Clarice thought that at any moment there might come a telegram from Archie. Lady Renshaw, seeing Mr Etheridge alone, could not resist the temptation of a little private conversation with him. She might perhaps be able to glean some information as to how matters were progressing; besides which, she had another motive in view.

‘I trust that you left dear Sir William quite well, Mr Etheridge?’ remarked her ladyship after the usual greetings had passed.

‘Tolerable, ma’am, tolerable. At the best of times his health is never very robust; but there has been a considerable improvement in it of late—or he fancies there has, which comes, perhaps, to pretty much the same thing.—Probably Sir William has the honour of your ladyship’s acquaintance?’

‘N-no; I have never yet had the pleasure of meeting him. You see, he has lived so much abroad, otherwise I have no doubt we should have met at the house of some mutual acquaintance in town.’

Mr Etheridge coughed a dry little cough, but said nothing.

‘Dear Archie, now, and I are old acquaintances. What a fine young fellow he is! So clever, you know, and all that. I’m sure Sir William must be proud of such a son.’

‘Possibly so, madam—possibly so.’

Her ladyship was anxious to touch on delicate ground, but scarcely saw her way to begin. However, it was necessary to make a plunge, and she did not long hesitate.

‘Between you and me, Mr Etheridge,’ she said insinuatingly, ‘don’t you think it a great pity that a young man with Mr Archie’s splendid prospects should seem so determined to throw himself away—no, perhaps I ought not to make use of that phrase—but—to—to—in short, to take up with a young lady like Miss Loraine, who, so far as any one knows, seems to have neither fortune, prospects, nor antecedents? To me, it seems a great, great pity.’ She glanced sharply at her companion as she finished, anxious to note the effect of her words.

Mr Etheridge came to a halt, apparently engaged in deep thought for a few moments before he replied. Then he said, speaking very deliberately: ‘It does perhaps seem a pity, as you say, madam, that Mr Archie should be so infatuated with this young lady, when he might do so very differently, were he so minded.’

‘I was quite sure that you would agree with me,’ returned her ladyship in her most dulcet tones. ‘But no doubt Mr Archie will listen to reason. When Sir William places the matter before him in its proper light, and proves to him how irretrievably he will ruin himself by contracting such an alliance, he will surely see that, in his case at least, inclination must give way to duty, and that his career in life must not be frustrated by the mere empty charms of a butterfly face.’

What her ladyship meant by a ‘butterfly face’ she did not condescend to explain.

‘As to whether Mr Archie will listen to what your ladyship calls reason is a point upon which, as matters stand at present, I am scarcely competent to offer an opinion.’

‘Sly old fox!’ muttered her ladyship. ‘He wasn’t born yesterday. But he doesn’t take me in with his innocent looks.’

She had another arrow left. ‘Then, as regards the sister of Miss Loraine—this Madame De Vigne? A very charming person, no doubt; but that is not everything. I daresay, Mr Etheridge, your experience will tell you that the most charming of our sex are sometimes the most dangerous?’

Mr Etheridge bowed, but did not commit himself further.

‘On all sides I hear people asking, “Who is Madame De Vigne? Where did she spring from? Who was Monsieur De Vigne? What was he, when alive?” Question after question asked, but no information vouchsafed. Ah, my dear Mr Etheridge, where there’s concealment, there’s mystery; and where there’s mystery, there’s—there’s—— Well, I won’t say what there is.’ Possibly her ladyship had not quite made up her mind what there was. ‘In any case, Mr Etheridge,’ she resumed, ‘were I in your position, I should deem it imperative on me to make Sir William acquainted with everything, down to the most minute particulars. You are on the spot; you can see and hear for yourself. Of course, it would be a dreadful thing if, after Mr Archie were married to the young lady, something discreditable were to turn up—some family secret, perhaps, that would not bear the light of day; some scandal, it may be, that could only be spoken of in whispers. For Sir William’s sake, if not for that of our dear, foolish Archie, everything should be made as clear as daylight before it is too late. I hope you agree with me, Mr Etheridge?’

‘Quite, madam—quite.—What a splendid man of business your ladyship would have made, if you will excuse me for saying so. Sir William shall be made acquainted with everything. I will see to that; yes, yes; I will see to that.’

‘He is a spy, then, after all,’ said Lady Renshaw complacently to herself.

At this moment, Clarice emerged from the hotel. Lady Renshaw greeted her with a smile of much amiability. ‘I trust that dear Madame De Vigne is better this morning?’ she said. ‘I have been so grieved by her indisposition. But, really, on Wednesday I myself found the heat most trying. I cannot wonder at her prostration.’

‘My sister is a little better this morning, thank you, Lady Renshaw,’ answered Clarice in her gently serious way. ‘I trust that by to-morrow she will be well enough to join us down-stairs.’

‘I hope so, with all my heart,’ answered her ladyship with as much fervour as if she were repeating a response at church.

After a few more words, Clarice and Mr Etheridge went their way. As her ladyship turned to go indoors, Miss Wynter, escorted by Mr Golightly in his boating flannels, emerged from the hotel. They had breakfasted an hour before her ladyship, who was a somewhat late riser. Dick had said to Bella at table: ‘I want you to go on the water this morning. It’s going to be a bit cloudy later on, I think, and it’s just possible that the perch may be in the humour for biting.’

‘As if he cared a fig about the perch!’ said Bella to herself. ‘The wretch only wants to get me into a boat all to himself, and then he thinks he can say what he likes to me.’ She trembled a little, feeling that the crisis of her fate was at hand. She would have liked to mutiny and say, ‘I shan’t go,’ as under similar circumstances she would have said to any other man. But with Dick, poor Dick! who had run such risks for her sake, and had done so much to win her, she felt that she could not be so cruel. Besides, she had a woman’s natural curiosity to hear what he would say. ‘And I needn’t say “Yes” unless I choose to,’ she remarked to herself; but in her heart of hearts she knew that her ‘No,’ if uttered at all, would be a very faint one indeed. As it was, she merely looked at him a little superciliously for a moment or two, and then quietly assented.

‘I trust, dear Mr Golightly, that you are thoroughly competent to manage a boat?’ remarked her ladyship, when she had been told where the young people were going.

‘Rather,’ answered Richard a little brusquely. ‘I didn’t pull stroke in the Camford Eight, seven years ago, for nothing.’

‘I only spoke because I’m told that the lake is most treacherous, and that a year rarely passes without one or more fatalities.—Bella, darling, I think you ought to have taken a warmer shawl with you. The air on the water is often chilly.’ Then in an aside: ‘Be careful what you are about. If he proposes, only accept him provisionally. This affair of Archie Ridsdale’s is by no means at an end yet.’

Bella nodded. ‘Too late, aunty, too late,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m very much afraid that I can’t help myself.’

Lady Renshaw, as she turned away, remarked to herself: ‘I’m not sure that young Golightly is quite such a nincompoop as I took him to be at first. But in any case, Bella ought to be able to twist him round her finger.’

Clarice had not left her sister many minutes when Nanette entered her mistress’s room carrying a note on a salver. It was simply addressed, ‘Madame De Vigne.’ One glance at the writing was enough. Mora remembered it too well. She turned sick at heart as she took the note. ‘You need not wait,’ she said to Nanette. As soon as she was alone, she sank down on the ottoman and tore open the envelope. The note, which was written in French, ran as follows:

‘I have not troubled you since our last interview. I have left you alone, that you might have time to think over what I said to you. But I have had no message from you, and this long delay begins to irritate me. I must know at once what you intend to do. I propose to call upon you at seven o’clock this evening. I need not say more.—Laroche.’

Madame De Vigne sat staring at the letter for some minutes, as though the reading of its contents had taken from her all power of sense or feeling. Then waking up as if from a trance, she said to herself: ‘It must be done; there is no other course.’ She touched the tiny gong at her elbow. Nanette appeared. ‘Inquire whether Colonel Woodruffe is in the hotel,’ she said. ‘If he is, tell him that I should like to see him here at his convenience.’

(To be concluded next month.)