The Pointing Man

by Marjorie Douie

  IX

  MRS. WILDER IS PRESENTED IN A MELTING MOOD, AND DRAYCOTT WILDER ISFORCED TO RECALL THE LINES COMMENCING "A FOOL THERE WAS"

  It was a bright morning with a high wind blowing and a breath offreshness in the air that has a charm to inspire a better outlook uponlife. Everywhere it made itself felt in Mangadone, and like Pippa in thepoem, the wind passed along, leaving everything and everybody a littlebetter for its coming. It passed through the open veranda of the hugehospital, and touched the fever patients with its cool breath; ithurried through the Chinese quarter, blew along Paradise Street, dustingthe gesticulating man, and went on up the river, pretending to make thebrown water change its muddy mind and run backwards instead of forwards.It paid a little freakish attention to Mrs. Wilder's dark hair, and itcooled the back of Hartley's neck, as they rode along together, by theway of a lake.

  They had met quite accidentally, and Hartley, who had been vaguelywishing for an opportunity to speak to Mrs. Wilder, seized upon it andoffered himself as her escort. She agreed with complimentary readiness,and they turned along a wooded road, where the shadows were deep andwhere Hartley felt the gripping hands of romance loosen hisheart-strings.

  Mrs. Wilder listened to him, or appeared to do so, which is much thesame in effect, and Hartley was not critical. She was a good listener,as women who have something else to think about often are; and so theyrode along the twisting path, and the wind sang in the plumes of thebamboo trees, and Hartley believed that it sang a romantic lyric ofplatonic admiration, exquisitely hinted at by a tactful man, andproperly appreciated by a very beautiful woman.

  "By the way," she said carelessly, "have you found that wretched littleAbsalom yet? What a bother he has been since he took it into his head togo off to America, or wherever it is he went to."

  "I am glad you mentioned him," said Hartley, his face growing suddenlyserious. "I have a question or two that I want very much to ask you."

  "A question or two? That sounds so very legal. Really, Mr. Hartley, Ibelieve you credit me with having Absalom's body hanging up in one of my_almirahs_. Honestly, don't you really believe that I had a hand inputting him out of the way?"

  She laughed her hard little laugh, and shot a look at him over hershoulder.

  "You do know something, some little thing it may be, but something thatmight help me."

  "About Absalom, or about someone else?"

  "About whoever you saw him with."

  Hartley pushed his pony alongside of hers, but her face revealednothing, and was quite expressionless.

  "Whoever I saw him with?" she echoed reflectively. "Ah, but it is solong ago, Mr. Hartley, I can't even remember now whether I was out ornot that evening."

  "You are only playing with me," said Hartley a little irritably. "Thepoliceman on duty at the cross-roads below Paradise Street saw you."

  Her face became suddenly so drawn and startled that Hartley regrettedhis words almost as he spoke them.

  "Wait a minute, Mr. Hartley," she said, in a strained, hard voice. "Youhave to explain to me why you have asked your men questions connectedwith me."

  "I did not ask questions; I was told."

  She pulled up her pony, and, turning her head away from him, looked outsilently over the dip of ground below them. Hartley did not break hersilence. He saw that he had come close to some deep emotion, and hewatched her curiously, but Mrs. Wilder, even if she was conscious of hislook, appeared quite indifferent to it. He could form no idea along whatroad her silent concentration led her; but he knew that she pursued anidea that was compelling and strong. He knew enough of her to know thateven her silence was not the silence that arises out of lack of subjectfor talk, but that it meant something as definite and clear as thoughshe spoke direct words to him.

  The Head of the Police would have given much at that moment to havebeen able to penetrate her thoughts, but he only stared at her with hisblue eyes a little wider open than usual, and waited for her to speak.She looked before her steadily, but not with the eyes of a woman whodreams; Mrs. Wilder was thinking definitely, and while Hartley waited,her mind travelled at speed across years and came to a halt at themoment where she now found herself, and from that moment she looked outforcefully into the future.

  Usually, in the tragic instants of life there is very little time forthought before the need for action forces the will, with relentlesshands. Clarice Wilder knew as well as she knew anything that herposition was one of some peril, and that much more than she could weighor measure at that moment lay beyond the next spoken word. She wastelling herself to be careful, steadying her nerve and reining in adesire to pour out a flood of circumstantial evidence, calculated toconvince the Head of the Police.

  If there is one thing more than another that the man or the woman drivenagainst the ropes should avoid, it is prolixity; the snare that catchescraft in its own net. Clarice Wilder desired to be overpowering,redundant and extreme in the wordy proof of her innocence of purposethat evening of July the 29th, but she held back and waited steadfastlyuntil she was quite sure of herself again, and then she turned her headand glanced at Hartley with a smile.

  "How silent you are," she said gently.

  Hartley flushed and looked self-conscious.

  "To be quite candid, that was what I was thinking of you," he repliedawkwardly.

  "What were we saying?" went on Mrs. Wilder. "Oh, of course, I remember.You thought I could tell you something about poor Mr. Heath, didn't you?I only wish I could, but it was so long ago. I do remember the evening.It was very hot and I rode along by the river to get some fresh air,"her eyes grew hazy. "I can remember thinking that Mangadone looked as ifit was a great ball of amber, with the sun shining through it, but asfor being able to tell you what Mr. Heath was doing, or who he was with,it is impossible. You should have pinned me down to it the day youcalled on me, when this troublesome little boy first went off." Shegathered up the reins, and Hartley mounted reluctantly. "I am so sorry.I would love to be able to help you, but I cannot remember."

  If Hartley had been asked on oath how it was that Mrs. Wilder had ledhim clean away from the subject under discussion, to somethinginfinitely more satisfying and interesting, he could not have sworn toit. They loitered by the road and came slowly back to the bungalow,where they parted at the gate, and he watched her go in, hoping shemight turn her head, but she did not, and Hartley took his way towardshis own house and thought very little of Absalom or the Rev. FrancisHeath. One thing he did think of, and that was that Mrs. Wilder hadlooked at him earnestly, and said that she wished he was not "mixed up"in anything likely to bring uneasiness to the mind of the Rector of St.Jude's Church. "Mixed up" was a curious way of expressing his connectionwith the case, but Hartley felt that he knew what she meant. He pulledat his short moustache and wished with all his heart that he really didknow; but all the wishes in the world could not help him out of aprofessional dilemma.

  Mrs. Wilder had not looked round, though she very well knew that Hartleywas waiting and hoping that she would, and once she had turned the firstbend she touched the pony with her heel and cantered up the hill,throwing the reins to the _syce_ who came in answer to her impatientcall.

  "Idiot," she said, as she shut the door of her room and flung her _topi_on the bed, and she repeated the word several times with increasinganimosity and vigour. She hated Hartley at that moment, and felt underno further obligation to hide her real feelings; and then Mrs. Wildersat down and thought hard.

  The mental power of exaggerating danger is limitless, and she could notdeny that her fear was playing tricks with her nerves. She knew that shehad done creditably under the strain of acute nervous tension, but shefelt also that much more of the same thing would be unendurable.

  Draycott came in to luncheon, and she was there to receive him, but evento his careless eye, Clarice was oddly abstracted, and he glanced at hercuriously, wondering what it was that occupied her mind and made herfrown as she thought.

  She could not get away from the grip of her mo
rning interview. Try asshe would, she could not shake it off. It caught her back in the middleof her talk, made her answer at random, and held her with a terriblepower. She considered that there were a thousand other things she mighthave said or done, a hundred ways by which she might have appealed toHartley, and yet her common sense told her that the less she said on thesubject the better it would be, if, in the end, the Rev. Francis Heathwas led into the awful pitfalls of cross-examination. Anyone may forgetand recall facts later, but to state facts that may be used as evidenceis to stand handcuffed before inexorable justice, and Mrs. Wilder hadleft her hands free.

  "Is anything the matter?" Draycott jerked out the question as he got upto leave the room. "You seem rather silent."

  Clarice laughed, and her laugh was slightly forced.

  "I went for a ride this morning, and met Mr. Hartley. He is the mostexhausting man I ever met."

  "I hope you told him so," said Wilder shortly. "He's about herefrequently enough, even though he _does_ bore you."

  Something in his voice made her eyes focus him very clearly anddistinctly.

  "I have a very good mind to tell him," she said easily, "but he isblessed with a skin that would turn the edge of any ordinary hatchet; hewould think I was merely being 'funny.'"

  "It's an odd fact," said Draycott with a sneer in his eyes, "thathowever much a woman complains of a man's stupidity, she will let himhang about her, and make a grievance of it, until she sees fit to drophim. When that moment arrives she can make him let go, and lower awayall right. Just now Hartley is hanging on quite perceptibly, and if itentertains you to slang him behind his back, I suppose you will slanghim, but he won't drop off before you've done with him, Clarice, if Iknow anything of your methods." Her face flushed and she began to lookangry. "Mind you, I don't object to Hartley. As you say, he's a fool, asilly, trusting ass, the sort of man who is child's-play to a girl ofsixteen. If you must have a string of loafers to prove that yourattractions outwear _anno domini_, I must accept Hartley, and otherHartleys, so long as you continue to play the same game. _Hartleys_, Isaid, Clarice."

  There was no doubt about the emphasis he laid upon the name.

  "You flatter Mr. Hartley considerably," she said, but her voice wasconciliatory and her laugh nervous.

  "He represents a type; a type that some married men may be thankfulcontinues to exist. God!" he broke out violently, "if he could hear youtalk of him, it would be a lesson to the fool, but he won't hear you. Noman ever does hear these things until the knowledge comes too late to beof any use to him. You have got to have your strings"--he shrugged hisshoulders--"because your life isn't here, in this house; it is at theClub, and at dinners and races and so on, and to be left to yourhusband is the beginning of the end. Don't deny it, Clarice, it's noearthly use. Women like you have your own ideas of life, I suppose, andI ought to be thankful they're no worse."

  He stood by the door all the time he spoke, and his colourless face andpale eyes never altered.

  "You're talking absolute nonsense," said Mrs. Wilder, preserving anamiable tone. "We _have_ to entertain, Draycott, and you can't round onme for what I have done for years. It has helped you on, and you knowit."

  "I wasn't talking of that," he said drearily. "I was talking of you.You're getting old, for a woman, Clarice, and when you're worried, asyou are to-day, you show it; though how an imbecile like Hartley got atyou to the extent of making you worried, I don't pretend to guess."

  "Old," she said angrily. "You aren't troubling to be particularlypolite."

  "No, I'm damnably truthful; just because it makes me wonder at you allthe more. You can go on smiling at any number of idiots, because youmust have the applause, I suppose. You don't even believe in it--_now_."

  His allusion was definite, and Mrs. Wilder felt about in her mind forsome way to change the conversation. Quagmires are bad ground forwalking, and she was in a hurry to reach _terra firma_ again. She cameround the table and slipped her arm through his.

  "After all these years. Draycott--be a little generous."

  If she had fought him, some deep, hidden anger in his cold heart wouldhave flared up, but her gesture softened him and he patted her hand.

  "I know," he said slowly. "Only I can't quite forget. I simply can't,Clarice."

  She smiled at him and touched his face with a light hand.

  "Shall I tell you why? Because even if I am old--and thirty-six isn't sovery dreadful--you are still in love with me."

  She went with him to the door and smiled as he drove away, smiled andwaved as he reappeared round a distant bend, and watched him return hersignal, and then she went back into the large drawing-room and her facegrew grey and pinched, and she sat with her chin propped on her hands,thinking.

  She had proved that there are more fools in the world than those who goabout disguised as Heads of Police, and had added another specimen tothe general list, but she found no mirth in the idea as she consideredit.