by Robert Neill
‘Damned out-and-outer!’ said John.
‘He’s not safe. Look!’
It hardly needed pointing out. The curricle was not steady. It was lurching from side to side, the greys pulling unevenly, and they saw Luttrell pull his arm from Anice, whom he had been pinning to the seat at his side, and hurriedly get both hands to the reins. But whatever his skill with a coach, he had not mastered a curricle, and twice he made pedestrians leap for their lives as the wheels went dangerously at the wall. Twice he pulled clear, apparently with his confidence unshaken, and he had not even slackened speed when disaster came. Ahead of him was a slight bend in the road, and round it came the four-in-hand of the Gloucester Mail, driving fast in the last half-mile, and fairly in the centre of the road, as its privilege was. Its driver did well, checking his horses instantly and pulling hard to the side while passengers rose in their seats and the guard blared frantically on his horn, but it was now too late. There was no chance of stopping. Even an attempt at it would have set the horses swerving, and Luttrell kept his head. He left them undisturbed while he tried to steer them to the last half-inch, and he all but did it. He got the greys through the gap, but not the curricle. It had just touched the wall, and he could not quite check the swing away. Anice was suddenly on her feet, and the sweating watchers by the Colonnade saw her fling herself from the curricle just as its offside wheel went headlong into the wheels of the Mail. There was a screech of splintering timber as the Mail went toppling on its side with the curricle beneath it; then shouts and calls for help, windows opening, men running, and the screams of terrified horses, still caught in the collars.
The driver of the Mail took first charge, with the calm of an old professional, and he was quickly joined by the guard, with his pistols ready in case they were needed for the horses. But it was not quite so bad, and at once they were both cutting the traces to release the plunging, kicking animals. Then they called for any help there was, lifting the coach somehow from the shattered curricle to get at Luttrell, who was trapped beneath it. It was half done when the group came running from the Colonnade, the little groom first, to dive at Anice who was lying quite still by the wall. A moment later they were joined by Hildersham, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Nobody asked about that.
Carefully they turned Anice over and saw the smear of blood on her head and the trickle of it down her face. She was perhaps semi-conscious, limp and white, and Grant felt quickly for her pulse.
‘Weak,’ he said tersely. ‘Not steady.’
‘No.’ John was as terse. ‘I don’t like head wounds. I’ve seen too many.’
‘Surgeon,’ said Hildersham. ‘Who’s the nearest? Ah, here’s King.’
The cream-and-gold phaeton had just clattered to a halt, and a horrified Mr. King was prompt with his directions. Dr. Jenner, from St. George’s Place nearby, was hurriedly sent for, and his neighbour Mr. Newall the surgeon. They arrived within minutes, and the surgeon went at once to a limp unconscious Luttrell. Dr. Jenner, wheezing a little from his age, looked sagely at Anice and refused to give an opinion.
‘One never knows,’ he said cautiously. ‘Concussion, perhaps. Or something worse. A broken skull, a torn brain--there’s no way of telling. I can ease pressure by cupping, of course. Where does she live?’
Mr. King saw to that, arranging for her to be taken home at once. He did the like for Luttrell, who was reported by the surgeon to be badly hurt, with a broken shoulder, some broken ribs and a broken leg.
‘Badly cut as well,’ said Mr. Newall, ‘but we needn’t fear for him. He’ll have some weeks in bed, but he’ll mend--more or less.’
‘He would,’ said John. ‘He’s the one to blame and he’s the one who’ll mend. That’s usual.’
‘I want a drink,’ said Hildersham. ‘We all do.’
He led them to the Fleece across the road, adding Mary to his party, and Barford, who had now come up and was showing signs of distress. He called for sherry and Barford’s favoured madeira, and then they sat unhappily, no one eager to speak first. Characteristically it was Hildersham, and he went unerringly to the point.
‘Sorry, Grant,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m afraid you’ll feel it.’
‘Yes.’ He answered as quietly, with his head filled with memories of Anice, and then he turned deliberately to Mary. ‘It’s quite true, and I’m not going to hide it. I’m still fond of her, and this---’
‘I know.’ She nodded and spoke gently. ‘You’re right to say it, and I’m glad you have done.’
‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Barford, as if he had heard nothing of this. ‘I don’t know about these head wounds.’
‘Wait and see,’ said John. ‘I’ve waited for several, and sometimes it’s no worse than a bang and they’re right next day. Others aren’t.’
‘Is anyone looking after her, in that house? Or is it just servants?’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Hildersham. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’
He went off a few minutes later, and what he had arranged became evident a little before dinner when Richard walked alone to Anice’s house to learn how she was getting on. He was shown into what he supposed to be her sitting-room, and then, to his surprise, Mary Ann appeared.
‘I had to,’ she explained simply. ‘It’s the least I can do. Jack sent for me.’
‘I’m glad you’re here. But how is she?’
‘She . . .’ Mary Ann hesitated, and he noticed the shrewd appraising glance she cast at him. ‘She didn’t seem to wake for Dr. Jenner. She looks as if she’s sleeping.’
‘What did Jenner say?’
‘We’d have to hope. But he took six ounces of blood, and she looked better when he’d gone.’
‘But now?’
‘Oh--you’d say she was asleep. I’m doing all I can for her.’
That was all he could get from Mary Ann, and he went anxiously back to Royal Crescent to tell the others. Barford looked worried, John rather noticeably said nothing, and Mary made a comment that was indirect.
‘When this is over,’ she declared, ‘we’re leaving Cheltenham. There are too many complications here, of one sort and another. And as for Tommy Luttrell, after this . . .’
A shrug of her shoulders told what she meant, and then she caught Richard’s eye.
‘All right,’ he said simply. ‘But I can’t go just yet--till we know.’
‘Of course you can’t. I do understand that. Besides . . .’ Again she looked him in the eye, unhappily now. ‘How about me? I can’t help blaming myself, to some extent, for this.’
‘In heaven’s name---’
‘I did suggest it to the fool. I did say he should take to driving her. Of course, I never dreamed---’
‘Stop it,’ said John abruptly. ‘He’d have done it anyway, and you aren’t to blame at all. But I wish you’d tell me something else.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What was she getting at, just before he showed himself this morning? Something about who her father was? She seemed to think it was important. I always thought nobody knew.’
‘Quite right,’ said Barford. ‘And it’s her affair, anyway. Don’t trouble yourself about it.’
‘Why not?’ said Mary. He had spoken so hurriedly that she had turned quickly, and she was looking as suspicious as John. ‘She said she knew, and that you knew also.’
‘Did she? Well, if that is so, Mary . . .’ He was looking very firmly back at her now. ‘I think you’d better accept it that there was very good reason for keeping it secret. Accept it, please, and let the matter drop. I don’t wish to discuss it.’
‘Hasn’t it gone a little far for that?’ It was John now, answering angrily. ‘Aren’t you leaving a pretty unpleasant suspicion here?’
‘Am I? What’s that, please?’
‘If there’s all this secrecy--from us--are we to suppose it was my father?’
‘What!’ Mary whirled round suddenly at him ‘You’re saying she’s my sister?’
‘That mightn’t matter much. But if she’s mine, after---’
‘Good God!’
‘You may say so. And---’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Barford, ‘be easy. I’ve never said it was your father, so put your mind at rest.’
‘But---’
‘I’ve said I won’t discuss it. But I will say--I must say, after this nonsense--that it was not your father. So, whatever you’ve been doing with her, you haven’t that on your mind. Now that’s enough. When shall we hear more of her?’
They had to wait till after dinner, and between anxiety and suspicion it was a long wait. But at six o’clock Hildersham came in with news that Anice was reported to be still sleeping, and that Luttrell was conscious and in a good deal of pain; which, he added, served him right for his mad behaviour.
‘Worse than mad,’ said Mary.
‘Ye-es. I must say he did pretty well, though--later.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been talking to the Mail driver, and he says Tommy all but got through that gap. With anything but a curricle he’d have done it, and he thought of his horses to the end. He shouted to Anice to jump, but he didn’t jump himself.’
‘Coachman’s honour,’ said John.
‘Exactly. You stick to the reins while the wheels turn, and Tommy did it.’
‘Nobody said he lacked spunk.’
‘No. And the horses, I’m told, will recover. Now, what are you all doing tonight? Coming to the theatre?’
‘How could we?’
‘Why not? You won’t help Anice by sitting here. Marion, by the way, will send a note to you here at ten o’clock to give what news there is. So you can certainly be at the theatre. How about it, sir? Send them along, all three of them, and tell them not to mope.’
‘Oh yes--of course--certainly,’ said Barford, seeming to come suddenly to life. ‘Excellent idea.’
Hildersham went off, and then Barford showed a surprising firmness in pressing the others to the theatre. Hildersham was right, he said, and there was nothing to be gained by moping. They had better take their minds off things, and if there should be any bad news during the evening he would send to the theatre at once. He repeated it with variations, and in the end he had his way. They went dutifully to sit through a play of which Richard, at least, heard very little. His thoughts were with Anice, and when they came out again into the High Street he was hard put to it to walk lazily. All his wish was to hurry, with his thoughts on the note Mary Ann had promised to send. But at Royal Crescent all was quiet, and the note said only that Mary Ann could give no news. A sleepy footman said that Lord Barford had been out for a walk and had now gone to bed; and that left nothing to do but wait for morning.
He said good night to Mary in the hall, and he thought she looked strained.
‘Good night, my dear!’ she whispered. ‘I can guess how you feel, but it won’t help. Get into bed quickly, and don’t be worrying.’
‘I’ll try not to. And you’re right in one thing--when this is over we’re going away. Both of us. I don’t know where.’
‘Does it matter where? Now good night--good night!’
He walked back to the Plough, his thoughts half with Mary, half with Anice, and in the hall, on the little bench behind the door where the porters sat, the little groom was waiting who had served Anice since she had had the curricle. He jumped up unhappily.
‘From Mrs. Masters, sir. Could you come round at once, please?’
‘What! Is she worse?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. It was just that. Then she went running back--to the room. I was to say it’s urgent.’
‘I’ll come at once.’
27 Et in Arcadia Ego
It was perhaps ten minutes’ walk at the pace he set, and there were lights in the house when they came to it, bright below and dim through curtains in a bedroom. But it was quiet. There was no revelry here, and the groom did not even ring a bell. He tapped gently, lest he should wake a sleeper, and then pushed quietly at the door. It opened, to silence and candle-light; and then Mary Ann appeared, quick and alert, at the head of the stair.
‘Come up,’ she whispered. ‘Quietly.’
He took the stair on tiptoe, and she led him at once to a drawing room that was in Anice’s cream-and-gold and had Amphion on the mantelpiece, still in its sea of paint. He saw it with a catch in the throat and a quick rush of memory, seeing even that the candles had been specially placed to light it, and he had to tear his thoughts away as he turned to Mary Ann.
‘How is she?’ he asked. ‘You can’t mean---’
‘No.’ She interrupted quickly, and he thought she was hiding something. ‘She’s asked for you.’
‘But how is she?’
‘I think . . .’ Again it did not sound quite natural. ‘I think you’d better go to her.’
‘Very well.’
There was a side door in the room, and in silence he followed her to it. She pushed it open, looked in, and seemed to nod. Then she stood aside for him, and again he was on his toes lest he break the silence. He moved slowly, and suddenly she gave him a little push that sent him into the room; and he heard the door pulled shut behind him.
It mattered not at all. He was standing speechless now, gaping at what he saw. It was a gay cheerful room, done in pink-and-white, made bigger by the two tall mirrors on dressing-table and wall. The canopied bed was lighted from either side by wall-candelabras, and in it, under white sheets and a pink silk overlay, Anice was propped against a pile of lace-fringed pillows. But she was by no means in extremis. She was sitting up very brightly, toying with a glass of what seemed to be champagne, and with a thoroughly mischievous look on her face. Another glass and three tall bottles were on a table at the bedside, and by it, facing the bed, a cushioned chair was waiting. For the moment Anice did not look at him. She made play instead with the champagne, taking a slow drink at it and nodding with satisfaction. Then she turned her head.
‘Come in, dear. Don’t look so shy.’
‘Anice--what the devil!’
‘Tut, tut!’ Her forehead was crinkling now. ‘Aren’t you glad to see me?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Recovering, dear. From injuries.’ She tapped lightly at her forehead, where a square inch of plaster could be seen. ‘Of course, I’m very weak. I need a lot of sympathy--love and sympathy!’
‘You look as if you deserve something else. Do you know what a state we’ve been in about you?’
‘Frantic, I hope.’
‘Have you been playing a joke? What does that surgeon say?’
‘He’s no surgeon. It was old Jenner. He knows all about cowpox and he’s forgotten everything else. Aren’t you going to sit down?’
‘What did he say?’’
‘Oh, I just moaned a bit, and he said: “Poor little thing, poor little thing--put her to bed.” So they did. Open another bottle.’
‘Anice, you really---’
‘Aren’t you going to sit down? Open that bottle.’
‘You’ll please tell me first why you’ve made fools of us all like this. There seems to be nothing wrong with you at all’
‘I’d an awful headache, though.’ She suddenly faced him seriously, with the look of mischief leaving her. ‘All right, then. You promised me a night, and you weren’t going to come. You might have wanted to, but she’d have kept you, somehow--wouldn’t she? Look at me.’ She was suddenly imperious, and the blue eyes were startling in their force. ‘Would you have come to me, alone, at night, if I hadn’t done something?’
‘Perhaps--perhaps I shouldn’t, just now.’
‘I knew that on Sunday, and I’ve been looking for a chance ever since, so I wasn’t going to waste this one. What do you take me for?’
‘I don’t know what I take you for. You seem to be every- thing, one thing after another, and-----’
‘That’s better. It’s more like you.’ She seemed mollified, and for a moment her smile broke out a
gain. Then it faded and she spoke earnestly. ‘You needn’t stay if you don’t want to. I’d hate you to. I mean it. So---’
‘Anice!’ He moved close against the bed, drawn irresistibly by her eyes and the touch of sadness in her tone. ‘Can you think I don’t want to? Can you imagine it?’
‘Not really.’ She sounded more mollified now. ‘What do you do next?’
‘This.’
He bent over and kissed her, a little carefully as he saw the plaster again on her forehead, but she met him at once and seemed disturbed only by the glass she had in her hand. The champagne went splashing on the sheet, and she laughed softly at him.
‘Look what you’ve done. Now open that bottle for me as I’ve told you to. I’m an invalid--very bad.’
‘Are you indeed?’ He was laughing himself as he grasped the bottle. ‘Did you drink all the other one?’
‘A little help from Marion.’
‘I thought she was a little odd just now. She’s helping you, of course, in this pretty trick?’
‘She’s doing what she’s told. I’ve trained her to. Fill one for yourself.’
He leaned forward with the bottle, filling her glass with the golden wine, and then his own. She lifted hers, smiling now, and the glasses clinked together. A quick thought came to him of Mary, who would think he was in bed, and of the wild improbability of this midnight meeting. But Anice had contrived it, and she was improbable.
‘You’re not cross with me, dear?’
‘I can’t be. I ought to be.’ He settled slowly in the chair, knowing that he was already under her spell again. ‘You don’t know what it’s been like today. It could have been anything, after what we saw this morning. I’m afraid Luttrell really is hurt.’
