One thing, at any rate, was clear. That girl, who had suggested only yesterday that the doctor was mad, was now his most devoted admirer. Why, only that very same evening he had seen them walking arm in arm—yes, arm in arm, mind you—in the rose garden. Well, perhaps that was not quite true. Doctor Murchison had laid his hand on her arm for a moment, but, at least, she had not tried to shake it off. And, after a moment, the doctor had withdrawn it. Then they had disappeared round the corner, where the statue stood of the nymph undressing. Pretty certainly they were arm in arm again as soon as they were out of sight. He only hoped it was no worse than that. There was something between those two, and he was prepared to believe the worst. He had seen the doctor looking at the girl very strangely at times, and he knew what young people were. He had been young himself. There was that blackeyed girl in 1897 at Amalfi and their walk together by the water mills.
No, he must act alone—if it were at all possible to act.
He stopped again, for he had now reached the path which ran right round the circle of rocks, mostly in the fir wood. There was a fallen trunk by the side of it, and he sat down, taking off his Panama hat and holding his handkerchief once more to his head. It was still terribly hot, even here, in the shadow of the firs. And it was unnaturally quiet in the wood. There were no birds and no insects on the wing. It was not like an English wood, which at that season would be full of sounds and bird voices. It was as still and lifeless as a stage setting. The firs spread all about him, climbing sharply to the naked rock, of which he caught a glimpse now and again between the tree tops.
He shifted uneasily on his seat, and, as he did so, there was that rustling again quite close to him. This time he heard it. Some animal, perhaps, and he did not like animals, especially animals you could not see. He looked round uneasily and heard the sound again, followed by a silence even deadlier than before. He could hear nothing now, nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing, or was it the breathing of some other creature near at hand?
He sprang to his feet, and there was a faint stir in the undergrowth behind the trunk on which he had been sitting. He stood for a moment, still as a statue, and then, on a sudden impulse, prodded the undergrowth with his stick. He touched something hard, but not very hard, not rock at any rate. It moved under the point of his stick, and a hoarse sound in the nature of a grunt came from the thicket.
That was a nasty thing to happen. You poked at the solid earth and it moved. Like those men who landed on a whale.
Mr. Deeling turned and shambled down the path, almost at a run. Fifty yards away he halted and listened intently, but there was no further sound. He put his hand to his heart. His mouth was dry, and sweat, not altogether due to the heat, was running into his eyes. He wiped his forehead again, blew out his cheeks, and then, very deliberately, though with hands that trembled slightly, he felt for, found and filled a pipe. He struck one match and then another, and he would not look behind him. Then, when the pipe was alight, he moved forward again along the path.
His nerves were not as good as they should be. There could, of course, be no animals in the wood. No animals could climb the mountains surrounding the valley, or get through the wire fence which cut off the valley at the only point at which it was accessible. He was becoming fanciful. All that business about the doctor and the girl and the plot between them. It was undoubtedly far-fetched. He had lost his bearings. There was no sense in anything at all. That was a horrid thought, for in a world without sense one thing was just as likely to happen as another.
He walked on, more briskly now, down the path. He would walk to the end of it where it met the fence, then he would turn back, walk all the way round to where it joined the fence on the other side of the valley, come down through the trees and reach the castle just in time for tea. He glanced at his watch, and saw that he would have to walk at a fair pace to carry out the programme.
He began to think again of Doctor Murchison, but he seemed unable now to keep his reflections clear and connected. The doctor, perhaps, would marry the girl. Why not? The Reverend Mark Hickett would be delighted to perform the ceremony. Was a marriage to be regarded as valid if performed by a madman? That was rather an interesting speculation. It would be odd for a couple to be living in sin without being aware of it. He had thought a great deal about sin in his youth. That blackeyed girl. How he had longed to live in sin. But he had not dared.
Why had the earth moved and what had been that curious sound? Man or beast, fish, flesh, fowl or good red herring? But that was nonsense. He must pull himself together.
He stumbled over a rut and looked at the path. At his feet branching off to the left, was a little track leading through the bushes and fir trees slightly down the hill. He followed it mechanically, though he did not remember ever having trodden it before. It led him to a little clearing—quite fresh, it would appear, for the stumps of the felled trees were not yet overgrown. It was perhaps twenty yards broad, and the afternoon sunlight beat upon it fiercely, so that the air above was dizzy with heat. In the middle was something white—or was it something red?—which Mr. Deeling found it difficult to put a name to all at once. He walked towards it, and saw that it was a flat white stone, about the size of a small table, a very ordinary stone with nothing to distinguish it from ten thousand others, except for those streaks of red that ran down the front and sides from an uneven blotch in the center.
Mr. Deeling bent and touched the red patch hesitatingly with his finger. It was sticky. Paint apparently. Red paint. Very curious. But it could not be paint. What was it then? Once more he touched it with his finger. It was certainly very sticky, and a faint stale smell hung about it. Mechanically he put his finger to his lips. It tasted salt. “It’s blood,” said Mr. Deeling to himself in a whisper. “That’s what it is—blood.”
And as he spoke there was once more a rustling—this time in the thicket of bushes behind him.
He whipped round and faced the thicket.
“Come out,” said something in his brain. “Don’t play those silly tricks.”
But no sound came from his lips, for he only thought that he called.
Then he heard something, a voice that muttered in the shadow.
“Not yet,” it seemed to be saying, “not yet. Neither the day nor the hour.”
Mr. Deeling stared at the thicket, which moved under his eyes as though an unseen wind were blowing. Or was it the passage of some heavy body? The sweat trickled unchecked down his cheeks.
He walked quickly back to the path. He must not run, for that would be the end.
Soon he was again in the wood, but now he had a companion—something that stalked him invisibly, rustling beside him as he went upon his way. Where were the human voices and the pleasant light of day?
Mr. Deeling began to run.
II
The haymaking party had started early after lunch.
“A dashed sight too early in this confounded heat,” grumbled Colonel Rickaby, who disliked having to hurry his cheroot and coffee.
Doctor Murchison had suggested it on the previous evening, and the patients had received the idea with enthusiasm.
The portion of the meadow lying towards the east, between the castle and the wire fence, had been mown several days before, unwillingly, by a party of villagers, whose desire as farmers to obtain an excellent crop of hay at a very low price had overcome their reluctance to enter the castle valley.
Everyone, except Miss Archer, was there, including Doctor Murchison and Constance. There were rakes and pitchforks with wooden prongs for the men, and it was proposed that the ladies should either help their male companions or sit on the hay wagon, which was in the charge of two surly young rustics and Warder Jones, and help to stack the hay.
Constance, who had fallen in very readily with the plan, was now a little doubtful. It was so very hot. The sun blazed down from a sky so blue and cloudless that it hurt her eyes. The hot air rising from the valley made it seem as though a shimmering veil were
stretched between her and the yellow rocks above the belt of firs. The handle of the rake she was grasping was hot and dry to the touch, and she had doubts about the efficacy of the cream which she had put on her face and arms, which were bare to the elbow. She wore a tennis frock and a straw hat. Doctor Murchison was in flannels, his shirt open at the neck. He was at present talking to the Reverend Mark Hickett, who, with Colonel Rickaby, was standing beside the pile of pitchforks and rakes.
“I recommend a rake,” he was saying.
The Reverend Mark Hickett was looking at him intently, and for a moment he did not reply. There was more color than usual in his pale cheeks.
“Just as you wish,” he said, at last.
“Then I should certainly choose a rake,” said Doctor Murchison gravely.
“Here you are, Padre,” said Colonel Rickaby, handing him one of the implements in question. “Take a rake and let’s see what you can do with it. The rake’s progress, what?”
He burst into genial laughter at his own joke, and himself selected a pitchfork.
“The fatigue party will be in charge of Corporal Hancock,” he declaimed, as he shouldered his pitchfork and moved off towards the wagon where Mr. Curtis was already tossing up hay to Miss Collett with desperate energy.
Doctor Murchison smiled at Constance, who set to work with a rake, urging Miss Truelow to follow her example.
Miss Truelow, she noted, was not very suitably dressed for the occasion. She was wearing, in fact, her usual clothes, the taffeta blouse with long sleeves, buttoned up to the neck.
Evidently Miss Truelow had a similar impression in regard to Constance herself.
“Your arms will be burnt to a cinder,” she said, as she began to drag her rake aimlessly through the grass. “I advise you to cover them up.”
“I rubbed in some cream after lunch,” said Constance pleasantly.
“I never use cosmetics,” said Miss Truelow. “I advise you to cover them up.” She looked significantly away to Doctor Murchison as she spoke.
“Cover them up!” exclaimed Mr. Clearwater, who was playing with a rake nearby. “That would be sacrilege. White arms under the sunlight in Arcadia.”
He leaned upon his rake and looked with a boy’s delight at Constance as she worked.
“You are, indeed,” he cried, “the fair spirit of this valley. For you Daphnis and Menalcas contended with oaten pipes, drowning the cicala while their goats strayed seaward. Soon we shall dance, and perhaps the Maenads will reel with the drunken god from the forest and crown us with vine leaves.”
“I trust they will do no such thing,” said Miss Truelow severely.
Constance colored in spite of herself, and the flush on her cheeks deepened as she saw that Doctor Murchison was also regarding her. He smiled gravely as he met her glance.
“When I was on leave in ’89,” said Colonel Rickaby from near the wagon, “or was it’93? No, it was ’95. I was staying with the Bastupps at Bastupp Park—no, it was not the Bastupps. They have been dead for the last ten years. It was the Grimsbys of Thornton Grange, of course, down in Devonshire, or was it Dorset? No, no, Derbyshire. Anyhow, it began with a D; and we had an absolutely splendid hay party. For the children, you know. Three of them, there were, or possibly four. The eldest was Arabella, or was it Daisy? No, it was Ethel. She used to sit on the hay wagon and pretend it was a castle.”
“I’m queen of the castle. I’m queen of the castle,” chanted Miss Collett from the top of the hay wagon.
“Somebody must come and attack me,” she continued, challenging the field.
The Colonel leaned confidentially towards Constance.
“I don’t like attacking places,” he said in a low, uneasy voice. “Too much blood, you know. You’ve no idea how much a man can bleed.”
He started as Doctor Murchison laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Colonel,” said the doctor kindly, “you mustn’t be thinking now about your old campaigns. “We’re going to enjoy ourselves.”
Mr. Clearwater, leaning on his rake, was looking at the doctor with an almost painful intentness. Then his eyes ran shiftily round the meadow, and he beckoned to Constance, who went towards him.
“Do you remember,” he said, “the Cardinal in the Duchess of Malfi? He saw a thing, you know, armed with a raise, that seemed to strike at him.”
“I could never read that play to an end,” said Constance.
“Oh, but you should,” said Mr. Clearwater, earnestly, and suddenly he began to declaim:
“I know death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits; and ’tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways: anyway, for heaven’s sake,
So I were out of your whispering.”
He looked at her wisely.
“We have improved on that,” he said, “not even a whisper and yet we know that everything proper is said and done. You remember how it goes—a mere glass house where the devils are continually blowing up women’s souls on hollow irons and the fire never goes out?”
“Come, Mr. Clearwater,” protested Constance. “Some of those Elizabethans were just a little morbid, don’t you think?”
Mr. Clearwater gave her a charming smile.
“It was the rake,” he said. “But my dainty shepherdess will understand. She knows that I would never hurt a fly—not even spiders, that old Curtis loves to kill.”
“Mr. Curtis likes to kill spiders?” said Constance. They had drawn a little apart from the rest, and were now raking together a long swathe of sweet-smelling hay, which would presently be tossed into the wagon by Colonel Rickaby, who was working busily just out of earshot.
“He stamps on them with his bare feet,” said Mr.
Clearwater, “and they pop like little bladders of seaweed.”
He gave a little laugh and added hastily: “But what a silly thing to talk about on a summer’s day!”
Constance agreed, and looking away down the meadow told herself that the hay party was a great success. Miss Collett, shrieking with delight, was almost smothered with the hay tossed up into the cart by the Colonel. Miss Truelow, following in the path of the doctor, was gleaning the stray wisps that escaped his fork. In the middle distance Warder Jones, who had worked upon a farm in his youth, was, with slow, tireless gestures, doing the bulk of the work. The sight of his sturdy figure turned this alien meadow into an English field. Then, as by a miracle, from somewhere far up in the blue, a lark was trilling, and the voice of Mr. Clearwater rang out suddenly:
“And then I changed my pipings,—
Singing how down the vale of Menalus
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosoms and then we bleed.”
A little apart from the rest the Reverend Mark Hickett, pausing in his aimless labor, was looking up as though in search of the tiny creature whose singing had suddenly fallen from the sky. Was this a prelude to that opening of the heavens for which he waited? No: not thus would the revelation come. And yet, it was very near. But would it come from heaven? He must forget all his earlier expectations, put from his mind the dove descending, and the still small voice. Such thoughts might even delay the revelation. A great strong wind rent the mountains and brake in pieces the rocks… and after the wind an earthquake… and after the earthquake a fire…. He looked towards the doctor. There was the man who knew. On his face was authority. That man had only to call aloud and the revelation would be upon them all. Perhaps he would not even call aloud. He had only to send out his thoughts. Thoughts are things. That was the title of a book he had read—what his grandmother would have called a good book. The lips of the Reverend Mark Hickett curled in a sudden disdain, and that was rather alarming, for he had always respected his grandmother. Perhaps it was the scene—pastoral, of course, but somehow terribly pagan—sheep on the right hand and goats on the left; but
this was not a country for sheep. There were goats everywhere in the valley. They browsed among the rocks and stood in the path, primitive, shapeless creatures, older than sin.
An unexpected sound broke in upon his meditations. For Mr. Clearwater had taken from the pocket of his tweed coat a little flute, in two pieces, which he had screwed together.
He was blowing it clear of the dust and grains of tobacco which it had collected, and it gave out a low, clear note.
“It’s summer and harvest time,” thought Constance, “and the world is very beautiful. If only it were not so terribly hot!”
At the sound of the flute the others looked up, and with one accord stopped working. Mr. Clearwater, having cleared the instrument to his satisfaction, blew three or four notes rapidly to try it, running his fingers up and down the stops. Then, putting it to his lips again, he blew in good earnest, and began to dance, raising his feet with odd ungainly steps. Having played a few measures, he paused for a moment and broke into a happy smile.
“My men like satyrs, grazing on the lawns,
Shall with their goat feet dance the antic hay,”
he said, and putting the pipe to his lips began to dance again.
“Reminds me of those summer evenings in the hills,” broke in the Colonel. “Those black fellows used to pipe to their flocks. Most confoundedly queer tunes they used to play, upon my soul, and with hardly a rag to their backs.”
“Cover your arms,” said a voice, and Constance found that Miss Truelow was again at her elbow.
Miss Collett now slid rapidly down from the hay wagon, and running towards Mr. Clearwater, began to dance to the music of the pipe.
Doctor Murchison again smiled at Constance.
“Well,” he said, “what do you think of my party?”
“The tune,” said Constance abruptly; “it’s the thing he played in the chapel. Don’t you remember? He called it ‘Jumping Joan.’”
Miss Truelow came suddenly between them.
The House of Dr. Edwardes Page 11
