“I tell you I love you!” he said; “I’d go through hell for you. You’ve got to listen — you’ve got to know—”
“You coward!” she sobbed.
“I don’t care what you say to me if you’ll listen a moment—”
“As Rita Tevis listened to you!” she said, white to the lips— “you murderer of souls!” And, as his grasp relaxed for a second, she tore her arm free, sprang forward and slashed him across the mouth with the lash.
Behind her she heard his sharp cry of pain, heard him staggering about in the underbrush. Terror winged her feet and she fairly flew along the open ridge and down through the dead leaves across a soft, green, marshy hollow, hearing him somewhere in the woods behind her, coming on at a heavy run.
For a long time she ran; and suddenly collapsed, falling in a huddled desperate heap, her slender hands catching at her throat.
At the foot of the hill she saw him striding hither and thither, examining the soft forest soil or halting to listen — then as though scourged into action, running aimlessly toward where she lay, casting about on every side like a burly dog at fault.
Once, when he stood not very far away, and she had hidden her face in her arms, trembling like a doomed thing — she heard him call to her — heard the cry burst from him as though in agony:
“Valerie, don’t be afraid! I was crazy to touch you; — I’ll let you cut me to pieces if you’ll only answer me.”
And again he shouted, in a voice made thin by fright: “For God’s sake, Valerie, think of me for a moment. Don’t run off like that and let people know what’s happened to you!”
Then, in a moment, his heavy, hurried tread resounded; and he must have run very near to where she crouched, because she could hear him whimpering in his fear; but he ran on past where she lay, calling to her at intervals, until his frightened voice sounded at a distance and she could scarcely hear the rustle of the dead leaves under his hurrying tread.
Even then terror held her chained, breathing fast like a wounded thing, eyes bright with the insanity of her fear. She lay flat in the leaves, not stirring.
The last red sunbeams slanted through the woods, painting tree trunks crimson and running in fiery furrows through, the dead leaves; the sky faded to rose-colour, to mauve; faintly a star shone.
For a long time now nothing had stirred in the woodland silence. And, as the star glimmered brighter through the branches, she shivered, moved, lay listening, then crawled a little way. Every sound that she made was a terror to her, every heart beat seemed to burst the silence.
It was dusk when she crept out at last into a stony road, dragging her limbs; a fine mist had settled over the fields; the air grew keener. Somewhere in the darkness cow-bells tinkled; overhead, through the damp sheet of fog, the veiled stars were still shining.
Her senses were not perfectly clear; she remembered falling once or twice — remembered seeing the granite posts and iron gates of a drive, and that lighted windows were shining dimly somewhere beyond. And she crept toward them, still stupid with exhaustion and fright. Then she was aware of people, dim shapes in the darkness — of a dog barking — of voices, a quick movement in the dusk — of a woman’s startled exclamation.
Suddenly she heard Neville’s voice — and a door opened, flooding her with yellow light where she stood swaying, dazed, deathly pale.
“Louis!” she said.
He sprang to her, caught her in his arms
“Good God! What is the matter?”
She rested against him, her eyes listlessly watching the people swiftly gathering in the dazzling light.
“Where in the world — how did you get here! — where have you been—” His stammered words made him incoherent as he caught sight of the mud and dust on her torn waist and skirt.
Her eyes had closed a moment; they opened now with an effort. Once more she looked blindly at the people clustering around her — recognised his sister and Stephanie — divined that it was his mother who stood gazing at her in pallid consternation — summoned every atom of her courage to spare him the insult which a man’s world had offered to her — found strength to ignore it so that no shadow of the outrage should fall through her upon him or upon those nearest to him.
“I lost my way,” she said. Her white lips tried to smile; she strove to stand upright, alone; caught mechanically at his arm, the fixed smile still stamped on her lips. “I am sorry to — disturb anybody…. I was lost — and it grew dark…. I don’t know my way — very well—”
She turned, conscious of some one’s arm supporting her; and Stephanie said, in a low, pitiful voice:
“Lean back on me. You must let me help you to the house.”
“Thank you — I won’t go in…. If I could rest — a moment — perhaps somebody — Mr. Neville — would help me to get home again—”
[Illustration: “‘Dearest,’ he whispered, putting his arm around her, ‘you must come with us’”]
“Come with me, Miss West,” whispered Stephanie, “I want you. Will you come to my room with me for a little while?”
She looked into Stephanie’s eyes, turned and looked at Neville.
“Dearest,” he whispered, putting his arm around her, “you must come with us.”
She nodded and moved forward, steadily, between them both, and entered the house, head-carried high on the slender neck, but her face was colourless under the dark masses of her loosened hair, and she swayed at the foot of the stairs, reaching out blindly at nothing — falling forward.
It was a dead weight that Neville bore into Stephanie’s room. When his mother turned him out and closed the door behind him he stood stupidly about until his sister, who had gone into the room, opened the door and bade him telephone for Dr. Ogilvy.
“What has happened to her?” he asked, as though dazed.
“I don’t know. I think you’d better tell Quinn to bring around the car and go for Dr. Ogilvy yourself.”
It was a swift rush to Dartford through the night; bareheaded he bent forward beside the chauffeur, teeth set, every nerve tense and straining as though his very will power was driving the machine forward. Then there came a maddening slowing down through Dartford streets, a nerve-racking delay until Sam Ogilvy’s giant brother had stowed away himself and his satchel in the tonneau; then slow speed to the town limits; a swift hurling forward into space that whirled blackly around them as the great acetylenes split the darkness and chaos roared in their ears.
Under the lighted windows the big doctor scrambled out and stamped upstairs; and Neville waited on the landing.
His father appeared below, looking up at him, and started to say something; but apparently changed his mind and went back into the living room, rattling his evening paper and coughing.
Cameron passed through the hallway, looked at him, but let him alone.
After a while the door opened and Lily came out.
“I’m not needed,” she said; “your mother and Stephanie have taken charge.”
“Is she going to be very ill?”
“Billy Ogilvy hasn’t said anything yet.”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yes, she is now.”
“Has she said anything more?”
“No.”
Lily stood silent a moment, gazing absently down at the lighted hall below, then she looked at her brother as though she, too, were about to speak, but, like her father, she reconsidered the impulse, and went away toward the nursery.
Later his mother opened the door very softly, let herself and Stephanie out, and stood looking at him, one finger across her lips, while Stephanie hurried away downstairs.
“She’s asleep, Louis. Don’t raise your voice—” as he stepped quickly toward her.
“Is it anything serious?” he asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know what Dr. Ogilvy thinks. He is coming out in a moment….” She placed one hand on her son’s shoulder, reddening a trifle. “I’ve told William Ogilvy that she is a friend of — t
he family. He may have heard Sam talking about her when he was here last. So I thought it safer.”
Neville brought a chair for his mother, but she shook her head, cautioning silence, and went noiselessly downstairs.
[Illustration: “‘Well, Louis, what do you know about this?’”]
Half an hour later Dr. Ogilvy emerged, saw Neville — walked up and inspected him, curiously.
“Well, Louis, what do you know about this?” he asked, buttoning his big thick rain-coat to the throat.
“Absolutely nothing, Billy, except that Miss West, who is a guest of the Countess d’Enver at Estwich, lost her way in the woods. How is she now?”
“All right,” said the doctor, dryly.
“Is she conscious?”
“Perfectly.”
“Awake?”
“Yes. She won’t be — long.”
“Did she talk to you?”
“A little.”
“What is the matter?”
“Fright. And I’m wondering whether merely being lost in the woods is enough to have terrified a girl like that? Because, apparently, she is as superb a specimen of healthy womanhood as this world manufactures once in a hundred years. How well do you know her?”
“We are very close friends.”
“H’m. Did you suppose she was the kind of woman to be frightened at merely being lost in a civilised country?”
“No. She has more courage — of all kinds — than most women.”
“Because,” said the big doctor thoughtfully, “while she was unconscious it took me ten minutes to pry open her fingers and disengage a rather heavy dog-whip from her clutch…. And there was some evidences of blood on the lash and on the bone handle.”
“What!” exclaimed Neville, amazed.
The doctor shrugged: “I don’t know of any fierce and vicious dogs between here and Estwich, either,” he mused.
“No, Cardemon keeps none. And its mostly his estate.”
“Oh … Any — h’m! — vicious men — in his employment?”
“My God!” whispered Neville, “what do you mean, Billy?”
“Finger imprints — black and blue — on both arms. Didn’t Miss West say anything that might enlighten you?”
“No … She only said she had been lost…. Wait a moment; I’m trying to think of the men Cardemon employs—”
He was ashy white and trembling, and the doctor laid a steadying hand on his arm.
“Hold on, Louis,” he said sharply, “it was no worse than a fright. Do you understand?… And do you understand, too, that an innocent and sensitive and modest girl would rather die than have such a thing made public through your well-meant activity? So there’s nothing for anybody to do — yet.”
Neville could scarcely speak.
“Do you mean — she was attacked by some — man!”
“It looks like it. And — you’d better keep it from your family — because she did. She’s game to the core — that little girl.”
“But she — she’ll tell me!” stammered Neville — she’s got to tell me—”
“She won’t if she can help it. Would it aid her any if you found out who it was and killed him? — ran for a gun and did a little murdering some pleasant morning — just to show your chivalrous consideration and devotion to her?”
“Are you asking me to let a beast like that go unpunished?” demanded
Neville violently.
“Oh, use your brains, Louis. He frightened her and she slashed him well for it. And, womanlike — after there was no more danger and no more necessity for pluck — she got scared and ran; and the farther she ran the more scared she became. Look here, Louis; look at me — squarely.” He laid both ponderous hands on Neville’s shoulders:
“Sam has told me all about you and Miss West — and I can guess how your family takes it. Can’t you see why she had the pluck to remain silent about this thing? It was because she saw in it the brutal contempt of the world toward a woman who stood in that world alone, unsupported, unprotected. And she would not have you and your family know how lightly the world held the woman whom you love and wish to marry — not for her own sake alone — but for the sake of your family’s pride — and yours.”
His hands dropped from Neville’s shoulders; he stood considering him for a moment in silence.
“I’ve told you because, if you are the man I think you are, you ought to know the facts. Forcing her to the humiliation of telling you will not help matters; filling this pup full of lead means an agony of endless publicity and shame for her, for your family, and for you…. He’ll never dare remain in the same county with her after this. He’s probably skedaddled by this time anyway.” … Dr. Ogilvy looked narrowly at Neville. “Are you pretty sane, now?”
“Yes.”
“You realise that gun-play is no good in this matter?”
“Y-yes.”
“And you really are going to consider Miss West before your own natural but very primitive desire to do murder?”
Neville nodded.
“Knowing,” added the doctor, “that the unspeakable cur who affronted her has probably taken to his heels?”
Neville, pale and silent, raised his eyes:
“Do you suspect anybody?”
“I don’t know,” said the doctor carelessly;— “I’ll just step over to the telephone and make an inquiry of Penrhyn Cardemon—”
He walked to the end of the big hall, unhooked the receiver, asked for
Cardemon’s house, got it.
Neville heard him say:
“This is Dr. Ogilvy. Is that you, Gelett? Isn’t your master at home?”
* * * * *
“What? Had to catch a train?”
* * * * *
“Oh! A sudden matter of business.”
* * * * *
“I see. He’s had a cable calling him to London. How long will he be away, Gelett?”
* * * * *
“Oh, I see. You don’t know. Very well. I only called up because I understood he required medical attention.”
* * * * *
“Yes — I understood he’d been hurt about the head and face, but I didn’t know he had received such a — battering.”
* * * * *
“You say that his horse threw him in the big beech-woods? Was he really very much cut up?”
* * * * *
“Pretty roughly handled, eh! All right. When you communicate with him tell him that Dr. Ogilvy and Mr. Neville, Jr., were greatly interested to know how badly he was injured. Do you understand? Well, don’t forget. And you may tell him, Gelett, that as long as the scars remain, he’d better remain, too. Get it straight, Gelett; tell him it’s my medical advice to remain away as long as he can — and a little longer. This climate is no good for him. Good-bye.”
He turned from the telephone and sauntered toward Neville, who regarded him with a fixed stare.
“You see,” he remarked with a shrug; and drew from his pocket a slightly twisted scarf pin — a big horse-shoe set with sapphires and diamonds — the kind of pin some kinds of men use in their riding-stocks.
“I’ve often seen him wearing it,” he said carelessly. “Curious how it could have become twisted and entangled in Miss West’s lace waist.”
He held out the pin, turning it over reflectively as the facets of the gems caught and flashed back the light from the hall brackets.
“I’ll drop it into the poor-box I think,” he mused. “Cardemon will remain away so long that this pin will be entirely out of fashion when he returns.”
After a few moments Neville drew a long, deep breath, and his clenched hands relaxed.
“Sure,” commented the burly doctor. “That’s right — feeling better — rush of common sense to the head. Well, I’ve got to go.”
“Will you be here in the morning?”
“I think not. She’ll be all right. If she isn’t, send over for me.”
“You don’t think that the shock — the exhaustion—”
/> “Naw,” said the big doctor with good-natured contempt; “she’s going to be all right in the morning…. She’s a lovely creature, isn’t she? Sam said so. Sam has an eye for beauty. But, by jinks! I was scarcely prepared for such physical perfection — h’m! — or such fine and nice discrimination — or for such pluck…. God knows what people’s families want these days. If the world mated properly our best families would be extinct in another generation…. You’re one of ‘em; you’d better get diligent before the world wakes up with a rush of common sense to its doddering old head.” He gave him both hands, warmly, cordially: “Good-bye, Louis.”
Neville said: “I want you to know that I’d marry her to-morrow if she’d have me, Billy.”
The doctor lifted his eyebrows.
“Won’t she?”
“No.”
“Then probably you’re not up to sample. A girl like that is no fool. She’ll require a lot in a man. However, you’re young; and you may make good yet.”
“You don’t understand, Billy—”
“Yes, I do. She wears a dinky miniature of you against her naked heart. Yes, I guess I understand…. And I guess she’s that kind of a girl all unselfishness and innocence, and generous perversity and — quixotic love…. It’s too bad, Louis. I guess you’re up against it for fair.”
He surveyed the younger man, shook his head:
“They can’t stand for her, can they?”
“No.”
“And she won’t stand for snaking you out of the fold. That’s it, I fancy?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad — too bad. She’s a fine woman — a very fine little woman. That’s the kind a man ought to marry and bother the Almighty with gratitude all the rest of his life. Well — well! Your family is your own after all; and I live in Dartford, thank God! — not on lower Fifth Avenue or Tenth Street.”
He started away, halted, came back:
“Couldn’t you run away with her?” he asked anxiously.
“She won’t,” replied Neville, unsmiling.
“I mean, violently. But she’s too heavy to carry, I fancy — and I’ll bet she’s got the vigour of little old Diana herself. No — you couldn’t do the Sabine act with her — only a club and the cave-man’s gentle persuasion would help either of you…. Well — well, if they see her at breakfast it may help some. You know a woman makes or breaks herself at breakfast. That’s why the majority of woman take it abed. I’m serious, Louis; no man can stand ’em — the majority.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 548
