CHAPTER V
A SOUTH AMERICAN LETTER
Naturally I expected that some time that night my father would havespoken to me concerning the strange meeting at the house of the womanwhom he had called Marcia. In a sense I feared what he might have tosay. Already I was beginning to reckon those few hours as an epoch inmy life. Never had I met any one whom in so short a time had attractedme so much. I found myself thinking of her continually, and themore I thought the more I scoffed at the idea of connecting in anyway with her those things at which Lady Naselton had hinted. Thereseemed something almost grossly incongruous in any such idea. Themore I thought of her the more resolute I became in putting all suchthoughts behind me. And, apart from my judgment, which was altogetheron her side, I was conscious of a vague personal attraction, almosta fascination, which had a wonderful effect on me. The manner ofher life, her surroundings, that air of quiet, forcible elegance,which seemed to assert itself alike in her house, her dress, and herconversation, were a revelation to me. She was original too, obviouslyintellectual, a woman who held her life well within control, andlived it fearlessly and self-reliantly. I had never met any one likeit before, and I longed to see more of her. My one fear was lest myfather should lay some stern embargo upon my association with her. Inthat case I had made up my mind not to yield without a struggle. Iwould be quite sure that it was not a matter of merely prejudicebefore I consented to give up what promised to be the most delightfulfriendship I had ever known.
But, rather to my surprise, and a little to my relief, my fatherignored our afternoon's adventure when I saw him again. He came into dinner as usual, carefully dressed, and ate and drank with hiscustomary fine care that everything of which he partook should be ofthe best of its kind. After he had left the table we saw no more ofhim. He went straight to his study, and I heard the door shut and thekey turned--a sign that he was on no account to be disturbed; andthough I sat in the drawing room until long after my usual time forretiring, and afterwards remained in my room till the small hourscommenced to chime, his door remained locked. Yet in the morning hewas down before us. He was standing at the window when I came intothe breakfast room, and the clear morning light fell mercilessly onhis white face, pallid and lined with the marks of his long vigil. Itseemed to me that he greeted us both more quietly than usual.
During breakfast time I made a few remarks to him, but they passedunnoticed, or elicited only a monosyllabic reply. Alice spoke of theschools, but he seemed scarcely to hear. We all became silent. Aswe were on the point of rising, the unusual sound of wheels outsideattracted our attention. A fly was passing slowly along the roadbeyond our hedge. I caught a glimpse of a woman's face inside, andhalf rose up.
"She is going away!" I exclaimed.
My father, too, had half risen. He made a movement as though tohurry from the room, but with an effort he restrained himself. Theeffect of her appearance upon him was very evident to me. His underlip was twitching, and his long, white fingers were nervouslyinterlaced. Alice, bland and unseeing, glanced carelessly out of thewindow.
"It is our mysterious neighbor from the Yellow House," sheremarked. "If a tithe of what people say about her is true we ought torejoice that she is going away. It is a pity she is not leaving forgood."
My father opened his lips as though about to speak. He changed hismind, however, and left the room. The burden of her defence remainedwith me.
"If I were you I would not take any notice of what people say abouther," I remarked. "In all probability you will only hear a pack oflies. I had tea with her yesterday afternoon, and she seemed to me tobe a very well-bred and distinguished woman."
Alice looked at me with wide-open eyes, and an expression almost ofhorror in her face.
"Do you mean to say that you have been to see her, that you have beeninside her house, Kate?" she cried.
I nodded.
"I was caught in the rain and she asked me in," I explained,coolly. "Afterwards I liked her so much that I was glad to stay to teawhen she asked me. She is a very charming woman."
Alice looked at me blankly.
"But, Kate, didn't Lady Naselton tell you about her? Surely you haveheard what people say?"
I shrugged my shoulders slightly.
"Lady Naselton told me a good many things," I answered; "but I do notmake a point of believing everything disagreeable which I hear aboutpeople. Do you think that charitable yourself?"
My sister's face hardened. She had all the prejudices of her type, inher case developed before their time. She was the vicar's daughter, inwhose eyes the very breath of scandal was like a devastating wind. Herpoint of view, and consequently her judgment, seemed to me alikenarrow and cruel.
"You forget your position," she said, with cold indignation. "Thereare other reports of that woman besides Lady Naselton's. Depend uponit there is no smoke without fire. It is most indiscreet of you tohave had any communication with her."
"That," I declared, "is a matter of opinion."
"I believe that she is not a nice woman," Alice said, firmly.
"And I shall believe her to be a very nice one until I know thecontrary," I answered. "I know her and you do not, and I can assureyou that she is much more interesting than any of the women who havecalled upon us round here."
Alice was getting angry with me.
"You prefer an interesting woman to a good one," she said, warmly.
"Without going quite so far as that, I certainly think that itis unfortunate that most of the good women whom one meets are souninteresting," I answered. "Goodness seems so satisfying--in thecase of repletion. I mean--it doesn't seem to leave room for anythingelse."
Whereupon Alice left me in despair, and I found myself face to facewith my father. He looked at me in stern disapproval. There was adistinctly marked frown on his forehead.
"You are too fond of those flighty sayings, Kate," he remarked,sternly. "Let me hear less of them."
I made no reply. There were times when I was almost afraid of myfather, when a suppressed irritation of manner seemed like the thinveneer beneath which a volcano was trembling. To-day the signs werethere. I made haste to change the subject.
"The letters have just come," I said, holding out a little packet tohim. "There is one for you from a place I never heard of--somewhere inSouth America, I think."
He took them from me and glanced at the handwriting of the topmostone. Then for a short space of time I saw another man before me. Thecalm strength of his refined, thoughtful face was transformed. Likea flash the gleam of a dark passion lit up his brilliant eyes. Hislips quivered, his fingers were clenched together. For a moment Ithought he would have torn the letter into shreds unopened. With anevident effort, however, he restrained himself, and went out of theroom bearing the letter in his hand.
I heard him walking about in his study all the morning. At luncheontime he had quite recovered his composure, but towards its close hemade, for us, a somewhat startling announcement.
"I am going to London this afternoon," he said, quietly.
"To London?" we both echoed.
"Yes. There is a little business there which requires my personalattention."
Under the circumstances Alice was even more surprised than I was.
"But how about Mr. Hewitt?" she reminded him blandly. "We were tomeet him at the schools at five o'clock this afternoon about the newventilators."
"Mr. Hewitt must be put off until my return," my father answered. "Theschools have done without them for ten years so they can go on foranother week. Can I trouble you for the Worcestershire sauce, Kate?"
This was my father's method of closing the subject. Alice looked at mewith perplexed face, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I was wonderingwhether my father would undertake a commission for me at Debenham andFreebody's.
"Shall you be going West?" I asked him.
He looked up at me and hesitated for a moment.
"My business is in the city," he said, coldly. "What do you callWest?"
"Regent
Street," I answered.
He considered a few moments.
"I may be near there," he said. "If so I will try to do what yourequire. Do not be disappointed if I should happen to forget about it,though. If it is important you had better send direct."
"I would rather you called if it wouldn't be bothering you," I toldhim. "There is some money to pay, and it would save my getting postalorders."
I left the room to write a note. When I came back my father had goneinto his study. I followed him there, and, entering the room withoutknocking, found him bending over his desk.
He looked up at me and frowned.
"What do you want?" he said, sharply.
I explained, and he took the note from me, listening to the details ofmy commission, and making a note in his pocket-book.
"I will see to this for you if I can," he said. "I will not promise,because I shall have other and more important matters to take up myattention. In the meantime, I should be glad to be left undisturbedfor an hour. I have some letters to write."
I left him at once, and I heard the key turn in the door after me. Athalf-past three a fly arrived from the Junction, and he appeared uponthe step carrying a small black bag in his hand.
"I shall be back," he said, "on Friday. Goodbye, Alice; goodbye,Kate."
We kissed him, and he got up in the carriage and drove off. Alice andI remained upon the doorstep looking at one another. We both felt thatthere was something mysterious about his sudden departure.
"Have you any idea what it means?" she asked me.
I shook my head.
"He has not told me anything," I said. "Didn't you say that he used togo to London often when you were at Belchester?"
Alice looked very grave.
"Yes," she said; "and that is one reason why we left the place. Thepeople did not like it. He went away very often; and, indeed, oldColonel Dacre wrote to the Bishop about it."
"He was a meddlesome old duffer," I remarked, leaning against thedoor-post with my face turned towards the Yellow House.
"He was rather a busybody," Alice admitted; "but I am not surprisedthat he wrote to the Bishop. A good many other people used to complainabout it. You were not in Belchester very long, so of course you knewnothing about it."
"And do you mean to say that you have no idea at all why he went sooften? You don't know what he did there, or anything, not even wherehe stayed?"
"Not the shred of an idea," Alice declared. "It used to worry me agreat deal, and when I came here I hoped it was all over. Now it seemsas though it were all beginning again!"
"I believe," I said, "that I know what took him up to London to-day."
"Really!" Alice cried, eagerly.
I nodded.
"It was a letter."
"One that he had this morning?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Morris gave me the letters through the window," I answered. "Therewere only two for father. One was from Mr. Hewitt--that was aboutthe schools you know, and the other was from somewhere in SouthAmerica. It was that letter which took him to London."
She looked at me with knitted brows, and a general expression ofperplexity.
"From South America! I never heard father speak of any one there."
"From South America," I repeated. "It was a large square envelope, andthe writing was very fine and delicate."
"I wonder," Alice suggested, thoughtfully, "whether we have anyrelatives out there of whom we do not know. It may be that. Perhapsthey are poor, and--"
I interrupted her.
"This letter was not from a poor person," I declared,confidently. "The notepaper, or rather the envelope, was expensive,and in very good style. I believe there was a crest on the envelope."
"Still," Alice remarked, "we cannot be certain--especially if theletter was from South America--that it was the cause of his going toLondon."
"I think we can," I answered. "In one corner there were three words,written very small--"London about fifteenth."
We exchanged glances.
"To-day is the fifteenth," Alice remarked.
I nodded. It was true. My sister's eyes were full of trouble.
"I wonder," she said, softly, "what will be the end of itall? Sometimes I am almost afraid."
And I, who knew more than she did, was also troubled. Already I wasgrowing to fear my father. Always he seemed to move amongst us withan air of stern repression, as though he were indeed playing a part,wearing always a mask, and as though his real life lay somewhere else,somewhere in the past, or--worst still--somewhere in the present, faraway from our quiet little village. I thought of all the stories I hadread of men who had lived double lives--men with a double personalityone side of whose life and actions must necessarily be a wholesalelie. The fear of something of this sort in connection with my fatherwas gradually laying chill hold upon me. He fulfilled his smallparish obligations, and carried himself through the little routineof our domestic life with a stern air of thoughtful abstraction, asthough he were performing in a mechanical manner duties contemptible,trivial, and uninteresting, for some secret and hidden reason. Wasthere another life? My own eyes had shown me that there was anotherman. Twice had I seen this mask raised; first when he had come face toface with Bruce Deville, and again when he had found me talking withour curious neighbor beneath the roof of the Yellow House. Anotherman had leaped out then. Who was he? What was he? Did he exist solelyin the past, or was there a present--worse still, a future--to bedeveloped?
We were standing side by side at the window. Suddenly there was adiversion. Our gate was flung open. A tall figure came up the drivetowards the house. Alice watched it with curiosity.
"Here is a visitor," she remarked. "We had better go away."
I recognized him, and I remained where I was. After that little sceneupon the lawn only last Sunday I certainly had not expected to seeMr. Bruce Deville again within the confines of our little demesne. Yetthere he was, walking swiftly up the gravel walk--tall, untidy, andwith that habitual contraction of the thick eyebrows which was almosta scowl. I stepped out to meet him, leaving Alice at the window. Heregarded us coldly, and raised his cap with the stiffest and mostungracious of salutes.
"Is Mr. Ffolliot in?" he asked me. "I should like to have a word withhim."
I ignored his question for a moment.
"Good morning, Mr. Deville," I said, quietly.
His color rose a little. He was not so insensible as he tried toappear, but his bow was flagrantly ironical.
"Good morning, Miss Ffolliot," he answered, frigidly. "I should likea word with your father--if I could trouble you so far as to tell himthat I am here."
"My father will be exceedingly sorry to have missed you," I answered,smiling upon him; "he is out just now."
His frown deepened, and he was obviously annoyed. He made ready todepart.
"Can you tell me when he will be in?" he asked. "I will call again."
"I am afraid that I cannot positively," I answered. "We expect himhome on Friday, but I don't know at what time."
He turned round upon me with a sudden change on his face. Hiscuriously colored eyes seemed to have caught fire.
"Do you mean that he has gone away?" he asked, brusquely.
"He has gone to London this afternoon," I answered. "Can I give himany message from you?"
He stood quite still, and seemed to be looking me through andthrough. Then he drew a small time-table from his pocket.
"Annesly Junction, 3.30; St. Pancras, 7.50," he muttered tohimself. "Thank you; good morning."
He turned upon his heel, but I called him back.
"Mr. Deville."
He stopped short and looked round. "I beg your pardon," he said; "I amin a hurry."
"Oh, very well," I answered. "I should be sorry to detain you. Youdropped something when you took out your time-table, and it occurredto me that you might want it again. That is all."
He came back with three great strides. A square envelope, to which
I was pointing, lay on the ground almost at my feet. As he stoopedto pick it up I too glanced at it for the second time. A littleexclamation escaped from my lips. He looked at me inquiringly.
"Is anything the matter?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Good morning Mr. Deville."
He hesitated for a moment. He was evidently desirous of knowing why Ihad uttered that exclamation. I did not choose to satisfy him.
"I thought you made some remark," he said. "What was it?"
"It was nothing," I told him. "You are in a hurry, I think yousaid. Don't let me keep you."
He pocketed the envelope and strode away. Alice came out of the lowwindow to me, looking after him with wide-open eyes.
"What an extraordinary man!" she exclaimed.
But I did not answer her immediately, I had found something else tothink about. There was no possibility of any mistake. The handwritingupon the envelope which Mr. Deville had dropped was the same as thatwhich had summoned my father to London.