CHAPTER VI.
MR. HERBERT.
It was eleven of the forenoon when I stopped at Mr. Herbert's door,and the long incline of the street was empty. At the bottom of thehill, beyond the little bridge, there was a shimmer of green trees,and beyond the trees a flashing corner of the lake. Through a gap inthe houses on my left, I caught a glimpse of the woods of Brandelaw,and the brown slope of Catbells rising from the midst of them. Ashadowless August morning bent over the country, cradling it to sleepwith all its drowsy murmurings, so that contentment was like a perfumein the air. And it was with a contentment untroubled by any presagethat I tied up my horse and knocked at the door.
Mr. Herbert's lodging was on the first floor, and as I mounted thestairs the noise of an altercation came to me from behind the closeddoor. The woman who led me up shrugged her shoulders and stopped.
"One of the April showers," I thought, recalling Lord Derwentwater'swords.
"Will you go up?" she asked doubtfully.
"Yes," said I. "For I take it that if I deferred the visit tillto-morrow, to-morrow might be own brother of to-day."
She knocked at the door twice and got no answer. I heard a man's voiceexclaim acrimoniously:
"It was the worst mistake man ever made," and a woman cry in apassion--
"Or woman either. Deary me, I wish I were dead!"
And "Deary me, I wish it too," said my attendant, and impatiently sheturned the handle and opened the door. A man sprang forwards. He wasyoung, I noticed, of a delicate face, with a dark, bilious complexion.
"Mr. Anthony Herbert, I suppose," I said, taking off my hat, and Istepped into the room. The next moment I regretted nothing so much asthat I had not taken the landlady's advice, for a woman sat at thetable, with her face couched upon her arms, crying.
"Your business?" asked Mr. Herbert, abruptly, getting between myselfand the table.
I turned my back to the room and looked out of the window, making asthough I had not seen his wife.
"Lord Derwentwater showed me yesterday a picture of his wife paintedby you," I said; and I unfolded the purport of my visit slowly. In themidst of my speech I heard the rustle of a dress and a door cautiouslyopen and shut. A second or two later I turned back into the room; itwas empty. The artist accepted the commission, and I arranged with himthat he should set to work next day.
"I am afraid," he said awkwardly, as he bowed me from the room, "thatyou caught me at an inopportune moment."
"Did I?" I returned, playing surprise. "Ah yes, you are not dressed,"for he was wearing a dressing-gown. "But it is my fault in that I cametoo early."
And he closed the door.
"Thank you!"
The words were breathed in a whisper from the landing above that onwhich I stood. I looked up; the staircase was ill-lighted and panelledwith a dark mahogany, so that I saw nothing but the outline of a headbent over the balustrade; and even as I looked that outline waswithdrawn.
"Not at all," I replied to the empty air.
The door behind me was thrown open.
"What is it, Mr. Clavering?" asked Herbert, and he glancedsuspiciously up the stairs.
I, on the contrary, stared down them.
"It is," I answered, "that your staircase is cursedly dark."
"True," says he, and steps to my side. "One cannot see an inch furtherthan is needful;" and he looked down them too.
"One cannot even see so far," says I, and I peered upwards.
"One might break one's neck if one were careless," he continued in amusing tone.
"Oh, I did not stretch it out enough for that," I replied, thinking ofsomething totally different.
Herbert looked at me with a puzzled expression.
"It occurs to me, Mr. Clavering," he resumed, "that if it would pleaseyou better I could fetch my easel over to Blackladies."
"There is no manner of occasion for that," I replied hastily, and Igot me into the street with as little difficulty as if there had beena window to every step of the stairs.
Thus, then, I had my excuse. I rode back to Blackladies thatafternoon, and bade Luke Blacket carry such clothes as I required toMr. Herbert's lodging.
"Very well, sir," he said, but did not go. For just as it was gettingdusk I saw from the library window Ashlock--for so I still called him,even or perhaps more particularly to myself--ride down the drive withthe package upon his saddle-bow. I was as much surprised now at thisvoluntary exposure of himself as I had been previously at his sedulousconcealments. But I bethought me in time that it would be dark longbefore Ashlock reached the village of Keswick, and as to hisdoings--well, I deemed it wisest to busy myself as little as possibleon that head. For I was never certain from one minute to the next butwhat I might stumble upon some proof which I could not disregard.Consequently neither then, nor when he returned, did I utter a singleword.
But on the next morning I followed my clothes to Mr. Herbert'slodging, sat to him for an hour or so, and then went about mybusiness. And this I did day after day, visiting the gentry about, andattending the fairs and markets until I had acquired as complete aknowledge of what the district intended as would have satisfied myLord Bolingbroke in person. That there were a great many, not merelyof the gentry, but of the smallest statesmen and even peasants whofavoured King James, I was rejoiced to perceive. But against thisdisposition I had to set a deplorable lack of arms and all munitionsof war. Here and there, indeed, one came across a gentleman, like Mr.Richard Salkeld, of Whitehall, in Cumberland, who had carefullycollected and stored away any weapon that he could lay his hands on,and I remember that in Patterdale, one Mr. John Burtham, a man veryadvanced in years, led me with tottering steps down to his cellar andshowed me with the greatest glee a pile of antique musketoons and acouple of barrels of gunpowder, which his grandfather had hidden therefor the service of King Charles I., but had discovered no use forafter Marstoon Moor. For the most part, however, such as took thefield I saw would take it with no more effectual armament than scythesand sickles and beaten-out ploughshares; and, indeed, I am not surebut what I would rather have so armed myself than with the musketoonsand gunpowder of Mr. Burtham. One necessary condition, however, orrather I should say, one necessary preliminary of a rising, all withwhom I had speech required and in a unanimous voice--I mean that hisMost Christian Majesty should land twenty thousand troops in Englandand with them money for their subsistence. On the other hand, I knewthat the French King, howbeit disposed to the utmost friendliness, wasyet anxious, before he violated the peace of Utrecht, to ascertainwhich way the wind blew in England, and whether it was a steady breezeor no more than a flickering gust. It was about this time, too, thatnews was brought to me of the Duke of Ormond's flight to Paris, and Idid not need the letter of Lord Bolingbroke which conveyed the news,to assure me how great a discouragement that flight must be to ourfriends in France. This, then, was the posture of affairs: Francewaited upon the Jacobites in England, and they in their turn waitedupon France.
"There is but one hope," said Lord Derwentwater, when we werediscussing the uncertainty wherein we lived--"there is but one hope ofprecipitating the matter to an issue, and that hope lies in theactivity of the English Government. The Commons have suspended the Actof Habeas Corpus until next January, in the case of all personssuspected of conspiracy; Papists and Non-jurors are banished from thecities of Westminster and London and for ten miles round; the lawsagainst them are to be put into the strictest execution. I do not knowbut what the rigour of these proceedings may goad the Jacobites to anextremity. But therein lies the one hope. And how goes it with Darbyand Joan?" he broke off in a laugh. "I saw the portrait but yesterday,and it will do no discredit to the young Master of Blackladies."
But the young Master of Blackladies turned his face awkwardly to thewindow, and felt the blood rush to his cheeks, but never a word ofanswer to his lips. For, alas! what before had been the pretext andexcuse was now become the real object of my journeyings. I hadgarnered
my information--and the picture was still a-painting andlittle more than halfway to completion. I cannot even after this longinterval of years think of that period without a lurking sense ofshame--though I paid for the wrong--yes, to the uttermost farthing,and thank God in all humility that it was given me to repair it. Forthis, indeed, is true: the wrong went not beyond the possibility ofreparation.
It was on the third occasion of my coming to the artist's apartmentthat I first met Mrs. Herbert face to face. She entered the room bychance, as it seemed, in the search for some embroidery. Mr. Herbert,for a wonder, was in a great good-humour that morning and presented meto her.
"This is Mr. Clavering, of Blackladies," he said with a wave of thehand, and so went on with his work. I rose from my chair and bowed toher. But with a quick impulsive movement she came forward and held outher hand to me, reddening, I must think, with some remembrance of theoccasion whereon I had first seen her. And then--
"Tony," she cried reproachfully, with a glance about the room. Indeed,it had something of a slatternly appearance, which seemed to me toaccord very ill with the woman who dwelled in it. The poor remains ofbreakfast--a dish of clammy fish, a crumbled oatmeal cake, and a plateof butter soft and oily--were spread upon a stained table-cloth. Butthe stains were only upon one side, and I chose to think it was therethe man had sat.
"Well," says he, looking up in a flash of irritation, "what is it?What is it?" And then following the direction of her gaze, "We canafford nothing better," he snapped out.
"That is no reason," she replied, "why it should drag here tillmidday;" and she rang a little bell upon a side-table. He shrugged hisshoulders and returned to his picture. She stood looking at him for asecond, as though she expected him to speak, but he did not.
"Then, Mr. Clavering," she said, turning to me with a flush of angerupon her face, "I must needs undertake my husband's duty and make youhis apologies."
Herbert started up from his seat, throwing the brush which he heldpetulantly on to the floor.
"Nay," I answered in some distress, for this apology was the lastthing I expected or desired, "madam, there is no manner of need thatsuch consideration should be shown me. Mr. Herbert honours mesufficiently by painting my portrait."
"That is very courteous of you," she answered with a little bow, "andI expected nothing less. _But_," and she drew herself up again andfaced her husband, "it is not fitting we should receive our patronswith so little regard."
"Madam," I blurted out in the greatest confusion, "I beseech you. Itwould cause me the greatest distress to think that I had proved atrouble betwixt your husband and yourself."
It was not the discreetest phrase I could have chosen, but it servedits turn, for it brought them both to a stop, and in a little Mrs.Herbert left us alone. Thereupon I put my hand in my pocket and drewout the medal of which I have spoken.
"Mr. Herbert," I said, "I have an ornament here, which I would fainhave you add to the portrait;" and I held it out to him.
"Very well," said he, taking it "If you will leave it here, I willpaint it in at my leisure."
"But," said I, "it would not be wise to let it lie open to the gaze ofany chance-comer."
He turned it over in his hands and glanced at it
"For myself," said he, "I do not meddle in politics one way or theother. I will keep it locked. See!" And he placed it in a little ironbox, and locking it put the key in his pocket.
On the next day that I came, the room was all tidied and newly swept,though the improvement brought no more peace than did its previousdisorder. For, this time Mr. Herbert could find nothing that hewanted--even his brushes and colours had been tidied out of sight; sothat he was forced to call in his wife to help him in the search forthem, and seeing her thus engaged somehow fell ungratefully to ratingher. The which she listened to with a patience which I could not butgreatly admire; and after all it was she who discovered the brushes.Then very quietly she said:
"I will be no party to a quarrel before Mr. Clavering. It mightperchance savour of ill-breeding;" and so she departed with thepleasantest smile, leaving Herbert in a speechless exasperation. Formy part I wished intensely that she had not dragged my name into thebusiness.
Herbert turned from the door to me, and from me again to the door; hismouth opened and shut; he spread out his hands in despair, as thoughthe whole world was a riddle to be given up. Then he looked at thebrushes in his hand.
"She hid them," he cried. "Damme but she hid them."
I felt inclined to rise from my chair and determine my visits thereand then. I changed my mind, however, bethinking me that the couplewere poor, and that if I acted on the inclination, I should bepunishing not merely the husband but the wife as well.
To drive the notion finally from my head I needed nothing more thanthat by accident I should chance upon Mrs. Herbert on the stairs. Forshe spoke to that very point as I wished her good day.
"It will be good-bye you mean, Mr. Clavering," she answered, withsomething of a sigh for the loss which would befall them, since thedefection of a client thus prematurely could not but damage hisreputation in those parts.
"It will be good-bye if you wish it," I returned with a laugh, "butnot otherwise."
Mrs. Herbert gave a start and looked across my shoulder. I turnedsharply and saw Mr. Herbert himself standing in the doorway above me.He must have heard the words, I knew, but he stood quite still, hisface passionless as stone, and for that reason, maybe, I did not atthe time consider the construction he would be likely to put on them.
"Speaking for myself," I continued, "I shall not easily part from Mr.Herbert until the picture is finished and in my safe keeping."
So I spake with a polite bow to the painter, little thinking in howstrange and hazardous a fashion I was destined to fulfil my words.
It must not, however, be thought that the pair were ever a-seething inthis pot of quarrels. The sun shone betwixt the thunderclaps and withno dubious rays. At times, for instance, Mrs. Herbert would bring abook of plays into the room and read them aloud whilst her husbandworked, and I--I, alas! watched the changes of her face. Once Iremember she read in this way Mr. Congreve's "Love for Love," with adecent slurring of some passages and a romantical declaiming ofothers, at which Mr. Herbert would break into languishments and sighs,and Mr. Lawrence Clavering would feel himself the most awkwardintruder in the world.
It was in the midst of this particular reading that Anthony Herbertwas called downstairs upon some business, and she and I were left fora little to our devices. Mrs. Herbert continued to read with her eyesglued upon the pages, but gradually I could not but notice that acertain constraint and awkwardness crept into her voice. At last shestumbled over a passage and stopped. I rose from my chair, and,sensible that a like awkwardness was stealing over me, went and gazedat the picture. I made the mistake, however, of praising it, and ofpraising it, perhaps, with some extravagance, for the encomiumnaturally enough being couched in that vein, brought the artist's wifeacross the room to consider of it too.
"In truth," says she, looking from the portrait to myself, "he hascaught your features, Mr. Clavering, even to the eyes and the curve ofthe chin."
"Yes!" I replied. "It needs no connoisseur to foretell how much Mr.Herbert will achieve."
She did not answer, but kept looking at me curiously, and I continued,in an unaccountable flurry:
"Sir Godfrey Kneller ages; one hears of no one who can fitly claim hisplace. The honour of it should fall to Mr. Herbert--nay, must fall tohim, I think--and it is no barren honour. He has an estate at Witton,Lord Derwentwater tells me. He sits as Justice of the Peace there, andhe is even now painting his tenth monarch. It is no barren honour."
I spoke with all the earnestness I could command, but of a sudden,from the corner of my eye, I saw her lips part in a queer smile. Ifelt my voice shake, and covered the shaking with a feeble laugh.
"So an obscure country gentleman," I continued, "has reason to counthimself lucky in getting his picture done by Mr. Herbert
before thesovereigns of Europe engross his art;" and at that, for sheer want ofassistance, I faltered to a stop. The silence crept about us,insidious, laden with danger, and every second that passed made it yetmore dangerous to speak. The woman at my side stood motionless as astatue. I did not dare to glance at her; I stared at the portrait andsaw nothing of it. It was as though my face had faded from the canvasin a mist I was conscious only of the tall figure at my side. I triedto speak, but no thoughts came to me--nothing but a tumult ofunconsidered words--words which I had never spoken before, and ofwhich even now I did not apprehend the meaning. They whirled up withinme and beat against my teeth for passage, I locked my mouth to keepthem in, and then I began to be afraid; I began to tremble, too, lestthe woman should move. At last I conned over a sentence in my mind,and repeated it and repeated it, silently, until I was sure that Icould utter it without a trip.
"It must be a noble thing to be the wife of so great an artist," andas I spoke the words I was able to move away.
She gave a little quiet laugh, and answered--
"With, besides, the prospect of being wife to a Justice of the Peaceat Witton."
For speaking that word I almost felt that I hated her.
"Oh, why won't you help?" I cried in a veritable despair, stretchingout my arms to her.
She turned on me suddenly with her face aflame and a cry half utteredon her lips. What would have been the upshot I cannot tell, but thedoor opened or ever she could articulate a word, and Mr. Herbertreturned to put an end to our talk. For a week after that I mountedthe stairs with uncertain steps, each footfall accusing me for that Icame. However, during that week I saw her no more, and was beginningto acquire some confidence in my powers of self-mastery. Indeed, Iwent further, and became even vaingloriously anxious that I mightchance upon her in order to put those powers to the test.
The opportunity came, and this is what I made of it. There had beensome dispute that morning over a trivial domestic matter, and Mr.Herbert sat glooming before his easel, when his wife entered the roomwith a certain air of defiance and took her customary seat She held abook in her hand, bound in old leather, with gold lettering upon theback, so that I was able to read the title. It was Sir Thomas Malory'sBook of the Morte d'Arthur, and in a very deliberate voice she readout of the story of Lancelot and Guinevere, and much emphasis she laidon the temperate gentleness of King Arthur and his unreadiness tobelieve in any misdoings either of his wife or his companions. But herwords fell vainly upon deaf ears, for Herbert took no heed of any wordshe read or any accent of her voice; the which she came to see, andlosing all her defiant dignity in a little, shut the book with a bangand ran out of the room.
For my part I had listened to the story in the greatest disorder ofspirit, and was very glad to be quit of it, and of Mr. Herbert too,for that day at all events, in spite of the supremacy of his genius.
But the staircase, as I have said, was very dark, and particularly soat one corner where it turned sharply two flights below the doorwayand made an angle in the wall. Now as I passed this angle, somethingmoved in it I stopped, wondering what it was, and then a voice came tome in a whisper--
"Lancelot!"
Instinctively I drew back and threw out my hands. They touched--theyheld another pair of hands--for the fraction of a second.
"No," said I with an attempt at a laugh, hollow as the clatter of anempty mug, "the name does not fit me, for at all events Lancelot couldfight, and I have not learnt even so much skill as that."
Unconsciously I raised my voice as I spoke, and a second after thedoor creaked gently above us. She drew back into the corner alla-tremble, like a chided dog, and the movement touched me with a pitythat made my heart sicken. The angle I knew could not be seen from thestair-head. I slipped purposely on a step, and swore a little notover-quietly.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Herbert.
"An ill-lighted staircase is the devil," said I; and I grumbled my wayto the street-door. But I heard Mr. Herbert's door shut before I leftthe house.
Whither I went after leaving the house I was in that perturbation ofmind I cannot tell. It was my habit to stable my horse at the Lamb andFlag, opposite, and subsequently I was told that I entered thecourtyard and wandered out of it again like one blind. A fire burnedin my blood, and the aspect of the world was fiery to my vision. Iwent whither my footsteps guided me, and all places they led me towere alike. Afterwards it came upon me like the memory of a dream,that I had stood for some while with the sheen of water beneath myeyes, and the lapping of water in my ears, and that hereafter I hadclimbed for long hours up a wearisome green slope; and indeed myinsteps and knees ached for days to come, so it may be that I wentdown to Derwentwater and thence toiled up some part of Skiddaw. But ofall this I knew nothing at the time; I only knew that I came again tothe possession of my wits in Keswick Street about ten o'clock of thenight, very hungry and very tired. I entered the inn and bade thelandlord get me some supper before I started homewards. And this hedid, laying a table for me in the best parlour of the house--a longroom on the first floor, with window-seats, from which one commandedthe street. The landlord prepared the table for me at the inner end ofthe apartment and set the lamp there; so that as the light was butdim, and I rested myself in the window until such time as suppershould be brought, I was well-nigh in the actual dark.
Now while I was seated there, a man came down the street towards me. Ishould not, I think, have noticed him at all but for the caution ofhis movements. For he kept very close to the houses and steppedlightly upon his toes; and when for all his care his spurs clinked orhis foot rolled on a loose stone, he paused and looked behind andabout him. So he walked until he came in front of Mr. Herbert's house.Then he stopped, and it came upon me that there was something familiarin his appearance.
I drew back into the curtains. He gazed up and down the street andthen to the windows of the Lamb and Flag. A heavy tramp sounded on thecobbles some yards away, very loud and unexpected, so that it startledme little less than it did the man I watched. I drew yet farther intothe curtains; he slunk into a cavity between two of the houses, andthat action of his flashed of a sudden a plan into my mind; Iremembered that dark angle on the staircase. The footfalls grewlouder, a dalesman passed along the centre of the roadway, his stepsdied away up the hill. My man crept from his hiding-place, andwhistled softly under Mr. Herbert's windows. The blind was pushedaside from the window an inch or so, and I saw a head against thelight pressed upon the window-pane. Then the window creaked andopened. The head was thrust out and a few words were interchanged, butin so low a tone that I could catch nothing of their purport. Then thewindow was shut and the man advanced to the door. One thing was clearto me from these proceedings, that whosoever he might be, and I hadlittle doubts upon that score, this was by no means his first visit toMr. Anthony Herbert.
I set that piece of knowledge aside, however, for the present. Therewas a further point which concerned me more particularly just then.Was the street-door on the latch? Or must Mr. Herbert descend to givehis visitor entrance?
The visitor turned the handle, opened the door, and closed it againbehind him. I waited until I saw his shadow on the blind. He had takenoff his hat and his cloak, and his profile was figured upon it in asilhouette.
I ran down the stairs and across the street without so much as pickingup my hat. I opened Mr. Herbert's door, and crept up the staircaseuntil I came to the angle which I had reason to know so well. There Ihid myself and waited in the dark. And how dark it was and howintolerably still! Very rarely a burst of laughter, or a voice louderthan the usual, would filter up to me from the back part of the house.But from the studio above, nothing--not the tread of a foot, not thewhisper of a voice, not the shuffle of a chair.
What were they debating in such secrecy? I asked myself and then,"Perhaps I had been mistaken after all?" I clung to the possibility,though I had little faith in it. At all events, this night I shouldmake sure--one way or another I should make sure.
After the weari
est span, the door was opened. I could not see itbecause of the turn of the staircase. I stood, in fact, just under thedoor; but I could see on the wall facing me, at the point where thestairs turned a bright disk of light suddenly appear, such as a lampwill throw. The visitor would pass by that disk; he would interceptthe rays of the lamp; those rays would burn upon his face. I leanedforward, holding my breath; the steps above me cracked as a mandescended them. I heard a short "good night," but it was Mr. Herbertwho spoke; and then the door was closed again and the disk vanishedfrom the wall I could have cursed aloud, so bent was I upondiscovering this visitor; but the footsteps descended towards me inthe dark, and I drew myself back into my corner.
As they passed me I felt a sudden flap of wind across my face, asthough the man was moving his hands in the air to guide him, and Ireckoned that the hand was waved within an inch of my nose. A fewseconds later and the street-door opened. The sound brought home to meall the folly of my mistake. If I had only waited outside, in thatalley, say, where he himself had crept, I should have seen him--Ishould have known him! Now I must needs wait where I stood until hewas clean out of reach, I counted a hundred, a hundred and fifty, twohundred and then in my turn I slipped down the stairs and out of thehouse. The night was not over-clear, and I could perceive no one inthe street. I strained my ears until they ached, and it seemed to methat I heard a light tip-toe tread very faint, diminishing up thehill. I ran in its direction with as little noise as I might. But Iheard my spurs clink-clinking even as his had done, only ten timeslouder.
I stooped and loosed them from my feet. Then I ran on again; it seemedto me that the footsteps grew louder. I turned the corner at the headof the street. In front of me there was a blur of light; the blurdefined itself into four moving points of flame as I approached, and,or ever I was aware of it, I had plumped full into my LordDerwentwater, who was walking homewards behind his torch-bearers tothe lake.
"Come, my man," said he, "what manners are these?"
"The manners of a man in a desperate hurry," says I, "and so goodnight to you, my lord;" and I moved on one side.
"Lawrence Clavering!" he cried out and caught me by the arm. "The veryman I would be speaking with."
"But to-morrow, my lord--to-morrow."
"Nay, to-night. You come so pat upon my wish that I must needs believeGod sent you;" and the deep gravity of his tone was the verycounterpart of his words. I stopped, undecided, and listened. But Icould no longer hear the faintest echo of those stealthy footsteps.
"Then there is something new afoot," said I.
"Something new, indeed," says he, "though I take it, it concerns noone but you." And he bade his footmen go forward. "A minute ago a manpassed me on this road, his cloak was drawn about his face, his hatthrust down upon his ears, but the light of my torches flickered intohis eyes, and I knew the man."
"It was doubtless my steward," I blurted out. "He was in Keswickto-day."
"Your steward?" he asked in wonderment "Your steward? No, I should notpester you with news about your steward. It was young Jervas Rookley."
"Well," said I, "what of him, my lord? I have nothing to fear fromJervas Rookley."
"You think that?"
"I know it," I answered, a trifle unsteadily. "At all events, there issolid reason why I should have no grounds for fear." For I bethoughtme that I had loyally kept faith with him.
Lord Derwentwater stood for a moment silent.
"Walk a step with me," he said, and holding my arm he continued, "Iwould not meddle in your private concerns, Mr. Clavering, but I knowJervas Rookley, and it will be a very ill day for you when you hearhis step across the threshold of Blackladies."
I felt a chill slip into my veins, for if he spoke truth and hiswords fitted so aptly with my suspicions that I could not disbelievethem--why, that day was long become irrevocable. However, I sought tolaugh the matter off.
"A very ill day indeed, for on that day I lose Blackladies to theCrown."
"The danger will come from Jervas Rookley himself."
"Then it will be man to man."
We were now come within a few paces of the footmen, so that the flareof their torches lighted up our faces fitfully. My companion stopped.
"I have known men, Lawrence," he said, "who went down to their gravesin the winter of their years--children--all the more lovable for that,maybe," for an instant his grip tightened about my arm, "but none theless children, and I have known others who were greybeards in theirteens."
He paused and looked at me doubtfully, as though he would say more.
"You will be wary of this man. He can have little friendliness for youand it will be no common motive that can bring him back to theseparts. You will be wary of him, Lawrence?"
So much I readily promised, and again he stood shifting from one footto the other, balanced, uneasily, betwixt speech and silence. But allhe said was, again--
"You will be wary of him, Lawrence," and so with a grasp of the handmoved off.
I watched him going, and as the torches dwindled to candle-flames and,from candle-flames to sparks, a great desire grew in me to run afterhim and disclose all that I knew of Jervas Rookley. The desire grewalmost to a passion. Had I spoken then, doubtless he would have spokenthen, and so, much would have been saved me. But I had given my wordto hold this estate in trust, and ignorance or the assumption ofignorance was the condition of my keeping it. The torches vanished inthe darkness. I walked back to the inn and mounted my horse. As I rodeout of the courtyard, I saw, far away down the street and close to thelake's edge, four stars, as it were, burning. There was still time. Iturned my horse; but I had given my word, and I spurred him to agallop up the Castle Hill and rode down Borrowdale to Blackladies.