"Frank, I do implore you to give up this folly. I asked you not to do it at Cambridge, and I ask you again now. I don"t care a d.a.m.n what I promised. It"s simple madness, and--"
Frank had wheeled without a word, and was half-way to the gate. Jack stumbled after him, calling under his breath; but the other had already pa.s.sed through the gate and joined the Major and Gertie before Jack could reach him.
"And so you think up here is the right direction?" Frank was saying.
"I got some tips at the "Crown,"" said the Major. "There are some farms up there, where--"
"Frank, may I speak to you a minute?"
"No.... All right, Major; I"m ready at once if you are."
He turned towards Jack.
"By the way," he said, "what"s in this parcel?"
"Something to eat and drink," murmured Jack.
"Oh ... I shan"t want that, thanks very much. Here"s the bag with the clothes in it. I"m awfully grateful, old man, for all your kindness.
Awfully sorry to have bothered you."
"By the way, Frankie," put in the hateful voice at his side, "I"ll take charge of that parcel, if you don"t want it."
"Catch hold, then," said Frank. "You"re welcome to it, if you"ll carry it. You all right, Gertie?"
The girl murmured something inaudible. As at their first meeting, she had said nothing at all. The Major lifted a bundle out of the depths of the hedge, slung it on his stick, and stood waiting, his face again illuminated with the glow of his pipe. He had handed the new parcel to Gertie without a word.
"Well, good-by again, old man," said Frank, holding out his hand. He, too, Jack saw, had his small bundle wrapped up in the red handkerchief, as on the bridge when they had first met. Jack took his hand and shook it. He could say nothing.
Then the three turned and set their faces up the slope. He could see them, all silent together, pa.s.s up, more and more dim in the darkness of the hedge, the two men walking together, the girl a yard behind them.
Then they turned the corner and were gone. But Jack still stood where Frank had left him, listening, until long after the sound of their footfalls had died away.
(VII)
Jack had a horrid dream that night.
He was wandering, he thought, gun in hand after grouse, alone on the high moors. It was one of those heavy days, so common in dreams, when the light is so dim that very little can be seen. He was aware of countless hill-tops round him, and valleys that ran down into profound darkness, where only the lights of far-off houses could be discerned.
His sport was of that kind peculiar to sleep-imaginings. Enormous birds, larger than ostriches, rose occasionally by ones or twos with incredible swiftness, and soared like balloons against the heavy, glimmering sky.
He fired at these and feathers sprang from them, but not a bird fell.
Once he inflicted an indescribable wound ... and the bird sped across the sky, blotting out half of it, screaming. Then as the screaming died he became aware that there was a human note in it, and that Frank was crying to him, somewhere across the confines of the wold, and the horror that had been deepening with each shot he fired rose to an intolerable climax. Then began one of the regular nightmare chases: he set off to run; the screaming grew fainter each instant; he could not see his way in the gloom; he clambered over bowlders; he sank in bogs, and dragged his feet from them with infinite pains; his gun became an unbearable burden, yet he dared not throw it from him; he knew that he should need it presently.... The screaming had ceased now, yet he dared not stop running; Frank was in some urgent peril, and he knew it was not yet too late, if he could but find him soon. He ran and ran; the ground was knee-deep now in the feathers that had fallen from the wounded birds; it was darker than ever, yet he toiled on hopelessly, following, as he thought, the direction from which the cries had come. Then as at last he topped the rise of a hill, the screaming broke out again, shrill and frightful, close at hand, and the next instant he saw beneath him in the valley a hundred yards away that for which he had run so far. Running up the slope below, at right angles to his own path came Frank, in the dress-clothes he had borrowed, with pumps upon his feet; his hands were outstretched, his face white as ashes, and he screamed as he ran.
Behind him ran a pack of persons whose faces he could not see; they ran like hounds, murmuring as they came in a terrible whining voice. Then Jack understood that he could save Frank; he brought his gun to the shoulder, aimed it at the brown of the pack and drew the trigger. A snap followed, and he discovered that he was unloaded; he groped in his cartridge-belt and found it empty.... He tore at his pockets, and found at last one cartridge; and as he dashed it into the open breach, his gun broke in half. Simultaneously the quarry vanished over an edge of hill, and the pack followed, the leaders now not ten yards behind the flying figure in front.
Jack stood there, helpless and maddened. Then he flung the broken pieces of his gun at the disappearing runners; sank down in the gloom, and broke out into that heart-shattering nightmare sobbing which shows that the limit has been reached.
He awoke, still sobbing--certain that Frank was in deadly peril, if not already dead, and it was a few minutes before he dared to go to sleep once more.
CHAPTER II
(I)
The Rectory garden at Merefield was, obviously, this summer, the proper place to spend most of the day. Certainly the house was cool--it was one of those long, low, creeper-covered places that somehow suggest William IV. and crinolines (if it is a fact that those two inst.i.tutions flourished together, as I think), with large, darkish rooms and wide, low staircases and tranquil-looking windows through which roses peep; but the shadow of the limes and the yews was cooler still. A table stood almost permanently through those long, hot summer days in the place where d.i.c.k had sat with Jenny, and here the Rector and his daughter breakfasted, lunched and dined, day after day, for a really extraordinarily long period.
Jenny herself lived in the garden even more than her father; she got through the household business as quickly as possible after breakfast, and came out to do any small businesses that she could during the rest of the morning. She wrote a few letters, read a few books, sewed a little, and, on the whole, presented a very domestic and amiable picture. She visited poor people for an hour or so two or three days a week, and occasionally, when Lord Talgarth was well enough, rode out with him and her father after tea, through the woods, and sometimes with Lord Talgarth alone.
She suffered practically no pangs of conscience at all on the subject of Frank. Her letter had been perfectly sincere, and she believed herself to have been exceedingly sensible. (It is, perhaps, one may observe, one of the most dangerous things in the world to think oneself sensible; it is even more dangerous than to be told so.) For the worst of it all was that she was quite right. It was quite plain that she and Frank were not suited to one another; that she had looked upon that particular quality in him which burst out in the bread-and-b.u.t.ter incident, the leaving of Cambridge, the going to prison, and so forth, as accidental to his character, whereas it was essential. It was also quite certain that it was the apotheosis of common-sense for her to recognize that, to say so, and to break off the engagement.
Of course, she had moments of what I should call "grace," and she would call insanity, when she wondered for a little while whether to be sensible was the highest thing in life; but her general att.i.tude to these was as it would be towards temptation of any other kind. To be sensible, she would say, was to be successful and effective; to be otherwise was to fail and to be ineffective.
Very well, then.
At the beginning of September d.i.c.k Guiseley came to Merefield to shoot grouse. The grouse, as I think I have already remarked, were backward this year, and, after a kind of ceremonial opening, to give warning as it were, on the twelfth of August, they were left in peace. Business was to begin on the third, and on the evening of the second d.i.c.k arrived.
He opened upon the subject that chiefly occupied his thoughts just now with Archie that night when Lord Talgarth had gone to bed. They were sitting in the smoking-room, with the outer door well open to admit the warm evening air. They had discussed the prospects of grouse next day with all proper solemnity, and Archie had enumerated the people who were to form their party. The Rector was coming to shoot, and Jenny was to ride out and join them at lunch.
Then Archie yawned largely, finished his drink, and took up his candle.
"Oh! she"s coming, is she?" said d.i.c.k meditatively.
Archie struck a match.
"How"s Frank?" went on d.i.c.k.
"Haven"t heard from him."
"Where is the poor devil?"
"Haven"t an idea."
d.i.c.k emitted a monosyllabic laugh.
"And how"s she behaving?"
"Jenny? Oh! just as usual. She"s a sensible girl and knows her mind."
d.i.c.k pondered this an instant.
"I"m going to bed," said Archie. "Got to have a straight eye to-morrow."
"Oh! sit down a second.... I want to talk."
Archie, as a compromise, propped himself against the back of a chair.
"She doesn"t regret it, then?" pursued d.i.c.k.