Chapter VII

Tue father and son dined in silence that night at Amplefield. They had hardly exchanged a dozen words since Rolls had left them and gone out. There had been no more to say. They had followed him a minute later, entered their own carriage, and driven off, and had caught sight of him going up the path to a little yellow-brick house that stood back from the main-street of the village.

Dick abruptly told the groom to stop when they got a hundred yards further on, and leaned out towards a labourer who was passing the carriage.

“Can you tell me where Mr. Dell, the under-gardener at Foxhurst, lives?”

The man told them they had passed the house. Dick twitched with impatience and repeated his question. It was the yellow-brick cottage, he was told, at the end of the village. The chaplain lived there too, it seemed; the house was Mr. Whalley’s. Then they had driven on without a word.

The evening had passed in silence. Mr. Yolland sat in his room before the fire; Dick was upstairs. Then they had dined.

When the men were gone Dick turned to his father. “It’s no good,” he said, ‘‘I must go back.” Mr. Yolland lit his cigar carefully.

“There’s no good your staying,” he said. “I can see that. I'll promise to go over again in the morning and let you know.”

Dick jerked in his chair.

“No, no. I don’t mean that. I mean Foxhurst. I must go there again.... Yes, to-night.”

“My dear boy!”

The priest sprang up.

“Tts not the least use. I can’t bear it. You heard what he said.”

“Who? What?”

“Rolls. He said that Chris meant something.”

“Yes, I heard that.’

“Well, you must see. He meant—he meant——”

‘Dick, sit down again. Look here, we must trust him. He knows more than we do. Besides, it’s no good interfering. We did more harm than good.”

“Tcan’t—I can’t. I could never forgive myself. Oh! poor brute!”

“ Dick, we must leave it. You must see that. It’s gone too far.”

“It hasn’t. I must see Rolls again; he doesn’t understand a bit. May I order the dog-cart?”

Dick was at the bell, waiting with his hand on the handle.

“Wait a moment. What are you going to say to him?”

“TVU—T'li go down on my knees if he wants me to. He must let Chris go.”

He looked at his father again an instant, and rang the bell.

“Dick! you’re wrong. You'll be sorry. What explanation can you give?”

“Tl tell him the truth—that I can’t bear it; that

I couldn’t sleep without coming again. He'll understand.”

Yes, he certainly would understand, thought Mr. Yolland; it would be hardly possible to mistake Dick’s face; it was no longer furious; it was just utterly miserable and worn;_ his meditation upstairs had apparently done him good.

He went out into the hall to see Dick off, and met him coming down from his room where he had gone to change his cassock, with a bag in his hand.

“J had to,” said Dick briefly. “If he’ll put me up, I'll stop.”

“What time shall we lock up?”

“Tt’s nearly ten now. If I’m not back by twelve you'll understand.”

Mr. Yolland went out on to the steps into the night air all aglow with the blazing lamps and the breath of the horse, and saw his son climb up. Then he nodded good-night, with his hands in his pockets, and watched the patch of light down the drive as farasthe turn. Then he sighed, and went back into the house.

Dick was indeed cooled by his meditation, and the process had been partly intellectual, partly emotional. First of all, he had gained nothing whatever by his intemperate anger, and he had been insulting and ungrateful into the bargain. Next, he had made the case more difficult all round. Presumably he had forfeited what tiny responsibility had been his in the matter, and, worse than that, he had appealed to Chris and been refused; it would be extremely difficult to claim either right or courtesy in the further stages. Lastly, he reflected that Rolls could not possibly be an incarnate devil, and if he was not that, he might just possibly be—something else. Anyhow he had to go and see what was happening.

As the dog-cart spun along the soft dark roads, he began to consider what on earth he should say. He saw that that depended entirely on the situation he found when he got there. He would be there soon after half-past ten; Rolls would probably be in his own room, and he determined to begin with an apology. He would say he was sorry for his attitude this afternoon, but that he was almost mad with anxiety. Then he would say that he was still very much upset, that he had come over to see what news there was—oh! that would explain itself. Then he would somehow get to see Chris the first thing in the morning, and he would put it all to him again, reasonably and persuasively. He would explain that he had changed his mind, that Foxhurst was not suitable; that he begged him to consider whether a year in Italy would not be better all round. Oh! he must prevail; it was such a sane, straightforward plan.

But he would not allow himself to contemplate any other situation than the one he proposed to find. Rolls in his study; Chris gone to bed, brokenhearted no doubt, but in a reasonable frame of mind— not with that deathly impassivity he had seen in him this afternoon. Possibly even Rolls would allow him to go across to the yellow-brick house and see if all were well. The chaplain at any rate would not be gone to bed.

So he sat and spun plans, looking out at the tiny world which he could see—the horse’s back and head and ears, the harness on his flanks and shoulders, the black, slender shafts, the black leather railing in front, the travelling yellow light moving like a pale sheet on the grass by the wayside and the October hedges to right and left; out too at the vast world that he could not see, of black shadowland, an invisible sky, and now and again monstrous outlines of trees and woods.

Then a light showed far ahead, a bedroom-window in the timber-and-plaster cottage at the turning to Newton; the light vanished and re-appeared and vanished again, but the house was dark as the cart span past it and the horse’s hoofs rang sharp and distinct from the cobbles.

Another light or two, a gas lamp, and now there was a pavement on the right, and that was Foxton steeple against the heavy sky. They would not be long now.

The night was very still, for the village was gone to bed, and lights were fewer and fewer as they went up the winding street. Then the “ King’s Arms” showed a swinging door and brightness beyond, and a gust of talk flowed out for a moment. Dick set his teeth—were they still talking of that miserable affair, he wondered. Then the last houses, and a blank wall.

Dick touched the groom suddenly on the arm.

“Here,” hesaid. “ Waitfor me... No; drive on to the lodge, as soon as I’m out.”

The man checked the horse and drew up opposite the cottage-path.

Dick had not intended it, until he saw the actual lights of the cottage in the front ground-floor windows, and then he was entirely unable to do anything else.

He could not wait to hear from Rolls. He would just ask for Father Bayntonand havea word with him, and then go on up to the Hall.

As he went up the path, after latching the gate noiselessly behind him, he saw the light disappear, and then immediately re-appear over the front door; then that too faded, and by the time that he reached the door, a glimmer shone from overhead. He was just in time then. That would be the priest going to bed.

He hesitated no longer, and tapped gently with his knuckles.

The door opened instantly, and Rolls stood there, a lean figure that seemed gigantic against the dimly-lit staircase wall, with his finger on his lip.

The priest looked up at the dim face above him with a keen sense of guilt.

“I—I am very sorry——’” he began to stammer; but an arm shot out and touched him for silence. So the two stood a moment.

Then the elder man took him by the arm.

“ Tip-toe,”’ he whispered.

Dick went in silently in an agony of doubt, and waited in the dark entry until the door closed noiselessly; then, still on tip-toe he followed the other into the parlour. He noticed that the door was left ajar.

“ Kindly explain,” said the steady whisper from the darkness lit only by the faint red glow of the dying fire.

“ I—I could not help it. I was mad with anxiety.

I—I beg your pardon, sir, for what I said this afternoon.”

There was no answer, and he could wait no longer.

“For God’s sake ie

“Hush. Yes. Since you are here you must stop. I heard your wheels. Will you promise to obey?”

“T will.”

“ Before God?”

“T will.”

“Well. He is getting ready to do something.... Now, be steady, you have promised.... He is waiting till Father Baynton is in bed.”

“ae Ah! ”

“Father Baynton is listening. He will put out his light presently.... Then I shall go up.... You must wait here.”

“Oh! for God’s sake.”

“Be quiet, father,’ hissed the sharp whisper “You do not understand.... He shall not hurt himself..... We have seen to that....”

Tell me, tell. mes....”

“Whalley has his razors and knife. Besides, he does not mean that. He asked for a rope to-night He said it was for his box.”

A little moan broke from the priest. Then he felt himself caught fiercely by two strong hands on his arms.

“TY am ashamed of you, father... Sit down, or you shall not hear a word.”

Dick felt himself guided to a chair. He bit his lips furiously to keep back the quick breaths that shook him like a storm, and it was a full minute before he could trust himself to whisper.

Tell mé...-s. liam quiet,....« swear 1 will not speak.’

“ Now kneel down.”

Dick rose shaking, groped for the chair and knelt obediently before it.

“Make the sign of the cross... remember the Presence of God Almighty.... Now listen....

“ He has been writing to-night... then he was praying a while.... He has fastened a hook over his window....”

“Stop him ”” whispered the priest, but his voice cracked softly with misery.

There was a hand again on his shoulder instantly.

“T shall stop him, at the last moment.... He does not know I am here.... I must take him in the act.... We may have to wait an hour or two... Do you understand?”’

Overhead there sounded the crack of boards and a footstep. Dick drew his breath sharply, and the grip tightened on his shoulder.

‘““Baynton,” whispered the voice. ‘‘ Now pray. Have you your beads?”

Dick fumbled feverishly a moment.

“Yes,”

“Then pray.... I am going to the stairs.”

The grip loosened; there came a tiny pat on his shoulder, and then a faint noiseless vibration, and as he turned his head, he saw the thin figure pass out like a ghost. Then silence settled down again.

For a moment the priest hesitated, with parted lips and eyes wide and staring.

Then he gripped his beads. This was the only way.

It must be the Sorrowful Mysteries—what else could it be? Christ in the garden, Christ scourged, crowned, bearing His cross, and crucified.

There began an extraordinary process in the priest’s brain. It was as if three realms lay beneath him, and he contemplated each; saw, heard and thought on three planes. He saw the Garden, as he had seen it a thousand times, moonlit and black, and a Figure striped with shifting shadows, flat upon the ground; tense in every muscle, and from it arose an exhalation of agony that broke upwards into moaning and downwards into undreamed of pits of despair. And meanwhile the prayers began to patter to the Father who was in heaven, to the Mother who stood apart as silent as her Son.

He heard the deathly stillness of the house; once a mouse that scratched behind boards, once the creak of a stair, once the rattle of a mattress as someone climbed into bed, once footsteps on the road outside twenty yards away.

And his brain snatched at fragments that sped past —wonder at the compliance of the priest upstairs, amazement at the fierce intensity of the quiet figure that had been with him a minute before, and whose presence still seemed to burn upon the dark; and above all, and again and again, Chris, Chris, Chris. It appeared to him that it could not be Chris waiting upstairs in the little back-room till the house was asleep, any more than it could truly be Chris whom he had seen in corduroy this afternoon. Chris must be somewhere else... There were irrelevant fragments too, of thought and imagination that fled past him on a stream; speculation as to when he should get back to town; a vision of the dinner-table of two hours before, its white linen and silver, and his father’s face with the red light upon it from the candleshades; a little wayside station he had seen sometime—he wondered when it was—till he remembered that it was this morning; he had seen a porter and a retriever-dog and a truck of luggage; a sight of his own room in Soho—the plaster images on the mantelpiece, the rug awry, his large Mechlin breviary open upon his desk.

Then again the present whirled into view; he saw the back of the chair at which he was kneeling and a glimmer of red from the fire on some angle of wood.

The mouse scratched again, and in a moment his whole being was in his sense of hearing; and the silence became audible in a kind of vast hiss as of a monstrous kettle, and in an instant vanished in another.creak from somewhere, above, outside or within, he did not know.

Once his hands touched and sprang apart, each shocked by the wet chill of the other; and his mind fled back to the beads; he must have said a hundred by now, and all in the presence of the moonlit garden and the figure that writhed there.—O! Jesus Christ, remember and have mercy!

Then he was standing up, without conscious volition; he only knew that he could not remain there; he was aware of a carpet under his feet as he moved to the door, and an ache that rose from his heart and seemed to pervade his entire body.

There was a vibration from somewhere; the whole house seemed to shake with it, and he knew that a sound had broken from his open throat. He did not know whether it was a whisper or a cry. Then he understood that someone had moved upstairs, and again his whole being was in his ears.

Then a handle turned somewhere, and a gleam of reflected light showed the marbled paper on the wall above the stairs.

For him that sight and sound was as a plunge from beneath water to upper air. Images, arguments, and the touch of beads, even the physical pain at his heart vanished in an instant into one great mental picture of an open door on a landing, and a man who stood there with lighted candle, his lower lip sucked in, his head sideways to listen more intently, his feet bare on the boards... He thought he saw him in silk pyjamas...

The room behind this man, for the priest contained but one thing, a hook above a window, and a noosed rope hanging from it.

It seemed to him that he could hear breathing now, but he did not know whether it was hisown. He only knew that Chris stood alone, not five yards away, staring and listening for the silence he desired. It was horrible to contemplate his unconsciousness; he thought himself alone, and there were at least three watching and listening too. The whole world appeared to stop and listen and watch.

Then again there was a movement, the light died again on the wall; there was the sound of a door closed softly, and the tiny, careful snap of a latch; and a second later another creak from the stairs.

It seemed then to the priest as if a hand or a breeze caressed his hair behind, as his skin prickled, and the cold swept from his shoulders down his back; but with it care a sense of steadiness; his heart leapt thrice in his throat, the pain began again, his muscles grew tense to resist it, and he took another noiseless step into the entrance passage.

There, he understood; and he observed each detail, in spite of an odd sensation as if he were rising from the floor and a murmur that rose louder and louder in his ears.

The stairs ran up before him, on the left of the door, and turned again to the left; there could not be more than a dozen all told; for barely above the height of his own head sprang the banisters that fenced the landing. These were visible against a faint light that shone from beneath a door on the right.

It was at that door then that Chris had stood just now, and it was in that black angle of the stairs that the watcher had stood.

Then suddenly he saw a figure lean and black emerge noiselessly from the wall and stand beyond the banisters, faintly outlined against the twilight of the landing; a pale line showed the back of his collar.

Then suddenly sounds began, shockingly loud in that stillness, breaking through the murmur that ran Jike a torrent in Dick’s ears; there was a vibration or two, a faint clatter of chair-legs, and then a very low voice talking in a soft incoherence.

The rest happened in an instant.

The black figure vanished; there was the crash of a suddenly-opened door, loud footsteps, a gabbling voice or two that mingled with a mad screaming and waxed into a roar as if the heavens had split. Then he perceived a rush of air and knew that he was falling.