Part 55 (1/2)

It was a very cheery Dot Waring who ran across the wet fields that afternoon to the Manor to acquaint Lady Carfax with the gratifying intelligence that the proceeds of the great entertainment at which she had so kindly a.s.sisted actually amounted to close upon thirty pounds.

Baronford had done its humble best towards providing itself with a Town Hall, had in fact transcended all expectations, and Dot was in high spirits in consequence.

It was something of a disappointment to be met by old Dimsdale with the intelligence that her ladys.h.i.+p was very tired and resting. He added, seeing Dot's face fall, that Mrs. Errol was spending a few days at the Manor and would no doubt be very pleased to see her.

So Dot entered, and was presently embraced by Mrs. Errol and invited to take tea with her in the conservatory.

”Yes, dear Anne's in bed,” she said. ”She and Nap went for a motor ride yesterday, and broke down and were benighted. Nap always was sort of reckless. We had a message late last night telling us what had happened, and I went off at once in the big car and brought Anne back. Nap had to wait for his own car, but I guess he's back by this time. And poor Anne was so worn out when we got back that I persuaded her to go to bed right away. And I stopped to take care of her.”

In view of the fact that Mrs. Errol was never happier than when she had someone to take care of, this seemed but natural, and Dot's straightforward mind found nothing unusual in the story.

She remained for nearly an hour, chattering gaily upon a thousand topics.

She was always at her ease with Mrs. Errol.

At parting, the latter held her for a moment very closely. ”Happy, dearie?” she asked.

”Oh, ever so happy,” said Dot, with warm arms round her friend's neck.

Mrs. Errol sighed a little, smiled and kissed her. ”G.o.d keep you so, child!” she said.

And Dot went forth again into the hazy summer suns.h.i.+ne with a vague wonder if dear Mrs. Errol were quite happy too. Somehow she had not liked to ask.

Her way lay over the shoulder of a hill, that same hill on which Sir Giles Carfax had once wreaked his mad vengeance upon his enemy.

A mist lay along the valley, and Dot kept on the ridge as long as she could. She was essentially a creature of suns.h.i.+ne.

She was obliged, however, at last to strike downwards, and with regret she left the suns.h.i.+ne behind.

The moment it was out of her eyes she caught sight of something she had not expected to see in the valley below her. It was not a hundred yards away, but the mist rising from the marshy ground partially obscured it. A dark object, curiously shapeless, that yet had the look of an animal, was lying in a hollow, and over it bent the figure of a man.

Dot's heart quickened a little. Had there been an accident, she asked herself? She hastened her steps and drew near.

As she did so, the man straightened himself suddenly, and turned round, and instantly a thrill of recognition and of horror went through the girl. It was Nap Errol, and the thing on the ground was his black mare.

She knew in a flash what had happened. Bertie had predicted disaster too often for her not to know. A great wave of repulsion surged through her.

She was for the moment too horrified for speech.

Nap stood, erect, motionless, waiting for her. There was a terrible set smile on his face like the smile on a death-mask. He did not utter a word as she came up.

The mare was quite dead. The starting, bloodshot eyes were already glazing. She lay in a huddled heap, mud-stained, froth-splashed, with blood upon her flanks. White-faced and speechless, Dot stood and looked.

It was the first time that tragedy had ever touched her gay young life.

She stooped at last, and with trembling, pitiful fingers touched the velvet muzzle. Then suddenly indignation, fierce, overwhelming, headlong, swept over her, crowding out even her horror. She stood up and faced Nap in such a tornado of fury as had never before shaken her.

”You brute!” she said. ”You fiend! You--you--”

”Devil,” said Nap. ”Why not say it? I shan't contradict you.”

He spoke quite quietly, so quietly that, even in the wild tempest of her anger she was awed. There was something unfathomable about him, something that nevertheless arrested her at the very height of her fury. His manner was so still, so deadly still, and so utterly free from cynicism.