Part 9 (1/2)

Before me every moment that I now lived arose that pale, beautiful face--that exquisite countenance with the wonderful eyes--that face which had held me in fascination, that woman who, indeed, held me now for life or death.

In those ten days which had pa.s.sed, the first days of my home-coming after my long absence, I knew, by the blankness of our separation--though I would not admit it to myself--that she was my affinity. I was hers. She, the elegant little wanderer, possessed me, body and soul. I felt for her a strong affection, and affection is the half-and-half of love.

Why had her friend, that thin-faced country clergyman, called?

Evidently he was endeavouring to satisfy himself as to my _bona fides_. And yet, for what reason? What had I to do with him? She had told me that she owed very much to that man. Why, however, should he interest himself in me?

I took down a big black volume from the shelf--_Crockford's Clerical Directory_--and from it learned that Edmund Charles Talbot Shuttleworth, M.A., was rector of the parish of Middleton-c.u.m-Bowbridge, near Andover, in the Bishopric of Winchester.

He had held his living for the past eight years, and its value was 550 per annum. He had had a distinguished career at Cambridge, and had been curate in half-a-dozen places in various parts of the country.

I felt half inclined to run down to Middleton and call upon him. I could make some excuse or other, for I felt that he might, perhaps, give me some further information regarding the mysterious Pennington and his daughter.

Yet, on further reflection, I hesitated, for I saw that by acting thus I might incur Sylvia's displeasure.

During the three following days I remained much puzzled. I deeply regretted that Browning had treated the country parson abruptly, and wondered whether I could not make excuse to call by pretending to express regret for the rudeness of my servant.

I was all eagerness to know something concerning this man Pennington, and was prepared even to sink my own pride in order to learn it.

Jack Marlowe was away in Copenhagen, and would not return for a week.

In London I had many friends, but there were few who interested me, for I was ever thinking of Sylvia--of her only and always.

At last, one morning I made up my mind, and, leaving Waterloo, travelled down to Andover Junction, where I hired a trap, and, after driving through the little old-fas.h.i.+oned town out upon the dusty London Road for a couple of miles or so, I came to the long straggling village of Middleton, at the further end of which stood the ancient little church, and near it the comfortable old-world rectory.

Entering the gateway, I found myself in pretty, well-wooded and well-kept grounds; the house itself, long, low, and covered with trailing roses, was a typical English country rectory. Beyond that lay a paddock, while in the distance the beautiful Harewood Forest showed away upon the skyline.

Yes, Mr. Shuttleworth was at home, the neat maid told me, and I was ushered into a long old-fas.h.i.+oned study, the French windows of which opened out upon a well-rolled tennis-lawn.

The place smelt of tobacco-smoke. Upon the table lay a couple of well-seasoned briars, and on the wall an escutcheon bearing its owner's college arms. Crossed above the window was a pair of rowing-sculls, and these, with a pair of fencing-foils in close proximity, told mutely of long-past athletics. It was a quiet, book-lined den, an ideal retreat for a studious man.

As my eyes travelled around the room, they suddenly fell upon a photograph in a dark leather frame, the picture of a young girl of seventeen or so, with her hair dressed low and secured by a big black bow. I started at sight of it. It was the picture of Sylvia Pennington!

I crossed to look at it more closely, but as I did so the door opened, and I found myself face to face with the rector of Middleton.

He halted as he recognized me--halted for just a second in hesitation; then, putting out his hand, he welcomed me, saying in his habitual drawl--

”Mr. Biddulph, I believe?” and invited me to be seated.

”Ah!” I exclaimed, with a smile, ”I see you recognize me, though we were only pa.s.sers-by on the Lake of Garda! I must apologize for this intrusion, but, as a matter of fact, my servant Browning described a gentleman who called upon me a few days ago, and I at once recognized him to have been you. He was rather rude to you, I fear, and----”

”My dear fellow!” he interrupted, with a hearty, good-natured laugh.

”He only did his duty as your servant. He objected to my infernal impertinence--and very rightly, too.”

”It was surely no impertinence to call upon me!” I exclaimed.

”Well, it's all a question of one's definition of impertinence,” he said. ”I made certain inquiries--rather searching inquiries regarding you--that was all.”

”Why?” I asked.

He moved uneasily in his padded writing-chair, then reached over and placed a box of cigarettes before me. After we had both lit up, he answered in a rather low, changed voice--