Part 41 (2/2)
He was minded to dine in privacy; but he was no coward, and the inclination was dismissed as unworthy. So he dressed with care, reached the crowded dining-room rather late, and was allotted to a small table near a window. In that particular window was a party of six, and among them were Marten and the girl. She raised her eyes when Power entered, and a look of recognition came into them. On her right sat a small, polished, olive-skinned man, who seemed to be more engrossed in her company than she in his. The faces of these three were clearly visible from Power's place; the others, two women and a man, were not so much in evidence.
He strove to catch some of the girl's accents; but she spoke but little, and that in a low tone. She gave him the impression of being among people whom she disliked, but whose presence had to be endured. Once or twice she addressed Marten, and then her manner reminded him more than ever of her mother. To all appearance, father and daughter were wrapped up in each other, and Power knew not whether to rejoice or be sad because of it. Martin looked old and worn. He showed every one of his sixty years. The burden of finance may be even weightier than that of empire.
Power's mind ran back to the night, just twenty years before, when he sat at a table in another hotel and found Nancy Marten gazing at him.
Skies and times may change, but not manners. He had met mother and daughter under precisely similar conditions, save that he was alone now, and a complete stranger to the girl. Marten was so taken up with his friends that he gave no attention to others in the room. Perhaps he had trained himself to that useful habit. At any rate, he glanced Power's way only once, and obviously regarded him as one among the well-dressed throng.
Later, in a lounge where people smoked, chatted, drank coffee, or played bridge to the accompaniment of an excellent band, Power contrived to pa.s.s close behind the girl's chair. She was with one of the women now, and talking animatedly. Yes, she had her mother's voice! What long dormant chords of memory it touched! How it vibrated through heart and brain! Nancy--dead and yet speaking!
Next morning the car, in chastened mood, bore him smoothly and quickly away through the Hamps.h.i.+re pines and the blossom-laden hedges of Somerset. He reached Dacre's house early in the afternoon, and was somewhat surprised when his friend suggested that they should start forthwith on a rambling tour up the Wye Valley and thus to the lakes by way of North Wales.
This spirit of unrest was so unlike Dacre's wonted air of repose that it evoked a question.
”I have just come here to escape from the ceaseless rush of things,”
said Power. ”Why do you want to bustle me off so promptly?”
”I thought a change of scene might be good for both of us,” was the offhand answer.
”Yet it is only a week since you wrote and reproached me for neglecting the Devon moors. I can slay you with your own quotation. You bade me join you in--
'This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself'--
and now you would have us cavort along dusty highways to other joys. Why is it?”
”My quotation applied to the whole of this sceptered isle.”
”You are quibbling, Dacre, and I think I guess the reason. Have you heard anything of Marten recently?”
His companion did not try to conceal the surprise that leaped to his eyes.
”Your Indians made you a bit of wizard,” he said. ”I'll tell you now what I meant to hide from you. Marten has rented Lord Valescure's place on the hill yonder, and is due here tomorrow or next day. I heard the name of the new tenant only this morning, and decided that we ought to quit if we want to be happy.”
”No. If you'll let me, I'll remain.”
”Is it wise?”
”I endured the major wrench last night. Marten and--and his daughter were staying in the same hotel as myself.”
”So you have seen her--at last?”
”Yes, and I'll confess my weakness. Having seen her, I wish to speak to her. I admit my folly; but I cannot help it. Somehow--I think--that her mother--would wish it. I'll placate Marten, grovel to him, if I may be allowed to meet her.”
”My dear Derry, I've said my say. You ought to have lived two thousand years ago, and Euripides would have immortalized you in a tragedy.”
The eyes of the two men clashed; but Power repressed the imminent request for an explanation of that cryptic remark. He dared not ask what Dacre had in mind. His comment might have been a chance shaft; but it fell dangerously near the forbidden territory of Nancy's close-veiled secret. When next he spoke, it was to give a motorist's account of the mishaps of the road.
A week pa.s.sed. Dacre's house lay halfway up a wooded comb, or valley, and the Valescure castle stood on a bold tor that thrust itself bluntly into the sea. Unless the occupants of each place were on friendly terms, they might dwell in the same district and not meet once in a year. By taking a rough path they were barely three-quarters of a mile apart; but the only practicable carriage-road covered three miles or more. Dacre's interests lay with the fisher-folk at the foot of the comb or among the woods and heather of Dartmoor Forest, rolling up into the clouds behind his abode, while the great folk of the castle seldom came his way, unless Lord Valescure happened to be in residence, when the two forgathered often.
But Dacre was right when he hinted at the tragic inevitableness of his friend's life. They had strolled into the rectory for tea, and were chatting with their hostess about a forthcoming charity fete, when a motor rumbled to the door, and Nancy Marten appeared, a radiant vision in the muslin and flower-decked hat of summer.
”How kind of you to come!” said the rector's wife, rising to greet the girl. ”Lady Valescure said she was sure I might write and seek your help for our village revel. She said all sorts of nice things about you, and now I know they are true.”
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