Part 22 (1/2)

They were sitting together now, Jane Oglander and Richard Maule, on the afternoon of the day which had opened with the news of Bayworth Kaye's death. It was warm and sunny, and the three others had gone out of doors after luncheon--for d.i.c.k Wantele, Athena was well aware of it, had fallen into the way of never leaving the other two alone together if he could possibly prevent it.

Wantele could not understand Jane's att.i.tude. Did she suspect her friend's treachery? He found it impossible to make up his mind one way or the other. In any case Jane and Lingard were not like normal lovers--but Wantele had lived long enough in the world to know that there is every variety of lover. Sometimes he thought Jane trusted Lingard so implicitly as to be still blind.

A letter addressed to Miss Oglander was brought in to her.

”It's from Mrs. Kaye,” she said quickly. ”May I open it, Richard?”

She glanced through it:--

”Dear Miss Oglander” (it ran), ”My husband and myself thank you sincerely for your kind words of sympathy. Had I known you were the bearer of your letter I would have seen you. I am writing to ask if you will do me a kindness. I know that General Lingard is staying at Rede Place, and I write to ask if it would be possible for me to see him on a matter of business connected with my son. I venture to ask if he will kindly come at eleven o'clock on Thursday. I cannot fix any time before that day. I should have written to Mr. Wantele, but as I had to answer your note, I thought I would ask you to arrange this for me.”

She told herself with quivering lip that of course Hew should go and see poor Mrs. Kaye. Hew was always kind. He would be patient and understanding with the unhappy woman.

Jane got up. Perhaps she could go and settle the matter at once. She looked at Richard Maule. He was turning over the leaves of a book.

Richard would not miss her. There came over her a despairing feeling that no one now needed her, in any dear and intimate sense....

Once she had asked her small vicarious favour of Hew, she could write to Mrs. Kaye, and take the note to the rectory herself. It would give her something to do, and just now Jane Oglander was in desperate need of things to do.

Athena had said something of showing General Lingard the walled gardens which were all that remained of the old Tudor manor house from which Rede Place took its name, and which had been left by Theophilus Joy as a concession to English taste.

It was there, some way from the house, that Jane made her way, and there that she at last found those she sought.

Mrs. Maule had suddenly become alive to the many and varied outdoor beauties of her country home. All the nice women she knew were fond of gardening. It was the feminine fad of the moment, and one with which she had hitherto had very little sympathy.

Athena sincerely believed herself to be devoted to flowers, but she preferred those varieties that look best cut and in water. Still, to be interested in her garden, and in what grew there, belonged to the part which was, for the moment, so much herself that she was scarcely conscious of playing it.

Perhaps one reason why Mrs. Maule had never cared for gardening was because her husband's cousin was so exceedingly fond of it. The old gardens of Rede Place were to Wantele an ever-recurring pleasure, and, what counted far more in the life he had to lead, an infinitely various, as well as a congenial occupation.

As Jane walked through an arch leading to the pear orchard, she saw that d.i.c.k was giving instructions to one of the gardeners; a small sack of bulbs lay at their feet.

Hew Lingard and Athena Maule stood a little back, and as Jane came down the path, Mrs. Maule, instead of coming forward, moved further away.

Instinct told her that Jane was seeking Hew Lingard with some definite purpose in her mind--and she determined to thwart the other woman. To allow Hew Lingard to continue his anxious deference to Jane were but cruel kindness to them both.

She put out her gloveless hand and laid a finger on Lingard's arm--it was the merest touch, but it produced an instant, a magical effect. He turned, and in a moment gave her his entire, his ardently entire, attention.

Wantele welcomed Jane with an eager, ”What would you think, Jane, of putting a ma.s.s of starch hyacinths over in that corner?”

She tried obediently to give her mind to the question, but it was of no use, and she shook her head. ”I don't know,” she said. ”I--I can't remember what was there before----”

And then she called out, ”Hew!”

But Lingard did not hear the call.

She moved a little nearer to where he and Athena were standing. Again she said her lover's name; but this time she uttered it in so low, so faltering a tone that Lingard might indeed have been excused for not hearing it.

She waited a moment for the answer that did not come, and then she turned and walked slowly away, down to and through the arch in the wall.

To Wantele, witness of the little scene, what had just happened seemed full of a profound and sinister significance.