Part 28 (1/2)

Steadily the sunset faded. An attacking host of cloud rushed upon it from the sea, and quenched it. The lights in the windows of Monk Lawrence went out. Dusk fell upon the house and all its approaches.

Suddenly, two figures--figures of women--emerged in the twilight from the thick plantation, which protected the house on the north. They reached the flagged path with noiseless feet, and then pausing, they began what an intelligent spectator would have soon seen to be a careful reconnoitering of the whole northern side of the house. They seemed to examine the windows, a garden door, the recesses in the walls, the old lead piping, the creepers and shrubs. Then one of them, keeping close to the house wall, which was in deep shadow, went quickly round to the back. The other awaited her. In the distance rose at intervals a dog's uneasy bark.

In a very few minutes the woman who had gone round the house returned and the two, slipping back into the dense belt of wood from which they had come, were instantly swallowed up by it. Their appearance and their movements throughout had been as phantom-like and silent as the shadows which were now engulfing the house. Anyone who had seen them come and go might almost have doubted his own eyes.

Daunt the Keeper returned leisurely to his quarters in some back premises of Monk Lawrence, at the southeastern corner of the house. But he had but just opened his own door when he again heard the sound of footsteps in the fore-court.

”Well, what's come to the folk to-night”--he muttered, with some ill-humour, as he turned back towards the front.

A woman!--standing with her back to the house, in the middle of the forecourt as though the place belonged to her, and gazing at the piled clouds of the west, still haunted by the splendour just past away.

A veritable Masque of Women, all of the Maenad sort, had by now begun to riot through Daunt's brain by night and day. He raised his voice sharply--

”What's your business here, Ma'am? There is no public road past this house.”

The lady turned, and came towards him.

”Don't you know who I am, Mr. Daunt? But I remember you when I was a child.”

Daunt peered through the dusk.

”You have the advantage of me, Madam,” he said, stiffly. ”Kindly give me your name.”

”Miss Blanchflower--from Maumsey Abbey!” said a young, conscious voice.

”I used to come here with my grandmother, Lady Blanchflower. I have been intending to come and pay you a visit for a long time--to have a look at the old house again. And just now I was pa.s.sing the foot of your hill in a motor; something went wrong with the car, and while they were mending it, I ran up. But it's getting dark so quick, one can hardly see anything!”

Daunt's att.i.tude showed no relaxation. Indeed, quick recollections a.s.sailed him of certain reports in the local papers, now some ten days old. Miss Blanchflower indeed! She was a brazen one--after all done and said.

”Pleased to see you, Miss, if you'll kindly get an order from Sir Wilfrid. But I have strict instructions from Sir Wilfrid not to admit anyone--not anyone whatsoever--to the gardens or the house, without his order.”

”I should have thought, Mr. Daunt, that only applied to strangers.” The tones shewed annoyance. ”My father, Sir Robert Blanchflower, was an old friend of Sir Wilfrid's.”

”Can't help it, Miss,” said Daunt, not without the secret zest of the Radical putting down his ”betters.” ”There are queer people about. I can't let no one in without an order.”

As he spoke, a gate slammed on his left, and Daunt, with the feeling of one beset, turned in wrath to see who might be this new intruder. Since the house had been closed to visitors, and a notice to the effect had been posted in the village, scarcely a soul had penetrated through its enclosing woods, except Miss Amberley, who came to teach Daunts crippled child. And now in one evening here were three a.s.saults upon its privacy!

But as to the third he was soon rea.s.sured.

”Hullo, Daunt, is that you? Did I hear you telling Miss Blanchflower you can't let her in? But you know her of course?” said a man's easy voice.

Delia started. The next moment her hand was in her guardian's, and she realised that he had heard the conversation between herself and Daunt, realised also that she had committed a folly not easily to be explained, either to Winnington or herself, in obeying the impulse which--half memory, half vague anxiety,--had led her to pay this sudden visit to the house. Gertrude Marvell had left Maumsey that morning, saying she should be in London for the day. Had Gertrude been with her, Delia would have let Monk Lawrence go by. For in Gertrude's company it had become an instinct with her--an instinct she scarcely confessed to herself--to avoid all reference to the house.

At sight of Winnington, however, who was clearly a privileged person in his eyes, Daunt instantly changed his tone.

”Good evening, Sir. Perhaps you'll explain to this young lady? We've got to keep a sharp lookout--you know that, Sir.”

”Certainly, Daunt, certainly. I am sure Miss Blanchflower understands.

But you'll let _me_ shew her the house, I imagine?”

”Why, of course, Sir! There's nothing you can't do here. Give me a few minutes--I'll turn on some lights. Perhaps the young lady will walk in?” He pointed to his own rooms. ”So you still keep the electric light going?”