CHAPTER V
THE THUNDERBOLT
Juliet lunched at the Court in Dick's absence. They thought her somewhat graver and quieter than usual, but there was a gentle aloofness about her that checked all intimate enquiry.
"You are not feeling anxious about the miners?" Vera asked her once.
To which Juliet replied, "Oh no! Not in the least. Dick has such a wonderful influence over the men. They would never do any brawling with him there."
"He has no business to drag you into it all the same," said the squire.
She looked at him, faintly smiling. "Do you imagine for one moment that I would stay behind? Besides, there is really no danger. His only fear is possible friction between the miners and the fishermen. They never have loved each other, and in their present mood it wouldn't take much to set the miners alight."
"I'd let 'em burn!" said the squire.
"They have some cause for grievance," she urged. "At least Dick thinks so."
"Well, and who hasn't, I should like to know?" he returned with warmth. "How many people are there in the world who don't feel that if they had their rights they'd be a good deal better off in one respect or another than they are? But there's no sense in trying to stop the world going round on that account. That's always the way with these miner chaps. What's the rest of the community matter so long as they get all they want? They're not sportsmen. They hit below the belt every time."
"That's just it," Juliet said. "Dick is trying to teach them to be sportsmen."
"Oh, Dick!" said the squire. "He'd reform the world if he could. But he's wasting his time. They won't be satisfied till they've had their fling. Lord Wilchester is a wise man to keep out of the way till it's over."
"I'm afraid I don't agree with you there," Juliet said, flushing a little. "He might at least hear what they have to say. But they can't get hold of him. He is abroad."
"But Yardley is left," said the squire. "I suppose he has power to act."
"Perhaps," she said, the moment's animation passing. "But it is
Wilchester's business—not his. He shirks his duty."
"I notice you never have a good word for any of the Farringmore family," said the squire quizzically.
She shook her head. "They are all so selfish. It's the family failing,
I'm afraid."
"You don't share it anyhow," said Vera.
"Ah! You don't know me," said Juliet.
They went for a long motor-ride when the meal was over, but at the end of it, it seemed to Vera that they had talked solely of her affairs throughout. She knew Juliet's quiet reticence of old and made no attempt to pierce it. But, thinking it over later, it seemed to her that there was something more than her usual reserve behind it, and a vague sense of uneasiness awoke within her. She wondered if Juliet were happy.
They had tea on their return, but Juliet would not stay any later. She must be back, she said, to meet Dick and be sure that the supper was ready in good time. So, regretfully, still with that inexplicable feeling of doubt upon her, Vera let her go.
Just at the last she detained her for a moment to say with an effort that was plainly no light one, "Juliet, don't forget I am here if—if you ever need a friend!"
And then Juliet surprised her by a sudden, close embrace and a low-spoken, "I shall never forget you—or your goodness to me."
But a second later she was gone, and Vera was left to wonder.
As for Juliet, she hastened away as one in a fever to escape, yet before she reached the end of the avenue her feet moved as if weighted with chains.
A mist was creeping up from the sea and through it there came the long call of a distant syren. The waves were no longer roaring along the shore. The sound of them came muffled and vague, and she knew that the storm had gone down.
There was something very desolate in that atmosphere of dimmed sight and muted sound. It was barely sunset, but the chill of the dying year was in the air. The thought came to her, suddenly and very poignantly, of that wonderful night of spring, when she had first wandered along the cliff with the scent of the gorse-bushes rising like incense all around her, when she had first heard that magic, flute-like call of youth and love. A deep and passionate emotion filled and overfilled her heart with the memory. As she went up the little path to the school-house, her face was wet with tears.
Dick had not returned, and she went into the little dining-room and busied herself with laying the cloth for supper. Their only indoor servant—a young village girl—was out that evening, but she could hear Mrs. Rickett who often came up to help moving about the kitchen. She did not feel in the mood for the good woman's chatter and delayed going in her direction as long as possible.
So it came about that, pausing for a few moments at the window before doing so, she heard the click of the gate and saw the old postman coming up the path.
He moved slowly and with some difficulty, being heavily laden as well as bowed with age and rheumatism. She went quickly to the outer door, and, accompanied by the growling Columbus, moved to meet him.
"Evening, ma'am! Here's a parcel for you!" the old man said. "It's books, and it's all come to bits, but I don't think as I've dropped any of 'em. You'd best let me bring 'em straight in for I'm all fixed up with 'em now, and they'll only scatter if you tries to take 'em."
She led the way within, commiserating him on the weight of his burden which he thumped down without ceremony on the white cloth that she had just spread. The parcel was certainly badly damaged, and books in white covers began to slide out of it the moment they were released.
"I'll leave you to sort 'em, ma'am," he said airily. "Daresay as they're not much the worse. Schoolmaster's truck I've no doubt. If there was fewer books in the world, the postman would have an easier life than what he does and no one much worse off than they be now—except the clever folks as writes 'em! Well, I'll be getting along to the Court, ma'am, and I wish you a very good-night."
He stumped away, and in the failing evening light Juliet began to gather up the confusion he had left behind. She found it was not a collection of paper-backed school-books as she had at first imagined, and since the contents of the parcel were very thoroughly scattered she glanced at them with idle curiosity as she laid them together.
Then with a sudden violent start she picked up one of the volumes and looked at it closely. The title stood out with arresting clearness on the white paper jacket: Gold of the Desert by Dene Strange. Author of The Valley of Dry Bones, Marionettes, etc.
She caught her breath. Something sprang up within her—something that clamoured grotesque and incoherent things. Her heart was beating so fast that it seemed continuous like the dull roar of the sea. The volumes were all alike—all copies of one book.
A sheet of paper fluttered from the one she held. She snatched at it with a curious desperation—as though, sinking in deep waters, she clutched at a straw.
Author's Copies—With Compliments, were the words that stood out before her widening gaze. She remained as one transfixed, staring at them. It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the quiet room….
It must have been many minutes later that she came to herself and found herself huddled in a chair by the table, shivering from head to foot. She was conscious of a horrible feeling of sickness, and her heart was beating slowly, with thick, uneven strokes.
The room was growing dark. The chill desolation of the world outside seemed to have followed her in. She could not remember that she had ever felt so deadly cold before. She could not keep her teeth from chattering.
Something moved close to her, and she realized what had roused her. Columbus was standing up by her side, his forepaws against her, his grizzled nose nudging her arm. She stirred stiffly, and put the arm about him.
"Oh—Christopher!" she said, and gasped as if she had not breathed for a long time. "Oh—Christopher!"
He leaned up against her, stretching his warm tongue to reach her cheek, his whole body wriggling with gushing solicitude under her hand.
She looked down at him with the dazed eyes of one who has received a stunning blow. "I don't know what we shall do, my doggie," she said.
And then very suddenly she was on her feet, tense, palpitating, her head turned to listen. The gate had clicked again, and someone was coming up the path.
It was Dick, and he moved with the step of an eager man, reached the door, opened it, and entered. She heard him in the passage, heard his tread upon the threshold, heard his voice greeting her.
"Hullo, darling! All alone in the dark? I've had a beast of a day away from you."
His hands reached out and clasped her. She was actually in his arms before she found her voice.
"Dick! Dick! Please! I want to speak to you," she said.
He clasped her close. His lips pressed hers, stopping all utterance for a while with a mastery that would not be held in check. She could not resist him, but there was no rapture in her yielding. His love was like a flame about her, but she was cold—cold as ice. Suddenly, with his face against her neck, he spoke: "What's the matter, Juliet?"
She quivered in response, made an attempt to release herself, felt his arms tighten, and was still. "I have—found out—something," she said, her voice very low.
"What is it?" he said.
She did not answer. A great impulse arose in her to wrench herself from him, to thrust him back but she could not. She stood—a prisoner—in his hold.
He waited a moment, still with his face bent over her, his lips close to her neck. "Is it anything that—matters?" he asked.
She felt his arms drawing her and quivered again like a trapped bird.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Very much?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Then you are angry with me," he said.
She was silent.
He pressed her suddenly very close. "Juliet, you don't hate me, do you?"
She caught her breath with a sob that sounded painfully hard and dry.
"I—couldn't have married you—if I had known," she said.
He started a little and lifted his head. "As bad as that!" he said.
For a space there was silence between them while his eyes dwelt sombrely upon the litter of books upon the table, and still his arms enfolded her though he did not hold her close. When at last she made as if she would release herself, he still would not let her go.
"Will you listen to me?" he said. "Give me a hearing—just for a minute? You have forgiven so much in me that is really bad that I can't feel this last to be—quite unpardonable. Juliet, I haven't really wronged you. You have got a false impression of the man who wrote those books. It's a prejudice which I have promised myself to overcome. But I must have time. Will you defer judgment—for my sake—till you have read this latest book, written when you first came into my life? Will you—Juliet, will you have patience till I have proved myself?"
She shivered as she stood. "You don't know—what you have done," she said.
He made a quick gesture of protest. "Yes, I do know. I know quite well. I have hurt you, deceived you. But hear my defence anyway! I never meant to marry you in the first place without telling you, but I always wanted you to read this book of mine first. It's different from the others. I wanted you to see the difference. But then I got carried away as you know. I loved you so tremendously. I couldn't hold myself in. Then—when you came to me in my misery—it was all up with me, and I fell. I couldn't tell you then, Juliet, I wasn't ready for you to know. So I waited—till the book could be published and you could read it. I am infernally sorry you found out like this. I wanted you—so badly—to read it with an open mind. And now—whichever way you look at it—you certainly won't do that."
There was a whimsical note in his voice despite its obvious sincerity as he ended, and Juliet winced as she heard it, and in a moment with resolution freed herself from his hold.
She did it in silence, but there was that in the action that deeply wounded him. He stood motionless, looking at her, a glitter of sternness in his eyes.
"Juliet," he said after a moment, "you are not treating this matter reasonably. I admit I tricked you; but my love for you was my excuse. And those books of mine—especially the one I didn't want you to read—were never intended for such as you."
She looked back at him with a kind of frozen wonder. "Then who were they meant for?" she said.
He made a slight movement of impatience. "You know. You know very well. They were meant for the people whom you yourself despise—the crowd you broke away from—men and women like the Farringmores who live for nothing but their own beastly pleasures and don't care the toss of a halfpenny for anyone else under the sun."
She went back against the table and stood there, supporting herself while she still faced him. "You forget—" she said, her voice very low,—"I think you forget—that they are my people—I belong to them!"
"No, you don't!" he flung back almost fiercely. "You belong to me!"
A great shiver went through her. She clenched her hands to repress it. "I don't see," she said, "how I can—possibly—stay with you—after this."
"What?" He strode forward and caught her by the shoulders. She was aware of a sudden hot blaze of anger in him that made her think of the squire. He held her in a grip that was merciless. "Do you know what you are saying?" he asked.
She tried to hold him from her, but he pressed her to him with a dominance that would not brook resistance.
"Do you?" he said. "Do you?"
His face was terrible. She felt the hard hammer of his heart against her own, and a sense of struggling against overwhelming odds came upon her.
She bowed her head against his shoulder. "Oh, Dick!" she said. "It is you—who—don't—know!"
His hold did not relax, and for a space he said no word, but stood breathing deeply as a man who faces some deadly peril.
He spoke at length, and in his voice was something she had never heard before—something from which she shrank uncontrollably, as the victim shrinks from the branding-iron.
"And so you think you can leave me—as lightly as Lady Joanna
Farringmore left that man I went to see today?"
She lifted her head with a gasp. "No!" she said. "Oh, no!
Not—like that!"
His eyes pierced her with their appalling brightness. "No, not quite like that," he said, with awful grimness. "There is a difference. An engaged woman can cut the cable and be free without assistance. A married woman needs a lover to help her!"
She shrank afresh from the scorching cynicism of his words. "Dick!" she said. "Have I asked for—freedom?"
"You had better not ask!" he flashed back. "You have gone too far already. I tell you, Juliet, when you gave yourself to me it was irrevocable. There's no going back now. You have got to put up with me—whatever the cost."
"Ah!" she whispered.
"Listen!" he said. "This thing is going to make no difference between us—no difference whatever. You cared for me enough to marry me, and I am the same man now that I was then. The man you have conjured up in your own mind as the writer of those books is nothing to me—or to you now. I am the man who wrote them—and you belong to me. And if you leave me—well, I shall follow you—and bring you back."
His lips closed implacably upon the words; he held her as though challenging her to free herself. But Juliet neither moved nor spoke. She stood absolutely passive in his hold, waiting in utter silence.
He waited also, trying to read her face in the dimness, but seeing only a pale still mask.
At last: "You understand me?" he said.
She bent her head. "Yes—I understand."
He stood for a moment longer, then abruptly his hold tightened upon her. She lifted her face then sharply, resisting him almost instinctively, and in that instant his passion burst its bonds. He crushed her to him with sudden mastery, and, so compelling, he kissed her hotly, possessively, dominatingly, holding her lips with his own, till she strained against him no longer, but hung, burning and quivering, at his mercy.
Then at length very slowly he put her down into the chair from which she had risen at his entrance, and released her. She leaned upon the table, trembling, her hands covering her face. And he stood behind her, breathing heavily, saying no word.
So for a space they remained in darkness and silence, till the brisk opening of the kitchen-door brought them back to the small things of life.
Dick moved. "Go upstairs!" he said, under his breath.
She stirred and rose unsteadily. He put out a hand to help her. She did not take it, did not seem even to see it.
Gropingly, she turned to the door, went out slowly, still as if feeling her way, reached the narrow stairs and went up them, clutching at the rail.
He followed her to the foot and stood there watching her. As she reached the top he heard her sob.
An impulse caught him to follow her, to take her again—but how differently!—into his arms,—to soothe her, to comfort her, to win her back to him. But sternly he put it from him. She had got to learn her lesson, to realize her obligations,—she who talked so readily of leaving him! And for what?
A wave of hot blood rose to his forehead, and he clenched his hands. He went back into the room, knowing that he could not trust himself.
When Mrs. Rickett entered with a lamp a few moments later, he was gathering up the litter of books and paper from the table, his face white and sternly set. He gave her a brief word of greeting, and went across to the school with his burden.
CHAPTER VI
COALS OF FIRE
It was nearly half-an-hour later that Mrs. Rickett ascended the stairs and knocked at Juliet's door.
"Supper's been in this long time," she called. "And Mr. Green's still over at the school."
There was a brief pause, then Juliet's quiet movement in the room. She opened the door and met her on the threshold.
"Why, you haven't got a light!" said Mrs. Rickett. "Is there anything the matter, ma'am? Aren't you well?"
"Yes, quite, thank you," Juliet said in her slow gentle voice. "I am afraid I forgot the time. I will put on my hat before I come down."
Mrs. Rickett's eyes regarded her shrewdly for a moment or two, then looked away. "Shall I fetch you a candle?" she said.
Juliet turned back into the room. "I have one, thank you. Perhaps you wouldn't mind going to find Mr. Green while I dress."
Mrs. Rickett hastened away, and Juliet lighted her candle and surveyed herself for a second, standing motionless before the glass.
Several minutes later she descended the stairs and went quietly into the dining-room. She was wearing a large-brimmed hat that shadowed her face.
Dick, standing by the mantelpiece, waiting for her, gave her a hard and piercing look as she entered.
"I am sorry I am late," she said.
He moved abruptly as if somehow the conventional words had an edge. He drew out a chair for her. "I am afraid there isn't a great deal of time," he said.
She sat down with a murmured word of thanks. He took his place, facing her, very pale, but absolutely his own master. He served her silently, and she made some pretence of eating, keeping her head bent, feeding Columbus surreptitiously as he sat by her side.
Her plate was empty when at length very resolutely she looked up and spoke. "Dick, I want you to understand one thing. I did not open that parcel of yours. It was open when it came."
Instantly his eyes were upon her with merciless directness. "I gathered that," he said.
She met his look unflinchingly, but her next words came with an effort.
"Then you can't—with justice—blame me for surprising your secret."
"I don't," he said.
"And yet—" She made a slight gesture of remonstrance, as if the piercing brightness of his eyes were more than she could bear.
He pushed back his chair and rose. He came to her as she sat, bent over her, his hand on her shoulder, and looked at her intently.
"Juliet," he said, "I don't like you with that stuff on your face. It isn't—you."
She kept her face steadily upturned, enduring his look with no sign of shrinking. "You are meeting—the real me—for the first time—to-night," she said.
His mouth curved cynically. "I think not. I have never worshipped at the shrine of a painted goddess."
Something rose in her throat and she put up a hand to hide it. "I doubt if—Dene Strange—was ever capable of worshipping anything," she said.
His hand closed upon her. "Does that mean that you hate him more than you love me?" he said.
A faint quiver crossed her face. She passed the question by. "Do you remember—Cynthia Paramount—your heroine?" she said. "The woman you dissected so cleverly—stripped to the naked soul—and exposed to public ridicule? You were terribly merciless, weren't you, Dick? You didn't expect—some day—to find yourself married—to that sort of woman."
His face hardened. "In what way do you resemble her?" he said. "I have never seen it yet."
"Can't you see it—now?" she returned, lifting her face more fully to the light.
He was silent for several seconds, looking at her. Then very suddenly his attitude changed. He knelt down by her side and spoke, urgently, passionately.
"Juliet—for God's sake—let us remember what we are to each other—and put the rest away!"
His arm encircled her. He would have drawn her close, but she held back with a sharp sound that was almost a cry of pain.
"Dick, wait—wait a moment! You don't know—don't understand! Ah, wait—please wait! Take your arm away—just for a moment—please—just for a moment! I have something to tell you, but I can't say it like this. I can't—I can't! Ah! What is that?"
She broke off, gasping, almost fighting for breath, as the sudden rush and hoot of a car sounded at the gate.
Dick got to his feet. His face was white. "Are you expecting someone?" he said.
She clasped her hands tightly upon her breast to still her agitation.
"No, I'm not expecting—anyone. But—but—someone—has come."
"Evidently," said Dick.
He turned towards the door, but in a moment she had sprung up, reaching it before him. "Dick, if it is Saltash—"
"Why should it be Saltash?" he said, with that in his voice that arrested her as compelling as if he had laid a hand upon her.
She faced him standing at the door, striving desperately for self-control. "It may be Saltash," she said, speaking more quietly. "I saw him this morning, and he knows about the concert to-night. Dick—" she caught her breath involuntarily—"Dick, why do you look at me like that?"
He made a curious jerky movement—as if he strove against invisible bonds. "So," he said, "you are expecting him!"
She stiffened at his words. "I have told you I am expecting no one, but that is no reason why Saltash should not come."
For a second he looked at her with something that was near akin to contempt in his eyes, then suddenly an awful flame leapt up in them consuming all beside. He took a swift step forward, and caught her between his hands.
"Juliet!" he said sternly. "Stop this trifling! What are you hiding from me? What is it you were trying to tell me just now?"
She shrank from the fire of his look. "I can't tell you now, Dick. It's impossible. Dick, you are hurting me!"
He spoke between his teeth. "I've got to know! Tell me now!"
Someone was knocking a careless tattoo upon the outer door. Juliet turned her head sharply, but she kept her eyes upon her husband's face.
"No, Dick," she said after a moment, and with the words something of her customary quiet courage came back to her. "I can't—possibly—tell you now. Do this one thing for me—wait till to-night!"
"And then?" he said.
"I promise that you shall know—everything—then," she said.
"Please—give me till then!"
There was earnest entreaty in her voice, but she had subdued her agitation. She met the scorching intensity of his look with eyes that never wavered, and in spite of himself he was swayed by her steadfastness.
"Very well," he said, and set her free. "Till to-night!"
She turned from him in silence and opened the door. He stood motionless, with hands clenched at his sides, and watched her.
She went down the passage without haste and reached the outer door. She opened it without fumbling, and in a moment Saltash's debonair accents came to him.
"Ah, Juliette! You are ready? Has your good husband got back yet? Ah, there you are, sir! I have called to offer you and madame a lift. I am going your way."
He came sauntering up the passage with the royal assurance characteristic of him, and held out his hand to Dick with malicious cordiality.
"I come as a friend, Romeo. Do you know you're very late? Have you only just got back?"
Juliet's eyes were upon Dick. She saw his momentary hesitation before he took the proffered hand.
Saltash saw it also and grinned appreciatively. "Well, what news? What did Yardley have to say?"
"I didn't see him," Dick said briefly.
"No? How was that?"
Dick shrugged his shoulders. "Merely because he wasn't there. I can't tell you why, for I don't know. I waited about all day—to no purpose."
"Drew a blank!" commented Saltash. "No wonder you're feeling a bit savage! What are you going to do now?"
Dick faced him, grimly uncommunicative. "Oh, talk, I suppose. What else?"
"And you're taking Juliet?" pursued Saltash.
"Have you any objection?" said Dick sharply.
"None," said Saltash smoothly. "She is your wife, not mine—perhaps fortunately for her." He threw a gay glance at Juliet. "Are you ready, ma chère? Come along, mon ami! It will amuse me to hear you—talk."
Juliet went upstairs to fetch her cloak, and Dick took his coat from the peg in the hall, and began to put it on. Saltash watched him with careless amiability.
"Are you going to be there to-night then?" Dick asked him suddenly.
"I am proposing to give myself that pleasure," he returned. "That is, of course, if you on your part have no objection."
Dick's black eyes surveyed him keenly. "I am quite capable of protecting my wife single-handed," he said. "Not that there will be any need."
Saltash executed a smiling bow. "I am delighted to hear you say so. Have you got a cigarette to spare?"
Dick took out his case and held it to him. Saltash helped himself, the smile still twitching the corners of his mouth.
"Thanks," he said lightly. "So you have no anxieties about to-night!"
"None," said Dick.
"You think the men will come to heel?"
"They haven't broken away yet," Dick reminded him curtly.
Saltash raised his eyes suddenly. "When they do—what then?" he said.
"What do you mean?" said Dick.
He laughed mischievously. "I suppose you know that you are credited with being at their head?"
Dick, in the act of striking a match, paused. He looked at the other man with raised brows. "At their head?" he questioned. "What do you mean?"
Without the smallest change of countenance Saltash enlightened him. "As strike-leader, agitator, and so on. You have achieved an enviable reputation by your philanthropy. Didn't you know?"
Dick struck the match with an absolutely steady hand, and held it to his cigarette. "I did not," he said.
Saltash puffed at the cigarette, peering at him curiously through the smoke. "Which may account for your failure to find Ivor Yardley," he suggested after a moment.
"In what way?" said Dick.
Saltash straightened himself. "I imagine he is not a great believer in—philanthropy," he said.
Dick's eyes shone with an ominous glitter. "From my point of view these insinuations are not worth considering," he said, "though no doubt it has given you a vast amount of enjoyment to fabricate them."
"I!" said Saltash.
"You!" said Dick.
There was a moment's silence, then Saltash began to laugh. "My dear chap, you don't really think that! You'd like to—but you can't!"
Dick looked at him, thin-lipped, uncompromising, silent.
"You actually do?" questioned Saltash. "You really think I care a twopenny damn what anybody thinks about you or anyone else under the sun? I say, don't be an ass, Green, whatever else you are! It's too tiring for all concerned. If you really want to know who is responsible—"
"Well?" said Dick.
"Well," Saltash sent a cloud of smoke upwards, "look a bit nearer home, man! Haven't you got—a brother somewhere?"
Dick gave a sudden start. "I have not!" he said sternly.
Saltash nodded. "Ah! Well, I imagine Yardley knows him if you don't. He is the traitor in the camp, and he's out to trip you if he can." He laughed again with careless humour. "I don't know why I should give you the tip. It is not my custom to heap coals of fire. Pray excuse them on this occasion! I suppose you are quite determined to take Juliette to the meeting to-night?"
"I am quite determined to go," said Juliet quietly, as she came down the stairs. "Will you have anything, Charles? No? Then let us start! It is getting late. You are driving yourself?"
He threw open the door for her with a deep bow. "I always drive myself, Juliette, and—I always get there," he said.
Her faint laugh floated back to Dick as he followed them out.
CHAPTER VII
FLIGHT
It was a dumb and sullen crowd that Dick Green faced that night in the great barn on the slope of High Shale.
A rough platform had been erected at one end of the place and this, with the deal table and lamp and one or two chairs, was all that went to the furnishing of his assembly-room. The men stood in a close crowd like herded cattle, and the atmosphere of the place was heavy with the reek of humanity and coarse tobacco-smoke. There was a door at each end, but the night was still and dark and there was little air beyond the vague chill of a creeping sea-mist.
Dick, entering at the door at the platform end of the building instead of passing straight up through the crowd as was his custom, was aware of a curious influence at work from the first moment—an influence adverse if not directly hostile that reached him he knew not how. He heard a vague murmur as Juliet and Saltash followed him, and sharply he turned and drew Juliet to his side. In that instant he realized that she was the only woman in the place.
He faced the crowd, his hand upon her arm. "Well, men," he said, his words clean-cut and ready, "so you've left your wives behind, have you? I on the contrary have brought mine, and she has promised to give you a song."
The mutter died. Some youths at the back started applause, which spread, though somewhat half-heartedly, through the crowd, and for a space the ugly feeling died down.
"We'll get to business," said Dick, and took out his banjo.
The concert began, Ashcott came up on to the platform and under cover of
Dick's jangling ragtime spoke in a low voice and urgently to Saltash.
The latter heard him with a laugh and a careless grimace, but a little later he leaned towards Juliet who sat behind the table and touched her unobtrusively. She looked round at him almost with reluctance, and he whispered to her in rapid French.
She listened to him with raised brows, and then shook her head with a smile. "No, of course not! I am going to sing to them directly. I am here to help—not to make things worse."
He shrugged his shoulders and said no more. In a few minutes Dick's cheery banjo thrummed into silence and he turned round.
"Are you ready?" he said to Juliet.
She rose and came forward, tall and graceful, bearing the unmistakable stamp of high-breeding in every delicate movement. She might have been on the platform of a London concert-hall as she faced her audience under the shadowing hat.
They stared at her open-mouthed, spellbound, awed by the quiet dignity of her. And in the hush that fell before her, Juliet began to sing.
Her voice was low, highly trained, exquisitely soft. She sang an old English ballad with a throbbing sweetness that held her hearers with its charm. And behind her Dick leaned against the table with his banjo and very softly accompanied her.
His face was in shadow also as he bent over the instrument. Not once throughout the song did he look up.
When she ended, there came that involuntary pause which is the highest tribute that can be paid by any audience, and then such a thunder of applause as shook the building. Saltash stepped forward to hand her back to her chair, but the men in front of her yelled so hoarse a protest that, laughing, he retired.
And Juliet sang again and again, thrilling the rough crowd as Dick had never thrilled them, choosing such old-world melodies as reach the hearts of all. Saltash watched her with keen appreciation on his ugly face. He was an accomplished musician himself. But Dick with his banjo, though he responded unerringly to every shade of feeling in the beautiful voice, never raised his head.
It was he who at last came forward and led Juliet back to her chair, but by that time the temper of the men had completely changed. They shouted good-humoured comments to him and bandied jokes among themselves. The whole atmosphere of the place had altered. The heavy sullenness had passed like a thunder-cloud, and Ashcott no longer smoked his pipe in the doorway with an air of gloomy foreboding.
Dick laid aside his banjo and came to the front of the platform. There was absolute confidence in his bearing, a vital strength that imparted a mastery that yet was largely compounded of comradeship.
He began to speak without effort—as a man speaks to his friends.
"I have something to say to you chaps," he said, "and I hope you will hear me out fairly, even though it may not be the sort of thing you like to listen to. I think you know that I care a good deal about your welfare, and I am doing my level best to secure a decent future for you. I haven't accomplished very much at present, but I'm sticking to it, and I believe I shall win out some day. It won't be my fault if I don't, and I hope it won't be yours. What?" as a murmur broke out in the background. "Oh, shut up, please, till I've done, then if anyone wants to talk he shall have his chance. It might be your fault if I failed because I'm counting on you to back me up in a legal and orderly way. And if you don't, well, I'm knocked out for good and all. For I'm no strike-leader, and any man who strikes can go to blazes so far as I'm concerned. I wouldn't lift a finger to stop him going or to get him out when there; in fact it's the best place for him. No, boys, listen! Wait till I've done! A strike is a deadly thing. It's like a spreading poison in this country, and the beastly root of it is just selfishness. It will choke the very life out of the nation if it isn't stopped. It's a weapon that no self-respecting man should smirch his hands with. I know very well there are heaps of reforms needed, heaps of abuses to be stopped, but you don't cure evil with evil. You're only feeding the monster that will devour you in the end, and you're feeding him with human sacrifice moreover. Have you ever thought of that? And another thing! Do you ever look ahead—right ahead—beyond your own personal wants and grievances? Do you ever ask yourselves if strikes and violence are going to bring forth justice and equity? Do you ever work the thing out to its proper values—see it as it really is? This continual striving for money, for power,—this overthrowing of all established control—do you call it a fight for liberty by any chance? I tell you, men, that it's a struggle for the most hideous slavery that ever disfigured this earth. This perpetual fight for self will end in self-destruction. It always does. It's the law of creation. The thing that strikes rebounds upon the striker. The man who deliberately injures another injures himself tenfold more seriously. Isn't there something in the Bible about he who takes the sword perishes with the sword? That's justice—God's justice—and there's no getting away from that. You can overthrow every institution that was ever made, but you will never set up in its place a Government that will bring again the order you have destroyed. You can pull the Empire to pieces with dissensions and conspiracies, but—once down—you will never build it up again.
"Grievances? Yes, of course you have grievances—heaps of 'em. Who hasn't. And you've a right to try for better conditions. But in heaven's name, don't strike for them! Don't turn the whole world upside down because you want something you can't get! Be sportsmen and play a decent game! Stick to the rules and you may win! I tell you I'm fighting for you—I'm fighting hard. And I shan't rest so long as I have a decent crowd to fight for. But if you're going to follow the rotten example of the fellows who sacrifice the whole community to their own beastly greed—who strike like a herd of sheep because a few damned traitors urge 'em to it—who fling duty and honour to the winds on the chance of grabbing a little worldly advantage—in short, if you're not going to observe the rules of the game, I've done with the whole show.
"That's the position, men, and I want you to get hold of it, see it as it really is. Nothing on this earth worth having was ever gained by disloyalty. Think it out for yourselves! Don't be led by the nose by a parcel of agitators! Give the matter your own sane and deliberate thought! Form your own conclusions! Throw off this tyranny of other men's notions, and be free! If only every man in the kingdom would take this line and think for himself instead of giving his blind allegiance to a power that is out to ruin the nation, there would pretty soon be such a strike against strikes as would kill 'em outright. They're a hindrance to civilization and a curse to the world at large. They are selfishness incarnate and a stumbling-block to all national progress. And if there's any pride of race in you, any sense of an Englishman's honour, any desire for the nation's welfare (which is at a pretty low ebb just now) join with me and do your level best to cast out this evil thing!"
He ended as he had begun with clear and spontaneous appeal to the higher instincts of his hearers. He knew them well, knew their weakness and their strength; and he knew his own power over them and wielded it with unfailing confidence.
The hard-breathing silence that succeeded his words dismayed him not at all. He waited quite calmly for the question he had checked at the outset.
It came very gruffly from a burly miner immediately in front of him. "It's all very well," the man said. "But how are we to get our rights any other way?"
"Oh, you'll get 'em all right," Dick made answer. "This isn't an age of serfdom. You won't be downtrodden to that extent. You stick to your guns and have a little patience! Things are not standing still. State your grievances—if they're bad enough—and then give the owners a chance! But don't forget that there's got to be give and take between you! If you want fair play and consideration from the owners, you must give them the same. Don't forget that you sink or swim together! If you ruin them you ruin yourselves. Disloyalty means disruption, all the world over. So play the game like men!"
It was at this point that Ashcott touched him on the shoulder with a muttered word that made him turn sharply.
"What? Who?"
"Mr. Ivor Yardley!" the manager muttered uneasily. "He's waiting to speak to you—says he'll address the men if you'll allow him. Think it's safe?"
Dick frowned. "Of course it's safe! Where is he? Wait! I'll speak to him first. I'll get my wife to sing again while I do it." He turned round to Juliet sitting at the table behind him and bent to speak to her. "Can you give them another song—to fill in time? I've got to speak to a man outside." His eyes travelled swiftly on the words to the open doorway where a tall man, wearing a motor-mask and a leather coat, stood waiting.
Juliet's look followed his. She stood up quickly. "Dick! Who is it?"
Something in her voice brought his eyes back to her in sudden close scrutiny. For that instant he forgot the crowd of men and the need of the moment, forgot the man who waited in the background whom he had desired so urgently to see, forgot the whole world in the wide-eyed terror of her look.
Instinctively he stretched an arm behind her, but in the same moment Saltash came swiftly forward to her other side, and it was Saltash who spoke with the quick, intimate reassurance of the trusted friend.
"It's all right, Juliette. I'm here to take care of you. Give them one more song, won't you? Afterwards, if you've had enough of it, I'll take you back."
She turned her face towards him and away from Dick whose arm fell from her unheeded; but her gaze did not leave the figure that stood waiting in the dim doorway, upright, grim as Fate, watching her with eyes she could not see.
"Don't be afraid!" urged Saltash in his rapid whisper. "Anyhow, don't show it! I'll see you through."
"Are you ready?" said Dick on her other side.
His voice was absolutely steady, but it fell with an icy ring, and a great quiver went through her. She made a blind gesture towards Saltash, and in an instant his hand gripped her elbow.
"Can't you do it?" he said. "Are you going to drop out?"
She recovered herself sharply, as though something in his words had pierced her pride. The next moment very quietly she turned back to Dick.
"I am quite ready," she said.
He took her hand without a word, and led her forward. Someone raised a cheer for her, and in a second a shout of applause thundered to the rafters.
Dick smiled a brief smile of gratitude, and lifted a hand for silence.
Then, as it fell, he stepped back.
And Juliet stood alone before the rough crowd.
Those who saw her in that moment never forgot her. Tall and slender, with that unconsciously regal mien of hers that marked her with so indelible a stamp, she stood and faced the men below her. But no song rose to her lips, and those who were nearest to her thought that she was trembling.
And then suddenly she began to speak in a full, quiet voice that penetrated the deep hush with a bell-like clearness.
"Men," she said, "it is very kind of you to cheer me, but you will never do it again. I have something to tell you. I don't know in the least how you will take it, but I hope you will manage to forgive me if you possibly can. Mr. Green is your friend, and he knows nothing about it, so you will acquit him of all blame. The deception is mine alone. I deceived him, too. I know you all hate the Farringmores, and I daresay you have reason. You have never spoken to any of them face to face, before, because they haven't cared enough to come near you. But—you can do so to-night if you wish. Men, I am—Lord Wilchester's sister. I was—Joanna Farringmore."
She ceased to speak with a little gesture of the hands that was quite involuntary and oddly pathetic, but she did not turn away from her audience. Throughout the deep silence that followed that amazing confession she stood quite straight and still, waiting, her face to the throng. A man was standing immediately behind her and she was aware of him, knew without turning that it was Saltash; but the one being in all the crowded place for whose voice or touch in that moment she would have given all that she had neither spoke nor moved. And her brave heart died within her. If he had only given some sign!
A hoarse murmur broke out at the back of the great barn, spreading like a wave on the sea. But ere it reached the men in front who stood sullenly dumb, staring upwards, Saltash's hand closed upon Juliet's arm, drawing her back.
"After that, ma chère," he said lightly into her ear, "you would be wise to follow the line of least resistance."
She responded to his touch almost mechanically. The murmur was swelling to a roar, but she scarcely heard it. She yielded to the hand that guided, hardly knowing what she did.
As Saltash led her to the back of the platform she had a glimpse of Dick's face white as death, with lips hard-set and stern as she had never seen them, and a glitter in his eyes that made her think of onyx. He passed her by without a glance, going forward to quell the rising storm as if she had not been there.
The man in the leather coat was with him. He had taken off his mask, and he paused before Juliet—a cynical smile playing about his face. It was a face of iron mastery, of pitiless self-assertion. The eyes were as points of steel.
He bent towards her and spoke. "I thought I should find you sooner or later, Lady Jo. I trust you have enjoyed your game—even if you have lost your winnings!"
She spoke no word in answer, but she made a slight, barely perceptible movement towards the man whose hand upheld her.
And Yardley laughed—an edged laugh that was inexpressibly cruel.
"Oh, go to the devil!" said Saltash with sudden fire. "It's where you belong!"
Yardley's cold eyes gleamed with icy humour. "Et tu, Brute!" he said with sneering lips. "I wish you—joy!"
He passed on. Saltash's arm went round Juliet like a coiled spring. He impelled her unresisting to the door. Her hand rested on his shoulder as she stepped down from the platform. She went with him as one in a dream.
The air smote chill as they left the heated atmosphere, and a great shiver went through her.
She stood still for a moment, listening. The tumult had died down. A man's voice—Dick's voice—clear and very steady, was speaking.
"Come away!" said Saltash in her ear.
But yet she lingered in the darkness. "He will be safe?" she said.
"Of course he will be safe! They treat him like a god. Come away!"
His arm was urging her. She yielded, shivering.
He hurried her up the slope to the place where he had left his car. It stood at the side of the rough road that led to High Shale Point.
They reached it. Juliet was gasping for breath. The sea-mist was like rain in their faces.
"Get in!" he said.
She obeyed, sinking down with a vague thankfulness, conscious of great weakness.
But as he cranked the engine and she felt the throb of movement, she sat up quickly.
"Charles, what am I doing? Where are you taking me?"
He came round to her and his hands clasped hers for a moment in a grip that was warm and close. He did not speak at once.
Then, lightly, "I don't know what you'll do afterwards, ma Juliette," he said. "But you are coming with me now!"
She caught her breath as if she would utter some protest, but something checked her—perhaps it was the memory of Dick's face as she had last seen it, stony, grimly averted, uncompromisingly stern. She gripped his hands in answer, but she did not speak a word.
And so they sped away together into the dark.
CHAPTER VIII
OUT OF THE NIGHT
It was very late that night, and the sea-mist had turned to a drifting rain when the squire sitting reading in his library at the Court was startled by a sudden tapping upon the window behind him.
So unexpected was the sound in the absolute stillness that he started with some violence and nearly knocked over the reading-lamp at his elbow. Then sharply and frowning he arose. He reached the window and fumbled at the blind; but failing to find the cord dragged it impatiently aside and peered through the glass.
"Who is it? What do you want?"
A face he knew, but so drawn and deathly that for the moment it seemed almost unfamiliar, peered back at him. In a second he had the window unfastened and flung wide.
"Dick! In heaven's name, boy,—what's the matter?"
Dick was over the sill in a single bound. He stood up and faced the squire, bare-headed, drenched with rain, his eyes burning with a terrible fire.
"I have come for my wife," he said.
"Your wife! Juliet!" The squire stared at him as if he thought him demented. "Why, she left ages ago, man,—soon after tea!"
"Yes, yes, I know," Dick said. He spoke rapidly, but with decision. "But she came back here an hour or two ago. You are giving her shelter. Saltash brought her—or no—she probably came alone."
"You are mad!" said Fielding, and turned to shut the window. "She hasn't been near since she left this evening."
"Wait!" Dick's hand shot out and caught his arm, restraining him. "Do you swear to me that you don't know where she is?"
The squire stood still, looking full and hard into the face so near his own; and so looking, he realized, what he had not grasped before, that it was the face of a man in torture. The savage grip on his arm told the same story. The fiery eyes that stared at him out of the death-white countenance had the awful look of a man who sees his last hope shattered.
Impulsively he laid his free hand upon him. "Dick—Dick, old chap,—what's all this? Of course I don't know where she is! Do you think I'd lie to you?"
"Then I've lost her!" Dick said, and with the words some inner vital spring seemed to snap within him. He flung up; his arms, freeing himself with a wild gesture. "My God, she has gone—gone with that scoundrel!"
"Saltash?" said the squire sharply.
"Yes. Saltash!" He ground the name between his teeth. "Does that surprise you so very much? Don't you know the sort of infernal blackguard he is?"
The squire turned again to shut the window. "Damn it, Dick! I don't believe a word of it," he said with vigour. "Get your wind and have a drink, and let's hear the whole story! Have you and Juliet been quarrelling?"
Dick ignored his words as if he had not spoken. "You needn't shut the window," he said. "I'm going again. I'm going now."
It was the squire's turn to assert himself, and he seized it. He shut the window with a bang. "You are not, Dick! Don't be a fool! Sit down! Do you hear? Sit down! You're not going yet—not till you've told me the whole trouble. So you can make up your mind to that!"
Dick looked at him for a moment as if he were on the verge of fierce resistance, but Fielding's answering look held such unmistakable resolution that after the briefest pause he turned aside.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, and tramped heavily across to the hearth. "Put up with me if you can! God knows I'm up against it hard enough to-night."
He rested his arms on the mantelpiece and laid his head down upon them, and so stood motionless, in utter silence.
The squire came to him in a few seconds with a glass in his hand. "Here you are, Dick! This is what you're wanting. Swallow it before you talk any more!"
Dick reached out in silence and took the glass. Then he stood up and drank, keeping his face averted.
Fielding waited till at last, without turning, he spoke. "I've always known it might come to this, but I never realized why. I suppose anyone but a blind fool would have seen through it long ago."
"What are you talking about?" said the squire. "I'm utterly in the dark, remember."
Dick's hands were clenched. "I'm talking of Juliet and—Saltash. I've always known there was some sort of understanding between them. He flaunted it in my face whenever we met. But I trusted her—I trusted her." The words were like a muffled cry rising from the depths of the man's wrung soul.
"Sit down!" said the squire gruffly, and taking him by the shoulders pushed him into the chair from which he himself had so lately risen.
Dick yielded, with the submission of utter despair, his black head bowed against the table.
Fielding stooped over him, still holding him. "Now, boy, now! Don't let yourself go! Tell me—try and tell me!"
Dick drew a hard breath. "You'll think I'm mad, sir. I thought I was myself at first. But it's true—it must be true. I heard it from her own lips. Juliet—my wife—my wife—is—was—Lady Joanna Farringmore!"
"Great heavens!" said the squire. "Dick, are you sure?"
"Yes, quite sure. She was caught—caught by Yardley at the meeting to-night. She couldn't escape—so she told the truth—told the whole crowd—and then bolted—bolted with Saltash."
"Great heavens!" said the squire again. "But—what was Saltash doing there?"
"Oh, he came to protect her. He knew—or guessed—there was something in the wind. He came to support her. I know now. He's the subtlest devil that ever was made."
"But why on earth—why on earth did she ever come here?" questioned Fielding.
"She was hiding from Yardley of course. He's a cold vindictive brute, and I suppose—I suppose she was afraid of him, and came to me—came to me—for refuge." Dick was speaking through his hands. "That's how he regards it himself. She was always playing fast and loose till she got engaged to him. It was just the fashion in that set. But he—I imagine no one ever played with him before. He swears—swears he'll make her suffer for it yet."
"Pooh!" said Fielding. "How does he propose to do that? She's your wife anyhow."
"My wife—yes." Slowly Dick raised his head, stared for a space in front of him, then grimly rose. "My wife—as you say, sir. And I am going to find her—now."
"I'm coming with you," said Fielding.
"No, sir, no!" Dick looked at him with a tight-lipped smile that was somehow terrible. "Don't do that! You won't want to be—a witness against me."
"Pooh!" said the squire again. "I may be of use to you before it comes to that. But before we start let me tell you one thing, Dick! She married you because she loved you—for no other reason."
A sharp spasm contracted Dick's hard features; he set his lips and said nothing.
"That's the truth," the squire proceeded, watching him. "And you know it. She might have bolted with Saltash before if she had wanted to. She had ample opportunity."
Dick's hands clenched at his sides, but still he said nothing.
"She loved you," the squire said again. "Lady Jo—or no Lady Jo—she loved you. It wasn't make-believe. She was fairly caught—against her will possibly—but still caught. She's run away from you now—run away with another man—because she couldn't stay and face you. Is that convincing proof, do you think, that she has ceased to love you? It wouldn't convince me."
Dick's clenched hands were beating impotently against his sides.
"I—can't say, sir," he said, between his set teeth.
The squire moved impulsively, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Dick, I've seen a good deal—suffered a good deal—in my time; enough to know the real thing when I see it. She's loved you as long as she's known you, and it's been the same with you. You're not going to deny that? You can't deny it!"
Dick made a quick gesture of protest. For a moment the tortured soul of the man looked out of his eyes. "Does that make it any better?" he said harshly.
"In my opinion, yes." Fielding spoke with decision. "She may have taken refuge with Saltash, but that doesn't prove anything—except that the poor girl had no one else to turn to. You had failed her—or anyhow you didn't offer to stand by."
"I couldn't!" The words came jerkily, as if wrung from him by main force. "For one thing—the men were out of hand, and it was as much as I could do to hold them. She told them, I tell you—stood up and told them straight out—who she was. And they loathe the whole crowd. It was madness."
"Pretty sublime madness!" commented the squire. "And then Saltash took her away. Was that it?"
"Yes." Dick spoke with intense bitterness. "It was the chance he was waiting for. Of course he seized it. Any blackguard would."
"But you thought she might have come here?" pursued the squire.
"I thought it possible, yes. I told Yardley it was so. He of course sneered at the bare idea. I nearly choked him for it. But I might have known he was right. She wouldn't risk—my following her. She wanted to be—free."
"Why? Is she afraid of you then?" Fielding's voice was stern.
Dick threw up his head with the action of a goaded animal. "Yes."
"Then you've given her some reason?"
"Yes. I have given her reason!" Fiercely he flung the words. "You want to know—you shall know! This evening she found out something about me which even you don't know yet—something that made her hate me. I was going to tell her some day, but the time hadn't come. She said if she had known of it she would never have married me. I didn't realize then—how could I?—how hard it hit her. And I made her understand that having married me—it was irrevocable. That was why she ran away with Saltash. She didn't—trust me—any longer."
"But, my good fellow, what in heaven's name is this awful thing that even I don't know?" demanded the squire. "Don't tell me there has ever been any damn trouble with another woman!"
"No—no!" Dick broke into a laugh that was inexpressibly painful to hear.
"There has never been any other woman for me. What do I care for women?
Do you think because I've made a blasted fool of myself over one woman
that I—"
"Shut up, Dick!" Curtly the squire checked him. "You're not to say it—even to me. Tell me this other thing about yourself—the thing I don't know!"
"Oh, that! That's nothing, sir, nothing—at least you won't think it so. It's only that during the past few years some books have been published by one named Dene Strange that have attracted attention in certain quarters."
"I've read 'em all," said the squire. "Well?"
"I wrote them," said Dick; "that's all."
"You!" Fielding stared. "You, Dick!"
"Yes, I. I meant to have told you, but so long as my boy lived, my job seemed to be here, so I kept it to myself. And then—when she came—she told me she hated the man who wrote those books for being cynical—and merciless. So I wrote another to make her change her mind about me before she knew. It is only just published. And she found out before she read it. That's all," Dick said again with the shadow of a smile. "She found out this evening. It was a shock to her—naturally. It's been a succession of obstacles all through—a perpetual struggle against odds. Well, it's over. At least we know what we're up against now. There will be no more illusions of any sort from to-day on." He paused, stood a moment as if bracing himself, then turned. "Well, I'm going, sir. Come if you really must, but—I don't advise it."
"I am coming," said the squire briefly. His hand went from Dick's shoulder to his arm and gave it a hard squeeze. "Confound you! What do you take me for?" he said.
Dick's hand came swiftly to his. "I take you for the best friend a man ever had, sir," he said.
"Pooh!" said the squire.