The Flight of the Shadow

“I will take it to the young man,” he answered.

“Please, let us go at once then, uncle! I cannot sit still.”

He rose, and we went together to John’s room.

He was much better—sitting up in bed, and eating the breakfast Penny had carried him.

“I have just had a letter from your mother, Day,” said my uncle.

“Indeed!” returned John dryly.

“Will you read it, and tell me what answer you would like me to return.”

“Hardly like her usual writing—though there’s her own strange S!” remarked John as he looked at it.

“Does she always make an S like that?” asked my uncle, with something peculiar in his tone, I thought.

“Always—like a snake just going to strike.”

My uncle’s face grew ghastly pale. He almost snatched the letter from John’s hand, looked at it, gave it back to him, and, to our dismay, left the room.

“What can be the matter, John?” I said, my heart sinking within me.

“Go to him,” said John.

I dared not. I had often seen him like that before walking out into the night; but there was something in his face now which I had not seen there before. It looked as if some terrible suspicion were suddenly confirmed.

“You see what my mother is after!” said John. “You have now to believe her, that I am subject to fits of insanity, or to believe me, that there is nothing she will not do to get her way.”

“Her object is clear,” I replied. “But if she thinks to fool my uncle, she will find herself mistaken!”

“She hopes to fool both you and your uncle,” he rejoined. “The only wise thing I could do, she will handle so as to convince any expert of my madness—I mean, my coming to you! My reasons will go for nothing—less than no-thing—with any one she chooses to bewitch. She will look at me with an anxious love no doctor could doubt. No one can know you do not know that I am not mad—or at least subject to attacks of madness!”

“Oh, John, don’t frighten me!” I cried.

“There! you are not sure about it!”

It seemed cruel of him to tease me so; but I saw presently why he did it: he thought his mother’s letter had waked a doubt in my uncle; and he wanted me not to be vexed with my uncle, even if he deserted him and went over to his mother’s side.

“I love your uncle,” he said. “I know he is a true man! I will not be angry with him if my mother do mislead him. The time will come when he will know the truth. It must appear at last! I shall have to fight her alone, that’s all! The worst is, if he thinks with my mother I shall have to go at once!—If only somebody would sell my horse for me!”

I guessed that his mother kept him short of money, and remembered with gladness that I was not quite penniless at the moment.

“In the meantime, you must keep as quiet as you can, John,” I said. “Where is the good of planning upon an if? To trust is to get ready, uncle says. Trust is better than foresight.”

John required little such persuading. And indeed something very different was in my uncle’s mind from what John feared.

Presently I caught a glimpse of him riding out of the yard. I ran to a window from which I could see the edge of the moor, and saw him cross it at an uphill gallop.

He was gone about four hours, and on his return went straight to his own room. Not until nine o’clock did I go to him, and then he came with me to supper.

He looked worn, but was kind and genial as usual. After supper he sent for Dick, and told him to ride to Rising, the first thing in the morning, with a letter he would find on the hall-table.

The letter he read to us before we parted for the night. It was all we could have wished. He wrote that he must not have any one in his house interfered with; so long as a man was his guest, he was his servant. Her ladyship had, however, a perfect right to see her son, and would be welcome; only the decision as to his going or remaining must rest with the young man himself. If he chose to accompany his mother, well and good! though he should be sorry to lose him. If he declined to return with her, he and his house continued at his service.

CHAPTER XXIV. HAND TO HAND

We looked for lady Cairnedge all the next day. John was up by noon, and ready to receive her in the drawing-room; he would not see her in his bedroom. But the hours passed, and she did not come.

In the evening, however, when the twilight was thickening, and already all was dark in the alleys of the garden, her carriage drove quietly up—with a startling scramble of arrest at the door. The same servants were outside, and a very handsome dame within. As she descended, I saw that she was tall, and, if rather stout, not stouter than suited her age and style. Her face was pale, but she seemed in perfect health. When I saw her closer, I found her features the most regular I had ever seen. Had the soul within it filled the mould of that face, it would have been beautiful. As it was, it was only handsome—to me repulsive. The moment I saw it, I knew myself in the presence of a masked battery.

My uncle had insisted that she should be received where we usually sat, and had given Penny orders to show her into the hall-kitchen.

I was alone there, preparing something for John. We were not expecting her, for it seemed now too late to look for her. My uncle was in the study, and Martha somewhere about the house. My heart sank as I turned from the window, and sank yet lower when she appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. But as I advanced, I caught sight of my uncle, and went boldly to meet the enemy. He had come down his stair, and had just stepped into a clear blaze of light, which that moment burst from the wood I had some time ago laid damp upon the fire. The next instant I saw the lady’s countenance ghastly with terror, looking beyond me. I turned, but saw nothing, save that my uncle had disappeared. When I faced her again, only a shadow of her fright remained. I offered her my hand—for she was John’s mother, but she did not take it. She stood scanning me from head to foot.

“I am lady Cairnedge,” she said. “Where is my son?”

I turned yet again. My uncle had not come back. I was not prepared to take his part. I was bewildered. A dead silence fell. For the first time in my life, my uncle seemed to have deserted me, and at the moment when most I needed him! I turned once more to the lady, and said, hardly knowing what,

“You wish to see Mr. Day?”

She answered me with a cold stare.

“I will go and tell him you are here,” I faltered; and passing her, I sped along the passage to the drawing-room.

“John!” I cried, bursting in, “she’s come! Do you still mean to see her? Are you able? Uncle—”

There I stopped, for his eyes were stern, and not looking at me, but at something behind me. One moment I thought his fever had returned, but following his gaze I looked round:—there stood lady Cairnedge! John was face to face with his mother, and my uncle was not there to defend him!

“Are you ready?” she said, nor pretended greeting. She seemed slightly discomposed, and in haste.

I was by this time well aware of my lover’s determination of character, but I was not prepared for the tone in which he addressed the icy woman calling herself his mother.

“I am ready to listen,” he answered.

“John!” she returned, with mingled severity and sharpness, “let us have no masquerading! You are perfectly fit to come home, and you must come at once. The carriage is at the door.”

“You are quite right, mother,” answered John calmly; “I am fit to go home with you. But Rising does not quite agree with me. I dread such another attack, and do not mean to go.”

The drawing-room had a rectangular bay-window, one of whose three sides commanded the door. The opposite side looked into a little grove of larches. Lady Cairnedge had already realized the position of the room. She darted to the window, and saw her carriage but a few yards away.

She would have thrown up the sash, but found she could not. She twisted her handkerchief round her gloved hand, and dashed it through a pane.

“Men!” she cried, in a loud, commanding voice, “come at once.”

The moment she went to the window, I sprang to the door, locked it, put the key in my pocket, and set my back to the door.

I heard the men thundering at the hall-door. Lady Cairnedge turned as if she would herself go and open to them, but seeing me, she understood what I had done, and went back to the window.