Miss Arnott's Marriage

"Your ground? Our ground, you mean. Really, how you do mix things up."

"My ground, I mean. You have no more to do with it than-than the jailer who let you out of the prison gate, to prey upon the world again."

She had evidently learnt her lesson from Mr Morice in the nick of time.

"Don't be silly; you don't know what you're talking about. What's yours is mine; what's the wife's the husband's."

"That's a lie, and you know it. I know it's a lie, as you'll discover. This side of that fence is my property. If you trespass on it I'll summon my gamekeepers-there are always plenty of them about-and I'll have you thrown off it. What you do on the other side of the fence is no business of mine. That belongs to someone who is well able to deal with men like you."

"This is a cheerful hearing, upon my word! Can this virago be the loving wife I've come all this way to see? No, it can't be-it must be a delusion. Let me tell you again-don't be silly. Where the wife is the husband's a perfect right to be. That's the law of England and it's the law of God."

"It's neither when the husband is such as you. Let me repeat my advice to you-don't trespass on my ground."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find a gamekeeper; to warn him that bad characters are about, and to instruct him how to deal with them."

"Stop! don't talk nonsense to me like that! Have you forgotten what kind of man I am?"

"Have I forgotten! As if I ever could forget!"

"Then mind it! Come here! Where are you off to? Did you hear me tell you to come here?"

"I repeat, I'm going to find a gamekeeper. I heard you tell me; but I pay no more attention to what you tell me than the trunk of that tree."

"By-! we'll see about that!"

Descending from the fence, he moved towards her. She stopped, turned and faced him.

"What do you think you're going to do?"

"I'm going to see you mind me-that's what I'm going to do."

"Does that mean that you're going to assault me, as you used to?"

He laughed.

"Assault you! Not much! Look here. What's the good of your carrying on like this? Why can't you behave like a reasonable girl, and talk sensibly?" She looked him steadily in the face; then turned on her heel. "You'd better stand still! I'm your husband; you're my wife. It's my duty to see that you obey me, and I'm going to do my duty. So just you mark my words!"

"Husband! Duty! You unutterable thing! Don't touch me! Take your hand from off my shoulder!"

"Then you stand still. I'm not going to have you slip through my fingers, and leave me here, and have the laugh on me; so don't you make any mistake, my girl. You've never had the laugh on me yet, and you never will."

"If you don't take your hand off my shoulder, I'll kill you."

Again he laughed.

"It strikes me that if there's going to be any killing done it's I who'll do it. You're getting my temper up, like you used to; and when you've got it fairly up there'll be trouble. You stand still! Do you hear me? Your eyes- What's that?" With a sudden, vigorous movement she broke from his retaining grasp. "Would you! I'll teach you!"

He advanced, evidently meaning to renew his grip upon her shoulders. Before he could do so she swung out her right arm with all the strength at her command, and struck him in the face. Not anticipating such violent measures, taken unawares, he staggered blindly backwards. Ere he could recover himself she had sprung round, and was rushing at the top of her speed towards the narrow, winding path along which she had come. As she gained it the moon passed behind the clouds.

CHAPTER XII

WHAT SHE HEARD, SAW AND FOUND

She hurried along as rapidly as she could in the darkness which had followed the eclipse of the moon. Momentarily she expected to hear his footsteps coming after her. But, so far as she was able to tell, there was not a sound which suggested pursuit. Something, possibly, had prevented his giving immediate chase. In the darkness it was impossible to see where she was going, or to make out surrounding objects. What seemed to be the branch of a tree struck her across the face with such force that it brought her to an instant standing. She stood still, trembling from head to foot. The collision had partly stunned her. Her face was smarting, where it had come in contact with the unseen obstacle. For the moment she was demoralised, incapable of moving in any direction. Her breath was coming in great gasps. It would have needed very little to have made her burst into tears.

As she was gradually regaining her equilibrium, her presence of mind, a sound crashed through the darkness, which started her trembling worse than ever. It was a gunshot. Quite close at hand. So close that the flash of it flamed before her eyes. In the air about her was the smell of the powder.

Silence followed, which was the more striking, because it was contrasted with the preceding thunderclap. What had happened? Who had fired? at what? and where? The gun had been fired by someone who was on the left of where she was then standing, possibly within twenty or thirty feet. The direction of the aim, it seemed, had been at something behind her. What was there behind her at which anyone would be likely to fire, in that reckless fashion, at that hour of the night? Robert Champion was behind her; but the idea that anyone-

The silence was broken. Someone was striding through the brushwood towards the place which had been aimed at. She became conscious of another sound, which made her heart stand still. Was not someone groaning, as if in pain? Someone who, also, was behind her? Suddenly there was the sound of voices. The person who had strode through the underwood was speaking to the person who was groaning. Apparently she was farther off than she had supposed, or they were speaking in muffled tones. She could only just distinguish voices. Who were the speakers, and what they said, she had not a notion. The colloquy was but a brief one. Again there was a sound of footsteps, which retreated; then, again, groans.

What did it mean? What had happened? who had come and gone? who had been the speakers? of what had they been talking? The problem was a knotty one. Should she go back and solve it? The groans which continued, and, if anything, increased in vigour, were in themselves a sufficiently strenuous appeal. That someone was in pain was evident-wounded, perhaps seriously. It seemed that whoever was responsible for that gunshot had, with complete callousness, left his victim to his fate. And he might be dying! Whoever it was, she could not let him die without, at least, attempting succour. If she did, she would be a participant in a crime of which-to use an Irishism-she had not only been an unseen, but also an unseeing, witness. If she let this man die without doing something to help him live, his blood would be on her hands also; certainly, she would feel it was. However repugnant the task might be, she must return and proffer aid.

She had just brought herself to the sticking point, and was about to retrace her steps, when, once more, she became conscious of someone being in movement. But, this time, not only did it come from another direction, but it had an entirely different quality. Before, there had been no attempt at concealment. Whoever had gone striding through the underwood, had apparently cared nothing for being either seen nor heard. Whoever was moving now, unless the girl's imagination played her a trick-was desirous of being neither seen nor heard. There was a stealthy quality in the movements, as if someone were stealing softly through the brushwood, taking cautious steps, keenly on the alert against hidden listeners.

In what quarter was the newcomer moving? The girl could not at first decide; indeed, she never was quite clear, but it seemed to her that someone was creeping along the fence which divided Exham Park and Oak Dene. All the while, the wounded man continued to groan.

Suddenly, she could not tell how she knew, but she knew that the newcomer had not only heard the groans, but, in all probability, had detected the quarter from whence they came; possibly had caught sight of the recumbent figure, prostrate on the grass. Because, just then, the moon came out again in undiminished splendour, and, almost simultaneously, the footsteps ceased. To Violet Arnott, the plain inference seemed to be that the returning light had brought the sufferer into instant prominence. Silence again, broken only by groans. Presently, even they ceased.

Then, without the slightest warning, something occurred which was far worse than the gunshot, which affected her with a paralysis of horror, as if death itself had her by the throat.

The footsteps began again, only with a strange, new swiftness, as if whoever was responsible for them had suddenly darted forward. In the same moment there was a noise which might have been made by a man struggling to gain his feet. Then, just for a second, an odd little silence. Then two voices uttering together what seemed to her to be formless ejaculations. While the voices had still not ceased to be audible, there came a dreadful sound; the sound as of a man who was in an agony of fear and pain. Then a thud-an eloquent thud. And, an instant afterwards, someone went crashing, dashing through the underwood, like some maddened wild beast, flying for life.

The runner was passing close to where she stood. She did not dare to move; she could not have moved even had she dared-her limbs had stiffened. But she could manage to move her head, and she did. She turned, and saw, in the moonlight, in headlong flight, forcing aside the brushwood as he went, Hugh Morice.

What happened during the next few moments she never knew. The probability is that, though she retained her footing, consciousness left her. When, once more, she realised just where she was, and what had occurred, all was still, with an awful stillness. She listened for a sound-any sound; those inarticulate sounds which are part and parcel of a wood at night. She could hear nothing-no whisper of the breeze among the leaves; no hum of insect life; no hint of woodland creatures who wake while men are sleeping. A great hush seemed to have fallen on the world-a dreadful hush. Her heart told her that there was horror in the silence.

What should she do? where should she go? what was lying on the ground under the beech tree, on which not so long ago, Hugh Morice had cut their initials with his hunting-knife? She was sure there was something-what?

She would have to go and see. The thought of doing so was hideous-but the idea of remaining in ignorance was not to be borne. Knowledge must be gained at any price; she would have to know. She waited. Perhaps something would happen to tell her; to render it unnecessary that she should go upon that gruesome errand. Perhaps-perhaps he would groan again? If he only would! it would be the gladdest sound she had ever heard.

But he would not-or he did not.

Yet all was still-that awful stillness.

It was no use her playing the coward-putting it off. She would have to go-she must go. She would never know unless she did. The sooner she went, the sooner it would be done.

So she returned along the footpath towards the beech tree. In the moonlight the way was plain enough. Yet she went stumbling along it as she had never stumbled even in the darkness-uncertain upon her feet; reeling from side to side; starting at shadows; stopping half-a-dozen times in as many yards, fearful of she knew not what.

What was that? A sound? No, nothing. Only a trick of her imagination, which was filled with such fantastic imaginings, such shapes and sounds of horror.

She came to the end of the path. Before her was the open space; the favourite nook where she had first met Hugh Morice, which she had come to regard almost as a sanctuary. In front was the saucer-shaped break in the ground which she had found offered such luxurious ease. What was lying in it now?

Nothing? Or-was that something? Well under the shadow of the beech tree, where the moonlight scarcely reached? almost in the darkness, so that at a first glance it was difficult to see? She stood, leaning a little forward, and looked-long, intently. As she looked her heart seemed to become gradually constricted; she became conscious of actual pain-acute, lancinating.

Something was there. A figure-of a man-in light-coloured clothes. He lay on the ground, so far as she could judge from where she stood, a little on his right side, with his hands thrown over his head as if asleep-fast asleep. The recumbent figure had for her an unescapable fascination. She stared and stared, as though its stillness had in it some strange quality.