That Girl in Black; and, Bronzie

And then came the glimpse of the young fellow’s physical discomfiture. Maisie was horribly frightened; throwing all considerations but those of humanity to the winds she rushed back again.

“Perhaps he has heart-disease, though he looks so strong,” she thought, “and if so – oh, perhaps I have killed him.”

She was beside him in an instant. A rustic bench, which Despard was too dizzy to see, stood near. The girl seized hold of his arm and half drew it round her shoulder. He let her do so unresistingly.

“Try to walk a step or two, Mr Norreys,” she said, “I am very strong. There, now,” as he obeyed her mechanically, “here is a seat,” and she somehow half pushed, half drew him on to it. “Please smell this,” and she took out a little silver vinaigrette, of strong and pungent contents, “I am never without this, for papa is so delicate, you know.”

Despard tried to open his eyes, tried to speak, but the attempt was not very successful. Maisie held the vinaigrette close to his nose; he started back, the strong essence revived him almost at once. He took it into his own hand and smelt it again. Then his face grew crimson.

“I beg your pardon a thousand times. I am most ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself,” he began.

But Maisie was too practically interested in his recovery to feel embarrassed.

“Keep sniffing at that thing,” she said, “you will soon be all right. Only just tell me – ” she added anxiously, “there isn’t anything wrong with your heart, is there?”

“For if so,” she added to herself, “I must at all costs run and see if there is a doctor to be had.”

Despard smiled – a successfully bitter smile.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I am surprised that you credit me with possessing one,” he could not resist adding. “The real cause of this absurd faintness is a very prosaic one, I fancy. I went a long walk in the hot sun this morning.”

“Oh, indeed, that quite explains it,” said Maisie, slightly nettled. “Good-bye again then,” and for the second time she ran off.

“All the same, I will get Conrad or somebody to come round that way,” she said to herself. “I will just say I saw a man looking as if he was fainting. He won’t be likely to tell.”

And Despard sat there looking at the little silver toy in his bands.

“I did not thank her,” he said to himself. “I suppose I should have done so, though she would have done as much, or more, for a starving tramp on the road.”

Then he heard again steps coming nearer like those which had startled Maisie away.

They had apparently turned off elsewhere the first time – this time they came steadily on.

Chapter Four

As Despard heard the steps coming nearer he looked round uneasily, with a vague idea of hurrying off so as to escape observation. But when he tried to stand up and walk, he found that anything like quick movement was beyond him still. So he sat down again, endeavouring to look as if nothing were the matter, and that he was merely resting.

Another moment or two, and a young man appeared, coming hastily along the path by which Despard had himself made his way into the shrubbery. He was quite young, two or three and twenty at most, fair, slight, and boyish-looking. He passed by Mr Norreys with but the slightest glance in his direction, but just as Despard was congratulating himself on this, the new-comer stopped short, hesitated, and then, turning round and lifting his hat, came up to him.

“Excuse me,” he said, “do you know Lady Margaret – by sight? Has she passed this way?”

He spoke quickly, and Mr Norreys did not catch the surname.

“No,” he replied, “I have not the honour of the lady’s acquaintance.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the other. “I’ve been sent to look for her, and I can’t find her anywhere.” Then he turned, but again hesitated.

“There’s nothing the matter, is there? You’ve not hurt yourself – or anything? You look rather – as if a cricket ball had hit you, you know.”

Mr Norreys smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. “I have got a frightful pain in my head. I was out too long in the sun this morning.”

The boyish-looking man shook his head.

“Touch of sunstroke – eh? Stupid thing to do, standing in the sun this weather. Should take a parasol; I always do. Then I can’t be of any service?”

“Yes,” said Despard, as a sudden idea struck him. “If you happen to know my sister, Mrs Selby, by sight, I’d be eternally grateful to you if you would tell her I’m going home. I’ll wait for her at the old church, would you say?”

“Don’t know her, but I’ll find her out. Mrs Selby, of Markerslea, I suppose? Well, take my advice, and keep on the shady side of the road.”

“I shall go through the woods, thank you. My sister will understand.”

With a friendly nod the young fellow went off.

Despard had been roused by the talk with him. He got up now and went slowly round to the back of the house – it was a place he had known in old days – thus avoiding all risk of coming across any of the guests. By a path behind the stables he made his way slowly into the woods, and in about half an hour’s time he found himself where these ended at the high road, along which his sister must pass. There was a stile near, over which, through a field, lay a footpath to the church, known thereabouts as the old church, and here on the stile Mr Norreys seated himself to await Mrs Selby.

“I’ve managed that pretty neatly,” he said, trying to imagine he was feeling as usual. “I wonder who that fellow was. He seemed to have heard Maddie’s name though he did not know her.”

He was perfectly clear in his head now, but the pain in it was racking. He tried not to think, but in vain. Clearer, and yet more clearly, stood out before his mind’s eye the strange drama of that afternoon. And the more he thought of it, the more he looked at it, approaching it from every side, the more incapable he became of explaining Miss Ford’s extraordinary conduct. The indignation which had at first blotted out almost all other feeling gradually gave way to his extreme perplexity.

“She had no sort of grounds for speaking to me as she did,” he reflected. “Accusing me vaguely of unworthy motives – what could she mean?” Then a new idea struck him. “Some one has been making mischief,” he thought: “that must be it, though what and how, I cannot conceive. Gertrude Englewood would not do it intentionally – but still – I saw that she was changed to me. I shall have it out with her. After all, I hope Madeline’s letter has gone.”

And a vague, very faint hope began to make itself felt that perhaps, after all, all was not lost. If she had been utterly misled about him – if —

He drew a deep breath, and looked round. It was the very sweetest moment of a summer’s day existence, that at which late afternoon begins softly and silently to fade into early evening. There was an almost Sabbath stillness in the air, a tender suggestion of night’s reluctant approach, and from where Despard sat the white headstones of some graves in the ancient churchyard were to be seen among the grass. The man felt strangely moved and humbled.

“If I could hope ever to win her,” he thought, “I feel as if I had it in me to be a better man – I am not all selfish and worldly, Maisie – surely not? But what has made her judge me so cruelly? It is awful to remember what she said, and to imagine what sort of an opinion she must have of me to have been able to say it. For – no, that was not my contemptible conceit – ” and his face flushed. “She was beginning to care for me. She is too generous to have remembered vindictively my insolence, for insolence it was, at the first. Besides, she said herself that she had been getting to like and trust me as a friend. Till to-day – has the change in her all come from what I said to-day? No girl can despise a man for the fact of his caring for her – what can it be? Good heavens, I feel as if I should go mad!”

And he wished that the pain in his head, which had somewhat subsided, would get worse again, if only it would stop his thinking.

But just then came the sound of wheels. In another moment Mrs Selby’s pony-carriage was in sight. Despard got off his stile, and walked slowly down the road to meet her.

“So you faithless – ” she began – for, to tell the truth, she had not attached much credence to the story which had reached her of the frightful headache – but she changed her tone the moment she caught sight of his face. “My poor boy, you do look ill!” she exclaimed. “I am so sorry. I would have come away at once if I had known.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Despard replied, as he got into the carriage; “but did you not get my message?”

“Oh, yes; but I thought it was just that you were tired and bored. What in the matter, dear Despard? You don’t look the least like yourself.”

“I fancy it was the sun this morning,” he said.

“But it’s passing off, I think.”

Madeline felt by no means sure that it was so.

“I am so sorry,” she repeated, “and so vexed with myself. Do you know who the young man was that gave me your message?”

Despard shook his head.