Kitabı oku: «Blake's Burden», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XVI
MRS. KEITH ENTERS THE FIELD

A day or two after the dance Mrs. Chudleigh was sitting with Lieutenant Walters in a recess of the big hall when she heard a car coming up the drive. It stopped, a voice she thought familiar rose from the vestibule, and her face hardened as Foster came in with Mrs. Keith and Millicent Graham. Then Mrs. Foster, who did not notice that there was anybody else about, moved forward to meet the newcomers and led them through the hall.

"You looked surprised," Walters remarked when the others had disappeared. "Didn't you know these people were coming?"

"I think you meant displeased, and you were right," said Mrs. Chudleigh, who was capable of boldly correcting a mistake. "We made such a pleasant friendly party here that I felt the presence of anybody else would be rather a nuisance." She laughed as she went on: "Of course it was a very selfish view to take, especially as I know Mrs. Keith, and, now I recollect, Mrs. Foster did say some friends were coming down, though she didn't tell me who they were."

Walters left her by and by, but she sat still to think. It was most likely by chance that Mrs. Keith had decided to visit Hazlehurst just then, but there was a possibility that it was due to design. During their conversation on the Canadian river boat she had incautiously mentioned that she was going to Shropshire, and Mrs. Keith was an intimate friend of the Challoners. Mrs. Chudleigh had no wish to be subjected to the keen old woman's observation, but after all Mrs. Keith had no knowledge of her plans and would accordingly find it difficult to interfere with them. Still, she must be careful and avoid any cause for suspicion.

Tea was being brought in when Mrs. Keith and Millicent returned to the hall and for a few moments Mrs. Chudleigh sat watching the girl. The house was old and the dark panelling formed a good background for Millicent's delicate beauty, which was of the blonde type. Mrs. Chudleigh had to admit that she was pretty, and though she tried to think of her as unformed, there was something in her face that hinted at strength of character. Foster, who was as a rule indifferent to women's society, obviously found her interesting, for he was talking to her with animation, and Mrs. Chudleigh realized that the girl was capable of exciting the admiration of well-matured men. For all that, she did not consider her a dangerous rival, because she knew there was a cold, calculating vein in Sedgwick which would prevent his indulging unduly in romantic weaknesses. Self-interest bound him to her and she tried to overlook his occasional sentimental vagaries. Indeed, the indifference he now and then displayed strengthened his hold on her. Then she rose to meet Mrs. Keith, who was coming her way.

"We shall have an opportunity of renewing a pleasant acquaintance," she said. "You are looking well, and Miss Graham is as fresh and pretty as when I last saw her."

Mrs. Keith glanced at Millicent. "Yes," she said, "I think so, and she is really a very nice girl." Then her eyes twinkled with dry amusement. "I'm not sure that you expected to see me."

It was obvious to Mrs. Chudleigh that she had betrayed her feelings on her companion's arrival. Nothing seemed to escape Mrs. Keith's attention.

"I did not," she admitted. "Indeed, I'll confess that I was somewhat startled when you came in. You see, I imagined that you were still in Canada."

"I didn't stay very long after you. One or two things turned up that brought me back."

"But you have no family ties, have you?"

"I have some old friends. Now and then I'm vain enough to believe that one of them needs me."

As they spoke Mrs. Foster joined them.

"Colonel Challoner is eager to see you, Margaret," she interposed. "He excused himself for not coming this evening because Greythorpe is staying with him for a day or two, but he made me promise to bring you over to-morrow." She turned to Mrs. Chudleigh. "You must join us. Have you met Greythorpe? He's down here now and then."

It seemed to Mrs. Chudleigh that fortune was favouring her. After a long parliamentary career during which he had been distinguished by his sound sense and the moderation of his views, Greythorpe had been entrusted with an office in connexion with the administration of Colonial affairs. What was more to the purpose, he seemed to be a friend of Colonel Challoner's, whose assistance Mrs. Chudleigh thought she had means of securing in the plan she was working out.

"I should be delighted," she declared. "I don't know Mr. Greythorpe except by reputation and, as it happened, I hadn't an opportunity of speaking to Colonel Challoner on the evening when he was here, though I once met him."

Seeing that Mrs. Keith was watching her, she was glad of the chance of explaining that she had not renewed her acquaintance with the Colonel. As she had now spent a fortnight with Mrs. Foster, who knew him well, this should disarm any suspicion that Mrs. Keith might entertain.

"I don't know why we're standing when there's room for all of us in the recess," said their hostess, who led the way towards it, and they dropped into casual conversation when tea was brought them.

The evening passed pleasantly, for Mrs. Chudleigh who possessed some charm of manner, exerted herself to be agreeable to the newcomers. Nevertheless she was looking forward to the next day's visit with eagerness and wondering how she could best make use of the opportunity.

At Sandymere, three miles away, Colonel Challoner spent the evening in his library with his guest. It was a large and simply furnished room, but there was a tone of austere harmony in all its appointments. The dark oak table, rows of old books in faded leather bindings, antique lamps, and straight-backed chairs were in keeping with the severe lines of the sombre panels and the heavy, square moulding of the ceiling. Two or three wax candles in an old silver holder stood on a small table by the wide hearth on which a cheerful wood fire burned, but most of the room was shadowy.

The sense of empty space and gloom had, however, no effect upon the two elderly men who sat with a cigar box and decanter in front of them, engaged in quiet, confidential talk. Challoner was white-haired, straight, and spare, with aquiline features and piercing eyes; Greythorpe broad-shouldered and big, with a heavy-jawed, thoughtful face. They had been fast friends since they had met a number of years ago when Challoner was giving evidence before a parliamentary commission.

"So you have not heard from Blake after the day he came here," Greythorpe said by and by.

"Never directly," Challoner replied. "On the whole, it is better so, though I regret it now and then. A weakness on my part, perhaps, but I was fond of Dick and expected much from him. However, it seems that Bertram and Margaret Keith met him in Montreal, and she is coming here to-morrow."

"A very sad affair." Greythorpe mused. "A promising career cut short and a life ruined by a moment's failure of nerve. The price paid for it was a heavy one. Still, I found the matter difficult to understand, because, so far as I could tell, there was nothing in Blake's character that made such a failure possible. Then it's known that personal courage was always a characteristic of your family."

"His mother was my sister. You have seen her portrait."

Greythorpe made a sign of assent. He knew the picture of the woman with the proud, determined face.

"And the other side? Was the strain equally virile?" he asked.

"You shall judge," said Challoner. "You and Margaret Keith are the only people to whom I have ever spoken freely of these things. I am sure of your discretion and sympathy."

He crossed the floor and opening a cabinet came back with a photograph, which he gave to his companion.

"Dick's father. He was famous as a daring rider across an Irish, stone-wall country, and was killed when taking a dangerous leap."

Greythorpe studied the face, which was of Irish type, with bold eyes in which a reckless twinkle showed. On the whole, it suggested an ardent and somewhat irresponsible temperament.

"No sign of weakness there," he said. "Though he might be careless and headstrong, this man would ride straight and stand fire. I can't hint at an explanation of his son's disaster, but I imagine that one might have been found if it had been diligently searched for. My opinion is that there's something hidden, but whether it will ever come out is another matter. But your nephew hasn't forfeited my liking. If I can ever be of any service."

"Thanks; I know," said Challoner. "It looks as if he meant to cut loose from all of us, and while I'm sorry for this I can't say that he's wrong or that it's not a proper feeling. And now I think we'll let the subject drop." He lighted a cigar before he resumed: "You look rather jaded, and I understand that your responsibilities have been added to. What have you done about the African appointment you mentioned when last here? To be candid, I never thought the man lately invalided home was in his right place."

"He was hardly decided enough," Greythorpe answered thoughtfully. "So far, we haven't filled the post, though two or three names have been suggested. We have a man out there now who has shown some enterprise and ability, and are inclined to leave him informally in charge while we consider things."

"In view of our friendly relations with the French, one would imagine that the appointment needs careful thought. It's easy for undesirable disputes to crop up, when you have turbulent native subjects to keep in hand along another power's frontier."

"That's true. Our territory adjoins theirs for some distance, but, as it happens, our respective fields of influence outside the recognized boundaries have not been very clearly defined. Now there's reason to believe that part of the unclaimed neutral belt would be valuable to us, and I needn't point out that the Imperial expansionists have made their influence felt."

"It's a pity the Government seems able to resist it," Challoner drily remarked.

Greythorpe smiled, for he and his host took different sides in party politics, though they often agreed on points that concerned their country's foreign policy.

"I think they're wise in their moderation, but I've had plain hints about the desirability of extending our influence in Africa, which is why we attach some importance to the appointment in question. Its holder must be a man of tact, able to keep on friendly terms with the French officials, and yet bold enough to secure us any advantage that may offer in the unoccupied belt. In fact, though the post is not highly paid, he must have exceptional talent."

"Men of that kind are hard to pick up."

"Very true. None of the candidates quite satisfies us, but when we have investigated their qualifications fully I may ask you what you think. It would be premature just now."

"Always glad to be of service," Challoner replied. "But the men you'll have to choose among have grown up since my day."

"That is not important. It's largely a question of personal character, and you're a judge of that when it must be coupled with military skill."

Challoner smiled in a sombre manner. "I used to think so, but I've come to doubt it. I made a grave mistake about my nephew. However, there's a matter you were speaking of this morning and a point has since occurred to me."

Greythorpe said he would be glad to hear it, and they talked over the subject until they went to bed.

The next afternoon was bright and mild, and soon after Mrs. Foster and her party arrived Challoner offered to show them his winter shrubbery.

"I have lately planted a number of new specimens which you and Margaret have not seen," he said. "Your friends may be interested to learn what effects can be got by a judicious mingling of bushes remarkable for the beauty of their berries and branch-colouring among the stereotyped evergreens."

They went out and Mrs. Chudleigh thought the front of the old house with its mullioned windows, heavy, pillared coping, and angular chimney stacks, made a picturesque background for the smooth-clipped yew hedges and broad sweep of lawn. Behind it a wood of tall beeches raised their naked boughs in pale, intricate tracery against the soft blue sky. The shrubs proved worth inspection, for some were rich with berries of hues that varied from crimson to lilac and the massed twigs of others formed blotches of strong colouring. The grass was dry and lighted by gleams of sunshine, the air only cold enough to make movement pleasant, and Mrs. Chudleigh felt content as she paced a sheltered walk with Colonel Challoner, whom she unobtrusively studied.

He looked rather stern and worn, and his soft grey tweed showed the leanness of his figure, but his expression and bearing indicated force of will. In his conversation with women he was marked by an air of old-fashioned gallantry, and though his wit was now and then ironical his companion found him attractive. She had cleverly appropriated and separated him from the rest soon after they entered the garden, but she was too clever to approach too soon the object she had in view. First of all, she must ingratiate herself with him, and she saw that he liked her society, though she made one or two mistakes about the shrubs in which she professed a keen interest.

"I'm afraid you don't quite grasp my meaning," he said with a smile. "It's a difference between varieties, not between species. They are not the same thing."

"I should have remembered," Mrs. Challoner [Transcriber's note: Chudleigh?] replied. "I must own that I'm not a botanist, but one can appreciate the beauty of plants without knowing all about them. Perhaps the same applies to beauty in any form."

"No doubt. Harmonies of outline, and concords of colour make an unconscious appeal, but in Nature's products knowledge adds to admiration. The deeper you probe, the more you reveal, until you come to mysteries beyond our solving." He added with some dryness: "It's often otherwise with man's work; knowledge means disillusion. You see how the trick is done."

"Must it always be a trick?"

"Oh! no; not necessarily. There is a sincerity of effort that leads to lasting and beautiful work, but perhaps it's not common."

"I'm afraid you're a pessimist."

"I wouldn't like to think so, but I have lived a long time and insisted on using my eyes, even when clearsightedness may not have been a benefit. There's a penalty attached to the habit of close observation; one sees things that hurt."

He spoke with dry humour, but his words had their effect on his companion, who was by no means philosophical. When she studied human weaknesses it was with the object of turning them to her advantage, but the shrewd, upright soldier saw them as things to avoid or recognize with scorn. He, however, plucked a bunch of crimson berries which he gave her.

"This," he said, "is in my opinion an exceptionally beautiful bush. Mrs. Keith sent it me from the Tyrol some years ago."

"You are old friends then?"

"Our friendship is of forty years standing, which I should imagine is a severe test, but in many ways we are alike, and Margaret Keith knows enough about me to make allowances. We are both well-seasoned and strong-willed, and sometimes we differ, but I must confess that whenever the point has been one of importance time has proved her right."

Mrs. Chudleigh looked up at him, smiling. "That is a handsome admission, because I shouldn't imagine you easily changed your mind."

"No; as one grows older one's ideas are apt to fall into a groove. It requires an effort to force them out of it."

She said nothing for a few minutes, though his confession had its significance, since she must sooner or later persuade him to abandon one fixed idea.

"After all, none of us find that easy," she remarked.

He glanced across the lawn, where Millicent was talking to Greythorpe. "That girl has a very attractive face. I don't merely mean that it's pretty."

"What do you call it then?"

He seemed to ponder. "I think I could best say it looks untainted, though that is rather vague. There's purity in it, by which I don't mean the guilelessness of inexperience."

"That could hardly be, considering who Miss Graham's father was, and that she has earned her living for some years."

There was a hint of surprise in the look Challoner gave her and she saw that she had made a mistake.

"A few people have natures which can't be spoiled," he said. "To them knowledge brings pity or shrinking instead of temptation. I think Miss Graham is to be numbered among these, and she is in good hands with my old friend."

Two or three minutes afterwards, Mrs. Keith resolutely crossed the lawn towards them, but her determined expression softened as she approached Challoner.

"Do you know that I feel neglected?" she said. "Where are those American azaleas you promised to show me?"

Challoner made her an apologetic bow. "Have I been remiss? I saw you with Greythorpe, and understood you found him interesting."

"I've nothing against the man, and he never bores one, but he's a friend of yesterday by comparison; it's only six years since I first met him."

"Ah!" said Challoner; "the old ties are strongest."

Mrs. Keith insisted on examining the azaleas, though they were dry and leafless, and Mrs. Chudleigh, seeing no further opportunity of a quiet talk with Challoner, left them. When she had gone, Mrs. Keith looked at her companion with a twinkle.

"Well," she said, "what do you think of Mrs. Chudleigh?"

"You'll allow me to say that I find her charming? It's a comprehensive word."

"And means anything or nothing. But I understand. You're often only conventional when you think yourself gallant."

"It's possible, but what would you have me say? She's attractive, a pleasant talker, and I think intelligent."

"Highly intelligent," Mrs. Keith remarked pointedly "Do you think she's to be trusted?"

"It doesn't enter into the question. I don't see that either of us is required to trust her."

"I'm inclined to think that's fortunate," Mrs. Keith rejoined.

For the next half hour she kept Challoner at her side and then left him with Mrs. Foster. It was hard to resist Margaret Keith when she had made up her mind, and Challoner had no wish to do so. Moreover he was glad to talk to Mrs. Foster, whom he liked, but he had other guests to whom he owed some attention and he felt as if he were being gently but firmly kept away from them. Mrs. Chudleigh and Millicent, however, seemed to be content with Greythorpe's society, and finding it difficult to leave Mrs. Foster he acquiesced.

Presently she suggested that he should show her friends his pictures, but he said that as it was near sunset and the gallery was badly lighted it would be better if she brought her party back in a day or two. Having promised to do so she summoned the others, and they were driven home.

CHAPTER XVII
THE PICTURE GALLERY

Mrs. Foster brought her guests back to Sandymere, and when Challoner had shown them the best bits of the old carved oak with which the house was decorated and some curious works of art he had picked up in India, he took them to the picture gallery which ran round the big square hall. A lantern dome admitted a cold light, but a few sunrays struck through a window looking to the south-west and fell in long bright bars on polished floor and sombre panelling. On entering the gallery, Challoner took out a case of miniatures and placing it on a small table brought a chair for Mrs. Keith.

"You know the pictures, but this collection generally interested you, and I have added a few examples of a good French period since you were last here," he said.

Mrs. Keith sat down. She was fond of miniatures, and though she would have preferred to accompany her host she had kept him away from Mrs. Chudleigh since their arrival and thought she must be content with that. She seldom overdid anything and had no wish to make her object too plain; Geoffrey Challoner was by no means a fool. As she expected, Mrs. Chudleigh found an opportunity of joining him after a time and diverted his attention from Mrs. Foster, who left him to talk to his sister. Mrs. Keith watched the manoeuvre, which was cleverly carried out, with ironical amusement, though she was troubled by a faint uneasiness. She felt that her old friend was threatened, but she could not see where the danger lay, and, sitting with the miniatures before her, she tried to formulate her suspicions.

In the first place, she had unwisely given Mrs. Chudleigh to understand that it was doubtful whether Richard Blake had merited his disgrace. Then the former had met Lieutenant Walters, who had fought in the frontier action, and had gained his confidence. It was possible that she had led him on to talk about the affair with injudicious freedom, and now she had met Greythorpe and seemed desirous of cultivating his acquaintance. All this had an ominous look, because the woman was ambitious and scheming, besides being in love with Sedgwick, who was something of an adventurer. She would no doubt seize upon any opportunity of securing his promotion.

Margaret's Keith's suspicions were justified, for Mrs. Chudleigh was then cleverly clearing the ground for future action. She had some knowledge of art and the row of family portraits, hung between suits of armour and trophies of Eastern weapons, interested her, while Challoner was gratified by the way she listened as he spoke of them. One or two were by well-known artists, and the faces of the old Challoners, some of whom wore wigs and rich court dress, and some obsolete uniforms, fixed her attention. The resemblance between them all was recognizable, and she thought the family strain must be unusually strong. They had obviously been stern, masterful men, practical rather than imaginative and not likely to be troubled by any emotional weaknesses. Then she glanced at the picture of a young woman with a face of singularly delicate beauty. Its expression was gentle and pensive.

"My wife; she died in Simla twenty years ago," said Challoner gravely, and passing on, stopped before a water-colour drawing of his son.

It had been painted when Bertram was young, and he had his mother's dreamy look. Mrs. Chudleigh missed the hardness of expression that marked the Challoners.

"A sketch rather than a finished study, but there's talent in it," she remarked. "The subject's temperament has been cleverly seized; I have met Captain Challoner."

"My wife's work," said the Colonel. "Although I value it, I have thought she was mistaken in this drawing. My son is a man of action, and this is the face of a sentimentalist."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Chudleigh; "his mother should know him best."

"Undoubtedly," agreed Challoner, who looked disturbed at the suggestion. "Still, perhaps, in painting a portrait the artist may be misled into unduly emphasizing some single, passing phase of the sitter's character. A lad's moods are variable; his nature has not had time to harden into its mould. I imagine this is what has happened, because if the likeness is faithful, my son has changed since then."

"One does not change much in essentials," Mrs. Chudleigh answered thoughtfully. "But what would you have different? It is a good and very likeable face."

"There is a hint of weakness; something that suggests a too sensitive disposition." The Colonel pointed to an officer in the old East India Company's uniform whose expression was grim and arrogant. "A crude piece of work, but he has the Challoner look."

"It may sound presumptuous, but I think you are scarcely doing the family justice. One can see the salient characteristics of the male line in this example, but they're too strongly marked. Good qualities, such as resolution and courage, may degenerate through being developed to exaggeration at the expense of others, and after all Captain Challoner strikes me as a much finer type. I'm afraid you undervalue the gift of imagination."

"These others," said Challoner, indicating the portraits generally, "had imagination enough to do their duty, often in difficult situations. I don't know that one needs much more."

"A stern doctrine; it seems to bar out a good deal of the beauty and joy of life. But I see some landscapes yonder."

She led him up to several small impressionist sketches in water-colour of Indian subjects, and stopped in admiration.

"These are very good. I know the country, and they make you realise what it is like. There is genius here."

"My son did them," said Challoner with dry amusement. "I can see their cleverness, but I'll admit that I think them rather a waste of time."

"A shocking view. Would you sooner have had him study his drill book or attend a kit inspection?"

"On the whole, I believe so. It would be more in line with his profession."

Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a direct, reproachful glance. "I know your son and that he is a good soldier, but I feel you were wrong when you sent him into the army. With training, he might have made a great artist."

Challoner regarded her with frank astonishment. "But, my dear lady, would you prefer the latter; a coverer of canvases, a mere portrayer of action instead of a doer? Is it better to paint human passions and emotions than to control and direct your own and those of others?"

"Painting is his work," Mrs. Chudleigh persisted. "He has the temperament; you can see it triumphing over circumstances. In spite of his duties, the amusements he must be expected to take part in, and, no doubt, the banter of the mess, he finds time to make these sketches. Then they exhibit more than mere skill with the brush; they show clear understanding and the power of feeling."

"The latter is a dangerous gift. A man of action is better without it."

"Your son has it, and it cannot be got rid of; but in a sense, you're right. Sensibility must be a handicap to a soldier now and then, making him realize dangers and cruelties he had better have been blind to." Mrs. Chudleigh paused and added with a thoughtful air: "Captain Challoner's courage and coolness are known, but I think they must cost him more than is required of his comrades. I mean that his having something to overcome before he can practise them, and yet always doing so, shows a fine moral fibre."

Challoner looked grave. He had suspected what he thought were symptoms of weakness in his son, though Bertram had never given way to it. His companion's talk disturbed him because it seemed to prove the correctness of his suppositions, but he was shortly relieved of her.

Margaret Keith, who had watched closely, decided that Mrs. Chudleigh had been alone with her host long enough, but for a time she could see no suitable means of separating them. By and by, however, Millicent came towards her and she beckoned the girl.

"Isn't Arrowdale near your aunts' place in the North?" she said. "There's a picture of the hills round it that I think you would like. Ask Colonel Challoner to show it you."

Millicent joined the others, and when she spoke about the picture Mrs. Chudleigh went away. She thought she had said enough, for her object had been to plant a seed of doubt about his son's character in Challoner's; mind. If he considered sensitiveness, artistic talent, and imagination failings in a Challoner, she had given him food for thought, which was as far as she wished to go just then, and on the whole she thought she had reason to be satisfied. When she had moved away, Challoner showed Millicent a picture of grey hills and a sullen tarn, half revealed between folds of rolling vapour, and the girl was stirred to keen appreciation.

"It's beautiful and full of life," she said. "One can see the mist drive by and the ripples break upon the stones. Perhaps it's because I know the tarn I like the picture so much, but it makes one realize the rugged grandeur and melancholy charm of the place. I suppose that is genius; who is the painter?"

"My son," said the Colonel, and added with a curious smile: "You are the second person who has lately tried to persuade me that he should have been an artist."

Millicent saw he was troubled, though she could not imagine the reason.

"I hardly know Captain Challoner, whom I only met once, but it is obvious that he has talent. You would sooner have him a soldier?"

"Very much sooner."'

"But he is one and I understand has distinguished himself. After all, it is perhaps a mistake to think of genius as limited to one ability, music or painting for example. Real genius, the power of understanding, is more comprehensive; the man who has it ought to be successful at whatever he undertakes."

"I'm dubious," said Challoner. "It strikes me as a rather daring theory."

"It isn't mine," Millicent answered, blushing. "It's a favourite theme of a philosopher I'm fond of, and he insists upon it when he speaks about great men. Perhaps I'm talking too freely, but I feel that Captain Challoner's being able to paint well shouldn't prevent his making a good officer."

"Great men are scarce. I'm content that my son has so far done his duty quietly and well; all I could wish for is that if any exceptional call should be made on him he should rise to the occasion. That is the supreme test, and men one expects much from sometimes fail to meet it."

Millicent guessed that he was thinking of a man who had been dear to him and had apparently broken down beneath sudden stress.

"It must be hard to judge them unless one knows all the circumstances," she remarked.

"Not when a man has entered his country's service. He must carry out his orders; what he is sent to do must be done. No excuse can justify disobedience and failure. But we are getting too serious and I am boring you. There is another picture I think you would like to see."

Soon afterwards Mrs. Foster said that she must go, and when she and her friends had left, Challoner sat alone for a time while the pictures faded as dusk crept into the gallery. A man of practical abilities with a stern perception of his duty, he was inclined to distrust all that made its strongest appeal to the senses. Art and music he thought were vocations for women; in his opinion it was hardly fitting that a man should exploit his emotions by expressing them for public exhibition. Indeed, he regarded sentimentality of any kind as a failing, and it had been suggested that his son possessed the dangerous gift. One of his guests had gone further and hinted that Bertram should never have been a soldier. Challoner could not agree with this conclusion, but he thought there was, perhaps, a grain of truth in it. Then he banished his disturbing thoughts and went out in search of Greythorpe.