“None whatever,” he said, humbly. “If I have done so, forgive me before we part. I will go no further with you; Max will give the alarm if you faint in the avenue, which I don’t think you are likely to do, as you have forgotten all about the hemlock.”
“Oh, how maddening!” she cried. “I have left my basket behind.”
“Never mind; I will find it and have it filled and sent to you.”
“Thank you. I am sorry to trouble you.”
“Not at all. I hope you do not want the hemlock to help you to get rid of the burden of life.”
“Nonsense. I want it for my father, who uses it for medicine.”
“I will bring it myself to-morrow. Is that soon enough?”
“Quite. I am in no hurry. Thank you, Mr. Trefusis. Good-bye.”
She gave him her hand, and even smiled a little, and then hurried away. He stood watching her as she passed along the avenue under the beeches. Once, when she came into a band of sunlight at a gap in the trees, she made so pretty a figure in her spring dress of violet and white that his eyes kindled as he gazed. He took out his note-book, and entered her name and the date, with a brief memorandum.
“I have thawed her,” he said to himself as he put up his book. “She shall learn a lesson or two to hand on to her children before I have done with her. A trifle underbred, too, or she would not insist so much on her breeding. Henrietta used to wear a dress like that. I am glad to see that there is no danger of her taking to me personally.”
He turned away, and saw a crone passing, bending beneath a bundle of sticks. He eyed it curiously; and she scowled at him and hurried on.
“Hallo,” he said.
She continued for a few steps, but her courage failed her and she stopped.
“You are Mrs. Hickling, I think?”
“Yes, please your worship.”
“You are the woman who carried away an old wooden gate that lay on Sir Charles Brandon’s land last winter and used it for firewood. You were imprisoned for seven days for it.”
“You may send me there again if you like,” she retorted, in a cracked voice, as she turned at bay. “But the Lord will make me even with you some day. Cursed be them that oppress the poor and needy; it is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“Those green laths on your back are the remainder of my garden gate,” he said. “You took the first half last Saturday. Next time you want fuel come to the house and ask for coals, and let my gates alone. I suppose you can enjoy a fire without stealing the combustibles. Stow pay me for my gate by telling me something I want to know.”
“And a kind gentleman too, sir; blessings.”
“What is the hemlock good for?”
“The hemlock, kind gentleman? For the evil, sir, to be sure.”
“Scrofulous ulcers!” he exclaimed, recoiling. “The father of that beautiful girl!” He turned homeward, and trudged along with his head bent, muttering, “All rotten to the bone. Oh, civilization! civilization! civilization!”
CHAPTER XIV
“What has come over Gertrude?” said Agatha one day to Lady Brandon.
“Why? Is anything the matter with her?”
“I don’t know; she has not been the same since she poisoned herself. And why did she not tell about it? But for Trefusis we should never have known.”
“Gertrude always made secrets of things.”
“She was in a vile temper for two days after; and now she is quite changed. She falls into long reveries, and does not hear a word of what is going on around. Then she starts into life again, and begs your pardon with the greatest sweetness for not catching what you have said.”
“I hate her when she is polite; it is not natural to her. As to her going to sleep, that is the effect of the hemlock. We know a man who took a spoonful of strychnine in a bath, and he never was the same afterwards.”
“I think she is making up her mind to encourage Erskine,” said Agatha. “When I came here he hardly dared speak to her—at least, she always snubbed him. Now she lets him talk as much as he likes, and actually sends him on messages and allows him to carry things for her.”
“Yes. I never saw anybody like Gertrude in my life. In London, if men were attentive to her, she sat on them for being officious; and if they let her alone she was angry at being neglected. Erskine is quite good enough for her, I think.”
Here Erskine appeared at the door and looked round the room.
“She’s not here,” said Jane.
“I am seeking Sir Charles,” he said, withdrawing somewhat stiffly.
“What a lie!” said Jane, discomfited by his reception of her jest. “He was talking to Sir Charles ten minutes ago in the billiard room. Men are such conceited fools!”
Agatha had strolled to the window, and was looking discontentedly at the prospect, as she had often done at school when alone, and sometimes did now in society. The door opened again, and Sir Charles appeared. He, too, looked round, but when his roving glance reached Agatha, it cast anchor; and he came in.
“Are you busy just now, Miss Wylie?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Jane hastily. “She is going to write a letter for me.”
“Really, Jane,” he said, “I think you are old enough to write your letters without troubling Miss Wylie.”
“When I do write my own letters you always find fault with them,” she retorted.
“I thought perhaps you might have leisure to try over a duet with me,” he said, turning to Agatha.
“Certainly,” she replied, hoping to smooth matters by humoring him. “The letter will do any time before post hour.”
Jane reddened, and said shortly, “I will write it myself, if you will not.”
Sir Charles quite lost his temper. “How can you be so damnably rude?” he said, turning upon his wife. “What objection have you to my singing duets with Miss Wylie?”
“Nice language that!” said Jane. “I never said I objected; and you have no right to drag her away to the piano just when she is going to write a letter for me.”
“I do not wish Miss Wylie to do anything except what pleases her best. It seems to me that writing letters to your tradespeople cannot be a very pleasant occupation.”
“Pray don’t mind me,” said Agatha. “It is not the least trouble to me. I used to write all Jane’s letters for her at school. Suppose I write the letter first, and then we can have the duet. You will not mind waiting five minutes?”
“I can wait as long as you please, of course. But it seems such an absurd abuse of your good nature that I cannot help protest!”
“Oh, let it wait!” exclaimed Jane. “Such a ridiculous fuss to make about asking Agatha to write a letter, just because you happen to want her to play you your duets! I am certain she is heartily sick and tired of them.”
Agatha, to escape the altercation, went to the library and wrote the letter. When she returned to the drawing-room, she found no one there; but Sir Charles came in presently.
“I am so sorry, Miss Wylie,” he said, as he opened the piano for her, “that you should be incommoded because my wife is silly enough to be jealous.”
“Jealous!”
“Of course. Idiocy!”