CHAPTER XXIII.

Some days had passed before Claude Westwood was able to return to the Court. He seemed now to be as anxious for publicity as on his landing in England he had been to avoid it. He was daily with Messrs. Shekels & Shackles completing his arrangements with them for the production of his book, so as to preclude the need for another visit until he had written the last page of the manuscript. He did not want to be disturbed, he said, while engaged at the work; and Messrs. Shekels & Shackles cordially agreed with him in thinking that he should be allowed to give all his attention to the actual writing of his narrative, without being worried by any of the technical incidents of presenting it in book form to the public.

They urged upon him the advisability of losing no moment of time in settling down to his work. Already a valuable month had been thrown away, they reminded him; and although, happily, the reports from the North were to the effect that the winter had set in with such severity as to make it practically impossible for Mr. Glasnevin, the Arctic explorer, to free himself from his ice-prison before the spring, so that his formidable rivalry would not interfere with the popularity of Mr. Westwood, still they had heard that another gentleman might be expected any day from the Amazon. This gentleman, in addition to a narrative of two years' residence among the Indians of the Pampas, would, it was reported, be able to give the public photographs of the injuries which had been inflicted on him by his captors, who were known to be the most ingenious torturers in the world. They feared that if this gentleman got home during the winter his arrival would seriously interfere with the sale of Mr. Westwood's book. They could only hope, however, that the Foreign Office would take up the case of the traveller at the Amazon, for that would mean the indefinite postponement of his liberation, so that Mr. Westwood would have the field to himself.

Without waiting to say whether or not he took the same bright and cheery view of the freezing in of the Arctic explorer or of the operation of the British consular system in regard to the tortured gentleman in South America, Mr. Westwood promised to do his best for his optimistic if anxious publishers, and so departed.

He regretted, however, that he could not see his way to dictate to a shorthand writer a dozen or so interviews with himself which could be judiciously distributed among the newspapers at intervals, so as to keep his name prominently before a public who are ever ready to throw over one idol for another.

It was probably his strong sense of what was due to his publishers, that caused him to hasten to The Knoll on the very day of his return to Brackenshire. It was perfectly plain from the comments on his lecture, which had already appeared and were appearing daily in the newspapers, that the discoveries made by him in Central Africa had become the topic of the hour. Why, even Brackenhurst had awakened to find that a famous man was residing in its neighbourhood, and when one's native place is brought to acknowledge one's fame, which all the rest of the world is talking about, one may rightly feel that one is famous. Therefore, as Mr. Westwood explained to Agnes and Clare, it was necessary for him to start upon his book at once.

He wasted as much time explaining this as would have been sufficient to write a chapter; and in the end he did nothing except invite them to dine at the Court on the following night, in order that they might talk more fully on the question of the need for haste.

“Do you think that it is necessary to waste time discussing the advisability of not wasting time?” asked Agnes; and immediately Clare turned her large eyes reproachfully upon her; there was more of sorrow than reproach in Claude's eyes as he looked at her. She met their eyes without changing colour.

“Oh, of course, I know that I am quite outside the plans of you workers,” she continued. “It is somewhat presumptuous for me to assume the position of your adviser on a purely literary question, so I shall be very happy to dine at the Court.”

“Thank you,” said Claude. “I have been out of touch for so long with English society I have almost forgotten their traditions; but I don't think that I am wrong in assuming that no work of any importance, either charitable or social, can be begun without a dinner. Now, without venturing to suggest that our work—Clare's and mine—is one of supreme importance, I do not think that it would be wise for us to ignore the custom which tradition has almost made sacred—especially when it is in sympathy with our own inclinations. We'll take care not to bore you, Agnes,” he added. “I met Sir Percival Hope just now, and he promised to be of our party.”

“Now!” cried Clare, in a tone that seemed to suggest that Agnes could not possibly have further ground for objection.

Agnes raised her hands.

“I am overwhelmed with remorse for having made any suggestion that was not quite in keeping with your inclinations,” she said.

She and Clare accordingly drove to the Court on the next evening, and found Sir Percival in one of the drawing-rooms talking to his host on the subject of the recent poaching in the coverts of the Court and also on Sir Percival's property. The poachers were getting more daring every day, it appeared, and Ralph Dangan's vigilance seemed overmatched by their cunning so far as Sir Percival's preserves were concerned. Sir Percival said that his new gamekeeper accounted for the recent outbreak on the ground that neither of the proprietors had displayed the sporting tastes of the previous holders of the property, and the poachers thought it a pity that the pheasants should become too numerous.

Claude smiled as Sir Percival made him acquainted with his late gamekeeper's theory.

“It is very obliging on their part to undertake the thinning down of my birds,” said he, “and if I could rely on their discretion in the matter all would be well. I am afraid, however, that one cannot take their judgment for granted; so that whenever Dangan thinks that our forces should be joined to make a capture of the gang, I'll give instructions for my keepers to coôperate with him.”

At dinner, too, the conversation, instead of flowing in literary channels, was never turned aside from the question of poaching and poachers. Sir Percival's experiences in Australia had no more changed his views than Claude Westwood's experiences of Central Africa had altered his, on the subject of the English crime of poaching.

Agnes had not been within the house since the week preceding the tragedy that had taken place in the grounds surrounding it. She had had no idea that she would be so deeply affected on entering the drawing-room. But the instant she found herself in the midst of the beautiful old furniture that had been familiar to her for so many years, she was nearly overcome by the crowd of recollections that were brought back to her. She put out her hand nervously to a sofa and grasped the back of it for an instant before moving round it to seat herself.

She felt herself staggering, but hoped that no one had noticed her apprehension, and when she had seated herself she closed her eyes. It seemed to her that she was in a dream. She heard the sound of voices, but not the voices of any one present, only the voices of those who were far away; and it seemed to her that among them was the Claude Westwood whom she had known and loved so many years ago. She had suddenly become possessed of the strange dream fancy that the man who had taken her hand on her entering the room was the man who had killed both Dick Westwood and his brother Claude.

Happily the conversation was only about the poachers, so that she could not be expected to take part in it; and during the five minutes that elapsed before dinner was announced, she partly recovered herself. But the shiver which came over her when she opened her eyes was noticed by Clare.

“What, you are cold?” she whispered. “Come to the fire; you can pretend to be pointing out the carving of the mantel to me.”

Agnes shook her head and smiled. She knew that just at that moment she had not strength to walk to the fireplace, and she did not under-estimate her own powers; when, however, the butler appeared at the door, and Claude came in front of her, she was able to rise and walk into the diningroom by his side.

After dinner Clare showed the greatest possible interest in the drawing-rooms and their contents, and Agnes, who was, of course, familiar with everything, told her much about the furniture and the pictures. For a century and a half the Westwoods had been a wealthy family, and many treasures had been accumulated by the successive owners of the Court. But there was one picture on an easel which Agnes had not seen before. It was a portrait of Dick Westwood, and it had been painted by a great painter.

Agnes and Clare were standing opposite to it when Claude and Sir Percival entered the room; they had only remained for a few minutes over their wine. Claude came behind Agnes, saying:

“You did not see that until now? I am sure that it is an excellent likeness, and the face is not, after all, so different from poor Dick's as I remember him.”

“It is a perfect likeness,” said Agnes. “But I cannot understand how you got it. It is not the sort of portrait that could be painted only from a photograph.”

“He did not tell you that he was giving sittings to the painter when he was last in London?” said Claude.

“He never mentioned it,” said Agnes.

“I brought it with me from the painter's studio the day before yesterday,” said Claude. “He wrote to me the day before I left for London, explaining that Dick had given him a few sittings in May, and had promised to return to the studio in July. He said he should like me to see the portrait in its unfinished condition. Judge of my feelings when I found myself facing that fine work. I carried it away with me at once.” Then he turned to Clare, saying, “Look at it; it is the portrait of the best fellow that ever lived—that ever died by the hand of a wretch whom he had never injured—a wretch who is alive to-day.”

Agnes moved away from the picture with Sir Percival; but Clare remained by the side of Claude looking at the face on the easel.

“How you loved him!” Agnes heard her say in a low voice.

“Loved him—loved him!” said Claude Westwood. He gave a little laugh as he took a step or two away from the picture. “Loved him! I love him so dearly that”—

Agnes looked with eager eyes across the room. She waited for Clare to say a word of pity for the man whose life had been spared, who had been given time to repent of his dreadful deed, but that word remained unspoken.

For the second time that evening a shiver went through Agnes. Sir Percival watched her as she watched the others across the room. There was a long interval of silence before Claude began to talk to the girl In a low voice, and shortly afterwards went with her through the portière that divided the two drawing-rooms.

“I want Clare to see the picture of Dick and myself taken when he was ten and I was eight—you know it, Agnes,” he said, as he followed Clare. The next minute the sound of his voice and Clare's came from the other room.

Sir Percival had been examining the case containing the poisoned arrows which lay on a table; but now he stood before Agnes.

“You have seen it,” he said. “I know that you have seen it as well as I. Is it too late to send her away?”

Agnes started.

“It cannot be possible that you, too, know it,” she said. “Oh no; you cannot have become acquainted with that horrible thing.”

“I must confess that I never suspected it before this evening,” said he. “But what I have seen here has been enough to tell me all that there is to be told.”

She stared at him in silence for a few moments. “What have you been told?” she asked at last. “You cannot have failed to learn the truth,” said he. “You cannot have failed to see that Claude Westwood is in love with that girl.”

With a little cry she had sprung to her feet and grasped his arm.

“No, no; not that—not that!” she whispered. “Oh no; that would be too horrible!”

“It is horrible to think that a man can forget all that he has forgotten. Good heavens! After eight years! Was ever woman so true? Was ever man so false?”

“I have been blind—blind! Whatever I may have thought, I never imagined this. He met her aboard the steamer—he must have become attached to her before he saw her with me.”

She was speaking in a low voice and without looking at him. He remained silent. She walked across the room with nervous steps. Several times she passed and repassed the picture on the easel, her fingers twitching at the lace of her dress.

Gradually then her steps became firmer and more deliberate. The sound of a rippling laugh came from the other room. She stopped suddenly in her restless pacing of the floor. She looked at the portrait on the easel, and after a short space, she too laughed.

“It is a just punishment!” she said. “He loves her and she loves another—she confessed it to me. He will be punished, and no one will pity him.”

Then Clare reappeared in the arch from which the curtain had been drawn, and Claude followed her.

Agnes glanced first at the girl, then at the man. She looked toward Sir Percival and smiled.