The Moving Finger Part 28

"I do hate him," Saton answered slowly. "I hate him as he hates me. We are enemies."

"Yet you were not looking at him all the time," she persisted. "You looked at Pauline, too. You don't hate her, do you?"

He drew a little breath between his clenched teeth. If only this child would hold her peace!

"No!" he said. "I do not hate Lady Marrabel."

"Is it because he has interfered between us," she asked timidly, "that you dislike Mr. Rochester so much? Remember that very soon I shall be of age."

"He has no right to interfere in my concerns at all," Saton answered, evasively. "Hus.h.!.+"

The two had halted at a little wooden gate which led into the strip of field dividing the two plantations. Rochester was looking back along the footpath by which they had come. They could hear his voice distinctly.

"Johnson must have got lost," he remarked, a little impatiently. "I will leave my second gun here for him. It is quite time I took up my place. The beaters will be in the wood directly."

He leaned one of the guns against the stone wall, and with the other under his arm, opened the gate for Pauline to pa.s.s through. They crossed the field diagonally, and came to a standstill at a spot marked by a tiny flag.

All the time Saton watched them with fascinated eyes. The thoughts were rus.h.i.+ng through his brain. He turned to Lois.

"Dear," he said, "I think that you had better run along home. I will come up to the shrubbery after dinner, if you think that you can get out."

"But there is no hurry," she whispered. "Can't we sit here and talk for a little time, or go further back into the wood? I know a most delightful little hiding-place just at the top of the slate pit--an old keeper's shelter."

Saton shook his head. He avoided looking at her.

"The beaters are in the other part of the wood already," he said.

"Very likely they will come this way, too. If they see us together, they will tell Mr. Rochester. I don't want him to know that I am here just yet."

She rose reluctantly.

"Dear me," she said, sighing, "and I thought that we were going to have such a nice long talk!"

"We will have it very soon," he whispered, a little unsteadily. "We must, dear. Remember that I have only come down here so that we may see a little more of one another. I will arrange it somehow. Only just now I think that you had better run away home."

He kissed her, and she turned reluctantly away. She stole through the undergrowth back into the green path. Saton watched her with fixed eyes until she had turned the corner and disappeared. Then he seemed at once to forget her existence. He too rose to his feet, and stole gently forward, moving very slowly, and stooping a little so as to remain out of sight. All the time his eyes were fixed upon the gun, whose barrel was s.h.i.+ning in the sunlight.

From the other side of the wood there commenced an intermittent fusilade. The shots were drawing nearer and nearer. Rochester stood waiting, his gun held ready. Pauline had retreated round the corner of the further wood, beyond any possible line of fire.

Saton had reached the gate now, and was within reach of the gun and the bag of cartridges, which were hanging by a leather belt from the gate-post. He turned his head, and looked stealthily along the path by which Rochester had come. There was no one in sight, no sound except the twittering of birds overhead, and the rustling of the leaves. He sank on one knee, and his hand closed upon the gun. The blood surged to his head. There was a singing in his ears. He felt his heart thumping as though he were suddenly seized with some illness.

Rochester's figure, tall, graceful, debonair, notwithstanding the looseness of his shooting clothes, and his somewhat rigid att.i.tude, seemed suddenly to loom large and hateful before his eyes. He saw nothing else. He thought of nothing else. It was the man he hated. It was the man who understood what he was, the worst side of him--the man whom his instincts recognised as his ruthless and dangerous enemy.

The rush of a rabbit through the undergrowth, startled him so that he very nearly screamed. He looked around, pallid, terrified. There was no one in sight, no sign of any life save animal and insect life in the wood behind.

The stock of the gun came to his shoulder. His fingers sought the trigger. Cautiously he thrust it through the bars of the gate. Bending down, he took a long and deliberate aim. The fates seemed to be on his side. Rochester suddenly stiffened into attention, his gun came to his shoulder, as with a loud whir a pheasant flew out of the wood before him. The two reports rang out almost simultaneously. The pheasant dropped to the ground like a stone. Rochester's arms went up to the skies. He gave a little cry and fell over, a huddled heap, upon the gra.s.s.

Saton, with fingers that trembled, tore out the exploded cartridge, seized another from the bag, thrust it in, and replaced the gun against the wall. His breath was coming in little sobs. Trees and sky danced before his eyes. Once he dared to look--only once--at the spot where Rochester was lying. His hands were outstretched. Once he half raised himself, and then fell back. From round the corner of the wood came Pauline. Saton heard her cry--a cry of agony it seemed to him. He bent low, and made his way back into the plantation, plunging through the undergrowth until he reached a narrow and little frequented footpath. He was deaf to all sounds, for the thumping in his ears had become now like a sledge-hammer beating upon an anvil. He was not sure that he saw anything. His feet fled over the ground mechanically. Only when he reached the borders of the wood, and crossed the meadow leading to the main road, he drew himself a little more upright. He must remember, he told himself fiercely. He must remember!

He paused in the middle of the field, and looked back. He was out of sight now of the scene of the tragedy. Nothing was to be seen or heard but the low, musical sounds of the late summer afternoon--the beat of a reaping-machine, the humming of insects, the distant call of a pigeon, the far-away bark of a farmhouse dog. The shooting had ceased.

By this time they must all know, he reflected. He lit a cigarette, and inhaled the smoke without the slightest apprehension of what he was doing. He took a book from his pocket, held it before him, and glanced at the misty page of verse. Then he made his way out on to the highroad, sauntering like a man anxious to make the most of the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne, the clear air.

There was no one in sight anywhere along the white, dusty way. He crossed the road, and opened another gate. A few minutes' climb, a sharp descent, and he was safe within the gate of his own abode. He looked behind. Still not a human being in sight--no sound, no note of alarm in the soft, sunlit air. He set his teeth and drew a long breath. Then he closed the gate behind him, and choosing the back way, entered the house without observation.

CHAPTER XXI

AFRAID!

Saton wondered afterwards many times at the extraordinary nonchalance with which he faced the remainder of that terrible day. He wrote several letters, and was aware that he wrote them carefully and well.

He had his usual evening bath and changed his clothes, making perhaps a little more careful toilet even than usual.

Rachael, who was waiting for him when he descended to dinner, even remarked upon the lightness of his step.

"The country suits you, Bertrand," she said. "It suits you better than it does me. You walk like a boy, and there is color in your cheeks."

"The sun," he muttered. "I always tan quickly."

"Where have you been to?" she asked.

"I have been walking with Miss Champneyes," he answered.

Rachael nodded.

"And your friend at Beauleys?" she asked, with a little sneer. "What if he had seen you, eh? You are very brave, Bertrand, for he is a big man, and you are small. I do not think that he loves you, eh? But what about the girl?"

A servant entered the room, and Saton with relief abandoned the conversation. She returned to it, however, the moment they were alone.

"See here, my son," she said, "remember what I have always told you.

One can do without anything in this world except money. We have plenty for the moment, it is true, but a stroke of ill-fortune, and our income might well vanish. Now listen, Bertrand. Make sure of this girl's money. She is of age, and she will marry you."

"Her guardian would never give his consent," Saton said.

"It is not necessary," his companion answered. "I have been to Somerset House. I have seen the will. One hundred thousand pounds she has, in her own right, unalienable. For the rest, let her guardian do what he will with it. With a hundred thousand pounds you can rest for a while. We might even give up----"

Saton struck the table with his clenched fist.

"Be careful," he said. "I hate to hear these things mentioned. The windows are open, and the walls are thin. There might be listeners anywhere."

Her withered lips drew back into a smile. She was not pleasant just then to look upon.

"I forgot," she muttered. "We are devotees of science now in earnest.

You are right. We must run no risks. Only remember, however careful we are, you are always liable to--to the same thing that happened before.

It took a thousand pounds to get you off then."

Saton rose from his seat impatiently. He walked restlessly across the room.