The Moving Finger Part 8

"And Pauline?" she asked.

"Pauline, unfortunately, is amongst the cursed," he answered.

"That, I suppose," she remarked, "is what brings you so close together."

"It is a bond of common suffering," he declared. "By the bye, who is this ferocious-looking person?"

It was Saton who had suddenly turned the corner, and whose expression had certainly darkened for a moment as he came face to face with the two. He was correctly enough dressed in gray tweeds and thick walking boots, but somehow or other his sallow face and dark, plentiful hair, seemed to go oddly with his country clothes.

Rochester glanced at his companion, and he distinctly saw a little grimace. Saton would have pa.s.sed on, for Rochester's nod was of the slightest, but Lois insisted upon stopping.

"Mr. Saton," she said, "I have been hearing all sorts of wonderful things about your house. When are you going to ask us all to tea to see your curiosities?"

Saton looked into Rochester's immovable face.

"Whenever you choose to come," he answered calmly. "I am nearly always at home in the afternoon, or rather I shall be after next Thursday,"

he added, as an afterthought. "I am going to town this evening."

"Going away?" she asked, a little blankly.

"I have to go up to London," he answered, "but it is only for two days."

There was a short, uneasy silence. Rochester purposely avoided speech.

He understood the situation exactly. They had something to say to one another, and wished him away.

"You won't be able to send me that book, then?" she asked.

"I will leave it at the house this afternoon, if I may," he answered, half looking toward Rochester.

Rochester made no sign. Saton raised his cap and pa.s.sed on.

"Wonderful syringa bush, that," Rochester remarked, pointing with his stick.

"Wonderful!" Lois answered.

"Quite an ideal village, mine," he continued. "You see there are crocuses growing out even in the roadway."

"Very pretty!" she answered.

"You are not by any chance annoyed with me?"

"I did not think you were very civil to that poor young man."

"Naturally," he answered. "I didn't mean to be civil. I am one of those simple folk who are always annoyed by the incomprehensible. I do not understand Mr. Bertrand Saton. I do not quite understand, either, why you should find him an interesting companion for your morning walks."

"You are a hateful person!" she declared, as he held open the gate which led back to the Park.

"I intend to remain so," he answered drily.

The sound of footsteps coming along the path which they had just quitted, attracted his attention momentarily. He turned round. Lois, too, hesitated.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the newcomer said, "but can you tell me whereabouts in this neighborhood I can find a house called Blackbird's Nest? A Mr. Bertrand Saton lives there, I believe."

Rochester hesitated for a few seconds. He looked at the woman, summing her up with swift comprehension. Lois, by his side, stared at her in surprise. She was inclined to be stout, and her face was flushed with walking, notwithstanding an obviously recent use of the powder-puff. A ma.s.s of copper-colored hair was untidily arranged underneath a large black hat. Her clothes were fas.h.i.+onable in cut, but cheap in quality.

She wore openwork stockings and high-heeled shoes, which had already suffered from walking along the dusty roads. While she waited for an answer to her question, she drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and the perfume of the violet scented hedge by the side of which they stood, was no longer a thing apparent.

Rochester, whose hatred of perfumes was one of his few weaknesses, drew back a step involuntarily.

"If you pa.s.s through the village," he said, "Blackbird's Nest is the second house upon the right-hand side. It lies a little way back from the road, but you cannot miss it."

"I am sure I am very much obliged," the lady answered. "If I had known it was as far as this, I'd have waited till I could have found a carriage. The porter at the station told me that it was just a step."

Rochester raised his cap and turned away. Lois walked soberly by his side for several moments.

"I wonder," she said softly, "what a person like that could want with Mr. Saton."

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

"We know nothing of Saton or his life," he answered. "He has wandered up and down the world, and I daresay he has made some queer acquaintances."

"But his taste," Lois persisted, "is so perfect. I cannot understand his permitting a creature like that to even come near him."

Rochester smiled.

"One does strange things under compulsion," he remarked. "I see that they have been rolling the putting greens. Shall we go and challenge Penarvon and Mrs. Hinckley to a round at golf?"

She glanced once more over her shoulder toward the village--perhaps beyond.

"If you like," she answered, resignedly.

CHAPTER VI

PAULINE MARRABEL

The words which pa.s.sed between Pauline Marrabel and her host at the railway station were words which the whole world might have heard and remained unedified. The first part of their drive homeward, even, pa.s.sed in complete silence. Yet if their faces told the story, Rochester was with the woman he loved. He had driven a small pony-cart to the station. There was no room, even, for a groom behind. They sat side by side, jogging on through the green country lanes, until they came to the long hill which led to the higher country. The luggage cart and the omnibus, with her maid and the groom who had driven down with Rochester, pa.s.sed them soon after they had left the station. They were alone in the country lane, alone behind a fat pony, who had ideas of his own as to what was the proper pace to travel on a warm spring afternoon.

More than once he looked at her. Her oval face was almost devoid of color. There were rings underneath her large soft eyes. Her dark hair was brushed simply back from her forehead. Her travelling clothes were of the plainest. Yet she was always beautiful--more so than ever just now, perhaps, when the slight hardness had gone from her mouth, and the strain had pa.s.sed from her features.

Rochester, too, was curiously altered by the change in the curve of his lips. There was a new smile there, a new light in his eyes as they jogged on between the honeysuckle-wreathed hedges. Their silence was even curiously protracted, but underneath the holland ap.r.o.n his left hand was clasping hers.

"How are things with you?" she asked softly.

"About the same," he answered. "We make the best of it, you know. Mary amuses herself easily enough. She has what she wanted--a home, and I have someone to entertain my guests. I believe that we are considered quite a model couple."