The Weapons of Mystery Part 11

DARKNESS AND LIGHT

During the next few days there was but little to record. The party evidently forgot mesmerism and thought-reading, and seemingly enjoyed themselves without its a.s.sistance. The young men and women walked together and talked together, while the matrons looked complacently on.

During the day there was hunting, skating, and riding, while at night there was story-telling, charades, games of various sorts, and dancing.

Altogether, it was a right old-fas.h.i.+oned, unconventional English country party, and day by day we got to enjoy ourselves more, because we learned to know each other better.

Perhaps, however, I am using a wrong expression. I ought not to have said "we." I cannot say that I enjoyed myself very much. My life was strange and disappointing. More than that, the calamities I dreaded did not take place, but the absence of those calamities brought me no satisfaction. And thus, while all the rest laughed and were joyful, I was solitary and sad. Once or twice I thought of leaving Temple Hall, but I could not bring myself to do so. I should be leaving the woman I was each day loving more and more, to the man who knew no honour, no mercy, no manliness.

During these days I was entirely free from Voltaire's influence, as free as I was before I saw him. He always spoke to me politely, and to a casual observer his demeanour towards me was very friendly. Kaffar, on the other hand, treated me very rudely. He often sought to turn a laugh against me; he even greeted me with a sneer. I took no notice of him, however--never replied to his insulting words; and this evidently maddened him. The truth was, I was afraid lest there should be some design in Voltaire's apparent friendliness and Kaffar's evident desire to arouse enmity, and so I determined to be on my guard.

I was not so much surprised at my freedom from the influence he had exercised over me the day after I had placed myself under his power, and for a reason that was more than painful to me. Miss Forrest avoided ever meeting me alone, never spoke to me save in monosyllables, and was cold and haughty to me at all times. Many times had I seen her engaged in some playful conversation with some members of the party; but the moment I appeared on the scene her smile was gone, and, if opportunity occurred, she generally sought occasion to leave. Much as I loved her, I was too proud to ask a reason for this, and so, although we were so friendly on Christmas Day, we were exceedingly cold and distant when New Year's Eve came. This, as may be imagined, grieved me much; and when I saw Voltaire's smile as he watched Miss Forrest repel any attempt of mine to converse with her, I began to wish I had never set my foot in Temple Hall.

And yet I thought I might be useful to her yet. So I determined to remain in Yorks.h.i.+re until she returned to London, and even then I hoped to be able to s.h.i.+eld her from the designs which I was sure Voltaire still had.

New Year's Day was cold and forbidding. The snow had gone and the ice had melted; but the raw, biting wind swept across moor and fen, forbidding the less robust part of the company to come away from the warm fires.

I had come down as usual, and, entering the library, I found Miss Forrest seated.

"I wish you a happy new year, Miss Forrest," I said. "May it be the happiest year you have ever known." She looked around the room as if she expected to see some one else present; then, looking up at me, she said, with the happy look I loved to see, "And I heartily return your wish, Mr. Blake."

There was no coldness, no restraint in her voice. She spoke as if she was glad to see me, and wanted me to know it. Instantly a burden rolled away from my heart, and for a few minutes I was the happiest of men.

Presently I heard voices at the library door, and immediately Miss Forrest's kindness and cheerfulness vanished, and those who entered the room must have fancied that I was annoying her with my company. I remained in the room a few minutes longer, but she was studiously cold and polite to me, so that when I made a pretence of going out to the stables to see a new horse Tom Temple had bought, I did so with a heavy heart.

I had no sooner entered the stable-yard than Simon Slowden appeared, and beckoned to me.

"I looked hout for yer honour all day yesterday," he said, "but you lay like a hare in a furze bush. Things is looking curious, yer honour."

"Indeed, Simon. How?"

"Can 'ee come this yer way a minit, yer honour?" "Certainly," I said, and followed him into a room over the stables. I did not like having confidences in this way; but my brain was confused, and I could not rid myself from the idea that some plot was being concocted against me.

Simon looked around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers; then he said, "There's a hancient wirgin 'ere called Miss Staggles, ain't there, Mr. Blake?"

"There is. Why?"

"It's my belief as 'ow she's bin a waccinated ten times, yer honour."

"Why, Simon?"

"Why, she's without blood or marrow, she is; and as for flesh, she ain't got none."

"Well, what for that?"

"And not honly that," he continued, without heeding my question, "she hain't a got a hounce of tender feelin's in her natur. In my opinion, sur, she's a witch, she is, and hev got dealin's with the devil."

"And what for all this?" I said. "Surely you haven't taken me up here to give me your impressions concerning Miss Staggles?"

"Well, I hev partly, yer honour. The truth is"--here he sunk his voice to a whisper--"she's very thick with that willain with a hinfidel's name. They're in league, sur." "How do you know?"

"They've bin a-promenadin' together nearly every day since Christmas; and when a feller like that 'ere Woltaire goes a-walkin' with a creature like that hancient wirgin on his arm, then I think there must be somethin' on board."

"But this is purely surmise, Simon. There is no reason why Miss Staggles and Mr. Voltaire may not walk together."

"There's more than surmise, sur. You know the plantation up behind the house, Mr. Blake?"

"The fir plantation? Very well."

"Well, sur, the night afore last I wur up there. They are hevin' a kind of Christmas-tree in one of the Sunday schools over in the willage to-night, and some o' the teachers came to the guv'nor and asked him for a tree to put some knick-knacks on. So he says to me, 'Simon,' says he, 'go up in the plantation and pull up a young fir tree, and then in the morning put it in the cart and take it over to the school-room.' This was day afore yesterday, in the afternoon. I was busy jist then, so I didn't go to the plantation till 'twas dusk. However, as you know, yer honour, 'tis moonlight, so I didn't trouble. Well, I got a young fir tree pulled up, and was jist a-going to light my pipe, when I see some figures a-comin' threw the plantation towards a summer-'ouse that was put up 'bout two year ago. So I lied luff. 'I believe,' I says, 'that it's that hinfidel and the skinny wirgin a-walkin' together.' They goes into the summer-'ouse, and then I creeps down, and gets behind a tree, but close enough to the couple to hear every word. Sure 'nough, sur, I wur right; it was the wirgin Staggles and this 'ere Woltaire.

"'They seemed quarrellin' like when I come up, for she wur sayin'--

"'Tis no use, she never will.'

"'Nonsense!' says he. 'Give her time, and poison her mind against that Blake, and she'll come around.'

"'I've done that,' says she. 'I've told her that Mr. Blake is a regular male flirt; that he's had dozens of love affairs with girls; and, besides that, I told her that her marked preference for him was being talked about.'

"'Yes,' says Woltaire, 'and see how she's treated him since.'

"'True enough,' says she; 'but it's made her no softer towards you. If she avoids him, she dislikes you.'

"'And do you think she cares about Blake?' says he.

"'I don't know,' she replies. 'She never would tell me anything, and that's why I dislike her so. But, for all that, she's no hypocrite.'

"'Well, what for that?' he asks.

"'I went to her room last night, and I began to tell her more about him and compare him with you.'

"'Well?' says he.

"'Well, she got into a temper, and told me that she would not allow Mr.

Blake's name to be a.s.sociated with yours in her room.'

"Then, sur, that 'ere willain he swore like a trooper, and said he'd make you rue the day you were born. After that, they were silent for a little while, and then she says to him--

"'I believe she knows what you are wanting to do, and has some idea of the influence you have exerted over him. She's as sharp as a lancet, and it's difficult to deceive her.'

"'If only that Blake hadn't come,' he says, as if talkin' to hisself.

"'Yes,' she says, 'but he has come,' says she.

"'But if he can be made to leave her, and never speak to her again, will it not show to her that he's what you said he was, and thus turn her against him?'

"'I don't know. She's been cool enough to drive him away,' said that 'ere Miss Staggles.

"'But if he leaves disgraced, proved to be a villain, a deceiver, a blackleg, or worse than that, while I show up as an angel of light?'