A Drake by George! Part 45

"That's what they put in books, when they want to draw your attention to something," he muttered.

CHAPTER XIX

REAPING THE HARVEST

It would have been extraordinary, after Teenie's visit, had Nellie not received a letter from Sidney, begging her to give him an opportunity of clearing up the mystery which had so long surrounded Black Anchor Farm.

The style and spelling of this epistle moved her to the discovery that it would be necessary to leave Miss Yard in the hands of Kezia, and return to Highfield, for one night only, in order that she might superintend the packing of the furniture; in place of George, who might quite possibly prove untrustworthy.

She replied, not altogether to that effect, without one thought for the ridiculous nature of her expeditionary programme; she could not arrive at Highfield until late in the afternoon, she would be compelled to leave early the following morning, while the packers could not reasonably be invited to work from dusk to sunrise. Sidney could meet her at the station if he liked: in fact she thought that might be the best plan, "As poor old George does not possess a sense of humour."

Sidney thought so too; but Nellie in her hurry missed the train. She was able to agree with Miss Yard, who could not travel without the observation, "They ought to do away with railway junctions."

There was no good reason for losing all sense of method upon her arrival at Windward House. As a methodist, she would have walked calmly indoors, announced to Bessie--who was presumably in charge--that she had returned to spend one more night in her old bedroom entirely out of sentiment; and then have gone for a walk, in the opposite direction to Black Anchor, among the moths and beetles, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new moon. But the sight of that open window, the garish lamplight, the cold apparition of George with a murderous cork in his hand, made her hopelessly unmethodical. Her mind became so entirely disorganised that everything escaped it, except that stupid necessity of going for a walk immediately. She flung her bag through the window and fled.

On the way to Black Anchor Nellie succeeded in persuading herself that she was, if not exactly discreet, at least as sensible as any other young woman in revolt from the severity of everyday life towards a more picturesque and imaginative style of existence. She actually made a plan. As it was night, and sufficiently dark for spying, she would approach the farm among the bogs, flit around it like a will-o'-the-wisp, play watchful fairy at the window, act recording angel at the keyhole, until part at least of the mystery might be revealed. She had no particular wish to discover the secret of Sidney's fascination, which attracted to him young ladies of superior birth and education, but she desired very much to learn something about these prepossessing damsels; who they were and why they came; and above all it was her business to ascertain why Sidney spoke like a farmer's boy, but looked like a farmer's landlord, and wrote like the descendant of a poet laureate.

"How dark it is down here!" she murmured. "Lucky I know the geography. I wish I knew my history half as well."

Then it seemed to her that all kinds of light-footed people were leaping over the bogs and jumping the furze bushes; while the moor on each side twinkled with teasing eyes of local inhabitants sent out to watch the movements of the spy.

Nellie saw the farm, and knew by the stream of light that all the doors and windows stood wide open. The trackway beyond was dangerous because one window threw a searchlight right across it; but she walked on, having never been taught the art of scouting, and came presently to a colossal figure, carved apparently out of granite, or beaten into human shape by wind and weather, rising from an unhewn boulder halfway to the sky. This was a wonder of the moor never previously discovered, thought Nellie; but a moment later she felt certain ghosts were abroad, and this colossus was being wors.h.i.+pped by the local inhabitants, dancing invisibly all over the peat and tussocks: she could detect the smell of incense, see the smoke rising; any moment she might be compelled to witness a human sacrifice. There was a glow of fire undoubtedly. Again she fled, while the colossus shook from side to side although there was no wind.

"How silly of me!" gasped Nellie. "It was old Mr. Brock, sitting on a rock--bother the rhyme!--smoking a cigar."

Obsessed by the idea of finding out something concerning this enchanted region, she went on towards the farmhouse, forced to walk along the lighted trackway because it skirted the edges of a bog, where in full swing was the season of grand opera and, from a cool green dais, the bullfrog conductor constrained an enormous amount of energy out of his orchestra--it sounded like Tanhauser but was more melodious--although the night-jars and owls did their best to mar the performance out of professional rivalry, while the beetles with their trombones were hopelessly discordant. But soon there were other sounds, far pleasanter; a scuffling in the furze-clad regions beyond; an approach, a trepidation, a capture, and a scream:

"You beast, Sidney! I did think I had hidden myself that time."

"I saw the white ribbon in your hair. You looked out just at the wrong moment."

"It's my turn to seek now."

"I'm going up to Highfield."

"I don't believe she's coming."

"I'll go and find out anyhow."

"Shall I come?"

"No, you stop at home."

"I won't spoil sport. If you see her, I'll cut off full lick."

"Listen! that was grandfather whistling."

Nellie stood upon the trackway s.h.i.+vering. Behind her old Mr. Brock closed the pa.s.s; in front Sidney was approaching; on the right side spread the bogs; on the left a jagged wilderness of boulders. From a strategical point of view she was done for. And she had come there to spy! She could only halt in vexation squeezed against a rock until captured, or advance with what little dignity remained to make an unconditional surrender.

"Boots muddy, hair all anyhow, crushed clothes--and caught in this abominable fas.h.i.+on," she murmured. "In fact I'm so untidy there's just a chance he may not recognise me."

She had not the slightest cause for worry. A girl may know when she looks attractive to other girls; but she seldom realises she is most fascinating to a man when her boots are muddy and her hair is all anyhow.

There came a rabbit-like scamper up the trackway, and the stampeding Teenie screamed again:

"Oh, I say--you did make me jump! Sidney! Sidney, you a.s.s! Here she is!

Here's Miss Blisland! Oh, what a lark!" shouted the child with shameless and barbaric jubilation.

"Don't talk such beastly nonsense," cried the other voice.

"It is her!" screamed the child.

"Yes, it's me," said Nellie faintly; and all three stood together, in an atmosphere of amazement and bad grammar.

"I thought, as it was such a lovely night--I mean evening--I would stroll in this direction to tell you I'm off again first thing in the morning," explained Nellie.

"This is splendid! I was just going to start for Highfield, but this is far better, as there's no old Drake to waddle about and quack. I was hanging about the road all the afternoon. This is Teenie Stanley--my cheeky young sister."

"Your sister! And your name isn't Brock at all!" cried Nellie.

"Run away, kid, and talk to grandfather," Sidney ordered; and the little whirlwind whisked round Nellie and departed.

"I did have the idea, but thought somehow it wasn't possible," Nellie was saying. "You have humbugged everybody, but you never really deceived me; if you had, I shouldn't be here now. I saw through your Dartmoor dialect, and all the rest of it. And I suppose Dorothy is your elder sister?"

"Of course she is."

"And the much-abused Mrs. Stanley--"

"Is my mother who, in spite of local rumour, does not put on local colour."

"Why ever didn't you tell me before? What was the sense of making such a mystery of it?"

"The people in Highfield made the mystery. We didn't want them to know we were here."

"Couldn't they see you, stupid?" said Nellie, more cheerfully.

"I mean grandfather didn't want them to know who we are; but I should have let out everything that evening--when you were spiteful--if we hadn't quarrelled. You know, Nellie, you were rather too cross about mother, and--and I lost my temper because you wouldn't trust me, and I made up my mind you should."

"You are nearly as bad as George Drake," she declared.

"Nearly isn't quite."

"And who are you, please?"

"Oh, we are not of vast importance. My full name is Arthur Sidney Stanley. It was a shame to give me such names, as I can't possibly put my initials on anything. That little beast, Teenie, always calls me a.s.s.

We're not exactly paupers, as we own a big share in a number of stores all over the south. There's one at Drivelford."