The Coldstone (22 page)

He turned back with the bible in his hand.

“Cousin Arabel—”

Miss Arabel turned too. She stood framed by the open doorway, a little black silhouette against the green and gold of the sunny garden.

“Yes?”

“If you could spare a minute. I came across a letter the other day—a business letter—and I wondered whether you could throw any light on it.”

“Oh, certainly—but I am afraid—poor Papa never talked to us about business—he did not think that ladies—”

“It was an offer for the estate from a firm called Stent and Rogerson. They had, apparently, made more than one offer.”

“Oh!” Miss Arabel sounded most dreadfully shocked. “Papa would never have sold Stone-gate!”

“No—he was evidently refusing. But he had made rather a curious note on the letter. Do you happen to know who J. E. W. was?”

Miss Arabel turned, took a step towards the garden, tripped, and fell quite gracefully. Anthony's absurd impression of flight vanished in extreme concern. He picked her up, carried her in, arranged her upon the sofa, and inquired anxiously whether she was hurt.

“No—no—oh no. I slipped. So very foolish. No indeed—I am not at all hurt—not in the least. And—and—you were asking me something?”

“It doesn't matter—I can ask Cousin Agatha.”

A bright little flush came into Miss Arabel's face.

“Oh no! It's—I'm sure it's very interesting. What did you say the name was?”

“There wasn't any name—only initials—J.E.W.”

Miss Arabel leaned back against the cushion which he had put behind her.

“What did it say about him?”

Anthony made a mental note that J.E.W. was of the male sex. He had not meant to hesitate. He received a shock when Miss Arabel said, with a little gasp,

“Why don't you tell me what he said?”

“Oh, it was nothing. But who is J.E.W.?”

“What did it say about him?”

He tried to recall the exact words.

“There were the initials, with a question mark after them; and then, ‘I can't believe it.'”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that's all.”

She drew a long breath. It was absurd to fancy that it was a breath of relief. Then, before he could speak, she was rising, thanking him for his kindness, and once more bidding him good-bye. It was gracefully and competently done—her other guests claimed her—she looked forward to seeing dear Anthony again soon. She gave him her hand.

This time he went.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Susan came through the panel and found the library empty. The lamp burned on the writing-table, and the book-ladder stood against the wall just behind it. She closed the panel and advanced warily. It was most frightfully annoying of Anthony not to be here. It was only half-past ten and the lamp was burning, so he hadn't gone to bed. On the other hand, Lane probably wouldn't have gone to bed either, and if he came along to put the lamp out, she would be very nicely caught, unless he were really and truly to believe she was a ghost. He might; but then again he mightn't. And if he didn't, what fun for Ford St. Mary. She murmured “Poor darling Gran!” and advanced to the writing-table. Spread out upon it was an open book with a magnifying glass laid across the page.

Susan came round the table and stood looking down at the names in the Colstone bible. They interested her very much. Her colour rose, her foot tapped the carpet. All of a sudden she picked up her skirt, ran over to the panel, opened it, and disappeared, closing it behind her with a perceptible bang. The portrait of Miss Patience Pleydell gazed placidly at the empty lamp-lit room. Her colour did not come and go. Her little foot remained poised for the step which she never took. The yellow lamp-light gave her an air detached, serene. The clock, in its tall inlaid case, ticked out a slow three minutes.

Then the panel opened, and Susan, in her blue petticoat and flowered gown, stepped down into the room. She held in her hand a worn brown book in a leather cover. She breathed a little more quickly. Her colour was still high. She took up Anthony's bible, closed it, and substituted the one she had fetched. She wondered whether he would remember that he had left the book open, and she wondered where he was and why he didn't come. And then, whilst the thought was still in her mind, the door opened and he came in.

Anthony shut the door. He had wondered whether she would come, and if she came, how he should meet her. Since the moment when he had seen her in the museum he had thought about her differently; the moment had changed something. Whenever he thought about Susan—and he could not help thinking about her—he saw beyond her the man who had come secretly into his house in the night, and he saw this man meeting Susan, talking to her, touching her with an accustomed familiarity that was as damning as a kiss. And he remembered that Susan had slipped away from his questions about what had really happened on the night that the house was broken into. He didn't know what had happened after they floored him. He didn't know. But Susan knew—Susan knew, and Susan wouldn't say, and she wouldn't describe the men. Why?

The answer came pat enough, but not in words. The answer was a picture in his mind. Susan and the man who had watched him from the hedge. Susan and the man who had looked down on him from Nurse Collins' window. Susan and the man who had been bending over the table in the housekeeper's room, a black shadow in a dark room. But the shape of the shadow—the forward stoop, the movement—he was as sure as he had ever been of anything in all his life that the man in the housekeeper's room was the man who had watched him from the hedge and from the window, and that Susan had met this man in the museum. Susan had met him. Susan had gone to London to meet him. Susan and he were on such terms that she did not draw back from an intimate, possessive touch.

Anthony had been thinking all this, sometimes with anger, sometimes with hot resentment, sometimes with a kind of sick disappointment; but now, when he came into the library and saw Susan standing beside his writing-table, he did not feel any of these things; he just felt most frightfully glad to see her.

Susan dropped him a curtsey.

“I thought you were Lane.”

“Do I look like Lane?”

“Not very.”

And then all of a sudden his anger came over him again.

“I'm so glad you weren't Lane,” Susan's voice sounded pleased and eager. “I've got a most frightful lot to tell you.”

Was she going to tell him about that meeting—and what was she going to tell? He said this out loud:

“What are you going to tell me?”

Susan took him by the arm.

“Come and sit down. There's heaps and heaps of it. I've found the book!”

“What book?”

“Philip Colstone's book—the one William Bowyer took back to his son after Philip was killed. And it's in the British Museum, and it's got the thing in it that I heard the men saying—the—the burglars, you know—only it's in Latin. And a darling old woolly lamb at the museum translated it for me, but he wouldn't let me bring the book away.”

Anthony was hardly attending; his mind was set on the thing which she did not tell. He frowned and said,

“What museum?”

“I told you—the British Museum.”

“But you were at the Victoria and Albert,” said Anthony with a long, hard look.

Her colour rose.

“What do you mean?”

“You were at the Victoria and Albert—I saw you there.”

Susan's head came up.

“Why shouldn't you see me there? Good gracious, Anthony, if there is a proper place in this world—” She broke off with a little clear laugh. “Do you know that you're looking at me exactly as if you had tracked me to some particularly low haunt of vice? Mayn't I go to the Victoria and Albert Museum without asking your leave first?”

Anthony hit straight and hard.

“I saw you meet the man who burgled this house,” he said.

Susan's hands came together in her lap. If he had been looking at them, he would have seen the knuckles whiten; but he was looking into her eyes, which were bright and angry.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It was the way he was standing—it absolutely hit me. And of course I recognized him. It was the blighter who was watching me from the hedge the first time I went to look at the Coldstone. I suppose you knew that all the time?”

Susan did not answer. She leaned back in the sofa corner, and she kept her eyes on Anthony's face.

“Who is he?” said Anthony.

Susan looked at him steadily. After a minute she said,

“Are you—insulting me?”

“I'm asking you a question.”

“I'm afraid I can't answer it.”

Anthony leaned forward.

“Who is he?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Susan—is he your brother?” The thought had come to him suddenly. If she had a brother, she would be bound to screen him.

“No, he isn't.”

“Is he—in love with you?”

Susan smiled at him. There was a burning anger behind the smile. It made her eyes look as bright as sea-water with the sun on it.

“It's possible,” she said. “Have you any objection?”

Anthony turned very pale.

“Are you—in love with him?”

“That's possible too,” said Susan.

“Is it true?” said Anthony.

She felt his hands come down hard on hers; they were cold and very strong. She was furious because something in her shook. Her voice shook too as she said,

“Is it your business?”

“Yes,” said Anthony.

“Why?”

“You know why.” Then, as she was silent, “You know very well—you know very well that I love you.”

All at once Susan did know it. The anger went out of her. Anthony's love put it out. You can't really be angry with love—not with real love. She heard him say “Susan,” and she pulled her hands away.

“It's my business because I love you. If you—care for him—Susan, do you?”

“Oh!” said Susan. It was a sound of muffled protest because he had caught her hands again and was holding them so tight that it was no use trying to free them. She stopped trying. She took a long breath and said “Anthony—” Her voice was steady and gentle.

Anthony said, “Yes?”

“Please let go of my hands. I want to talk to you.”

“Does it prevent your talking?”

“Yes, it does. Please let go.”

He let go of her, but remained leaning forward.

“What do you want to say to me?”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“It's not very easy. I want to say things. Perhaps you won't believe me. If you don't, it's all finished.”

He looked at her steadily.

“Why do you say that? I'll believe you all right.”

“I wonder,” said Susan with rather a shaky laugh.

“Go on.”

She was sitting up quite straight with her hands in her lap. Sometimes she looked down at her hands, and sometimes she looked at Anthony. There was a little frown between her eyes. She said, speaking quick and low,

“I can't tell you anything—about him—I just can't. I can't tell you why. You see, there were things I knew in confidence, so I can't tell you about them. It's very difficult.”

Anthony frowned too.

“You mean he told you things in confidence before you came down here?”

“I can't answer that,” said Susan. “I can't answer anything, and I can't tell you anything. It's just like that. Only I wanted to tell you that anything you told me was quite safe.”

“I see.” Then, very suddenly, “Susan, he's not—your
husband?
”

Susan began to laugh.

“I haven't got a husband. What a horrible imagination you've got!”

“Susan—do you care for him?”

“Would you mind if I did?”

“You know I would. You know I care—you
must
know it.”

Susan's smile came out sweetly, but he thought there was mockery in it.

“What happens when the squire falls in love with the village maiden?”

“Susan! Won't you be serious?”

“Oh, sir, it's a vastly serious situation—especially for the maiden. In most of the stories, you know, she's left lamenting. It's not a fate that attracts me.”

Anthony gave her a very straight look.

“You know very well that I'm asking you to marry me.”

The colour flew into her cheeks.

“Nobody axed you, sir,” she said.

“Susan, will you marry me?”

“I don't know. Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” said Anthony.

Susan bit her lip. It threatened to tremble, and she simply wouldn't have it. Lips are the hardest things to keep in order. She bit hers fiercely.

“Squires don't marry village maidens—they only trifle with them.”

Anthony got up and pulled her on to her feet.

“Anthony, you're hurting me!”

“You deserve a good shaking. Will you marry me?”

“I'm Susan Bowyer's granddaughter.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk such utter piffle! You're no more a village girl than—than—well, you're
not.
”

“Your fingers are digging into me!”

“Let them dig! Will you marry me?”

“What will Ford St. Mary say?”

“Why should either of us care a damn what it says?”

Susan looked at him gravely, but behind the gravity he thought he still discerned a mocking gleam.

“You wouldn't mind?”

“Why should I?”

“And what would your cousins say?”

Anthony laughed. She hadn't said “No.” She was teasing him, but she hadn't said “No.” An immense exhilaration flooded him. He put both arms round her.

“Let 'em say anything they like! What do you say?”