CHAPTER XVII. A STRANGE MANIA.
Chris Abercarne had had sweethearts at every period of her young life—little boys of eight and nine had presented her, when she was of a similar age, with bull’s-eyes, half-apples, pieces of sealing-wax, and odds and ends of string and slate-pencil; in fact, with the best and most treasured of their worldly goods. Later than this, boys of a larger growth had written her notes on pink paper, couched in tender terms, and doubtful orthography; while, later still, offerings of flowers and sweets, of sighs and pretty speeches, had been laid freely at her feet.
While complacently sensible that these contributions were not to be despised, Chris had become so used to tributes of admiration of all sorts as to be hard to impress, and to have earned the reputation of coldness. When, therefore, as she held the arms of Mr. Richard to prevent his making an attack on his guardian, she was conscious of a sensation that was not cold, the experience was so new and strange that it frightened her.
Her success had been immediate and remarkable. He had at once desisted from his intention of making an onslaught upon Mr. Bradfield, and had stood quite still and submissive under the gentle touch of her hands.
Chris glanced up in his face, which was bent towards hers. She withdrew her eyes at once, glad that it was too dark for him to see the blush which she could feel rising hot in her cheeks; and as her eyelids fell, after one glance at Mr. Richard’s impassioned face, she knew, with a woman’s quick, intuitive knowledge which could give no very good reason for itself, that the reputed maniac was sane.
But this thought she found quite as alarming as, and even more exciting than, her previous belief that Mr. Richard was mad. For to struggle with a madman is one thing, and to find oneself in the arms of a lover is another; and this latter was undoubtedly the situation in which her own action had placed her.
Mr. Richard’s arms, instead of remaining passive under her touch, had, for a moment, closed round her—only for a moment—then, in response to her look of alarm, to her movement to free herself, he had let her go. But the moment had been long enough for each of the two young people to make a discovery. Mr. Richard had found out that he was possessed by a mad hope: Chris, that he was dominated by a sane one. She drew back from him modestly, and not without a touch of maidenly fear; but Mr. Richard saw clearly enough that her alarm was neither very deep nor very wounding to his self-esteem. Still, he did not speak, but stood before her with a contrite expression on his face; and at last when, Mr. Bradfield having disappeared into the house, Chris made a movement in that direction, he felt bold enough to hold out both his hands towards her with a gesture which seemed to entreat forgiveness, if he had offended her.
For answer, Chris, who was getting used to this courtship without words, put out her hand as she said, “Good-bye.”
Mr. Richard took it in his at first with just the measure of sedate courtesy which was conventionally correct; but the moment she tried to withdraw her fingers from his grasp, he seemed to realise suddenly that he was losing her, that the joy he felt in her presence might never be given him again. With rapid and passionate action, his left hand also had closed upon hers; and, before she realised what he was going to do, he had seized both her hands and pressed them to his lips.
Chris, much agitated, snatched away her hands, the more quickly, perhaps, that Stelfox at that moment became visible to her, standing motionless at a little distance, close to the evergreens which bordered the copse. He made a sign to Mr. Richard, who, raising his hat to Chris, followed his custodian in the direction of the house, which they entered by a side door.
Chris went slowly towards the principal entrance. She wanted to speak to Stelfox, and she wanted to avoid Mr. Bradfield, whose head, bending over the desk in his study, she could see en silhouette against the lamp-light. The blind had not been drawn down. Just before she reached the steps, Chris saw Mr. Bradfield rise from his chair; and by the time she reached his study door, on her way upstairs, he was standing there waiting for her. He scanned her face narrowly as she came up. Chris, having lost the flush of intense excitement brought into her cheeks by her interview with Mr. Richard, was again looking pale and over-tired.
“They’ve worked you to death over their tomfoolery at the barn,” he exclaimed, angrily, as she came up the stairs. “Why did you have anything to do with it?” Before she could answer he went on, in a more inquisitive tone, “But where have you been? All the others have been back an hour or more. I’ve been looking out for you.”
“I’ve been at the barn clearing up, putting things straight, and seeing that the lights were put out,” answered Chris, looking down rather guiltily.
“Didn’t they send someone to help you?” inquired Mr. Bradfield, sharply. “Harriet said she put out the lights.”
“So she did.”
“But that’s a quarter of an hour ago. What have you been doing with yourself since? You have not been staying at the barn in the dark—by yourself?”
There flashed quickly through the mind of Chris a kaleidoscopic view of the question whether or not she should tell Mr. Bradfield with whom she had been. In that brief moment of hesitation she saw the matter in all its bearings, and repugnant as the idea of concealment was to her, she decided, for Mr. Richard’s sake, not to betray the fact that she had been with him.
She answered, therefore:
“No, I was not alone,” and as she said this she unceremoniously ran away up the stairs, with the hurried excuse that she should be late for dinner.
“Are you letting that young fool of a Shute boy worry you to death?” Mr. Bradfield called out after her, in displeased tones.
“Oh, he doesn’t worry me,” replied Chris, disingenuously as she disappeared into the corridor.
Chris was angry and puzzled with herself. It was quite right and proper that she should feel sorry for Mr. Richard, seeing, as she believed, that he was not being quite fairly treated by his guardian. But why should she feel more than this for him? Why should she, Chris Abercarne, who had been so cold to all men, and so proud of her coldness, feel in this poor fellow an interest more tender than any she had felt before for any man—an interest so strong, that she was ashamed of it, and could not think of it without feeling her cheeks flush, and her heart beat faster?
She hurried to her dressing-room and changed her gown for dinner, delighted to find that her mother had already dressed and gone downstairs. For she wanted to have time to exchange a few words before dinner with Stelfox. This man, she felt sure, knew more about his patient’s case than he chose to admit. It was he who had given Mr. Richard his liberty on that day; he whose influence over the young man was strong enough to induce the poor prisoner to return to his prison without a protest.
Chris, who knew that this was about the time when Stelfox would be coming out from the east wing with a tray to fetch Mr. Richard’s dinner, waited in one of the alcoves in the long corridor, and at the first sound of the key turning in the lock of the shut-up apartments, she ran to meet him.
But Stelfox, who was always cautious, glanced towards the door of the study, and then at her without a word, but with a gesture of warning to her to hold her peace for a while. Then, while the young lady waited, mute as a mouse, with her eyes fixed on the study door, Stelfox very deliberately locked the door through which he had just come, and walked towards a small apartment on the right, which contained a telescope and a cupboard full of chemicals, used by Mr. Bradfield when the whim took him, either as an observatory or a laboratory. Chris followed him with noiseless steps. When she had entered the room Stelfox shut the door.
“You wish to speak to me, ma’am?” he asked, looking straight at her, and putting the question with his usual directness of manner.
“Yes,” answered Chris, softly; “and I’m quite sure you know what it is about.”
“I suppose, ma’am,” he answered, without any fencing, “it is about Mr. Richard.”
“Yes. You let him come out to-day. Surely you would not let a madman go about by himself, and expect him to come back quietly as Mr. Richard did? It seems to me, Stelfox, that his only mania is a great dislike to Mr. Bradfield.”
A little gleam of surprise, or of amusement, Chris hardly knew which, shot out of the man’s steady eyes. But the next moment he looked drier, he spoke more cautiously than ever.
“They do take fancies into their heads, ma’am, people that are not quite right do,” he answered.
“But is he not quite right? Isn’t he only pretending? And isn’t that why he will not speak?” asked Chris, running the questions one into another in her eagerness. “The more I see of him the more absurd it seems to suppose that he is not in his right senses. Do, Stelfox, tell me all about him, and why he is shut up here.”
“I give you my word, ma’am,” answered Stelfox at once and straightforwardly, “that I know no more than the dead.”
Chris was petrified with astonishment.
“You don’t know why he is shut up?” she repeated, slowly.
“No, ma’am. I do know a little more than you do, though I don’t want to tell it yet. But why he is shut up here is more than I can tell you.”
Chris was utterly bewildered. Before she could recover sufficiently from her astonishment to put another question, Stelfox went on:
“And now, ma’am, I believe you’re interested enough in the poor gentleman to do just one thing for him?”
“Yes, oh, yes. What is it?” asked Chris, eagerly. “Is it to speak to Mr. Bradfield? Is it to try to persuade him to let Mr. Richard come out? Is it——”
Stelfox shook his head with a dry smile.
“No, ma’am, it’s precisely the opposite of that. What I wish to ask you is not to speak to Mr. Bradfield at all about him, and, above all, not to let him know that you have seen him anywhere but at the windows of the east wing.”
Chris was much troubled by this request, and after a few moments spent in thought, she said, earnestly:
“But, Stelfox, I think you are doing Mr. Bradfield a great injustice. He is a very kind-hearted man, and if he were once persuaded that it would do his ward good to come out——”
“He would keep him in all the more securely,” said Stelfox, with a dry laugh.
And before Chris could recover from the horror she felt at these words, Stelfox had disappeared from the room in his usual noiseless manner.