(II)
It was on the twenty-fifth of September, a Monday, that Jack sat in the smoking-room, in Norfolk jacket and gaiters, drinking tea as fast as he possibly could. He had been out on the moors all day, and was as thirsty as the moors could make him, and he had been sensual enough to smoke a cigarette deliberately before beginning tea, in order to bring his thirst to an acute point.
Then, the instant he had finished he snatched for his case again, for this was to be the best cigarette of the whole day, and discovered that his sensuality had overreached itself for once, and that there were none left. He clutched at the silver box with a sinking heart, half-remembering that he had filled his case with the last of them this morning. It was a fact, and he knew that there were no others in the house.
This would never do, and he reflected that if he sent a man for some more, he would not get them for at least twenty minutes. (Jack never could understand why an able-bodied footman always occupied twenty minutes in a journey that ought to take eight.) So he put on his cap again, stepped out of the low window and set off down the drive.
It was getting a little dark as he passed out of the lodge-gates. The sun, of course, had set at least an hour before behind the great hill to the west, but the twilight proper was only just beginning. He was nearly at the place now, and as he breasted the steep ascent of the bridge, peered over it, at least with his mind's eye, at the tobacconist's shop—first on the left—where a store of "Mr. Jack's cigarettes" was always on hand.
He noticed in the little recess I have just spoken of a man leaning with his elbows on the parapet, and staring out up the long reach of the stream to the purple evening moors against the sky and the luminous glory itself; and as he came opposite him, wondered vaguely who it was and whether he knew him. Then, as he got just opposite him, he stopped, uneasy at heart.
Naturally Frank was never very far away from Jack's thoughts just now—ever since, indeed, he had heard the news in a very discreet letter from the Reverend James Launton a week or two ago. (I need not say he had answered this letter, not to the father, but to the daughter, but had received no reply.)
He had written a frantic letter to Frank himself then, but it had been returned, marked: "Unknown at this address." And ever since he had eyed all tramps on the road with an earnestness that elicited occasionally a salute, and occasionally an impolite remark.
The figure whose back he saw now certainly was not much like Frank; but then—again—it was rather like him. It was dressed in a jacket and trousers so stained with dust and wet as to have no color of their own at all, and a cloth cap of the same appearance. A bundle tied up in a red handkerchief, and a heavy stick, rested propped against an angle of the recess.
Jack cleared his throat rather loud and stood still, prepared to be admiring the view, in case of necessity; the figure turned an eye over its shoulder, then faced completely round; and it was Frank Guiseley.
Jack for the first instant said nothing at all, but stood transfixed, with his mouth a little open and his eyes staring. Frank's face was sunburned almost beyond recognition, his hair seemed cut shorter than usual, and the light was behind him.
Then Jack recovered.
"My dear man," he said, "why the—"
He seized him by the hands and held him, staring at him.
"Yes; it's me all right," said Frank. "I was just wondering—"
"Come along, instantly.... Damn! I've got to go to a tobacconist's; it's only just here. There isn't a cigarette in the house. Come with me?"
"I'll wait here," said Frank.
"Will you? I shan't be a second."
It was, as a matter of fact, scarcely one minute before Jack was back; he had darted in, snatched a box from the shelf and vanished, crying out to "put it down to him." He found Frank had faced round again and was staring at the water and sky and high moors. He snatched up his friend's bundle and stick.
"Come along," he said, "we shall have an hour or two before dinner."
Frank, in silence, took the bundle and stick from him again, firmly and irresistibly, and they did not speak again till they were out of ear-shot of the lodge. Then Jack began, taking Frank's arm—a custom for which he had often been rebuked.
"My dear old man!" he said. "I ... I can't say what I feel. I know the whole thing, of course, and I've expressed my mind plainly to Miss Jenny."
"Yes?"
"And to your father. Neither have answered, and naturally I haven't been over again.... Dick's been there, by the way."
Frank made no comment.
"You look simply awful, old chap," pursued Jack cheerily. "Where on earth have you been for the last month? I wrote to York and got the letter returned."
"Oh! I've been up and down," said Frank impassively.
"With the people you were with before—the man, I mean?"
"No. I've left them for the present. But I shall probably join them again later."
"Join...!" began the other aghast.
"Certainly! This thing's only just begun," said Frank, with that same odd impassivity. "We've seen the worst of it, I fancy."
"But you don't mean you're going back! Why, it's ridiculous!"
Frank stopped. They were within sight of the house now and the lights shone pleasantly out.
"By the way, Jack, I quite forgot. You will kindly give me your promise to make no sort of effort to detain me when I want to go again, or I shan't come any further."
"But, my dear chap—"
"Kindly promise at once, please."
"Oh, well! I promise, but—"
"That's all right," said Frank, and moved on.
"I say," said Jack, as they came up to the hall door. "Will you talk now or will you change, or what?"
"I should like a hot bath first. By the way, have you anyone staying in the house?"
"Not a soul; and only two sisters at home. And my mother, of course."
"What about clothes?"
"I'll see about that. Come on round to the smoking-room window. Then I'll get in Jackson and explain to him. I suppose you don't mind your name being known? He'll probably recognize you, anyhow."
"Not in the least, so long as no one interferes."
Jack rang the bell as soon as they came into the smoking-room, and Frank sat down in a deep chair. Then the butler came. He cast one long look at the astonishing figure in the chair.
"Oh!—er—Jackson, this is Mr. Frank Guiseley. He's going to stay here. He'll want some clothes and things. I rather think there are some suits of mine that might do. I wish you'd look them out."
"I beg your pardon, sir?
"This is Mr. Frank Guiseley—of Merefield.... It is, really! But we don't want more people talking than are necessary. You understand? Please don't say anything about it, except that he's come on a walking-tour. And please tell the housekeeper to get the Blue Room ready, and let somebody turn on the hot water in the bath-room until further notice. That's all, Jackson ... and the clothes. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And get the eau de lubin from my dressing-room and put it in the bath-room. Oh, yes; and the wooden bowl of soap."
"These clothes of mine are not to be thrown away, please, Jackson," said Frank gravely from the chair. "I shall want them again."
"Yes, sir."
"That's all, then," said Jack.
Mr. Jackson turned stiffly and left the room.
"It's all right," said Jack. "You remember old Jackson. He won't say a word. Lucky no one saw us as we came up."
"It doesn't matter much, does it?" said Frank.
There was a pause.
"I say, Frank, when will you tell me—"
"I'll answer any questions after dinner to-night. I simply can't talk now."
Dinner was a little difficult that night.
Mrs. Kirkby had been subjected to a long lecture from her son during the half hour in which she ought to have been dressing, in order to have it firmly implanted in her mind that Frank—whom she had known from a boy—was simply and solely in the middle of a walking-tour all by himself. She understood the situation perfectly in a minute and a half—(she was a very shrewd woman who did not say much)—but Jack was not content. He hovered about her room, fingering photographs and silver-handled brushes, explaining over and over again how important it was that Frank should be made to feel at his case, and that Fanny and Jill—(who were just old enough to come to dinner in white high-necked frocks that came down to their very slender ankles, and thick pig-tails down their backs)—must not be allowed to bother him. Mrs. Kirkby said, "Yes, I understand," about a hundred and thirty times, and glanced at the clock. She stood with one finger on the electric button for at least five minutes before venturing to ring for her maid, and it was only that lady's discreet tap at one minute before eight that finally got Jack out of the room. He looked in on Frank in the middle of his dressing, found to his relief that an oldish suit of dress-clothes fitted him quite decently, and then went to put on his own. He came down to the drawing-room seven minutes after the gong with his ears very red and his hair in a plume, to find Frank talking to his mother, and eyed by his sisters who were pretending to look at photographs, with all the ease in the world.
But dinner itself was difficult. It was the obvious thing to talk about Frank's "walking-tour"; and yet this was exactly what Jack dared not do. The state of the moors, and the deplorable ravages made among the young grouse by the early rains, occupied them all to the end of fish; to the grouse succeeded the bullocks: to the bullocks, the sheep, and, by an obvious connection—obvious to all who knew that gentleman—from the sheep to the new curate.
But just before the chocolate soufflée there came a pause, and Jill, the younger of the two sisters, hastened to fill the gap.
"Did you have a nice walking-tour, Mr. Guiseley?"
Frank turned to her politely.
"Yes, very nice, considering," he said.
"Have you been alone all the time?" pursued Jill, conscious of a social success.
"Well, no," said Frank. "I was traveling with a ... well, with a man who was an officer in the army. He was a major."
"And did you—"
"That's enough, Jill," said her mother decidedly. "Don't bother Mr. Guiseley. He's tired with his walk."
The two young men sat quiet for a minute or two after the ladies had left the room. Then Jack spoke.
"Well?" he said.
Frank looked up. There was an odd, patient kind of look in his eyes that touched Jack a good deal. Frank had not been distinguished for submissiveness hitherto.
"Oh! a bit later, if you don't mind," he said. "We can talk in the smoking-room."