The Lake of Wine

by Bernard Capes

It was on the second day after the arrival of the furniture that the surcharged storm, that had so long been lowering over the caretaker’s head, burst in an explosion of thunder that was near attended with tragic consequences.

In the interval Mr. Tuke had been too greatly occupied with other business to give consideration to, or take action in, that little matter of the worthy Mr. Breeds and his far-too-heady wine. Glancing askance, indeed, at the subject with his mind’s eye now and again, he felt a degree of perplexity as to the course it would be anything less than futile for him to pursue; inasmuch as nothing definite in the way of roguery had succeeded his drugging, and it was quite open to the landlord to affirm that a dog-tired guest had fallen sound asleep over his bottle. But for the present, adequate debate of the subject must be adjourned sine die; and, in the meantime, the gentlemen of the “Dog and Duck” were leaving him, to all appearance, peaceably alone.

Now, on that particular morning, he took stock of his newly-equipped and carpeted rooms with a feeling of satisfaction such as a rescinded sentence of exile might have afforded him. A few days more would see the advent of such servants as he had thought himself justified in engaging through his agent; and then his house would be ordered for all immediate purposes, and he himself served and tended somewhat as befitted his condition.

“Delsrop” furnished was a very different living-place to the gusty and melancholy habitation of his hitherto experience; and for the first time since his arrival he was feeling a certain sense of homeliness—shadowy, indeed, but with a faint warmth in it that was a little earnest of comfort to come. Much, of course, remained to do—so much, in fact, that, in moments of depression, he would liken his present accomplishment to putting new wine into old bottles. The grounds were still a wilderness; the out-buildings tottering to their fall; the canker of decay was eaten into the very plaster-epidermis of the house itself. Still, the husk remained splendidly durable—a stubborn fortress from which to direct operations; and in this at least was matter for most sincere self-congratulation.

In the prospect of an established household, he was considerably exercised in his mind as to what course to pursue with Whimple and his overburdening sister. Did he consult his own common-sense, he would get rid of them both without any further humouring of indecision. But to this outright action he could not bring himself, and that from an aggravating sentiment no less than a motive of policy. As to the latter, he must needs hesitate before returning to the enemy their possible confederate, whose weakness lay in his unconsciousness of surveillance. As to the former, inexplicable and irritating as it was, he could not deny even to himself that, for some unaccountable reason, he took a secret interest in the poor creature’s personality—was aware of a perverse desire in his own heart that the man would by some means succeed in disabusing him of the prejudice he had formed against him, and end by becoming his devoted and confidential servant. Against this last wish or emotion, unformulated as it was, he would bitterly rebel; but the germ of it quickened in him nevertheless.

Now, having dined and smoked a pipe of good tobacco, he wandered off into his grounds, easy and ruminative, and gave thought pleasantly to the brighter side of things. Pushing, presently, into the dense shrubbery that skirted the Stockbridge road, he came suddenly upon a little clearing amongst the bushes, in the middle of which was a bricked dome or segment of masonry, something after the shape of an Esquimaux hut, which protruded from the ground and was accessible by way of a low door or trap of rotted wood. Against this last he kicked, driving it open, and was aware of a pit within, deepish, but half-choked with weedy rubbish—a disused ice-house, by every token of shape and situation.

“Mouth of Hades on the dead plains of Enna!” he murmured, with a little self-preening smile over his remembered classics; and he fell a-dreaming, as he strolled away, in that trance of paganism that enwraps many who give licence to their imaginations in silent woods.

“But who shall be my Persephone?” he breathed, and thought of one or other of two most meet for abduction. He felt his arms about—whom? No matter. The broken cellar served his fancy for a spell, and, unguessed by him, was to serve his experience by and by with tougher matter than day-dreams.

Suddenly, issuing from a dank, dumb little track amongst the bushes, he found himself looking over the ruined garden to the rear of the lodge. He jerked to a halt. Amongst the compact weediness of depraved vegetable stuff, thridding the cumbered paths and alleys of straggled fruit trees, moved the girl Darda. She sang to herself in that odd wild voice of hers, the stinging disharmonies of which seemed to flicker up in the flame of her hair. Then, in a moment she had drifted into the gloom of the porch and vanished.

At that the watcher came out into the open, and stepping softly, followed in silent pursuit. He could not have explained what impelled him to it. Only it seemed to him a natural counter-move in that game of secrecy and suspicion he had set his wits to master.