Captain Arundel dressed himself as fast as he could, with the assistance of the valet, and then made his way down the broad staircase, with the help of his cane, upon which he had need to lean pretty heavily, for he was as weak as a child.
"You had better give me the brandy–flask, Morrison," he said. "I am going out before breakfast. You may as well come with me, by–the–by; for I doubt if I could walk as far as I want to go, without the help of your arm."
In the hall Captain Arundel found one of the servants. The western door was open, and the man was standing on the threshold looking out at the morning. The rain had ceased; but the day did not yet promise to be very bright, for the sun gleamed like a ball of burnished copper through a pale November mist.
"Do you know if Mr. Paul Marchmont has gone down to the boat–house?" Edward asked.
"Yes, sir," the man answered; "I met him just now in the quadrangle. He'd been having a cup of coffee with my mistress."
Edward started. They were friends, then, Paul Marchmont and Olivia!––friends, but surely not allies! Whatever villany this man might be capable of committing, Olivia must at least be guiltless of any deliberate treachery?
Captain Arundel took his servant's arm and walked out into the quadrangle, and from the quadrangle to the low–lying woody swamp, where the stunted trees looked grim and weird–like in their leafless ugliness. Weak as the young man was, he walked rapidly across the sloppy ground, which had been almost flooded by the continual rains. He was borne up by his fierce desire to be face to face with Paul Marchmont. The savage energy of his mind was stronger than any physical debility. He dismissed Mr. Morrison as soon as he was within sight of the boat–house, and went on alone, leaning on his stick, and pausing now and then to draw breath, angry with himself for his weakness.
The boat–house, and the pavilion above it, had been patched up by some country workmen. A handful of plaster here and there, a little new brickwork, and a mended window–frame bore witness of this. The ponderous old–fashioned wooden shutters had been repaired, and a good deal of the work which had been begun in John Marchmont's lifetime had now, in a certain rough manner, been completed. The place, which had hitherto appeared likely to fall into utter decay, had been rendered weather–tight and habitable; the black smoke creeping slowly upward from the ivy–covered chimney, gave evidence of occupation. Beyond this, a large wooden shed, with a wide window fronting the north, had been erected close against the boat–house. This rough shed Edward Arundel at once understood to be the painting–room which the artist had built for himself.
He paused a moment outside the door of this shed. A man's voice––a tenor voice, rather thin and metallic in quality––was singing a scrap of Rossini upon the other side of the frail woodwork.
Edward Arundel knocked with the handle of his stick upon the door. The voice left off singing, to say "Come in."