to me indistinctly; but I could hear the deep bass of the man as he slung some scornful exclamation out upon the moist air. His great figure, looming unnaturally large through the misty twilight, was the last to vanish. It was my first glimpse of Mr. Bruce Deville of Deville Court.
I turned round with a terrified start. Almost at my side some heavy body had fallen to the ground with a faint groan. A single step, and I was bending over the prostrate form of a man. I caught his hand and gazed into his face with horrified eyes. It was my father. He must have been within a yard of me when he fell.
His eyes were half closed, and his hands were cold. Gathering up my skirts in my hand, I ran swiftly across the lawn into the house.
I met Alice in the hall. “Get some brandy!” I cried, breathlessly. “Father is ill—out in the garden! Quick!”
She brought it in a moment. Together we hurried back to where I had left him. He had not moved. His cheeks were ghastly pale, and his eyes were still closed. I felt his pulse and his heart, and unfastened his collar.
“There is nothing serious the matter—at least I think not,” I whispered to Alice. “It is only a fainting fit.”
I rubbed his hands, and we forced some brandy between his lips. Presently he opened his eyes, and raised his head a little, looking half fearfully around.
“It was her voice,” he whispered, hoarsely. “It came to me through the shadows! Where is she? What have you done with her? There was a rustling of the leaves—and then I heard her speak!”
“There is no one here but Alice and myself,” I said, bending over him. “You must have been fancying things. Are you better?”
“Better!” He looked up at both of us, and the light came back into his face.
“Ah! I see! I must have fainted!” he exclaimed. “I remember the study was close, and I came to get cool. Yet, I thought—I thought——”
I held out my arm, and he staggered up. He was still white and shaken, but evidently his memory was returning.
“I remember it was close in the study,” he said—“very close; I was tired too. I must have walked too far. I don’t like it though. I must see a doctor; I must certainly see a doctor!”
Alice bent over him full of sympathy, and he took her arm. I walked behind him in silence. A curious thought had taken possession of me. I could not get rid of the impression of my father’s first words, and his white, terrified face. Was it indeed a wild fancy of his, or had he really heard this voice which had stirred him so deeply? I tried to laugh at the idea. I could not. His cry was so natural, his terror so apparent! He had heard a voice. He had been stricken with a sudden terror. Whose was the voice—whence his fear of it? I watched him leaning slightly upon Alice’s arm, and walking on slowly in front of me towards the house. Already he was better. His features had reassumed their customary air of delicate and reserved strength. I looked at him with new and curious eyes. For the first time I wondered whether there might be another world, or the ashes of an old one beneath that grey, impenetrable mask.
CHAPTER III
MR. BRUCE DEVILLE
My father’s first sermon was a great success. As usual, it was polished, eloquent, and simple, and withal original. He preached without manuscript, almost without notes, and he took particular pains to keep within the comprehension of his tiny congregation. Lady Naselton, who waited for me in the aisle, whispered her warm approval.
“Whatever induced your father to come to such an out-of-the-way hole as this?” she exclaimed, as we passed through the porch into the fresh, sunlit air. “Why, he is an orator! He should preach at cathedrals! I never heard any one whose style I like better. But all the same it is a pity to think of such a sermon being preached to such a congregation. Don’t you think so yourself?”
I agreed with her heartily.
“I wonder that you girls let him come here and bury himself, with his talents,” she continued.
“I had not much to do with it,” I reminded her. “You forget that I have lived abroad all my life; I really have only been home for about eight or nine months.”
“Well, I should have thought that your sister would have been more ambitious for him,” she declared. “However, it’s not my business, of course. Since you are here, I shall insist, positively insist, upon coming every Sunday. My husband says that it is such a drag for the horses. Men have such ridiculous ideas where horses are concerned. I am sure that they take more care of them than they do of their wives. Come and have tea with me to-morrow, will you?”
“If I can,” I promised. “It all depends upon what Providence has in store for me in the shape of callers.”
“There is no one left to call,” Lady Naselton declared, with her foot upon the carriage step. “I looked through your card plate the other day whilst I was waiting for you. You will be left in peace for a little while now.”
“You forget our neighbor,” I answered, laughing. “He has not called yet, and I mean him to.”
Lady Naselton leaned back amongst the soft cushions of her barouche, and smiled a pitying smile at me.
“You need not wait for him, at any rate,” she said. “If you do you will suffer for the want of fresh air.”
The carriage drove off, and I skirted the church yard, and made my way round to the Vicarage gate. Away across the park I could see a huge knickerbockered figure leaning over a gate, with his back to me, smoking a pipe. It was not a graceful attitude, nor was it a particularly reputable way of spending a Sunday morning.
I was reminded of him again as I walked up the path towards the house. A few yards from our dining room window a dog was lying upon a flower bed edge. As I approached, it limped up, whining, and looked at me with piteous brown eyes. I recognized the breed at once. It was a beagle—one of Mr. Deville’s without a doubt. It lay at my feet with its front paw stretched out, and when I stooped down to pat it, it wagged its tail feebly, but made no effort to rise. Evidently its leg was broken.
I fetched some lint from the house, and commenced to bind up the limb as carefully as possible. The dog lay quite still, whining and licking my hand every now and then. Just as I was finishing off the bandage I became conscious that some one was approaching the garden—a firm, heavy tread was crossing the lane. In a moment or two a gruff voice sounded almost at my elbow.
“I beg pardon, but I think one of my dogs is here.”
The words were civil enough, but the tone was brusque and repellant. I looked round without removing my hands from the lint. Our neighbor’s appearance was certainly not encouraging. His great frame was carelessly clad in a very old shooting suit, which once might have been of good cut and style, but was now only fit for the rag dealer. He wore a grey flannel shirt with a turn-down collar of the same material. His face, whatever its natural expression might have been, was disfigured just then with a dark, almost a ferocious, scowl. His hand was raised, as though unwillingly, to his cap, and a pair of piercing grey eyes were flashing down upon me from beneath his heavily marked eyebrows. He stood frowning down from his great height, a singularly powerful and forbidding object.
I
