lady anne sat gazing absently into the heart of the fire, watching the restless leap of the flames and the little scattered handfuls of sparks, like golden star dust, tossed upward into the dark hollow of the chimney by the blazing logs. the “warm and sunny south”—at least, that part of it within a twelve-mile radius of dartmoor—is quite capable, on occasion, of belying its guide-book designation, particularly towards the latter end of summer, and there was a raw dampness in the atmosphere this evening which made welcome company of a fire.
it seemed a little lonely without jean’s cheery presence, and lady anne, conscious of a craving for human companionship, glanced impatiently at the clock. blaise should surely have returned by now from his all-day conference with the estate agent.
she had not much longer to wait. the quick hoof-beats of a trotting horse sounded on the drive outside, and a few minutes later the door of the room was thrown open and blaise himself strode in.
“well, madonna?” he stooped and kissed her. “been a lonely lady to-day without all your children?”
she smiled up at him.
“just a little,” she acknowledged. “when i came back from those stupid committees, which are merely an occasion for half the old tabbies in the village to indulge in a squabble with the other half, i couldn’t help feeling it would have been nice to find jean here to laugh over them with me. jean’s sense of humour is refreshing; it never lets one down. however, i suppose she’s enjoying her beloved moor by moonlight, so i mustn’t grumble.”
blaise shook his head.
“much moonlight they’ll see!” he observed. “i rode through a thick mist coming hack from hedge barton. it’ll he a blanket fog on dartmoor to-night.”
“oh, poor jean! she’ll he so disappointed.”
tormarin sat down on the opposite side of the hearth and lit a cigarette. the dancing firelight flickered across his face. he was thinner of late, his mother thought with a quick pang. the lines of the well-beloved face had deepened; it had a worn—almost ascetic—look, like that of a man who is constantly contending against something.
lady anne looked across at him almost beseechingly.
“son,” she said, “have you quite made up your mind to let happiness pass you by?”
he started, roused out of the reverie into which he had fallen.
“i don’t think i’ve got any say in the matter,” he replied quietly. “i’ve forfeited my rights in that respect. you know that.”
“and jean? are you going to make her forfeit her rights, too?”
“she’ll find happiness—somehow—elsewhere. it would be a very short-lived affair with me”—bitterly. “after what has happened, it’s evident i’m not to be trusted with a woman’s happiness.”
there were sounds of arrival in the hall. nick’s voice could be heard issuing instructions about the bestowal of his fishing tackle. lady anne spoke quickly.
“i don’t think so, blaise. not with the happiness of the woman you love.” she laid her hand on his shoulder as she passed him on her way into the hall to welcome the wanderer returned. “tell jean,” she advised, “and see what she says. i think you’ll find she’d be willing to risk it.”
when she had left the room blaise remained staring impassively into the fire. his expression gave no indication as to whether or not lady anne’s advice had stirred him to any fresh impulse of decision, and when, presently, his mother and nick entered the room together, he addressed the latter as casually as though no emotional depths had been stirred by the recent conversation.
“hullo, nick! had good sport?”
“only so-so. we had a jolly time, though—out at het-worthy bridge. but i had the deuce of a business getting back from exeter this evening. it was so misty in places we could hardly see to drive the car.”
blaise nodded.
“yes, i know. i found the same. it’s a surprising change in the weather.”
“poor jean will have had a disappointing trip to dartmoor,” put in lady anne. “the mist is certain to be bad up there.”
“dartmoor? but she didn’t go—surely?” and nick glanced from one to the other questioningly.
“oh, yes, she did. it was quite clear in the afternoon when she started—looked like being a lovely night.”
“but—but——”
nick stammered and came to a halt. there was a look of bewilderment in his eyes.
“but who’s she gone with?” he demanded at last. “i thought she said she intended stopping the night with judith and burke at their bungalow?”
“so she did,” replied blaise. “why? have you any objection?”—smiling.
“no. only”—nick frowned—“i don’t quite understand it judith isn’t on the moor.”
“not on the moor?” broke simultaneously from lady anne and blaise.
“how do you know, nick?” added the latter gravely.
“why, because”—nick’s face wore an expression of puzzled concern—“because i saw judith in newton abbot late this evening.”
blaise leaned forward, a sudden look of concentration on his face.
“you saw judith?” he repeated. “what time?”
“it must have been nearly eight o’clock. i was buzzing along in jim cresswell’s car to catch the seven forty-five up train, and i saw judith with one of the holfords—you know, those people from london—turning into the gateway of a house. i expect it was the place the holfords are stopping at. they didn’t see me.”
“you’re quite certain? you’ve made no mistake?” said blaise sharply.
“of course i’ve made no mistake. think i don’t know judy when i see her? but what’s the meaning of it, blaise?”
tormarin rose to his feet, tossing the stump of his cigarette into the fire.
“i’m not sure,” he said slowly. “but i’m going to find out. madonna”—turning to his mother—“did jean tell you just exactly what judith said when she rang her up on the’phone about this moonlight plan?”
“it wasn’t judith who rang up,” replied lady anne, a faint misgiving showing itself in her face. “it was geoffrey who gave the message.”
tormarin looked at her with a sudden awakened expression in his eyes. there was dread in them, too—keen dread. the expression of a man who, all at once, sees the thing he values more than anything in the whole world being torn from him—dragged forcibly away from the shelter he could give into some unspeakable darkness of disaster.
“that settles it.” he pressed his finger against the bell-push and held it there, and when baines came hurrying in response to the imperative summons, he said curtly: “order me a fresh horse round at once—at once, mind—tell harding to saddle orion, and to look sharp about it.”
“blaise”—lady anne’s obvious uneasiness had deepened to a sharp anxiety—“blaise, what are you going to do? what—what are you afraid of?”
he looked her straight in the eyes.
“i’m afraid of just what you are afraid of, madonna—of the devil let loose in geoffrey burke.”
“and—and you’re going to look for her—for jean?”
“i’m going to find her,” he corrected quietly.
gravity had set its seal on all three faces. each was conscious of the same fear—the fear they could not put into words.
“but why do you take orion?” asked nick. “the little thoroughbred mare—redwing—would do the journey quicker and he lighter of foot over any marshy ground on the moor.”
“orion can go where he chooses,” returned tormarin. “and he’ll choose to-night. redwing is a little bit of a thing, though she’s game as a pebble. but she couldn’t carry—two.”
the significance of tormarin’s choice of his big roan hunter, three-parts thoroughbred and standing sixteen hands, came home to nick. he nodded without comment.
silently he and lady anne accompanied blaise into the hall. from the gravelled drive outside came the impatient stamping of orion’s iron-shod hoofs. just at the last lady anne clung to her son’s arm.
“you’ll bring her back, blaise?” she urged, a quiver in her voice.
“i’ll bring her back, madonna,” he answered quietly. “don’t worry.”
a minute later he and the great roan horse were lost to sight in the mirk of the night. only the beat of galloping hoofs was flung back to the two who were left to watch and wait, muffled and vague through the shrouding mist like the sound of a distant drum.
