The Long Arm of Mannister/Chapter 9

INCE when," Mrs. De la Mere asked, "have you been your own chauffeur?"

"Since I bought a car of my own," Mannister answered. "One must do something. I hate golf, I am too old for cricket. The sports I know anything of come later. This is interesting, at any rate, and one gets into the country easily."

"Interesting?" she repeated. "I call it delightful! And you drive as though you knew all about it. I declare that I am not in the least nervous."

Mannister did not reply, for they were still in the suburbs of London, and the great car which he was driving needed all his attention. But soon the tramway lines came to an end, the road broadened, they were passing from suburbanism to the country proper. Mrs. De la Mere leaned back amongst the cushions and half closed her eyes.

"After all," she murmured, "I am sure that there is nothing more beautiful than the simple pleasures of life. What is it in the hedges that smells so sweet?"

The west wind blew in their faces. Mannister took off his cap and threw it behind to the chauffeur.

"Why do we waste our time at Ranelagh and Richmond?" he remarked. "The Londoner's love of the country, after all, has something artificial about it. One likes groves and trees and flower-beds, but one loves the flavour of civilization with them all."

"A basket chair on the lawn, and cucumber sandwiches with one's tea," Mrs. De la Mere murmured. "But this, at any rate, is the real thing."

They rushed on through the fragrant air. It was a late warm day in spring. The violets were still in the hedges, and the early cowslips were showing in the meadows. Above their heads the birds were singing. Here and there an early butterfly fluttered across the honeysuckle-wreathed hedge.

"It is years," Mrs. De la Mere murmured, "since I really felt that I was in the country. Do you know, I wonder, that I once lived in a village?"

Mannister looked straight ahead down the white dusty road.

"Yes," he said. "I know that you did. I seem to have one of those wearisome memories that forget nothing. I remember the name of the village where you lived."

They passed a hay-field, caught for a moment the delicious perfume of the falling grass, and heard the musical whirr of the mowing machines. Then on again across a common, where the yellow gorse was budding, and far below a faint blue mist rose from the lower lands.

Mrs. De la Mere raised her veil, and forgot that there was powder upon her face. There was something familiar about the swiftly rushing air, the song of the birds, and the sunshine. She turned a little doubtfully toward Mannister.

"Will you tell me why," she demanded, "you have asked me to come with you to-day?"

He shook his head.

"Not yet," he answered. "Call it a whim if you like."

"You are not a person of whims," she said thoughtfully. "You do not do things without an object. Why did you ask me to come with you?"

"If I had any reason at all," Mannister said, "beyond the obvious one of securing for myself a delightful companion, you will know very soon. In the meantime, be patient. Surely there are worse ways of spending a spring day than this!"

"I am content," she murmured. "Even though you are my enemy, I am at least going to meet my fate pleasantly. How far are we going, my host? What shall we find at the end of the journey? "

"We are going a long way," he answered, "and what we find at the end of the journey depends a little upon ourselves."

The villages grew fewer and the road more deserted. Mannister increased the pace of the car, and with the gathering speed, the possibility for conversation, so far as he was concerned, seemed to pass away. He sat a little forward in his seat, his eyes fixed upon the road ahead, his whole attention rivetted [sic] upon his task. The woman at his side, who had all the courage of the fatalist, sat there calm and without misgivings. If the time had come for the payment of her debt to this man, she knew him well enough to be sure that no protests of hers would be of any avail. Her chief sensation was curiosity. Of late she had had some curious thoughts concerning Mannister. She had begun to wonder whether he were indeed the man of steel he seemed.

They stayed for lunch at a wayside inn. Mannister ate little, and seemed restlessly anxious to depart. She had taken it for granted when they started off again that he would turn back toward London. Instead he kept the car going steadily westwards.

"I am not unduly curious," she remarked, settling down once more by his side, "but we seem to have come about a hundred miles, and you are still rushing away from London. Is this a day excursion? Do you intend to be back in London in time for dinner? I did not prepare for a tour."

"When we return," Mannister said, "depends on many things. At present we are going straight ahead. If it becomes necessary there is always the railway."

"For me," she murmured, "no railway. I am content. Drive like this through such a country, and I do not care whether it be night or day. In an hour or two I shall forget that I am an old woman, and that my home is under the limelight."

"No one's home is there," Mannister answered. "We flutter around those lights like moths around a candle. We imagine ourselves prisoners, but in our hearts we know that we lack only the will to be free. Once we have made up our minds to break away, then the rest is not so difficult."

Mrs. De la Mere smiled bitterly.

"My friend," she said; "I beg your pardon, my enemy—you speak now of things you know little about. The chains that bind us to our every-day life, the chains of custom and habit, are not easily broken. Sometimes they are lengthened, and we stray a little further away, but one always goes back, that is to say we ordinary people do. There may be men who are strong enough to file away the rivets—men, not often women!"

Mannister bent over the handles and the car slackened speed. He brought it to a standstill close to the left-hand side of the road, beneath a grove of chestnut trees. Across the low hedge they could see an old- fashioned ivy-covered house, with lawns coming down almost to the road. A little pathway from the house, bordered by a ring fence, passed close to the side of the hedge and ended at the drive a few yards further on. Beyond was a small paddock, and several rhododendron beds in the zenith of their splendour. Mannister took out his case and lit a cigarette.

"A peaceful little place that," he remarked.

She withdrew her eyes from the pink-budded chestnut blossom overhead, and looked across the lawns towards the house.

"It is charming," she said.

"I wonder," he continued, "what sort of people are content to live there. Are they young or are they old? Do they live here for rest, or because they have not yet felt the call of the lights?"

"Who can tell?" she answered, idly. "Why do you stay here so near to the gates? They could see you from the windows of the house."

"Why not?" he answered. "At least one is free to admire their chestnut blossoms. They do not know that we have presumed to wonder as to what sort of people they may be. Besides, I am not at all sure that they can see us from here."

A girl came suddenly through the open door of the house, and stood upon the further lawn. Her hands were behind her, and she was looking steadily back in the direction whence they had come. She was tall and graceful, her fair hair was brushed simply back from her forehead, her gown was white, simply made, and a little short. Whilst they watched her she raised her hand and shaded her eyes. Mannister looked from the girl to his companion.

"You see," he murmured, "she is typical of all the world. She is looking to where, beyond the horizon, those lights are calling. She has probably just left school, a convent in Belgium or Paris perhaps, and she is longing for the things which come with freedom."

Mrs. De la Mere had watched the girl with fascinated eyes. Suddenly she looked away.

"Do drive on!" she said, in a low tone. "I dislike looking at children of that age."

"We cannot go for a moment," Mannister answered. "The engine needs cooling. This rest is doing it good. Tell me what you think she is looking for, that child."

Once more Sophy de la Mere's eyes were fixed upon the slim girlish figure. She stared as one who is fascinated against her will. At that moment the door of the house opened, and an elderly man, leaning a little upon his stick, came out. He passed his arm through the girl's and they began to walk slowly towards the little path. Mrs. De la Mere stirred in her place uneasily.

"Can't you start the car Mr. Mannister?" she asked. "If they come all the way round the path they will pass along by the side of the hedge, and they will think that we stopped here to watch them."

Mannister shook his head.

"Five minutes or so we must have," he said. "This is a new car, and I dare not risk having her over-heated. Open the bonnet, George," he added, turning round to the chaffeur [sic]. "She is hot, isn't she?"

"A little, sir," the man admitted.

"Change the sparking plug in No. 2 cylinder," Mannister ordered. "I like this place and I do not want to hurry," he added, turning to his companion. "If they walk round here now they will think we are merely doing a little repairing."

Mrs. De la Mere was leaning a trifle forward in her seat. Her eyes never left the two approaching figures. Mannister heard her breathing softly. Suddenly she drew down her veil and leaned back in the seat. He caught a glimpse of her face, and he was a little alarmed.

"Are you faint?" he asked.

"No!" she answered. "Let me alone!"

He felt her hands clutch at the cushions. The man and the girl came along the path close to where their car was standing. As they passed the man raised his hat and turned to Mannister.

"I hope you are not in any trouble, sir?" he asked civilly. "Can we be of any assistance?"

"Thank you very much," Mannister answered. "We are only doing a very slight repair. It will barely take five minutes, but we could not resist choosing such a delightful spot for our brief rest."

The two passed on. Mrs. De la Mere turned slowly round in her seat and her eyes followed them. Her breath was coming fast. She made no apologies to Mannister, for she knew very well that he understood. When at last she spoke to him her tone was almost hysterical.

"You are getting more subtle in your tortures," she said. "Is it over now? May we go on?"

"No!" he answered. "It is not over!"

"What do you mean?" she asked hoarsely.

Mannister called to the chauffeur, who was on the point of completing his task.

"Take my flask to the lodge gates there," he directed, "and have it half filled with water. You need not hurry. We shall be here for another quarter of an hour."

"Very good, sir," the man answered, and a few seconds later disappeared. Mannister turned once more to the woman by his side.

"Sophy de la Mere," he said, "you are the last upon that list which I have carried in my pocket since my return to England. One by one those names have been crossed off. Yours alone is left there. This morning I am going to draw a line through your name too, and scatter the fragments of that little document for the west wind to play with. But before I draw that line you must pay."

"Haven't I paid?" she moaned. "Do you think that I am so callous? Do you think that the passing of those two was not agony as great to me as anything those others may have suffered?"

"Perhaps," he answered, "and yet you have not paid!"

"Then for Heaven's sake tell me quickly what it is that I must do," she demanded. "Shall I tear off my veil and go and confront them? Shall I throw my arms around the man who was my husband, and embrace the child who was my daughter? I am not asking for your mercy. I only beg you to tell me quickly and let me get it over."

"You have," he said quietly, "divined your task. You are going into the garden, and you are going to speak to those two."

She looked at him in something like horror.

"You are brute enough for that?" she whispered.

"Remember," he answered, "that your suffering, if suffering it be, is a matter of a quarter of an hour. There are others on my list who will not forget so long as they live that I have been their enemy."

She laughed fiercely.

"One can suffer enough in five minutes," she answered, "to carry the brand of one's suffering to the doors of death."

"It will be your hard fortune if you find it so," he answered. "Allow me!"

He had descended from the car and stood with outstretched hands. She shrank away from him.

"I will not come," she said.

Mannister remained unmoved. His hand was still extended. He said nothing. He simply waited.

"You cannot ask this thing of me," she moaned. "It is impossible. There is nothing for me to say. I could not bear to look her in the face."

Still Mannister did not move. Still his hands were stretched out and his eyes fixed upon hers. With a little sob she descended and stood by his side. Without a word he led her through the gate. The girl had gone into the house. The man, who was on the upper lawn, saw them coming and advanced courteously to meet them. When he was still a few yards off, something perhaps in the woman's figure or her walk impressed him. He stopped short. The woman swayed, but Mannister held her arm firmly.

"Mr. Heronswell," Mannister said quietly, "I should be glad if you could spare me five minutes. I have something to say to you."

The man stood motionless, but he was looking at the woman by Mannister's side. Mannister took his acquiescence for granted.

"It would be better," he said, "if you would come a little further from the house, say to that seat under the cedar tree."

The man had not the will to go. Mrs. De la Mere was trembling so that movement seemed impossible. Yet they went where they were bidden, and the woman sank upon the seat where they were bidden, and the woman sank upon the seat

"Mr. Heronswell," Mannister said, "I am neither philanthropist nor meddler. I am one of those who by force of circumstances live outside the world, and realize the truth of the most trite of all sayings, that 'Outsiders see most of the game.' You knew me years ago. My name is Mannister. I knew this lady when she was your wife. You disagreed, she treated you badly, and there was a scandal. She left you, and through some quixotism you declined to divorce her. That is to say you left her upon the world a woman with no clearly defined position. You never gave her the chance to marry again or to start a new life. In other words, your whim, for it was nothing more, is responsible for anything that may have happened to her since."

"I am a Catholic," the man said slowly, "and I do not recognize divorce."

"And I," Mannister answered quickly, "recognize no creed whatever save that one which teaches men and women to be the keepers of their own conscience. I should like you to understand that Mrs. De la Mere had no notion this morning of where she was coming, or of whom she was going to see. She had no notion of making any sort of appeal to you, she did not even know where you lived. It is I who planned this visit, and the first part of it has been a penance to her sufficient to cover many sins. For the rest, I want you at least to hear from an outsider a little summary of the present situation so far as it concerns you, your conscience, and the woman who was your wife."

"Who was my wife!" the man repeated, looking fixedly at the figure upon the seat. Mrs. De la Mere's head had dropped between her hands. Mannister was executioner indeed.

"Briefly," Mannister said, "the outsider's view is this. You declined to give your wife her freedom, therefore I say that her subsequent life, whatever it may have been, is of your making. Her sins and her weaknesses can be written down to your account, and I think that the account is nearly full. It is time for you to intervene, for your own sake, for hers, and for your daughter's."

"You mean," Heronswell said, and his voice seemed to them all to come from a long way off, "you mean that I should apply now, after all these years, for a divorce?"

Mannister did not answer for a moment. A breath of wind brought them a waft of faint sweet perfume from the rose bushes. The momentary silence was broken only by the humming of bees and the soft sighing of the wind in the little grove. All the time Heronswell's eyes were fixed upon Mannister.

"You mean that," he repeated, "after all these years?"

"No," Mannister answered, "I do not mean that. I mean that her place is here with you."

The woman rose suddenly up. For the first time she spoke.

"Bernard," she said, "don't listen to him. I did not know. I would not have come if I had known what he was going to say to you. Shake hands with me once if you will, and let me go. I am afraid to stay here. I am afraid that she will come back."

The woman looked anxiously up toward the house. Heronswell turned his head and followed the direction of her gaze.

"She is very like you were, Sophy," he said quietly.

"Take care of her," the woman sobbed, "and don't be too stern."

"No!" the man answered, thoughtfully. "I have learnt my lesson."

The woman stepped back with a little gasp. She would have hastened away toward the lodge gates, but Mannister caught her by the wrist. The girl, with a rose basket upon her arm was coming round the side of the house, and seeing them had hesitated for a moment.

"Heronswell," Mannister said, "in the old days you were a little to blame. You have a chance now to prove yourself a man. Take her back. Give the girl her mother. You will never repent it."

The woman struggled to get away, and Mannister pointed towards the house. The girl was coming slowly towards them.

"Look," he said, "there is something there which should call to you loudly and sweetly enough to break your heart in the days to come if you should close your ears. Heronswell!"

He passed her hand on to Heronswell, who grasped it in his own and drew it towards him. Mannister, with a faint smile, raised his hat and swung round. The chauffeur was in his place, and with a touch of the handle the engine was started.

"We are not waiting for the lady, sir?"

Mannister shook his head, and the car swept on.

Mannister dined alone in his rooms that night, for though he drove with a recklessness somewhat unusual to him, it was eight o'clock before he reached London. Behind him lay the fragments of an eventful day; the fragments, too, of that torn paper, which seemed to him somehow to have become associated with all the changing passions of his later life. It was not until past ten o'clock that he noticed the little pile of letters by his side. One by one he glanced them through carelessly enough. He came at last to a black-bordered envelope, which he tore open. The announcement it contained was brief enough. Sir George Mannister, of Sherwell Court, was dead, and his lawyers would be glad to receive instructions from the new baronet. Mannister threw it aside, and leaning back in his chair laughed long and loudly.

"So the game goes on," he muttered to himself. "It is only necessary to hate the days that come and the things they bring, to achieve complete success in life. I was robbed of a fortune and I made a larger one. One by one the people who robbed me have paid the price. Premier baronet! I think that I must end it very soon, or I shall begin to think that I am a descendant of Monte Cristo."

He tore open the other letters recklessly. Almost the last one was from Dunster, with whom he had exchanged now and then small civilities. He was staying at Nice with his daughter, and begged Mannister to come out.

"By-the-bye," the letter wound up, "there is a man here who mentioned your name once. Perhaps you used to know him. He calls himself Gaston Sinclair. I hope you will decide to run out, if it is only for a few days. The journey is easy, and the weather out here is delightful. I know that England doesn't mean much for you in the spring. Do make up your mind, and send me a telegram to-morrow."

Mannister did not wait until the morrow. He kept his finger pressed to the bell button until his servant hastily appeared.

"A Continental ABC at once, Morton," his master ordered.