In what quarter was the newcomer moving? The girl could not at first decide; indeed, she never was quite clear, but it seemed to her that someone was creeping along the fence which divided Exham Park and Oak Dene. All the while, the wounded man continued to groan.

Suddenly, she could not tell how she knew, but she knew that the newcomer had not only heard the groans, but, in all probability, had detected the quarter from whence they came; possibly had caught sight of the rec.u.mbent figure, prostrate on the gra.s.s. Because, just then, the moon came out again in undiminished splendour, and, almost simultaneously, the footsteps ceased. To Violet Arnott, the plain inference seemed to be that the returning light had brought the sufferer into instant prominence. Silence again, broken only by groans.

Presently, even they ceased.

Then, without the slightest warning, something occurred which was far worse than the gunshot, which affected her with a paralysis of horror, as if death itself had her by the throat.

The footsteps began again, only with a strange, new swiftness, as if whoever was responsible for them had suddenly darted forward. In the same moment there was a noise which might have been made by a man struggling to gain his feet. Then, just for a second, an odd little silence. Then two voices uttering together what seemed to her to be formless e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. While the voices had still not ceased to be audible, there came a dreadful sound; the sound as of a man who was in an agony of fear and pain. Then a thud--an eloquent thud. And, an instant afterwards, someone went crashing, dashing through the underwood, like some maddened wild beast, flying for life.

The runner was pa.s.sing close to where she stood. She did not dare to move; she could not have moved even had she dared--her limbs had stiffened. But she could manage to move her head, and she did. She turned, and saw, in the moonlight, in headlong flight, forcing aside the brushwood as he went, Hugh Morice.

What happened during the next few moments she never knew. The probability is that, though she retained her footing, consciousness left her. When, once more, she realised just where she was, and what had occurred, all was still, with an awful stillness. She listened for a sound--any sound; those inarticulate sounds which are part and parcel of a wood at night. She could hear nothing--no whisper of the breeze among the leaves; no hum of insect life; no hint of woodland creatures who wake while men are sleeping. A great hush seemed to have fallen on the world--a dreadful hush. Her heart told her that there was horror in the silence.

What should she do? where should she go? what was lying on the ground under the beech tree, on which not so long ago, Hugh Morice had cut their initials with his hunting-knife? She was sure there was something--what?

She would have to go and see. The thought of doing so was hideous--but the idea of remaining in ignorance was not to be borne. Knowledge must be gained at any price; she would have to know. She waited. Perhaps something would happen to tell her; to render it unnecessary that she should go upon that gruesome errand. Perhaps--perhaps he would groan again? If he only would! it would be the gladdest sound she had ever heard.

But he would not--or he did not.

Yet all was still--that awful stillness.

It was no use her playing the coward--putting it off. She would have to go--she must go. She would never know unless she did. The sooner she went, the sooner it would be done.

So she returned along the footpath towards the beech tree. In the moonlight the way was plain enough. Yet she went stumbling along it as she had never stumbled even in the darkness--uncertain upon her feet; reeling from side to side; starting at shadows; stopping half-a-dozen times in as many yards, fearful of she knew not what.

What was that? A sound? No, nothing. Only a trick of her imagination, which was filled with such fantastic imaginings, such shapes and sounds of horror.

She came to the end of the path. Before her was the open s.p.a.ce; the favourite nook where she had first met Hugh Morice, which she had come to regard almost as a sanctuary. In front was the saucer-shaped break in the ground which she had found offered such luxurious ease. What was lying in it now?

Nothing? Or--was that something? Well under the shadow of the beech tree, where the moonlight scarcely reached? almost in the darkness, so that at a first glance it was difficult to see? She stood, leaning a little forward, and looked--long, intently. As she looked her heart seemed to become gradually constricted; she became conscious of actual pain--acute, lancinating.

Something was there. A figure--of a man--in light-coloured clothes. He lay on the ground, so far as she could judge from where she stood, a little on his right side, with his hands thrown over his head as if asleep--fast asleep. The rec.u.mbent figure had for her an unescapable fascination. She stared and stared, as though its stillness had in it some strange quality.

She called to the sleeper--in a tone which was so unlike her ordinary voice that--even in that awful moment--the sound of it startled her.

"Robert! Robert! Wake up!"

Probably not a dozen times since she had known this man had she called him by his Christian name. It was so singular that she should have done so; the mere singularity of the thing should have roused him from the soundest slumber. But he continued silent. He neither moved nor answered, nor was there any sign to show that he had heard. She called again.

"Robert! Robert! Do you hear me, wake up! Answer me!"

But he did neither--he neither woke nor answered.

The persistent silence was a.s.suming an appalling quality. She could endure it no longer. She suddenly moved forward under the shadow of the beech tree, and bent down to look. What was that upon the front of his jacket? She touched it with her finger.

"Oh--h--h!"

A sound, which was part shriek, part groan, broke from her trembling lips. Her finger-tips were wet. She had not realised what the dark mark might mean--now she understood. All at once she burst out crying, until she saw something shining up at her from the turf almost at her feet.

At sight of it she ceased to cry with the same suddenness with which she had begun. She picked the shining thing up. It was a knife--his knife--Hugh Morice's--the one with which he had cut their initials in the trunk of the tree. Its great blade was all wet.

She gave one quick glance round, slipped the blade--still all wet--inside her bodice; then, returning to the winding footpath, ran along it at the top of her speed, neither pausing nor looking back.

CHAPTER XIII

AFTERWARDS

At the foot of the broad flight of steps leading up to her own hall door she stopped for the first time. It was late. What was the exact hour she had no notion. She only knew that, in that part of the world, it would be regarded as abnormal. The hall door was closed, that little fact in itself was eloquent. There were outer and inner doors. It was the custom to leave the outer door wide open until all the household had retired to rest. She would have to knock to gain admission. Her late return could hardly fail to attract attention. She was breathless with the haste she had made, heated, dishevelled. Whoever admitted her would be sure to notice the condition she was in.

It could not be helped. Let them notice. She was certainly not going to fear the scrutiny of her own servants. So she told herself. She declined to admit that they were sufficiently human to dare to criticise her movements. Besides, what did it matter?

She knocked with difficulty, the knocker was so heavy. Instantly the door was opened by old Day, the butler. Day was a person of much importance. He was a survival of her uncle's time, being in occupation of the house while the next owner was being sought for. An excellent servant, with a very clear idea of his own dignity and the responsibility of his position. That he should have opened the door to her with his own hands at that hour, seemed to her to convey a reproof.

She marched straight past him, however, without even a word of thanks.

He addressed to her an inquiry as she went, in his even, level tones, as if there were nothing strange in her entering in such a condition, immediately after her return from a prolonged absence, at the dead of the night. Again her ardent imagination seemed to scent an unspoken criticism, which she ignored.

"Will anything else be required?"

"Nothing. I am going to bed."

In her bedroom she found Evans dozing in an easy-chair. The woman started up as she entered.

"I beg your pardon, miss, for slipping off, but I was beginning to be afraid that something might be wrong." She stared as she began to realise the peculiarity of her young mistress's appearance. "Why, miss, whatever--I hope that nothing's happened."

"What should have happened? Why haven't you gone to bed?"

"Well, miss, I thought that you might want me as this was the first night of your coming home."

"What nonsense! Haven't I told you that I won't have you sit up for me when I'm unusually late? I dislike to feel that my movements are being overlooked by my servants, that they are too intimately acquainted with my goings out and comings in. Go to bed at once."

"Is there nothing I can do for you, miss? Are you--I beg your pardon--but are you sure there's nothing wrong? You look so strange!"

"Wrong? What do you mean--wrong? Go!"

Evans went, the imperturbable demeanour of the well-trained servant not being sufficient to conceal the fact that she went unwillingly.

When she was gone Miss Arnott looked at the silver clock on the mantel-shelf. It was past two. She had been out more than four hours.

Into those four hours had been crowded the events of a lifetime; the girl who had gone out was not the woman who had returned.

For the first time she began to suspect herself of being physically weary. She moved her hand up towards her forehead. As she did so her glance fell on it; it was all smirched with blood. Simultaneously she became aware that stains of the same sort were on the light blue linen costume she was wearing, particularly on the front of the bodice. She moved to a cheval gla.s.s. Was it possible? were her eyes playing her a trick? was there something the matter with the light? Not a bit of it, the thing was clear enough, her face was all smeared with blood, probably where it had been touched by her fingers. Why, now that she could see herself plainly, she saw that she looked as if she had come fresh from a butcher's shambles. No wonder Evans had stared at her in such evident perturbation, demanding if she was sure that there was nothing wrong. Old Day must have been an automaton, not a man, to have betrayed no surprise at the spectacle she presented.

She tore open her bodice, took out from it the knife--his knife, Hugh Morice's. It was drier, but still damp. It was covered with blood all over. It must have been thrust in up to the hilt--even the handle was mired. It had come off on to all her clothes, had penetrated even to her corsets. Seemingly it resembled ink in its capacity to communicate its presence. She stripped herself almost to the skin in the sudden frenzy of her desire to free herself from the contamination of his blood. When she had washed herself she was amazed to see what a sanguine complexion the water had a.s.sumed. It seemed to her that she was in an atmosphere of blood--his blood. What was to be done? She sat down on a chair and tried to think.

It was not surprising that she found it hard to bring herself to a condition in which anything like clarity of thought was possible. But, during the last four hours, she had matured unconsciously, had attained to the possession of will power of strength of which she herself was unsuspicious. She had made up her mind that she would think this thing out, and by degrees she did, after a fashion.

Three leading facts became gradually present to her mind to the exclusion of almost all beside. One was that Robert Champion was dead--dead. And so she had obtained release by the only means to which, as it seemed to her, Mr Whitcomb, that eminent authority on the law of marriage, had pointed. But at what a price! The price exceeded the value of the purchase inconceivably. There was the knife--his knife--to show it. When she shut her eyes she could still see him rushing in the moonlight through the brushwood, like some wild creature, mad with the desire to escape. Beyond all doubt the price was excessive. And it had still to be paid. That was the worst of it, very much the worst. The payment--what form would it take?

As that aspect of the position began to penetrate her consciousness, it was all she could do to keep herself from playing the girl. After all, in years, she was only a girl. In simplicity, in ignorance of evil, in essential purity--a child. When she found herself confronted by the inquiry, what form would the payment take? girl-like, her courage began, as it were, to slip through her finger ends. Then there was that other side to the question, from whom would payment be demanded?