CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
Jenny was almost breathless when she reached the park palings of theManor House, some little distance from the gate at the end of theavenue; and here she paused for a few moments beneath an oak which grewwithin the park, but which, like many others, spread out three or fourhuge horizontal boughs right across the boundary lane, and made the waygloomy even on sunny days.
She looked sharply back in the direction by which she had come, but theevening was closing in more and more gloomy, and the mist exceedinglyclosely related to a rain, was gathering fast and forming drops on theedges of dead leaves and twigs, beside making the grass overhanging thefootpath so wet that the girl's feet and the lower parts of her skirtswere drenched.
No one was in sight or likely to be in that secluded spot, and havinggained her breath, she started off once more, heedless of the sticky mudof the lane, and followed it on, round by the park palings, where theautumn leaves lay thick and rustled as her dress swept over them. In afew minutes she reached a stile in the fence, where a footpath--an oldright of way much objected to by Squire Wilton, as the village peoplecalled him--led across the little park, passing the house close by theend of the shrubbery, and entering another lane, which curved round tojoin the main road right at the far end of the village, a good mile awayfrom the Doctor's cottage.
There were lights in the drawing-room and dining-room, making a dullglow on the thickening mist, as Jenny halted at the end of theshrubbery, and all was still as death, till a dog barked suddenly, andwas answered by half a dozen others, pointers and retrievers, in thekennel by the stables. This lasted in a dismal, irritating chorus,which made the girl utter little ejaculations suggestive of impatience,as she waited for the noise to end.
She glanced round once more, but the evergreens grew thickly just overan iron hurdle fence, and she satisfied herself that as she could onlyindistinctly see the shrubs three or four yards away, it was impossiblefor her to be seen from the house.
The barking went on in a full burst for a few minutes. Then dog afterdog finished its part; the sextette became a quartette, a trio, a duet;and then a deep-voiced retriever performed a powerful solo, ending itwith a prolonged bay, and Jenny raised her hand to her lips, when thehill chorus burst out again, and the girl angrily stamped her foot inthe wet grass.
"Oh, what a cold I shall catch," she muttered. "Why will people keepthese nasty dogs?"
The barking went on for some minutes, just as before, breaking off bydegrees into another solo; but at last all was still, the little sighsand ejaculations Jenny had kept on uttering ceased too. Then she raisedher head quickly, and a shrill chirp sounded dead and dull in the mistyair, followed at intervals by two more.
It was not a regular whistle, but a repetition of such a call as a nightbird might utter in its flight as it floated over the house.
The mist seemed to stifle the call, and the girl was about to repeat it,but it was loud enough for the dogs to hear, and they set up a fiercebaying, which lasted till there was a loud commotion of yelps and cries,mingled with the rattling of chains, the same deep-mouthed dog breakingout in a very different solo this time, one suggestive of suffering fromthe application of boot toes to its ribs.
Then quiet, and Jenny with trembling hand once more raised the littlesilver whistle to her lips, and the shrill chirps rang out in theirformer smothered way.
"Oh," sighed Jenny. "It will be a sore throat--I'm sure it will. Imust go back; I dare not stay any longer. Ugh! How I do hate thelittle wretch. I could kill him!"
The girl's pretty little white teeth grated together, and once more shestamped her foot, following up this display of irritation by stampingthe other.
"Cold as frogs," she muttered, "and the water's oozy in my boots.Wretch!"
"Ullo!" came in a harsh whisper, followed by the cachination which oftenaccompanies a grin. "You've come, then!"
There was a rustle of the bushes before her, and the dimly seen figureof Claud climbed over the iron hurdle, made a snatch at the girl's armwith his right and a trial to fling his left about her waist, but sheeluded him.
"Keep off," she said sharply; "how dare you!"
"Because I love you so, little dicky-bird," he whispered.
"I thought you didn't mean to come."
"No, you didn't, pet. I heard you first time, but I had to go out andkick the dogs. They heard it, too, and thought it was poachers. Onlyone, though--come after me!"
"You!" she said, contemptuously. "You, sir! Who would come after you?"
"Why, you would."
"Such vanity!"
"Then what did you come for?"
"To bring you back this rubbishing little whistle."
"Nonsense; you'd better keep that."
"I tell you I don't want it. Take it, sir."
"No, I shan't take it. Keep it."
"There it is, then," she cried; and she threw it at him.
"Gone in among the hollies," he said. "Well, I'm not going to prickmyself hunting for it in the dark. What a little spit-fire it is!What's the matter with you to-night?"
"Matter enough. I've come to tell you never to make signals for me tocome out again."
"Why? I say, what a temper you are in to-night. Here, let me help youover, and we'll go round to the arbor. You'll get your feet wetstanding there."
"They are wet, and I shall catch a cold and die, I hope."
"Oh, I say, Jenny!"
"Silence, sir! How dare you speak to me like that!"
"Come over, then, into the arbor."
"I have told you again and again that I never would!"
"You are a little tartar," he whispered. "You get prettier every day,and peck and say nastier things to me. But there, I don't mind; it onlymakes me love you more and more."
"It isn't true," she cried furiously. "You're a wicked story-teller,and you know it."
"Am I?"
"Yes; that's the same miserable sickly tale you have told tohalf-a-dozen of the silly girls in the village. I know you thoroughlynow. How dare you follow me and speak to me? If I were to tell mybrother he'd nearly kill you."
"Quite, p'raps, with a drop out of one of his bottles."
"I can never forgive myself for having listened to the silly,contemptible flattery of the cast-off lover of a labourer's daughter."
"Oh, I like that, Jenny; what's the good of bringing all that up?That's been over ever so long. It was only sowing wild oats."
"The only sort that you are ever likely to have to sow. I know allnow--everything; so go to her, and never dare to speak to me again."
"What? Go back to Sally? Well, you are a jealous little thing."
"I, jealous--of you?" she said, with contempt in her tone and manner.
"Yes, that's what's the matter with you, little one. But go on; I likeit. Shows me you love me."
"I? Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Jenny derisively. "Do you think I don't knoweverything?"
"I daresay you do. You're such a clever little vixen."
"Do you suppose it has not reached my ears about your elopement withyour cousin?"
"I don't care what you've heard; it ain't true. But I say, don't holdme off like this, Jenny; you know I love you like--like anything."
"Yes, anything," she retorted angrily; "any thing--your dogs, yourhorses, your fishing-rods and gun."
"Oh, I say."
"You miserable, deceitful trickster, I ought not to have lowered myselfto even speak to you, or to come out again to-night, but I wanted totell you what I thought about you, and it's of no use to treat suchthick-skinned creatures as you with contempt."
"Well, you are wild to-night, little one. Don't want me to show myteeth, too, and go, do you?"
"Yes, and the sooner the better, sir; go back to your wife."
"Go back to my wife!" he cried, in tones which carried conviction to herears. "Oh, I say; you've got hold of that cock-and-bull story, haveyou?"
"Yes, sir, I have got hold of the miserable co
ck-and-bull story, as youso elegantly turn it."
"Oh, I don't go in for elegance, Jenny; it ain't my way; but as for thatflam, it ain't true."
"You dare to tell me that, when the whole place is ringing with it,sir!" she cried, angrily.
"The whole place rings with the noise when that muddle-headed lot gotpulling the bells in changes. But it's only sound."
"Don't, pray don't try to be witty, Claud Wilton; you only fail."
"All right; go on."
"Do you dare to tell me that you did not elope with your cousin theother night?"
"Say slope, little one; elope is so old-fashioned."
"And I suppose you've married her for the sake of her money."
"Do you?" he said, sulkily; "then you suppose jolly well wrong. It'sall a lie."
"Then you haven't married her?"
"No, I haven't married her, and I didn't slope with her; so now then."
"Do you dare to tell me that you did not go up to London?"
"No, I don't, because I did."
"With her, in a most disgraceful, clandestine manner?"
"No; I went alone with a very jolly good-tempered chap, whom everybodybullies and calls a liar."
"A nice companion; and pray, who was that?"
"This chap--your sweetheart; and I came back with him too."
"Then where is your cousin?"
"How should I know?"
"She did go away, then, the same night?"
"Yes. Bolted after a row we had."
"Is this true?"
"Every blessed word of it; and I haven't seen her since. Now, tell me,you're very sorry for all you've said."
"Tell me this; has she gone away with some one else?"
"What do you want to know for?"
"I want to find out that you are not such a wicked story-teller as Ithought."
"Well, I have told you that."
"Who can believe you?"
"You can. Come, I say; I thought you were going to be really a bitloving to me at last when I heard the whistle. It's been like courtinga female porcupine up to now."
"You know whom your cousin has gone with?"
"Pretty sure," he said, sulkily.
"Who is it?"
"Oh, well, if you must know, Harry Dasent."
"That cousin I saw here?"
"Yes, bless him! Only wait till we meet."
"Oh!" ejaculated Jenny, and then she turned to go; but Claud caught herarm.
"No, no; you might say something kind now you've found out you'rewrong."
"Very well then, I will, Claud Wilton. First of all, I never cared abit for you, and--"
"Don't believe you. Go on," he said, laughing.
"Secondly, take my advice and go away at once, for if my brother shouldmeet you there will be a terrible scene. He believes horrible things ofyou, and I know he'll kill you."
"Phew!" whistled Claud. "Then he has found out?"
"Take my advice and go. He is terrible when he is roused, and I don'tknow what he'd do."
"I say, this ain't gammon, is it?"
"It is the solemn truth. Now loose my arm; you hurt me."
"Well, it's all right, then, and perhaps it's for the best I am goingoff to-night to hunt out Harry Dasent. I should have gone before, but Ihad to be about with the guv'nor, making inquiries."
"Then loose my arm at once, and go before it is too late."
"It is too late," thundered a voice out of the gloom. "Jenny--sister--is this you?"