Chapter Eleven
A Meeting Disturbed
WHEN seven o'clock came, and he felt that the long night of conflict was over, Norman Forester wearily took up his towel and set off to the shore to bathe as usual. When he made up his mind to any course of action, nothing on earth would move him from it. He had resolved the night before that no one should ever have any idea of what had been in his mind, or of the struggle he had gone through to obliterate his own wishes and only think of the happiness of his friends. He knew that he was now facing three days of great difficulty, and he could not help wishing that they were over.
The Sinclair brothers were not up. He threw pebbles at Val's window at the castle, and shouted underneath it, but got no answer. He guessed that no noise would have waked Val that morning, for the long day in the open air had almost certainly made him sleep soundly.
Forester went on alone. He was sorry that the Sinclairs were not coming to bathe, for he rather dreaded being alone with Jack and Don Mainwaring. He thought Don might have something to tell him that morning about Jack and Doris, and he did not feel quite sure of himself yet. He was afraid that his congratulations would not sound as warm and hearty as he would like them to do.
However, to his relief, not a word was said on the subject which he had supposed was uppermost in their minds by either of the Mainwaring boys. The sea was calm, and the long swim was refreshing after his sleepless night. Forester, refusing a pressing invitation to breakfast with the Mainwarings at the Bank, climbed the hill again, feeling far better able to face the day -- a day which could not fail to be a trying one.
Later that morning he avoided his usual short cut to the shore. He pictured Doris Somerville on the rock busy with her picture. She must not know, she must never know, what his thoughts had been as he sat there in the darkness only a few hours before. How thankful he was that he had never in any way led her to suspect his feelings. If he had done so, she would have been troubled and sorry for him. Her eyes would have been full of sympathy for him, and it would have brought a shadow over her happiness. He was glad, very glad, that she would never know.
On the way down the hill he met Don's sister Dolly. She looked bright and pretty in her pale blue motor cap and linen dress -- like a harebell, he thought. She told him that she and her sister Mab were going with her brother Don and the Sinclair boys for a long walk in the woods at the other side of the bay, and she asked if he could come with them.
"Is Jack going?" he asked.
"No, he is going to prepare his sermon."
"Going to read it to Doris Somerville, perhaps," he thought, but aloud he said, "I'd be delighted."
During the walk everyone was in such good spirits that he found it infectious, and soon joined in all the merriment. The views from the hill were lovely, for they looked through long vistas of trees to the blue bay beyond, and saw the woods on the other side, with Hildick Castle and the old church standing exactly where an artist would have placed them in a beautiful picture woven out of his own imagination.
"Next week," said Don, "we'll have another picnic. I vote we have heaps more before we go home. Mother says she thinks Monday would be a good day. So don't forget, any of you, and fix up anything else."
"I'm afraid I won't not be with you," said Forester. "I'm off home on Monday."
"Nonsense," said Don. "Surely you told me you were going to stay longer than that."
"Yes, but I find now I have to get back to work, and when duty calls ... you know."
"Bother duty calling," said Don. "Don't go yet, there's a good fellow. We're such a jolly party here, and it will spoil it all if we begin to break up."
"Sorry," said Forester. "It has been a wonderful time, but I'm obliged to go on Monday, so it's no good your tempting me with picnics and other delights."
They came back by the shore, and found Jack and Doris sitting together on the shingle.
"How's the picture getting on?" asked Forester, as they all sat down behind them.
"Oh, I've done very little today," she said. "Really nothing. Jack--"
At this moment Don interrupted her by saying: "Whatever do you think this wretched man has been telling me? He says he's going away on Monday, and can't come to our picnic."
"You mustn't," said Jack.
"I must get home," Norman Forester explained. "Tuesday is my day at the hospital, and I want to be in time for that."
Doris made no remark, but all the others stoutly protested that they would not allow him to go, and that it would be an awful shame if he did.
Then Jack looked at his watch and said it was time to go home for dinner. They all jumped up, and were walking along the road when Doris suddenly remembered that she had left her camp stool on the shingle. Forester ran back to get it, telling them to go on, and he would follow. When he returned, and had passed the turn on the road, he found Doris standing just where he had left her, waiting for him to come up.
"Thank you," she said. "It was good of you to go back all that way."
Forester did not speak for a minute or two. It was an ordeal to be left alone with her.
"Must you really go on Monday?" she said at last.
"Yes, I must," he said firmly. "It is quite impossible for me to stay. It has been a lovely time, so different from what I thought it would be when I came here. But it's over now, and I must get back to work."
She turned to him for a moment, and seemed about to say something, but checked herself.
"What were you going to say?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing. I was only thinking what a pity it is that nice things are over so quickly."
Forester guessed that Doris was feeling that because the end of the holiday was coming into sight, Jack would soon be back in the slums of Manchester and it would be many months before they all met again.
They walked on in silence. At length they reached the house where Doris and her father were staying, and he gave her the camp stool and for the first time ventured to look at her. There was a look of sadness on her face which he had never seen on it before. The brightness seemed to have gone for a moment.
"Thank you," she said, as she took the stool from him. "I must get in." And without another word she left him.
As he climbed the hill, Clegg and De Jersey passed him. They took no notice of him or he of them, and they hurried on in front. He wondered, as he watched them, where they were going, and why they were in such haste. The mystery at the castle, if mystery there was, had never been explained, and Forester was sorry that he was leaving Hildick before any discovery had been made there. Dick had again and again assured him that he was on the scent, but apparently had never been able to catch his ghost after all.
As he passed the castle gate he saw the two men talking to Rupert Norris. Forester passed swiftly on with merely a friendly nod to Rupert. But Rupert would not be passed in that way, and called after him to stop.
"You must come in, doctor," he said. "Mary has been making your favourite rabbit stew, and she begged me to look out for you and bring you in. I came out on purpose, and then these gentlemen came up. Now, do come, sir. You must be sick of tinned meat by this time!"
Forester could not refuse so kind an invitation, so he followed Rupert across the castle courtyard, and the two men came behind. Were they also invited to dinner? But he soon discovered to his relief that the invitation had not been extended to them.
"We have come up to the castle to say goodbye," explained Clegg. "We're off in the morning, and we have a great deal to do today."
They followed the doctor into the ancient kitchen. A clean, white cloth was on the table. The young twins, May and Hawthorn, were sitting on high chairs at the table with bibs tied under their chins. Their mother Mary was stirring a pot on the fire, from whence a savoury smell was filling the room. The Norris's son Leonard was sitting on the tall wooden settle beside his grandfather, patting one of the collies. All were evidently waiting for Forester's arrival, so that the meal could begin.
"That's right," said the old man, as he came in, "we haven't set eyes on you for a long time, sir. We thought you had forgotten all about us, and were so taken up with all the young folks down below that you would never give us a bit of your company again."
Forester laughed as he told him that he was delighted to come, and that there was no place like that comfortable chimney-corner. He said he would never forget how comfortable it was.
Then the old man caught sight of the two men behind Forester, and his expression changed in a moment. "Hello," he said, "I didn't see you. What have you come after?"
"Only to say goodbye, Mr. Norris," said Clegg, "and to thank you for all your kindness to us. We've had a most agreeable visit, most delightful in every way. As you know, I'm an antiquarian."
"Yes," interrupted the old man, "you need not tell me. I've heard that before. Well, you're going are you? When?"
"Tomorrow, by the early bus."
"And Mr. Artist? I can't remember his name."
"Going too," said Clegg, "so he has come with me to say goodbye. We have to be home this weekend, both of us. I wish we could have stopped longer."
He made a great show of shaking hands with them all, and so did his friend. He kissed the little girls, and May began to cry, for she did not like him. Clegg invited Rupert to come to see him in Birmingham, and he promised to send them all cards at Christmas. At last he and his silent friend the artist, who had not uttered a single word, took their departure.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the old man exclaimed in a pleased voice, "Good riddance to bad rubbish. I hope that's the last I shall ever see of you!"
"Have you ever seen any of his pictures?" asked the doctor.
"What, that artist chap? No, I don't believe he has any. Rupert does; I don't. Rupert is going to see them in the Royal Academy," added the old man, with a chuckle. "He asked you, didn't he, Rupert?"
"Well, he did say he hoped I should see them there some day."
"And you believed him," laughed the old man. "You believed him, Rupert. You can't deny it!"
Mary now announced that dinner was ready, and they took their seats at the table. Then Forester told them that he was leaving on Monday and going back to his work. They all seemed sorry that he was going, and hoped that he had enjoyed his holiday. He told them it had been the happiest time of his life, and he would never forget the castle nor their kindness to him while he was at Hildick.
After dinner was over, Forester had sat in his favourite place on the settle with Jemmy the pet lamb lying at his feet. When he had discussed the affairs of the nation with the old man and had given him an account of his visit to Palestine, he walked to the harvest field to watch Rupert and his men carrying the corn.
Joyce Sinclair was there, and of course the collies were with her. Not a laden wagon left the field without her riding on it, and to her great joy she was allowed to drive the empty wagons back to the field. She seemed as much interested in the harvest as Rupert Norris himself, and she made Forester pull off his coat and help throw the sheaves into the cart.
He stayed there for a time, sometimes watching, sometimes helping; but a restless fit was on him that afternoon, and the old craving for a hermit life was returning. He wanted to get away from people, at least from people that he knew. He would be better away from here.
With this feeling on him he avoided the shore, at least that part of it which skirted Hildick Bay. They would all be there, he knew. Would they miss him? Jack and Doris would have each other. The others made one happy party, and it was hard to keep pace with their liveliness today.
So it was better for him to have this afternoon by himself, for that look on Doris's face had haunted him. He was afraid she had guessed his secret, and so was sorry for him. It certainly was a look of sadness. Why should this be? He had been determined not to bring the tiniest cloud across her bright horizon. He had been so careful to keep from her the least sign of what he had gone through the night before, that he wondered how she could have divined his thoughts.
"It must be because I am suddenly going away," he said to himself. "She must have guessed why I cannot bear to stay here."
He wandered on aimlessly over the headland. He passed a clump of white heather, but it had no attraction for him now. And then he found himself at the stile which he had crossed, for the first time, on that stormy night when he had been woken up to visit the old man in the cottage by the sea.
He decided to make his way to the lonely cove on the far side of the headland. None of his new friends ever went there, and he would be able to get a little rest from the strain of appearing in good spirits when he felt as if his heart was breaking.
It was a lovely afternoon. As he wandered down the narrow path through the valley, the beauty of the whole scene; the lovely color of the heathery hills; the golden gorse which in some places was still in full flower; the fields on the lower slopes of the hill where the grass was green and the sheep were peacefully feeding; the bold rocks below stretching out into a sea which reflected the blue of the sky above it, and on the horizon the fishing boats with their white sails shining in the light -- the loveliness and perfect beauty of it all soothed him and comforted him, though he hardly knew why or how. It seemed, as he sat on the heather watching it all, as if a loving hand was being laid on him.
He recalled a night long ago when he was lying, a tiny child in his bed, sobbing as if his heart would break because he had damaged a favourite toy. His mother came quietly into the room. He did not hear her come in, but he felt her hand resting lovingly on his head, and he was sure that she was sorry for him. And he knew now that this world belonged to God his Father, and in every bit of its loveliness he saw his Father's hand, and it rested like a gentle touch on his troubled spirit.
He got up after a time and made his way to the rocks below. He passed the forlorn cottage, the door of which was closed, and which looked, he thought, more gloomy and forsaken than ever. Was Daniel still living in it? He climbed round a high rock on the shore, to sit where he could get a view of the bay, and somewhat to his disgust he came on Daniel sitting where he had meant to sit, and smoking the same dirty clay pipe which he had in his mouth when he came to call him in the night. As it was impossible to pretend that he had not seen him, Forester greeted him pleasantly,
"Good afternoon," he said. "What a lovely day."
Daniel grunted without removing his pipe, and looked anything but pleased. Forester was passing on to another place where he saw a comfortable place to sit, formed by a slightly shelving rock, when the man called after him.
"You, doctor!"
"Well, what do you want?" said Forester, looking back.
"What are you after down here?" the man demanded.
"What am I after down here?" replied Forester in annoyance. "What business is that of yours, I would like to know? What are you after down here?"
"I'm after my proper business," shouted the man. "Perhaps you're not aware, doctor, that this 'ere bay belongs to me, and the sooner other folks takes their selves off from it the better for them."
"What on earth are you talking about?" retorted Forester. "This bay is no more yours than mine."
Forester took no further notice of him, but established himself on the rock for which he was making, and sat quietly watching the bay. The old cottage was well in sight. He could see the closed door, a thin curl of blue smoke coming from the chimney, and two old lobster pots standing in the neglected garden.
"Now, why did that old rogue want me away?" he said to himself. "He must have some reason. I wonder what it is."
He determined to sit where he was and await events. Presently he saw Daniel get up, with a scowling glance cast in his direction. Then he began to climb the path which led up the valley.
"Now, I wonder what you are up to," said Forester to himself. "I think I will follow you and find out."
Acting on this determination, he got up and began climbing the steep path which Daniel had taken, keeping him wel
l in view, yet keeping the distance between them as great as possible.
"He has not seen me yet," said Forester quietly. "He thinks I am still on the shore."
Presently, as Forester watched, he saw two men coming down the hillside, along the path by which he had come to the cove. He recognized them at once as Clegg and De Jersey. Daniel saw them too, for he hurried to the foot of the hill and then went through a most extraordinary performance. He took a red pocket handkerchief from his pocket and tied it round his neck, then held his right arm above his head as if to attract attention.
The two men on the heights above caught sight of him, and immediately went back and disappeared over the brow of the hill. Then the doctor, having seen all that he wanted to see, turned round swiftly and hid himself behind a thick hedge, so that Daniel would not know that he had been watched.
It was all clear to him now. A meeting between the three men had been arranged to take place either on the shore or in the old cottage. Daniel was on the lookout for the other two. He had resented Forester's presence because he did not want him to witness the meeting, or know that there was any connection between them. But seeing that the doctor had taken up his position on the rock which commanded a full view of the cottage, and that in spite of his insolent words he seemed likely to stay there, Daniel had walked up the hill to give a previously arranged danger signal to warn his two friends to come no nearer.
Forester crouched under the hedge and waited until the heavy slouching footsteps of the man went by. He looked more of a villain than ever, and the doctor felt glad that he had not to take another midnight walk with him. He did not feel inclined to return to the cove, or he would find himself in such evil company again. So, as soon as Daniel was out of sight he hurried up the hill and went back to his tent.
There was hockey on the shore that evening, and Forester, who was always keen on the game, played it with his usual energy and spirit. Everyone played, and played well, and the exercise did him good, and helped him to sleep soundly when he returned to his quiet tent.