CHAPTER XVI
"Let us follow the example of all great golfers," Hamel said. "Letus for this morning, at any rate, imagine that your whole world isencompassed within these eighteen holes. We have been sent here in amoment of good humour by your tyrant uncle. The sun shines, and the windis from the west. Why not?"
"That is all very well for you," she retorted, smiling, "but I havetopped my drive."
"Purely an incident," he assured her. "The vicissitudes of the game donot enter into the question. I have driven a ball far above my usualform, but I am not gloating over it. I prefer to remember only that I amgoing to spend the next two hours with you."
She played her shot, and they walked for a little way together. She wassuddenly silent.
"Do you know," she said finally, just a little gravely, "I am not at allused to speeches of this sort."
"Then you ought to be," he declared. "Nothing but the lonely life youhave been living has kept you from hearing them continually."
She laughed a little at the impotence of her rebuff and paused for amoment to make her next shot. Hamel, standing a little on one side,watched her appraisingly. Her short, grey tweed skirt was obviously thehandiwork of an accomplished tailor. Her grey stockings and suede shoeswere immaculate and showed a care for her appearance which pleased him.Her swing, too, revealed a grace, the grace of long arms and a supplebody, at which previously he had only guessed. The sunshine seemed tohave brought out a copper tinge from her abundant brown hair.
"Do you know," he remarked, "I think I am beginning to like your uncle.Great idea of his, sending us off here directly after breakfast."
Her face darkened for a moment, and he realised his error. The samethought, indeed, had been in both their minds. Mr. Fentolin's courteoussuggestion had been offered to them almost in the shape of a command. Itwas scarcely possible to escape from the reflection that he had desiredto rid himself of their presence for the morning.
"Of course," he went on, "I knew that these links were good--quitefamous, aren't they?"
"I have played on so few others," she told him. "I learned my golf herewith King, the professional."
He took off his cap and handed it to his caddy. He himself was beginningalready to look younger. The long blue waves came rippling up thecreeks. The salt wind, soft with sunshine, blew in their faces. Themarshes on the landward side were mauve with lavender blossom. In thedistance, the red-tiled cottages nestled deep among a background ofgreen trees and rising fields.
"This indeed is a land of peace," he declared. "If I hadn't to give youquite so many strokes, I should be really enjoying myself."
"You don't play like a man who has been living abroad for a greatmany years," she remarked. "Tell me about some of the places you havevisited?"
"Don't let us talk seriously," he begged. "I'll tell you of them but letit be later on. This morning I feel that the spring air is getting intomy head. I have an absurd desire to talk nonsense."
"So far," she admitted, "you haven't been altogether unsuccessful."
"If you are alluding," he replied, "to the personal remarks I wasemboldened to make on my way here, I can only say that they were excusedby their truthfulness."
"I am not at all sure that you have known me long enough to tell me whatcolours suit me," she demurred.
"Then what will you say," he enquired, "if I admire the angle of thatquill in your hat?"
"Don't do it," she laughed. "If you continue like this, I may have to gohome."
"You have sent the car away," he reminded her cheerfully. "You wouldsimply have to sit upon the balcony and reflect upon your wastedmorning."
"I decline to talk upon the putting green," she said. "It puts me off.If you will stand perfectly quiet and say nothing, I will play thelike."
They moved off presently to the next teeing ground.
"I don't believe this nonsense is good for our golf," she said.
"It is immensely good for us as human beings," he protested.
They had played the ninth hole and turned for home. On their right nowwas a shimmering stretch of wet sand and a thin line of sea, in thedistance. The tide, receding, had left little islands of virgin sand,grass tufted, the home of countless sea-gulls. A brown-sailed fishingboat was racing for the narrow entrance to the tidal way.
"I am beginning to understand what there is about this coast whichfascinated my father so," he remarked.
"Are you?" she answered gravely. "Years ago I used to love it, but notnow."
He tried to change the subject, but the gloom had settled upon her faceonce more.
"You don't know what it is like," she went on, as they walked side byside after their balls, "to live day and night in fear, with no one totalk to--no one, that is to say, who is not under the same shadow. Eventhe voices of the wind and the sea, and the screaming of the birds, seemto bring always an evil message. There is nothing kindly or hopeful evenin the sunshine. At night, when the tide comes thundering in as it doesso often at this time of the year, one is afraid. There is so much tomake one afraid!"
She had turned pale again, notwithstanding the sunshine and thefreshening wind. He laid his hand lightly upon her arm. She suffered histouch without appearing to notice it.
"Ah, you mustn't talk like that!" he pleaded. "Do you know what you makeme feel like?"
She came back from the world of her own unhappy imaginings.
"Really, I forgot myself," she declared, with a little smile. "Nevermind, it does one good sometimes. One up, are you? Henceforth, then,golf--all the rigour of the game, mind."
He fell in with her mood, and their conversation touched only upon thegame. On the last green he suffered defeat and acknowledged it with alittle grimace.
"If I might say so, Miss Fentolin," he protested, "you are a little toogood for your handicap. I used to play a very reasonable scratch myself,but I can't give you the strokes."
She smiled.
"Doubtless your long absence abroad," she began slowly, "has affectedyour game."
"I was round in eighty-one," he grumbled.
"You must have travelled in many countries," she continued, "where golfwas an impossibility."
"Naturally," he admitted. "Let us stay and have lunch and try again."
She shook her head with a little sigh of regret.
"You see, the car is waiting," she pointed out. "We are expected home. Ishan't be a minute putting my clubs away."
They sped swiftly along the level road towards St. David's Hall. Farin the distance they saw it, built upon that strange hill, with thesunlight flashing in its windows. He looked at it long and curiously.
"I think," he said, "that yours is the most extraordinarily situatedhouse I have ever seen. Fancy a gigantic mound like that in the midst ofan absolutely flat marsh."
She nodded.
"There is no other house quite like it in England," she said. "I supposeit is really a wonderful place. Have you looked at the pictures?"
"Not carefully," he told her.
"You must before you leave," she insisted. "Mr. Fentolin is a greatjudge, and so was his father."
Their road curved a little to the sea, and at its last bend they wereclose to the pebbly ridge on which the Tower was built. He touched theelectric bell and stopped the car.
"Do let us walk along and have a look at my queer possession once more,"he begged. "Luncheon, you told me, is not till half-past one, and it isa quarter to now."
She hesitated for a moment and then assented. They left the car andwalked along the little track, bordered with white posts, which led onto the ridge. To their right was the village, separated from them onlyby one level stretch of meadowland; in the background, the hall. Theyturned along the raised dike just inside the pebbly beach, and sheshowed her companion the narrow waterway up to the village. At itsentrance was a tall iron upright, with a ladder attached and a greatlamp at the top.
"That is to show them the way in at night, isn't it?" he asked.
She nodded.
&n
bsp; "Yes," she told him. "Mr. Fentolin had it placed there. And yet," shewent on, "curiously enough, since it was erected, there have been morewrecks than ever."
"It doesn't seem a dangerous beach," he remarked.
She pointed to a spot about fifty yards from the Tower. It was thespot to which the woman whom he had met on the day of his arrival hadpointed.
"You can't see them," she said; "they are always out of sight, evenwhen the tide is at the lowest--but there are some hideous sunken rocksthere. 'The Daggers,' they call them. One or two fishing boats have beenlost on them, trying to make the village. When Mr. Fentolin put up thelamp, every one thought that it would be quite safe to try and get inat night. This winter, though, there have been three wrecks which noone could understand. It must be something in the currents, or a sort ofoptical illusion, because in the last shipwreck one man was saved,and he swore that at the time they struck the rock, they were headedstraight for the light."
They had reached the Tower now. Hamel became a little absorbed. Theywalked around it, and he tried the front door. He found, as he hadexpected, that it opened readily. He looked around him for severalmoments.
"Your uncle has been here this morning," he remarked quietly.
"Very likely."
"That outhouse," he continued, "must be quite a large place. Have youany idea what it is he works upon there?"
"None," she answered.
He looked around him once more.
"Mr. Fentolin has been preparing for my coming," he observed. "I seethat he has moved a few of his personal things."
She made no reply, only she shivered a little as she stepped back intothe sunshine.
"I don't believe you like my little domicile," he remarked, as theystarted off homeward.
"I don't," she admitted curtly.
"In the train," he reminded her, "you seemed rather to discourage mycoming here. Yet last night, after dinner--"
"I was wrong," she interrupted. "I should have said nothing, and yet Icouldn't help it. I don't suppose it will make any difference."
"Make any difference to what?"
"I cannot tell you," she confessed. "Only I have a strange antipathy tothe place. I don't like it. My uncle sometimes shuts himself up herefor quite a long time. We have an idea, Gerald and I, that things happenhere sometimes which no one knows of. When he comes back, he is moodyand ill-tempered, or else half mad with excitement. He isn't always theamiable creature whom you have met. He has the face of an angel, butthere are times--"
"Well, don't let's talk about him," Hamel begged, as her voice faltered."Now that I am going to stay in the neighbourhood for a few days, youmust please remember that it is partly your responsibility. You are notgoing to shut yourself up, are you? You'll come and play golf again?"
"If he will let me," she promised.
"I think he will let you, right enough," Hamel observed. "Between youand me, I rather think he hates having me down at the Tower at all.He will encourage anything that takes me away, even as far as the GolfClub."
They were approaching the Hall now. She was looking once more as shehad looked last night. She had lost her colour, her walk was no longerbuoyant. She had the air of a prisoner who, after a brief spell ofliberty, enters once more the place of his confinement. Gerald cameout to meet them as they climbed the stone steps which led on tothe terrace. He glanced behind as he greeted them, and then almoststealthily took a telegram from his pocket.
"This came for you," he remarked, handing it to Hamel. "I met the boybringing it out of the office."
Hamel tore it open, with a word of thanks. Gerald stood in front of himas he read.
"If you wouldn't mind putting it away at once," he asked, a littleuncomfortably. "You see, the telegraph office is in the place, and myuncle has a queer rule that every telegram is brought to him before itis delivered."
Hamel did not speak for a moment. He was looking at the few wordsscrawled across the pink sheet with a heavy black pencil:
"Make every enquiry in your neighbourhood for an American, John P. Dunster, entrusted with message of great importance, addressed to Von Dusenberg, The Hague. Is believed to have been in railway accident near Wymondham and to have been taken from inn by young man in motor-car. Suggest that he is being improperly detained."
Hamel crumpled up the telegram and thrust it into his pocket.
"By-the-by," he asked, as they ascended the steps, "what did you say thename of this poor fellow was who is lying ill up-stairs?"
Gerald hesitated for a moment. Then he answered as though a species ofrecklessness had seized him.
"He called himself Mr. John P. Dunster."