CHAPTER X—OTHER PEOPLE’S TROUBLES

JEAN woke to find the chill, wintry sunlight thrusting in long fingers through the space between the casements and the edges of the window-blinds. At first the unfamiliar look of a strange bedroom puzzled her, and she lay blinking drowsily at the wavering slits of light, wondering in vague, half-awake fashion where she was. Gradually, however, recollection returned to her, and with it a lively curiosity to view Staple by daylight. She jumped out of bed and, rattling up the blinds on their rollers, peered out of the window.

There was a hard frost abroad, and the stillness which reigned over the ice-bound country-side reminded her of the big Alpine silences. But here there was no snow—no dazzling sheet of whiteness spread, with cold, grey-blue shadows flung across it Green and shaven the lawns sloped gently down from a flagged terrace, running immediately beneath her window, to the very rim of the frozen lake that gleamed in the valley below. Beyond the valley, scattered woods and copses climbed the hillside opposite, leafless and bare save where a cluster of tall pines towered in evergreen defiance against the slate of the sky.

In the farther distance, beyond the confines of the manor park itself, Jean could catch glimpses of cultivated fields—the red Devon soil glowing jewel-like through filmy wisps of morning mist that still hung in the atmosphere, dispersing slowly as though loth to go. Here and there a little spiral of denser, blue-grey smoke wreathed its way upwards from the chimney of some thatched cottage or farmhouse. And back of it all, adumbrated in a dim, mysterious purple, the great tors of Dartmoor rose sentinel upon the horizon.

Jean’s glance narrowed down to the sloping sward in front of the house. It was all just as her father had pictured it to her. On the left, a giant cedar broke the velvet smoothness of mown grass, its gnarled arms rimmed with hoar-frost, whilst to the right a tall yew hedge, clipped into huge, grotesque resemblances of birds and beasts, divided the lawns from a path which skirted a walled rose garden. By craning her neck and almost flattening her nose against the window-pane, she could just make out a sunk lawn in the rose garden, and in its centre the slender pillar of an ancient sundial.

It was all very English and old-fashioned, breathing the inalienable charm of places that have been well loved and tended by successive generations. And over all, hills and valleys, park and woodland, lay that faint, almost imperceptible humid veil wherewith, be it in scorching summer sunshine or iron frost, the West Country tenderly contrives to soften every harsh outline into something gracious, and melting, and alluring.

To Jean, familiarised from childhood with the piercing clarity of atmosphere, the brilliant colouring and the definiteness of silhouette of southern Europe and of Egypt, there was something inexpressibly restful and appealing in those blurred hues of grey and violet, in the warm red of the Devon earth, with its tender overtone of purple like the bloom on a grape, and the rounded breasts of green-clad hills curving suavely one into the other till they merged into the ultimate, rock-crowned slopes of the brooding moor.

“I’m going to love your England,” she told Nick.

They were making their way down to the lake—alone together, since Blaise had curtly refused to join them—and as she spoke, Nick stopped and regarded her consideringly.

“I rather imagine England will love you,” he replied, adding, with the whimsical impudence which was somehow always permitted Nick Brennan: “If it were not for a prior claim, I’m certain I should have loved you in about five minutes.”

“I’m sorry I happened too late,” retorted Jean.

“But I can still be a brother to you,” he pursued, ignoring her interpolation. “I think,”—reflectively—“I shall like being a brother to you.”

“I should expect a brother to fetch and carry,” cautioned Jean. “And to make himself generally useful.”

“I haven’t got the character from my last place about me at the moment, but I’ll write it out for you when we get back. Meanwhile, I will perform the menial task of fastening on your skates.”

They had reached the lake by now. It was a wide stretch of water several acres in extent, and rimmed about its banks with rush and alder. At the far end Jean could discern a boat-house.

“It must be an ideal place for boating in the summer,” she said, taking in the size of the lake appreciatively as together they circled it with long, sweeping strokes, hands interlocked. It was much larger than it had appeared from her bedroom window, when it had been partially screened from her view by rising ground.

“It’s all right just for paddling about,” answered Nick. “But there’s really jolly boating on our river. That’s over on the west side of the park”—he pointed in the direction indicated. “It divides Staple from Willow Ferry—the property of our next-door neighbour, so to speak. You’d like the boating here,” he added, “though I’m afraid our skating possibilities aren’t likely to impress anyone coming straight from Switzerland.”

“I’m sure I shall like skating—or anything else—here,” said Jean Warmly. “It is all so beautiful. I suppose Devonshire is really quite the loveliest county in England? My father always declared it was.”

“We think so,” replied Nick modestly. “Though a Cornishman would probably want to knock me down for saying so! But I love it.” he went on. “There’s nowhere else I would care to live.” His eyes softened, seeming almost to caress the surrounding fields and woods.

Jean nodded. “I can understand that,” she said. “Although I’ve only been here a few hours, I’m beginning to love it, too. I don’t know why it is—I can’t explain it—but I feel as if I’d come home.”

“So you have. The Petersons lived here for generations.”

“Do you mean”—Jean stared at him in astonishment—“do you mean that they lived at Coombe Eavie?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know? They used to own Charnwood—a place about a mile from here. It was sold after your grandfather’s death. Did your father never tell you?”

She shook her head.

“He always avoided speaking of anything in connection with his life over here. I think he hated England. Is there anyone living at Charnwood now?” she asked, after a pause.

“Yes. It has changed hands several times, and now a friend of ours lives there—Lady Latimer.”

“Then perhaps I shall be able to go there some day. I should like to see the place where my father’s people lived”—eagerly.

Nick laughed.

“You’ve got the true Devonshire homing instinct,” he declared. “Devon folk who’ve left the country always want to see the ‘place where their people lived.’ I remember, about a year ago, a Canadian girl and her brother turned up at Staple. They were descendants of a Tormarin who had emigrated two or three generations before, and they had come across to England for a visit. Their first trip was to Devonshire; they wanted to see ‘the place where Dad’s people had lived.’ And, by Jove, they knew a lot more about it than we did! They were posted up in every detail, and insisted on a personally conducted tour over the whole place. They went back to Canada rejoicing, loaded with photographs of Staple.”

Jean smiled.

“I think it was rather dear of them to come back like that,” she said simply.

They swung round the head of the lake and, as they turned, Jean caught sight of a woman’s figure emerging from the path which ran through the woods. Apparently the newcomer descried the skaters at the same moment, for she stopped and waved her hand in a friendly little gesture of greeting. Nick lifted his cap.

“That is Lady Latimer,” he said.

Something in his voice, some indescribable deepening of quality, made Jean look at him quickly. She remembered on one occasion, in a jeweller’s shop, noticing a very beautiful opal lying in its case; she had commented on it casually, and the man behind the counter had lifted it from its satiny bed and turned it so that the light should fall full upon it. In an instant the red fire slumbering in its heart had waked into glowing life, irradiating the whole stone with pulsing colour. It was some such vitalising change as this that she sensed in the suddenly eager face beside her.

Hastening their pace, she and Nick skated up to the edge of the lake where Lady Latimer awaited them, and as he introduced the two women to each other it seemed as though the eyes of the woman on the bank asked hastily, almost frightenedly: “Will you prove friend or foe?” And Jean’s eyes, all soft and luminous like every real woman’s in the presence of love, signalled back steadily: “Friend!”

“Claire!” said Nick. And Jean thought that no name could have suited her better.

She was the slenderest thing, with about her the pliant, delicate grace of a harebell. Ash-blonde hair, so fair that in some lights it looked silver rather than gold, framed the charming Greuze face. Only it was not quite a Greuze, Jean reflected. There was too much character in it—a certain gentle firmness, something curiously still and patient in the closing of the curved lips, and a deeper appeal than that of mere wondering youth in the gentian-blue eyes. They were woman’s eyes, eyes out of which no weeping could quite wash the wistfulness of some past or present sorrow.

“So you are one of the Charnwood Petersons?” said Lady Latimer in her soft, pretty voice. “You won’t like me, I’m afraid”—smiling—“I’m living in your old home.”

“Oh, Jean won’t quarrel with you over that,” put in Nick. “She’s got a splendacious castle all her own somewhere in the wilds of Europe.”

“Yes. Beirnfels is really my home. I’ve never even seen Charnwood,” smiled Jean. “But I should like to—some day, if you will ask me over.”

“Oh, yes, certainly you must come,” replied Lady Latimer a little breathlessly. But she seemed unaccountably flurried, as though Jean’s suggestion in some day disquieted her. “But of course, Charnwood—now—isn’t a bit like what it must have been when the Petersons had it. I think a place changes with the people who inhabit it, don’t you? I mean, their influence impresses itself on it. If they are good and happy people, you can feel it in the atmosphere of the place, and if they are people with bad and wicked thoughts, you feel that, too. I know I do.” And there was no doubt in the mind of either of her hearers that she was referring to the last-named set of influences.

“But I think Charnwood must be lovely, since it’s your home now,” said Jean sincerely.

“Oh, yes—of course—it is my home now.” Lady Latimer looked troubled. “But other people live—have lived there. It’s changed hands several times, hasn’t it, Nick?”—turning to him for confirmation.

Nick was frowning. He, too, appeared troubled.

“Of course it’s changed hands—heaps of times,” he replied gruffly. “But I should think your influence would be enough to counteract that of—of everybody else. Look here, chuck discussing rotten, psychic influences, Claire, and come on the ice.”

“No, I can’t,” she replied hastily. “I haven’t my skates here.”

“That doesn’t matter. We’ve a dozen pairs up at the house. One of them is sure to fit you. I’ll go and collect a few.”

He wheeled as though to cross the lake on his proposed errand, but Claire Latimer laid her hand quickly on his arm.

“No, no,” she said. “I can’t skate this morning. I’m on my way home.”

“Oh, change your mind!” begged Jean, noticing with friendly amusement Nick’s expression of discontent.

“No, really I can’t” Claire’s face had whitened and her big eyes sought Nick’s in a kind of pathetic appeal. “Adrian is not—very well to-day. My husband,” she added explanatorily to Jean.

The latter was conscious of a sense of shock. She had quite imagined Lady Latimer to be a widow, and had been mentally engaged in weaving the most charming and happy-ever-after of romances since the moment she had seen that wonderful change come over Nick’s face. Probably her impression was due to the manner of his first introduction of Claire’s name, “A friend of ours lives there—Lady Latimer,” without reference to any husband lurking in the background.

She observed that Nick made no further effort to persuade Claire to remain, and after exchanging a few commonplace remarks the latter continued her way back to Charnwood.

It was so nearly lunch time that it did not seem worth while resuming their skating. Besides, with Claire Latimer’s refusal to join them, the occupation seemed to have lost some of its charm, and when Jean suggested a return to the house Nick assented readily.

“She is very sweet—young Lady Latimer,” remarked

Jean, as they walked back over the frostily crisp turf. “But she looks rather sad. And she isn’t the kind of person one associates with sadness. There’s something so young and fresh about her; she makes one think of spring flowers.”

Nick’s face kindled.

“Yes, she’s like that, isn’t she?” he answered eagerly. “Like a pale golden narcissus.”

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, the thoughts of each of them dwelling on the woman who had just left them. Then Jean said softly:

“So that’s the ‘prior claim?’”

“Yes,” he acknowledged simply.

“You never mentioned that she had a husband concealed somewhere. I quite thought she was a widow till she suddenly mentioned him.”

“I never think of him as her husband”—shortly. “You can’t mate light and darkness.”

“I suppose he’s an invalid?” ventured Jean.

Rick’s face darkened.

“He’s a drug fiend,” he said in a low, hard voice.

“Oh!”

After that one breathless exclamation of horror Jean remained silent. The swift picture conjured up before her eyes by Rick’s terse speech was unspeakably revolting.

Years ago she had heard her father describing the effect of the drug habit upon a friend of his own who had yielded to it. He had been telling her mother about it, characteristically oblivious of the presence of a child of eleven in the room at the time, and some of Glyn Peterson’s poignant, illuminating phrases, punctuated by little, stricken murmurs of pity from Jacqueline, had impressed a painfully accurate picture on the plastic mind of childhood. Ever since then, drug-mania had represented to Jean the uttermost abyss.

And now, the vision of that slender, gracious woman, Rick’s “pale golden narcissus,” tied for life to a man who must ultimately become that which Glyn Peterson’s friend had become, filled her with compassionate dismay.

It was easy enough, now, to comprehend Claire Latimer’s curious lack of warmth when Jean expressed the hope that she might go over to Charnwood some day. It sprang from the nervous shrinking of a woman at the prospect of being driven to unveil before fresh eyes the secret misery and degradation of her life.

Jean was still silent as she and Nick re-entered the hall at Staple. It was empty, and as, by common consent, they instinctively drew towards the fire Nick pulled forward one of the big easy-chairs for her. Then he stood gloomily staring down into the leaping flames, much as Tormarin had stood the previous evening.

Intuitively she knew that he wanted to give her his confidence.

“Tell me about it, Nick,” she said quietly.

“May I?” The words jerked out like a sigh of relief. He dropped into a chair beside her.

“There isn’t very much to tell you. Only, I’d like you to know—to be a pal to her, if you can, Jean.” He paused, then went on quickly: “They married her to him when she was hardly more than a child—barely seventeen. She’s only nineteen now. Sir Adrian is practically a millionaire, and Claire’s father and mother were in low water—trying to cut a dash in society on nothing a year. So—they sold Claire. Sir Adrian paid their debts and agreed to make them a handsome allowance. And they let her go to him, knowing, then, that he had already begun to take drugs.”

“How could they?” burst from Jean in a strangled whisper.

Nick nodded. His eyes, meeting hers, had lost their gay good humour and were dull and lack-lustre.

“Yes, you’d wonder how, wouldn’t you?” he said. His voice rasped a little. “Still—they did it. Then, later on, the Latimers came to Charnwood, and Claire and I met. It didn’t take long to love her—you can understand that, can’t you?”

“Oh, Nick—yes! She is so altogether lovable.”

“But understand this, too,”—and the sudden sternness that gripped his speech reminded her sharply of his brother—“we recognise that that is all there can ever be between us. Just the knowledge that we love each other. I think even that helps to make her life—more bearable.”

He fell silent, and presently Jean stretched out a small, friendly hand.

“Thank you for telling me, Nick,” she said. “Perhaps some day you’ll be happy—together. You and Claire. It sounds a horrible thing to say—to count on—I know, but a man who takes drugs——”

Nick interrupted her with a short laugh.

“You needn’t count on Latimer’s snuffing out, if that’s what you mean. He is an immensely strong man—like a piece of steel wire. It will take years for any drug to kill him. I sometimes think”—bitterly—“that it will kill Claire first.”