A.E.W. Mason - The Summons

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"Then, that's all right," said Stella.

Many a one looking backwards upon some terrible and unexpected tragedy
will have noticed with what care the great dramaturgist so wove his play
that every little unheeded event in the days before helped directly to
create the final catastrophe. It happened on this evening that Stella
went downstairs earlier than the other guests, and in going into the
library in search of an evening paper, found Sir Chichester standing by
the telephone instrument.

"Am I in your way?" she asked.

"Not a bit, Stella," he answered. "In fact, you might help me by looking
up the number I want." He raised the instrument, and playing with the
receiver as he stood erect, remarked, "Although I am happy to think that
I shall not be called upon to deliver any observations on the occasion
of the Chichester flower show next Thursday, I may as well ask one of
the newspapers if their local correspondent would give the ceremony some
little attention."

Stella Croyle took up the telephone book.

"Which newspaper is it to be, Sir Chichester?"

"The _Harpoon_, I think. Yes, I am sure. The _Harpoon_."

Stella Croyle looked up the number and read out:

"Gerrard, one, six, two, double three."

Sir Chichester accordingly called upon the trunk line and gave the
number.

"You will ring me up? Thank you," he said, and replacing the receiver,
stood in anxious expectancy.

"I thought that your favourite paper was the _Daily Flashlight_?" Stella
observed.

"That's quite true, Stella. It was," Sir Chichester explained naively.
"But I have noticed lately a regrettable tendency to indifference on the
part of the _Flashlight_. The management is usually too occupied to
converse with me when I ring it up. On the other hand, I am new to the
_Harpoon_. Hallo! Hallo! This is Sir Christopher Splay speaking," and he
delivered his message. "Thank you very much," said Sir Chichester as he
hung up the receiver. "Really most courteous people. Yes, most
courteous. What is their number, Stella? I must remember it."

Stella read it out again.

"Gerrard, one, six, two, double three," and thus she, too, committed the
number to memory.

CHAPTER XXIII

PLANS FOR THE EVENING

The library at Rackham Park was a small, oblong room, with a big window
upon the garden. It opened into the hall on the one side and into the
dining-room on the other, and in one corner the telephone was installed.
At half-past eight on the night of the dance at Harrel, this room was
empty and in darkness. But a second afterwards the door from the hall
was opened, and Joan stood in the doorway, the light shimmering upon her
satin cloak and the silver embroidery of her frock. She cast an anxious
look behind her and up the staircase. It seemed as if some movement at
the angle made by the stairs and the gallery caught her eye, for she
stepped back for a clearer view, and listened with a peculiar
intentness. She saw nothing, however, and heard nothing. She entered the
library swiftly and closed the door behind her, so that the room fell
once more upon darkness save for a thread of gold at the bottom of the
other door behind which the men of the party were still sitting over
their wine. She crossed the room towards the window, stepping cautiously
to avoid the furniture. She was quite invisible. But for a tiny rustle
of the lace flounces on her dress one would have sworn the room was
empty. But when she was half-way across a sudden burst of laughter from
the dining-room brought her to a stop with her hand upon her heart and a
little sob not altogether stifled in her throat. It meant so much to her
that the desperate adventure of this night should be carried through! If
all went well, as it must--oh, as it surely must!--by midnight she would
be free of her terrors and distress.

The laughter in the dining room died down. Joan stole forward again. She
drew away the heavy curtains from the long window, and the moonlight,
clear and bright like silver, poured into the room and clothed her in
its soft radiance. She drew back the bolts at the top and bottom of the
glass door and turned the key in the lock. She touched the glass and the
door swung open upon the garden, easily, noiselessly. She drew it close
again and leaving it so, raised her hands to the curtains at the side.
As she began carefully to draw them together, so that the rings should
not rattle on the pole, the door from the hall was softly and quickly
opened, and the switch of the electric lights by the side of the door
pressed down. The room leapt into light.

Joan swung round, her face grown white, her eyes burning with fire. She
saw only Jenny Prask.

"I hope I don't intrude, miss," said Jenny respectfully. "I came to find
a book."

The blood flowed back into Joan's cheeks.

"Certainly, Jenny, take what you like," said Joan, and she draped the
curtains across the window.

"Thank you, miss."

Jenny chose a book from the case upon the table and without a glance at
Joan or at the window, went out of the room again. Joan watched her go.
After all, what had Jenny seen? A girl whose home was there, drawing the
curtains close. That was all. Joan shook her anxiety off. Jenny had left
the door of the library open and some one came running down the stairs
whistling as she ran. Miranda Brown dashed into the room struggling with
a pair of gloves.

"Oh, how I hate gloves in this weather!" she cried. "Well, here I am,
Joan. You wanted to speak to me before the others had finished powdering
their noses. What is it?"

"I want you to help me."

"Of course I will," Miranda answered cheerily. "How?"

Joan closed the door and returned to Miranda, who, having drawn the
gloves over her arm, was now struggling with the buttons.

"I want you, when we reach Harrel----"

"Yes."

"To lend me your motor-car for an hour."

Miranda turned in amazement towards her friend. But one glance at her
face showed that the prayer was made in desperate earnest. Miranda Brown
caught her friend by the arm.

"Joan!"

"Yes," Joan Whitworth answered, nodding her head miserably. "That's the
help I want and I want it dreadfully. Just for an hour--no more."

"Joan, my dear--what's the matter?" asked Miranda gazing into Joan
Whitworth's troubled face.

"I don't want you to ask me," the girl answered. "I want you to help me
straight off without any questions. Otherwise----" and Joan's voice
shook and broke, "otherwise--oh, I don't know what will happen to me!"

Miranda put her arm round Joan Whitworth's waist. "Joan! You are in real
trouble!"

"For the first time!" said Joan.

"Can't I----?"

"No," Joan interrupted. "There's only the one way, Miranda."

She sat down upon a couch at Miranda's side and feverishly caught her
hand. "Do help me! You can't tell what it means to me!... And I should
hate telling you! Oh, I have been such a fool!"

Joan's face was quivering, and so deep a compunction was audible in her
voice, so earnest a prayer was to be read in her troubled eyes, that
Miranda's doubt and anxiety were doubled.

"I don't know what I shall do, if you don't help me," Joan said
miserably as she let go of Miranda. Her hands fluttered helplessly in
the air. "No, I don't know!"

Miranda was thoroughly disturbed. The contrast between the Joan she had
known until this week, good-humoured, a little aloof, contented with
herself and her ambitions, placid, self-contained, and this lovely girl,
troubled to the heart's core, with her beseeching eyes and trembling
lips touched her poignantly, meltingly.

"Oh, Joan, I don't like it!" she whispered. "What mad thing have you
done?"

"Nothing that can't be put right! Nothing! Nothing!" Joan caught eagerly
at the argument. "Oh, I was a fool! But if you'll only help me
to-night, I am sure everything will be arranged."

The words were bold enough, but the girl's voice trailed off into a low,
unsteady whisper, as terror at the rash plan which she had made and must
now carry through caught at her heart. "Oh, Miranda, do be kind!"

"When do you want the car?" asked Miranda.

"Immediately after we get to Harrel."

"Joan!"

Miranda herself was growing frightened. She stood torn with indecision.
Joan's distress pleaded on the one side, dread of some tragic mystery
upon the other. For the first time in her life Joan was in some
desperate crisis of destiny. Her feet and hands twitched as though she
were bound fast in the coils of a net she could not break. What wisdom
of experience could she bring to help her to escape? On what wild and
hopeless venture might she not be set?

"Yes, yes," Joan urged eagerly. "I have thought it all out. I want you
to tell your chauffeur privately to return along the avenue after he has
set you down. There's a road on the right a few yards down. If he will
turn into that and wait behind the big clump of rhododendrons I will
join him immediately."

"But it will be noticed that you have gone. People will ask for you,"
Miranda objected.

"No, I shall be back again within the hour. There will be a crowd of
people. And lots won't imagine that I should ever come to the dance at
all." Even at that moment a little smile played about the lips. "And if
the ball had been a week ago, I shouldn't have gone, should I? I should
still be wearing sandals," she explained, as she looked down at the
buckles of her trim satin slippers, "and haughtily wishing you all good
night in the hall here. No, it will be easy enough. I shall just shake
hands with Mrs. Willoughby, pass on with the rest of our party into the
ball-room and then slip out by the corridor at the side of the park."

"It's dangerous, Joan!" said Miranda.

"Oh, I know, but----" Joan rose suddenly with her eyes upon the door.
"The others are coming. Miranda, will you help me? I would have driven
over to Harrel in my own little car. But it's open and I should have got
blown about until everybody would have begun asking why in the world I
used it. Oh, Miranda, quick!"

Her ears had heard the voices already in the hall. Miranda heard them
too. In a moment the door would be thrown open. She must make up her
mind now.

"Very well. The first turning to the right down the avenue and behind
the rhododendrons. I'll tell the chauffeur."

"And no one else! Not even Dennis!"

"Joan!"

"No, not even Dennis! Promise me!"

Millie Splay was heard to be inquiring for them both.

"Very well. I promise!"

"Oh, thank you! Thank you."

The door from the hall was opened upon that cry of gratitude and Millie
Splay looked in.

"Oh, there you are." A movement of chairs became audible in the
dining-room. "And those men are still sitting over their miserable
cigars."

"They are coming," said Joan, and the next moment the dining-room door
was thrown open and Sir Chichester with his guests trooped out from it.

"Now then, you girls, we ought to be off," he cried as if he had been
waiting with his coat on for half an hour. "This is none of your London
dances. We are in the country. You won't any of you get any partners if
you don't hurry."

"Well, I like that!" returned Millie Splay. "Here we all are, absolutely
waiting for you!"

Mr. Albany Todd approached Joan.

"You will keep a dance for me?"

"Of course. The third before supper," answered Joan.

Already Sir Chichester was putting on his coat in the hall.

"Come on! Come on!" he cried impatiently, and then in quite another
tone, "Oh!"

The evening papers had arrived late that evening. They now lay neatly
folded on the hall table. Sir Chichester pounced upon them. The
throbbing motor-cars at the door, the gay figures of his guests were
all forgotten. He plumped down upon a couch.

"There!" cried Millie Splay in despair. "Now we can all sit down for
half an hour."

"Nonsense, my dear, nonsense! I just want to see whether there is any
report of my little speech at the Flower Show yesterday." He turned over
the leaves. "Not a word apparently, here! And yet it was an occasion of
some importance. I can't understand these fellows."

He tossed the paper aside and took up another. "Just a second, dear!"

Millie Splay looked around at her guests with much the same expression
of helpless wonderment which was so often to be seen on the face of
Dennis Brown, when Miranda went racing.

"It's the limit!" she declared.

There were two, however, of the party, who were not at all distressed by
Sir Chichester's procrastination. When the others streamed into the
hall, Joan lingered behind, sedulously buttoning her gloves which were
buttoned before; and Harry Luttrell returned to assist her. The door was
three-quarters closed. From the hall no one could see them.

"You are going to dance with me in the passage," he said.

Joan smiled at him and nodded. Now that Miranda had given way, Joan's
spirits had revived. The colour was bright in her cheeks, her eyes were
tender.

"Yes, but not at once."

"Why?"

"I'll finish my duty dances first," said Joan in a low voice. She did
not take her eyes from his face. She let him read, she meant him to
read, in her eyes what lay so close at her heart. Harry Luttrell read
without an error, the print was so large, the type so clear. He took a
step nearer to her.

"Joan!" he whispered; and at this, his first use of her Christian name,
her face flowered like a rose.

"Thank you!" she said softly. "Oh, thank you!"

Harry Luttrell looked over his shoulder. They had the room to
themselves, so long as they did not raise their voices.

"Joan," he began with a little falter in his voice. Could he have
pleaded better in a thousand fine speeches, he who had seen his men
wither about him on the Somme, than by that little timorous quaver in
his voice? "Joan, I have something to ask of you to-night. I meant to
ask it during a dance, when you couldn't run away. But I am going to ask
it now."

Joan drew back sharply.

"No! Please wait!" and as she saw his face cloud, she hurried on. "Oh,
don't be hurt! You misunderstand. How you misunderstand! Take me in to
supper to-night, will you? And then you shall talk to me, and I'll
listen." Her voice rose like clear sweet music in a lilt of joy. "I'll
listen with all my heart, my hands openly in yours if you will, so that
all may see and know my pride!"

"Joan!" he whispered.

"But not now! Not till then!"

Harry Luttrell did not consider what scruple in the girl's conscience
held him off. The delay did not trouble him at all. She stood before
him, radiant in her beauty, her happiness like an aura about her.

"Joan," he whispered again, and--how it happened who shall say?--in a
second she was within his arms, her heart throbbing against his; her
hands stole about his shoulders; their lips were pressed together.

"Harry! Oh, Harry!" she murmured. Then very gently she pushed him from
her. She shook her head with a wistful little smile.

"I didn't mean you to do that," she said in self-reproach, "until after
supper."

In the hall Sir Chichester threw down the last of the newspapers in a
rage. "Not a word! Not one single miserable little word! I don't ask
much, goodness knows, but----" and his voice went up in an angry
incredulity. "Not one word! And I thought the _Harpoon_ was such a good
paper too!"

Sir Chichester sprang to his feet. He glanced at his guests. He turned
upon his wife.

"God bless my soul, Millie, what _are_ we waiting for? I'll tell you
girls what it is. Unless we get off at once, we had better not go at
all. Where's Joan? Where's Luttrell?"

"Here we are!" cried Luttrell from the library, and in a lower tone to
Joan, he observed, "What a bore people are to be sure, aren't they?"

The guilty couple emerged into the hall. Sir Chichester surveyed them
with severity.

"I don't know whether you have heard about it, Luttrell, but there's a
ball to-night at Harrel, and we all rather thought of going to it," he
remarked with crushing sarcasm.

"I am quite ready, sir," replied Harry humbly. Sir Chichester was
mollified.

"Very well then. We'll go."

"But Mrs. Croyle isn't down yet," said Miranda.

"Stella isn't going, dear," answered Millie Splay; and a cry of dismay
burst from Joan.

"Not going!"

The consternation in the girl's voice was so pronounced that every eye
in that hall turned to her in astonishment. There was consternation,
too, most legible in her widely-opened eyes. Her cheeks had lost their
colour. She stood for a fleeting moment before them all, an image of
terror. Then she caught at an excuse.

"Stella's ill then--since she's not going."

"It's not as bad as all that, dear," Lady Splay hastened to reassure
her. "She complained of a racking headache at dinner. She has gone to
bed."

The blood flowed back into Joan's cheeks.

"Oh, I see!" she observed slowly. "That is why her maid came to the
library for a book!"

But she was very silent throughout the quarter of an hour, which it took
them to drive to Harrel. There was somebody left behind at Rackham Park
that night. Joan had overlooked one possibility in contriving her plan,
and that possibility, now developed into fact, threatened to ruin all.
One guest remained behind in the house, and that one Joan's rival.

CHAPTER XXIV

JENNY PRASK IS INTERESTED

Rackham was a red Georgian mansion with great windows in flat rows, and
lofty rooms made beautiful by the delicate tracery of the ceilings. It
has neither wings nor embellishments but stood squarely in its gardens,
looking southwards to the Downs. The dining-room was upon the east side,
between that room and the hall was the library, of which the window
faced the north. Mrs. Croyle's bedroom, however, was in the south-west
corner and from its windows one could see the smoke of the train as it
climbed from Midhurst to the Cocking tunnel, and the gap where the road
runs through to Singleton.

"You won't be going to bed yet, madam, I suppose," said Jenny.

She had not troubled to bring upstairs into the room the book which she
had picked out at random from the stand that was lying on the hall
table.

"No, Jenny. I will ring for you when I want you," said Stella.

Stella was dispirited. Her week was nearly at an end. To-morrow would be
the last day and she had gained nothing, it seemed, by all her care.
Harry was kind--oh, ever so much kinder than in the old days when they
had been together--more considerate, more thoughtful. But the skies of
passion are stormily red, and so effulgent that one walks in gold.
Consideration, thoughtfulness--what were these pale things worth against
one spurt of fire? Besides, there was the ball to-night. He would dance
with _her_, would seek the dim open spaces of the lawns, the dark
shadows of the great elms, with her--with Joan.

"I'll ring for you, Jenny," she repeated, as her maid stood doubtfully
by the door. "I am quite right."

"Very well, madam."

Stella Croyle's eyes were drawn when she was left alone to that cupboard
in which her dressing-bag was stowed away. But she arrested them and
covered them with her hands.

"This is my last chance," she said to herself aloud in the anguish of
her spirit. If it failed, there was nothing in front of her but a
loneliness which each year must augment. Youth and high spirits or the
assumption of high spirits--these she must have if she were to keep her
place in her poor little circle--and both were slipping from her fast.
"This is my last chance." She stood in front of her mirror in her
dancing frock, her dark hair exquisitely dressed, her face hauntingly
wistful. After all, she was beautiful. Why shouldn't she win? Jenny
thought that she could.

At that moment Jenny was slipping noiselessly along a corridor to the
northern side of the house. The lights were all off; a pencil of
moonlight here and there from an interstice in the curtains alone
touched her as she passed. At one window she stopped, and softly lifted
the blind. She looked out and was satisfied.

"Thought so!" she murmured, with a little vindictive smile. Just beneath
her was that long window of the library which Joan had been at such
pains to arrange.

Jenny stationed herself by the window. The night was very still. She
could hear the voices of the servants in the dining-room round the angle
of the house, and see the light from its windows lying in frames upon
the grass. Then the light went out, and silence fell.

From time to time the hum of a motor-car swelled and diminished to its
last faint vibrations on the distant road; and as each car passed Jenny
stiffened at her post. She looked at her watch, turning the dial to the
moonlight. It was ten minutes past nine now. The cars had left Rackham
Park well before nine. She would not have long to wait now! As she
slipped her watch again into her waistband she drew back with an
instinctive movement, although the window at which she stood had been
this last half-hour in shadow. For under a great copper beech on the
grass in front of her a man was standing. The sight of him was a shock
to her.

She wondered how he had come, how long he had been there--and why? Some
explanation flashed upon her.

"My goodness me!" she whispered. "You could knock me down with a
hairpin. So you could!"

Whilst she watched that solitary figure beneath the tree, another motor
whizzed along the road. The noise of its engine grew louder--surely
louder than any which, standing at this window, she had heard before.
Had it turned into the park? off the main road. Was it coming to the
house? Before Jenny could answer these questions in her mind, the noise
ceased altogether. Jenny held her breath; and round the angle of the
house a girl came running swiftly, her skirt sparkling like silver in
the moonlight, and a white cloak drawn about her shoulders. She drew
open the window of the library and passed in. A few seconds passed.
Jenny imagined her stealthily opening the door into the hall, and
listening to make sure that the servants were in their own quarters and
this part of the house deserted. Then the girl reappeared at the window
and made a sign. From beneath the tree the man ran across the grass. His
face was turned towards Jenny, and the moonlight revealed it. The man
was Mario Escobar.

Jenny drew a little sharp breath. She heard the window ever so gently
latched. Suddenly the light blazed out from the room and then, strip by
strip, vanished, as if the curtains had been cautiously drawn. The
garden, the house resumed its aspect of quiet; all was as it had been
when Jenny Prask first lifted the window of the corridor. Jenny Prask
crept cautiously away.

"Fancy that!" she said to herself, with a little chuckle of triumph.

In the room below Mario Escobar and Joan Whitworth were talking.

CHAPTER XXV

IN A LIBRARY

"You insisted that I should see you. You have something to say to me,"
said Joan. She was breathing more quickly than usual and the blood
fluttered in her cheeks, but she faced Mario Escobar with level eyes,
and spoke without a tremor in her voice. So far everything had happened
just as she had planned. There were these few difficult minutes now to
be grappled with, and afterwards the ordeal would be ended, that foolish
chapter in her life altogether closed. "Will you please be quick?" she
pleaded.

But Mario Escobar was in no hurry to answer. He had never imagined that
Joan Whitworth could look so beautiful. He had never dreamed that she
would take so much trouble. Mario Escobar understood women's clothes,
and his eyes ran with a sensation of pleasure over her delicate frock
with its shining bands, its embroidery of silver and flounces of fine
lace, down to her slim brocaded shoes. He had not, indeed, thought very
much of her in the days when Linda Spavinsky was queen. She had been a
sort of challenge to him, because of her aloofness, her indifference.
Women were his profession, and here was a queer outlandish one whom it
would be amusing to parade as his. So he had set to work; he had a sense
of art, he could talk with ingenuity on artistic matters, and he had
flattered Joan by doing so; but always with a certain definite laughter
and contempt for her. Now her beauty rather swept him off his feet. He
looked at her in amazement. Why this change? And--the second question
for ever in his mind--how could he profit by it?

"I don't understand," he said slowly, feeling his way. "We were good
friends--very good friends." Joan neither denied nor agreed. "We had
certain things in common, a love of art, of the finer things of life. I
made enemies, of course, in consequence. Your racing friends----" He
paused. "Milly Splay, who would have matched you with some dull,
tiresome squire accustomed to sleep over his port after dinner, the sort
of man you are drawing so brilliantly in your wonderful book." A
movement of impatience on Joan's part perplexed him. Authors! You can
generally lay your praise on with a trowel. What in the world was the
matter with Joan? He hurried on. "I understood that I was making
enemies. I understood, too, why I was no longer invited to Rackham Park.
I was a foreigner. I would as soon visit a picture gallery as shoot a
pheasant. I would as soon appreciate your old gates and houses in the
country as gallop after a poor little fox on the downs. Oh, yes, I
wasn't popular. That I understand. But you!" and his voice softened to a
gentle reproach. "You were different! And you had the courage of your
difference! Since I was not invited to Rackham Park, I was to come down
to the inn at Midhurst. I was to drive over--publicly, most
publicly--and ask for you. We would show them that there were finer
things in the world than horse-racing and lawn tennis. Oh, yes. We
arranged it all at that wonderful exhibition of the New School in Green
Street."

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