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Page 17
For the moment the size of such an imaginary disaster served
curiously to lessen his uneasiness. Pushed to extremities, the
idea became merely absurd. He won a sort of comfort from such an
outrageous proposition, because it brought him back to the solid
ground of reason and the assurance that some things simply do not
happen. From this extravagant summit of horror, his fears gradually
receded. Such a waking nightmare even quieted his nerves when it
was past; for if a possibility presents a ludicrous side, then its
horror must diminish by so much. Moreover, Henry told himself that
if the threat of a disaster so absolute could really be felt by him,
it was his duty to rise at once, intervene, and, if necessary,
summon his uncle and force May to leave the Grey Room immediately.
This idea amused him again and offered another jest. The tragedy
really resolved into jests. He found himself smiling at the
picture of May being treated like a disobedient schoolboy. But
if that happened, and Tom was proclaimed the sinner, what must be
Henry's own fate? To win the reputation of an unsportsmanlike
sneak in Mary's opinion as well as Tom's. He certainly could call
upon nobody to help him now. But he might go and look up May
himself. That would be very sharply resented, however. He
travelled round and round in circles, then asked himself what he
would do and say to-morrow if anything happened to Tom--nothing,
of course, fatal, but something perhaps so grave that May himself
would be unable to explain it. In that case Henry could only state
facts exactly as they had occurred. But there would be a deuce of
a muddle if he had to make statements and describe the exact
sequence of recent incidents. Already he forgot the exact sequence.
It seemed ages since he parted from May. He broke off there, rose,
drank a glass of water, and lighted a cigarette. He shook himself
into wakefulness, condemned himself for this debauch of weak-minded
thinking, found the time to be three o'clock, and brushed the whole
cobweb tangle from his mind. He knew that sudden warmth after cold
will often induce sleep--a fact proved by incidents of his
campaigns--so he trudged up and down and opened his window and let
the cool breath of the night chill his forehead and breast for five
minutes.
This action calmed him, and he headed himself off from returning
to the subject. He felt that mental dread and discomfort were
only waiting to break out again; but he smothered them, returned
to bed, and succeeded in keeping his mind on neutral-tinted
matter until he fell asleep.
He woke again before he was called, rose and went to his bath. He
took it cold, and it refreshed him and cleared his head, for he
had a headache. Everything was changed, and the phantoms of his
imagination remained only as memories to be laughed at. He no
longer felt alarm or anxiety. He dressed presently, and guessing
that Tom, always the first to rise, might already be out of doors,
he strolled on to the terrace presently to meet him there.
Already he speculated whether an apology was due from him to May,
or whether he might himself expect one. It didn't matter. He knew
perfectly well that Tom was all right now, and that was the only
thing that signified.
CHAPTER III
AT THE ORIEL
Chadlands sprang into existence when the manor houses of England--
save for the persistence of occasional embattled parapets and
other warlike survivals of unrestful days now past--had obeyed
the laws of architectural evolution, and begun to approach a future
of cleanliness and comfort, rising to luxury hitherto unknown. The
development of this ancient mass was displayed in plan as much as
in elevation, and, at its date, the great mansion had stood for the
last word of perfection, when men thought on large lines and the
conditions of labour made possible achievements now seldom within
the power of a private purse. Much had since been done, but the
main architectural features were preserved, though the interior of
the great house was transformed.
The manor of Chadlands extended to some fifty thousand acres lying
in a river valley between the heights of Haldon on the east and
the frontiers of Dartmoor westerly. The little township was
connected by a branch with the Great Western Railway, and the
station lay five miles from the manor house. No more perfect
parklands, albeit on a modest scale, existed in South Devon, and
the views of the surrounding heights and great vale opening from
the estate caused pleasure alike to those contented with obvious
beauty and the small number of spectators who understood the
significance of what constitutes really distinguished landscape.
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