"Why, yes."

(V)

The moors had been pretty well shot over already since the twelfth of August, but the two had a very pleasant day, for all that, a couple of days later. They went but with a keeper and half a dozen beaters--Frank in an old homespun suit of Jack's, and his own powerful boots, and made a very tolerable bag. There was one dramatic moment, Jack told me, when they found that luncheon had been laid at a high point on the hills from which the great gray ma.s.s of Merefield and the shimmer of the lake in front of the house were plainly visible only eight miles away. The flag was flying, too, from the flagstaff on the old keep, showing, according to ancient custom, that Lord Talgarth was at home. Frank looked at it a minute or two with genial interest, and Jack wondered whether he had noticed, as he himself had, that even the Rectory roof could be made out, just by the church tower at the foot of the hill.

Neither said anything, but as the keeper came up to ask for orders as they finished lunch, he tactfully observed that there was a wonderful fine view of Merefield.

"Yes," said Frank, "you could almost make out people with a telescope."

The two were walking together alone as they dropped down, an hour before sunset, on to the upper end of Barham. They were both glowing with the splendid air and exercise, and were just in that state of weariness that is almost unmixed physical pleasure to an imaginative thinker who contemplates a hot bath, a quant.i.ty of tea, and a long evening in a deep chair. Frank still preserved his impa.s.sive kind of att.i.tude towards things in general, but Jack noticed with gentle delight that he seemed more off his guard, and that he even walked with something more of an alert swing than he had on that first evening when they trudged up the drive together.

Their road led them past the gate of the old churchyard, and as they approached it, dropping their feet faster and faster down the steep slope, Jack noticed two figures sitting on the road-side, with their feet in the ditch--a man and a girl. He was going past them, just observing that the man had rather an unpleasant face, with a ragged mustache, and that the girl was sunburned, fair-haired and rather pretty, when he became aware that Frank had slipped behind him. The next instant he saw that Frank was speaking to them, and his heart dropped to zero.

"All right," he heard Frank say, "I was expecting you. This evening, then.... I say, Jack!"

Jack turned.

"Jack, this is Major and Mrs. Trustcott, I told you of. This is my friend, Mr.--er--Mr. Jack."

Jack bowed vaguely, overwhelmed with disgust.

"Very happy to make your acquaintance, sir," said the Major, straightening himself in a military manner. "My good lady and I were resting here. Very pleasant neighborhood."

"I'm glad you like it," said Jack.

"Then, this evening," said Frank again. "Can you wait an hour or two?"

"Certainly, my boy," said the Major. "Time's no consideration with us, as you know."

(Jack perceived that this was being said at him, to show the familiarity this man enjoyed with his friend.)

"Would nine o'clock be too late?"

"Nine o'clock it shall be," said the Major.

"And here?"

"Here."

"So long, then," said Frank. "Oh, by the way--" He moved a little closer to this appalling pair, and Jack stood off, to hear the sound of a sentence or two, and then the c.h.i.n.k of money.

"So long, then," said Frank again. "Come along, Jack; we must make haste."

"Good-evening, sir," cried the Major, but Jack made no answer.

"Frank, you don't mean to tell me that those are the people?"

"That's the Major and Gertie--yes."

"And what was all that about this evening?"

"I must go, Jack. I'm sorry; but I told you it couldn't be more than a few days at the outside."

Jack was silent, but it was a hard struggle.

"By the way, how shall we arrange?" went on the other. "I can't take these clothes, you know; and I can't very well be seen leaving the house in my own."

"Do as you like," snapped Jack.

"Look here, old man, don't be stuffy. How would it do if I took a bag and changed up in that churchyard? It's locked up after dark, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You've got a key, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, that's it. And I'll leave the bag and the key in the hedge somewhere."

Jack was silent.

Jack held himself loyally in hand that evening, but he could not talk much. He consented to explain to his mother that Frank had to be off after dinner that night, and he also visited the housekeeper's room, and caused a small bundle, not much larger than a leg of mutton, including two small bottles which jingled together, to be wrapped up in brown paper--in which he inserted also a five-pound note (he knew Frank would not take more)--and the whole placed in the bag in which Frank's old clothes were already concealed. For the rest of the evening he sat, mostly silent, in one chair, trying not to watch Frank in another; pretending to read, but endeavoring to picture to his imagination what he himself would feel like if he were about to join the Major and Gertie in the churchyard at nine o'clock.... Frank sat quite quiet all the evening, reading old volumes of _Punch_.

They dined at half-past seven, by request--Frank still in his homespun suit. f.a.n.n.y and Jill were rather difficult. It seemed to them both a most romantic thing that this black-eyed, sunburned young man, with whom they had played garden-golf the day before, should really be continuing his amazing walking-tour, in company with two friends, at nine o'clock that very night. They wondered innocently why the two friends had not been asked to join them at dinner. It was exciting, too, and unusual, that this young man should dine in an old homespun suit. They asked a quant.i.ty of questions. Where was Mr. Guiseley going first? Frank didn't quite know; Where would he sleep that night? Frank didn't quite know; he would have to see. When was the walking-tour going to end? Frank didn't quite know. Did he really like it? Oh, well, Frank thought it was a good thing to go on a walking tour, even if you were rather uncomfortable sometimes.

The leave-taking was unemotional. Jack had announced suddenly and loudly in the smoking-room before dinner that he was going to see the last of Frank, as far as the churchyard; Frank had protested, but had yielded. The rest had all said good-by to him in the hall, and at a quarter to nine the two young men went out into the darkness.

(VI)

It was a clear autumn night--a "wonderful night of stars"--and the skies blazed softly overhead down to the great blotted ma.s.ses of the high moors that stood round Barham. It was perfectly still, too--the wind had dropped, and the only sound as the two walked down the park was the low talking of the stream over the stones beyond the belt of trees fifty yards away from the road.

Jack was sick at heart; but even so, he tells me, he was conscious that Frank's silence was of a peculiar sort. He felt somehow as if his friend were setting out to some great sacrifice in which he was to suffer, and was only partly conscious of it--or, at least, so buoyed by some kind of exaltation or fanaticism as not to realize what he was doing. (He reminded me of a certain kind of dream that most people have now and then, of accompanying some friend to death: the friend goes forward, silent and exultant, and we cannot explain nor hold him back.

"That was the sort of feeling," said Jack lamely.)

Jack had the grim satisfaction of carrying the bag in which, so to speak, the knife and fillet were hidden. He changed his mood half a dozen times even in that quarter of an hour's walk through the town. Now the thing seemed horrible, like a nightmare; now absurdly preposterous; now rather beautiful; now perfectly ordinary and commonplace. After all, Jack argued with himself, there are such people as tramps, and they survive. Why should not Frank? He had gipsy blood in him, too. What in the world was he--Jack--frightened of?

"Do you remember our talking about your grandmother?" he said suddenly, as they neared the lodge.

"Yes. Why?"