The Hand in the Dark | Page 3

to whom she was dispensing tea. There was
a stiff and stately grace in her movements, a slow ceremoniousness, in
her politeness to her guests, which seemed to harmonize with the
seventeenth-century setting of the moat-house garden.
At the moment the ladies were discussing an event which had been
arranged for that night: a country drive, to be followed by a musical
evening and dance. The invitations had been issued by the Weynes, a
young couple who had recently made their home in the county. The
husband was a popular novelist, who had left the distractions of
London in order to win fame in peace and quietness in the country. Mrs.
Weyne, who had been slightly acquainted with Mrs. Heredith before
her marriage, was delighted to learn she was to have her for a
neighbour. She had arranged the evening on her behalf, and had asked
Miss Heredith to bring all her guests. The event was to mark the close
of the house party, which was to break up on the following day.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Heredith had fallen ill a few hours previously, and
it was doubtful whether she would be able to join in the festivity.
"I hope you will all remember that dinner is to be a quarter of an hour
earlier to-night," said Miss Heredith, as she handed a cup of tea to one
of her guests. "It is a long drive to the Weynes' place, so I shall order
the cars for half-past seven."
The guests glanced at their hostess and murmured polite assent.
"I am looking forward to the visit so much," said the lady to whom
Miss Heredith had handed the cup. "It will be so romantic--a country
dance in a lonely house on a hill. What an adorable cup, dear Miss
Heredith! I love Chinese egg-shell porcelain, but this is simply beyond
anything! It's----"
"Whatever induced Dolly Weyne to bury herself in the country?"
abruptly exclaimed a young woman with cropped hair and khaki
uniform. "She loathed the country before she was married."
"Mrs. Weyne is a wife, and it is her duty to like her husband's home,"
said Miss Heredith a little primly. She disapproved of the speaker,

whose khaki uniform, close-cropped hair, crossed legs, and arms
a-kimbo struck her as everything that was modern and unwomanly.
"Then what induced Teddy Weyne to bury himself alive in the wilds?
I'm sure it must be terrible living up there alone, with nothing but
earwigs and owls for company."
"Mr. Weyne is a writer," rejoined Miss Heredith. "He needs seclusion."
"My husband doesn't," said a little fair-haired woman. "He says
newspaper men can write anywhere. And we know another writer, a Mr.
Harland, I think his name is, who writes long articles in the Sunday
newspapers----"
"I don't think his name is Harland, dear," interrupted another lady.
"Something like it, but not Harland. Dear me, what is it?"
"Oh, the name doesn't matter," retorted her friend. "The point is that he
writes long articles in his London office. Why can't Mr. Weyne do the
same?"
"Mr. Weyne is a novelist--not a journalist. It's quite a different thing."
"Is it?" responded the other doubtfully. "All writing is the same, isn't it?
Harry says Mr. Harland's articles are dreadfully clever. He sometimes
reads bits of them to me."
"Mrs. Weyne feels a little lonely sometimes," said Miss Heredith. "She
has been looking forward to meeting Violet again. It will be pleasant
for both of them to renew their acquaintance."
"I should think she and Violet would get on well together," remarked
the young lady with the short hair. "They both have a good many tastes
in common. Neither likes the country, for one thing." The other ladies
looked at one another, and the speaker, realizing that she had been
tactless, stopped abruptly. "How is Violet?" she added lamely. "Do you
think she will be well enough to go to-night?"

"I still hope she may be well enough to go," replied Miss Heredith. "I
will ask her presently. Will anyone have another cup of tea?"
Nobody wanted any more tea. The meal was finished; but the groups of
ladies at the little tables sat placidly talking, enjoying the peaceful
surroundings and the afternoon sun. Some of the girls produced
cigarette-cases, and lit cigarettes.
There was a sound of footsteps on the gravel walk. A tall, good-looking
young officer was seen walking across the garden from the house. As
he neared the tea-tables he smilingly raised a finger to his forehead in
salute.
"I've come to say good-bye," he announced.
The ladies clustered around him. It was evident from their manner that
he was a popular figure among them. Several of the younger girls
addressed him as "Dick," and asked him to send them trophies from the
front. The young