The Necromancers | Page 4

artistic and
intellectual change of view. But this, it seemed, had not happened; and
this final mad episode of Amy Nugent had fanned her criticism to
indignation. She did not disapprove of romance--in fact she largely
lived by it--but there were things even more important, and she was as
angry as she could be, with decency, at this last manifestation of
selfishness.
For the worst of it was that, as she knew perfectly well, Laurie was
rather an exceptional person. He was not at all the Young Fool of
Fiction. There was a remarkable virility about him, he was
tender-hearted to a degree, he had more than his share of brains. It was
intolerable that such a person should be so silly.
She wondered what sorrow would do for him. She had come down
from Scotland the night before, and down here to Herefordshire this

morning; she had not then yet seen him; and he was now at the
funeral....
Well, sorrow would be his test. How would he take it?
Mrs. Baxter broke in on her meditations.
"Maggy, darling ... do you think you can do anything? You know I
once hoped...."
The girl looked up suddenly, with so vivid an air that it was an
interruption. The old lady broke off.
"Well, well," she said. "But is it quite impossible that--"
"Please, don't. I--I can't talk about that. It's impossible--utterly
impossible."
The old lady sighed; then she said suddenly, looking at the clock above
the oak mantelshelf, "It is half-past. I expect--"
She broke off as the front door was heard to open and close beyond the
hall, and waited, paling a little, as steps sounded on the flags; but the
steps went up the stairs outside, and there was silence again.
"He has come back," she said. "Oh! my dear."
"How shall you treat him?" asked the girl curiously.
The old lady bent again over her embroidery.
"I think I shall just say nothing. I hope he will ride this afternoon. Will
you go with him?"
"I think not. He won't want anyone. I know Laurie."
The other looked up at her sideways in a questioning way, and Maggie
went on with a kind of slow decisiveness.

"He will be queer at lunch. Then he will probably ride alone and be late
for tea. Then tomorrow--"
"Oh! my dear, Mrs. Stapleton is coming to lunch tomorrow. Do you
think he'll mind?"
"Who is Mrs. Stapleton?"
The old lady hesitated.
"She's--she's the wife of Colonel Stapleton. She goes in for what I think
is called New Thought; at least, so somebody told me last month. I'm
afraid she's not a very steady person. She was a vegetarian last year;
now I believe she's given that up again."
Maggie smiled slowly, showing a row of very white, strong teeth.
"I know, auntie," she said. "No; I shouldn't think Laurie'll mind much.
Perhaps he'll go back to town in the morning, too."
"No, my dear, he's staying till Thursday."
* * * * *
There fell again one of those pleasant silences that are possible in the
country. Outside the garden, with the meadows beyond the village road,
lay in that sweet September hush of sunlight and mellow color that
seemed to embalm the house in peace. From the farm beyond the
stable-yard came the crowing of a cock, followed by the liquid chuckle
of a pigeon perched somewhere overhead among the twisted chimneys.
And within this room all was equally at peace. The sunshine lay on
table and polished floor, barred by the mullions of the windows, and
stained here and there by the little Flemish emblems and coats that
hung across the glass; while those two figures, so perfectly in place in
their serenity and leisure, sat before the open fire-place and
contemplated the very unpeaceful element that had just walked upstairs
incarnate in a pale, drawn-eyed young man in black.

The house, in fact, was one of those that have a personality as marked
and as mysterious as of a human character. It affected people in quite
an extraordinary way. It took charge of the casual guest, entertained
and soothed and sometimes silenced him; and it cast upon all who lived
in it an enchantment at once inexplicable and delightful. Externally it
was nothing remarkable.
It was a large, square-built house, close indeed to the road, but
separated from it by a high wrought-iron gate in an oak paling, and a
short, straight garden-path; originally even ante-Tudor, but matured
through centuries, with a Queen Anne front of mellow red brick, and
back premises of tile, oak, and modern rough-cast, with old
brew-houses that almost enclosed a graveled court behind. Behind this
again lay a great kitchen garden with box-lined paths dividing it all into
a dozen rectangles, separated from the