The Lair of the White Worm/Chapter 7

AT BREAKFAST-TIME next morning Sir Nathaniel and Mr. Salton were seated when Adam came hurriedly into the room.

“Any news?” asked his uncle mechanically.

“Four.”

“Four what?” asked Sir Nathaniel.

“Snakes,” said Adam, helping himself to a grilled kidney.

“Four snakes. How? I don’t understand.”

“Mongoose,” said Adam, and then added explanatorily: “I was out with the mongoose just after three.”

“Four snakes in one morning! Why, I didn’t know there were so many on the Brow”—the local name for the western cliff. “I hope that wasn’t the consequence of our talk of last night?”

“It was, sir. But not directly.”

“But, God bless my soul, you didn’t expect to get a snake like the Lambton worm, did you? Why, a mongoose to tackle a monster like that—if there were one—would have to be bigger than a haystack.”

“These were ordinary snakes, only about as big as a walking-stick.”

“Well, it’s well to be rid of them, big or little. That is a good mongoose, I suppose; he’ll clear out all such vermin round here,” said Mr. Salton.

Adam went quietly on with his breakfast. Killing a few snakes in a morning was no new experience to him. He left the room the moment breakfast was finished and went to the study that his uncle had arranged for him. Both Sir Nathaniel and Mr. Salton took it that he wanted to be by himself as so to avoid any questioning or talk of the visit that he was to make that afternoon. He stayed by himself either in the house or walking, till about half-an-hour before dinnertime. Then he came quietly into the smoking-room, where Mr. Salton and Sir Nathaniel were sitting together ready dressed. He too was dressed, and the old diplomatist noticed that his hand was, if possible, more steady than usual. He had actually shaved himself when making his toilet, but there was no sign of a cut or even of a quiver of the hand. Sir Nathaniel smiled to himself quietly as he said under his voice:

“He is all right. That is a sign there is no mistaking—for a man in love. He certainly was in love yesterday; and one way or another, if he can get rid of, or overcome, troubles of the heart like that, I think we needn’t have any special apprehension about him.” So he resumed the magazine which he had been reading.

After a few minutes of silence all round, Adam gave further evidence of his aplomb. He suddenly said, looking at the others:

“I suppose there is no use waiting. We had better get it over at once.”

His uncle, thinking to make things easier to him, said:

“Get what over?”

There was a sign of shyness about him at this. He stammered a little at first, but his voice became more even as he went on.

“My visit to Mercy Farm.”

Mr. Salton waited eagerly. The old diplomatist simply smiled easily.

“I suppose you both know that I was much interested yesterday in the Watfords?” There was no denial or fending off the question. Both the old men smiled acquiescence. Adam went on: “I meant you to see it—both of you. You, uncle, because you are my uncle and the nearest thing to me on earth—of my own kin, and, moreover, you couldn’t have been more kind to me or made me more welcome if you had been my own father.” Mr. Salton said nothing. He simply held out his hand, and the other took it and held it for a few seconds. “And you, sir, because you have shown me something of the same affection which in my wildest dreams of home I had no right to expect.” He stopped for an instant, much moved.

Sir Nathaniel answered softly, laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder:

“You are right, my boy; quite right. That is the proper way to look at it. And I may tell you that we old men, who have no children of our own, feel our hearts growing warm when we hear words like those.”

Then Adam hurried on, speaking with a rush, as if he wanted to come to the crucial point.

“Mr. Watford had not come in, but Lilla and Mimi were at home, and they made me feel very welcome. They have all a great regard for my uncle. I am glad of that any way, for I like them all—much. We were having tea when Mr. Caswall came to the door, attended by the Christy Minstrel.”

“The Christy Minstrel!” repeated Sir Nathaniel. His voice sounded simply as an acknowledgement, not as a comment of any kind.

Lilla opened the door herself. The window of the living-room at the farm, as of course you know, is a large one, and from within you cannot help seeing anyone coming. Mr. Caswall said he had ventured to call, as he wished to make the acquaintance of all his tenants in a less formal way and more individually than had been possible to him on the previous day. The girls made him very welcome. They are very sweet girls those, sir. Someone will be very happy some day there—with either of them.”

“And that man may be you, Adam,” said Mr. Salton heartily.

A sad look came over the young man’s eyes, and the fire his uncle had seen there died out. Likewise the timbre left his voice, making it sound dreadfully lonely as he spoke:

“Such might crown my life. But that happiness, I fear, is not for me, or not without pain and loss and woe.”

“Well, it’s early days yet!” said Sir Nathaniel heartily.

The young man turned on him his eyes, which had now grown excessively sad, as he answered:

“Yesterday—a few hours ago—that remark would have given me new hope—new courage; but since then I have learned too much.”

The old man, skilled in the human heart, did not attempt to argue in such a matter. He simply varied the idea and went on:

“Too early to give in, my boy.”

“I am not of a giving-in kind,” said the young man earnestly. “But, after all, it is wise to realise a truth. And when a man, though he is young, feels as I do—as I have felt since yesterday, when I first saw Mimi’s eyes—his heart jumps. He does not need to learn things. He knows.”

There was silence in the room, during which the twilight stole on imperceptibly. It was Adam who again broke the silence as he asked his uncle:

“Do you know, uncle, if we have any second sight in our family?”

“Second sight? No, not that I ever heard about. Why?”

“Because,” he answered slowly, “I have a conviction over me which seems to answer all the conditions of second sight that I have ever heard of.”

“And then?” asked the old man, much perturbed.

“And then the usual inevitable. What in the Hebrides and other places, where the Sight is a cult—a belief—is called ‘the doom’—the court from which there is no appeal. I have often heard of second sight—you know we have many western Scots in Australia; but I have realised more of its true inwardness in an instant of this afternoon than I did in the whole of my life previously—a granite wall stretching up to the very heavens, so high and so dark that the eye of God Himself cannot see beyond. Well, if the Doom must come, it must. That is all.”

The voice of Sir Nathaniel broke in, smooth and sweet and grave, but very, very stern:

“Can there not be a fight for it? There can for most things.”

“For most things, yes, but for the Doom, no. What a man can do I shall do. There will be—must be—a fight. When and where and how I know not. But a fight there will be. But, after all, what is a man in such a case?”

“A man! Adam, there are three of us.” He looked at his old friend as he spoke, and that old friend’s eyes blazed.

“Ay, three of us,” he said, and his voice rang.

There was again a pause, and Sir Nathaniel, anxious to get back to less emotional and more neutral ground, said quietly:

“Tell us of the rest of the meeting. Omit no detail. It may be useful. Remember we are all pledged to this. It is a fight á l’outrance, and we can afford to throw away or forgo no chance.”

Adam said quietly looking at him:

“We shall throw away or lose nothing that we can help. We fight to win, and the stake is a life—perhaps more than one—we shall see.” Then he went on in a conversational tone, such as he had used when he spoke of the coming to the farm of Edgar Caswall: “When Mr. Caswall came in, the Christy Minstrel touched his ridiculous hat and went away—at least, he went a short distance and there remained. It gave one the idea that he expected to be called and intended to remain in sight, or within hail. Then Mimi got another cup and made fresh tea, and we all went on together.”

“Was there anything uncommon—were you all quite friendly?” asked Sir Nathaniel quietly.

Adam answered at once:

“Quite friendly. There was nothing that I could notice out of the common—except,” he went on, with a slight hardening of the voice, “except that he kept his eyes fixed on Lilla in a way which was quite intolerable to any man who might hold her dear.” “Now, in what way did he look?” asked Sir Nathaniel. “I am not doubting, I only ask for information.”

“I can hardly say,” was the answer. “There was nothing in itself offensive; but no one could help noticing it.”

“You did. Miss Watford herself, who was the victim, and Mr. Caswall, who was the offender, are out of range as witnesses. Was there anyone else who noticed?”

“Mimi did. I tell you her face flamed with anger as she saw the look.”

“What kind of look was it? Over-ardent or too admiring, or what? Was it the look of a lover or one who fain would be? You understand?”

“Yes, sir, I quite understand. Anything of that sort I should of course notice. It would be part of my preparation for keeping my self-control—to which I am pledged.”

“If it were not amatory, was it threatening? Where was the offence?”

Adam smiled kindly at the old man:

“It was not amatory. Even if it was, such was to be expected. I should be the last man in the world to object, since I am myself an offender in that respect. Moreover, not only have I been taught to fight fair, but by nature I really believe I am just. I would be as tolerant of and as liberal to a rival if he were one as I should expect him to be to me. No, the look I mean was nothing of that kind. And so long as it did not lack proper respect I should not of my own part condescend to notice it. Did you ever study the eyes of a hound?”

“At rest?”

“No, when he is following his instincts! Or, better still,” Adam went on, “the eyes of a bird of prey when he is following his instincts. Not when he is swooping, but merely when he is watching his quarry?”

“No,” said Sir Nathaniel, “I don’t know that I ever did. Why, may I ask?”

“That was the look. Certainly not amatory or anything of that kind—and yet it was, it struck me, more dangerous, if not so deadly as an actual threatening.”

Again there was a silence, which Sir Nathaniel broke as he stood up:

“I think it would be well if we all thought over this by ourselves. Then we can renew the subject.”