At the close of the afternoon, having chatted for an hour with the station-master’s wife, and shared their family tea, he had made his way according to his promise, into Mr. Taxater’s book-lined study, and there, closely closeted with the papal champion, had smoothed out the final threads of the conspiracy that was to betray Gladys, and liberate Lacrima.
Luke had been informed by Mr. Quincunx of every detail of James’ movements and of Ninsy’s appearance on the scene. The recluse, as the reader may believe, did not spare himself in any point. He even exaggerated his fear of the agitated stone-carver, and as they hastened together towards Seven Ashes, he narrated, down to the smallest particular, the strange conversation they had had in his potato-garden.
“Why do you suppose,” he enquired of Luke, as they ascended the final slope of the hill, “he talked so much of someone giving me money? Who, on earth, is likely to give me money? People don’t as a rule throw money about, like that, do they? And if they did, I am the last person they would throw it to. I am the sort of person that kind and good people naturally hate. It’s because they know I know the deep little vanities and cunning selfishness in their blessed deeds.
“No one in this world really acts from pure motives. We are all grasping after our own gain. We are all pleased when other people come to grief, and sorry when things go well with them. It’s human nature, that’s what it is! Human nature is always vicious. It was human nature in me that made me send your brother up this hill, instead of taking him back to the village. It was human nature in you that made you curse me as you did, when I first told you.”
Luke did his best to draw Mr. Quincunx back from these general considerations to his conversation with James.
“What did you say,” he enquired, “when he asked you about marrying Lacrima, supposing this imaginary kind person were available? Did you tell him you would do it?”
“You mean, was he really jealous?” replied the other, with one of his goblin-like laughs.
“It was a strange question to ask,” pursued Luke. “I can’t imagine how you answered it.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Quincunx, “we know very well what he was driving at. He wanted to sound me. Whatever may be wrong with him he was clever enough to want to sound me. We are all like that! We are all going about the world trying to find out each other’s weakest points, with the idea that it may be useful to us to know them, so as to be able to stick knives into them when we want to.”
“It was certainly rather a strange question considering that he is a bit attracted to Lacrima himself,” remarked Luke. “I should think you were very cautious how you answered.”
“Cautious?” replied Mr. Quincunx. “I don’t believe in caution. Caution is a thing for well-to-do people who have something to lose. I answered him exactly as I would answer anyone. I said I should be a fool not to agree. And so I should. Don’t you think so, Andersen? I should be a fool not to marry, under such circumstances?”
“It depends what your feelings are towards Lacrima,” answered the wily stone-carver.
“Why do you say that, in that tone?” said the recluse sharply. “You know very well what I feel towards Lacrima. Everyone knows. She is the one little streak of romance that the gods have allowed to cross my path. She is my only girl-friend in Nevilton.”
At that moment the two men reached Seven Ashes and the sound of their voices was carried to the cemetery, with the result already narrated.
It will be remarked as an interesting exception to the voluble candour of Mr. Quincunx, that in his conversation with Luke he avoided all mention of Lacrima’s fatal contract with Mr. Romer. He had indeed, on an earlier occasion, approached the outskirts of this affair, in an indirect manner and with much manœuvring. From what he had hinted then, Luke had formed certain shrewd surmises, in the direction of the truth, but of the precise facts he remained totally ignorant.
The shout for help which interrupted this discussion gave the two men a shock of complete surprise. They were still more surprised, when on entering the cemetery they found James standing over the apparently lifeless form of Ninsy Lintot, her clothes torn and her hair loose and dishevelled. Their astonishment reached its climax when they noticed the sane and rational way in which the stone-carver addressed them. He was in a state of pitiful agitation, but he was no longer mad.
By dint of their united efforts they carried the girl across the field, and laid her down beneath the ash-trees. The fresher air of this more exposed spot had an immediate effect upon her. She breathed heavily, and her fingers, under the caress of James’ hands, lost their rigidity. Across her shadowy white face a quiver passed, and her head moved a little.
“Ninsy! Ninsy, dear!” murmured Andersen as he knelt by her side. By the light of the clear stars, which now filled the sky with an almost tropical splendour, the three men gazing anxiously at her face saw her eyes slowly open and her lips part in a tender recognitory smile.
“Thank God!” cried James, “You are better now, Ninsy, aren’t you? Here is Luke and Mr. Quincunx. They came to find us. They’ll help me to get you safe home.”
The girl murmured some indistinct and broken phrase. She smiled again, but a pathetic attempt she made to lift her hand to her throat proved her helpless weakness. Tenderly, as a mother might, James anticipated her movement, and restored to as natural order as he could her torn and ruffled dress.
At that moment to the immense relief of the three watchers the sound of cart-wheels became audible. The vehicle proved to be a large empty wagon driven by one of Mr Goring’s men on the way back from an outlying hamlet. They all knew the driver, who pulled up at once at their appeal.
On an extemporized couch at the bottom of the wagon, made of the men’s coats, — Mr. Quincunx being the first to offer his, — they arranged the girl’s passive form as comfortably as the rough vehicle allowed. And then, keeping the horses at a walking-pace, they proceeded along the lane towards Wild Pine.
For some while, as he walked by the cart’s side, his hand upon its well-worn edge, James experienced extreme weariness and lassitude. His legs shook under him and his heart palpitated. The demon which had been driven out of him, had left him, it seemed, like his biblical prototype, exhausted and half-dead. By the time, however, that they reached the corner, where Root-Thatch Lane descends to the village, and Nevil’s Gully commences, the cool air of the night and the slow monotonous movement had restored a considerable portion of his strength.
None of the men, as they went along, had felt in a mood for conversation. Luke had spent his time, naming to himself, with his accustomed interest in such phenomena, the various familiar constellations which shone down upon them between the dark boughs of the Scotch-firs.
The thoughts of Mr. Quincunx were confused and strange. He had fallen into one of his self-condemnatory moods, and like a solemn ghost moving by his side, a grim projection of his inmost identity kept rebuking and threatening him. As with most retired persons, whose lives are passed in an uninterrupted routine, the shock of any unusual or unforseen accident fell upon him with a double weight.
He had been much more impressed by the wild agitation of James, and by the sight of Ninsy’s unconscious and prostrate figure, than anyone who knew only the cynical side of him would have supposed possible. The cynicism of Mr. Quincunx was indeed strictly confined to philosophical conversation. In practical life he was wont to encounter any sudden or tragic occurrence with the unsophisticated sensitiveness of a child. As with many other sages, whose philosophical proclivities are rather instinctive than rational, Mr. Quincunx was liable to curious lapses into the most simple and superstitious misgivings.