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  THE HAND IN THE DARK

  BY ARTHUR J. REES

  AUTHOR OF "THE SHRIEKING PIT"

  NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANYLONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEADCopyright, 1920

  PRESS OFTHE VAIL-BALLOU COMPANYBINGHAMTON, N. Y., U. S. A.

  THE HAND IN THE DARK

  CHAPTER I

  Seen in the sad glamour of an English twilight, the old moat-house,emerging from the thin mists which veiled the green flats in which itstood, conveyed the impression of a habitation falling into senility,tired with centuries of existence. Houses grow old like the race of men;the process is not less inevitable, though slower; in both, decay ishastened by events as well as by the passage of Time.

  The moat-house was not so old as English country-houses go, but it hadaged quickly because of its past. There was a weird and bloody historyattached to the place: an historical record of murders and stabbings andquarrels dating back to Saxon days, when a castle had stood on the spot,and every inch of the flat land had been drenched in the blood of serfsfighting under a Saxon tyrant against a Norman tyrant for the sacredcatchword of Liberty.

  The victorious Norman tyrant had killed the Saxon, taken his castle, andtyrannized over the serfs during his little day, until the greatertyrant, Death, had taught him his first--and last--lesson of humility.After his death some fresh usurper had pulled down his stolen castle,and built a moat-house on the site. During the next few hundred yearsthere had been more fighting for restless ambition, invariably connectedwith the making and unmaking of tyrants, until an English king lost hishead in the cause of Liberty, and the moat-house was destroyed by firefor the same glorious principle.

  It was rebuilt by the freebooter who had burnt it down; one PhilipHeredith, a descendant of Philip Here-Deith, whose name is inscribed inthe Domesday Book as one of the knights of the army of Duke Williamwhich had assembled at Dives for the conquest of England. PhilipHeredith, who was as great a fighter as his Norman ancestor, establishedhis claim to his new estate, and avoided litigation concerning it, byconfining the Royalist owner and his family within the walls of themoat-house before setting it on fire. He afterwards married and settleddown in the new house with his young wife. But the honeymoon wasdisturbed by the ghost of the cavalier he had incinerated, who warnedhim that as he had founded his line in horror it would end in horror,and the house he had built would fall to the ground.

  Philip Heredith, like many other great fighters, was an exceedinglypious man, with a profound belief in the efficacy of prayer. Heendeavoured to thwart the ghost's curse by building a church in themoat-house grounds, where he spent his Sundays praying for the eternalwelfare of the gentleman he had cut off in the flower of his manhood.Perhaps the prayers were heard, for, when Philip Heredith in the courseof time became the first occupant of the brand-new vault he had builtfor himself and his successors, he left behind him much wealth, and acatalogue of his virtues in his own handwriting. The wealth he left tohis heirs, but he expressly stipulated that the record of his virtueswas to be carved in stone and placed as an enduring tablet, for theedification of future generations, inside the church he had built.

  It was a wise precaution on his part. The dead are dumb as to their ownmerits, and the living think only of themselves. Time sped away, untilthe first of the Herediths was forgotten as completely as though he hadnever existed; even his dust had been crowded off the shelf of his ownvault to make room for the numerous descendants of the prolific andprosperous line he had founded. But the tablet remained, and the oldmoat-house he had built still stood.

  It was a wonderful old place and a delight to the eye, this mediaevalmoat-house of mellow brick, stone facings, high-pitched roof, withterraced gardens and encircling moat. It had defied Time better than itsbuilder, albeit a little shakily, with signs of decrepitude here andthere apparent in the crow's-feet cracks of the brickwork, and decayonly too plainly visible in the crazy angles of the tiled roof. But theivy which covered portions of the brickwork hid some of the ravages ofage, and helped the moat-house to show a brave front to the world, awell-preserved survivor of an ornamental period in a commonplace andugly generation.

  The place looked as though it belonged to the past and the ghosts of thepast. To cross the moat bridge was to step backward from the twentiethcentury into the seventeenth. The moss-grown moat walls enclosed anold-world garden, most jealously guarded by high yew hedges trimmed intofantastic shapes of birds and animals; a garden of parterres and lawns,where tritons blew stone horns, and naked nymphs bathed in marblefountains; with an ancient sundial on which the gay scapegrace Sucklinghad once scribbled a sonnet to a pair of blue eyes--a garden full ofsequestered walks and hidden nooks where courtly cavaliers andbewitching dames in brocades and silks, patches and powder, had playedat the great game of love in their day. That day was long since dead.The tritons and nymphs remained, to remind humanity that stone andmarble are more durable than flesh and blood, but the lords and ladieshad gone, never to return, unless, indeed, their spirits walked thegarden in the white stillness of moonlit nights. They may well have doneso. It was easy to imagine such light-hearted beauties visiting againthe old garden to revive dead memories of love and laughter: shadowyforms stealing forth to assignations on the blanched, dew-laden lawn,their roguish faces and bright eyes--if ghosts have eyes--peeping out ofghostly hoods at gay ghostly cavaliers; coquetting and languishingbehind ghostly fans; perhaps even feeding, with ghostly little hands,the peacocks which still kept the terrace walk above the moat.

  The spectacle of a group of modern ladies laughing and chatting at teain the cloistered recesses of the terrace garden struck a note assharply incongruous as a flock of parrots chattering in a cathedral.

  It was the autumn of 1918, and with one exception the ladies seated atthe tea-tables on the lawn represented the new and independent type ofwomanhood called into existence by the national exigencies of war. Theelder of them looked useful rather than beautiful, as befitted patrioticEnglishwomen in war-time; the younger ones were pretty and charming, butthey were all workers, or pretended workers, in the task of helpingEngland win the war, and several of them wore the khaki or blue ofactive service abroad. They were all very much at ease, laughing andtalking as they drank their tea and threw cake to the peacocks perchedon the high terrace walk above their heads.

  The ladies were the guests of Sir Philip Heredith. Some months before,his only son Philip, then holding a post in the War Office, had fallenin love with the pretty face of a girl employed in one of thedepartments of Whitehall. He married her soon afterwards, and broughther home to the moat-house. It was the young husband who had suggestedthat they should liven up the old moat-house by inviting some of theirformer London friends down to stay with them. Violet Heredith, who foundherself bored with country life after the excitement of London war work,caught eagerly at the idea, and the majority of the ladies at tea werethe former Whitehall acquaintances of the young wife, with whom she hadshared matinee tickets and afternoon teas in London during the lastwinter of the war.

  The hostess of the party, Miss Alethea Heredith, sister of the presentbaronet, Sir Philip Heredith, and mistress of the moat-house since thedeath of Lady Heredith, belonged to a bygone and almost extinct type ofEnglishwoman, the provincial great lady, local society leader, villagepatroness, sportswoman, and church-woman in one, a type exclusivelyEnglish, taking several centuries to produce in its finished form. MissHeredith was an excellent, if somewhat terrific, specimen of the class.She was tall and massive, with a large-boned face, tanned red withcountry air, shrewd grey eyes looking out beneath thick
eyebrows whichmet across her forehead in a straight line (the Heredith eyebrows) and astrong, hooked nose (the Heredith falcon nose). But in spite of hermassive frame, red face, hooked nose, and countrified attire, she lookedmore in place with the surroundings than the frailer and paler specimensof womanhood to whom she was dispensing tea. There was a stiff andstately grace in her movements, a slow ceremoniousness, in herpoliteness to her guests, which seemed to harmonize with theseventeenth-century setting of the moat-house garden.

  At the moment the ladies were discussing an event which had beenarranged for that night: a country drive, to be followed by a musicalevening and dance. The invitations had been issued by the Weynes, ayoung couple who had recently made their home in the county. The husbandwas a popular novelist, who had left the distractions of London in orderto win fame in peace and quietness in the country. Mrs. Weyne, who hadbeen slightly acquainted with Mrs. Heredith before her marriage, wasdelighted to learn she was to have her for a neighbour. She had arrangedthe evening on her behalf, and had asked Miss Heredith to bring all herguests. The event was to mark the close of the house party, which was tobreak up on the following day. Unfortunately, Mrs. Heredith had fallenill a few hours previously, and it was doubtful whether she would beable to join in the festivity.

  "I hope you will all remember that dinner is to be a quarter of an hourearlier to-night," said Miss Heredith, as she handed a cup of tea to oneof her guests. "It is a long drive to the Weynes' place, so I shallorder 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 MissHeredith had handed the cup. "It will be so romantic--a country dance ina lonely house on a hill. What an adorable cup, dear Miss Heredith! Ilove Chinese egg-shell porcelain, but this is simply beyond anything!It's----"

  "Whatever induced Dolly Weyne to bury herself in the country?" abruptlyexclaimed a young woman with cropped hair and khaki uniform. "Sheloathed 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-kimbostruck her as everything that was modern and unwomanly.

  "Then what induced Teddy Weyne to bury himself alive in the wilds? I'msure it must be terrible living up there alone, with nothing but earwigsand 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 saysnewspaper men can write anywhere. And we know another writer, a Mr.Harland, I think his name is, who writes long articles in the Sundaynewspapers----"

  "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 thathe writes long articles in his London office. Why can't Mr. Weyne do thesame?"

  "Mr. Weyne is a novelist--not a journalist. It's quite a differentthing."

  "Is it?" responded the other doubtfully. "All writing is the same, isn'tit? Harry says Mr. Harland's articles are dreadfully clever. Hesometimes reads bits of them to me."

  "Mrs. Weyne feels a little lonely sometimes," said Miss Heredith. "Shehas been looking forward to meeting Violet again. It will be pleasantfor both of them to renew their acquaintance."

  "I should think she and Violet would get on well together," remarked theyoung lady with the short hair. "They both have a good many tastes incommon. Neither likes the country, for one thing." The other ladieslooked at one another, and the speaker, realizing that she had beentactless, stopped abruptly. "How is Violet?" she added lamely. "Do youthink she will be well enough to go to-night?"

  "I still hope she may be well enough to go," replied Miss Heredith. "Iwill ask her presently. Will anyone have another cup of tea?"

  Nobody wanted any more tea. The meal was finished; but the groups ofladies at the little tables sat placidly talking, enjoying the peacefulsurroundings and the afternoon sun. Some of the girls producedcigarette-cases, and lit cigarettes.

  There was a sound of footsteps on the gravel walk. A tall, good-lookingyoung officer was seen walking across the garden from the house. As heneared the tea-tables he smilingly raised a finger to his forehead insalute.

  "I've come to say good-bye," he announced.

  The ladies clustered around him. It was evident from their manner thathe was a popular figure among them. Several of the younger girlsaddressed him as "Dick," and asked him to send them trophies from thefront. The young officer held his own amongst them with laughingself-possession. When he had taken his farewell of them he approachedMiss Heredith, and held out his hand with a deferential politeness whichcontrasted rather noticeably with the easy familiarity of his previousleave-taking.

  "I am sorry you are compelled to leave us, Captain Nepcote," said MissHeredith, rising with dignity to accept his outstretched hand. "Do youreturn immediately to the front?"

  "To-night, I expect."

  "I trust you will return safely to your native land before long, crownedwith victory and glory."

  Captain Nepcote bowed in some embarrassment. Like the rest of hisgeneration, he was easily discomposed by fine words or any display ofthe finer feelings. He was about twenty-eight, of medium height,clean-shaven, with clear-cut features, brown hair, and blue eyes. At thefirst glance he conveyed nothing more than an impression of a handsomeyoung English officer of the familiar type turned out in thousandsduring the war; but as he stood there talking, a sudden ray of sunlightfalling on his bared head revealed vague lines in the face and asuspicion of silver in the closely cropped hair, suggesting somethingnot altogether in keeping with his debonair appearance--secret troubleor dissipation, it was impossible to say which.

  "Will you say good-bye to Mrs. Heredith for me?" he said, after a slightpause. "I hope she will soon be better. I have said good-bye to SirPhilip and Phil. Sir Philip wanted to drive me to the station, but Iknow something of the difficulties of getting petrol just now, and Iwouldn't allow him. Awfully kind of him! Phil suggested walking downwith me, but I thought it would be too much for him."

  They had walked away from the tea-tables towards the bridge whichspanned the entrance to the moat-house. Miss Heredith paused by twobrass cannon, which stood on the lawn in a clump of ornamental foliage,with an inscription stating that they had been taken from the_Passe-partout_, a French vessel captured by Admiral Heredith in theIndian Seas in 1804.

  "It is hard for Phil, a Heredith, to remain behind when all youngEnglishmen are fighting for their beloved land," she said softly, hereyes fixed upon these obsolete pieces of ordnance. "He comes of a lineof great warriors. However," she went on, in a more resolute tone, "Philhas his duties to fulfil, in spite of his infirmity. We all have ourduties, thank God. Good-bye, Captain Nepcote. I am keeping you, and youmay miss your train."

  "Good-bye, Miss Heredith. Thank you so much for your kindness during avery pleasant visit. I've enjoyed myself awfully."

  "I am glad that you have enjoyed your stay. I hope you will come and seeus again when your military duties permit."

  "Er--yes. Thank you awfully. Thank you once more for your kindness."

  The young officer uttered these polite platitudes of a guest's farewellwith some abruptness, bowed once more, and turned away across the oldstone bridge which spanned the moat.