George began to understand certain things that had been perplexing to him.
“Then all this while…?”
“Precisely, sir. All this while ‘er ladyship, under the impression that the boy Albert was devoted to ‘er cause, has no doubt been placing a misguided confidence in ‘im… The little blighter!” said Keggs, abandoning for a moment his company manners and permitting vehemence to take the place of polish. “I beg your pardon for the expression, sir,” he added gracefully. “It escaped me inadvertently.”
“You think that Lady Maud gave Albert a letter to give to me, and that he destroyed it?”
“Such, I should imagine, must undoubtedly have been the case. The boy ‘as no scruples, no scruples whatsoever.”
“Good Lord!”
“I appreciate your consternation, sir.”
“That must be exactly what has happened.”
“To my way of thinking there is no doubt of it. It was for that reason that I ventured to come ‘ere. In the ‘ope that I might be hinstrumental in arranging a meeting.”
The strong distaste which George had had for plotting with this overfed menial began to wane. It might be undignified, he told himself but it was undeniably practical. And, after all, a man who has plotted with page-boys has little dignity to lose by plotting with butlers. He brightened up. If it meant seeing Maud again he was prepared to waive the decencies.
“What do you suggest?” he said.
“It being a rainy evening and everyone indoors playing games and what not,”–Keggs was amiably tolerant of the recreations of the aristocracy–“you would experience little chance of a hinterruption, were you to proceed to the lane outside the heast entrance of the castle grounds and wait there. You will find in the field at the roadside a small disused barn only a short way from the gates, where you would be sheltered from the rain. In the meantime, I would hinform ‘er ladyship of your movements, and no doubt it would be possible for ‘er to slip off.”
“It sounds all right.”
“It is all right, sir. The chances of a hinterruption may be said to be reduced to a minimum. Shall we say in one hour’s time?”
“Very well.”
“Then I will wish you good evening, sir. Thank you, sir. I am glad to ‘ave been of assistance.”
He withdrew as he had come, with a large impressiveness. The room seemed very empty without him. George, with trembling fingers, began to put on a pair of thick boots.
For some minutes after he had set foot outside the door of the cottage, George was inclined to revile the weather for having played him false. On this evening of all evenings, he felt, the elements should, so to speak, have rallied round and done their bit. The air should have been soft and clear and scented: there should have been an afterglow of sunset in the sky to light him on his way. Instead, the air was full of that peculiar smell of hopeless dampness which comes at the end of a wet English day. The sky was leaden. The rain hissed down in a steady flow, whispering of mud and desolation, making a dreary morass of the lane through which he tramped. A curious sense of foreboding came upon George. It was as if some voice of the night had murmured maliciously in his ear a hint of troubles to come. He felt oddly nervous, as he entered the barn.
The barn was both dark and dismal. In one of the dark corners an intermittent dripping betrayed the presence of a gap in its ancient roof. A rat scurried across the floor. The dripping stopped and began again. George struck a match and looked at his watch. He was early. Another ten minutes must elapse before he could hope for her arrival. He sat down on a broken wagon which lay on its side against one of the walls.
Depression returned. It was impossible to fight against it in this beast of a barn. The place was like a sepulchre. No one but a fool of a butler would have suggested it as a trysting-place. He wondered irritably why places like this were allowed to get into this condition. If people wanted a barn earnestly enough to take the trouble of building one, why was it not worth while to keep the thing in proper repair? Waste and futility! That was what it was. That was what everything was, if you came down to it. Sitting here, for instance, was a futile waste of time. She wouldn’t come. There were a dozen reasons why she should not come. So what was the use of his courting rheumatism by waiting in this morgue of dead agricultural ambitions? None whatever–George went on waiting.