should so that he could open it for her. She passed through, and while he was engaged in closing the gate again she said ‘Good night’ and was gone, walking swiftly, I lightly in the direction of the Waste Cottages.
On the next evening, which was Sunday, she went to the Manor House. All her fury and discomfiture had now focused itself, and the voice in which she spoke to the footman who opened the door and the glance she gave him cancelled out the small consideration that ladies of importance did not arrive alone, on foot, after dark. He sped to announce her.
Richard, Mr Mundford and Mr Montague were playing cards, and interest had been lent to the game by Mr Mundford having ‘taken back’ his luck. Just before Mr Montague had arrived Richard had said, ‘You were right, as usual. It is tedious to play and know that you will win.’ ‘Tedious in the end, not the beginning, you will agree? Well, it was only a loan—give it back!’ Alec said lightly. He cupped his hand, seemed to pluck something from the back of Richard’s left and then paused, holding his hand as though something indescribably fragile and precious were balanced in his palm. ‘And if I lend it to dear Monty, then we shall know how every game will go! Never mind, I’ll think of something.’
A little later, as Linda moved to take her place at the end of the dinner-table, Mr Mundford reached out and touched the lace of her sleeve with fingers which looked, she thought, in some way afflicted. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, ‘beautiful. Venetian, is it not?’ ‘I don’t know.’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about lace.’
‘Nor about luck,’ said Richard, with what seemed like complete irrelevance, and dropped into his own chair laughing. Mr Mundford, for some reason, seemed displeased and shot him a quelling glance.
The devil’s own luck’ was thus safely away, gone with Linda who had said good night and left the three men to
their play, and Richard was enjoying the game more than any he had played for a long time when the door-bell sounded an urgent peal and presently a footman came and said, rather breathlessly, that Miss Greenway wished to see Sir Richard.
‘Greenway … Greenway,’ said Richard, looking up from his cards. ‘Oh yes, I remember.’ She’d done him a favour, persuaded the old lunatic to sign, and he’d kept his bargain, given her father twenty acres—not the best; and sacked somebody she had a grudge against. What did she want now?
They were playing in the library; Linda, unless she had gone to bed unusually early, would be in the small sitting-room.
‘Ask her to wait in there,’ he said, indicating the door of the breakfast-room, which lay between the library and the room which Linda used most. He laid his cards on the table and said, ‘Excuse me. I shan’t be a minute.’
Damask stood, very straight and still, with her back to the branching candlestick on the side-table, so that her face was in shadow. Richard said with his easy, spurious pleasantness:
‘Good evening, Miss Greenway.’
She waited just long enough so that he began to wonder whether she had heard him, and then said:
‘I do not wish you good evening or anything good, Sir Richard. You cheated me.’
‘Cheated.’ He savoured the word, disliked it, and said with some vehemence, ‘That is no word to use. If you remember rightly, I promised to see that your father received an allotment of land and that the…’
‘Fullers.’
‘… the Fullers should receive notice. Both those conditions I performed to the letter. What do you mean,’ he demanded, his anger rising, ‘by coming here and abusing me? You are a very insolent young woman.’
‘I’m very angry,’ she said coolly. ‘The Fullers are back in Clevely.’
‘God in Heaven.’ he said. ‘Who cares whether you’re
angry or not? Who cares where the Fullers are? You coaxed your lunatic mistress to sign her name and I rewarded you, and that is the end of that! Lunacy must be contagious.’ He moved to the hearth and pulled the bell-rope. ‘The servant will show you out,’ he said, and went towards the door of the library. As he put his hand on the knob Damask turned and lifted the candlestick and said:
‘Sir Richard.’
He was aware of the shifting light and turned, and seeing the candlestick in her hand imagined that the half-jibing remark about the contagion of lunacy was sober truth and that she planned to set fire to something.
‘Put that down!’ he exclaimed. ‘What in hell do you think you’re doing?’
She set the candlestick on the table so that it flowered with its seven golden blooms between them. He saw her face clearly for the first time that evening and noticed, half idly, that her eyes, instead of reflecting the light as one would have expected, seemed to glow, yellow and transparent as though the light were behind them. A most curious effect, he thought, even while his mind was busy framing a sentence which would really hurt her. The desire to hurt her had, he suddenly realised, lurked in him ever since that first interview.
‘You should, you know, ask Miss Parsons to add to her other favours by teaching you some rudimentary manners.’ he said silkily, and watched to see the barb strike.
Her face remained impassive; she hardly heard him. Her mind reached backwards: the Saunders, scoundrels with a bad conscience between them; poor old Miss Parsons, unsound of mind; Mr Turnbull—but there possibly Miss Parsons’ authority had borne some weight; Matt Ashpole, just an ignorant lout. This was the real test; and the power welled up to meet the challenge.
‘Sit down,’ she said gently. ‘Sit down, Richard Shelmadine.’
He fought for a moment; delayed so long, despite the weakening of his knees, that in the end he had only just
time to drag a chair under him and prevent himself from sitting on the floor.
‘Insolent,’ she said musingly. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’ He went red, and then white with rage, gripped the edge of the table, and tried to heave himself up, then put his hands on the edge of the chair and tried to lever himself to his feet. It was useless; he might have had no legs at all. Damask watched his struggles with an expressionless detachment that was more wounding than mockery. At last he slumped in the chair and muttered: ‘All right. What do you want?’ ‘An apology—for breaking your word.’ ‘I swear until you told me I didn’t know the Fullers were back. Where are they? You see, I don’t even know that.’
‘They’re back in the same house. They’ve some land already and are looking for more.’
‘It was without my knowledge.’ Surreptitiously he pressed his hands against the sides of the chair again and tried to lever himself up. Sweat sprang in little shining drops on his brow. ‘Without my knowledge,’ he repeated. ‘I remember now, Hadstock, my bailiff, wrote that he had found a tenant for the empty house; he gave no name. How should I know?’
‘Oh well,’ she said, accepting the explanation. ‘It would have been better if you had told me that in the first place instead of calling me insolent.”
Deliberately she removed her gaze and stared about the room with a naive and puppyish interest. Apparently now she had the power to make the spell hold even when she was not staring at her victim. Presently she ventured a move and went over to the sideboard to inspect something which had roused her curiosity: a silver dish with a silver grid over it and three short stout candles under the grid. What was its purpose? Oh, of course, to keep dishes warm while they waited. What an excellent idea! What extreme luxury! Not even at Muchanger had she seen such a contrivance. They must have one at the Dower House. The sweat had gathered now and was running down
the harsh lines of the Squire’s yellow face. His spruce white neck-cloth was greying with damp and collapsing upon itself. She looked at him without amusement but with immense satisfaction.
‘The word,’ he said, as though he were being throttled, ‘was ill-chosen. I retract it. I apologise.’
Delicately she smoothed her gloves and adjusted the filmy scarf which covered her hair.
‘You can’t,’ he gasped out, ‘just go away … and leave me here. I’ll put the Fullers out again. I’ll do … I’ll… What do you want of me?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all but just to sit there until I let you up.’
‘He’s a damned long time,’ Mr Montague said, glancing at the door which led into the breakfast-room.
‘Wench trouble, I suspect,’ said Mr Mundford. ‘Miss Greenway, I noticed, and Richard looked blank for a moment and then remembered something and went with some alacrity.’