The Swindler by Ethel May Dell (100 books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📕

"I think, if you ask me, that we have come out of the affair rather well."
"We have all been remarkably subtle," she said, with a sigh. "But I don't like subtlety, you know. It's very horrid, and it frightens me rather."
"What are you afraid of?" he said.
"I don't know. I think I am afraid of going too far and not being able to get back."
"Do you want to get back?" he asked.
"No, no, of course not. At least, not yet," she assured him.
"Then, my dear," he said, "I think, if you will allow me to say so, that you are disquieting yourself in vain."
He spoke very kindly, with a gentleness that was infinitely reassuring.
With an impulsive movement of complete confidence, she slipped her hand through his arm.
"Thank you, Knight Errant," she said. "I wanted that."
She did not ask him anything about Dinghra, and he wondered a little at her forbearance.


VII
HIS INSPIRATION

The days of Rivington's sojourn slipped by with exceeding smoothness. They did a little fishing and a good deal of quiet lazing, a little exploring, and even one or two long, all-day rambles.
And then one day, to Ernestine's amazement, Rivington took her sketching-block from her and began to sketch. He worked rapidly and quite silently for about an hour, smoking furiously the while, and finally laid before her the completed sketch.
She stared at it in astonishment.
"I had no idea you were a genius. Why, it's lovely!"
He smiled a little.
"I did it for a living once, before my father died and left me enough to buy me bread and cheese. I became a loafer then, and I've been one ever since."
"But what a pity!" she exclaimed.
His smile broadened.
"It is, isn't it? But where's the sense of working when you've nothing to work for? No, it isn't the work of a genius. It's the work of a man who might do something good if he had the incentive for it, but not otherwise."
"What a pity!" she said again. "Why don't you take to it again?"
"I might," he said, "if I found it worth while."
He tapped the ashes from his pipe and settled himself at full length.
"Surely it is worth while!" she protested. "Why, you might make quite a lot of money."
Rivington stuck the empty pipe between his teeth and pulled at it absently.
"I'm not particularly keen on money," he said.
"But it's such a waste," she argued. "Oh, I wish I had your talent. I would never let it lie idle."
"It isn't my fault," he said; "I am waiting for an inspiration."
"What do you mean by an inspiration?"
He turned lazily upon his side and looked at her.
"Let us say, for instance, if some nice little woman ever cared to marry me," he said.
There fell a sudden silence. Ernestine was studying his sketch with her head on one side. At length, "You will never marry," she said, in a tone of conviction.
"Probably not," agreed Rivington.
He lay still for a few seconds, then sat up slowly and removed his pipe to peer over her shoulder.
"It isn't bad," he said critically.
She flashed him a sudden smile.
"Do take it up again!" she pleaded. "It's really wicked of you to go and bury a talent like that."
He shook his head.
"I can't sketch just to please myself. It isn't in me."
"Do it to please me, then," she said impulsively.
He smiled into her eyes.
"Would it please you, Chirpy?"
Her eyes met his with absolute candour.
"Immensely," she said. "Immensely! You know it would."
He held out his hand for the sketch.
"All right, then. You shall be my inspiration."
She laughed lightly.
"Till that nice little woman turns up."
"Exactly," said Rivington.
He continued to hold out his hand, but she withheld the sketch.
"I'm going to keep it, if you don't mind."
"What for?" he said.
"Because I like it. I want it. Why shouldn't I?"
"I will do you something better worth having than that," he said.
"Something I shouldn't like half so well," she returned. "No, I'm going to keep this, in memory of a perfect afternoon and some of the happiest days of my life."
Rivington gave in, still smiling.
"I'm going back to town to-morrow," he said.
"Oh, are you?" Actual dismay sounded in her voice. "Why?"
"I'm afraid I must," he said. "I'm sorry. Shall you be lonely?"
"Oh, no," she rejoined briskly. "Of course not. I wasn't lonely before you came." She added rather wistfully, "It was good of you to stay so long; I hope you haven't been very bored?"
"Not a bit," said Rivington. "I've only been afraid of boring you."
She laughed a little. A certain constraint seemed to have fallen upon her.
"How horribly polite we are getting!" she said.
He laid his hand for an instant on her shoulder.
"I shall come again, Chirpy," he said.
She nodded carelessly, not looking at him.
"Yes, mind you do. I dare say I shan't be having any other visitors at present."
But though her manner was perfectly friendly, Rivington was conscious of that unwonted constraint during the rest of his visit. He even fancied on the morrow that she bade him farewell with relief.


VIII
THE MEETING IN THE MARKET-PLACE

Two days later, Ernestine drove with the miller's wife to market at Rington, five miles distant. She had never seen a country market, and her interest was keen. They started after an early breakfast on an exquisite summer morning. And Ernestine carried with her a letter which she had that day received from Rivington.
"Dear Chirpy," it ran, "I hasten to write and tell you that now I am back in town again I am most hideously bored. I am, however, negotiating for a studio, which fact ought to earn for me your valued approval. If, for any reason, my presence should seem desirable to you, write or wire, and I shall come immediately.--Your devoted
"KNIGHT ERRANT."
Ernestine squeezed this letter a good many times on the way to Rington. She had certainly been feeling somewhat forlorn since his departure. But, this fact notwithstanding, she had no intention of writing or wiring to him at present. Still, it was nice to know he would come.
They reached the old country town, and found it crammed with market folk. The whole place hummed with people. Ernestine's first view of the market-place filled her with amazement. The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, and the yelling of men combined to make such a confusion of sound that she felt bewildered, even awestruck.
Mrs. Perkiss went straight to the oldest inn in the place and put up the cart. She was there to buy, not to sell.
Ernestine kept with her for the first hour, then, growing weary of the hubbub, wandered away from the market to explore the old town. She sat for a while in the churchyard, and there, to enliven her solitude, re-read that letter of Rivington's. Was he really taking up art again to please her? He had been very energetic. She wondered, smiling, how long his energy would last.
Thus engaged the time passed quickly, and she presently awoke from a deep reverie to find that the hour Mrs. Perkiss had appointed for lunch at the inn was approaching. She rose, and began to make her way thither.
The street was crowded, and her progress was slow. A motor was threading its way through the throng at a snail's pace. The persistence of its horn attracted her attention. As it neared her she glanced at its occupant.
The next moment she was shrinking back into a doorway, white to the lips. The man in the car was Dinghra.
Across the crowded pavement his eyes sought hers, and the wicked triumph in them turned her cold. He made no sign of recognition, and she seemed as though petrified till the motor had slowly passed.
Then a great weakness came over her, and for a few seconds all consciousness of her surroundings went from her. She remembered only those evil eyes and the gloating satisfaction with which they had rested upon her.
"Ain't you well, miss?" said a voice.
With a start she found a burly young farmer beside her. He looked down at her with kindly concern.
"You take my arm," he said. "Which way do you want to go?"
With an effort she told him, and the next moment he was leading her rapidly through the crowd.
They reached the inn, and he put her into the bar parlour and went out, bellowing for Mrs. Perkiss, whom he knew.
When he finally emerged, after finding the miller's wife, a slim, dark man was waiting on the further side of the road. The farmer took no note of him, but the watcher saw the farmer, and with swift, cat-like tread he followed him.


IX
IN FEAR OF THE ENEMY

All the way home the memory of those eyes haunted Ernestine. All the way home her ears were straining to catch the hoot of a motor-horn and the rush of wheels behind them.
But no motor overtook them. Nothing happened to disturb the smiling peace of that summer afternoon.
Back in her little room under the thatch she flung herself face downwards on the bed, and lay tense. What should she do? What should she do? He had seen her. He was on her track. Sooner or later he would run her to earth. And she--what could she do?
For a long while she lay there, too horror-stricken to move, while over and over again there passed through her aching brain the memory of those eyes. Did he guess that she had come there to hide from him? Had he been hunting her for long?
She moved at length, sat up stiffly, and felt something crackle inside her dress. With a little start she realised what it was, and drew forth Rivington's letter.
A great sigh broke from her as she opened and read it once again.
A little later she ran swiftly downstairs with a folded paper in her hand. Out into the blinding sunshine, bareheaded, she ran, never pausing till she turned into the lily-decked garden of the post-office.
She was trembling all over as she handed in her message, but as it ticked away a sensation of immense relief stole over her. She went out again feeling almost calm.
But that night her terrors came back upon her in ghastly array. She could not sleep, and lay listening to every sound. Finally she fell into an uneasy doze, from which she started to hear the dog in the yard barking furiously. She lay shivering for a while, then crept to her window and looked out. The dense shadow of a pine wood across the road blotted out the starlight, and all was very dark. It was impossible to discern anything. She stood listening intently in the darkness.
The dog subsided into a growling monotone, and through the stillness she fancied she caught a faint sound, as if some animal were prowling softly under the trees. She listened with a thumping heart. Nearer it seemed to come, and nearer, and then she heard it no more. A sudden gust stirred the pine tops, and a sudden, overmastering panic filled her soul.
With the violence of frenzy she slammed and bolted her window, and made a wild spring back to the bed. She burrowed down under the blankets, and lay there huddled, not daring to stir for a long, long time.
With the first glimmer of day came relief, but she did not sleep. The night's terror had left her nerves too shaken for repose. Yet as the sun rose and the farmyard sounds began, as