Many Dimensions, Charles Williams [black authors fiction TXT] 📗

little of the

house to be seen—it was too far off and hidden by trees, but perhaps

sufficient to justify Chloe in saying, “Let’s go through that gate and

get a bit nearer.”

 

“You’ll be trespassing,” Frank said, looking at the obviously private

road on the other side.

 

Chloe laid her hand on the latch and gazed along the empty road.

“Frank, in two minutes,” she said, “there will rush round that corner a

herd of maddened cows—look, there they are. I shall take refuge behind

this gate, and I pull you in too.” She

did, and shut it after them. “Being here, don’t you think we might just

go as far as that bend and see if we can see the house better?”

 

“Certainly,” Frank said obligingly. “As a matter of fact, according to

English law, trespassers-”

 

“O don’t talk about the law,” Chloe said very hastily. “I don’t want

anyone but Lord—the Chief Justice to talk to me about that.”

 

“Poor dear, you must get enough of it. I forgot you live with it

perpetually,” Lindsay answered. “You must be jolly glad to get away

from it a bit.”

 

Chloe, with a certain throb of conscience, attended to the house, of

which a great deal more became visible as they reached the bend. The

private road ran on towards it, but both the trespassers lingered.

 

“It is rather jolly, isn’t it?” Frank said, and stopped dead. Chloe

gave a cry of fear. For before the words had been well spoken or heard

the air in front of them seemed suddenly to quiver, a quick brightness

shone within it, and they found standing in front of them, where no one

had been, whither no one had come, a well-dressed young lady. She

seemed to be equally startled, and her gurgling cry caught up Chloe’s

shriek. There was a minute’s silence while they all gazed, then

 

“The Stone,” Chloe cried out. “You’ve got the Stone.” Rather shaken

still, the stranger looked at her, but hostilely. “What do you mean?

what stone?” she asked.

 

“You must have it,” Chloe said breathlessly. “I know—I’ve seen. It was

exactly that; the wind, the light, the—you. You have got the Stone.”

 

Her words sounded almost accusingly. Mrs. Sheldrake unconsciously

clenched her hand a little more tightly round what was, surely, her

property, and said: “I suppose you know you’re trespassing?”

 

Frank reacted to the commonplace remark, feeling that he

must have been day-dreaming a few moments. The new arrival had, of

course, walked up the road.

 

“We’re so sorry,” he said. “As a matter of fact we came in to shelter-”

He paused in a confused realization that he had been on the point of

repeating Chloe’s preposterous tale about the cows.

 

“To shelter!” the lady said.

 

“Well, no, not to shelter,” Frank stammered, feeling suddenly angry

with Chloe, who was still staring, almost combatively. “I’m so sorry—I

mean—we just came a step or two in to look at the house. From here, I

mean. We weren’t going nearer. I do apologize, I-I-”

 

Cecilia looked at Chloe. “What did you mean by the Stone?” she asked

again.

 

“I mean the Stone,” Chloe said with a clear vigour. “Is there another

then, or have you bought one?”

 

Cecilia came a step nearer. “What do you mean about the Stone?” she

asked, and made a mistake which in a less startled moment she would not

have made. “You had better tell me,” she added.

 

Chloe flushed a little. “I shall certainly not-” she began, and stopped

as a confused dream of Lord Arglay, Charlemagne, Gabriel, the

Tetragrammaton, and the End of Desire swept across her. “I beg your

pardon,” she went on. “It was only that I was so surprised.”

 

“Is this Mr. Montague?” Cecilia asked, abruptly shifting her attack to

Frank, who was too taken aback to do more than begin a hasty denial

before Chloe interrupted him.

 

“No,” she said, “he has nothing to do with it. Are you Mrs. Sheldrake?”

 

“I am Mrs. Sheldrake,” the other said, “but what do you know?”

 

Chloe hesitated. “I know that you have one of the Stones,” she said,

“but it ought not to have been bought or sold. It wasn’t Mr. Montague’s

and it can’t be yours.”

 

“Don’t be absurd,” Cecilia said sharply. “How many of these Stones are

there then?”

 

“I don’t know,” Chloe answered truthfully. “There was only one at

first, but that can’t be yours for that was in the Crown.”

 

“The Crown? what Crown?” Cecilia asked again, feeling that this was

intolerable. There were, it seemed, goodness knows how many of those

Stones—and now there was more talk of a Crown—as if seventy-three

thousand guineas oughtn’t to have bought the whole thing. She was half-inclined to throw the Stone in the girl’s face—only that would be

silly; as a mere precaution she ought to keep it.

 

Chloe said anxiously, “You ought to see Lord Arglay; the Chief Justice,

I mean. He could tell you better than I can. He’s Mr. Montague’s uncle

and he warned him not to sell it.”

 

“Is it Lord Arglay’s property then?” Cecilia answered.

 

“I don’t know whose property it is,” Chloe admitted rather helplessly.

“But you ought to be very careful what you do with it.”

 

“I should like very much to see Lord Arglay,” Mrs. Sheldrake said, “if

he could make things any clearer.” She lifted the hand that held the

Stone. “Can we reach him by this”’

 

“Certainly not.,” Chloe said, with a return of firmness. “We can’t use

the Stone of Suleiman for that.”

 

“My good girl,” Cecilia said contemptuously, “that’s what it’s for.”

 

“It isn’t,” Chloe cried out, “and if you use it for that you’ve got no

business with it. Any more than Mr. Montague. It’s for getting

somewhere.”

 

“Well,” said Mrs. Sheldrake, “I want to get to Lord Arglay. Will you

tell me how and where I can find him? Or must I do it myself?”

 

“O don’t,” Chloe said. “He’s in London, I think.” She gave the address.

“But he won’t be pleased if you use the Stone.”

 

“I shall go,” Mrs. Sheldrake announced, “by car. And now ,t you think

you’d better get out of these grounds?”

 

Mr. Lindsay, who had been anxious to do so for the last five minutes,

flung her a vicious glance and started. Chloe, who wanted to say a good

deal without saying anything, gave her itelligence the victory and

accompanied him. But over at the gate she seized his hand and forced

him to run with her. “Quick,” she said, “quick. We must get back to

London.”

 

“London?” Frank protested. “Why on earth-? Why, itis iot three yet.

Surely-”

 

“O we must,” Chloe exclaimed. “I must see Lord Arglay. I must find out

if I’ve done right. I must see what he says to her.”

 

“But surely he can manage her without you,” Frank said. “it can’t be so

absolutely vital to you to be there. If she’s got something that

doesn’t belong to her, I shouldn’t think she really does want to see

him… I should think it was all bluff. If,” he added, “you’d tell me

what it’s all about I should know better what we ought to do.”

 

What they ought to do was not Chloe’s concern; what she was going to do

she knew perfectly well. She was going straight back to Lancaster Gate;

so straight that the idea of telephoning occurred to her only to be

dismissed. Nor had she any intention of explaining to Frank; she had

been agreeable to him all day, it was now his turn to start being

agreeable. She kept up a steady speed towards the inn.

 

“I can’t explain now,” she said after a moment or two. “If I possibly

can I’ll tell you some other time. The Foreign Office comes into it,”

she added, as an exciting suggestion. “But don’t talk now—run.”

 

It appeared to Frank the most curious day in the country with a girl

friend that he had ever spent. Short of Bolsheviksim whom he was

reluctant to believe, being a typical Liberal in Politics, though he

professed a cynical independence—he couldn’t imagine why the Foreign

Office should come in. But

he was genuinely anxious to please Chloe, and though he offered one or

two more disjointed protests he headed the car for London as soon as

possible, once they had reached the inn; warning Chloe, however, that

this little two-seater was unlikely to be able to arrive before

whatever kind of magnificent car the Sheldrakes owned.

 

“O but we must,” she said. “Try, Frank, try. I must be there when she

gets there. I must know what’s happening.”

 

“But what is this blessed Stone?” Frank asked.

 

“Darling, don’t worry now,” Chloe urged him. “Just see to getting on.

Lancaster Gate, you know. As quick as ever.”

 

“I might be a taximan,” Frank let out. “All right.”

 

They fled through various lanes and emerged on a more important side

road which would take them on to the main road for London. As soon as

they did so however Frank began to slow down. A short distance in front

of them, halfway up the steep bank, was another car, and out of it Mrs.

Sheldrake was scrambling.

 

“O don’t stop,” Chloe cried, but Cecilia had recognized them and run

into the middle of the road.

 

“Stop,” she said, and Frank was compelled to obey. She came up and

addressed Chloe.

 

“A most annoying thing has happened,” she said, “and perhaps you’ll

help us. The Stone’s somewhere over there.” She pointed to the bank and

the hedge. “I was looking at it in the car and Angus—Mr. Sheldrake—had

to swerve suddenly and it flew out of my hand, and now he can’t find

it.”

 

“What!” Chloe exclaimed.

 

“It must be there,” Cecilia went on sharply. “I was just holding it up

to the sun, to get the colour in the light, and the carjerked, and it

had gone. But it’s only just over there, it must be, and I thought you

wouldn’t mind helping us look.”

 

Chloe was out of the car in a moment. “You’ve lost it,” she said. -O

Mrs. Sheldrake!”

 

“It can’t possibly be lost,” Cecilia assured, rather annoyed. “And

please—I’m afraid I don’t know your name—remember that it’s my

property.”

 

“We can settle that after,” Chloe said, beginning to mount the bank.

“We can’t possibly leave it lying about for someone to pick up. We can

ask Lord Arglay whom it ought to belong to.,)

 

“This,” Frank put in before Mrs. Sheldrake could speak, “is Miss

Burnett. She is the Chief Justice’s secretary,” he added as

impressively as possible, as Chloe caught the hedge at the top of the

bank, pulled herself up, and wriggled and pushed through. “My name is

Lindsay.”

 

Cecilia eyed the bank. “Well, Angus?” she called.

 

A rather strained voice answered her from above-“No, no luck. O—er—are

you helping? Somewhere about here, we thought.”

 

“Will you help me too, Mr. Lindsay?” Cecilia asked. “So tiresome, all

this business. But one can’t afford to throw away seventy thousand

guineas.” Some reason, after all, had to be given to this young man who

was obviously in a state of mere bewilderment, and perhaps the price—”

 

So far she was right. He gaped at her. “A stone,” he said. “But what

kind of a stone then?”

 

“O about so large,” Cecilia told him. “A kind of cream colour, with

gold flakings, and funny black marks. Will you? It would be so good of

you. Miss Burnet;‘s too kind. All four of us ought to find