Long before anybody else was astir he arose and stole
softly downstairs. The sunlight was stealing
in at every crevice, and flashing in long streaks
across the darkened rooms. The dining-room into
which he looked struck chill and cheerless in the
dark yellow light which came through the lowered blinds.
He remembered that it had the same appearance when
his father lay dead in the house; now, as then, everything
seemed ghastly and unreal; the very chairs standing
as their occupants had left them the night before
seemed to be indulging in some dark communication of
ideas.
Slowly and noiselessly he opened the hall door and
passed into the fragrant air beyond. The sun
was shining on the drenched grass and trees, and a
slowly vanishing white mist rolled like smoke about
the grounds. For a moment he stood, breathing
deeply the sweet air of the morning, and then walked
slowly in the direction of the stables.
The rusty creaking of a pump-handle and a spatter
of water upon the red-tiled courtyard showed that
somebody else was astir, and a few steps farther he
beheld a brawny, sandy-haired man gasping wildly under
severe self-infliction at the pump.
“Everything ready, George?” he asked
quietly.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, straightening
up suddenly and touching his forehead. “Bob’s
just finishing the arrangements inside. It’s
a lovely morning for a dip. The water in that
well must be just icy.”
“Be as quick as you can,” said Benson,
impatiently.
“Very good, sir,” said George, burnishing
his face harshly with a very small towel which had
been hanging over the top of the pump. “Hurry
up, Bob.”
In answer to his summons a man appeared at the door
of the stable with a coil of stout rope over his arm
and a large metal candlestick in his hand.
“Just to try the air, sir,” said George,
following his master’s glance, “a well
gets rather foul sometimes, but if a candle can live
down it, a man can.”
His master nodded, and the man, hastily pulling up
the neck of his shirt and thrusting his arms into
his coat, followed him as he led the way slowly to
the well.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said George, drawing
up to his side, “but you are not looking over
and above well this morning. If you’ll
let me go down I’d enjoy the bath.”
“No, no,” said Benson, peremptorily.
“You ain’t fit to go down, sir,”
persisted his follower. “I’ve never
seen you look so before. Now if—”
“Mind your business,” said his master
curtly.
George became silent and the three walked with swinging
strides through the long wet grass to the well.
Bob flung the rope on the ground and at a sign from
his master handed him the candlestick.
“Here’s the line for it, sir,” said
Bob, fumbling in his pockets.
Benson took it from him and slowly tied it to the
candlestick. Then he placed it on the edge of
the well, and striking a match, lit the candle and
began slowly to lower it.
