THE JUDGMENT BOOKS
A Story
BY
E. F. BENSON
AUTHOR OF "DODO"
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1895
"HE CUT AND STABBED THE FIGURE IN FIFTY PLACES"
CHAPTER I
The terrace to the south of Penalva Forest lay basking in the sunshineof an early September afternoon, and the very bees which kept passingin and out from the two hives beneath the laurel shrubbery to the rightseemed going about their work with most unproverbial drowsiness. Aflight of some eight steps led down from the centre of the terrace tothe lawn below, where a tennis-court was marked out, and by the bottomof the steps ran a gravel-path which sloped up past the beehives tojoin the terrace at the far end. In the gutter by this path lay atennis-ball, neglected and desolate. Below the lawn the ground slopedquickly away in a stretch of stubbly hay-field, just shorn of itsaftermath, down to a fence, which lay straggling along a line of brownseaweed-covered rocks, over which the waveless water of the estuary ofthe Fal crept up silently at high tide.
A little iron staircase, the lower steps of which, and the clasp whichfastened it to the wall, were fringed with oozy, amphibious growth,communicated with the beach on one side and the field on the other.Except for this clearing to the south of the house, the woods climbedup steeply from almost the water's edge to the back of a broad Cornishmoor, all purple and gold with gorse and heather, and resonant withbees. Irresponsible drowsiness seemed the key-note of the scene.
At a corner of the lawn, lying full length on a wicker sofa beneaththe shade of the trees, lay Jack Armitage, also irresponsibly drowsy.He would have said he was meditating. Being an artist, he conceded tohimself the right to meditate as often and as long as he pleased, butjust now his meditations were entirely confined to vague thoughts thatit was tea-time; and that, on the whole, he would not have anotherpipe; so he thrust his hands into his coat-pockets and only thoughtabout tea. Perhaps the familiar and still warm bowl of his favoritebrierwood was responsible for his change of intention; in any case,it is certain that he drew it out and began to fill it with thecareful precision of those who know that the good gift of tobacco issquandered if it is bestowed aimlessly or carelessly into its censer.
He had been staying with Frank Trevor, the owner of this delightfulplace, for nearly a month, and he had sketched and talked art, inwhich he disagreed with his host on every question admitting twoopinions—and these are legion—all day and a considerable part of thenight. Frank, who was even more orthodox than himself on the subjectof meditation, had finished, some two months before, the portrait atwhich he had been working; and, as his habit was, had worked much toohard while he was at it, had knocked himself up, and for the lasteight weeks had spent his time in sitting in the sun serene and idle.Jack was leaving next day, and had passed the morning in the woodsfinishing a charming sketch of the estuary seen through a foregroundof trees. At lunch Frank had said he was going to sit in the gardentill tea-time, after which they were going on the river; but he had notappeared, and Jack for the last hour or two had been intermittentlywondering what he was doing.
At thi