CHAPTER XXVIIIESCAPESunia awaited her—Sunia, with eyes that seemed to entreat, to expect—to listen breathless for some tidings.For the first few minutes Olwen sat where she had flung herself, in her chair beside the hearth, fighting for the control she knew to be so necessary if she were to carry out the purpose taking shape within her.First she was inclined to announce that she would not go down to supper. On reflection she thought it would look better if she were to dress quietly, as though nothing had happened, allow Sunia to leave her, and then be, as it were, suddenly obliged to undress and go to bed.She owned, in a low voice, that she was not feeling well, and the ayah, in consequence, tended her with extra gentleness and no words. When she had hastened away upon her other duties the girl began to consider possibilities.It was of no use to ask to be driven to Caryngston, because they would say she was not well enough to travel. She could not post a letter, ordering a fly to be sent, until to-morrow, which meant that she could not set out until the day following. It seemed clear that her only practicable course would be to descend the mount, walk through the woods and go to Lachanrigg, where Mrs. Kay would no doubt have her driven to Raefell station, and her homeward journey would be more simple than by way of Picton Bars.So she sat cogitating, planning by the fireside until, as she had expected, the ayah returned to know why she had not come down to supper. She said she had been suddenly taken faint and must lie down, begging that no food might be brought to her.Sunia had her disrobed and between the sheets in a very short time. She then departed, returning, as well the girl had expected, with a tray of appetising fare. Upon the plate lay a note, addressed merely to O. I.Hoping that Madam had chosen this manner of giving her notice, she opened it. Then her colour changed. Whatever she had expected, she had not been prepared for what she read:"I can't stand this. I give in. I must tell you everything. That's what I've been trying to avoid. I made an attempt to write it down, but in black and white it makes me seem too great a blackguard. How can I see you alone? Could you come down to the banqueting-hall at six o'clock to-morrow morning? It won't take long, for I shan't try to make excuses. You shall know me for what I am, and then I suppose it will be 'Good-bye' for always.""Nin."Half stupidly she sat up in bed, staring at the tapestried walls, holding the paper in her shaking hand.Her trust had been misplaced. Ninian had evidently lied to her when he professed his innocence with regard to Lily Martin. Just now, in the dining-room, he said he had told more lies since her coming than in his life before. Yet on the summit of Duke's Crag he had sworn that he had told her nothing but the truth. She could not reconcile it. The only saving clause was that he had determined to confess—at last!Tumultuous thoughts chased each other through her mind.Did he really care for her? In her heart she believed that he did. She had trusted him, and that trust, which he knew to be undeserved, had melted him at last. He would not marry her, with this hateful thing between them. He meant to tell her ... what?Strong shuddering seized her. She felt her whole self yearning with longing unutterable for him—for the merest chance to believe in him. She knew that if he showed her his sweet side she must believe anything he told her. Yet, ah! How could she pardon it, if the girl who attempted suicide were—it must be put in plain language—if she were, as Dr. Balmayne evidently thought, Ninian Guyse's discarded mistress?She must not, would not love such an one as he must be, if this were the atrocious truth.How her words of defence, her assertion of faith in him, must have cut him to the heart! He had left the room and the house precipitately. He had wandered about, trying to make up his mind; he had been suddenly confronted with the sight of her—alone—and had intended flight. That not being practicable, he had turned to his usual weapon, derisive flippancy.Having hurt her more deeply than he intended, he had at last come to a decision to make a clean breast of it.Such was the situation as she saw it. How to grapple with it was the point upon which all her energies were directed.It came to her soon, as with a flash of illumination, that at no cost must she allow Ninian to give her the explanation he desired. Her weakness where he was concerned was too abject. She was in his hands. The one thing she craved was to be in his arms. If he dropped his rude flippancy, if he pleaded, she well knew there was in her no force to resist him....In the extremity of her mental distress she loathed herself for her weakness, yet acknowledged the man's power.She wondered whether, after all, Madam was the best judge of her own son, and whether this knowledge was the cause of her anxiety to get him married, even to so poor a match as Olwen Innes. She must know, or suspect, the worst. Her opinion of Ninian, as the girl had seen from the first, was anything but high—was, in fact, what it must be, granted the truth of this ugly story.... And she, little fool, wanted him, loved him, longed for him with every pulse she possessed. So strong was the rush of her feeling that she felt she dare not see him, dare not meet him, even in the presence of others, for a single moment more. If she decided to renounce him, it must be done forthwith; and her better self had so decided.How to accomplish her flight was now the question.As has been said, the top floor of the Pele, like the others, was divided into rooms. Of these there were three, the remaining quarter, entered from the stairs, being a receptacle for spare articles, a kind of landing. This landing formed the south-east quarter, Olwen's room opening from it, being the south-west. Sunia's room was the north-west, next Olwen's; and from the way she would emerge thence, bearing trays of tea and so on, the girl had always suspected that on that side of the tower there was another newel stair. This reflection now gave her an idea. Knowing herself to be safe from observation for the moment, she sprang out of bed and went to reconnoitre. It was as she had supposed. In the corner of the ayah's room was a little door, set slanting, and within was a stair not quite like the one in general use, for it was enclosed in a circular corner turret, and she knew it must go straight down to the ground floor, and no doubt communicated with the kitchen by a passage in the thickness of the wall.By this stair she could go, so she believed, right out upon the narrow walk which edged the tower upon its precipitous side. The door below was not likely to be locked from without. The key would almost certainly be in it. If she waited until all were in bed she might thus get away with ease. The difficulty was that she could not enter Sunia's room when its owner was there without being heard.With the thought that there might be some small chamber in the wall where she might lurk until the woman came up to bed, she slipped down the dark corkscrew, descended past the next landing, and reached the first floor. Here were two doors, one leading into a passage and one into the Priest's Room.This was the place. She must dress herself warmly, creep down the stairs, leaving her own room locked behind her, hide in the Priest's Room, wait until the house was quiet, and then simply let herself out.Hurriedly reascending, she set about her preparations, putting what little money she had into a small handbag, with one or two necessaries. In order completely to reassure Sunia, she wrote a note to Ninian, put it in an envelope, and sealed it elaborately. It contained only these words:"I will come to-morrow morning if I can.—O. I."When Sunia came to take away her supper tray Miss Innes gave her this note, impressing upon her the necessity of delivering it quite unseen by anybody else. The ayah undertook the commission with beaming smiles. Was not this intrigue—the very air in which she flourished? She would, in return, have done anything that Olwen chose to command; and when ordered not to come in again, but to leave the invalid undisturbed until morning, she cheerfully consented.It seemed to the over-excited girl a long time before everything was arranged finally for the night—a supply of bed-candles near at hand, Brand's extract and Horlick lozenges in case of hunger in the dark hours, the fire built up as only Sunia could build it, a kettle full of hot water in case her bottle needed replenishment.Was not any girl a fool to leave such luxury? Was she going to flee when Ninian's love awaited her? Just because he had behaved badly to another girl, who, if her portrait were to be trusted, was distinctly a minx?Yet words would ring in her head, words learned when a child in the schoolroom—"Haste, for thy life escape, nor look behind!"As soon as she felt sure that Sunia had gone down to her own supper she arose and dressed herself with the greatest haste, all but her thick boots. These she carried in her hand, wearing her felt bedroom slippers that she might make no noise upon the stone steps.Warmly wrapped, she crept out into Sunia's room, locking her door behind her and taking away the key. Very softly she descended two floors, opened the little door and emerged into the Priest's Room.In the pitch darkness a very narrow thread of light was visible below the door which opened into the banqueting-hall. She sat down, hardly daring at first to breathe, upon an old arm-chair which she and Ninian had stored away there when rearranging the room. She began to wonder how she would know when the ayah came up to bed; for it was quite possible that she might not come up this way at all, since she could reach her own quarters through the third room upon the top landing, a room intended for another servant should the dwellers in the Pele employ one.There was a youngish moon near its setting. Olwen gazed from the window and noted a curious fact. The light from the Pele windows was flung right across the valley, and made little squares of radiance upon the black trees on which it fell. There was the pattern of the oriel, quite big and bright. There, too, was the dining-room below it, extinguished even as she gazed. Presently, about half an hour after the beginning of her vigil, the little glimmer at the very top. That was Sunia. Yes, there was another patch, which was Madam's window. To watch them become dark was amusing.But, although these darkened most satisfactorily, the oriel in the banqueting-hall remained lit up. This was awkward. Somebody was still awake, still sitting up in the Pele. If she began to move about, would not she be heard? Could she leave the Priest's Room, close the door behind her, descend the stairs, unlock the door below and shut it again without some unwonted stir penetrating to the ear of the watcher?If it was Ninian, as she thought most likely, Daff would be with him, and she dare not risk attracting Daff's attention.Her eyes, fixed upon the far-flung square of light, saw a shadow flit slowly from side to side. It must be Ninian, and he was pacing restlessly to and fro. The longing to push open the door of her hiding-place and emerge,—to run to him and forget everything in the stronghold of his arms, was hard to master. She closed her eyes that she might not see the weary pacing.There was nothing for it but to wait until he went upstairs. She was very sleepy, the arm-chair was comfortable, the night not very cold. She slipped into slumber.When she awoke it was with a start. She was cramped and chilly, and at first wondered where she was and what had happened. It was not altogether reassuring when she recollected that she was in the Priest's Room. She gazed from the window. The light was extinguished in the oriel, and everywhere else. The moon had also set, which made it a very dark night for her expedition. She had hidden a box of matches in her bag, and she ventured to strike one. To her horror she found that it was a quarter to four. However, it could not be helped. Having got so far, she meant to carry out her plan, and she hastened downstairs, laced her boots, and before long found herself out in the cold dark hour before the dawn. Instantly she made the disagreeable discovery that it had again begun to rain. She had no umbrella, but was warmly clad, and as soon as she was under the trees she was sheltered. It was wet and not at all easy going, but she held on, knowing that the descent was not really very long, and that as soon as she was in the larger path to which it led down she would make much easier progress.She would hardly have credited the difficulty of threading one's way along a path among trees in the pitch dark. If once she left the track she felt that she would never regain it. When at last she stood upon the wet, dark leaves which thickly carpeted the main path along which she must turn to her right, she felt that the worst was over.The rain was to be regretted, for she was not yet quite well. However, she comforted herself by reflecting that Dr. Balmayne had said she might go home on Thursday, and this was almost Thursday. She struggled along pretty boldly for some time, listening to the rush of the unseen river below her on her left hand. It had been fast bound in frost when first she came. Now its song was loud and clear; and when at last she reached the lower level of the meadows she found that her path was under water.This was quite unlooked for. She dare not risk stepping through water of unknown depth in the dark, so she struck up the hill-side to her right. After going up some distance she found a track which seemed to go in the right direction, and this she followed until she was extremely tired. In her remembrance of the way, the woods ended after about two miles, and you crossed open meadows to the farm. She felt sure she had walked considerably more than two miles, and the woods were still thick about her. In one way this was good, for it kept her dry. But she began to think that she had better not go on too far without knowing where she was. She had little choice, however. To sit down and rest in the wet, wild woods was a risk she dare not take. Usually untiring on her feet, she felt the power to go on for a long while yet.Another half-hour's walking, on ground which still ascended, brought her to a gate leading out of the woods upon a high road. Here she felt sure that she must turn to the left, since she had not crossed the river, and Lachanrigg lay upon its bank. But when, still farther on, she came once more to cross-roads, she had no idea whether she ought to go on or to turn again. She had now been at least two hours upon her feet, and the first dim light of dawn was beginning to make the line of the roads more apparent, the hedgerows blacker.As she stood, bewildered, wondering what to do, she heard a sound of cheery whistling along the road she was deciding to follow. Could this be a human being, someone who would direct her? She felt a rush of hope, and stood waiting until out of the gloom ahead came the figure of a sturdy boy, wearing the cap of a telegraph messenger.His whistling, probably executed in order to keep up his own spirits upon his lonely tramp, was suddenly checked and his feet halted. In her mist-coloured coat and veil the apparition in the road might easily have been something of the kind which raises the hair.To reassure him she called out at once: "Oh, please, can you tell me how far am I from Raefell Station?"The boy stopped. After the manner of his kind, he said nothing of his startled surprise, though his chest rose and fell rapidly."It's all of five miles," he replied stolidly. "Want to get there?""Yes, but I did not mean to walk all the way. How far am I from Lachanrigg Farm?""Lachanrigg? Oo, thaat's a canny way baack. Six mile happen.""Oh!" she cried. "Am I really nearer the railway than I am to Lachanrigg?"It appeared that this was so."I came through the Guyseburn woods," she said, "and the path was flooded, so I went up the hill and lost my way.""D'ye coom from t' Pele?" asked the boy with sudden interest."Yes," she replied, not desiring to risk a lie which might be quite unnecessary.He gave her a long, speculative look, his hand fumbling doubtfully with the leather pouch containing the dispatch he carried. An inquiry after her name was trembling on his tongue, but to deliver a cablegram to an unknown woman in the dark was too risky. It would save him some miles of unpleasant walking, but, on the other hand, it might cost him his job. It did not occur to Olwen that he was bound for the place she had come from, for she believed she had come far out of the way. Her preoccupation was to obtain directions for reaching the station, and these he gave her. It did not sound a difficult route, and it would be dawn before long. With hearty thanks she bade him good morning and set off. Beyond a headache she did not feel over-tired. She thought she could manage five miles, and she had several malted milk lozenges with her. She took her way, and the boy took his, bearing the message which contained such important news for herself.CHAPTER XXIXBRAMFORTH AGAINSome time later Olwen sat down by the roadside upon a very wet tree trunk, and wondered if she could get any farther.Things might have been worse, for the rain had ceased at dawn and the weather was not so very cold. But her head ached excruciatingly, and she was conscious at the moment of hardly any desire, except to find herself back in her room in the Pele with Sunia in attendance.A winter's morning and an empty stomach, taken together, do not make for heroism. She was wondering vaguely why she had acted thus—what had induced her to pass the night in such an ill-regulated fashion, and what she should say to the Vicarage circle at Bramforth when she got there.The sound of an approaching motor upon the road gave her a faint hope of a lift. It caused her no apprehension, for she was not aware that the car which Wolf had chartered had been hired for the time of his stay and was stabled at the Pele. According to her calculation, there was not yet time for any pursuit to catch up with her even if they knew which way she had gone. Thus, as the car swung round the corner, she had no foreboding, and she stood up by the roadside, her arm outstretched to attract the attention of the occupants. But for this they might have passed her without notice, for they were travelling fast, and daylight was not fully come.There was an exclamation, a sudden jamming on of brakes, they drew to a standstill, and she found herself caught. Both the Guyse twins had come in search of her. Ninian was driving, Wilfrid beside him.In a moment the whole frame of Olwen's mind changed. The weakness of her spirit passed. She was almost free, and they had pursued.They did not mean her to escape.In her terror and distress, a cry broke from her. She held up her hands, like one at bay, and her voice was strangled as it is in nightmare as she gasped:"Go away! Go away! I will not come with you!"Wolf was at her side. He held his cap in his hand, and his expression was that of pitying kindness."Thank God we have found you!" he said. "What can have happened? Did you walk out of the house in your sleep?"She put up her hands to her throat as if she were choking. "No! no! I have escaped," she panted. "I will not go back, I tell you! I will not go back!""Oh, but I think you must," was the gentle, regretful answer. "You could not be so unkind as to cast this slur upon our hospitality? We know that there have been difficulties, but I do most earnestly assure you that my mother has always wanted to do her very best to make you happy and comfortable. Surely—surely things were not so bad yesterday that nothing would do but a midnight flight? Come, come!" He took her helpless hands. "Try to quiet yourself. Try to reflect. You are feverish and overwrought—not fit to travel. Let me——"He was drawing her gently towards the car where it waited. Ninian had kept his seat at the driving-wheel, his face hard set, looking straight in front of him as though he had turned into a chauffeur.In her extremity, resisting the compulsion of Wilfrid's hands, the unspoken reproof of his eyes, she appealed passionately to the elder twin. "Ninian," she cried, "help me! Don't let me be taken back! I won't go back! I can't! ... You know I can't!"Ninian flung himself into the road and approached."Why," Wolf was saying, half playfully, "if Ninian knows why you cannot stay with us another hour, he knows more than I do. Come, come, when the doctor has been and your temperature goes down, you will be grateful to us for having saved you from the consequences of a little temporary delirium—indeed you will!"Ninian spoke suddenly. "She isn't going back if she doesn't want to," he announced."But, my dear chap, what can she do?" cried Wolf."What do you want to do?" asked Ninian, standing over her.She lifted her white face to his. Her knees were shaking under her, she was within an ace of sheer breakdown, but his unimpassioned coldness steadied her a little. "I want to go—home—to Bramforth!" she brought out. "Oh, please, please!""Miss Innes, anybody would tell you that you are not fit for a long cold journey," began Wolf, but Ninian pushed him aside."You really mean it?" he demanded of her. "You are determined not to go back to the Pele? You insist on leaving us?"His voice sounded lifeless and weary."Yes, yes," she faltered, bringing out her handkerchief and wiping the two drops which had overflowed her eyelids and lay on her white cheeks. "I must go. Can't you see I must?"He stared along the dim road as though he stared into the future."This is the end then?"She assented dumbly."All right. I'll take you to Raefell and see you into the train. There's a through carriage on the 8.20, and you can get to Newcastle without changing." He turned to open the door of the car, adding, as she hesitated, "You can't trust me even to do this?"She yielded at that touch. She was wax in his hands. If he had caught her up in his arms, told her not to be silly, but to come back with him, she would have done it. Perhaps Wolf saw, and it may have been the reason why his fine lip curled as he looked at his brother rather contemptuously.Miss Innes got into the car obediently. Ninian opened a bag which stood on the seat, and produced a thermos and a package of sandwiches. He poured out hot coffee and made her drink it. Then, wrapping the fur carriage rug warmly about her, he shut her in, took his place, with Wolf beside him, and they made best pace for Raefell.She hardly knew what were her thoughts as they sped on. Probably she did not wholly trust Ninian, and was watchful to see whether he really would do as he promised. When they arrived in the pretty village, set among woods sloping to the river, they stopped before the inn, and Wolf dismounted, as it seemed to her, unwillingly."I will leave my brother to see you into the train," he said, coming to the window. "Good-bye. I am regretting every minute that your visit should have such a termination. It was doing my mother no end of good. Don't you think, even now——"Nin started the motor, and he was obliged to stand back.They crossed the river, and doubled back to the station on the further side. There was not much time to spare. Ninian opened the door and helped her out, with her handbag, leaving her a minute in the waiting-room while he went to get her ticket. The train drew in to the station as he returned. He put her into a first-class carriage, and covered her knees with the fur rug from the car. She began to object, both to the class and to the loan of the rug."You can send it back by post," he replied, tucking it about her. "There is your ticket. You have an hour at Newcastle, plenty of time for a good lunch. You are due at Bramforth at a quarter to three. Good-bye!""Good-bye!" The rush of feeling was overpowering. This was the end, and by her own act, her own wish! All the fervent life, the keen emotion of the last few weeks was over, and there was nothing to be said—nothing! She joined her hands, as if to hold herself back from stretching them out to him. For a moment her tear-dimmed eyes caught a green ray from his. "I leave you as I came," cried she with a gulp, "a little blue thing with a red nose!"He nodded, speechless, and, to her mortification, shut the door upon her and departed there and then, though it was a long minute after before the train began to move. She gazed from the closed window upon the waiting car, but could not see its driver. He had not remained for so much as a parting glance.With all her heart she then wished that she had consented to let him do as he asked, and "make a clean breast of it."For some miles her mind held but one idea. There was a place on the line where, upon looking from the window of the train, one could see Guysewyke Pele square against the sky-line. Upon catching this last glimpse she set her whole attention. In vain. The mist was too thick. No distances were visible. She began to cry then, miserably and persistently. It was over. She was going back. It was an ignominious return. Had she felt less ill it is possible that she might, when she reached Newcastle, have taken a train for Liverpool instead of Bramforth. She dare not, however, risk such a proceeding to-day.With her own hand she had pushed away a temptation whose strength appalled her. She had done her duty, but the thought brought no drop of consolation. She felt as if her very heart had been torn out of her and as though the gaping wound so left would never heal.At Newcastle she was much too depressed to go to the restaurant, and she crept into the ladies' waiting-room, where she nursed her grief in a corner. Presently a boy came in, carrying a tea-basket. "Lady in here ordered a tea-basket?" he piped. All the dismal occupants of the place shook their heads. He advanced, doubtfully."Well, that's funny. I've been all over the station. It was a lady with a grey coat and veil," he went on, placing himself before Olwen."I did not order it, but I shall be very glad to take it," she replied. It was a fortunate blunder for her, as the hot tea was just what she needed; her thoughts winced away from the idea of dinner. This seemed an extra nice tea, with buttered toast and brown bread and butter.As she emerged from the waiting room, a polite porter just outside relieved her of her bag and rug, putting her into a comfortable compartment, with a label "Ladies only" on the window.Her night of wandering had tired her so much that, being able to lie down, she presently dropped asleep and forgot her misery for a time.As she neared her journey's end, she reflected with vexation that she might have sent a telegram from Newcastle to tell the Vicarage to expect her. Even an obvious precaution such as this had not once occurred to a mind entirely preoccupied with its own distress.However, when the train at last drew in to the dirty, noisy, clamorous platform, she had hardly opened the door of her compartment before she descried Aunt Maud's yellow mackintosh.She almost fell into her aunt's hungry arms. "Oh!" she cried, "how did you happen to be here?""Why, I came to meet you, of course. You telegraphed this morning.""Oh—did they?—that was kind," said the girl falteringly. "I—I thought I had better come home. I was ill. They didn't want me to travel, and I expect they were right, for I—I've left all my luggage behind."Her aunt was looking at her with much concern and some consternation. She suggested an immediate visit to the lost property office, but Olwen said that she had seen to that—her things would be sent on."I'm afraid we must drive," she faltered, "I feel too crocky to walk. I can afford it, for they paid my railway fare."They found a taxi and got in, Miss Wilson full of anxiety to hear fuller details of the circumstances, and her niece realising (and wondering why she had not sooner done so) that it was wholly out of the question for her to reveal what had actually happened."The doctor was taken ill," she explained slowly, "and he said it would be a long business; and I was at the top of the tower, having to be waited upon. I did not like to feel that I was being a trouble."As she spoke, they were passing, having been held up by the stream of traffic, out into the main road from the station approach. Her eyes, fixed vaguely upon the passing show, suddenly dilated. A tall man, coming from the station, had just gained the island in the centre of the thoroughfare, and was detained by the passage of a huge motor lorry from moving on immediately. He had his back to her, but had she not known the figure, the clothes were familiar to her. It was Ninian Guyse.An instant and the fast-running taxi had carried them away."This sumptuous fur rug," Aunt Maud was saying. "It will cost something to send back!"She did not notice the sudden pallor, the stifled silence of her niece; or, if she did, ascribed it to exhaustion. Olwen's emotions were turbulent. Ninian must have come in her train all the way. It was to him, doubtless, that she owed the persistence of the boy with the super-tea-basket; also the courtesy of the porter. During those hours of anguish, when she had been imagining them parted for ever, he had actually been within a few yards of her—perhaps in the next compartment!The force of the shock of joy was enough to show her her own heart. She could hardly say a word for some minutes.Miss Wilson gathered the impression that Olwen was more ill than she was willing to admit. She thought the best thing to do was to put her to bed at once, and leave her unquestioned until she had had a long rest. On receipt of the telegram, her room had been prepared by her aunt's own hands before she set out for the station. Olwen was very grateful.Aunt Ada, no less than Aunt Maud, was quite evidently glad to see her on any terms, although she detected behind their affection a jealous hope that their darling had not been a failure—that she was not in any sense of the word coming home in disgrace.She could hardly give as emphatic a denial to the suspicion as she could have wished, for she dreaded very much what Madam might say should she take it into her head to write to her grandfather.She remembered the threat held over her, and knew that her flight would cause deep displeasure. It seemed almost certain that Mrs. Guyse would indulge her anger to the extent of a severe letter.... But Ninian was in Bramforth! ...Nothing could take from the joy of that. For what had he come?The answer which her heart returned was that he had come to make to her, under the shelter of her home roof, the confession which he had not been able to make at the Pele.Her bedroom was very cold, and her bed very hard. She thought of Sunia with a yearning which made her wonder whether she had been induced by the ayah to swallow some nostrum, unawares, which should produce acute craving for the Pele the moment she left it.She fought, however, with such thoughts. She must pull herself together, rest, be ready for the morrow. He would know her to be too tired to-day for him to venture upon a call.She passed, however, a disturbed night, awakening with bad dreams every time she went to sleep. They most kindly insisted upon bringing some breakfast upstairs to her. After she had eaten it, she slipped out of bed, and started to rummage among her things, to find a clean blouse which she might put on.Before she was dressed she heard the familiar click of the gate latch, and from behind her muslin blind saw Ninian stalking up the gravel path.The door-bell pealed, and with a small giggle of delight she hugged the thought of keeping my lord waiting, chafing, cooling his heels in the ugly, cold drawing-room.He was shown in; of that she was certain. But no message came up to her. After waiting a while, during which she completed her toilette—not without an ill-tempered struggle over the arrangement of her hair to conceal the scar—she crept out upon the landing. The cook was sweeping the hall, and a cautious signal brought her half-way upstairs."Cook, is there a gentleman here?""Yes, miss," said the woman, who was a new arrival since Olwen's departure."Did you let him in?""Yes, miss.""For whom did he ask?""For the vicar, miss.""For the vicar?""Yes, miss. He asked how you was, and I said you wasn't downstairs yet. Then he asked for the vicar, and they're talking together now, in the study."Olwen crept back, shaking with anxiety. What was Ninian doing? Why did he want to see her grandfather? Was he assuring him that she had left without their desire? Was he giving that full account of their nocturnal adventure on the Fell of which Madam had warned her? He was taking time enough over it, anyway.Restlessly she wandered about, up and down her room, every moment expecting a summons, and every moment growing more excited, more apprehensive. The hands of the old tin alarum clock upon her mantelpiece moved on; yet still the visitor was closeted with Mr. Wilson.At last she heard a noise—the sound of an opening door. Softly she crept to the balustrade, and saw the top of Nin's black head as he came out into the hall. Her grandfather accompanied him to the entrance. There they shook hands. In a moment, as it seemed to her, the door had opened and closed upon him. He was gone. He had left the house without seeing her, without—or so she must suppose—even asking to see her.Almost at once she told herself that he would return. He had been asked to lunch, doubtless—or he was coming back after dinner.... So far had pride sunk that she wished she had been out in the hall to waylay him—just to look into his face and judge what he was feeling.Her grandfather stood in the empty hall, his hands clasped behind his back, as if plunged in deepest thought At last he lifted his head."Cook! Is Miss Innes dressed?""Yes, sir, I believe she is.""Kindly tell her that I wish to speak with her at once upon matters of grave importance."CHAPTER XXXTHE INCREDIBLE TRUTHIt did not take long for Olwen to reach the study. Her whole self was nothing but one huge mark of interrogation as she went into her grandfather's presence. Her eagerness was even enhanced by her desperate dread. She felt that she might be going to receive the wigging of her life. What tales had Ninian told of her or himself?The old man was not seated, but pacing his room in evidently great perturbation. As he turned to face her, she saw that his usually parchment-coloured face was quite red. He eyed her with a peculiar stare which struck terror to her heart."But he can't do anything to me," she said to herself. "I have got father now—somebody to stand up for me!""My dear, how are you?" was the vicar's pacific opening. "I was sorry to be out when you arrived yesterday, but, when I came in, your aunt said she thought you had better not be disturbed.""I don't feel very well yet, thank you, Grandfather, but I am well enough to hear what you have to say."He eyed her apprehensively. "I—I wonder," said he, shuffling across the room once more. Then, turning, he sat down at his desk as though resolved upon controlling his nerves. He cleared his throat. "Be seated, my dear," he said quite solicitously. His faded eyes dwelt upon her as she obeyed his behest. "I have—er—just had a visitor.""Yes. Mr. Guyse. I saw him come," she replied as naturally as she could."Yes. H'm! You and he have seen a good deal of each other?""We have. It was winter, and the Pele is not at all a large house.""How did he strike you, I wonder? But perhaps such a question is merely futile. We must come to the main point—the surprising, I may say the extraordinary information which this young man has just given me. My dear, you must prepare yourself for—for something in the nature of a shock.""Oh, Grandfather, please, please tell me! Is it abou—about Mr. Guyse?""Well, in part—in part it is. Very painful, very distressing, of course ... but in the main it concerns you, my dear, you and your father, my poor son-in-law, Madoc Innes."She sat like a stone. "My father!" she whispered. "He—he is worse. Ah, don't say he is—dead?"The vicar bowed his head. His hands were playing with a cablegram which lay upon the table before him."He is dead," he said. "This message arrived for you after you had left the Pele yesterday morning. Mr. Guyse brought it to me, because he feared, in the state of your health, he ought not to give it to you under the circumstances. He thought you should be safe at home when the news was broken. Er—your aunt forwarded you a letter from New York, which she thought was from your father, some days ago?"She found her voice with a sob. "Yes! He said he was coming—sailing in theStupendous. I was to go to Liverpool to meet him. That was partly why I hurried home. Oh, don't say he is dead; don't say I shall never see him!""My dear, you must calm yourself sufficiently to allow me to proceed. The most surprising part of the story is still to be told. I have seldom been so completely taken aback as by the news Mr. Guyse has just given me.""Mr. Guyse! What does he know about father?""Ah, my dear, that is the point. That—is—the point. He did not know poor Madoc himself, but it seems that his twin brother knew him very well indeed.""Wolf!" cried the girl bewildered. "Wolf knew my father!""Intimately. They were in Alaska together. They went to Klondyke together. Your father had the most astonishing good fortune. He struck an oil well when he was looking for gold. It was in the very place where it was most wanted. He managed to keep it quiet until he had bought up all the land he required, and then turned it into a company. He died—your father died—a millionaire, my dear."He handed over the cablegram, and she took it in her hands.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ESCAPE
Sunia awaited her—Sunia, with eyes that seemed to entreat, to expect—to listen breathless for some tidings.
For the first few minutes Olwen sat where she had flung herself, in her chair beside the hearth, fighting for the control she knew to be so necessary if she were to carry out the purpose taking shape within her.
First she was inclined to announce that she would not go down to supper. On reflection she thought it would look better if she were to dress quietly, as though nothing had happened, allow Sunia to leave her, and then be, as it were, suddenly obliged to undress and go to bed.
She owned, in a low voice, that she was not feeling well, and the ayah, in consequence, tended her with extra gentleness and no words. When she had hastened away upon her other duties the girl began to consider possibilities.
It was of no use to ask to be driven to Caryngston, because they would say she was not well enough to travel. She could not post a letter, ordering a fly to be sent, until to-morrow, which meant that she could not set out until the day following. It seemed clear that her only practicable course would be to descend the mount, walk through the woods and go to Lachanrigg, where Mrs. Kay would no doubt have her driven to Raefell station, and her homeward journey would be more simple than by way of Picton Bars.
So she sat cogitating, planning by the fireside until, as she had expected, the ayah returned to know why she had not come down to supper. She said she had been suddenly taken faint and must lie down, begging that no food might be brought to her.
Sunia had her disrobed and between the sheets in a very short time. She then departed, returning, as well the girl had expected, with a tray of appetising fare. Upon the plate lay a note, addressed merely to O. I.
Hoping that Madam had chosen this manner of giving her notice, she opened it. Then her colour changed. Whatever she had expected, she had not been prepared for what she read:
"I can't stand this. I give in. I must tell you everything. That's what I've been trying to avoid. I made an attempt to write it down, but in black and white it makes me seem too great a blackguard. How can I see you alone? Could you come down to the banqueting-hall at six o'clock to-morrow morning? It won't take long, for I shan't try to make excuses. You shall know me for what I am, and then I suppose it will be 'Good-bye' for always."
"Nin."
Half stupidly she sat up in bed, staring at the tapestried walls, holding the paper in her shaking hand.
Her trust had been misplaced. Ninian had evidently lied to her when he professed his innocence with regard to Lily Martin. Just now, in the dining-room, he said he had told more lies since her coming than in his life before. Yet on the summit of Duke's Crag he had sworn that he had told her nothing but the truth. She could not reconcile it. The only saving clause was that he had determined to confess—at last!
Tumultuous thoughts chased each other through her mind.
Did he really care for her? In her heart she believed that he did. She had trusted him, and that trust, which he knew to be undeserved, had melted him at last. He would not marry her, with this hateful thing between them. He meant to tell her ... what?
Strong shuddering seized her. She felt her whole self yearning with longing unutterable for him—for the merest chance to believe in him. She knew that if he showed her his sweet side she must believe anything he told her. Yet, ah! How could she pardon it, if the girl who attempted suicide were—it must be put in plain language—if she were, as Dr. Balmayne evidently thought, Ninian Guyse's discarded mistress?
She must not, would not love such an one as he must be, if this were the atrocious truth.
How her words of defence, her assertion of faith in him, must have cut him to the heart! He had left the room and the house precipitately. He had wandered about, trying to make up his mind; he had been suddenly confronted with the sight of her—alone—and had intended flight. That not being practicable, he had turned to his usual weapon, derisive flippancy.
Having hurt her more deeply than he intended, he had at last come to a decision to make a clean breast of it.
Such was the situation as she saw it. How to grapple with it was the point upon which all her energies were directed.
It came to her soon, as with a flash of illumination, that at no cost must she allow Ninian to give her the explanation he desired. Her weakness where he was concerned was too abject. She was in his hands. The one thing she craved was to be in his arms. If he dropped his rude flippancy, if he pleaded, she well knew there was in her no force to resist him....
In the extremity of her mental distress she loathed herself for her weakness, yet acknowledged the man's power.
She wondered whether, after all, Madam was the best judge of her own son, and whether this knowledge was the cause of her anxiety to get him married, even to so poor a match as Olwen Innes. She must know, or suspect, the worst. Her opinion of Ninian, as the girl had seen from the first, was anything but high—was, in fact, what it must be, granted the truth of this ugly story.
... And she, little fool, wanted him, loved him, longed for him with every pulse she possessed. So strong was the rush of her feeling that she felt she dare not see him, dare not meet him, even in the presence of others, for a single moment more. If she decided to renounce him, it must be done forthwith; and her better self had so decided.
How to accomplish her flight was now the question.
As has been said, the top floor of the Pele, like the others, was divided into rooms. Of these there were three, the remaining quarter, entered from the stairs, being a receptacle for spare articles, a kind of landing. This landing formed the south-east quarter, Olwen's room opening from it, being the south-west. Sunia's room was the north-west, next Olwen's; and from the way she would emerge thence, bearing trays of tea and so on, the girl had always suspected that on that side of the tower there was another newel stair. This reflection now gave her an idea. Knowing herself to be safe from observation for the moment, she sprang out of bed and went to reconnoitre. It was as she had supposed. In the corner of the ayah's room was a little door, set slanting, and within was a stair not quite like the one in general use, for it was enclosed in a circular corner turret, and she knew it must go straight down to the ground floor, and no doubt communicated with the kitchen by a passage in the thickness of the wall.
By this stair she could go, so she believed, right out upon the narrow walk which edged the tower upon its precipitous side. The door below was not likely to be locked from without. The key would almost certainly be in it. If she waited until all were in bed she might thus get away with ease. The difficulty was that she could not enter Sunia's room when its owner was there without being heard.
With the thought that there might be some small chamber in the wall where she might lurk until the woman came up to bed, she slipped down the dark corkscrew, descended past the next landing, and reached the first floor. Here were two doors, one leading into a passage and one into the Priest's Room.
This was the place. She must dress herself warmly, creep down the stairs, leaving her own room locked behind her, hide in the Priest's Room, wait until the house was quiet, and then simply let herself out.
Hurriedly reascending, she set about her preparations, putting what little money she had into a small handbag, with one or two necessaries. In order completely to reassure Sunia, she wrote a note to Ninian, put it in an envelope, and sealed it elaborately. It contained only these words:
"I will come to-morrow morning if I can.—O. I."
When Sunia came to take away her supper tray Miss Innes gave her this note, impressing upon her the necessity of delivering it quite unseen by anybody else. The ayah undertook the commission with beaming smiles. Was not this intrigue—the very air in which she flourished? She would, in return, have done anything that Olwen chose to command; and when ordered not to come in again, but to leave the invalid undisturbed until morning, she cheerfully consented.
It seemed to the over-excited girl a long time before everything was arranged finally for the night—a supply of bed-candles near at hand, Brand's extract and Horlick lozenges in case of hunger in the dark hours, the fire built up as only Sunia could build it, a kettle full of hot water in case her bottle needed replenishment.
Was not any girl a fool to leave such luxury? Was she going to flee when Ninian's love awaited her? Just because he had behaved badly to another girl, who, if her portrait were to be trusted, was distinctly a minx?
Yet words would ring in her head, words learned when a child in the schoolroom—"Haste, for thy life escape, nor look behind!"
As soon as she felt sure that Sunia had gone down to her own supper she arose and dressed herself with the greatest haste, all but her thick boots. These she carried in her hand, wearing her felt bedroom slippers that she might make no noise upon the stone steps.
Warmly wrapped, she crept out into Sunia's room, locking her door behind her and taking away the key. Very softly she descended two floors, opened the little door and emerged into the Priest's Room.
In the pitch darkness a very narrow thread of light was visible below the door which opened into the banqueting-hall. She sat down, hardly daring at first to breathe, upon an old arm-chair which she and Ninian had stored away there when rearranging the room. She began to wonder how she would know when the ayah came up to bed; for it was quite possible that she might not come up this way at all, since she could reach her own quarters through the third room upon the top landing, a room intended for another servant should the dwellers in the Pele employ one.
There was a youngish moon near its setting. Olwen gazed from the window and noted a curious fact. The light from the Pele windows was flung right across the valley, and made little squares of radiance upon the black trees on which it fell. There was the pattern of the oriel, quite big and bright. There, too, was the dining-room below it, extinguished even as she gazed. Presently, about half an hour after the beginning of her vigil, the little glimmer at the very top. That was Sunia. Yes, there was another patch, which was Madam's window. To watch them become dark was amusing.
But, although these darkened most satisfactorily, the oriel in the banqueting-hall remained lit up. This was awkward. Somebody was still awake, still sitting up in the Pele. If she began to move about, would not she be heard? Could she leave the Priest's Room, close the door behind her, descend the stairs, unlock the door below and shut it again without some unwonted stir penetrating to the ear of the watcher?
If it was Ninian, as she thought most likely, Daff would be with him, and she dare not risk attracting Daff's attention.
Her eyes, fixed upon the far-flung square of light, saw a shadow flit slowly from side to side. It must be Ninian, and he was pacing restlessly to and fro. The longing to push open the door of her hiding-place and emerge,—to run to him and forget everything in the stronghold of his arms, was hard to master. She closed her eyes that she might not see the weary pacing.
There was nothing for it but to wait until he went upstairs. She was very sleepy, the arm-chair was comfortable, the night not very cold. She slipped into slumber.
When she awoke it was with a start. She was cramped and chilly, and at first wondered where she was and what had happened. It was not altogether reassuring when she recollected that she was in the Priest's Room. She gazed from the window. The light was extinguished in the oriel, and everywhere else. The moon had also set, which made it a very dark night for her expedition. She had hidden a box of matches in her bag, and she ventured to strike one. To her horror she found that it was a quarter to four. However, it could not be helped. Having got so far, she meant to carry out her plan, and she hastened downstairs, laced her boots, and before long found herself out in the cold dark hour before the dawn. Instantly she made the disagreeable discovery that it had again begun to rain. She had no umbrella, but was warmly clad, and as soon as she was under the trees she was sheltered. It was wet and not at all easy going, but she held on, knowing that the descent was not really very long, and that as soon as she was in the larger path to which it led down she would make much easier progress.
She would hardly have credited the difficulty of threading one's way along a path among trees in the pitch dark. If once she left the track she felt that she would never regain it. When at last she stood upon the wet, dark leaves which thickly carpeted the main path along which she must turn to her right, she felt that the worst was over.
The rain was to be regretted, for she was not yet quite well. However, she comforted herself by reflecting that Dr. Balmayne had said she might go home on Thursday, and this was almost Thursday. She struggled along pretty boldly for some time, listening to the rush of the unseen river below her on her left hand. It had been fast bound in frost when first she came. Now its song was loud and clear; and when at last she reached the lower level of the meadows she found that her path was under water.
This was quite unlooked for. She dare not risk stepping through water of unknown depth in the dark, so she struck up the hill-side to her right. After going up some distance she found a track which seemed to go in the right direction, and this she followed until she was extremely tired. In her remembrance of the way, the woods ended after about two miles, and you crossed open meadows to the farm. She felt sure she had walked considerably more than two miles, and the woods were still thick about her. In one way this was good, for it kept her dry. But she began to think that she had better not go on too far without knowing where she was. She had little choice, however. To sit down and rest in the wet, wild woods was a risk she dare not take. Usually untiring on her feet, she felt the power to go on for a long while yet.
Another half-hour's walking, on ground which still ascended, brought her to a gate leading out of the woods upon a high road. Here she felt sure that she must turn to the left, since she had not crossed the river, and Lachanrigg lay upon its bank. But when, still farther on, she came once more to cross-roads, she had no idea whether she ought to go on or to turn again. She had now been at least two hours upon her feet, and the first dim light of dawn was beginning to make the line of the roads more apparent, the hedgerows blacker.
As she stood, bewildered, wondering what to do, she heard a sound of cheery whistling along the road she was deciding to follow. Could this be a human being, someone who would direct her? She felt a rush of hope, and stood waiting until out of the gloom ahead came the figure of a sturdy boy, wearing the cap of a telegraph messenger.
His whistling, probably executed in order to keep up his own spirits upon his lonely tramp, was suddenly checked and his feet halted. In her mist-coloured coat and veil the apparition in the road might easily have been something of the kind which raises the hair.
To reassure him she called out at once: "Oh, please, can you tell me how far am I from Raefell Station?"
The boy stopped. After the manner of his kind, he said nothing of his startled surprise, though his chest rose and fell rapidly.
"It's all of five miles," he replied stolidly. "Want to get there?"
"Yes, but I did not mean to walk all the way. How far am I from Lachanrigg Farm?"
"Lachanrigg? Oo, thaat's a canny way baack. Six mile happen."
"Oh!" she cried. "Am I really nearer the railway than I am to Lachanrigg?"
It appeared that this was so.
"I came through the Guyseburn woods," she said, "and the path was flooded, so I went up the hill and lost my way."
"D'ye coom from t' Pele?" asked the boy with sudden interest.
"Yes," she replied, not desiring to risk a lie which might be quite unnecessary.
He gave her a long, speculative look, his hand fumbling doubtfully with the leather pouch containing the dispatch he carried. An inquiry after her name was trembling on his tongue, but to deliver a cablegram to an unknown woman in the dark was too risky. It would save him some miles of unpleasant walking, but, on the other hand, it might cost him his job. It did not occur to Olwen that he was bound for the place she had come from, for she believed she had come far out of the way. Her preoccupation was to obtain directions for reaching the station, and these he gave her. It did not sound a difficult route, and it would be dawn before long. With hearty thanks she bade him good morning and set off. Beyond a headache she did not feel over-tired. She thought she could manage five miles, and she had several malted milk lozenges with her. She took her way, and the boy took his, bearing the message which contained such important news for herself.
CHAPTER XXIX
BRAMFORTH AGAIN
Some time later Olwen sat down by the roadside upon a very wet tree trunk, and wondered if she could get any farther.
Things might have been worse, for the rain had ceased at dawn and the weather was not so very cold. But her head ached excruciatingly, and she was conscious at the moment of hardly any desire, except to find herself back in her room in the Pele with Sunia in attendance.
A winter's morning and an empty stomach, taken together, do not make for heroism. She was wondering vaguely why she had acted thus—what had induced her to pass the night in such an ill-regulated fashion, and what she should say to the Vicarage circle at Bramforth when she got there.
The sound of an approaching motor upon the road gave her a faint hope of a lift. It caused her no apprehension, for she was not aware that the car which Wolf had chartered had been hired for the time of his stay and was stabled at the Pele. According to her calculation, there was not yet time for any pursuit to catch up with her even if they knew which way she had gone. Thus, as the car swung round the corner, she had no foreboding, and she stood up by the roadside, her arm outstretched to attract the attention of the occupants. But for this they might have passed her without notice, for they were travelling fast, and daylight was not fully come.
There was an exclamation, a sudden jamming on of brakes, they drew to a standstill, and she found herself caught. Both the Guyse twins had come in search of her. Ninian was driving, Wilfrid beside him.
In a moment the whole frame of Olwen's mind changed. The weakness of her spirit passed. She was almost free, and they had pursued.
They did not mean her to escape.
In her terror and distress, a cry broke from her. She held up her hands, like one at bay, and her voice was strangled as it is in nightmare as she gasped:
"Go away! Go away! I will not come with you!"
Wolf was at her side. He held his cap in his hand, and his expression was that of pitying kindness.
"Thank God we have found you!" he said. "What can have happened? Did you walk out of the house in your sleep?"
She put up her hands to her throat as if she were choking. "No! no! I have escaped," she panted. "I will not go back, I tell you! I will not go back!"
"Oh, but I think you must," was the gentle, regretful answer. "You could not be so unkind as to cast this slur upon our hospitality? We know that there have been difficulties, but I do most earnestly assure you that my mother has always wanted to do her very best to make you happy and comfortable. Surely—surely things were not so bad yesterday that nothing would do but a midnight flight? Come, come!" He took her helpless hands. "Try to quiet yourself. Try to reflect. You are feverish and overwrought—not fit to travel. Let me——"
He was drawing her gently towards the car where it waited. Ninian had kept his seat at the driving-wheel, his face hard set, looking straight in front of him as though he had turned into a chauffeur.
In her extremity, resisting the compulsion of Wilfrid's hands, the unspoken reproof of his eyes, she appealed passionately to the elder twin. "Ninian," she cried, "help me! Don't let me be taken back! I won't go back! I can't! ... You know I can't!"
Ninian flung himself into the road and approached.
"Why," Wolf was saying, half playfully, "if Ninian knows why you cannot stay with us another hour, he knows more than I do. Come, come, when the doctor has been and your temperature goes down, you will be grateful to us for having saved you from the consequences of a little temporary delirium—indeed you will!"
Ninian spoke suddenly. "She isn't going back if she doesn't want to," he announced.
"But, my dear chap, what can she do?" cried Wolf.
"What do you want to do?" asked Ninian, standing over her.
She lifted her white face to his. Her knees were shaking under her, she was within an ace of sheer breakdown, but his unimpassioned coldness steadied her a little. "I want to go—home—to Bramforth!" she brought out. "Oh, please, please!"
"Miss Innes, anybody would tell you that you are not fit for a long cold journey," began Wolf, but Ninian pushed him aside.
"You really mean it?" he demanded of her. "You are determined not to go back to the Pele? You insist on leaving us?"
His voice sounded lifeless and weary.
"Yes, yes," she faltered, bringing out her handkerchief and wiping the two drops which had overflowed her eyelids and lay on her white cheeks. "I must go. Can't you see I must?"
He stared along the dim road as though he stared into the future.
"This is the end then?"
She assented dumbly.
"All right. I'll take you to Raefell and see you into the train. There's a through carriage on the 8.20, and you can get to Newcastle without changing." He turned to open the door of the car, adding, as she hesitated, "You can't trust me even to do this?"
She yielded at that touch. She was wax in his hands. If he had caught her up in his arms, told her not to be silly, but to come back with him, she would have done it. Perhaps Wolf saw, and it may have been the reason why his fine lip curled as he looked at his brother rather contemptuously.
Miss Innes got into the car obediently. Ninian opened a bag which stood on the seat, and produced a thermos and a package of sandwiches. He poured out hot coffee and made her drink it. Then, wrapping the fur carriage rug warmly about her, he shut her in, took his place, with Wolf beside him, and they made best pace for Raefell.
She hardly knew what were her thoughts as they sped on. Probably she did not wholly trust Ninian, and was watchful to see whether he really would do as he promised. When they arrived in the pretty village, set among woods sloping to the river, they stopped before the inn, and Wolf dismounted, as it seemed to her, unwillingly.
"I will leave my brother to see you into the train," he said, coming to the window. "Good-bye. I am regretting every minute that your visit should have such a termination. It was doing my mother no end of good. Don't you think, even now——"
Nin started the motor, and he was obliged to stand back.
They crossed the river, and doubled back to the station on the further side. There was not much time to spare. Ninian opened the door and helped her out, with her handbag, leaving her a minute in the waiting-room while he went to get her ticket. The train drew in to the station as he returned. He put her into a first-class carriage, and covered her knees with the fur rug from the car. She began to object, both to the class and to the loan of the rug.
"You can send it back by post," he replied, tucking it about her. "There is your ticket. You have an hour at Newcastle, plenty of time for a good lunch. You are due at Bramforth at a quarter to three. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" The rush of feeling was overpowering. This was the end, and by her own act, her own wish! All the fervent life, the keen emotion of the last few weeks was over, and there was nothing to be said—nothing! She joined her hands, as if to hold herself back from stretching them out to him. For a moment her tear-dimmed eyes caught a green ray from his. "I leave you as I came," cried she with a gulp, "a little blue thing with a red nose!"
He nodded, speechless, and, to her mortification, shut the door upon her and departed there and then, though it was a long minute after before the train began to move. She gazed from the closed window upon the waiting car, but could not see its driver. He had not remained for so much as a parting glance.
With all her heart she then wished that she had consented to let him do as he asked, and "make a clean breast of it."
For some miles her mind held but one idea. There was a place on the line where, upon looking from the window of the train, one could see Guysewyke Pele square against the sky-line. Upon catching this last glimpse she set her whole attention. In vain. The mist was too thick. No distances were visible. She began to cry then, miserably and persistently. It was over. She was going back. It was an ignominious return. Had she felt less ill it is possible that she might, when she reached Newcastle, have taken a train for Liverpool instead of Bramforth. She dare not, however, risk such a proceeding to-day.
With her own hand she had pushed away a temptation whose strength appalled her. She had done her duty, but the thought brought no drop of consolation. She felt as if her very heart had been torn out of her and as though the gaping wound so left would never heal.
At Newcastle she was much too depressed to go to the restaurant, and she crept into the ladies' waiting-room, where she nursed her grief in a corner. Presently a boy came in, carrying a tea-basket. "Lady in here ordered a tea-basket?" he piped. All the dismal occupants of the place shook their heads. He advanced, doubtfully.
"Well, that's funny. I've been all over the station. It was a lady with a grey coat and veil," he went on, placing himself before Olwen.
"I did not order it, but I shall be very glad to take it," she replied. It was a fortunate blunder for her, as the hot tea was just what she needed; her thoughts winced away from the idea of dinner. This seemed an extra nice tea, with buttered toast and brown bread and butter.
As she emerged from the waiting room, a polite porter just outside relieved her of her bag and rug, putting her into a comfortable compartment, with a label "Ladies only" on the window.
Her night of wandering had tired her so much that, being able to lie down, she presently dropped asleep and forgot her misery for a time.
As she neared her journey's end, she reflected with vexation that she might have sent a telegram from Newcastle to tell the Vicarage to expect her. Even an obvious precaution such as this had not once occurred to a mind entirely preoccupied with its own distress.
However, when the train at last drew in to the dirty, noisy, clamorous platform, she had hardly opened the door of her compartment before she descried Aunt Maud's yellow mackintosh.
She almost fell into her aunt's hungry arms. "Oh!" she cried, "how did you happen to be here?"
"Why, I came to meet you, of course. You telegraphed this morning."
"Oh—did they?—that was kind," said the girl falteringly. "I—I thought I had better come home. I was ill. They didn't want me to travel, and I expect they were right, for I—I've left all my luggage behind."
Her aunt was looking at her with much concern and some consternation. She suggested an immediate visit to the lost property office, but Olwen said that she had seen to that—her things would be sent on.
"I'm afraid we must drive," she faltered, "I feel too crocky to walk. I can afford it, for they paid my railway fare."
They found a taxi and got in, Miss Wilson full of anxiety to hear fuller details of the circumstances, and her niece realising (and wondering why she had not sooner done so) that it was wholly out of the question for her to reveal what had actually happened.
"The doctor was taken ill," she explained slowly, "and he said it would be a long business; and I was at the top of the tower, having to be waited upon. I did not like to feel that I was being a trouble."
As she spoke, they were passing, having been held up by the stream of traffic, out into the main road from the station approach. Her eyes, fixed vaguely upon the passing show, suddenly dilated. A tall man, coming from the station, had just gained the island in the centre of the thoroughfare, and was detained by the passage of a huge motor lorry from moving on immediately. He had his back to her, but had she not known the figure, the clothes were familiar to her. It was Ninian Guyse.
An instant and the fast-running taxi had carried them away.
"This sumptuous fur rug," Aunt Maud was saying. "It will cost something to send back!"
She did not notice the sudden pallor, the stifled silence of her niece; or, if she did, ascribed it to exhaustion. Olwen's emotions were turbulent. Ninian must have come in her train all the way. It was to him, doubtless, that she owed the persistence of the boy with the super-tea-basket; also the courtesy of the porter. During those hours of anguish, when she had been imagining them parted for ever, he had actually been within a few yards of her—perhaps in the next compartment!
The force of the shock of joy was enough to show her her own heart. She could hardly say a word for some minutes.
Miss Wilson gathered the impression that Olwen was more ill than she was willing to admit. She thought the best thing to do was to put her to bed at once, and leave her unquestioned until she had had a long rest. On receipt of the telegram, her room had been prepared by her aunt's own hands before she set out for the station. Olwen was very grateful.
Aunt Ada, no less than Aunt Maud, was quite evidently glad to see her on any terms, although she detected behind their affection a jealous hope that their darling had not been a failure—that she was not in any sense of the word coming home in disgrace.
She could hardly give as emphatic a denial to the suspicion as she could have wished, for she dreaded very much what Madam might say should she take it into her head to write to her grandfather.
She remembered the threat held over her, and knew that her flight would cause deep displeasure. It seemed almost certain that Mrs. Guyse would indulge her anger to the extent of a severe letter.
... But Ninian was in Bramforth! ...
Nothing could take from the joy of that. For what had he come?
The answer which her heart returned was that he had come to make to her, under the shelter of her home roof, the confession which he had not been able to make at the Pele.
Her bedroom was very cold, and her bed very hard. She thought of Sunia with a yearning which made her wonder whether she had been induced by the ayah to swallow some nostrum, unawares, which should produce acute craving for the Pele the moment she left it.
She fought, however, with such thoughts. She must pull herself together, rest, be ready for the morrow. He would know her to be too tired to-day for him to venture upon a call.
She passed, however, a disturbed night, awakening with bad dreams every time she went to sleep. They most kindly insisted upon bringing some breakfast upstairs to her. After she had eaten it, she slipped out of bed, and started to rummage among her things, to find a clean blouse which she might put on.
Before she was dressed she heard the familiar click of the gate latch, and from behind her muslin blind saw Ninian stalking up the gravel path.
The door-bell pealed, and with a small giggle of delight she hugged the thought of keeping my lord waiting, chafing, cooling his heels in the ugly, cold drawing-room.
He was shown in; of that she was certain. But no message came up to her. After waiting a while, during which she completed her toilette—not without an ill-tempered struggle over the arrangement of her hair to conceal the scar—she crept out upon the landing. The cook was sweeping the hall, and a cautious signal brought her half-way upstairs.
"Cook, is there a gentleman here?"
"Yes, miss," said the woman, who was a new arrival since Olwen's departure.
"Did you let him in?"
"Yes, miss."
"For whom did he ask?"
"For the vicar, miss."
"For the vicar?"
"Yes, miss. He asked how you was, and I said you wasn't downstairs yet. Then he asked for the vicar, and they're talking together now, in the study."
Olwen crept back, shaking with anxiety. What was Ninian doing? Why did he want to see her grandfather? Was he assuring him that she had left without their desire? Was he giving that full account of their nocturnal adventure on the Fell of which Madam had warned her? He was taking time enough over it, anyway.
Restlessly she wandered about, up and down her room, every moment expecting a summons, and every moment growing more excited, more apprehensive. The hands of the old tin alarum clock upon her mantelpiece moved on; yet still the visitor was closeted with Mr. Wilson.
At last she heard a noise—the sound of an opening door. Softly she crept to the balustrade, and saw the top of Nin's black head as he came out into the hall. Her grandfather accompanied him to the entrance. There they shook hands. In a moment, as it seemed to her, the door had opened and closed upon him. He was gone. He had left the house without seeing her, without—or so she must suppose—even asking to see her.
Almost at once she told herself that he would return. He had been asked to lunch, doubtless—or he was coming back after dinner.... So far had pride sunk that she wished she had been out in the hall to waylay him—just to look into his face and judge what he was feeling.
Her grandfather stood in the empty hall, his hands clasped behind his back, as if plunged in deepest thought At last he lifted his head.
"Cook! Is Miss Innes dressed?"
"Yes, sir, I believe she is."
"Kindly tell her that I wish to speak with her at once upon matters of grave importance."
CHAPTER XXX
THE INCREDIBLE TRUTH
It did not take long for Olwen to reach the study. Her whole self was nothing but one huge mark of interrogation as she went into her grandfather's presence. Her eagerness was even enhanced by her desperate dread. She felt that she might be going to receive the wigging of her life. What tales had Ninian told of her or himself?
The old man was not seated, but pacing his room in evidently great perturbation. As he turned to face her, she saw that his usually parchment-coloured face was quite red. He eyed her with a peculiar stare which struck terror to her heart.
"But he can't do anything to me," she said to herself. "I have got father now—somebody to stand up for me!"
"My dear, how are you?" was the vicar's pacific opening. "I was sorry to be out when you arrived yesterday, but, when I came in, your aunt said she thought you had better not be disturbed."
"I don't feel very well yet, thank you, Grandfather, but I am well enough to hear what you have to say."
He eyed her apprehensively. "I—I wonder," said he, shuffling across the room once more. Then, turning, he sat down at his desk as though resolved upon controlling his nerves. He cleared his throat. "Be seated, my dear," he said quite solicitously. His faded eyes dwelt upon her as she obeyed his behest. "I have—er—just had a visitor."
"Yes. Mr. Guyse. I saw him come," she replied as naturally as she could.
"Yes. H'm! You and he have seen a good deal of each other?"
"We have. It was winter, and the Pele is not at all a large house."
"How did he strike you, I wonder? But perhaps such a question is merely futile. We must come to the main point—the surprising, I may say the extraordinary information which this young man has just given me. My dear, you must prepare yourself for—for something in the nature of a shock."
"Oh, Grandfather, please, please tell me! Is it abou—about Mr. Guyse?"
"Well, in part—in part it is. Very painful, very distressing, of course ... but in the main it concerns you, my dear, you and your father, my poor son-in-law, Madoc Innes."
She sat like a stone. "My father!" she whispered. "He—he is worse. Ah, don't say he is—dead?"
The vicar bowed his head. His hands were playing with a cablegram which lay upon the table before him.
"He is dead," he said. "This message arrived for you after you had left the Pele yesterday morning. Mr. Guyse brought it to me, because he feared, in the state of your health, he ought not to give it to you under the circumstances. He thought you should be safe at home when the news was broken. Er—your aunt forwarded you a letter from New York, which she thought was from your father, some days ago?"
She found her voice with a sob. "Yes! He said he was coming—sailing in theStupendous. I was to go to Liverpool to meet him. That was partly why I hurried home. Oh, don't say he is dead; don't say I shall never see him!"
"My dear, you must calm yourself sufficiently to allow me to proceed. The most surprising part of the story is still to be told. I have seldom been so completely taken aback as by the news Mr. Guyse has just given me."
"Mr. Guyse! What does he know about father?"
"Ah, my dear, that is the point. That—is—the point. He did not know poor Madoc himself, but it seems that his twin brother knew him very well indeed."
"Wolf!" cried the girl bewildered. "Wolf knew my father!"
"Intimately. They were in Alaska together. They went to Klondyke together. Your father had the most astonishing good fortune. He struck an oil well when he was looking for gold. It was in the very place where it was most wanted. He managed to keep it quiet until he had bought up all the land he required, and then turned it into a company. He died—your father died—a millionaire, my dear."
He handed over the cablegram, and she took it in her hands.