“Don’t be surprised at what I have said to you this evening. You have brought me luck, and you shall share it. This journey shall take you to the arms of a lover who will give you all the things I spoke of and more—a thousand times more!”
That was true indeed, I thought to myself (but did he mean what I meant?) as I tore myself, laughing and blushing, away and ran upstairs. There was more delight in the mere fact that Laurence preferred me to any other woman in the world than in all the beautiful gowns and jewels that ever princess wore. And I went to sleep that night with my hands under my pillow clasping his letter.
Haidee left my room next day for the first time, and spent the afternoon by the dining-room fire. Soon after dinner Mr. Rayner came in with his riding-boots on, and asked with a smile if I had not a letter to send to the post. He was going to ride to Beaconsburgh, and, if I gave it to him, it would go a post earlier than if I put it into the bag for the postman to fetch.
“No, I have no letter, thank you, Mr. Rayner,” said I, with a blush.
“Not a line for—Nice, to tell—some one you are coming?” said he archly.
“No,” answered I, shaking my head.
“You posted that one yesterday yourself, didn’t you, Miss Christie?” whispered little Haidee, putting her arms round my neck.
Mr. Rayner heard the whisper.
“Yesterday?” asked he quickly.
“I—I gave a—a note to Miss Reade to put with hers,” said I.
A curious change passed over Mr. Rayner. The smile remained on his face, which had however in one second turned ashy white. He said, “All right, my dear,” in his usual voice, except that I fancied there was a sort of hard ring in it, and left the room.
“Was it naughty of me to say?” said Haidee, feeling that something was wrong.
“Oh, no, my darling!” I answered.
I too was afraid I had displeased Mr. Rayner by going to the Hall, without saying anything about it to any one, in what must seem a sly, underhand manner; and I wished Laurence had not enjoined me to send my letter in that way.
That evening, at tea-time, Mr. Rayner announced that he had found a letter waiting for him at the Beaconsburgh post-office which obliged him to go to Monaco a day sooner.
So Haidee and I must be prepared to start on Thursday morning.
OnTuesday afternoon, while I was helping Haidee to dress her doll in the dining-room, there was a ring at the front-door bell, and shortly afterwards Jane came in, looking rather frightened, saying a gentleman was in the hall asking for Sarah.
“And I’ve told him she is ill, Miss Christie; but he won’t believe me; and he won’t go away, and Mr. Rayner is out; and please will you speak to him?”
I got up, and, following her into the hall, found, not a gentleman, but a respectably-dressed man, who very civilly apologized for disturbing me.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am; but are you Miss Rayner?”
“Oh, no!”
“Mrs. Rayner?”
“No. Mrs. Rayner is an invalid, and I am afraid you cannot see her. I am the governess. If you have any message for Mr. Rayner, I will give it to him; or, if you like, you can write him a note, and it shall be given him when he returns.”
“Thank you, miss.”
Still he hesitated.
“Would you like to wait for Mr. Rayner? He will be back in about an hour.”
“Thank you. Could I speak to you in private for a few minutes, miss?”
“Oh, yes, certainly! Will you come in here?”—and I opened the door of the schoolroom.
He followed me in and shut it carefully.
“I am the brother of Sarah Gooch, miss, who is a servant here.”
I nodded assent.
“I’ve been abroad and worked myself into a good position, and now I want my sister to leave service. And I don’t want the other servants to know I’m her brother. It may be pride; but perhaps you’ll excuse it, miss. Would you mind sending for her without saying it’s her brother wants her?”
How could I break the fact of her illness to the poor man?
“Oh, please be prepared for bad news! I’m so sorry!” said I gently. “She is ill—very ill.”
To my surprise, he looked more incredulous than unhappy. He said very suddenly—
“She was quite well last Friday afternoon.”
“Yes—an accident happened to her on Friday night. She fell down a flight of stairs and injured herself severely. If you will only wait until Mr. Rayner comes, he will speak to you. Sarah is a very old servant in this family, and much respected, and she has every possible care, I assure you.”
But he still seemed more curious than anxious about her, I thought.
“She has been in the family a long time then? Excuse me, miss, but I’ve been away so long that she is almost like a stranger to me, and I had great difficulty in finding her out. But I’m very glad to hear she is thought so well of.”
“Oh, yes! Mr. Rayner has the greatest confidence in her.”
I did not want to say anything disagreeable about the woman now that she was ill, especially to her brother, whose affection did not seem very warm as it was.
“Ah, that’s the great thing! We’ve always been a family to hold our heads high, and I couldn’t hear anything to please me more about her. But I expect it’s little use my coming home and wanting her to keep house for me. She was a good-looking girl, and I’ve no doubt she’s looking forward to marrying on her savings, and then we shall be just as far apart as ever. Do you know, miss—if it’s not troubling you too much, and you won’t take it a liberty—if she’s got a sweetheart?”
I hesitated. The man’s cold curiosity seemed so unlike the warm interest of a brother that I began to wonder whether I was right in giving him the information he wanted. My doubts were so vague and his questions so very harmless, however, that, when he said—
“I beg your pardon, miss—of course it is not for a lady like you to interest yourself in the likes of us—”
I broke out—
“Oh, pray don’t think that! Sarah has an admirer, I know—”
I stopped. I could not say anything reassuring about Tom Parkes.
“Ah! An honest hard-working fellow, I hope, who’ll make her a good husband.”
He was more interested now, and was looking at me very searchingly.
“I can’t speak to a man’s prejudice behind his back,” said I slowly; “but—”
He was very much interested at last, and was waiting impatiently for my next words, when Mr. Rayner quietly entered the room. There had been no ring at the front door. He looked inquiringly at the man, whom I was just going to introduce as Sarah’s brother, when the latter anticipated me by saying quietly—
“From Scotland Yard, sir.”
“Scotland Yard?” echoed Mr. Rayner inquiringly. But the name did not seem new to him, as it did to me.
“Yes, sir; I’ve been sent after a woman named Sarah Gooch, from information received that she was in your service. Mr. Gervas Rayner I believe, sir?”
Why did he not own he was her brother? I thought to myself.
“Yes, that is my name. But what on earth do you want with my servant, Sarah Gooch?”
The man glanced at me. Mr. Rayner said—
“Go on. Never mind this lady; she is as much interested in the woman as I am. What do you want with my old servant Sarah?”
“Suspected of complicity in the Denham Court robbery, sir—some of the property traced to her.”
I started violently. This man, then, was not Sarah’s brother at all, but a detective who had been trying to extract information from me by a trick! Mr. Rayner stared full in his face for a few moments, as if unable to find words; then he exclaimed, in a low voice—
“Impossible!”
“Sorry to shake your trust in an old servant, sir; but proof is proof.”
“But what proof have you?” asked Mr. Rayner earnestly.
“Last Friday afternoon, between half-past four and twenty minutes to five, your servant Sarah Gooch was seen to give the contents of a black bag to a man in Beaconsburgh. The fact excited no suspicion. The man took the next train to London, travelling second-class. But south of Colchester he was seized with a fit; he was taken out at the next station, the bag he had with him examined for his address, jewels found in it, and the police at Scotland Yard communicated with. The man escaped; but, on inquiries being made, witnesses were found to prove conclusively that the biscuit-tin which contained the jewel had been handed to him in a street in Beaconsburgh, on Friday afternoon, between half-past four and twenty minutes to five, by a woman who was identified as Sarah Gooch.”
I remembered seeing Sarah pass through the plantation on Friday afternoon, on her way to Beaconsburgh, with the black bag. But I was too horror-stricken to speak, even if I had not been, now that the blow had fallen, as anxious to screen her as Mr. Rayner himself was to prove her innocence.
“But I cannot believe it!” said Mr. Rayner. “She is a rough, harsh woman; but I have always found her honest as the day.”
“She may have been instigated,” suggested the detective. “It’s wonderful what things women will do for their lovers, and she had a lover—not of the best possible character.”
Mr. Rayner gave a quick glance at me, and I felt guilty, for it was indeed I who had given this piece of information.
“Do you know his name?” asked Mr. Rayner.
“I am not in a position to state it yet; but we have our suspicions,” said the man cautiously.
Mr. Rayner gave no sign of incredulity; but I knew his face well enough now to be able to tell that he did not believe him.
“The main point now is, having traced the jewels to the woman Sarah Gooch, to find out how they came into her possession. I must ask you to let me see the woman and question her. Taken by surprise, she may confess everything.”
“You shall see her,” said Mr. Rayner gravely, “and then judge for yourself whether she is in a state to answer questions. I will ask the nurse if you can see her now. Miss Christie, would you mind going up with me and watching in her place while Mrs. Saunders comes out to speak to me?”
We went up together, scarcely speaking a word; and I sent out the nurse to him and stood watching in her place. Sarah, looking more hideous than ever with the white bandage round her head and against her leather-colored face and black hair, was turning her head from side to side, and moaning and muttering feebly. The only words one could catch seemed to refer to the pain she was in. Then the door opened, the nurse re-entered, and the detective, with Mr. Rayner behind him, peeped in. A glance at the hollow face and dry lips of the sick woman might have satisfied him that her illness was no sham; but he watched her and listened to her mutterings for some minutes before he retired. I left the room as quickly as I could—the sight of the ghastly figure of the guilty woman sickened me.
“You see,” Mr. Rayner was saying as I got outside, “she is quite unable at present to speak for herself. I hope, and indeed believe, that, when she can do so, she will be able to clear herself of anything worse than perhaps the innocent passing of the stolen goods from one rogue to another, without herself having the least idea of the crime she was being made to participate in. I will do all in my power to assist the course of justice. The doctor will be here in the morning, and he will tell you when she is likely to be able to give an account of herself. In the mean time you shall spend the night here. Miss Christie, will you kindly tell Mrs. Jennings to prepare the room next to mine and Mrs. Rayner’s?”
The name “Mrs. Jennings” for the moment puzzled me; then I remembered it was that of the cook, and I wondered why he had not said Jane. His room and Mrs. Rayner’s! Did Mr. Rayner then sleep in the house since his wife’s change of apartment?
The cook grumbled a good deal when I gave her the order. What was the house being turned topsy-turvy for? Why had Mr. Rayner just sent Jane off to Wright’s Farm to pay the corn-bill, to-day of all days, when there was a visitor and more to do? Telling her she might stop the night too, if the fog came on, as it was doing, when he might have known she wouldn’t want telling twice when that hulking young Peter Wright was about the farm! She knew what it was; Jane would not be back till late to-morrow afternoon, if she was then, and—
And so the cook went on, until suddenly Mr. Rayner appeared upon the scene, and she broke off in her complaints, startled.
“I am afraid I have entailed a good deal of trouble upon you, cook, by thoughtlessly giving Jane permission to spend the night at the farm if the fog grew thick; so I have just asked Mrs. Saunders to take her upstairs duties till Jane comes back, in return for which you will be kind enough to watch by Sarah during her unavoidable absences.”
This silenced the cook at once. It was a just punishment for her grumbling, for there was no duty she would not rather have undertaken than that of watching by the unconscious Sarah even in her quiet moments. She said to me afterwards that the nurse was very good; directly Sarah began to talk or grow excited, Mrs. Saunders always managed to hear, and came in to relieve her from the unpleasant task of listening to the sick woman’s ravings.
I left Mr. Rayner talking to the cook, and went back to Haidee in the dining-room. When tea-time came, Mr. Rayner entered with the detective, whom he now addressed as “Mr. Maynard,” and treated as a distinguished guest. Mr. Maynard talked rather interestingly when his host drew him out, and was elaborately courteous to Mrs. Rayner, whose cold manner rather overawed him, and to me. He went to his room early, and, when Mrs. Rayner had gone to hers, I remained in the drawing-room putting the music in order, as Mr. Rayner had told me to do.
“This day’s events have upset me more than you can imagine, child,” said he, passing his hand through his hair wearily. “That vixen Sarah has always seemed honest—and yet I don’t know what to believe.”
“And, you know, the portmanteau I found in the cellar,” I whispered timidly.
Mr. Rayner started.
“Good Heaven, I had forgotten that! Or rather I had dismissed it from my mind as a fancy brought about by the excitement of Sarah’s accident, and hastily connected in your mind with your view of poor old Tom Parkes carrying a box across the lawn. Where are the store-room keys, child?” asked he excitedly. “We must go at once to the cellar, and— Heaven help us if what I took for your fancy should prove to be the truth!”
I tremblingly produced the keys, which I carried about with me; and, much against my will, I accompanied Mr. Rayner into the left wing. He took the keys from me; but he was so very excited that he could not find the right one to fit into the door, and I opened it for him. We crossed the store-room. There lay the black bag on one side of the trap-door, where I had put it down on catching sight of the little ring in the floor. I put my finger through this and raised it again, not without a shudder at the remembrance of my last visit, and Mr. Rayner went down hastily, while I held the candle for him to see by.
“No, my child, I see nothing,” said he, as he peered about.
“Look through the ladder; it is behind there,” said I.
Mr. Rayner looked through it, then looked round it, stretched his arm out, and again raised his face to mine, this time however with a look of unutterable relief.
“Thank Heaven, it was your fancy, child!” said he. “There is nothing there.”
“Not a deal table?” I gasped.
“No—nothing but water.”
“Perhaps the water has risen higher and covered it?”
“Come down yourself and see. Or are you afraid to come down again?”
“No, I am not afraid,” said I uncertainly.
He came up and took the candle from me, while I descended. The water, I knew by the number of steps which were dry above it, was at the same level as before. I looked through the ladder and round it. Table and portmanteau had utterly disappeared. As I looked up suddenly, Mr. Rayner’s face, distorted by the weird light thrown on it by the flickering candle, seemed to me to wear a mocking smile which made the handsome features hideous and alarming.
“Let me come up,” said I sharply.
He held out his hand, and, when I, trembling and tottering, reached the top of the ladder, he flung his arm round me to support me. But I was so sick with the horror of finding my story—my true story—disproved, and with the fancy I had had on looking up at Mr. Rayner’s face, that I slid from his arm, ran out of the store-room, along the passage and through the swing-door, and leaned against the hall-table to recover myself. Mr. Rayner was at my side in a few minutes, and, almost unconsciously, I let him lead me back into the drawing-room. He brought me some brandy-and-water and made me drink it, and bathed my forehead, and told me gently not to be frightened, for I should soon be out of this dreary place and among beautiful scenes where I should forget the gloom of this sepulchral, dead-alive house, which was turning my poor little brain.
“But indeed I did see the portmanteau the first time!” said I piteously.
“Yes, dear child, I know,” said Mr. Rayner.
But I saw he did not believe me; and the tears began to roll down my cheeks.
“You must not cry, you must not cry! You will spoil your pretty face if you cry,” said Mr. Rayner almost angrily.
I knew he hated the sight of anything ugly or distressing—it was part of an artist’s nature, he said; so I forced back my tears as fast as I could, and tried to smile.
“There is my lovely girl again!” said he, stopping in front of me—he had walked up and down the room while I wept. “We will never mention Sarah’s name again when once we are away from her, little one,” said he. “But until we go, or until our respected friend Mr. Maynard goes, I am afraid she must still occupy a good deal of our thoughts. She will certainly not be able to submit to any cross-examination on his part to-morrow, or for a long time to come—if she ever is,” said he gravely. “And in the mean time he will try to trump up a story and to criminate as many persons as he can, just to show his superiors that he has not wasted his time here. And certainly he will leave our poor Sarah without a rag of character.”
“But, do you know, Mr. Rayner, I don’t think Sarah has always been as nice a woman as you suppose,” said I timidly. “From what I have heard her say, I think, when she was young, she must have had some horrid friends who made her do all sorts of wrong things; and that is why I cannot be as much surprised as you are at her doing wicked things now.”
“Did you tell Mr. Maynard that?”
“No, I only answered his questions. He said he was her brother—and of course I did not want to make him doubt his own sister. But, Mr. Rayner, I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a James Woodfall?”
He was sitting by me on the sofa, with his head turned away. He did not answer my question at once. Then he said very quietly—
“Did Mr. Maynard ask you that?”
He turned slowly as he said so, until his eyes met mine.
“Oh, no! I heard Sarah say the name when she was delirious—the first night—Friday night,” I whispered.
“Oh! Was he a friend of Sarah’s?”
“Oh, yes! I think she must have been in love with him when she was young, and he must have been a very bad man who made her do anything he liked; and the most curious part of it is that she—she mixes his name up with the people she knows now,” said I, lowering my voice still more.
“How?” asked Mr. Rayner. “Whose name does she mix his up with?”
“Why, with—with mine, Mr. Rayner!” said I, blushing uncomfortably at the very thought. “She kept saying in her ravings that this wicked forger—for she said he was a forger—James Woodfall, was in love with me and wanted to marry me, and that he wanted her to help to marry this common thief to me. Wasn’t it dreadful to have to listen to that?” whispered I excitedly.
“Did she say James Woodfall was a common thief?”
“No, I gathered that from what she said. Did you ever hear of him, Mr. Rayner?”
“Yes, I have heard of him, and I believe he is alive now,” said he.
“Then I believe that she is in love with him still, and that he is at the bottom of this dreadful robbery!” cried I, much excited. “Oh, Mr. Rayner, couldn’t you find out from Sarah where he is now, while the detective is here, and get him caught?” I said breathlessly.
Mr. Rayner shook his head thoughtfully.
“I am afraid not, my dear child. If James Woodfall is the man I mean, he will never be taken alive,” said he.
Mr. Raynerslept that night in the dressing-room leading out of the large front room which his wife now occupied. I met him coming out of it as I went downstairs to breakfast the next morning. I spent the hours until dinner-time in my own room, packing and preparing for the journey the next day.
It was curious, I thought, that I had not heard again from my mother, who would naturally be overflowing with excitement about such a great event. I had written a long letter to her on Monday, and put it into the post-bag, with no misgivings as to its safety now that my enemy Sarah was ill. It was a very pleasant thing to think that I should soon be with my mother again, and that in a few days I should see Laurence; but there was a less bright view to be taken of the expedition, and from time to time, in the midst of my happy anticipation, it troubled me.
It seemed an unkind thing, in spite of her obstinate refusal to quit the Alders, to leave delicate Mrs. Rayner alone in this dreary place, the gloom and damp of which had evidently had much to do with the morbid state of mind she was in, with no companions, and no other inmates of the house, except a weird child who was not fond of her, two servants, a sick-nurse, and a delirious invalid. I had noticed faint signs of nervous agitation in her manner lately when the coming journey was alluded to, and I had caught her eyes fixed upon mine sometimes as if she had something to say to me which she could not bring herself to the point of uttering; and the strange perversity of the poor lady, who seemed now mad, now sane, puzzled me more and more.
The Doctor, for whose verdict Mr. Maynard was waiting, did not come that day until just before dinner; and then his report was as gloomy as possible. He did not think it probable that Sarah would ever recover her reason, and the only change she was likely to get from her sick-room was to the county lunatic asylum. On hearing this, the detective, who had spent the morning in making inquiries, in searching Sarah’s boxes, and even her room, at Mr. Rayner’s suggestion, in examining every corner of the housekeeper’s room in which she generally sat, and of the store-cupboard under the stairs, which was also under her charge—but I do not think he went into the left wing, where the large store-room was—having failed to make any discovery, wished to return to town that afternoon; but Mr. Rayner pressed him to stay, saying that he would drive him over to Denham village that afternoon, and, in the character of a friend of his, come down from town for a few days, he could examine the scene of the robbery and make inquiries without any one’s suspecting who he was, and perhaps pick up some scraps of information which would save him from the reproach of having made a journey in vain.
“Do you know enough about railways to pass for an engineer, or inspector, or anything of that sort?” asked Mr. Rayner. “You know, of course, that suspicion has fallen upon a gang of navvies who are at work upon the line near there; but, although there have been detectives among them since, not one has been sharp enough to discover anything yet.”
The man seemed a little shy at first of interfering in a branch of the work of watching which had been put into other hands. But he was rather put upon his mettle by the allusion to the fact that his journey had been so far a failure. And Mr. Rayner whispered to me in the hall, with his eyes twinkling, when the detective was already seated in the dog-cart at the door, that he had put that fellow up to discovering something—it did not matter what, wrong or right. He said they should be back early, as the fog was rising already, and, in order to repay Mr. Maynard for detaining him, there was to be dinner at half-past six, instead of the usual tea at half-past five. And, in the very highest spirits, Mr. Rayner patted my shoulder, told me to save myself up for next day, and that he had a present to give me on the journey, and jumped into the dog-cart.
I went back into the dining-room, where the cook was clearing away the luncheon; Jane, as she had predicted, not having come back yet. Mrs. Rayner was sitting by the fire, with Haidee on her lap.
“Are you unhappy at the thought of losing her so soon?” said I softly, leaving my seat and kneeling by her side, as soon as the cook had left the room.
Mrs. Rayner looked at me earnestly, and then whispered—
“No, I am not unhappy about her, but about you.”
“About me, Mrs. Rayner!” I exclaimed, in astonishment.
“Hush!” she whispered softly. She took her arms from her child’s neck, and told her to go and play; and Haidee obediently walked to the window, where her doll was lying on the floor.
“It is as much as my wretched life is worth to warn you,” whispered she, taking the hand I had laid on her lap, and clasping and unclasping her own about it nervously. “You are kind-hearted, and innocent as a child—I see that now,” she continued, her eyes wandering restlessly about the room.
I began to be afraid of a fit of hysterics, or worse; and I begged her not to talk if it fatigued her, and asked her if I should fetch some eau-de-cologne. She shook her head.
“I am not hysterical—don’t be afraid of that,” said she, turning her great eyes upon me, as if in reproach. “I only want to tell you this—when you arrive in London to-morrow, if your mother is not waiting at the station, insist upon going to her house before you go farther. Do not on any account enter another train without her. Call the guard—make a disturbance at the station—do anything rather.”
“But how can I?” said I gently. “I cannot insist against Mr. Rayner. He would not listen. You know that, when he tells one to do a thing, there is such a strong authority about him, one must do it.”
“Try, try!” said she earnestly. “I believe you have the power, if you have the courage. You have thwarted his wishes as nobody else has ever dared to do—in sending for Doctor Lowe, in taking Haidee upstairs. Try once more. It is not Sarah’s safety that is concerned this time, nor Haidee’s, but your own. For Heaven’s sake, try!”
She lay back in the chair, her face, neck, and hands all wet with the violence of her feeling and her unaccustomed vehemence. Yet her voice had never once risen above a whisper that could not have been heard at the other end of the room. She raised her head again, and read with unexpected penetration the look on my face.
“I am not mad, Miss Christie,” she said quite quietly. “Think me mad if you like—if your mother meets you at Liverpool Street Station. But, if not, remember my warning; it may have cost me my life.”
She shook off my hand and lay back again, as if wishing for rest. And I remained on my knees beside her, not knowing what to think, whether she was mad or sane, whether I should follow her advice or dismiss her words as—no, I could not think them idle; that she herself had been in terrible earnest as she uttered them I could not doubt. What then? She wanted to make me distrust her husband. She had not spoken like a jealous woman; she was too cold, too indifferent for jealousy. What strange fancy was this of hers about the journey? If my mother should not be at the station waiting for us, which was very likely, as she was seldom punctual, I should still have Haidee with me. I should naturally suggest waiting for her; but, if she did not come soon, probably Mr. Rayner himself would either send or go to my uncle’s house in search of her. What had I to fear with Mr. Rayner, my best and kindest friend, next to Laurence, in the world? Why should a morbid fancy of his poor, sickly, fanciful wife trouble me?
And yet the impression her words had made upon me was so strong that I determined, if my mother should not arrive at the station shortly after us—that she would be there already was too much to expect of her—that I would ask Mr. Rayner to let me take a cab to my uncle’s house and fetch her myself.
Mrs. Rayner scarcely spoke for the rest of the afternoon; that unusual burst of vehemence seemed to have exhausted her.
The fog, which had been hanging about us for days, grew so thick as the afternoon wore on that we had to have the lamps lighted much earlier than usual, and it was quite dark when, at about half-past four, there was a ring at the front-door bell. The cook came in to say that a boy from the village wanted to speak to Miss Christie; and I went into the hall and found a little fellow of about ten whom I did not know, who told me that Mrs. Manners, who was at the school-house, had sent to ask me to come to her at once, as she wished to speak to me about the dole. This was a yearly distribution of clothing and money among the very poor people of the parish, which took place in November. It was rather strange that Mrs. Manners should want to speak to me about it, I thought at first, as I was not a district visitor. However, of course I must go; and I went back into the dining-room and told Mrs. Rayner about it.
“Don’t go, Miss Christie,” said she at once. “It is some trap, some trick; Mrs. Manners never sends messages but by her own boys. Don’t go.”
“I don’t like not to go,” said I hesitatingly. “It may be something of importance, and Mrs. Manners has been so kind to me. Please let me go, Mrs. Rayner.”
She shrank into herself, and leaned back again as the cook reappeared at the door, saying the boy said Mrs. Manners’s message was—would I make haste?
“Of course you can go, Miss Christie,” said Mrs. Rayner listlessly.
I ran upstairs and was down again ready for my walk in a few minutes. The boy was evidently prepared to accompany me; and the fog was so thick that I was glad of it, for he was more used to the turns of the road than I; and even he had to go very slowly and to keep close to the hedge. He kept urging me to make haste, however, and I followed him as fast as I could, while he turned every other minute to see that I was still behind him.
The school was about half a mile from the Alders, among the first houses of the village. When I stumbled against a milestone which was, I knew, not far from our destination, the boy said—
“Here, miss, take care! This way.”
And, taking a corner of my cloak, he led me round into a path which branched off to the left.
“But you are going wrong,” I said. “It is straight on, I know—not up here. This is the way to Dunning’s Farm, half a mile off.”
“It’s all right, miss,” said he. “I’m afraid of our being run over along the high-road now we’re so near the village. Come on, miss; it’s all right.”
He was very impatient; and I followed him, not without some misgivings. We had groped our way up this lane for what seemed to me a very long time, when the boy stopped and whistled.
“What are you doing that for?” said I sharply.
But the boy, who, by making but a few steps forward, was lost to my sight in the fog, whistled again. I stood for a moment trembling with terror. Then the boy exclaimed angrily—
“Why, he ain’t here!”
“He! Who?” I cried, in alarm; and at that moment I heard a crackling of branches, and saw dimly through the fog, a few yards in front of me, the figure of a man crashing through the hedge, and leaping down from the field into the road.
Smothering a cry, I turned, and ran I knew not whither. It was Tom Parkes or Gordon, who had decoyed me out here to punish me for my discoveries, which Sarah must have told them about.
I heard the boy say, “Thank ye,” and then the footsteps of the man coming nearer to me. My only hope was that I might perhaps escape him in the blinding fog by crouching under the hedge till he had passed; but, to my horror, he was coming as slowly and as cautiously as I. I had found my way to the hedge and knelt down close under it, my face almost in among the briers and thorns. He passed me; I could see the vague form as it went by. But in my joy at the sight I drew a sharp breath; he turned back, groped for me, found, and raised me to my feet, all without a word. I closed my eyes and shuddered. For the first moment I felt too exhausted by the excitement of those awful minutes to struggle much. I could only feebly try to push him off, crying brokenly—
“Don’t—don’t hurt me!”
“Hurt you, my own darling! Look up at me. Heaven help me, I have nearly frightened you to death!”
I looked up with a cry, and flung my arms round his neck. It was Laurence, his face so haggard and so dirty as to be scarcely recognizable; but he told me, as he kissed me again and again, that I must not mind that, for he had travelled night and day without a moment’s rest since he got my letter on the morning of the previous day.
“And, thank Heaven, I am in time, in time!” he cried, as he pressed me again in his arms.
“In time for what, Laurence? I should have been near you in two days,” said I wonderingly. “We were to start to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning! Just a few hours more, and I should have lost you!” cried the poor fellow in such agony of horror and relief at the same time that only to see him in that state brought the tears to my own eyes.
“Lost me, Laurence? Oh, do tell me what you mean!” I cried piteously.
“Oh, Violet, are you still so innocent as to think that that man would have brought you to me?”
“Why not?” asked I, in a whisper.
“Because he loves you himself,” said he between his teeth—“if the feeling even you inspire in such a man can be called love. Your innocence would not have protected you much longer. Oh, I was a fool, a blind fool, ever to leave you, for father—mother—anybody in the world! But I did not know quite all until your own sweet naïve letter opened my stupid eyes.”
“Oh, Laurence, Laurence, what dreadful things are you saying?” I cried, shaking with fear even in his arms.
“Never mind, my own darling; you are safe now,” said he very gently. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I ought to have warned you long ago; but I could not bear to—”
“But, Laurence, my mother is going with us. Didn’t I tell you that? I had a letter from her—”
“Which she never wrote. On my way back to London, I telegraphed to your mother to meet me at Charing Cross Station, and there she told me she had never seen Mr. Rayner and never heard a word of the journey to Monaco.”
This blow was too much for me; I fainted in his arms. When I recovered, I found that he had carried me some distance; and, as soon as I began to sigh, he put me down and gave me some brandy-and-water out of his flask.
“I’m always wanting that now, I think,” said I, trying weakly to smile as I remembered that two or three times lately Mr. Rayner had given it to me when I seemed to be on the point of fainting. “You are the first person who has made me go off quite, though,” I said.
And poor Laurence took it as a reproach, and insisted on our stopping again in the fog for me to forgive him. We were making our way slowly, in the increasing darkness, down the lane to the high-road.
“But what am I to do, Laurence?” I asked tremblingly. “Shall I tell Mr. Rayner—oh, I can’t think he is so wicked!—shall I tell him you have come back, and don’t want me to leave England?”
“Not for the world, my darling,” said he, quickly. “Nobody in Geldham—not even at the Hall—knows I have come back. That is why I had to send for you on a pretext, and frighten you out of your life. The boy I sent for you did not know me. I got here in a fly from the station only a few minutes before I met him, and sent him off with the promise of a shilling if he brought you back with him.”
“Ah, that is why he was so anxious not to lose sight of me for a moment! But what is all this mystery about, Laurence? Why don’t you go to the Hall and see your father?”
“Ah, that is a secret! You won’t mind waiting till to-morrow to know that, will you, darling?”
“Oh, yes, I shall! I want to know now,” said I coaxingly. “Won’t you trust me with your secret?”
He did not want to do so; but I was curious, and hurt at his refusal; and, when he saw the tears come into my eyes, he gave way.
He had been so much struck by the postscript to my letter, telling him of a suspicious-looking man whom I connected with the Denham Court robbery hanging about the Hall, and promising to visit it again on Wednesday, that he had obtained, by telegraphing to the chief of the metropolitan police, a force of constables to lie in wait about the Hall that night. He had appointed a trustworthy person to meet them at Beaconsburgh station and conduct them to a rendezvous he had appointed in the park, where they were probably waiting now. He was going to station them himself, under cover of the fog, in places round the Hall, among the shrubs, where they would be well concealed, and yet be near the approaches of the house, especially on that side where the strong-room was. The fog might work for them or against them; it might throw the thieves—if indeed they came, which was a matter of chance—into the constables’ hands, or it might help them to escape. That must be left to fortune.
“And you know you said in your letter that Sarah was always raving about a bad man named James Woodfall, who seemed to have a great influence upon her and to be mixed up in everything evil she talked about. Well, I have brought down among the constables a man who knew James Woodfall, and swears he could identify him. This Woodfall used to be a clever forger, and got caught only once, when he was quite a lad; but he has been lost sight of for years. There is only an off-chance of his having anything at all to do with this; but I mentioned his name to the chief constable, and he thought it worth trying. So now, my darling, you know everything, and you must keep my secrets, every one, like grim death. As for your journey, don’t be alarmed. I shall be in the same train with you; and your mother will really meet you at Liverpool Street Station, for I have told her to do so.”
Laurence insisted on seeing me home. We had crept along the high-road until we were close to the cottage nearest to the Alders, when we heard the sounds of hoofs and wheels, and men’s voices halloing through the fog. Laurence opened the gate of the cottage garden and led me inside till they should have passed.
It was the dog-cart, with Mr. Rayner on foot leading the horse, and Maynard still in it.
“Lucky you are going to stay the night!” Mr. Rayner was saying. “I wouldn’t undertake to find my way to my own gate to-night.”
Wefollowed the dog-cart at a safe distance, which was not very far off in the fog, until it stopped at the stable-gate. Then we slipped past quite unseen on the other side of the road, while Mr. Rayner was busy opening the gate; and at the front gate Laurence left me, and I groped my way down the drive as fast as I could, and got in some minutes before Mr. Rayner and his companion. And, as I could rely upon the silence of Mrs. Rayner and the cook, I said nothing to anybody else about my excursion.
We were about an hour over dinner, and, when Mr. Rayner had been to the cellar—not the dreadful store-room cellar—himself to get out a bottle of port, he asked Mr. Maynard if he was fond of music.
“Well, I’m not much of a dab at it myself, though I used to tootle a little upon the cornet when I was a boy,” replied the detective, whose language had grown a little easier and was less carefully chosen as he knew us better. “But I don’t mind a tune now and then.”
“Ah, you are not an enthusiast, I see!” said Mr. Rayner. “Now I can never be happy long without music. Did you ever try the violin?”
“Well, no; that is rather a scratchy sort of instrument, to my mind. Give me the concertina,” replied Mr. Maynard genially.
“Then I won’t ask you to listen to my music,” said Mr. Rayner. “I’m only a fiddler. However, I think I must console myself for this disgusting weather by a—a tune to-night; but I’ll be merciful and shut the doors. My wife and Miss Christie will entertain you, and—let me see, it is half-past seven—at nine o’clock I’ll come and inflict myself upon you again, and we can have a game at backgammon. Do you care for backgammon?”
Mr. Maynard having declared that he did, Mr. Rayner asked me if I could go into the drawing-room and hunt outLa Traviataand Moore’s “Irish Melodies.” I went obediently, and was on my knees turning over the great piles of music that stood there, when he came in and softly shut the door. Before I knew he was near I felt something passed round my neck and heard the snap of a clasp behind. I put up my hand and sprang to my feet, startled. Mr. Rayner, bright and smiling, drew my hand through his arm and led me to a looking-glass. Flashing and sparkling round my throat was a necklace of red jewels that dazzled me by their beauty.
“Don’t I keep my promises? I said I would bring you some garnets. Do they please you?”
But they did not at all, after what Laurence had said; the magnificent present filled me with terror. I put up both hands, tore them off, and flung them down with trembling fingers, and then stood, panting with fright at my own daring, wondering what he would do to me.
He did nothing. After looking at me for what seemed to me a long time, while I stood trembling, at first proud and then ashamed of myself, without the least sign of displeasure he picked up the necklace, slipped it into his pocket, and said quite gently—
“That is very pretty spirit, but is rather ungrateful, isn’t it? Never mind; you shall make amends for it by and by. Now will you go and help Mrs. Rayner to entertain our lynx-eyed friend? You shall come back and fetch me at nine o’clock. Run along now, my dear.”
He gave me a gentle little tap of dismissal, and, rather crestfallen, I returned to the dining-room. But neither my entertaining powers nor Mrs. Rayner’s were called into play; for Mr. Maynard was already rather drowsy, and, after sleepily muttering “Bravo—very good!” as the last sounds of Schubert’s “Adieu” died away on Mr. Rayner’s violin, he had to make an effort to listen to a selection fromRigoletto, and during some airs fromMarthawhich followed I heard the regular breathing of a sleeping person from the arm-chair where he was sitting. But I was paying little attention to him. The door being shut, I had gone closer and closer to it, as if drawn by an irresistible fascination, as Mr. Rayner seemed to play the “Adieu” as he had never played it before. Every note seemed to vibrate in my own heart, and nothing but fear of his displeasure if I disturbed him before nine o’clock kept me from returning to the drawing-room, where I could have heard each plaintive passionate note unmuffled by the two doors between. When the last note of the “Adieu” had died away, and Mr. Maynard’s coarse voice had broken the spell by his “Bravo—very good!” I listened for the next melody eagerly, and was struck with a chill sense of disappointment as an air fromRigolettofollowed.
It was not that I did not care for that opera, though it is scarcely one of my favorites, but a certain hardness of touch, which struck me at once as being unlike the rich full tones Mr. Rayner generally drew from his loved violin, grated upon my ear and puzzled me. Of course Mr. Maynard did not notice any difference, and muttered approval from time to time indiscriminately. But my glance stole from him to Mrs. Rayner; and I could see that she also was struck by the curious change of style in her husband’s playing. It was as brilliant as ever; the execution of one of the difficult passages in the arrangement ofMarthawas clever, more perfect than usual; but the soul was not there, and no brilliancy of shake or cadenza could repay one for the loss. It did not sound like the playing of the same man, and my interest in the music gradually died away; and, after watching Mrs. Rayner curiously for some minutes and noting the intentness with which, sitting upright in her chair, she was listening to the violin and at the same time keeping her eyes fixed upon the slumbering Maynard, I gave myself up to my own agitated thoughts.
What was going on at the Hall now? Had the constables been able in the fog to find their way safely to the park, and would the thieves come, after all? Would they catch Tom Parkes? Would Gordon prove to be mixed up in it? Above all, would they catch the dreaded James Woodfall, whose influence seemed so strong and the memory of his name so fresh, though he had not been seen for years? It was an awful thing to think that I, by my letter to Laurence, had set on men to hunt other men down. I began to hope, even though I felt it was wrong to do so, that Tom Parkes would make his escape; he had never done me any harm, and I had rather liked him for his good-natured face. As for the unknown James Woodfall, the case was different. From Sarah’s words and the eagerness with which the police had snatched at the least chance of catching him, it was plain that he must be a very desperate criminal indeed, for whom one could have no sympathy. I hoped with all my heart they would catch him; and I was rather anxious to see what such a very wicked man looked like. Poor Tom Parkes was probably only a tool in the hands of this monster, who had made even the terrible Sarah a submissive instrument of evil.
And then I fell to thinking very sadly of what Laurence had told me that day about the deception practised upon me concerning the journey to Monaco, and I remembered Mrs. Rayner’s warning. Could it be true that Mr. Rayner, who had always been so kind, so sweet-tempered, so patient, who had always treated me almost as if I were a child, and who had borne my rudeness in the drawing-room just now with such magnanimous good-humor, could really be such a hypocrite? There must be some explanation of it all which would satisfy even Laurence, I thought to myself—almost, at least; for that letter from my mother, which she had never written—could that be explained away? My tears fell fast as this terrible proof rose up in my mind. How could he explain that away? But one’s trust in a friend as kind as Mr. Rayner had proved to me does not die out quickly; and I was drying my eyes and hoping that a few words from him would make it all right, when suddenly the silence round the house was broken by a howl from Nap, Mr. Rayner’s retriever, who was chained to his kennel outside.
Mrs. Rayner started. Still Maynard slumbered. I looked at the clock; it was seven minutes to nine. Another and another howl from the dog, followed by loud and furious barking. We two women sat staring at each other, without a word. I would have spoken; but Mrs. Rayner glanced at the sleeping detective and put her finger to her lips. Still the sounds of the violin came to us from the drawing-room without interruption.
When nine o’clock struck, I jumped up, much relieved, opened and shut the door softly, crossed the hall, and turned the handle of the drawing-room door. It was locked. I tapped; but there was no answer. He was playing a brilliant concerto, and I supposed he had not heard me. I knocked again and said softly—
“Mr. Rayner, it is nine o’clock. You told me to come at nine.”
Still there was no answer, which I thought strange, for his hearing was generally very sharp indeed. It was of no use for me to stand there knocking if he would not hear me, or did not yet wish to be disturbed; so, after one more unsuccessful attempt to attract his attention, I took a lamp from the hall-table and went into the schoolroom. It was now ten minutes past nine. Nap was barking more furiously than ever. I knew by the mist there was all through the house how dense the fog must be outside; but I was so much struck by the noise the dog was making that I unfastened the shutters and opened the window about an inch to listen.
The fog was blinding. I could not see a yard in front of me. I heard nothing but Nap’s barking for a minute; then I saw the dim glow of a lantern and heard a muffled whisper through the fog—
“Who’s that?”
“It is I—Violet Christie. Is that you, Laurence?”
“Hush! All right!” he whispered back. “Let me in.”
He got in softly through the window, and, rather to my alarm, a middle-aged man in plain clothes, also with a lantern, followed him. Laurence himself looked more alarming than any thief. His face was ghastly white with fatigue, and dirtier than ever through long watching in the fog. He listened for a minute to the violin, then said quickly, but still in a low voice—
“Who is that playing?”
“Mr. Rayner,” I answered.
He turned sharply to the other man, who nodded as if to say it was just what he had expected.
“How long has he been playing?” asked Laurence.
“Ever since half-past seven.”
He turned to the other man again.
“A trick,” said the latter simply.
“Who is with him?” asked Laurence again.
“Nobody,” said I, surprised and rather frightened by these questions. “Mrs. Rayner and Mr. Maynard are in the dining-room.”
“Maynard?”
“Yes. He is asleep.”
The middle-aged man gave a snort of disgust.
“Hasn’t Mr. Rayner been in the dining-room at all, dear, this evening?” asked Laurence gently.
“Not since dinner. I left him playing in the drawing-room at five-and-twenty minutes to eight, and he told me to call him at nine. He has been playing ever since.”
“But it is past nine!”
“Yes. When I went to the drawing-room door just now, I found it locked, and I knocked; but he did not answer.”
“Will you go and knock again, and say you wish to speak to him particularly, dear?” said Laurence gravely.
I hesitated, trembling from head to foot.
“Why?” asked I, in a low voice.
“Because we want to speak to him particularly,” said the other man gruffly.
But I looked at his hard face and panted out—
“You are a policeman, I know! What do you want with Mr. Rayner?”
“Never you mind, my dear; we won’t hurt you. Just go and say you want to speak to him.”
“No, I won’t!” I cried—not loudly, for my voice seemed to grow suddenly weak. “Whatever you think he has done, or whatever he has done, I will never help to harm Mr. Rayner!”
The man shrugged his shoulders, walked to the window, and whistled softly. Laurence put me into a chair, whispering “That’s a brave girl!”—but with such an anxious, stern face. And the other man came back into the room, followed by a policeman with his staff ready in his hand.
“We must break open the door,” said the elder man.
I started from my seat. I wanted to rush to the drawing-room door and warn Mr. Rayner; but Laurence prevented me, whispering gravely—
“My darling, you must leave it to us now.”
Every word, every movement had been so quiet that the music still went on while they opened the schoolroom door and crossed the hall. I stood watching them breathlessly.
The three men, Laurence, the most stalwart, foremost, placed themselves against the drawing-room door, and by one mighty push burst it open. I ran forward to the doorway just in time to see Gordon, Mr. Carruthers’s servant, fling down the violin and rush to the opposite window, the shutters of which were unfastened. But I heard the crash of glass, and at the same instant two policemen dashed through the shattered French window, seized and handcuffed him. Then he stood between them, white and immovable, without a struggle.
“It’s no go. We know you’re one of the gang,” said the middle-aged man. “Game’s up. We’ve got your leader.”
“What leader?” asked Gordon calmly.
“James Woodfall.”
“It’s a lie!” snapped out the immovable Gordon. “Jim Woodfall wouldn’t let himself be nabbed by such as you.”
“Why not? We’ve got you.”
The man did not answer.
“All his fault for getting soft on a girl! Wish I had her here!” Gordon muttered presently.
He caught sight of me at the doorway and shot at me a sort of steely look that made me shudder. But I did not connect myself with his words. I was too bewildered to think or to understand clearly what was going on until I saw him, handcuffed as he was, quietly draw a tiny revolver from his pocket and, without raising it, point it at Laurence. With a scream I rushed forward into the room and flung myself in front of Laurence, and I heard a report and felt something touch my arm—I did not know what at first—and Laurence sprang forward with almost a yell. But he was encumbered with my form; and, before he could put me down, Gordon had wrenched himself away from his captors, and, snarling, “I meant to have done for her!” had dashed through the open window out into the fog and darkness.
I knew by this time that I was shot in the arm, for the blood was trickling through my sleeve; but the wound did not pain me much yet—I was too much excited for that, and too much occupied with Laurence’s pitiful distress. He did not attempt to join in the hopeless chase of the escaped Gordon, but put me on a sofa, tore off the body of my frock, and bandaged my arm himself.
“Tell me what it all means, Laurence,” said I. “I am not badly hurt—I am not indeed—and I want to understand it all. Did you catch the thieves? Who were they? Have they really caught James Woodfall? And I hope—oh, I hope poor Tom Parkes has escaped!” I whispered; for the middle-aged man had not joined in the pursuit, but stood on the watch, half in and half out of the window.
“Tom Parkes has been caught, and James Woodfall has escaped, I am afraid,” said Laurence.
“Then he was there! Tell me all about it,” I said anxiously.
“Won’t to-morrow do?” pleaded poor Laurence earnestly. “I am afraid, if you get so much excited, your arm will get inflamed, and I ought to be setting off for the doctor now.”
“No, no; you couldn’t get to Beaconsburgh to-night, you know you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be safe,” said I. “Your bandaging will do quite well until the doctor comes as usual to see Sarah to-morrow morning. Now tell me quickly all about the robbery. Did you find the policemen in the park?” Then suddenly I sprang up from the sofa. “Where is Mr. Rayner? Why was Gordon here instead of him? Oh, Laurence, my head seems to be going round! I don’t understand it at all. I am getting quite bewildered. Why was it?”
“Let me tell you about the robbery. You will hear and understand it all in time,” said he very gravely and gently. “I found the policemen in the park and stationed them in the shrubbery, and I stood myself, with that man over there and one other, as close as possible to the back entrance of the house; and there we waited until nearly half-past seven, when a man came up through the fog and tapped at the door. One of the maids opened it, by appointment as it turned out, for she was expecting him, though I don’t believe the poor girl suspected what his real business was; for it was Tom Parkes. And, when they went inside, Tom went last, and left the door ajar. A few minutes later another man came up and slipped in so quietly, so quickly, that we could hardly have sworn in the dense fog to his going in at all. Then presently Tom and the girl came out. He said good-by to her without as much delay as she would have liked, walked a few steps away until she had shut the door, then returned and crept alongside the wall of the house until he was under the strong-room window. There were four of our men stationed very close to that, and their chief, who was with me, crept along easily under cover of the fog, which was as thick as ever, to join them. I followed with the other man. In a few minutes we heard a soft whistle from the strong-room window, as we guessed. Tom answered by another, and we saw a third man come up and join Tom. I was so close that I saw a bundle let cautiously down from the window by a cord. Tom handed it to the third man, whom we allowed to walk off with it—followed however by two policemen—in order to watch the further proceedings of the other two thieves. Another bundle was let down, which Tom carried off himself; and then we watched anxiously for the next movement of the man in the house. The strong-room window is about twenty feet from the ground; but the man jumped down and landed on his feet. In an instant five of us were upon him, but, though I think each of us in turn thought we had caught him, he eluded us all and got clear away, and in the fog escaped us. But that man at the window there, who has been so many years in the force, recognized him and identified him as James Woodfall, and I recognized him too.”
“You, Laurence! I didn’t know you had ever seen him!” I cried.
At that moment the elderly man left the window.
“It’s of no good, sir, I’m afraid. The one rogue’s got off as clear as the other. Can you tell me where Maynard is, miss?”
I got up from the sofa and led the way into the dining-room. Mrs. Rayner was still sitting, pale and upright, with staring gray eyes, Maynard still sleeping. The other detective shook him, and glanced at the wine.
“Drugged,” said he shortly.
With a few vigorous shakes he succeeded in rousing Maynard, and, when he began to look around him in a dazed way, the other said sharply—
“Pretty fellow you are to be hoodwinked like that, and drink and sleep quietly under the very roof of one of the greatest scoundrels unhung!”
“Who?” said the other, startled. “Mr. Rayner?”
“Mr. Rayner! Yes, ‘Mr. Rayner’ to simple folk like you; but to me and every thief-taker that knows his business—the missing forger, James Woodfall!”
Asthe detective pronounced the name “James Woodfall,” I gave a cry that startled them all. Shaken as my trust in Mr. Rayner had already been, the shock seemed in a moment to change the aspect of the whole world to me. I shrank even from Laurence as he would have put his arms round me, and my wild wandering eyes fell upon Mrs. Rayner, who sat with her hands tightly clasped and head bent, listening to the proclamation of the secret which had weighed her down for years. And, as I looked at her, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, my dull wits to become keener, and part of the mystery of the house on the marsh to grow clear to me.
I sank down upon the floor beside her, and she put her thin wasted arms round my neck and kissed me without a word. And the three men quietly left the room. We did not say much even then.
“Oh, Mrs. Rayner,” I whispered, “it is terrible for you!”
“Not so terrible to me,” she whispered back wearily. “I have known it for years—almost ever since I married him. But don’t talk about it any more,” said she, glancing furtively round the room. “He may be in the house at this moment; and they might search and watch for months, but they would never catch him. But he will make us suffer—me—ah, and you too now! You were so unsuspicious, yet it must have been you who set Laurence Reade upon the track.”
“Not of Mr. Rayner. Oh, I never thought of such a thing!” I whispered, shuddering.
And I told her all about my suspicions of Tom Parkes, my visit to the Hall, my letter to Laurence, and all I said in it.
“Mr. Reade has shown energy and courage,” said she. “But he will suffer for it too. You don’t know that man yet. He will never let Laurence marry you. Even if he were in prison, he would manage to prevent it.”
Luckily Laurence himself tapped at the door at that moment, for Mrs. Rayner’s gloomy forebodings were fast increasing the fever of my overwrought mind. He came to say that the constables had returned to the house, having failed in the fog to find any traces of Gordon, or of—of any of the others. He was going to return with them to the Hall, where they would sleep, leaving Maynard to pass the night at the Alders, as his missing host had invited him to do, and a couple of constables to keep watch in turn, though there was nothing less likely than that the—the persons they were in search of would return to the Alders that night. Then he said very gently to poor Mrs. Rayner—
“Will you forgive me for what I have done in all innocence? I had some vague suspicions, the reasons for which I will explain to you presently; but indeed I never thought to bring such a blow as this upon you.”
“It is no blow to me,” said she, raising her sad eyes to his face. “That man—my husband—would have got rid of me long ago, but that he hated violence and dreaded it. Everything short of that he has tried,” she whispered; “and it is not my fault that my wretched life has lingered on in spite of him.”
Laurence ground his teeth.
“The wretch!” he said, in a low voice. “But he shall pay for it now. I’ll ransack the whole world till we have unearthed him.”
“You will never do that,” said she calmly. “He dares too much for that. He is no coward to lie hid in a corner,” she went on, with a sort of perverse pride in the man for whom every spark of love was long since dead. “He will brave you to your faces and escape you all. But you have done your best. You are a brave man, Mr. Reade. You would help me if you could. Good-night.”
She shook hands with him, and left the room. He turned to me quickly.
“You must both leave this place,” said he. “The long-continued suffering has almost turned that poor lady’s brain. But she is safe from that vile wretch now; and you too, oh, my darling, thank Heaven!”
There was a tap at the door, and the voice of the elder detective said—
“Are you ready, sir?”
“All right,” said Laurence; and then added, in a voice for me only, “I’m not ready a bit. I should like to stay and comfort you for ever. Take care of your poor little wounded arm. Good-night, good-night, my darling!”
I heard him leave the house with the constables. Then, exhausted by the events of the day and night, I just managed to crawl upstairs to my room, and, throwing myself upon the bed without undressing, I fell into a deep sleep which was more like a swoon. In the early morning I woke, feeling stiff and ill, undressed, and got into bed; and when the sun had risen I got up with hot and aching head, and found that my arm was beginning to be very painful.
Haidee and I had breakfast alone, for the cook told me that Mr. Maynard had already started for London; and I was just going to see how Mrs. Rayner was when Doctor Lowe arrived on his daily visit to Sarah. As soon as he saw me he ordered me off to bed, and then, after making him swear secrecy, which did not make much difference, as the story would certainly be all over the neighborhood and in the London newspapers before long, I let him draw from me an account of the greater part of the events of the previous day. He said very little in comment beyond telling me that I was “a little simpleton to be so easily humbugged,” and that he had always mistrusted Mr. Rayner, but that now he admired him; and then, strictly forbidding me to leave my bed until his visit next day, he left me.
Jane came up to me soon after. She had only just come home from Wright’s Farm, and was full of curiosity excited to the highest pitch by the vague account that the cook, who was deaf and had not heard much, had given her of the events which had taken place in her absence. I told her that there had been a robbery at the Hall, that the man who had asked to speak to me was a detective, and that he and Mr. Rayner had left the Alders.
My faith in the latter was gone altogether; but my affection for him was gradually coming back again. The fearfully wicked things that he had done I had only heard about; and how could the impression so given outweigh that much stronger one of his constant kindness to me? And to think that it was I who had drawn down justice—for it was justice, I sorrowfully admitted—upon him caused me bitter remorse.
Laurence told me, in one of the little notes he kept leaving for me all day long, that it was expected that Mr. Rayner would brave everything and return to the Alders sooner or later, if only for a flying visit, and that, in consequence, the search of the house which must take place was to be postponed, and the place watched, with as much caution as possible, from the outside. By letting the life at the Alders go on as usual, it was hoped that he might be lured back under the impression that he was not expected to return there. Laurence had telegraphed to my mother to tell her that I was quite safe and the journey put off, in order to allay her fears about me.
Mrs. Rayner brought one of these notes up to me late in the afternoon. In addition to her usual pallor, she had great black rings round her eyes; and, in answer to my inquiries, she confessed that she had not slept all night.
“I have something to tell you,” she whispered in my ear. “Mrs. Saunders drinks, and is not a proper guardian for Sarah. She is afraid of Mr. Rayner; but last night, knowing he was not in the house, she was in nearly as excited a state as her patient, and was very rough with her. Sarah’s room is nearly opposite mine, and I opened my door and heard what sounded like a struggle. Maynard, who was in the room next to the dressing-room, either did not hear or did not like to interfere. But now he is gone; and I ought to be used to terrors, but I am afraid;” and she shuddered.
“Surely there is nothing to be afraid of if you lock your door, Mrs. Rayner?”
“I have no key. Will you leave your door open and the door at the foot of the turret staircase? I know you must not leave your bed; but it will be some comfort to know you are within hearing.”
I promised; and that night, when Jane came up to my room for the last time, I made her leave the doors open when she went down.
The sense of being on the alert made me wakeful, and two or three times during the night I rose and stood at the top of my staircase, listening. And the third time I did hear something. I heard a faint cry, and presently the soft shutting of a door, then steps in the corridor below, and whispering. I crept half-way down the stairs; the whispering continued. I got to the bottom, and recognized Sarah’s voice muttering to herself. I would rather have again faced Gordon with his revolver than this madwoman; but I was so anxious about Mrs. Rayner that, after a few minutes spent in prayer, I ventured out from the doorway, and found Sarah crouched in a corner muttering to herself. The wretched woman started up on seeing me; but, instead of attempting to approach me, she hung back, moving her still bandaged head and her one free hand restlessly, and saying—