by Annie Haynes
“Looking for Miss Martin,” the man returned stolidly. “Or as you and I would know her better—by her own name, Miss Burford—for Mrs. Winter, the gamekeeper’s wife from Carlyn.”
“Absurd!” Barbara said scornfully. “And why are you looking for her in my room, may I ask?”
“Because we heard that you were out motoring with young Mr. Turner,” replied Susan who was not to be easily daunted.
“But perhaps those that told us so made a mistake,” she finished significantly.
“I promised to go out with Mr. Turner but I changed my mind,” she said coldly. She passed the brother and sister and went quickly down to the hall. Her plot had succeeded. Now she was wondering what penalty she would have to pay.
On the mat near the hall door stood Inspector Church and another man talking to Sir Oswald. The inspector had rightly divined what had become of the fugitive, he was withdrawing his men from the Priory, and with the aid of the telephone and telegraph they were hoping to make a successful capture at one of the railway stations within reach.
Meanwhile he was elaborately apologizing to Sir Oswald for having disturbed the Priory in the exercise of his warrant.
Sybil came out of the boudoir. It was evident that she was in a towering temper. Unmindful of the group near the door she swept across to the Marlowes.
“So I hear that you have let her escape again,” she said angrily. “This is your fault”—looking at Susan—“I will—”
“Beg pardon, miss, I don’t know that it is anyone’s fault,” Marlowe interrupted. He had recovered his stolidity, telling himself that the unhappy woman would soon be overtaken and arrested. “Of course no one reckoned on Miss Burford helping her to get off.”
For an instant Sybil stared at him in amazement; then a light broke upon her; she struck her hands together.
“Barbara! I might have known. But she shall tell us—she shall explain. Barbara!” She raised her voice.
But with a little gesture of infinite scorn Barbara passed her by. At the same moment a grasp of iron was laid on Sybil’s arm, and she found herself face to face with Sir Oswald.
“Come here!” he said imperatively, turning back to the library.
Sybil obeyed meekly. Some look in the blind man’s face cowed her, and her anger died down.
Sir Oswald closed the door behind them.
“Is it possible that I have heard aright?” he demanded sternly. “Possible that you have introduced a detective into my house, to spy upon a lady who was in possession of my fullest confidence?”
Sybil felt a momentary twinge of shame.
“It was for your sake I did it, Oswald,” she said. Then, gathering up her courage, “she was deceiving you all. She is an adventuress, a murderess!”
Sir Oswald held up his hand. “No more of that, Sybil. You are a poor judge of character. Elizabeth Martin a murderess! If the whole world proclaimed her guilty I should know she was innocent. I should like to tell you that a fortnight ago I asked Miss Martin to be my wife, and she refused. If I had been able to see her to-night I should have renewed my offer.”
“What!” Sybil’s face flushed, and a crimson wave swept over it. “You must be mad, Oswald!” she said hotly. “Quite, quite mad!”
“Possibly,” Sir Oswald agreed quietly. “But you will find there is some method in my madness, Sybil. In the meantime you will understand that your visit here must close.” He opened the door and bowed to her ceremoniously. “I am sorry my mother will not be able to see you again. After breakfast to-morrow, which no doubt you will wish to take in your own room, I will tell Jones to bring round the car at once.”
Chapter Sixteen
ELIZABETH’S pulses thrilled as the car swept her down the park to safety. It was not a pleasant night. The moon shone fitfully, but there were heavy banks of clouds, little scuds of moisture blew in her face. Young Turner wrapped her round in rugs. He went on talking to her as if she were Barbara in his frank, breezy way until they were clear of the Priory, and its surrounding trees, then when they were in the open park nearing the lodge gates his tone changed.
“Tell me where you want me to drive you,” he said quietly. “I will take you as far as you like. Remember I want to help you for Barbara’s sake.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said in a stifled whisper; she thought a moment. “You know the Brangwyn Beech on the Oakover road?”
Algy nodded. “Of course.”
“Then,” Elizabeth said slowly, “if you will put me down there I shall be most grateful.”
Young Turner stared at her blankly. “But that is only five miles away. You don’t realize that the car could take you a hundred and never turn a hair—the beauty.”
Elizabeth’s stiff lips tried to smile.
“Nevertheless, if you put me down near the Brangwyn Beech, provided we are not followed, I am safe.”
“Well, you know best, but it doesn’t seem much of a start,” Algy said ruefully. At the sound of the approaching motor a woman had run out to open the lodge gates. As they glided through Algy called out cheerfully, “Good night, Mrs. Hatchard, unless you like to come with us for a ride.”
The woman laughed as she stood back. Algy put on speed as soon as they were on the high road. His quick ears had caught the sound of a car bowling quickly along from the opposite direction towards the Priory.
“Just in time,” he said to his companion.
“You mean?” Elizabeth breathed.
Algy turned round. “They have gone up to the Priory. Yes, I fancy those are the people we want to avoid. I say, I am going to drive round a bit before I take you to the Brangwyn Beech. I don’t mean the beggars to be able to make sure which way we have gone.”
A deep-drawn breath was his only answer. Elizabeth sat motionless; the thought of that car and its occupants paralysed her.
But at last the Brangwyn Beech was reached. Elizabeth threw off the coat. In her black jacket and small, dark hat she looked quite a different person.
Young Turner helped her down and held out his hand.
“Good-bye; I wish you would have let me take you farther.”
“This is best, thanks!” Elizabeth said softly, letting her hand rest in his for a minute. “Believe me, I am very grateful to you.” Then with a little gesture of farewell she turned away behind the car and was lost to sight amid the darkness.
Algy started without a backward look. He would not pry to find out which way the poor thing had gone, he said to himself. Nevertheless there was a footpath across the moor that ran by the Brangwyn Beech; a shrewd suspicion that that was the way she would take crossed his mind, and he hoped that she knew her way, for Brangwyn moor was not the place to be lost in late at night.
Elizabeth walked on as quickly as she could, stumbling every now and then over the irregularities of the ground. A walk of a couple of miles lay before her, but only the first part was over the moor, very soon she branched off and came to a low stone wall with outstanding steps on either side, Welsh fashion. She clambered over without much difficulty, waited for a moment to recover her breath and then hurried on as if Inspector Church and his myrmidons had been at her very heels. Dark though it was she found her way with very little trouble. It lay now beside shallow stream and the hedge on the other hand and the sound of trickling water guided her. But as she got farther on and found herself in a wood, it was a very different matter.
More than once she ran into tree-trunks, the bushes caught her skirts and tore them. Worse than all, it was beginning to rain in real earnest now, and the rising wind beat it full in Elizabeth’s face. It twisted her skirts round her and impeded her progress. It caught strands of her hair and blew them in her cheeks like whipcords. She felt a deplorable object on emerging from the wood, as she realized that she had nearly reached her destination. Before her, only visible in the darkness as a dim intangible shape, stood a moated Elizabethan house—Walton Grange.
Elizabeth knew it at once; on one of her rare holidays from Maisie she
had made her way here and gazed at the house from the outside.
She waited a minute trying to gather up her courage. What was she going to say? Then a new terror assailed her. She had no idea of the time, she knew that it must be getting late; suppose the household had retired to bed?
As this fresh notion struck her she brushed back her hair with a weary gesture and started forward again. The footpath she was on led to the grounds of the Grange by a little wicket-gate and a small rustic bridge over the moat. As far as Elizabeth could see the front of the house was all in darkness. She stood still with consternation, and yet she hardly knew that she had intended, certainly not to ring the front door bell. But perhaps on the other side there might be some light. She went round slowly, feeling her way with outstretched hands. Then suddenly she was almost dazed by a blaze of light. A French window stood wide open and through it Elizabeth could see a charming, homelike room. At a davenport in the centre Lady Treadstone sat writing.
Now that everything seemed so easy Elizabeth’s courage failed her, she drew back and leaned against the wall, fighting vainly to keep back the sobs that threatened to stifle her.
At last Lady Treadstone got up and came to the window, putting out her hand as though to shut it.
Elizabeth felt that if she did not speak now her last chance would be gone. She stepped forward unsteadily.
“I—I have come—” she began hoarsely, but the words died away in a stifled moan.
“Rosamond!”
Lady Treadstone stood as if petrified for a moment, then with a swift outward movement she caught the poor, shivering creature in her arms.
“Why, Rosamond!” she cried, and there was the sound of tears in her voice. “You have come home at last—Daddy’s little Rose!”
She drew the girl in, then very quickly she closed the window and pulled down the blind. Rosamond stood numb and dazed, the change to the warmth and light, after the long cold walk in the darkness and rain, literally dazzled her, and the terror of the nearness of her escape was upon her. She put up her hands to her throat and swayed as she stood.
In an instant Lady Treadstone had caught her and guided her to the big couch before the fire.
“Poor little Rosamond,” she said as she laid her down among the cushions. “If you had only trusted me sooner, my dear—but you have come at last, that is all that counts.”
Rosamond made a desperate attempt to recall her wandering senses. She knew that there was much that she must tell—must explain. She opened her grey eyes, her lips quivered piteously.
“You knew—when you came to the Priory?” she said with little gasps between each word.
Lady Treadstone was busy taking off her hat and removing her damp jacket. She stooped and kissed the damp cheek.
“Knew!” she echoed. “Ah, yes, I knew you were Daddy’s little Rose. That was why I came here—why I took the Grange. I wanted to be near you. Some day I felt you would come home!”
Rosamond began to sob. “Home,” she echoed. “Ah, if only I had known sooner!”
“Daddy left you in my charge,” Lady Treadstone went on, speaking in low caressing tones as to a child. “He said to me just at the last, ‘You will look after Rosamond, and when she comes home tell her her father always loved her. He never forgot his little girl.’”
Rosamond’s tears fell thick and fast as she buried her face among the cushions.
“Ah, daddy, daddy!” she sobbed.
“He would have been so happy to-night,” Lady Treadstone said gently. “Nay, he is so happy! I am sure he knows, Rosamond!”
In the midst of her tears Rosamond tried to think again, there was something she must tell Lady Treadstone before this sledge-hammer pain in her temples made the telling impossible.
Then she tried to raise herself, to free herself from the encircling arms.
“I—it isn’t coming home,” she faltered. “I have come for help—refuge. They are looking for me. I am not safe anywhere,” looking round wildly. “They want to take me to prison. They say I killed John.”
Lady Treadstone’s face did not alter. Her hands still touched the girl gently, pitifully.
“You poor little girl,” she said softly. “I know all about it, Rosamond, and to whom should you go for help but to me? You will be quite safe here, dear.”
“But how—how—?”
“I will tell you,” Lady Treadstone said quietly. “Your friend, Miss Martin, wrote to me before she died and told me all. She was frightened at the end when she thought of the mad scheme she had evolved with you, and she begged me to help and save you. I was abroad when her letter came, or I should have tried to do something sooner. But when I did find you, you were not an easy person to help. I could only take this house and wait and watch. I shall always be thankful to Miss Martin.”
Rosamond tried to raise herself from the luxurious cushions. She tried to think, but nothing came coherently. She was only conscious that she was tired, so tired. Nevertheless she made one more effort.
“You know I am sorry—that I have repented—” she whispered.
For answer Lady Treadstone bent and kissed her.
“Dear Rosamond, yes. Now you are to forget the past and only remember that you are home again.”
She moved a few steps away. Rosamond caught her skirt.
“You are not going?”
“No, no!” Lady Treadstone said caressingly. “I am only going to send for some one who will be almost as pleased to see you as I am.” She rang the bell as she spoke. “Greyson—you remember Greyson?—she is with me still, and she has been waiting for you too. I think we shall want her help to-night.”
“Greyson!” Rosamond repeated beneath her breath. “Dear Greyson!”
Lady Treadstone waited silently until the door opened and an elderly woman appeared who looked inquiringly at her mistress.
Greyson looked a typical servant of the old school. She wore a gown of black cashmere, very fine and soft, and her cambric apron was edged with the daintiest frills that her own capable hands had goffered and got up. Her pleasant comely face was a little puzzled as Lady Treadstone motioned her to come in, and told her to close the door.
“Look here, Greyson. Some one you know has come home at last,” she said, moving aside.
Greyson gazed inquiringly at the woman who was half-lying, half-crouching on the couch, at the masses of dark hair.
“Some one I know, my lady?” she repeated in a bewildered tone. Then as she caught sight of Lady Treadstone’s expression, her own changed, she turned back to the couch and took another glance this time at the delicate features, at the tear-filled eyes. The incredulity in her face gave way first to suspicion then to certainty. She sprang forward and caught the trembling figure in her arms.
“Missie! Missie! Come home at last Oh, if my lord had only lived to see the day!” she cried, cradling the girl against her shoulder as though she had still been the child she had nursed. Rosamond felt a vague sense of comfort as she nestled into the resting place where all her childish troubles had been brought.
Lady Treadstone’s eyes were wet as she watched them. But presently she touched Greyson’s arm.
“Come, Greyson, there is a great deal to be done yet. No one must know that Miss Rosamond is here. I suppose the room leading out of mine is ready?”
Greyson looked up. “Yes, my lady, as you bade me always keep it for Missie.”
“That is all right, then.” Lady Treadstone took Rosamond’s hand. “Now, darling, we will put you to bed there, and I will have a bad cold, and Greyson shall wait upon us both. No one can get to you except through my room, you will be quite, quite safe.”
“But supposing they find out that I am here, they follow me?” Rosamond questioned, with dilated eyes. “You cannot bear it. There will be trouble, disgrace.”
“Will there?” Lady Treadstone stooped over her. “I don’t think they will, but if they do—well, I can bear worse than that for your dear father’s sake and your own.”
Chapter Seventeen
PORTHCAWEL was at its best in the springtime. Its thatched, irregularly-built cottages were sheltered in the gully that slanted down to the sea, the many coloured creepers on their walls were putting forth tiny tentative tendrils long before there was any sign of life among the gardens for miles along the coast. The hardy daffodils made a golden glory of Porthcawel street before they were even in bud on the headland, where later on they would gleam like patches of sunlight.
Coming suddenly upon Porthcawel after some miles of bleak, uninteresting scenery, Sir Oswald Davenant with his newly-recovered eyesight thought it the prettiest place he had ever seen. He liked the picturesque freshness of the whitewashed fishermen’s cottages, the quaintness of the cobbled streets up which the donkeys were slowly drawing their loads of fish, above all he loved the glimpse of rippling water at the foot of the cliff and the rocky island that stood out beyond.
“Garth,” he said, turning to his companion, a bright-faced boy of twenty or thereabouts. “I think we will make this our headquarters for a day or two if we can find anywhere that will do for the car.
The recovery of his eyesight had worked wonders for Sir Oswald. He looked years younger, his face had regained its vitality and energy, he was much thinner and his figure looked alert.
More than a year had elapsed since the tragic disappearance of Elizabeth Martin from his house, and as far as he was concerned it remained inexplicable still. The detectives were nonplussed also, apparently. For months Sir Oswald had been afraid to open a paper lest it might contain the tidings of her arrest, but of late another dread had assailed him; he feared that in getting away from her pursuers the governess had come to some harm, fallen into some pool, or perhaps some disused coalpit, and that the body was lying there still undiscovered.
He had undertaken this motor tour with his cousin, Garth Davenant, partly in the hope of distracting his thoughts and attention from that one absorbing subject.
Of Sybil Lorrimer he had refused to hear anything since the discovery of her treachery. Her letters he returned to her unread.