by Annie Haynes
Garth took her hands in his.
“Oh, it is passing over now. Already the thunder is more distant. Listen! And it had much better come this week than next, you know.”
Lady Laura looked at her son, who was engaged in soothing Hilda’s fears.
“Yes, I should have been very sorry if it had spoilt the outdoor amusements for the poor people,” she said listlessly. “But for myself, as you know, this affair” —nodding at the young people—“has been such a disappointment that personally I should not care if it rained cats and dogs the whole time.”
Garth hesitated a moment; he glanced round doubtfully. He and Lady Laura were virtually alone—Mavis, her nervousness apparently forgotten, had retired to a distant window to watch the progress of the storm; Arthur and Hilda were well out of earshot. He bent towards her.
“Would it be any consolation if I told you that I feel almost certain this projected marriage will not come off, Lady Laura?”
Lady Laura sniffed in a melancholy fashion.
“Well, certainly it would, if I could believe that you were speaking the truth about it, but unfortunately I can’t,” she replied honestly. “I know Arthur better than you do, Garth, and I am sure that when he has once made up his mind he is obstinacy itself. Besides, did you ever see anyone so infatuated?”
“It was not of any change of mind on Arthur’s part that I was thinking,” said Garth slowly. “I fancy that circumstances will intervene. Perhaps you are right not to let me raise your hopes unduly, dear Lady Laura, for after all it is only a theory of my own.”
“Ah, I think I am too unhappy to be cheered up by any theories!” Lady Laura said with a sigh.” Still, it is nice to know that anybody thinks there is a chance that it may end in smoke. It is good of you to care, Garth.”
“Mavis’s mother must be mine too,” he responded, and, moved by a sudden impulse, he stooped and kissed her pale cheek. “I believe the rain has stopped now; I must be starting, or it will be coming on again, and I shall be on your hands for another hour.” He turned to Arthur. “I think now, Hargreave—”
Mavis held up her hand.
“Who can this be in the avenue so late? How fast the horse is being driven! Do you think it is running away?”
With common consent they all moved nearer the window. Sir Arthur flung it open and leaned out. The cool night air, the fresh, sweet scent of the earth after the rain, filled the room, but outside there was not a movement, not the faintest rustle of wind; everything was still with the absolute silence that presages the coming of another storm.
Plainly now they all heard the sound of which Mavis spoke—the sound of a horse being urged up the avenue at its fullest speed.
With some instinct of impending calamity Mavis turned pale.
“What can it be?” she said.
“The fish for to-morrow’s breakfast miscarried,’’ Arthur said lightly.
“A messenger in hot haste with a brief for me,” Garth suggested.
Arthur moved back and shut the window.
“Probably a message from some of the tradespeople with respect to the arrangements for next week; but I don’t know why we should all stand still to listen to the not unwonted sound of a horse in the drive,” ironically.
“It is unusual at this time of night,” Mavis said.
“Well, we shall soon know what it is,” Garth began.
Hilda laid her hand on her lover’s arm.
“Arthur, suppose it should be some one come for me?” with a little sob in her throat.
“Then I shall not let them take you away,” he responded playfully, with a loving glance at the girl’s flushed cheeks.
Meanwhile the cart had stopped at the front door, thereby disposing of Sir Arthur’s suggestions, and there was a loud, insistent peal at the bell.
No one spoke; in the silence the sound of a low-voiced altercation in the hall was plainly audible, and just as Sir Arthur, with an indistinct murmur, moved towards the door, it was opened, and Jenkins, looking curiously disturbed appeared.
“If you please, Sir Arthur,” hesitating and stammering, “could you speak to Mr. Grimes, the butcher?”
“Grimes, the butcher!” Arthur exclaimed. “Well, it sounded like a butcher driving, I must say. What does he want with me, Jenkins? Something wrong with his accounts?”
The butler paused.
“No, I don’t fancy it is anything of that, Sir Arthur. He—he is waiting in the hall if you could speak to him just for a minute.”
Arthur glanced at him curiously a moment.
“Oh, I’ll come!” he said in an altered tone. “Garth—”
Lady Laura put him aside.
“What is it, Jenkins? Something is wrong, I’m sure. Not Miss Dorothy—”
A momentary expression of relief crossed Jenkins’ face.
“Oh, no, my lady, it is nothing of that kind!”
“Some private affair of Grimes’s, I expect.” Sir Arthur moved forward.
Lady Laura checked him.
“Then what is it, Jenkins? Speak out!”
The man glanced round as if for inspiration.
“Your ladyship heard that dreadful crash of thunder before the rain began—you saw the lightning?”
“Yes, yes, certainly I did!” Lady Laura said impatiently.
“Do you mean that it has struck something?”
“It struck the Lovers’ Oak, my lady—broke a big branch off.”
Lady Laura drew a deep breath of relief.
“Was that all, Jenkins?—There was no one there, was there?” she went on, her fears taking a new direction. “Nobody was hurt?”
“No, my lady; nobody was hurt,” Jenkins said. “The tree was struck. That was all, my lady.”
Garth, watching the man closely, saw that his eyes were glancing uneasily, appealingly, at his master, that his face had an odd look.
“All!” Sir Arthur echoed with a laugh which had something forced in its merriment. “Quite enough, too, I should think, Jenkins! Will the destruction of the Lovers’ Oak mean misfortune to the lovers who have plighted their troth beneath its branches and drunk from the Wishing Well, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say, I am sure, Sir Arthur.” The man’s stiff lips smiled in an unmirthful fashion at his master’s pleasantry. “Grimes, he came straight away as soon as he heard of it to tell you, Sir Arthur.”
“Ah, well, I will come and speak to him, then.” At the door Arthur turned with an imperceptible sign to Garth. “We will bring you all the details in a moment, mother.”
With a murmured apology to Lady Laura, Garth followed Jenkins.
Chapter Nineteen
AS THE door closed behind them Sir Arthur’s manner changed.
“Well, Jenkins, out with it! What do all these mysterious signals portend?”
The butler’s face looked white and scared.
“If you please, Sir Arthur, I couldn’t speak of it before the ladies, but it—but Mr. Grimes there will tell you about it better than I can, Sir Arthur.”
Grimes, the Lockford butcher, was standing, cap in hand, near the front door. He was a big, burly man with a thick neck like one of his own oxen; ordinarily his great, clean-shaven face was of a cheerful rubicund hue, but to-night it looked grey, save that in places there were curious purple patches.
He touched his forehead.
“It—I am afraid it is a bad business, Sir Arthur! Mr. Jenkins has likely told you how the Lovers’ Oak has been struck by lightning—it has broke away the biggest branch altogether—”
“Yes, yes, I have heard all this!” Sir Arthur interrupted impatiently. “But, though I am sorry enough about the old tree, I can’t understand for the life of me why you should all look so tragic about it. If there is anything else to hear, man, tell us without any more beating about the bush.”
Mr. Grimes looked around and scratched his head doubtfully.
“It is an awful thing, Sir Arthur,” said Grimes, after a pause. “As soon as we saw that flash of lightnin
g and heard the thunder we come out, me and my missis, and looked about us; then young Bill Grogram brought us word as it was the Lovers’ Oak as was struck, and we went up to see it, me and a few more. We found the oak was split right down, Sir Arthur, and what we never knowed before at Lockford, speaking for myself, it was hollow, Sir Arthur.”
“Well, there is nothing so astonishing about that,” said Sir Arthur irritably, “nothing to be so tragic over, that I can see, Grimes. A tree of great size, and an old tree such as that was, often is hollow.”
“Ay!” said Grimes slowly, mopping his head with his red handkerchief, and moving his feet about uneasily. “It—it wasn’t its being hollow as startled us, Sir Arthur, but—but there was something inside.”
“What sort of something?” asked Sir Arthur, his tone catching some of the awe in the butcher’s. “What on earth do you mean, Grimes?”
“There was something inside, Sir Arthur,” the man repeated slowly and ponderously. “Something—somebody, I ought to say, poor thing! Somebody as must ha’ been made away with and put down there to be out of the way. They are saying down in the village—they are saying as it’s that poor young woman that’s been missing from the Manor since last June—Mrs. Marston’s daughter, down at Lockford!”
“What?” Arthur’s quick, horrified exclamation went unheeded as a hoarse, strangled shriek rang out behind him, and he turned to see Hilda with ashen face and straining eyeballs falling back apparently in violent hysterics.
With some curiosity as to Grimes’s errand, and not conceiving it possible that it required anything in the nature of secrecy, Lady Laura had opened the drawing-room door just in time to hear the last speech.
“What did you say, Grimes? What is that you have found?” Lady Laura cried as Mavis caught Hilda and Arthur ran to help her.
“My lady, I can’t say nothing of myself,’’ Mr. Grimes said huskily, “save as it is some poor creature as some brute has rammed down there to be out of the way—leastways all that remains of her. There’s them down there as are saying as it is Nurse Marston. I thought as it was nothing but right, seeing as she went away from the Manor, as I should drive up and tell Sir Arthur. Superintendent Stokes, he was coming up as I left, so he will tell us the rights of it all,’’ with unintentional sarcasm. “Tom Greyson, he went off for Dr. Grieve, not as he would be any good, unless it was to speak as to who she was.’’
“It—it can’t be true!” Lady Laura cried piteously. “Who would hurt her? Garth, tell them it is a mistake! Indeed, it is not, it cannot be Nurse Marston!”
Garth’s dark face seemed to have caught Grimes’s pallor as, in response to this appeal, he came forward.
“This is a terrible thing, Grimes,’’ he began, smoothing back the hair from his brow.
“Terrible it is, you are right, sir,’’ the man returned stolidly.
“Have you any reason for thinking that it is—that the body is that of Nurse Marston, except that she is missing?”
Grimes hesitated and turned his hat about.
“Well, naturally, Mr. Davenant, sir, it were that as made us think of her,” he acknowledged frankly. “But though we couldn’t recognize her face, poor thing—it were too late for that, and we didn’t go for to move her, not till the police and the doctor came—it looked, as far as we could tell, as if she—it had on a nurse’s dress.”
“Ah!” Half convulsively Lady Laura’s hand clenched itself among the foamy chiffon at her breast.
Garth drew forward a heavy oaken chair.
“This has been a great shock for you, Lady Laura, you must rest. Ah, that is right!” as she sank into it. “Now this matter must be seen to without delay. Will you take me back with you, Grimes? The Marstons have been faithful friends of ours. If this should indeed be poor Mary, though I cannot accept that yet, I should like to feel assured that everything possible is done. But perhaps you are on your way somewhere else?” as the man did not reply.
“Well, no, sir; I am going straight back,” Grimes said after an appreciable pause. “And I can give you a seat if you want one.”
“On second thoughts,” Garth said quickly, a shade of hauteur in his tone, “I will drive myself, thanks! We will soon be back with the latest news for you, Lady Laura. Arthur, are you coming with me?” glancing with some distaste at the settle upon which Hilda had been laid and over which Sir Arthur was bending.
“In a minute,” he said, looking up. “You are better, are you not, dearest?”
Hilda only moaned feebly by way of reply, but Mavis answered for her.
“Yes, indeed she is. Do go, Arthur; she will be much better alone with me. It was the shock of this horrible thing!” She shuddered violently.
“You see, I feel that I must go,” Arthur said reluctantly.
“I think, Sir Arthur, perhaps if you would allow me to attend to the young ladies’—” Mrs. Parkyns’ voice said behind him at this juncture.
“Come along, Hargreave!” Garth said impatiently.
But as he paused Hilda raised herself.
“Arthur, didn’t I tell you when—when she appeared to us in the shrubbery that she was pointing straight at me? I am no better than a murderess!” hoarsely. “If she had not come here to nurse me she would have been safe now.’
“Eh, dear, eh, dear, Miss Hilda, and how could you help it, I should like to know, and you lying there ill on your bed?” Mrs. Parkyns asked sensibly.
Sir Arthur turned back, but the housekeeper shook her head at him.
“You only excite her, Sir Arthur, but she will be better with us, and maybe you will be able to come back soon and tell her that this is all a mistake.”
“Ah, why—why should she have been sent to nurse me?” Hilda wept as Mrs. Parkyns raised her and put some pillows under her. “If it had not been for that—”
“It would have been just the same, Miss Hilda, I shouldn’t wonder,” Mrs. Parkyns observed. “Miss Mavis, if you could just put your arm under here I could raise her better.”
“I cannot understand it!” Arthur said, as he joined Grimes, who was already outside and getting into his cart.
“No more can’t we, Sir Arthur; how anyone could bring himself to harm a pleasant body like her, as had always a good word for every one, I can’t think. We shall know the rights of it soon now, I hope.”
“Ready, Arthur?” Garth’s tone was crisp as he took the reins from the groom.
The feeling of oppression had gone from the air now, the threatening storm had apparently passed over for the time being, little puffs of wind were stirring the leaves and dashing the raindrops from the branches into Sir Arthur’s face as they drove down the avenue.
“This is an awful thing, Garth!” he began. “The very idea of it has upset Hilda terribly. The poor girl is so sensitive that she fancies that because Nurse Marston was summoned to the Manor to attend to her she is in some way responsible for her fate. I have tried to argue it out of her before, but you saw how little use it was to-night.”
“Yes, I saw!” Garth’s tone was dry and uninterested apparently. His horse’s head absorbed all his attention.
Arthur was silent for a minute.
“I cannot help thinking that we shall find it is all a mistake, and that with their imaginations fired by the story of Nurse Marston’s disappearance they have taken some rubbish—there was sure to be lots of it in a hollow tree—for a body, or that it is some other poor thing.”
“Do you think so?” Garth said curtly as they passed the lodge.
“Why, yes,” replied Arthur. “I can’t believe a ghastly thing like that could happen to an inmate of our house and that we should know nothing of it all this time. Though if it really should be Nurse Marston she must have gone out to meet some one.”
Garth did not reply, and after waiting a minute or two Arthur proceeded:
“But I don’t believe it is; I cannot but think when we get there that we shall find that it is some mistake.”
It was impossible to drive v
ery near the Lovers’ Oak; at the entrance to the wood they had to get out and make the rest of their way on foot. They were by no means alone; the news had spread like wildfire through the village of Lockford, and, late though the hour was, most of the inhabitants were evidently making their way to the scene.
Around the Lovers’ Oak quite a large crowd had already assembled, but were kept back by the police, who were now in possession, and in the middle of the cleared space of ground, Superintendent Stokes and Dr. Grieve were bending over something that lay on the ground—something over which as the doctor rose the superintendent reverently threw a mackintosh sheet. Garth and Arthur made their way through, the people respectfully parting for them.
Arthur beckoned to the superintendent.
“Who—what is it, Stokes?” he asked.
The officer’s quick eyes darted from the young man’s agitated face to the grave, impassive one of his companion.
“I am afraid that there can be no doubt that it is the missing woman, Sir Arthur. As clear a case of murder as I have ever had to do with, I should say.”
“I don’t believe it can be Nurse Marston—it must be some mistake!” said Sir Arthur, clinging to his cherished shibboleth of comfort.
The superintendent shook his head.
“I don’t think there is much doubt, Sir Arthur.”
At this moment Dr. Grieve, who was looking worn and shaken as he helped himself to something from a flask, caught sight of them. He hurried across.
“A terrible thing, this, Sir Arthur—terrible! I—really I don’t know what to say about it. Accustomed as I am to seeing a good deal of the seamy side of life, I was not prepared for this; and it has upset me more than I can tell you.”
He was moving away, but Arthur buttonholed him.
“You know what they are saying, doctor—that it is Nurse Marston? But—”
“It is Nurse Marston safe enough, Sir Arthur. I attended her for an illness three years ago and I can’t be mistaken. She is in her uniform too, and wearing her chatelaine—only the notebook is missing. Yes, it is poor Mary Marston; and if I could get hold of the scoundrel who put her in that tree”—his hands working nervously—“I am an old man, but it would go hard if I couldn’t—”