She felt her lips part and a scream form in her throat. Before she could utter it, something was forced into her mouth, something coarse and crumpled that tasted, bizarrely, of tobacco. Gagging, she tried in vain to spit it out. The dream landscape had dissolved and blown away; darkness was all around her. Rough hands touched a body that belonged to her, but over which she had no power of control. She felt cold air on her bare legs and tried to move her hands, to adjust her nightgown. They would not respond. Something came over her head, down the length of her body and limbs; hands fumbled at her ankles. With an effort that made perspiration spring out all over her, she tried to break through the nightmare by opening her eyes.
They were already open.
She was close to fainting, then, and indeed the smothering gag and the muffling folds that enclosed her would have given her good cause to lose her senses. But as she was about to succumb, something peculiar happened. It was almost as if the failure of her normal, waking senses had freed some other entity that lay curled, silent and unsuspected, in the deepest recesses of her mind. A small, cool voice pointed out that there was no point in fainting; better to keep her wits about her – such of them that remained – and try to understand what was happening.
So Marianne lay still and listened; and she heard a voice growl, "Be quick about it, can't you?"
"Ah, that's better," was the reply. "The gel must've swooned; she's stopped squirming."
Marianne now realized that she had been enclosed in a blanket or a bag or something of the sort, which covered her from the top of her head to her feet and was tied around her ankles. Scarcely had she deduced this when she was hoisted up, bag and all, and tossed over a hard surface, from which she dangled ignominiously, her head hanging down on one side and her bare feet on the other. It took little exercise of intelligence to know that she was lying over a man's shoulder. The hard bone and muscle cut painfully into her diaphragm, making breathing even more difficult.
"Hurry, hurry," a third voice urged.
Marianne would have uttered an exclamation then, if she had been able. She knew that voice, though it was almost as high as a woman's. Victor! He sounded as if he wanted to scream. How on earth had such a limp custard of a man gotten the courage to abduct her, or the money to hire confederates? For there were at least two other men present.
Even as these thoughts passed through her mind she was carried swiftly across the room. The man stooped, but not quite far enough, for something scraped across her back. She knew then where she was being taken, and braced herself for an unpleasant journey, for she well remembered the narrowness of the passage she had seen. The succeeding moments were as uncomfortable as she had feared; the men had to pass her on from hand to hand, like a sack of potatoes, since it was impossible for them to descend the stairs carrying her.
In spite of her resolution she fell into a sort of half-swoon, as a result of the stifling air and the rough handling. A sudden blast of icy air roused her and she began to shiver. The sack was not very warm, and it was her only covering, besides her nightgown. Again she was transferred to a man's shoulder. The man began to run, jolting Marianne painfully. Her bare feet tingled with cold.
She had now reached a plateau of complete detachment and was surprised at her own control – although the doctor could have told her that this was not an unusual symptom in cases of emotional shock. The man who was carrying her came to a stop. Hearing horses stamp and snort, and the creaking of springs, Marianne postulated a conveyance of some sort. Then another voice spoke, and her abnormal self-control shattered.
"Damn you, what took you so long?
You've bungled it somehow; there are lights springing up all through the house. Here, hand her up and be quick about it!"
The voice, the arms that grasped her shrinking body and flung it down onto a soft, yielding surface… Bagshot!
Very well, said the small silent voice, no longer so cool; very well, you may as well faint now. So Marianne did.
She was awakened by a tingling, sharp discomfort in her nose and instinctively turned her head away. She kept her eyes obstinately closed; but she imagined the enclosing bag had been removed, or slit open, for she could see dim light through her lids.
"Clever of me to have had the foresight to bring along smelling salts," said a familiar, hateful voice. "I know you are awake, my love; don't pretend." Fingers grasped her chin in a tight grip and forced her head around.
Marianne opened her eyes. The sight of the yellow, unhealthy face and twisted smile, only inches from her own face, made her stomach lurch. She could still taste tobacco, though the muffling gag had been removed, and her lips were dry and stiff.
"You will not escape," she said faintly. "You cannot hope to succeed in this -"
"Vile plot?" Bagshot grinned wolfishly.
"How very unoriginal, my dear. But then I never was interested in your mind, you know." His smile turned to a grimace of utter malignancy. "No one plays tricks like that on me with impunity. I'd have tired of you soon enough if you had been sensible; but after what you did, I'd have followed you to the ends of the earth." Marianne shivered, and he added, with a return to his suave manner, "Sorry to have removed your warm sack; I wanted to make sure those bungling idiots had snatched the right girl."
He leaned toward her. Marianne shrank back into the corner as far as she could. Her hands and feet were still bound, so she could not move easily.
"How much did you pay Victor to help you?" she asked, with some forlorn hope of distracting him from his obvious intention.
"Much less than I was prepared to offer for such a prize," was the gloating reply. "He patronizes the local tavern; one of my men heard him complaining in his cups and fancied he would be the tool we were looking for. What did you do to the poor fool? He seemed quite bitter about you. But I can understand his feelings; you really are a delicious little morsel. I'm not sure I can contain myself till we reach the cozy nest I have prepared for us."
With a horrid parody of delicacy he put out his hand and untied the ribbon at the neck of Marianne's gown. She could retreat no further. She bent her head and bit him on the finger.
With a howl of pain he pulled back, shaking the wounded member. Then he lifted his hand and would have struck her if the trap on the ceiling had not opened to show the coachman's face. Marianne could not make out the words he shouted; but Bagshot understood. His face turned even blacker with rage, if that was possible, and with a muttered oath he opened the window and put his head out. Then Marianne heard it too – voices shouting, a distant rumble of hoofbeats. Her heart pounded with hope and excitement.
Bagshot banged on the trap. "Faster, damn you," he shouted.
They were already traveling at considerable speed, but now the coach began to sway wildly as the coachman urged his steeds on. Bagshot paid no more attention to Marianne. Drawing a pair of pistols from his pocket, he stationed himself at the window. Marianne bit her lip to keep from crying out. Common sense warned her not to attempt any foolhardy act of heroism, bound and helpless as she was; and really it seemed unlikely that Bagshot could hope to hit a moving target when the coach was going at such speed.
Suddenly a dark mass rushed past the open window. Marianne caught only a glimpse of it, since Bagshot's head and shoulders filled most of the space. Swearing obscenely, he let out a fusillade of shots. Then, with a rending crash, the coach reeled to one side, rocked violently, and overturned. Marianne was crushed by the weight of a heavy body; her ears were deafened by cries and curses and the screech of cracking metal.
Bagshot had been thrown against her, but he had not been rendered unconscious. He moved almost at once, scrambling out the window, which was now directly over their heads, since the coach was lying on its side. As soon as he was gone Marianne felt it would be safe to scream, which she did with extreme vigor. The sounds of struggle continued outside. Between screams she strained her ears, trying to discover what was happening, but heard only indistinguishable cries of rage and pai
n.
The sounds finally died away. Marianne emitted a final scream, the loudest of the lot, and sank back, breathless. For an interval nothing happened; she had time to wonder, despairingly, if her rescuers had lost the fight, before the square of light marking the window was obscured by the black silhouette of a head and shoulder.
"Marianne," a voice said. "Speak to me! Are you conscious? Are you unwounded? Are you – er – unharmed?"
The voice was the last one Marianne had expected to hear. Dizzy with surprise and joy she managed to croak, "I can't talk. I am hoarse from screaming."
The door was wrenched open and with some effort Marianne was extracted, rather like a very large puppet from a deep packing box, for she could do nothing to help herself. Her feet had barely touched the ground when she felt herself clasped in Roger Carlton's arms.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As all admitted, the real hero of the evening was the thirteenth Duke of Devenbrook. When the rescue party reached the castle they found the boy dancing up and down on the steps in a frenzy of frustration at not having been allowed to join the pursuit; but the praises of the men and the admiring comments of Marianne restored his self-esteem, and he was delighted to explain how he had discovered the plot – too late to prevent its being carried out, but just in time to make rescue possible.
After the housekeeper had tended Marianne's bruises and wrapped her in a dozen blankets, they settled down to discuss the adventure. The Duchess alone had slept through it all, and it was unanimously agreed that she should know nothing of what had transpired.
"For it is settled now," Carlton said. "Bagshot will be some time recovering from the thrashing he received, and he knows that if he tries another trick of that nature, he will be charged and imprisoned."
His speech was not as crisp as usual, thanks to a swollen lower lip. The satisfaction with which he gazed at his scraped knuckles left Marianne in no doubt as to who had administered the thrashing referred to. Feeling that his ego was in no need of reinforcement, she turned to Henry.
"Now tell me, Your Grace, of how you discovered the plot."
"He drugged my milk," Henry explained, swelling with delight at the drama of it. "I knew he was up to something when he kept telling me to be sure I finished it; so naturally I poured it into the slop pail when his back was turned."
"You always do that with your milk, you young rascal," Carlton said, giving him an affectionate slap on the back.
"Well, but I suspected he was up to no good," the boy insisted. "He was very angry at being dismissed; I would hear him muttering to himself. I thought, perhaps he is going to steal something – Granny Honoria's jewels, or the plate. He never cared before whether I drank my milk."
"It was very clever of you," Marianne said.
The Duke beamed. "So," he resumed, "I pretended to be asleep. And I went on pretending, even when he pulled my hair and prodded me – and stuck a pin in my arm!" He cocked an eye at Marianne, who responded with an exclamation of outrage and admiration, before he resumed. "Then he opened the secret door – there is one in my bedroom, you know. He wasn't supposed to know about that, but… well, to be honest, he caught me one day. At any rate, then I was sure he was up to no good! I got up and followed him. But before I had gone far I heard him coming back, and I really had to run to get into bed before he returned. Those two frightful ruffians were with him; and I can tell you, when I saw them, I… Of course I wasn't afraid, but it made me feel very serious, I can tell you."
Carlton laughed. "If I had been in your shoes, Henry, I would have been terrified."
"Well, perhaps I was a little bit afraid. Just a little. One of them looked at me and said, 'Is the brat safe?' and Victor said I had had enough laudanum to down a grown man. Then the other man said, 'What about the girl?' and Victor said if they couldn't handle one small woman they ought to be looking for other employment, begorra."
Carlton's scraped hands clenched when he heard this. "I wish that rascal had not gotten away," he muttered. "But we'll track him down, never fear, and then… I beg your pardon, Henry. We are hanging on your words."
Though the Duke's narrative style lacked elegance, being too heavily interlarded with phrases like "Then he said," and "Then the other one said," his hearers were indeed enthralled. On hearing the words he had quoted the boy realized, with a thrill of horror, that the plot his imagination had invented had a much more serious aim than theft. It was all he could do to lie motionless until the men had left his room, by way of the secret passage. Leaping from his bed, he had had the good sense to go for help instead of trying to overcome the villains single-handed.
"I am hurt that you did not waken me," the doctor exclaimed with a look of mock reproach. "Thought I was too old and fat, eh?"
"Oh, no, sir," the Duke exclaimed. But it was clear that this was what he had thought. The doctor broke into a rumbling laugh.
"Never mind, my boy. I don't blame you. But I am glad young Roger got me up. I wouldn't have missed that chase for worlds. Made me feel twenty years younger, by Gad!"
The Duke had, in fact, gone to rouse some of the menservants. He had not known of Carlton's return, since the lawyer had only reached the castle after most of the residents had gone to bed. Reading in the library, Carlton had heard Henry rush past on his way to the servants' wing, and had gone to find out what was wrong. Though Carlton was too tactful to say so, Marianne realized that the rapid organization of the pursuit was due to him; even so, it had taken an agonizingly long time to awaken two of the grooms and get the party mounted. Henry had continued to play a leading part by going through the secret passage to Marianne's room after it was discovered that her door was locked.
Marianne groaned. "And I thought I was being so prudent!"
"It would not have mattered," Carlton assured her. "When Henry reached your room he found that the deed had been done and the villains had departed. However, there is only one road through the village and we knew they must take it; and thanks to Henry's quickness we were in time to see the carriage lights. If we had been a few minutes later, we might not have known which direction to take."
That seemed to wind up the essential parts of the story; but in deference to Henry they talked it all over a while longer and let him go into more detail about his heroism, before the doctor suggested that the victim of the kidnapping should be allowed to get the rest she needed.
Marianne was glad to obey. "I think I will take a dose of that medicine you gave me," she said, accepting the doctor's arm. "Now that it is all over, I am almost too nervous to sleep."
"Sleeping medicine?" Carlton asked alertly. "Perhaps we should all take a dose. I am keyed up myself, and so is Henry. Will you share, Miss Ransom?"
Marianne looked at his face. Shadowy bruises were now apparent, and his lip had swollen to grotesque proportions. "Are you in pain?" she asked.
"Does it look that bad?" Carlton fingered his jaw and made a wry face. "I will have to tell the Duchess I fell off my horse. What a humiliating admission."
Marianne had assumed he was joking about the medicine, but he came to her room almost immediately and repeated his request. She had not, in fact, taken any, and had almost forgotten where she had put it; but Carlton soon discovered the bottle on her dressing table and made off with it. She was sorry, after he had gone, that she had not taken a dose herself, for she was some time in falling asleep.
She woke early the next morning and dragged herself out of bed, tired though she was; for it was imperative that the Duchess should not suspect that anything had happened.
And yet, Marianne thought sadly as the day wore on, the Duchess's failure to notice Carlton's bruises and the Duke's febrile excitement was a portent of her absorption in the event that was fast drawing nigh. She accepted the news of Victor's disappearance with abnormal indifference. "I suppose he has made off with some odds and ends," was her only comment. "It is a small price to pay to be rid of him."
Carlton suggested a ride that afternoon. Marianne
agreed; she was glad of the exercise and hoped for a confidential talk. In this she was disappointed. The relaxed, laughing young man who had slapped Henry on the back and called Marianne by her first name had been replaced by the old Carlton, surly and sarcastic and withdrawn.
The Duchess, too, seemed to be withdrawing a little further every day. She had acquired a habit of sitting with her head tilted, as if listening to voices the others could not hear, and she did not seem to care whether anyone was with her or not. After trying to rouse her by suggestions and amusements and receiving only vague replies such as "Whatever you like, my dear," Marianne gave up and went in search of Henry.
They spent the rest of the afternoon out of doors playing lawn tennis. This was a new sport to Marianne, who had read of it but had never played, and the Duke was delighted to play the role of teacher. They returned to the house arm in arm, and Henry, still heavy-eyed from lack of sleep the preceding night, was easily persuaded to go up to his supper and the attentions of his Nanny. The good creature was, he reported, quite delighted at the absence of M. Victor, whom she had always considered a slippery sort of foreign body, not at all the kind to look after her wee laddie.
Henry's imitation of the old lady made Marianne laugh heartily. He had a wicked gift for mimicry; she had noticed it the night before, when he parroted Victor's brogue. But when she went to her room to repair the damages of vigorous exercise, a thought occurred to her that removed her amusement. She was becoming quite fond of Henry and was inclined to attribute his weaknesses of character to overindulgence and lack of discipline; but there was no denying the boy had a mischievous streak and that he was quite intelligent enough to plan complicated tricks. The weird whispering voice at the last seance could well have been Henry's, and he was too young to comprehend what a terrible effect it might have.
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