Читать книгу The Mystery of the Ravenspurs - Fred M. White - Страница 13

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Contrary to the usual custom, there was almost a marked cheerfulness at Ravenspur the same evening. The dread seemed to have lifted slightly, though nobody could say why, even if they cared to analyze, which they certainly did not. And all this because it had seemed to the doomed race that Vera was marked down for destruction, and that the tragedy, the pitiful tragedy, had been averted.

It is hardly possible to imagine a state of mind like this. And Vera half divined the reason for this gentle gaiety. She might have told them differently had she chosen to do so, but for many reasons she refrained.

She did not even tell her mother. Why draw the veil aside when even a few hours' peace stood between them and the terror which sooner or later must sap the reason of every one there? Besides, Uncle Ralph had pledged her to the utmost secrecy.

For once Rupert Ravenspur had abandoned his stony air. He sat at the head of the long table in the dining-room, where the lamplight streamed upon fruit and flowers and crystal, upon priceless china, and silver from the finest workshops in the world.

Grinling Gibbons and Inigo Jones had toiled in that dining-hall as a labor of love; a famous master had painted the loves of the angels on the roof. Between the oak panels were paintings by Van Dyck, Cuyp and the rest of them. And over the floor servants in livery moved swiftly. Rupert Ravenspur might have been a monarch entertaining some of his favored subjects.

It was almost impossible to believe that a great sorrow could be brooding here. There was everything that the heart of the most luxurious could demand. Strangers might have looked on and envied. But the stately old man who called all this his own would gladly have changed lots with the humblest hind on the estate.

Now and then Rupert came out of his reverie and smiled. But his tenderest smile and his warmest word were for Vera, who he had placed on his right hand. Now and again he stroked her hair or touched her fingers gently. Marion watched the scene with a tender smile on her lips.

Only Ralph Ravenspur was silent. He sat with his sightless eyes fixed on space; he seemed to be listening intently, listening to something far away that could be heard by his ears alone. Geoffrey touched him.

"A penny for your thoughts, uncle," he said.

"They are worth nothing," Ralph replied. "And if I sold them to you for a penny you would give all Ravenspur Castle and your coming fortune to be rid of them."

He croaked this out in a fierce whisper. There was a ring of pain in his voice, that pain which is the suffering of the soul rather than the body. Yet he did not relax his rigid listening attitude. He might have been waiting for the unseen foe.

The conversation proceeded fitfully, sometimes almost lively, anon lapsing into silence. It was hard for these people to speak. They had no interests outside the castle; they found it impossible to follow social or political life. Daily papers arrived, but it was seldom that they were looked into.

The dinner came to an end at length, and then the family circle drew round the fire. Ravenspur was one of those big cold places where fires are always needed. Mrs. Gordon rose and walked to the door. Her husband's eyes followed her. These two were gray and old before their time, but the flame of love still burned bright and clear.

"You will not be long, dear," Gordon Ravenspur said. A somewhat sentimental remark in the ordinary way, but not in this place where the parting of a minute might mean parting for all time. Mrs. Gordon smiled back upon her husband.

"I am going to bed," she said. "Never mind me. I feel sleepy."

Gordon Ravenspur nodded sympathetically. He knew what his wife meant as if she had put her thoughts into words. She had been terribly upset over Vera and now that the danger was past a heavy reaction set in.

"Why should we sit here like this?" Geoffrey exclaimed. "Vera and Marion, I'll play you two a game at billiards. Come along."

Marion smilingly declined. She touched the back of Ravenspur's wasted hand.

"I am going to stay here just for a few minutes and take care of grandfather," she said; "then I will go to bed. Give Vera twenty in a hundred, and I will bet you a pair of gloves that she beats you easily."

The young people went off together and in the excitement of the game other things were forgotten. Vera played well and Geoffrey had all his work cut out to beat her. Finally Vera ran out with a succession of brilliant flukes.

"Well, of all the luck!" Geoffrey cried. "Let's play another game, but after that exhibition of yours I must have a cigarette. Wait a moment."

The cigarettes were not in their accustomed place. Geoffrey ran up the stairs to his bedroom. He passed along the dusky corridor on his return. In the gallery all was dark and still, save for something that sounded like two figures in muffling velvet robes dancing together. It seemed to Geoffrey that he could actually hear them breathing after their exertions.

With a quickening of his heart he stopped to listen. Surely somebody buried under many thick folds of cloth was calling for assistance.

"Who is there?" Geoffrey called. "Where are you?"

"Just under the Lely portrait," came a stifled response. "If you don't——"

The voice ceased. In that instant Geoffrey had recognized it as Aunt Gordon's voice.

Heedless of danger to himself he raced down the corridor, his thin evening pumps making little or no noise on the polished floor. Nor had Geoffrey lived here all these years for nothing. He could have found the spot indicated blindfolded.

He could see nothing, but he could hear the struggle going on; then he caught the flash of something that looked like a blue diamond. It must have been attached to a hand, but no hand was to be seen. Geoffrey caught at nothingness and grasped something warm and palpitating. He had the mysterious assailant in his grip; perhaps he held the whole mystery here. He heard footsteps pattering along the corridor as Mrs. Gordon ran for assistance. He called out to her and she answered him.

She was safe. There was no doubt about that. No longer was there any need for caution on Geoffrey's part. His fingers closed on a thin scraggy throat from which the flesh seemed to hang like strips of dried leather. At the same time the throat was cold and clammy and slippery as if with some horrible slime. It was almost impossible to keep a grip on it. Moreover, the mysterious visitor, if slight, was possessed of marvelous agility and vitality.

But Geoffrey fought on with the tenacity of one who plays for a great end. He closed in again and bore the foe backwards. He had him at last. If he could only hold on till assistance came, the dread secret might be unfolded.

Then the figure took something from his pocket; the air was filled with a pungent, sickly sweet odor, and Geoffrey felt his strength going from him. He was powerless to move a limb. One of those greasy hands gripped his throat.

In a vague, intangible way Geoffrey knew that that overpowering blinding odor was the same stuff that had come so near to ending the head of the family. If he breathed it much longer, his own end was come.

He made one other futile struggle and heard approaching footsteps; he caught the gleaming circle of a knife blade swiftly uplifted, and his antagonist gave a whimper of pain as a frightened animal might do. The grip relaxed and Geoffrey staggered to the floor.

"That was a narrow escape," a hoarse voice said.

"Uncle Ralph!" Geoffrey panted. "How did you get here? And where has the fellow gone?"

"I was close at hand," Ralph said coolly. "A minute or two sooner and I might have saved Gordon's wife, instead of your doing it. See, is there blood on this knife?"

He handed a box of matches to Geoffrey. The long, carved Malay blade was dripping with crimson. But there were no signs of it on the floor.

"Let us follow him," Geoffrey cried eagerly. "He can't be far away!"

But Ralph did not move. His face was expressionless once more. He did not appear to be in the least interested or excited.

"It is useless," he said, in his dull mechanical tones. "For in this matter you are as blind as I am. There are things beyond your comprehension. I am going down to see what is happening below."

He began to feel his way to the staircase, Geoffrey following.

"Are we never going to do anything?" the younger man exclaimed passionately.

"Yes, yes. Patience, lad! The day of reckoning is coming as sure as I stand before you. But to follow your late antagonist is futile. You might as well try to beat the wind that carries away your hat on a stormy day."

Mrs. Gordon sat in the dining-hall, pale, ashen, and trembling from head to foot. It seemed as if an ague had fallen upon her. Every now and then a short hysterical laugh escaped her lips, more horrible and more impressive than any outbreak of fear or passion.

And yet there was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; they could only look at her with moist eyes and a yearning sympathy that was beyond all words.

"It will pass," Mrs. Gordon said faintly. "We all have our trials; and mine are no worse than the rest. Gordon, take me to bed."

She passed up the stairs leaning on the arm of her husband. Time was when these things demanded vivid explanations. They were too significant now. Ralph crept fumblingly over the floor till he stood by Marion's side. He touched her hand; he seemed to know where to find it. The hand was wet. Ralph touched her cheek.

"You are crying," he said, gently for him.

"Yes," Marion admitted, softly. "Oh, if I could only do anything to help. If you only knew how my heart goes out to these poor people!"

"And yet it may be your turn next, Marion. But I hope not—I hope not. We could not lose the only sunshine in the house!"

Marion choked down a sob. When she turned to Ralph again he was far off feeling his way along the room—feeling, feeling always for the clue to the secret.