Читать книгу Netta - Fred M. White - Страница 4

Table of Contents

UNDER the shaded lights the dinner proceeded pleasantly. It was good to Netta to feel all this luxury and refinement; it softened the recollection of years of suffering.

She was herself again now, resolute and strong of purpose; she said little, but she watched carefully. She wondered who the man by her side was, and what he was doing here. Across the table was the white enigma of Lady Langworthy's face. Sometimes she would laugh and smile merrily; at intervals her eyes met those of Sir John, and her face lighted up tenderly. Surely a woman could not look like that unless she sincerely loved a man. And yet, beyond doubt, Hilda Langworthy held the secret that shadowed Reggie Masters's life.

Then her face would change again, growing wax-like and set as she felt the force of the strange man by Netta's side. He addressed her once or twice in a tone so low that Netta could scarcely catch the words, but Lady Langworthy always heard. It was the same more than once during dinner. The big mahogany doors were open, for the night was insufferably hot and close, and in the hall now and again Netta caught the watching face of Lucille Ganton. The knowledge of her danger braced her like a tonic.

They were in the drawing-room at length. Presently the men began to dribble in from the dining-room. It was getting late and the air was hotter. The electric lights seemed suddenly to pale; there was a rattle and a crash overhead that shook the house to its foundations.

"I'm afraid you will not get away to-night, Miss Sherlock," Sir John said, as he crossed over to Netta, accompanied by Gordon Falmer. "We are going to have a great storm. We shall pay pretty severely for this hot weather."

"All the same, I must go," Netta smiled. "It is most important. As I am to have the motor, you need not worry about your horses, because—"

Again the lights paled, again came the thunderous crash overhead. A few heavy drops splashed over the gravel drive, but the rain held off. The windows were wide open, but somebody pulled down the blinds. A servant entered and laid a violin case on the piano.

"I am going to ask you to play," Falmer remarked, the dark eyes under those thick brows bent on Netta. Just for the moment it occurred to her that she could not have refrained, even had she wished. "It's bad taste, but really after what you said before dinner—"

Netta smiled, though a slight shiver ran over her frame.

"I am not in the least like that," she said. "I love playing, with my whole heart and soul. Place a good fiddle close to me, and I can't keep my hands off it. I love it, and other people love it, so why should I not play?"

She took the fiddle tenderly from its place and deftly touched the strings.

She brought the bow crashing over the strings, and instantly the room was filled with liquid melody. For half an hour or more Netta held her audience spellbound. This was the kind of tribute to her genius that she liked and expected. There was a long fluttering sigh all round the room as the sobbing notes died away.

"The critics are right, for once," said Falmer, the first to recover himself. "Technique, expression, phrasing, all are perfect. That movement of Chopin's showed off your powers wonderfully. If you are not tired, will you give us something a little more—well—melodious?"

Netta smiled as she bent over the instrument again. She played something soft and soothing, with a sad melody running through it. Outside in the hall she could see that the servants had crept to listen. The music had drawn even them, as Netta's music drew everybody. Though she was rapt in the passion of her playing, she could see everything that was going on in that hall; she could see Lucille Ganton well to the front, a puzzled, half-satisfied expression on her face. Then the puzzled look cleared to one of pleased satisfaction, and the maid vanished. The bow slackened in Netta's fingers, and she stopped.

"Surely that is not all?"

"No," Netta said in some confusion. "Something—something has gone wrong with one of my strings. Oh, yes, I see what has happened, I will finish when I have repaired the mischief."

She bent over her fiddle, and did something industriously for a few seconds. She would almost have sacrificed her precious Cremona to know what Lucille Ganton was doing at that moment. As a matter of fact, the woman hurried past the servant's quarters, along a corridor, where at one time the offices of the Langworthy estates had been situated. At last she came to a room, the door of which she opened without ceremony.

A man sat writing, a neat-looking man, who might have passed for an exceedingly respectable City clerk. His hair was red, his eyes met nothing squarely, they were grey and shifty and cunning, with queer lights in them at certain times.

"Well," the man said impatiently, "what's the matter now?"

"It's exactly as I told you, Neil," Lucille said. "I felt pretty sure I recognized Nellie Landon. I want you to come and see.'"

"Come and see! You were in the Landon household as well as me. What do you want two witnesses for?"

"Because I want to be certain. You must have known her up to fifteen or so."

"Well, what if I did?" Jackman asked impatiently. "I've no doubt I should recognize the girl. She was for everlasting playing the fiddle. When I took service with Mr. Masters—"

"And helped in his ruin, and took a place under Gordon Falmer, who finished that ruin. Did you not hear of the fiddling girl that Mr. Masters took up and was going to marry, ay, would have married, had not the crash come?"

"I never happened to see her," Jackman said slowly.

"Well, she's in the house to-night. What is she here for? Because she knows that the root of the mystery is under this roof. And if she gets at the truth, good-bye to your scheme and mine. Do you understand that?"

The sinister grin had crept into Jackman's eyes.

"You're a sharp one," he said with some admiration. "But I expect you have made a mistake this time. If you were quite certain—"

"But I can't be, man. Oh, she is a clever one! I tried her before dinner, and failed. But you must see her for yourself and make sure. She's got to catch that train at the junction about midnight, and Watson is going to drive her over in the motor. So just before that time it will be your business to be hanging about the porch."

"I'll be there," he said. "But I'm sure you have found a mare's nest. Is that the girl playing? My word, she is a wonder!"

The wailing cry of the music filled the whole house. The melody was an unusual one that Netta had found for herself, and she only played it when she felt certain of the sympathy of her audience.

She played it now entirely from memory, with her eyes turned on the listeners. She knew that she had touched their hearts from the very first chords. Then she saw Gordon Falmer start as if he were about to say something, and noted the whiteness of his face, and the muscles standing out in knots on the back of his hand as he grasped a chair rigidly. His face grew whiter and still more set, and beads glistened on his forehead.

Netta played on till the air sobbed away and died like a sigh. Falmer's face was very white still, but not more white or more motionless than that of Lady Langworthy. He crossed over to Netta, and his eyes gleamed like fire into hers.

"Where did you get that?" he asked hoarsely.

There was a challenge in his tone. Netta's face flushed.

"That I cannot tell you," she said firmly. "I do not care to speak of it. The whole circumstances are connected with a most unhappy time of my life, you must understand."

Falmer uttered something that might have been a curse but for a sudden deafening crash of thunder. But the girl could see that her companion was agitated and nervous in no ordinary degree. She placed her violin in its case and closed the lid carefully.

"No more music to-night," she said as a murmur of protest arose. "The storm unsteadies me, and I am not doing my best. Besides, it is past eleven."

"But you can't possibly go out in this storm!" the host exclaimed. "True, it does not rain, but we shall have a deluge before long. Agreeably to your request, I have ordered the motor round, but I am certain that—"

"I must be going," she said. "Lady Langworthy, you will believe me when I say that nothing but urgent business takes me away. Good-bye."

Lady Langworthy muttered something. The play of the lightning was continuous. A group of guests crowded into the hall to see the plucky violinist depart. Outside on the lawn two figures lurked—Lucille and Jackman.

"I wish she'd come and get it over," the latter grumbled. "I loathe this kind of thing. A storm always takes the manhood out of me. I'm as frightened as a child."

"She's coming," Lucille said with some impatience. "Here she comes! Why doesn't she show her face? If she would only turn this way! Great powers of heaven—"

Suddenly the whole sky opened, and a blinding flood of light filled the horizon. There was a singeing smell, a deafening crash, the shrieks of women and, like magic, that which before had been a motor-car was a mass of crumpled metal.

"Back to the house!" Sir John cried. "I would not permit any guest of mine to start in such a storm as this. Thank God, here is the rain!"

The doors were closed; the rain came down with a snarl and a roar. The whole world seemed to echo to the reverberation of it. Lucille, almost blinded by the glare, had sunk to her knees, her hands pressed to her eyes. The sharp sting of the cold rain brought her to herself. She staggered to her feet and looked about her. Something soft lay huddled on the ground. She touched it and called, but no response came. Then in sheer agony and terror she screamed again and again. A door opened, and somebody came out.

"It's Mr. Jackman," Lucille shrieked. "He's killed, he's killed!"

The drive seemed to be full of men. The prostrate figure was raised and carried into the hall.

"He's not dead!" Falmer cried. "See how he has struggled to his feet."

Truly, Jackman was on his feet, his hands clasped to his face. A dreadful groan burst from him, and he tore madly at his eyes.

"Not dead," he yelled, "or injured; only, God help me, blind, blind, blind!"