Читать книгу The Lonely Bride - Fred M. White - Страница 12

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Grace stood there with the cigarette-case in her hand, examining it as closely as possible by the light of the moon. She had no longer reason to doubt; there was Max's monogram plainly enough; the deeply-cut letters standing out all the more clearly now that they were filled with dirt. The inside of the case was empty, a fact that rather surprised Grace, seeing that it had been Max's invariable custom to keep one of his visiting cards there. The girl noticed with a thrill that the case was not only dirty, but that it was also marked and battered as if it had been ill-used or as if somebody had trodden upon it. All these signs pointed to foul play.

In the first place, the old ruins were long way out of Max's route on the return journey from Brooks' house to Water Park. The high road was well enough at this time of the year, so that it was possible to wear evening slippers; indeed, Grace had noticed that Max was wearing pumps on the last occasion that she had ever seen him. But it was not in the least likely that Max would have walked through the damp grass shod in that light way when he had a clear path home. Still, Grace held it in her hand, evidence of the fact that Max had been to the ruined Priory, or she would not have found his cigarette-case there. Just for a moment it occurred to her as possible that the miscreants had placed the cigarette-case there by way of blinding the trail, but a reflection assured Grace that this was not to be thought of. She stood there full in the light of the moon waiting for something, she knew not what, to happen. She had a strange feeling that something out of the common was about to take place, one of those premonitions we all feel at times, but cannot logically account for. Therefore it was no surprise to Grace when a long, misshapen shadow lay across her feet, and the figure of a man came rapidly towards her. The man had been running very fast; he gasped for breath, but he did not seem in the least surprised to see Grace waiting there. Nor was she in her turn surprised to find herself face to face with "Poor Billy."

"What is the matter?" she asked, heedless for the moment that "Poor Billy" could not possibly understand a word she was saying. "Why do you follow me here instead of coming along with me in the first instance? But I forgot."

Billy was regaining his breath by this time; he displayed no signs of terror, but the way in which he looked about him filled Grace with a vague uneasiness. She could see that he wanted something, for he pointed in the direction of the distant hill and shook his head solemnly. Then he ran to the edge of the ruin and returned as quickly as he had gone.

"Oh, if I could only understand him," Grace exclaimed. "I am certain that he wants to tell me something of importance. I wonder if we could manage to use the drawing idea over again."

The walls of the ruin were fairly dark and fairly even inside, so that it would be possible with the aid of a piece of chalk to make such signs as might convey Grace's ideas to Billy's darkened intelligence. There was no lack of chalk flints on the floor, so that Grace took one of them up and commenced to make signs on the wall. One glance at Billy's face sufficed to show that he had grasped the situation. The anxious look left his face, and he smiled. Then in turn he took up one of the flints and proceeded to draw on the wall the outline of a hand pointing in the direction of the valley below. It was a somewhat difficult problem for Grace to solve; it was still troubling her when Billy turned suddenly and uttered a hoarse croak of warning which gave Grace barely time to throw herself in the centre of a bed of nettles before two other figures rushed into the ruin. From the position in which she was lying Grace could see nothing, nor did she dare to move. She heard voices now, but she utterly failed to recognise them. Also she could hear Billy's hoarse croak like the cry made by some frightened animal as he rushed round and round the ruin trying to avoid those who had apparently come in search of him. The croaking noise turned into a gurgle presently, and Grace rightly judged that Billy had at length fallen into the hands of his enemies. There was the noise of a struggle, and the quick gasps of those engaged in conflict.

"I think he'll about do now," one of the strangers said. "Not that I imagine he is worth all this fuss."

"He isn't," the other man said. "He might have seen the whole thing without being a bit the wiser. What does it matter what a deaf mute knows—he couldn't tell anybody to save the life of him. Lie still, you little beggar."

Something like a moan came from Billy, telling Grace pretty plainly that the words had been accompanied with a blow.

"I think he is all right now," the first man said. "I have tied him up pretty safe, and here he can stay till somebody finds him in the morning. Now let us get on as far as the farm. We have got plenty of work to do before daylight yet."

Grace could hear the scratch of a match and catch the scent of tobacco. She was sharp enough to note from the delicate smell of the cigarettes that Billy's assailants were no common men—the ordinary desperado did not smoke tobacco of that class. Grace ventured at length to raise her head and look about her. The white pallid light of the moon showed that the ruin was deserted save for the prostrate body of Billy, who lay prone on his back looking up stupidly at the stars. Grace's face and hands fairly tingled with nettle stings, but she did not notice this in the excitement of the moment. She crossed over to where Billy lay, trussed like a fowl, with his hands and feet securely corded, and touched him on the shoulder. His eyes fairly beamed with delight, he tried to struggle to his feet, but he was too firmly secured for that.

"I will see to all that," Grace said gently. "Do you happen to have a knife? Oh, I had forgotten again."

But Billy possessed no knife, Grace ascertained that fact by searching his pockets. Then she bent herself to the task of undoing the knots in the stout cord; they were stiff knots; and Grace's fingernails were broken and her delicate hands sore before the last of the bonds were released, and Billy was free to stand on his feet again. The heavy dew was thicker now, so that even by the light of the moon it was impossible to see beyond a limited radius. It was striking twelve by a distant church clock, and Grace suddenly realised that the dawn would not be far off, and that she had possibly a great deal more to do before she could return home again. She turned to Billy and pointed to the rude figure of the hand he had drawn upon the wall. Billy's eyes gleamed, he held out his own hand, which Grace took in hers, feeling that that was what he wanted. It evidently was, for Billy beamed again and patted the small hand that lay in his approvingly. Then he set off at a good round pace, taking Grace after him across the wet grass and through bypaths which were utterly unfamiliar to her. Grace congratulated herself now that she had put on a stout pair of boots, for the undergrowth was full of thorns and brambles, and already, the girl had left a great portion of her skirt behind her.

Grace had always prided herself upon the fact that she had an intimate knowledge of every wood and spinney of the neighborhood, but she had to acknowledge now that Billy was immensely her superior in woodcraft. He seemed to know every bit of the way he passed along with an assured footstep; he appeared to avoid pitfalls by a marvellous instinct. It was not many minutes later that he emerged from the wood into the open fields again. Here he stopped and pointed to a farmhouse that lay in a hollow at the foot of the fields. He seemed to be trying to make Grace understand that his errand was more or less finished.

Grace recognised the farm, though she very rarely came that way. The homestead, together with some two hundred acres of more or less poor land, lay in the centre of General Graham's property. The old soldier had tried to buy it on several occasions, but Samuel Fenton, who owned the property, had curtly refused. The man in question had an exceedingly shady reputation. Nobody believed for a moment that he could possibly make a living out of his poor farm, to say nothing of the fact that he was a man who drank heavily into the bargain. There was practically no stock on the place, indeed there was very little there to feed cattle. The pastures were rank and thin, such crops as were sown were rarely gathered, the buildings round the house were in a state of ruinous repair. As to the rest, Fenton kept quite clear of his neighbors; he rarely went into Leverton, and, when he did, he failed to show up at such public-houses as the majority of his fellows favored. People came from a distance to see him, but these friends appeared to be of the same shy class as himself.

Time was when the Fentons had been respectable and respected. But the present owner of the farm had chosen to marry a gipsy woman. He had one daughter—a handsome, bold-faced girl, who was reputed to be as passionate and headstrong as her mother had been. Farm laborers and people of that class had stories to tell of the scenes of dissipation and passion that regularly took place at the Fenton's farm.

Grace had never heeded these stories when they had come to her through the lips of her maid, but now she was taking the greatest interest in the Fentons. She could see that lights were burning in one or two of the rooms; it seemed to her that she could hear snatches of some ribald song. She would have given much to know why Billy had brought her here.

"I am to go down there?" she asked, pointing to the farm. "Am I to go alone, or are you coming with me?"

Billy seemed to understand quite well, though, of course, the spoken words conveyed nothing to him. He picked his way cautiously down the hillside and came close to the farmhouse, stopping at length in the comparative shadow of a ragged blackthorn hedge. Grace could see there were lights in various windows now; she noted the ragged and tattered blinds, through which slits of light penetrated; she could not but see the desolation of the place.

Apparently no coat of paint had been laid upon the house for years, a certain amount of tiles had been stripped from the roof by passing gales, the walls were wet and clammy, everything was dropping to decay.

It was quiet enough for a moment, though, judging from the lights in the windows there must have been a number of people in the house. Then suddenly Grace heard the song again, followed by a burst of laughter that sounded forced and strange. Grace glanced at Billy, who signified that she should go closer to the house. It was rather a rash thing to do, seeing that the moon made even the smallest objects plainly visible, but Grace did not hesitate. On the right-hand side of the dilapidated doorway was a window that gleamed thinly red against the light of the moon. The blind was down, but years of brilliant sunshine had rotted the fabric so that it hung now more or less in shreds, as if some mischievous person had slashed it with a knife. It was quite easy for Grace to see what was going on inside the room, and she did not hesitate a moment to look. She felt quite sure that Billy had not brought her here out of idle curiosity. Besides, she had Max to think of. From the first she had been certain that Max's disappearance was at the bottom of the whole adventure. Therefore she looked in now with a feeling that she was doing the right thing in the circumstances. The room was more comfortably furnished than Grace had expected. Indeed, it was quite cosy and homelike under the light of the big lamp with the red shade. By the fireplace stood a tall, handsome girl, and in her Grace recognised Fenton's daughter. She had vivid black eyes, and great piled-up masses of black hair adorned her perfectly-shaped head. Her lips were parted in a contemptuous smile, her teeth flashed like so many pearls. A handsome, daring, reckless face, Grace thought, and yet one capable of good under better and happier auspices. The girl was not alone, for on the other side of the fireplace stood Stephen Rice, who appeared to be pleading for some favor at the hands of his companion. The girl laughed again; and then Rice crossed to her side and kissed her in a careless kind of way. Grace drew back, feeling that she had no business here. Despite the sinking of her heart she was not free from a certain passionate indignation at this conduct on the part of the man she had promised to marry.

It was impossible, of course, to hear what was taking place within the room, and Grace had to content herself with what she could see. So far as she could judge Rice had attempted to persuade his companion to do something against her inclinations, for she turned upon him passionately presently, and Grace could see that her eyes were flashing. Then a hand was laid on her arm, and Billy was tugging her violently away from the house.