Читать книгу The Lonely Bride - Fred M. White - Страница 13

Table of Contents

Grace wondered what had happened, for her shabby companion was dreadfully excited, a series of hoarse cries came from his throat. He bent his head until it touched the ground, and appeared as if listening for the sound of somebody approaching. Then he rose again; and catching Grace by the arm hurried her across the field, till at length they had reached a cluster of old trees, some two hundred yards from the farm. Billy had apparently timed the thing to a nicety, for no sooner were they sheltered behind the trees than three men emerged out of the mist. They came very slowly and painfully along, for between them they bore some heavy object that lay upon a hurdle. Grace had seen this kind of thing before, especially in the hunting field, where it is necessary sometimes to take a hurdle or barn door and use it as an improvised ambulance. The girl could distinctly see the outlines of a body as it lay on the hurdle, though it was entirely covered with blankets or some heavy material of that kind. One foot of the injured man dangled over the side of the hurdle; even at this distance Grace could see that the foot was covered by a black sock, and that the boot had either been removed or had fallen off.

Very slowly and carefully the gruesome burden was brought to the door of the farmhouse, where one of the three men whistled, and the front door opened. Somebody stood in the hall holding a lamp high overhead, and Grace had no difficulty in making out the graceful figure of Fenton's daughter. Grace did not fail to notice either that the girl did not seem in the least surprised or agitated when she saw what the men were carrying. If the thing had been an accident then Bessie Fenton had been warned beforehand, for she stood there quite coolly with the lamp in her hand and made signs to the men as to where they were to take their unconscious burden. A light flashed up presently in one of the other rooms, so that Grace could give a pretty good guess as to the apartment in which the unfortunate man was now lying. There was a kind of balcony running round two sides of the house, so that it would have been possible with the aid of a ladder to look into that particular room, for the blinds there, like all the others, were torn and frayed. Billy made no signs of motion until the door of the farmhouse was closed and all was safe again. Then once more he took Grace by the hand and led her down to the edge of the farmyard so that they stood close by to where the strangers had turned with the body. The track was concealed entirely from Grace's eyes, but Billy could read it as if it were an open book to him. He pointed down to his left foot and kicked his broken boot off. Then he looked up sharply at Grace to see if she took his meaning. She nodded and smiled after a moment's hesitation; she perfectly understood that Billy was telling her that he had also noticed the shoeless foot hanging over the side of the improvised ambulance. It was quite evident also that Billy attached considerable importance to this point, for he put his nose to the ground in grotesque imitation of a retriever dog, and started to run uphill in the direction from which the men had come.

"It is all becoming quite clear to me," Grace murmured. "Really, this poor fellow has more intelligence than I gave him credit for. I suppose his idea now is to find that unhappy man's shoe."

Billy seemed to understand, for he turned and smiled at Grace, who was following up the hillside. It was some little distance before they reached the wood again, but Billy did not hesitate for a moment. He was following the track of those men with the unerring instinct of a bloodhound. He came to a broad green rise at length; he stooped and picked up some object, chuckling hoarsely as he did so. Then Grace could see that he held in his hand a patent leather shoe, which had evidently belonged to some well-dressed man, though Grace could not recognise the maker or the wearer. One thing, it told her the man on the ambulance had not belonged to the same class as those who had conveyed him to Fenton's farm.

"I wonder what it all means?" Grace murmured. "Oh, if I could only see for a moment at the back of Billy's brain, what a deal of trouble and unhappiness might be saved. Who was it on that ambulance, I wonder? Is it possible that it might have been Max? He was wearing shoes like this last night, and yet that tells me nothing. Thousands of well-dressed men wear the same kind of shoes every night. And yet Billy must attach a deal of importance to this, or he would never drag me here."

But apparently Billy was not satisfied yet, for he pointed down the hill again. Had he been possessed of proper intelligence, and the capability of understanding plain words, Grace would have bade him stay there while she returned home and gave information to the police. But then, unfortunately, Billy was not in that mental condition; and the only thing for it was to see the matter out to its bitter end. The strangely assorted pair were descending the hillside again now, and once more they stood in the shadow of the blackthorn fence. They had not long to wait there for developments, for presently the door of the farmhouse opened and Rice emerged into the moonlight. He was not alone, for Bessie Fenton accompanied him as far as the gate. They were both so close to the watchers now that by stretching out a hand Grace could have actually touched the other girl. She could see the moonlight on her face, she could see the quivering of the finely-cut nostrils. Even at that moment, full of unseen peril as it was, Grace felt herself thinking how beautiful Bessie Fenton would have looked properly dressed and attired for some great function. There was something about her that attracted Grace.

"I tell you I won't have anything to do with it," she was saying. "Why do you come here, lying to me in this fashion? You profess to care for me, and yet all the time you are going to marry another girl. Yes, she may be better-looking than I am, but miserable as I am, and much as I loathe my home life, I shall never leave it with any man whom I cannot call my husband."

"You are altogether wrong," Rice said moodily. "I care for nobody but you, indeed I never have."

"You are a liar, Stephen Rice," the girl said dispassionately. "God, that I should have ever given my heart to a creature like you. You are not good to look upon, you are a cur and a craven at heart. Some day when my mother's blood in my veins shall call to me I will take up a knife and drive it through that black heart of yours, and there will be an end of Stephen Rice."

"I tell you you are utterly mistaken," Rice said gloomily.

"And I say, I am not," the girl cried. "You are going to marry that fair-haired girl up at the bank house. And when you do, look to yourself. I have been your tool and slave for the past three years, and now I am finding you out. To-night's business——"

"We need not go into that," Rice said hastily. "Besides, it hardly concerns you at all; it is more a matter between your father and your brothers and myself. I am paying them very handsomely for the little they have done for me, and there need be no anxiety about money for some little time to come."

The girl laughed in a scornful sort of way, and yet there was just a note of sadness in this strained mirth.

"When did money ever do any good to us?" she asked. "When was it anything but a curse? You know what it means—nobody better. It means drink and brutality and violence. You have been here and seen it all. I can teach you nothing as to the meaning of the word drink."

There was a terrible emphasis on the last word; it caused Grace to shudder. It came back to her with strange force then that here was the man she was going to marry. Here was the man to whom she was going to sell herself to save her father's honor. That Rice was capable of many brutalities, Grace felt sure. But that she was going to ally herself to a drunkard was the last straw on the burden of her misery. She had half waited for some denial from the lips of Rice, but he only laughed in a sullen kind of way.

"You are not yourself to-night," he said, "or you would not talk in this manner. I am prepared to swear to you, if you like, that I have no intention whatever of marrying Miss Anstey. She is nothing to me and never will be."

"You had better take care that that is the truth," Bessie Fenton said with a swift indrawing of her breath. "Otherwise, I should see Miss Anstey and give her a few interesting episodes from that buried past of yours. Once I did that, there would be an end of your chances for ever in that direction."

Rice laughed, as indeed he could afford to do. Grace knew perfectly well that this was no case where a girl could rid herself of her bonds on the score of her accepted husband's morality. Had he been the greatest scoundrel that ever polluted the earth she would have been equally forced into that detested alliance.

It seemed as if the listeners were not likely to hear any more, for the conversation between Rice and Bessie Fenton took a less personal turn.

"Now, you go back home," Rice said, "and try and keep that temper of yours under better control. Nobody can be a finer nurse than you, when you like, and you are likely to have your hands full for some time to come. If anything happens or you want money, just send me a note and you shall have all that you require. It is a very good thing you don't keep a servant, so there will be no chattering women about, asking curious questions as to who your visitor is."

"You do not want him to die?" Bessie Fenton asked hoarsely.

"I don't care whether he lives or dies," Rice replied. "So long as you obey instructions and keep him quiet for the next three weeks. After that you can do what you please. Your father and brothers are anxious to get away from here, but if they keep to the line I have laid down for them they will have money enough to follow their fancy. Good-night."

With a careless nod Rice disappeared, and Bessie Fenton returned to the house. A few moments later and Grace could see her shadow on the blind of the room in which she felt sure the injured man lay. A sudden resolution came to the girl; she felt her courage mounting high. She pointed to the window where the shadow was, and made a motion as if she were climbing a flight of stairs. It was some little time before Billy understood the meaning of this little pantomime, but he grasped it at length.

Signing to Grace to stay where she was he disappeared round the back of the house, and returned presently staggering under the weight of a ladder. In less time than it takes to tell, Grace was creeping along the rickety old balcony in the direction of the lighted window. It was no safe position, but the girl did not heed that now. She was consumed with a burning desire to see what was going on in the room, nor was there any reason why she should not, seeing that the blind was so frayed and torn. She made out the outline of a figure lying on the bed, and over this figure Bessie was bending. Grace placed her ear to a broken pane of glass, hoping that some words might reward her.

The figure on the bed stirred; Grace could see a hand moving uneasily. Then the man's lips opened, and he asked vaguely what time it was and whether or not he was late for breakfast.

Grace fairly staggered back, and nearly fell over the rotten edge of the balcony. With difficulty she repressed a cry. For in the tones of the man on the bed she recognised the voice of Max Graham.