Читать книгу The Lonely Bride - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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Grace looked at the stranger with some confused idea that she had seen him before. He seemed to bring back to her recollections of her early childhood, which were in some strange way mixed up with trouble. Perhaps the man Cattley saw something of this, for there was just the suggestion of a smile on his face.

"You do not recollect me," he said. "Have you forgotten that time some sixteen years ago when I came——"

The speaker broke off abruptly, as if conscious that he was about to betray himself. Grace waited for him to say more, but he turned the conversation adroitly and began to speak of other things. He seemed perfectly at home there; evidently the man was accustomed to good society; he seemed to wear his evening clothes with the air of a man who is accustomed to that kind of thing.

"My father will be down in a few moments," Grace said. "We have friends to dinner to-night."

"I am exceedingly sorry to intrude," the stranger said, "but my business is of the most pressing importance. I presume your father was somewhat surprised to get my card."

The speaker asked the question as if something amused him. There was just the ghost of cynical smile on his face. It was foolish, perhaps, but Grace had a kind of feeling that the coming of this man was the beginning of some fresh trouble. She had never felt more utterly foolish and self-conscious than she did at that moment. Usually the girl was not short of conversation. Five minutes dragged slowly along before Mark Anstey came into the room. At that moment the stranger was bending over a great bowl of roses on the library table and seemed quite lost in the contemplation of their beauty. He did not appear to heed Anstey's presence, so that Grace was in a position to watch her father's face. Its malignant expression startled her. Just for an instant there passed across Anstey's face a perfectly murderous expression; his hands went out instinctively in the direction of his visitor. It was all gone like a flash, but it served to deepen the bad impression that was already forming in Grace's mind. She had never dreamt that her father could look like that; she almost felt a hesitation in leaving the two men together. Anstey advanced now with outstretched hand and smiling face, and patted the stranger almost affectionately on the back. His manner was genial in the extreme.

"Ah, this is indeed a pleasant surprise, Cattley," he said. "Fancy you turning up after all these years."

The stranger smiled in turn, but there was the same dry cynicism on his dark features.

"I felt quite sure you would be delighted to see me," he said. "It is indeed a long 'time since we last met. I am very loth to make myself a nuisance to you, but my business is pressing, and I am afraid I shall have to detain you some little time."

Just for an instant the hard expression came into Anstey's face again. Grace would have lingered there, only her father made her a sign to go. His voice was hard and dry.

"You had better go back to our guests," he said. "You must get them to excuse me for a little while. Tell them that I have been called away on a pressing matter."

Grace crept away up the stairs, striving in vain to throw off the feeling that some great disaster was impending. It seemed to her as if she had lost her father and that some strange sinister being had stepped into his place. It was a great shock to the girl—perhaps the greatest shock she had ever had in her short, sunny life. Hitherto she had regarded Mark Anstey as one of the most perfect of men. And here on his own confession he was within measurable reach of the felon's dock, he was prepared to barter his daughter's happiness to save his tainted reputation.

With a great effort Grace managed to put her emotion on one side. She must play her part in the game of life with a smile on her face, though her heart ached ever so sadly. Besides, there was always a chance that the calamity might be averted. She could hear the chatter of her guests now, those unconscious guests who knew nothing, and she knew that she would have to hide from them all signs of misery and distress. Here were the servants, respectful as ever; here were all the art treasures which generations of Ansteys had gathered together. Was it all to be a sham and a delusion, or could the whole situation be saved by pluck and courage? Grace forced a smile to her lips as she entered the drawing-room. She could see her face in the mirror opposite; she was surprised to notice that her features gave no index of her disturbing emotions. She plunged into the conversation gaily and almost desperately; probably she was answering her questioners all right, for they did not seem to notice anything. She dropped into a seat presently, and Stephen Rice crossed the room and took his place by her side. There was an air of possession about him that fairly maddened Grace, though she could not resent it.

"Our conversation before dinner was interrupted at a most interesting point," he said. "From what your father told me, he has been talking to you about me. I don't think I need say any more."

There was no mistaking the meaning of the speaker's words.

"I perfectly understand you," Grace said quietly. "It is perhaps just as well that you should have mentioned the matter now. Living so close to us as you do, you must be aware of the fact that I am engaged to Mr. Max Graham. You see I am speaking as plainly as yourself. It is just as well to be candid."

Rice smiled by way of reply. He liked Grace none the less for this display of spirit, but he felt that he had all the winning cards in his hand; he had only to play them and the game would be his. He rose from his chair and strolled across the room, leaving Grace with an unpleasant impression that she had a strong man to deal with. She would have given much to have known exactly what Rice knew as to the state of her father's private affairs. But she had no time to think of this now; one of the lady guests fluttered up to her with a request that she would sing.

"'The Message,'" somebody cried. "Please sing 'The Message,' Miss Anstey. It is one of your songs."

It was all the same to Grace what she sang—anything so long as she could get away from those haunting thoughts. She turned over her music rapidly, but the song in question was not to be found. Then Grace recollected that she left it in the morning-room. She would go down and fetch it; she would not be a moment, she explained.

It was very quiet down in the hall now; most of the servants had retired, and the dining-room was deserted. Grace found the song at length and was about to return to the drawing-room when the sound of voices broke on her ear. Almost before she was aware of it, Grace was playing the part of the eavesdropper. The voices were quite clear and distinct; they came from the library, and the speakers were her father and the stranger, George Cattley. Just for the moment Anstey seemed to be speaking in pleading tones, for Grace could hear him ask a question almost humbly and the stranger's curt refusal. Then Anstey seemed to burst out into sudden passion, for his voice vibrated with anger.

"I tell you I can't do it, and I won't," he said. "What you ask me is utterly impossible. If you give me time——"

"You have already had sixteen years," the stranger said. "Come, you can't say that you have not expected this moment. You must do as I ask you, and you must do it to-night."

"Impossible!" Anstey cried. "In any case, I could not do it by myself. I must have the assistance of my cashier, James Holder."

The name of Holder was quite familiar to Grace. For nearly thirty years James Holder had been the cashier at the bank. Not even the name of Anstey itself was more respected than that of Holder. If there was any rascality going on here, Grace felt confident that Holder had nothing whatever to do with it.

"That is quite an easy matter," said the stranger. "We can send a message to Holder; in fact, I have a messenger close by."

Grace had hardly time to step back before Cattley came out of the library and walked across the hall in the direction of the front door. This he opened and made a sign to somebody outside. Then there came into the light a ragged tattered figure which was quite familiar to Grace. She had no difficulty in recognising the village idiot who was generally known as "Poor Billy," a deaf mute who lived on the charity of the neighbours. A moment later and the poor creature was outside again, and Cattley had returned to the library.

What more Grace might have heard was prevented by a shrill cry at the top of the stairs. Her guests were getting impatient to hear the song, and already several of Grace's girl friends were half-way down the stairs with a view to helping her in the search. There was no help for it now; it was impossible to stand there and listen any longer. Grace waved the sheets of music above her head and declared that she had just found it.

The long evening was coming to an end at length, although it was not yet eleven o'clock. Mark Anstey had been back in the drawing-room for some little time. Closely as Grace scrutinised his face she could read no signs of his peril and trouble there. One by one the guests dropped away, until daughter and father were alone together. Grace's head was aching terribly, her one desire was to be alone now. She felt that she could not stand and endure the conversation that she had had with her father earlier in the evening. She rose as if to go; in the usual way she lifted up her face to kiss her father good-night. She was surprised to see that his features were absolutely bright and smiling. Perhaps Anstey read something of the surprise in his child's eyes, for he bent and kissed her tenderly. He held her in his arms just a moment.

"Perhaps things will come an right after all," he said. "At any rate, we will postpone further trouble for the present."

"And that man?" Grace asked. "Has he gone? Why did he say that he knew me years ago? I do not recollect him at all."

"I met him in business," Anstey said hastily. "I had to be civil to the man; it really is not worth talking about, and you are not in the least likely to see him again. He has been gone the last hour and now you had better go to bed."

Grace crept up the stairs, feeling in some way that her father was lying to her. It was a most uncomfortable impression, but the girl could not shake it off. She was too restless and anxious to think of sleep; she felt a desire for food without the appetite of enjoying it. Trouble was so great a novelty to her that she felt the keenness of it more than most people. She half undressed herself, she combed put the long masses of her shining hair, and slipped into a dressing-jacket. The idea of sleep was out of the question; she would get a book and try to lose herself in it for an hour or so.

The old house seemed full of noises to-night—strange, creeping noises that suggested mystery. It was a common tradition in Pearlborough that the bank house was haunted, but Grace had always declared that the ghosts had been most considerate to her. Yet to-night she felt as nervous and frightened as the most ignorant gossip in the village. It seemed to her that she could hear stealthy footsteps stealing cautiously down the stairs. The footsteps came from the direction of her father's bedroom. Grace tried to restrain herself, she fought down her unworthy suspicions, but some impulse she could not control dragged her to her feet and forced her into the corridor. One or two dim lights had not been extinguished yet, and in the half-gloom Grace could plainly see her father stealing down the stairs carrying some short object in his hand. He was in his stockinged feet, and in shirtsleeves and trousers. Of course, he might have gone downstairs for something that he had forgotten, but there was a furtive air about him that made him look like a burglar in his own house. A speck of light fell upon his face and picked out the ghastly whiteness of it. With a fresh terror gripping at her heart Grace watched the receding figure, almost powerless to move. She saw Anstey vanish down the passage which led to the bank premises proper; it seemed to her that she could hear the click of a lock and the dull slamming of a door.

Grace hesitated as to whether she should follow her father or not. She did not care to play the spy upon him, but she was determined on one point—she would wait there till Anstey returned. As she stood shivering there a quick, broken cry rang through the house. There was no mistaking this—it was no figment of an overheated imagination. The cry had been too clear and sharp for that, the cry of an old man who is taken by surprise and who struggles with an unscrupulous foe.

Grace stood there almost petrified by fear. How long she remained standing in that one spot she could not have told. It seemed an age before she heard the click of the lock again, and her father reappeared. He was no longer carrying the short object in his hand, his nervous fingers were pressing to his forehead, as if to crush out some overwhelming pain, he staggered up the stairs like a man overcome with wine. Grace could see now that there were dull red spots on his shirt front, and that the tips of his fingers were stained with crimson. Anstey stumbled into his bedroom and closed the door behind him, then all was still.

How Grace got back to her room she hardly knew. Probably the strain had been too much for her, and she had lost consciousness, for when she came to herself it was broad daylight, and her maid Helen was bending anxiously over her. There was an expression of horror on Helen's face which could not have been altogether due to the fact that she had discovered her mistress on the bed still partially dressed. Grace's mind was clear now, and the events of the previous night flashed into her brain with startling suddenness.

"What has happened?" she asked. "Helen, I have a curious feeling that something dreadful has taken place."

The maid affected not to hear; she appeared to be busying herself at the toilet table, but Grace could see that her hands were trembling strangely.

"What is it?" Grace repeated. "I insist upon being told. What is all that noise I can hear in the house? They are strange voices, too; don't say that my father——"

"It is not your father, miss," Helen replied in a shaky voice. "It's poor Mr. Holder. They found him an hour ago——"

"Not on the bank premises," Grace cried. "You don't mean to say that he came here and was murdered at the time——"

"He is not dead yet," Helen said. She did not appear to notice Grace's significant pause. "Not dead yet, miss, but the doctor says it is only a question of hours."