Читать книгу The Nether Millstone - Fred M. White - Страница 15

With faltering hesitation Lady Dashwood made her way into the dark hall beyond the drawing-room. She bore little resemblance to the grand dame that her friends knew. In spite of her silks, her laces and her flashing rings, she looked like the ordinary woman who is suffering from the burden of a great affliction. There were tears in her eyes as she walked along. The house was strangely silent; no servants were to be seen anywhere as Lady Dashwood reached a door leading to the green forecourt with the cloisters beyond. She stepped out into the moonlight slowly, she passed across the garden under the brown stone archway that led to the cloisters.

There she paused and looked about her furtively. There was nothing to be seen but the shadows made by the moonlight. Like a thief in the night Lady Dashwood crept along till she came at length to the end of the cloisters, where there was a stairway leading to some dilapidated apartment overhead. Once again there was a pause, and after that the aged lady began to climb the stairs. At the same time there came the unmistakable sound of voices overhead.

Lady Dashwood started and almost lost her balance. The sound was so unexpected, so utterly unlooked for. The voices were quite clear and distinct, too, on the still air. Lady Dashwood had no desire to play the eavesdropper, but it was impossible not to hear everything. The one voice was low and pleasant, and yet clear and commanding.

"I tell you it is impossible," the pleasant voice said. "You must allow me to conduct this business in my own way. I have already given you my word that everything will come out right in the long run. There is still six months of the time to expire, remember, so that you need do no violence to your conscience."

"Yes, but you have not taken Lady Dashwood into your calculations, sir," the other voice said.

"Indeed I have, my good fellow. I have forgotten nothing. Everything has been most carefully mapped out. As Lady Dashwood is more or less of a recluse, there is nothing to be feared from her. It will be a very easy matter to keep out of her way."

The listener fell back, clutching at her heart wildly. She was compelled to lean against the brown walls of the cloisters for support.

"I am dreaming," she murmured. "I shall awake presently and find myself in bed. I am getting old and fanciful, and my mind is playing me strange tricks. The owner of that voice has been dead for many years; it is a mere chance resemblance. And yet it is as real as if I had gone back over the wasted years. Is it possible----"

The speaker paused. It seemed to her that the two men overhead were coming down and she had no mind to be caught listening. She turned away swiftly, her slim ankle in its satin slipper gave a turn and a cry of pain escaped her. A moment later and Slight was by her side, looking at her with mingled sympathy and suspicion.

"Your ladyship has hurt yourself," he said. "Permit me to take you back to the house. What are you doing here at this time in the evening?"

There was something almost masterful in the tone of the question. In spite of the pain that she was suffering, Lady Dashwood turned a cold displeased eye on the speaker.

"You sometimes forget yourself, Slight," she said. "It is a failing of old and privileged servants. Your place is over at the Hall. What are you doing here? You were ever a man to do strange things in a strange way. Have you some secret here?"

"We have had many secrets together, my lady, and we may take most of them to the grave with us," said Slight coolly. "I have been too long a friend of the family to be treated like this. And your ladyship must just come back to the house at once. You are in pain."

"Pain or not, I am not going back yet, Slight. I came here for something that I had left in one of the cloister chambers, and I heard your voice. I should have thought little of that, for you are permitted to come and go as you like. But you were not alone, you had a companion with you. And I heard his voice, too, Slight."

The withered old servant looked slightly confused. Then his dry face grew hard and dogged.

"I am not going to deny it, my lady," he said. "A--friend of mine, who----"

"Is a gentleman. No mistake about that, Slight, And the voice was so like that of my poor dead boy that I almost died of the sound of it. What does it mean, Slight; who are you hiding up there? I am going to see."

"Indeed, your ladyship is not going to do anything of the kind," said Slight hastily. "Besides, my friend has gone. There is another way from the cloister chamber, remember. And your ladyship has just got to come back to the house."

Lady Dashwood sighed impatiently. Slight had been her own servant for nearly forty years, and she knew the dogged obstinacy of the man. She knew his sterling honesty, too, and how faithful he could be to a trust.

"Very well," she said. "If there is anything to tell me, you will tell it in your own way. But that voice startled me--it was like a voice from the grave. It was as if my boy had come back to me once more. Slight, if you are deceiving me----"

"I'm not deceiving anybody," Slight said in an aggrieved voice. "I leave that to my betters. If your ladyship will lean on my arm, I will try to ease your foot as much as possible. The shortest way is to cut across the grass."

It was rather a slow process, for Lady Dashwood's foot was getting painful. She came at length to the great stone doorway leading from the forecourt into the house; she looked back over her shoulder, and as she did so she grew almost rigid.

"Look!" she whispered. "What did I tell you? Don't you see it, Slight--the figure standing over there by the laurels in the moonlight? See, the rays on his face. Don't tell me that my eyes deceive me, Slight. It is my boy come back again."

Slight muttered something under his breath. In reality he was objurgating Ralph Darnley for his careless imprudence in standing there with his face turned to the dower house. Yet the old man's frame never moved a muscle.

"What does your ladyship mean?" he asked. "I can see nothing."

"That is because you are not looking in the right direction, Slight. Over there by the laurels. Do you dare to tell me that a man is not standing there? It is my son Ralph come back from the grave! The fine figure, the gracious open face, the determined eyes. Has time stood still with him that he looks so young? And yet it is forty years since. . . . Ralph, Ralph, it is your mother who calls to you."

The words rang out with startling stillness in the great cloister. The young man standing there started and turned round. He had been absolutely lost in a deep study, contemplating the old house. He came tumbling down to earth again, and became conscious of a white-haired, richly-dressed old lady who was holding out a pair of arms in his direction. He could see the pleading, loving look on her face, he noticed the menace and anger in Slight's eyes. Without further ado Ralph stepped back into the bushes, his feet making no sound on the mosy turf. It was like the slow diminishing of a dream.

"He has gone," Lady Dashwood cried. "I have frightened him by my notice. Did you not see him, Slight? Did you not observe the extraordinary likeness?"

"I saw nothing but a young man who was trespassing," Slight said evasively. "Your ladyship is full of fancies tonight. You will laugh at yourself in the morning."

Once more Lady Dashwood sighed impatiently. She managed to drag herself back to the drawing-room without the aid of Slight. She dropped into a chair white and quivering, whilst Mary regarded her with eyes filled with deep concern.

"Something has happened to you," she said. "What is it? Can I do anything?"

"Nobody can do anything," Lady Dashwood whispered. "Mary, I have seen a ghost. I not only saw the ghost, but I heard the vision speak. And they wanted to persuade me that it was an old woman's foolish fancy. . . . I meant to have done something for you tonight, but I forget what it is and where I put it. I can think of nothing but my ghost. And I want to be alone, my dear, you cannot think how much I want to be alone! Ring for my maid now and go. Don't think me unkind, my child. Come back in the morning, and I will try to help you in the way you need. Kiss me and say goodnight."

Mary bent down obediently and kissed the faded, unsteady lips. Her errand had been more or less of a failure, but she could not pursue the subject now. She could only ring the bell and depart as she had come. To press the matter nearest her heart would have been wanting in tact and delicacy. Very sorrowfully Mary took her way across the park in the direction of the Hall. She would come back and see Lady Dashwood after breakfast, and then if she could get what she required, she would go to London at once and get matters settled by the family solicitor. She might be an hour or two too late, but she had to risk that.

The drawing-room windows were open; on the terrace in front Sir George was passing up and down with a distracted air. Mary could see that his tie was ruffled and that his hair had been stirred as if by a high wind. He paused as the girl spoke to him.

"What is wrong?" she asked. "Has anything happened?"

"The very worst," Sir George groaned. "They came soon after you had gone . . . three of them. One in the servants' hall, one upstairs, and one in there, the drawing-room. A foul man with a foul pipe. Look and see the creature for yourself!"