GOOD-BYE
“Murder!”
The cry came from some part of the wood which surrounded the house and
grounds on all sides but one. It was impossible to recognise the
voice, but it was not Olwen’s.
Bayre shouted in answer, and then he heard the cry again; and plunging
in among the bushes which grew thick under the trees of the
plantation, he presently heard it for the third time, uttered more
faintly than before, and then he came suddenly upon a scene of weird
horror.
In a little clearing, not many feet from a small round pond which was
swollen by the recent wet weather, two men were struggling in a
hand-to-hand tussle, in which one of them was obviously getting the
best of it. This one was Pierre Vazon, who, hatless, with a scar
across his face and blood in his matted hair, was kneeling on the body
of his master and twisting the neck-cloth of the latter more and more
tightly round his throat. Bayre uttered a cry of horror: his uncle lay
gasping on the ground, his face livid, his eye-balls starting, trying
in vain to utter more than a stifled cry.
He was indeed very nearly at the last gasp, and the blood was coming
from his nostrils as he made a feeble attempt to clutch the arms of
his assailant and to free himself from the fatal pressure under which
he felt his very life ebbing away.
One moment was enough for Bayre to take in every detail of the scene,
and to understand that the rascally blackmailer, now that his master
had defied him, intended to murder him, since his own career of
successful dishonesty had come to an end.
The appearance of Mr Bayre’s nephew, however, put an instant change
upon the face of affairs.
“Rascal!” cried the young man, as he leapt down the slope, at the foot
of which the outrage had taken place.
And seizing the peasant by the neck of his blouse, he applied to him
the very same tactics that Pierre had applied to his master; and
twisting a strong hand so tightly in the clothes about his neck that
the peasant cried for mercy in his turn, he dragged him off the body
of the prostrate old man, and edging him nearer and nearer to the
black and slimy water of the little pond, at last, with a sudden deft
movement, flung him with a splash into it.
It was not deep enough to drown the rogue, who, however, continued to
utter yelping cries as he floundered out of the mud; but Bayre had no
more attention to spare for him: his uncle, whom he at first believed
to be dying, claimed all his care.
But, by an astonishing circumstance, the very approach of his
preserver seemed to fill him with more terror than had the attack of
his murderous servant. Old Mr Bayre, still panting and gasping for
breath, turned his bloodshot eyes upon his nephew, and at the sight of
him, by a supreme effort, turned over, and scrambling up upon his
hands and knees, dragged himself away on all fours into the shelter of
the trees and bushes, as if an encounter with his nephew were more to
be feared than that through which he had just passed.
Bayre, astonished as he was, rather admired the old man’s consistency
and pluck. Frankly disliking his nephew, persistently showing his
dislike in avoidance when he could, in tone and manner when he could
not, he was game to the last, and ran away from the young man’s help
as he had previously done from his visits.
The flesh, however, was weaker than the spirit, and by the time he had
crawled as far as the door of the mansion, leaving a trail of blood on
the stones of the courtyard from a wound in his neck, the old man sank
down exhausted, unable to pull the iron bell-handle, or even to knock
for admittance.
Luckily he had been seen from the house, and Marie Vazon opened the
door and let him in. The girl’s face was white with alarm; and young
Bayre, who had followed his unfortunate uncle at a little distance,
ready with assistance in case he should have to give in, felt no fear
that she would be as brutal as her father.
However, he did not feel sufficient confidence in her to leave the
feeble old man entirely to her care. After waiting for a short space,
to give these two time to leave the hall, he rang the bell, and was
glad to find his summons answered by one of the other servants, an
older woman of the same unpolished class, who opened the door only a
little way and peeped at him with a face full of alarm.
“You had better let me in,” he said with authority. “You know who I
am--Mr Bayre’s nephew. I have just been witness to an assault made
upon him by Pierre Vazon, who would have killed him but for my
interference.”
Whether the woman would have dared to let him in, torn as she
evidently was between fear of offending her master and terror of the
Vazons, Bayre did not know. But at that moment Olwen, who evidently
knew something of the business already, came running into the hall,
and held the door wide for him to enter.
“Thank heaven you were still here!” she whispered hoarsely. “You’ve
saved his life, and he knows it.”
The servant had disappeared, leaving the two young people alone.
“How is he? Shall I go across for a doctor?” asked Bayre.
She shook her head.
“He won’t allow it. I’ve just asked him. He’s very weak, but he’s so
determined, so obstinate, that I think his spirit will pull him
through. Wait here. He shall see you before you go.”
But Bayre had already made up his mind that he would not leave the
house until he had seen the second member of the Vazon family turned
out of it; as he well knew that, though Marie might not be as brutal
as her father, she could only remain as a traitor in the camp, and her
presence, as a connection of a would-be murderer, could not be
tolerated there any longer.
“I don’t mean to go,” said he, “until I have seen Vazon’s daughter as
well as himself not only out of the house but off the island. You
might tell the young woman so, and perhaps she will take herself off
at once and save trouble.”
It is more than probable that Marie Vazon, who had already heard from
her master something of what had happened, was listening outside the
door as the young man spoke. However that may be, when Olwen left the
room with the intention of giving her notice to go, Marie was nowhere
to be seen. Olwen found her uncle lying on the sofa in the
ground-floor room he usually occupied in the day time, the room where
he had had the memorable interview with his nephew and Monsieur
Blaise.
A small log fire was burning on the hearth, and the heavy window
curtains were drawn so as to exclude almost all light. The old man lay
on a dark-coloured sofa with his back to those few rays of light which
could make their way in under the circumstances. He was quite alone.
“How do you feel now?” she asked gently.
“Better. Quite well,” snapped the old man, shortly. “I only wanted a
mouthful of my old brandy to put me right.”
And he pointed to a decanter and tiny glass on a table near him.
“Who got it out for you?” asked she.
“That girl Marie,” answered the old man.
And although she could not see his face clearly, Olwen could tell by
his voice that he for one would show no reluctance at parting with
her.
“Your nephew wants to see her and her father off the island before he
goes away,” said Olwen, watching for the effect of her words.
It was electric. The old man struggled up to his elbow and stared at
her.
“Ah, you have let him in then? I’m to get rid of one greedy rascal
only to let in another?”
“Not greedy,” said she, gently. “You can’t fairly accuse him of that.”
“Greedy and inquisitive,” repeated the old man, obstinately. “What
right has he to come here? He’s not my heir; he’ll never get a penny
from me. And he may save himself the trouble of his visits for all
he’ll ever get out of Creux.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Olwen, with a little demure
archness in her tone.
The old man stared at her indignantly.
“What fools girls are!” said he, scornfully. “Don’t you see that he
only comes after you because he thinks you’ll have some of my money?”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t. He knows, as I know, what a strong dislike you
have taken to him, and we don’t either of us expect anything from you.
That doesn’t prevent our wishing to do our duty, and it didn’t prevent
him from saving your life. Remember that.”
But the pig-headed old man only growled out,--
“He knew if Vazon had strangled me this afternoon he would have got
nothing. And he hoped, by saving my life, to induce me to alter my
will.”
The idea that young Bayre should have been influenced by any such
sordid motives as he rushed forward to his uncle’s assistance was so
absurd that the girl burst out laughing.
“I think you’re a little prejudiced,” she said. “But I won’t tease you
about it now. I’ll go and tell him that you’re more afraid of him than
the Vazons, and that you don’t wish him to stay in the house.”
Perhaps reason began to get the better of the old man’s prejudice, or
perhaps the very real peril he had escaped suddenly came back to his
mind and made him timorous. He put out a trembling hand and detained
her to say,--
“Well, well, let him stay if he likes. Let’s play one rogue off
against the other!”
With which grateful remark he let her go.
She and Bayre laughed softly together over the scene, which she
described to him, and then she brought in her own little silver kettle
and stand, with which she was in the habit of making tea for herself
and her guardian in the afternoon; and the two young people amused
themselves very well in making the spirit-lamp boil the water, and in
very discreet conversation over their tea afterwards.
She kept well on her guard, and was decidedly prim. But he could not
help knowing, though no allusion was made to the precious bundle of
MS. which he was carrying about with him or to the secret tie by which
this bound them together, that Olwen was even brighter than usual, and
that the happiness which sparkled in her eyes might be ascribed to the
pleasure she felt in his visit.
There were so many anxious questions disturbing their minds that they
both seemed to take a perverse satisfaction in avoiding them all; so
they discussed neither the Vazons and their probable conduct nor the
mystery of the woman whom they believed to be shut up in the
_château_; nor the strange prejudice with which old Mr Bayre regarded
his nephew.
It was not until Olwen rose to carry a cup of tea to her guardian that
she suddenly turned at the door and said, in a low voice,--
“What do you think these Vazons will do? I’m afraid of them.”
“I’ll give information to the police when I get back to Guernsey,”
said he, in the same tone, “and in the meantime we’d better keep
careful watch. I should like to know what has become of the girl.”
The result of their fears and of their consultation was that Bayre
decided to remain awake and to keep watch in order to circumvent any
attempt which might be made upon old Mr Bayre that night.
At his nephew’s suggestion, Olwen had proposed that the police of
Guernsey should be communicated with that very day. But old Mr Bayre
flatly forbade this, and the prohibition seemed so strange,
considering that the attack upon him had been a murderous one, that it
was no wonder the suspicions of the two young people concerning old Mr
Bayre himself began to grow strong again.
Why, unless he feared the result of an investigation into his house
and his affairs, should the old man object to such an obvious measure
for his own protection?
He gave as a reason for his objection that he was loth to treat old
servants with harshness, and he added that he was sure Vazon had no
intention of killing him, although he admitted that they had had a
quarrel.
But this reason appeared very like a lame excuse, since old Mr Bayre
was by no means now, whatever he might have been once, the benevolent
old philanthropist, brimming over with loving-kindness towards his
fellow-creatures, which such leniency would have seemed to imply that
he was.
The wind began to rise soon after dark, and Bayre felt the weird
influence of the great shut-up house when he was left to himself in
the night silence, in the bare _salon_ with its polished floor and its
white walls.
Old Mr Bayre had managed, after rejecting the proffered help of his
nephew, to get upstairs to his bedroom with the help of the stronger
of the two servants; he was nervous, Olwen said, and peered and
listened as he went slowly upwards.
He too seemed to have suspicions of the baffled blackmailers, so Olwen
thought.
Now that he was left alone, young Bayre found his thoughts revert
again to the mystery about the mansion; he began to listen for
footsteps along the corridors above, to wonder whether this
night-watch would bring him any nearer the clue to the secret.
Creeping softly about the room, he soon fancied that he could hear
another step as stealthy as his own in one of the adjoining
apartments, and after some time he was almost sure that he could make
out the sound of whispering voices.
Opening the door at the end of the room very carefully, he became
aware that the whispering came from a room beyond that, and that the
voices were those of two persons.
Traversing this second apartment in the same stealthy manner as he had
done the first, and slipping off his boots so that he might make the
less noise, Bayre reached the door at the end, and was then aware, by
the wind which blew through the keyhole and round the crack of the
door, that there was either a door or a window open in the room
beyond--the room whence the voices came.
By this time he could make out that the voice which spoke from the
inner side of the open door or window was that of Marie Vazon, and he
judged that she was conversing with someone outside the house, who, he
had little doubt, was her father.
From certain further sounds Bayre guessed that the precious pair were
engaged in robbing the house, and that Marie, from the inside, was
handing such articles of portable property as she fancied to her
father, who stood without.
And as the apparent loneliness of the house made them bolder, both
father and daughter allowed their voices to grow a little louder, so
that in the end Bayre was able to make out what they said.
“I couldn’t get into the old man’s bedroom, for it was locked all
day,” she said, “nor into the museum rooms, for they were locked too.
But I’ve got some money and some good things, besides what I’ve given
you, and I’ve found a little iron box that probably contains something
of value. Here.”
When she got as far as that, Bayre judged that it was time to
interfere. Opening the door quickly, he sprang upon the girl, who was
standing without a light by the open window, mounted on a chair.
“What have you got there, you thieves?” cried he, seizing her arm as
he spoke and trying to drag it down.
But she was too quick for him. He heard the iron box fall with a dull
sound, as of something heavy, to the ground outside, before he
succeeded in dragging her down from her perch. “Let me go!” cried she.
“Let me go, monsieur, and I’ll tell you a secret--your uncle’s
secret.”
“Tell nothing, tell nothing!” warned the old peasant’s voice from
outside. “A secret is worth a good price, _ma fille_. Keep it close.”
And the girl, looking up with a shudder at the determined face of the
young man who still held her by the arm, closed her lips firmly, and
crossed her arms, and defied him.