AT THE BUNGALOW.
Meanwhile Adrian Rowton had gone quickly back to the Bungalow. It was
a truly bare and comfortless place. He kept only one servant, the
rough-looking man who has been already described. Hearing his horse’s
steps on the path outside, the man, Samson by name, came out to meet his
master. He was a middle aged, strongly-built, square individual; his
hair, which had once been red, was now turning to a grizzly grey; it
grew thick on his low forehead and was cut very short, so short that it
stood up like a thick brush all over his head. He had a bulldog sort of
face, with a massive chin, deeply cleft in the middle; one eye was also
decidedly smaller than the other. His name suited the man’s broad figure
and muscular arms to perfection.
“You are late to-night,” he said, addressing Adrian with a sort of
growl. “I lay down by the horses and went to sleep; I thought when I
heard the clock strike one that you were not coming.”
“I was delayed on my way home from the station,” said Rowton briefly;
“here, take Satyr, rub him down well and attend to him before you go to
bed.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want any supper?”
“None that I can’t get for myself. Good-night, Samson; I shall not need
your services before the morning.”
Rowton turned to his left as he spoke; Samson led the horse away to the
stables which stood to the right of the Bungalow. Rowton entered the
lowly built house under a heavy porch. A paraffin lamp was burning in
the hall; he took it up and entered a sort of general sitting-room. It
was long and low; there were three windows occupying the greater part of
one of the walls; the room was furnished in nondescript style, partly as
dining-room and partly as study; a square of carpet placed in front of
the fire gave a certain degree of comfort to the upper portion of the
apartment; the lower part near the entrance door was bare of carpet and
also of furniture. A high desk occupied the whole of one window. Rowton
placed the paraffin lamp now on this desk; he turned it up high and the
light illuminated the entire room.
“Bad enough hole for a man to live in, but the lap of luxury compared
to Nancy’s sitting-room,” he muttered. A red gleam sparkled angrily in
his eye as he spoke; he sat down where the firelight fell all over him,
tossed off his heavy boots, and gazed gloomily into the heart of a large
and glowing fire. He was a huge man, built on a massive scale. He tossed
his hair impatiently from a broad and splendidly developed brow. At this
moment his eyes were full of dreadful and fierce reflection, and he
pulled at his long moustache with an almost savage gesture.
“Without food, without fire, without the decencies of life—that old
fool is a madman,” he muttered again, “but I’ll soon change matters.
I take her with leave, if I can, but I take her without leave if any
difficulties are put in my way, and sooner without leave than with. After
all, to carry her off by force would suit my purpose better. The wild
bird shall sing to me and make me gentle; I cannot live without her.
Hullo! what’s up now, Samson? Why don’t you go to bed?”
“I forgot to tell you, sir, that the boxes will be here to-morrow night.”
“Who told you that?”
“Scrivener; I had a cipher from him by the last post.”
“All right,” said Rowton, “take them in when they come.”
“Between one and two to-morrow night,” repeated Samson; “there is no moon
and we can easily get them carted off from the station without anyone
noticing. Scrivener will come with them.”
“All right,” said Rowton again. “What are you waiting for? To-morrow
night is not to-night, and I am dog-tired and want to get to bed.”
“There is no room in the cellar unless we move the boxes which are there
already,” continued Samson. “We cannot go down there with lights in the
daytime, and I can’t do the job by myself.”
“You dog! I shan’t help you to move a box to-night; get off to bed and
leave me alone.”
Samson withdrew, muttering angrily as he did so.
When he left the room, Rowton rose from his chair by the fire, walked
across the apartment and locked the door. Then stepping up to the
uncarpeted portion of the room, he touched a secret spring, which
immediately revealed a trap-door. There was a ladder beneath the door
which led down into a cellar. Rowton gazed gloomily down for a moment.
He then let the trap door fall into its place, and a moment or two later
put out the lamp, lit a candle and went upstairs to his bedroom.
He slept until late the following morning, and when he went downstairs
between nine and ten, Samson was bringing his breakfast into the room.
“That’s right,” said Rowton, “I am as hungry as a ferret. You can put it
down; I shall wait on myself.”
“You won’t forget that Scrivener is coming to-night?”
“Am I likely to, when you remind me of the fact whenever you see me? You
want me to help with the boxes; I’ll go down to the cellar with you after
breakfast.”
“As you please, sir, but if I were you I would not draw attention by
taking a light there in the daytime.”
“We need not have a light; we can move the boxes in the dark. Be sure, by
the way, that you have the cart in good time at Mervyn station to-night.”
“I forgot to say that Nelly has gone lame,” said Samson; “she hurt her
hoof yesterday and won’t be good for anything for a few days.”
“You must take Satyr, then.”
“Satyr,” said the man, scratching his head in some perplexity; “he ain’t
used to harness; he’ll fidget a good bit.”
“Folly! don’t make obstacles; he’ll do very well. If anyone asks you
about the boxes, say that I am getting some wine; the goods will come
in wine cases, so your story will sound all right. By the way, Samson,
I shall leave here by the two o’clock train. I am supposed to be on my
way to Liverpool if anyone asks, but——” here Rowton’s voice dropped to a
low whisper. Samson came close, bent his head slightly forward, listened
with all his ears, and nodded once or twice emphatically. He was about to
leave the room when he suddenly came back.
“I forgot to tell you, sir, that old Dr. Follett is dead.”
“Ah! how did you hear that?” asked Rowton, who was in the act of pouring
out a cup of coffee.
“The milkman brought me the news. He died between three and four this
morning. The wench will be in a fine taking—she was bound up, they say,
in that queer old character.”
“That is enough, Samson; I prefer not to discuss Miss Follett. Thanks,
you can leave me alone now.”
When Samson withdrew, Rowton went calmly on with his breakfast. He then
returned to his bedroom and completely altered his dress. His rough
Norfolk suit was exchanged for that which a gentleman might wear in town.
Five minutes later he issued from the Bungalow, looking like a very
handsome, well set-up young man. Samson, who was grooming one of the
horses, raised his head to watch him from behind the hedge. When he saw
his master’s get-up, he grinned from ear to ear.
“Now what’s in the wind?” he said, under his breath; aloud he called out:
“Do you want the horse?”
“Not this morning.”
“You ain’t helped me with the boxes.”
“True, I had forgotten; I will help you when I come back. I am going to
see Miss Follett.”
Samson grinned again, but he took care now to withdraw his head from any
chance of Rowton’s observation.
The morning was clear and frosty; the storm of the night before had
completely spent itself; the sky overhead was a watery blue, and the
ground beneath felt crisp under Rowton’s feet as he walked. He quickly
reached the Grange, and taking a short cut to the house, soon found
himself on the lawn, where he had tied Satyr the night before. The door
of the old Grange was wide open and Nancy stood on the steps. She heard
her lover’s footsteps and greeted him with a very faint smile, which
quickly vanished. Her face was ghastly white and red rims disfigured her
beautiful grey eyes.
“Here I am,” said Rowton. “Good morning, sweetheart; give me a kiss,
won’t you?”
Nancy raised her trembling lips, then all of a sudden her calm gave
way, she flung her arms passionately round Rowton’s neck and burst into
convulsive sobs.
“There, darling, there,” he said. He patted her on the cheek, kissed her
many times and tried to comfort her, showering loving words upon her, and
then kissing her more and more passionately.
“You know,” she said at last in an almost inaudible whisper.
“Of course I know,” said Adrian. “What you feared last night has come to
pass—your father’s sufferings are over, he is dead. Peace to his soul,
say I. Now it is your duty, Nancy, to take care of yourself and not to
fret yourself into an illness. Remember I am here, and it is my privilege
and blessing to feel that I have a right to comfort you.”
Nancy with some difficulty disengaged herself from her lover’s arms.
“I have something to tell you,” she said—her face was like a sheet.
“Something happened last night after you left, and—Adrian—I am not free
to marry you—I am not free to marry anyone! I am a doomed woman; a doom
is on me and I cannot be your wife!”
She covered her face with her trembling hands; tears rained down her
cheeks.
“I swear,” said Rowton, “that there is not a doom on this wide earth
which shall part us. What is the matter, child? Tell me.”
“I cannot; it is a secret.”
“I swear that you shall, and now.” He tried to clasp her again in his
arms, but she slipped from him.
“I can never tell you,” she said; “and while I hold this secret I must
not be your wife!”