The moon was high by the time Captain Mulgrave and his subordinate
started for the Abbey with their unwelcome guest.
John Thurley was still unconscious as they lifted him from the rock;
and the jolting to which they were forced to subject him, as they made
the difficult descent to the level land, failed to rouse him to the
least sign of life. Indeed Freda, who followed close, not without
suspicions of foul play in one of the bearers, was afraid that this
journey was a hopeless one, and that it was a dead man they would
carry into the Abbey.
“Up the steps,” directed Captain Mulgrave briefly.
And instead of turning to the left, towards the cave, they crossed the
stretch of flat, grass-grown land in the direction of a rough flight
of steps, partly cut in the cliff itself and partly formed of stones
brought for the purpose, which, guarded on one side by a primitive
handrail, formed the communication for the public between the top of
the cliff and the scaur.
“It’s a long way round, guv’nor,” grumbled the other. “Better haul him
up our way with the rest of the stuff.”
Freda uttered an angry and impatient exclamation. Her father who, to
her horror, had appeared not unwilling to act on the suggestion, now
shook his head and again nodded towards the steps. The other, though
he had to submit to the directions of his chief, did so with a very
bad grace, and muttered many expressions of ill-will as he staggered
along under his share of the burden. For the unfortunate John Thurley
was a solidly built, heavy man, and the ascent up the face of the
cliff was not an easy one even in ordinary circumstances.
When they had at last, after many pauses, reached the top of the
cliff, the little wizened face puckered up again with an expression of
intense slyness.
“The boys won’t be able to get on without one or other of us,
guv’nor,” he suggested. “They’ll have got the stuff through to the
house by this time, and if there ’s nobody there to look after them
they’ll just get roaring drunk, and perhaps manage to get up from the
cellar for more liquor, and kick up no end of a disturbance.”
Freda, who was afraid her father might leave her alone with this
odious man and the unconscious Thurley, instantly struck in with a
suggestion.
“There’s Josiah Kemm waiting about by the ruin,” she said. “I suppose
you have some whistle or signal that he would know, and he would bring
his cart.”
She would have suggested going in search of him herself, but she could
not pretend to have enough confidence in her companions for that. Her
father smiled, and seemed to be both amused and pleased by her
quickness. The other man, however, openly scowled at her. After a few
moments’ consideration, Captain Mulgrave turned to his subordinate.
“You whistle,” he ordered shortly. “When Kemm comes, she” (nodding
towards Freda) “will tell him what to do.”
So saying, he turned, and descending a dozen steps below the top of
the cliff, concealed himself; while the other man, most unwillingly,
whistled four times. By this Freda concluded that the fact of Captain
Mulgrave’s being still alive was unknown to some members at least of
the gang acting under him.
She knelt down by the wounded man, and was frightened by the coldness
of his face and hands, and by the impossibility of discovering whether
he still breathed. In a very few moments she was relieved to hear the
rattle of wheels; and almost immediately afterwards the cart appeared
in sight, and stopped in the road at the nearest point to where the
wounded man was lying. There was a gate in the wall, and she could see
Josiah Kemm opening it.
“Bring the cart through,” she cried out shrilly. “The cart!”
Kemm stopped, not at first understanding.
“T’ cart!” he echoed wonderingly.
“Yes, yes. Say yes,” she continued, turning with an impetuous air of
command to her companion. He repeated sullenly:
“Yes, bring the cart.”
Kemm obeyed. But his disappointment, disgust and dismay were unbounded
when, instead of a few bales of smuggled tobacco, he found that his
cart was wanted to bear the wounded man. His superstitious fears were
aroused, and he drew back hastily.
“He’s dead!” he muttered, “yon chap’s dead. It’s onlucky to carry a
dead mon.”
But Freda besought him, coaxed, persuaded, promised until the stubborn
Yorkshireman, impressed by her imperious manner, began to think that
in obeying her, he was currying favour with the higher powers. So that
at last he stooped, hoisted up the unfortunate man, placed him in his
cart, lifted Freda herself into the front seat without waiting to be
asked, and turned his horse’s head, by her direction, towards the
Abbey.
Freda was trembling with triumph, but also with some apprehension. The
Abbey was the only place to which she could take the wounded man, and
yet she could not but fear that it might prove a very unsafe refuge.
The little grinning man, whom they had left behind on the edge of the
cliff, was a trusted person in her father’s mysterious house, and
could go and come by secret ways, whenever he pleased. Her only hope
lay with Mrs. Bean. Freda believed in the little woman’s real kindness
of heart, and then too she would get at her first, before the
housekeeper could be influenced by less honest counsels.
The cart with its occupants reached the Abbey-lodge in very few
minutes. At the inner gate there was a little longer delay, and then
Mrs. Bean appeared and let them in without question.
“I didn’t expect you to-night, Mr. Kemm,” was all she said.
But she started back in astonishment and dismay when he said:
“Ah’ve browt ye back a friend an’ a stranger, Mrs. Bean. One’s a
leady, an’ t’other’s a gen’leman.”
At the same moment Freda, who had got down with Kemm’s help, ran up
and put her arm round Nell’s neck.
“Mrs. Bean, dear Mrs. Bean,” she whispered, “it’s a friend of mine,
the gentleman you saw me with at the churchyard, and he’s very, very
ill. You’ll be kind to him, won’t you?”
But Nell was not at all sure about that. She even began by resolutely
refusing to allow him to be brought into the house. Kemm, however, as
resolutely refused to take him away again. At last Freda thought of
away of overcoming the housekeeper’s objections.
“It was my father himself who brought him up from the scaur,” she
whispered, in a voice too low for Kemm to hear. And as the housekeeper
looked at her incredulously, she added: “My father, the man I have
always called Crispin. He told me to bring him home.”
Mrs. Bean turned abruptly to Kemm.
“Where did you find this gentleman?” she asked. “Who was with him?”
“This little leady, and your husband.”
Freda started. The wizened and grinning man who had threatened her and
stabbed John Thurley was, then, Nell’s husband, the veritable Crispin
Bean.
Kemm’s answer, while it disturbed her, reassured the housekeeper, who
reluctantly gave Kemm permission to bring the unconscious man indoors.
“I’m sure I don’t know where to put him,” she said discontentedly,
though Freda was happy in discovering a gleam of pity in her round
face.
“Put him in my father’s room,” said Freda with unexpected authority.
And she led the way upstairs, beckoning to Kemm to follow her with his
burden. She had rapidly decided that this room would be the safest in
the house.
As soon as John Thurley had been placed upon the bed and Kemm had
gone, Freda was delighted to find that her trust in Nell’s goodness of
heart had not been misplaced. The young girl wanted to go for a
doctor, but this the housekeeper would not allow, saying that she
could do what had to be done as well as any man. She proceeded to
prove this by binding up his wound with skilful hands. Presently John
Thurley opened his eyes, as he had done several times during the
journey from the beach. This time, however, he was not allowed to
relapse into unconsciousness. Applying a restorative to his lips, Mrs.
Bean spoke to him cheerfully, and got some sort of feebly muttered
answer. He caught sight of Freda, who was helping Mrs. Bean, and gave
her a smile of recognition. But Nell sent her away lest he should want
to talk to her.
Freda left the room obediently, but went no further away than the
great window-seat on the landing outside. Here she curled herself up,
trying to keep warm, and looked out on the moonlit stretch of country.
She was full of disquieting thoughts. This man, who had been kind to
her, whose life she was trying to save, had seen the murderer of the
man-servant Blewitt, and could recognise him. The fact of his having
kept this knowledge to himself for so long could only be explained by
his belief that the murderer was dead, and could not be brought to
justice. If he were to learn that the murderer was not dead after all,
Freda felt that she knew the man well enough to be sure that no
consideration would deter him from bringing punishment upon the
criminal. And that criminal she could no longer doubt was her father.
If she could only see her father again, and warn him to keep away, as
she had meant but had missed the opportunity to do, it would be all
right. It never occurred to her that her influence with John Thurley
would be strong enough to induce him to keep silence. On the other
hand, there was danger to be feared from the real Crispin; perhaps
also from his wife, who, when she learnt who struck the blow, might be
too dutiful to her husband to continue her care of his victim. But in
this she did Nell an injustice.
While the girl was still sitting in the window-seat crouching in an
attitude of deep depression, the door of her father’s room softly
opened, and Nell came up to her. She looked worried but spoke very
gently.
“This is a bad business,” she began. “It’s one of my lord and master’s
tricks, no doubt. And the worst of it is that when Crispin takes a job
like this on hand, he doesn’t generally stop till he’s finished it.”
“But can’t you prevent him? Can’t you persuade him that he’s hurt this
poor man enough?” asked Freda anxiously.
Nell shook her head.
“My dear,” said she, “since you’ve found out so much you may as well
know the rest. Crispin’s a bad man, but a moderately good husband. If
I were to interfere with him in any way, he would not be at all a
better man, and he’d be a much worse husband. Those are the terms we
live upon: I hold my tongue to him, and he holds his to me.”
“Then you won’t take care of this poor man any longer?”
“Yes, I will as long as I can. What he will most want is--watching.
You understand?”
“Yes,” said Freda, trembling.
“The wound isn’t dangerous, I think if he’s kept quiet. And I’m used
to nursing. Who is he?”
Freda hesitated. But the truth could not be concealed from Nell much
longer, so at last she faltered:
“He is sent down--by the government--to look after the smuggling.”
The housekeeper’s face changed, as if a warrant of death had been
contained in those words.
“The Lord help him then!” was all she said.
But Freda was so horror-struck at her tone that she sprang up and ran
like a hare to the door of the sick man’s room.
“What are you going to do?” asked Nell.
“I don’t know,” sobbed Freda. “But--but I think I ought to put him on
his guard.”
“No,” said Nell peremptorily. “Don’t disturb him now. Come here with
me; I have something to tell you.”
Fancying from the housekeeper’s manner that an idea for helping John
Thurley had occurred to her, Freda allowed herself to be led away to
the disused room opposite.