Freda watched her father’s retreating figure for some moments,
without daring to look at John Thurley’s face. When at last she found
the courage to throw a shy, frightened glance in his direction, she
saw on his countenance an expression of deep pain and surprise as he
gazed steadily at Captain Mulgrave.
“It is--my father,” she faltered out, in pleading tones, while her
great brown eyes were full of entreaty.
“I know, I know,” he answered hastily, without looking at her.
And he began to pace up and down the choir, with his eyes on the long
rough grass at his feet, and his hands behind his back. Freda felt the
very faint hope she had entertained of moving him by her entreaties
melt utterly away as she watched him. The whole face of the man--the
steadfast eyes, square jaw, resolute mouth--all indicated strength of
purpose, and a will difficult to turn. The trouble and anxiety which
now clouded his face gave it no gentler character, but rather added
sternness. After considering him in silence for a few minutes, during
which he seemed intent on his own thoughts even to forgetfulness of
her presence, she stole away down the nave, and getting through the
window to the north side of the church, crossed the meadow towards the
road.
As she approached the wall which separated the meadow from the road,
Freda was startled by a man who sprang up suddenly on the other side.
Already unstrung by the events of the preceding twenty minutes, she
could scarcely repress a cry of alarm. The man, who had evidently
expected some one else, touched his hat and said:
“Beg pardon, miss. Sorry if I frightened you. I was expecting to meet
a friend here by appointment. I am afraid I startled you.”
Freda wondered who he was. Already she knew enough of the Yorkshire
types and the Yorkshire accent to be sure that he was not a native of
this part of the country; and there was a sort of trimness and
smartness about him in spite of the rough suit of clothes he wore, and
a precision in his manner, which made her think he was some sort of
official. She wondered whether it was John Thurley he was waiting for,
and if so, what his business with him was.
Going back to the ruins, she had got into the shadow of the east end
when she again came face to face with Thurley. The expression of his
countenance had changed; instead of the frown of anxiety he had worn a
few minutes before, care of another kind, far less stern, but scarcely
less disquieting to the young girl, was stamped upon his somewhat
rough features. Yet she could not have explained the feeling which
caused her to start and blush, and to hope that he would let her pass
without speaking.
But that was far from being his intention. He started forward at sight
of her, and his face flushed.
“Ah, I was looking for you; I have something to say to you.”
He turned to walk beside her, but went a few paces without saying
anything further. When they reached the angle of the ruin he stopped
and, looking down upon her rather shyly, said abruptly:
“Give me your arm. We are friends enough for that, aren’t we?”
Freda shyly complied, and they turned and walked back under the shadow
of the eastern wall of the ancient church.
“You are not afraid of me, are you?”
“No-o.”
“No-o! Why No-o? You are _not_ afraid of me, you know you are not.
Then why, lately, have you always avoided me?”
There was a long silence. Then Freda said, in a weak little voice:
“I expect you know.”
“You think I know too much about--about certain very disagreeable
occurrences?”
The girl answered by a long sob of terror. He patted her arm kindly:
“Come, come, my knowledge shall never hurt _you_, little one. That is
what I wanted to tell you. At least, it’s part of it.” Another pause.
“Don’t you want to hear the rest?”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“But you must. First, I want to tell you that I know who saved my life
and had me brought to the Abbey that night when I was attacked by
those ruffians----”
“Ruffians!” Freda turned upon him quickly. “There was only one. My
father wasn’t----”
She stopped, and drew a deep breath.
“I know, I know,” said Thurley.
“It was he who ordered that you were to be brought here--to the
house.”
“I know all about that,” said he quietly.
By his tone Freda knew that he must have heard more than at the time
had seemed possible.
“And I know who nursed me----”
“Mrs. Staynes.”
“And who watched over me----”
“Mrs. Bean.”
“And took care that I should come to no harm, although she knew all
the time that it would be better for those she cared about if I did
come to harm.” Freda tried to protest, but he silenced her
peremptorily. “And the little girl does care for those who belong to
her, no matter how she has been treated by them. But now,” he
continued in a different tone, “I want you to forget all that for the
present, though I never can. I want you to think of the day when I
first met you, a poor, tired, cold, hungry little girl; and to
remember how you gave me your confidence, and chattered to me, and
told me I was very kind.”
“And so you were,” cried Freda eagerly.
“Ah, but I had a motive: I had fallen in love with you.”
Freda wriggled her arm out of his, and looked up at him in
astonishment. Indeed John Thurley’s tone was so robust,
matter-of-fact, and dogmatic that this statement was the last she had
expected.
“In love with me! Oh!”
And she began to laugh timidly.
“But this is no laughing matter--to me at least,” said John Thurley,
in a tone more earnest still, and less matter-of-fact. “I tell you I
fell in love with you. I suppose you know what that means?”
“Not very well,” Freda admitted.
This answer seemed rather to take him aback.
“Why,” said he, looking out to sea and frowning with perplexity, “I
thought all girls knew that.”
“_I_ don’t,” said Freda shaking her head. “I don’t understand it at
all. It seems ridiculous to like a person very much, fall in love as
you call it, when you have only seen that person once, and can’t be
sure at all what that person is really like.”
“Perhaps one can be surer than you think. At any rate I felt sure
enough about you to make up my mind at once that you were the girl I
should like to make my wife.”
“Wife!” echoed Freda in astonishment and even horror, “me! a cripple!”
“Yes, _you_, just as you are, little crutch and all. Now, child, will
you have me? You don’t love me yet, but you will very soon, for I love
you deeply, and you are loving. You trust me, I know, although you
have avoided me lately. There is trouble coming upon this part of the
world, and I will take you away from it, and keep you safe for all
your life. Won’t you let me?”
But Freda grew white and began to tremble. Before she could attempt
any answer, however, he broke in again.
“I tell you you are not safe here; this place is infested with
desperate characters, who have access to the house by all sorts of
secret ways. Only this morning, as I was sitting in the library, a man
suddenly appeared before me, who seemed to spring out of the wall
itself.”
In an instant Freda became flushed and full of passionate interest.
“What was he like?” she asked breathlessly.
“He was a young man, with a thin, wolfish face, with light eyes I
think; dressed in an old brown shooting jacket. He looked half
starved.”
The girl’s face quivered with distress, and the tears sprang to her
eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“Half starved!” she repeated in a heartbroken voice. “Oh, Dick!”
John Thurley stared at her in attentive silence for a few moments.
Then he said drily:
“You are sure you don’t know what falling in love is?”
Freda blushed, and began to dry her eyes.
“I know what it is,” she answered meekly, “to be sorry for a starving
man.”
“And you haven’t a word for the man who is starving for the love of
you?”
There was some passion in his voice now. Freda’s breath came quickly;
she bent her head in deep thought, and presently raised it to show a
face full of excitement, doubt, and entreaty.
“Do you love me enough to do something for my sake? something great,
something difficult?”
John Thurley was a practical man, who liked to keep fact and sentiment
well apart. A shade of caution came into his tone at once.
“Well, what is it? Let us hear.”
“Will you promise”--her voice trembled with passionate eagerness, “not
to make any inquiries, not to give any information, about the murder
of the man Blewitt?”
She hissed out the last words below her breath.
But John Thurley shook his head at once and decidedly.
“I couldn’t allow sentiment to interfere with my duty even for you, my
dear,” he said in a tone which precluded all hope of his softening.
“Besides,” he continued decisively, “as a matter-of-fact, I gave all
the information I had to the police long since.”
Without uttering another word or giving him time for one, Freda fled
away as if she had been struck. Running round the angle of the wall,
and under one of the clustered arches at the south side of the choir,
she stumbled, not seeing where she trod, against a heap of grass-grown
masonry, and fell to the ground.
Before she could rise, she heard the voice of the man who had
frightened her by jumping up behind the wall of the meadow.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Thurley,” said the voice, “but I’ve come to tell you
it’s all right. We’ve followed up the clue you sent, and I’ve been
sent down here to make the arrest. By to-morrow we shall have John
Blewitt’s murderer safe in quod.”