When Freda overheard the words which told her the police were on the
track of the murderer, she did not lose a moment in making her way
back to the Abbey. Mrs. Bean opened the inner gate, as usual, and was
alarmed by the look on the girl’s face.
“Why, what’s come to you, child?” she said. “Where have you been? Has
anybody frightened you again?”
“No,” said Freda hoarsely. Then, bending forward, she whispered: “My
father--have you seen him?”
“Sh-sh!” said Nell, sharply. “Go into the dining-room.”
Freda thought there was a look of anxiety upon the housekeeper’s face,
but as it was always useless to try to force Nell’s confidence, she
hurried past her into the dining-room without a word. No one was in
the room, however. She was on the point of going back to Mrs. Bean
when the corner of a note, which had been thrust under the clock,
caught her eye. She pulled it out, and found that it was directed, in
her father’s handwriting, to “Freda.” She opened it eagerly but not
without fear. The note was very short:
“My dearest Child,--I am away for a little while, you can perhaps
guess why. As long as I am out of reach, this Thurley (who is, I
believe, an honourable man) can do nothing. You need not be anxious on
my account, little one. When I can, I shall come back, and carry you
straight back to the convent. I ought never to have brought you away,
it is the right place for a little saint. I wish I could have been a
better father to you, but it is too late. ‘The tree has ta’en the
bend.’ Good-bye, child.
“Your affectionate,
“Father.”
Freda sobbed over this; she was surprised to find, among the mingled
emotions which the note roused in her, a strong feeling of reluctance
to the idea of going back to the convent. The excitement of the
strange life she had led since leaving it had spoilt her for the old,
calm, passionless existence. What! Never again to leave the shade of
those quiet walls? Never to wander, as she now loved to do, about the
ruined church of Saint Hilda, whose roofless walls, with their choir
of wailing sea-birds, had grown to her ten times more sacred than the
little convent-chapel? Never to see her father? Never to see--Dick?
At this thought she broke down, and resting her head upon her hands,
let the tears come. And poor Dick had looked half-starved, so John
Thurley said! There began to steal into her heart a consciousness
that, _if_ things had been different, as it were, and _if_ she had not
been brought up in, and for, a convent, as one might say, she too
might perhaps, to use John Thurley’s words, “have known what falling
in love was.”
She was startled, in the midst of her tears, by the sound of John
Thurley’s voice in the hall, outside. He was talking to Nell, asking
“the way to Oldcastle Farm.” Freda sprang up in alarm. What if the
farm were her father’s hiding-place? It was the probable, the most
horrible explanation. The man who had spoken to Thurley that morning
was certainly a member of the London police force, and he had said
that he was on the murderer’s track. It might be, then, that he had
got wind of the fact that the farm was to be Captain Mulgrave’s
hiding-place. If not, what did Mr. Thurley want there?
It took Freda only a few minutes, when these thoughts had occurred to
her, to make up her mind what she should do. She waited until, by the
more distant sound of their voices, she knew that Thurley and Mrs.
Bean had retreated into the passage leading to the precincts of the
latter; and then ran upstairs to her own room, dressed hastily for
walking, and crept out of the house without being seen by any one.
It was Saturday, and market-day at Presterby. Barnabas Ugthorpe would
be at market; and Freda, in her short acquaintance with him, had
gained enough insight into that gentleman’s tastes and habits to be
sure that, instead of making the best of his way home as soon as the
business of the day was done, he would at this moment be enjoying
himself at the “The Blue Cow,” or “The Green Man,” or one or other of
the small hostelries which abutted on the market-place. So it was in
this direction that she turned her steps, flitting among the old
grave-stones and hopping down the hundred and ninety-eight worn steps,
until she reached Church Street.
It was six o’clock, and the streets swarmed with a noisy rabble.
Crowds of children, as usual, played about the steps; riotous
fisher-lads, in parties of half-a-dozen or so, streamed into the
streets from the Agalyth, a row of tumble-down houses, much out of the
perpendicular, that nestled right under the cliff, and some of which
fell down, from time to time, into the sea. Knots of women stood
gossiping at the doors; girls, in preposterous “best” hats, flaunted
down the street in twos and threes. Poor Freda, with her crutch and
her quaint dress, was laughed at as she sped along, her progress from
time to time impeded by the crowd. At last she reached the little
market-place, where business was long since over, but where women were
still busy packing up their baskets, and groups of men stood about,
discussing the news of the day. At the lower end a line of
primitive-looking carts and gigs stretched from one side of the
market-place to the other, and straggled into the narrow side-street.
From a nest of little beetle-browed and dingy taverns came a noise of
mingled merriment, wrangling and loud talking; it was in these
unprepossessing quarters she must look for her friend, Freda knew.
The hunt was not a pleasant task. She had to stand some rude “chaff”
from the sailor lads, as she stood about the doors peeping in when she
could. She was, however, so very simple-minded and unsophisticated,
that she bore this ordeal better than an ordinary girl could have
done. And then, too, her mind was so steadfastly fixed on its object
that many remarks intended for her failed to reach her understanding.
She had convinced herself that Barnabas was not in either of the three
taverns on the right hand side, and was beginning to despond, when she
recognised, among the horseless carts, the one in which the farmer had
brought her to the Abbey. Her spirits went up again, and with brisker
steps she continued her search. Down into the little side-street she
went boldly, and at last with a heart-leap of triumph she ran the
farmer to earth.
It was in a narrow slip of an inn that Freda, peeping in at the door,
spied the burly Barnabas laying down the law at the bar in a way that
he never dared do at home. Indeed, the girl had recognised his voice
some yards away. Without the least hesitation, she lifted up her
voice, without entering, causing all the guests to look round.
“Barnabas!” was all she said.
The farmer turned as if he had been shot.
“The Lord bless my soul!” he ejaculated. “It’s t’ little missie!”
“Come,” she cried peremptorily, “come at once.”
He obeyed as unhesitatingly as if he had received a mandate from the
queen. Leaving his glass of ale untasted on the counter, he followed
the girl down the street; for without waiting she led the way straight
to where his cart stood.
“Get your horse, Barnabas,” she said as soon as he came up, “you must
drive me to Oldcastle Farm.”
“But----” began the bewildered farmer.
She would not let him speak, but stamped her crutch impatiently on the
stones. Barnabas was as weak as water with any one who had a will;
whistling to himself as if to prove that he was carrying out his own
intentions instead of somebody else’s, he went straight to the place
where his horse was put up. Within ten minutes the cart was jogging
down slowly through the crowded street, with Barnabas and Freda side
by side on the seat, the farmer shouting to the crowd to keep out of
the way.
For a long way they did not exchange a word. As they proceeded down
the stone-paved street the throng grew less and less, until, when they
got to that point where the houses on the one side give place to the
river, they passed only an occasional foot-farer. They were now on the
outskirts of Presterby. The lights from the other side twinkled on the
water; the distant sounds of the town, and the voices of men calling
to each other from the barges, came faintly to their ears. Then for
the first time Barnabas, drawing a deep breath, looked down at his
companion.
“Eh, but ye’re a high-honded lass. What’s takin’ ye to t’ farm?”
“Never mind what’s taking me. I have something to say to _you_,” said
Freda with decision. “Barnabas, you know you didn’t keep that secret!”
“What secret?” said he uneasily.
Freda lowered her voice.
“About the dead man, and--the person you found beside him.”
Barnabas shuffled his feet.
“Ah doan’t knaw as Ah’ve said a word----”
“Oh, yes, you have. You haven’t meant to, perhaps, but you’ve let out
a word here, and a hint there, until----”
Freda stopped. Her voice was breaking.
“Weel, Ah’m downright sorry if Ah have. Mebbe Ah have let aht a word
that somebody’s picked oop, and--and--weel, Ah hope no harm’s coom of
it.”
“There’s only this harm come of it,” answered the girl bitterly, “that
you have perhaps put the police on the track of--of----”
“A dead mon. Weel, and where’s t’ harm of that?”
Freda was silent. She had forgotten her father’s pretended death.
“Mind ye, missie, there’s no good of being too sentimental, and,
asking your pardon, t’ Capt’n’s reputation was none so good, setting
aside that little business. So, as Ah said, there’s small harm done.
And now mebbe you’ll tell me what’s taking you to Owdcastle Farm.
There’s ne’er a pleace Ah wouldn’t sooner be droiving ye to.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s bad teales towd of it; an’ there’s bad characters
that goes there.”
“Oh, Barnabas, I’m getting used to bad characters. I mean----”
She stopped. The farmer scratched his ear.
“Weel, but it’s t’ bad characters that are fahnd aht that’s t’ worst.
T’ other sort, that keeps dark, aren’t near so degreading. An’, by
what Ah’ve been told, Ah reckon there’s some that’s fahnd aht at
Owdcastle Farm.”
Not a word of explanation of this dark hint could Freda get from him.
With Yorkshire obstinacy he shut up his mouth on that one subject,
and, although she plied him with entreaties, all that he would add on
the subject was:
“Weel, now, ye’re warned. Folks that tek’ oop wi’ dangerous characters
must be prepared to tek’ t’ consequences.”
After this speech, Freda fell into frightened silence; and for the
rest of the journey there was little conversation between them.