The wind was fresh from the south-west, with rain, and the night was
dark. The balloon was driving along at a dangerous rate, considering the
low altitude.
“I give it up,” said Bob Trevelyan, who had not spoken for a long time.
“We’ve been travelling five hours, and I haven’t the vaguest idea where
we are.”
“Does it matter much?” inquired Jocelyn lazily.
For he was comfortable where he was, and hoped that it would go on a
long time, since he was pleasantly close to Anne Trevelyan in the bottom
of the car. No one who has not been up in a gale can have any idea of
the profound quiet which seems to enfold the balloon as it is borne
noiselessly along in the arms of the wind, perhaps at thirty or forty
miles an hour. If it rains, you hear the drops pattering on the envelope
overhead; if you are near the ground at night, the howling of the wind
through the unseen trees comes up to you in a rather dismal way; but no
matter how hard it blows, there is peace and tranquillity in the car.
Anne Trevelyan and her friend Lady Dorothy Wynne were poring over a map,
by the light of an electric lamp which Jocelyn held for them.
“It might matter a little,” Anne said, looking up with a laugh as she
spoke; “for the only thing that is quite certain is that we are bound to
get to the sea pretty soon. I think I’ll have a look.”
She got up, and all three scrambled to their feet and peered over the
edge of the car.
“It really is rather a dirty night,” observed Lady Dorothy, with great
calm.
“Distinctly,” said Anne, admitting what could not be denied.
Jocelyn said nothing, for he knew that a woman who is inaccessible to
physical fear is much more reckless than any brave and sensible man has
a right to be, and he was beginning to wonder what the end would be
like, and how many arms and legs, or even necks, would be broken before
morning. For it was his first ascent, and though he was not scared he
realised that there was danger.
There had been a good deal of delay at the start, and the breeze had
been light from the south during most of the afternoon, though the sky
had been threatening. The wind had strengthened, however, as it hauled
to the south-west, and at dusk it had freshened to a gale. Then the
darkness had come on quickly, almost suddenly, as it does even on land,
when the sky blackens with heavy clouds just at sunset. It was now quite
impossible to distinguish anything on the face of the earth below, but
all around the horizon there was a faint belt of grey, which was not
light, but was not quite pitch darkness. The ominous moaning of the wind
amongst the trees began to make itself heard.
“It’s not wildly gay here,” said Lady Dorothy. “Can’t you manage to get
above the clouds?”
Bob pointed to the inky sky overhead. “Those clouds are half a mile
thick,” he said quietly. “There you are! We’re in another!”
“How are we off for ballast?” inquired Anne, as the chilly fog filled
the car.
“Six bags gone already, and only two left,” Bob answered with grim calm.
“Not really?” cried Dorothy in some dismay.
“Yes. How can you expect any balloon to keep up in this rain? She’s
being battered down by it. We are getting lower every minute.”
At that moment the balloon shivered like a live thing, and flapped her
loose sides. Bob shovelled some sand overboard.
“We’ll keep the last bag,” he said; “but to-morrow’s breakfast must go.
Pass me the bottle of milk--that’s heavy.”
Jocelyn got a big stoneware bottle from the basket by the light of the
electric lamp, and gave it to Trevelyan.
“Don’t murder anybody below,” he said.
Bob dropped the thing overboard, and almost immediately a dull thud was
heard out of the darkness as it struck the earth. But there was no
sound of breaking; they were over a meadow or a ploughed field.
“Give me that pie,” said Bob. “Wasn’t there a magnum of champagne
somewhere? It’s got to go too.”
“Hullo! What’s that?” cried Anne joyfully. “I believe it’s the moon, and
we’re out of the clouds!”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Jocelyn, who was not easily surprised, and was not
at all enthusiastic about the beauties of nature.
The inky cloud had not been so deep as Bob had supposed, and the
balloon, responding the instant her ballast was lightened, had struck
upwards to the clear outer air; the moon had risen, and was still almost
full, and in the far sky, beyond her radiance, the stars twinkled softly
as on a summer night.
The four young people almost held their
[Illustration:
“The huge black shadow of the balloon ran swiftly over it.”
]
breath while they were silently borne along in a vision of transcendent
beauty. Beneath them, the dark clouds had been whirling in the gale that
tore and churned and wrung them with its unseen airy hands; above, there
was the peace of heaven itself and the loveliness of earth’s first
moonlight on the evening after the first day. The moving mass of cloud
below looked suddenly motionless, vast and solid as grey rock, and the
huge black shadow of the balloon and the car ran swiftly over it, clear
and sharply outlined.
It only lasted a few minutes, for the heavy rain had soaked everything
and a descent was inevitable. Soon the wet fog rose and closed overhead
again, the moon took strange opalescent colours, and was dimmed and then
disappeared, as the balloon sank steadily into the storm.
“If we had only had a fine night, we could have got to Scotland,” said
Dorothy Wynne, in a tone of profound regret.
“Don’t you be too sure!” answered Bob. “With this wind it looks more
like the North Sea!”
“Then if our ballast had held out we could have got across to Norway,”
retorted the young lady, who was not to be daunted by trifles.
But at this moment the car jerked violently, throwing all its four
occupants against one side of itself. It turned and rolled and jumped
like a skiff in a breaking sea.
“Hang on, girls!” cried Bob Trevelyan. “We’re on our trial rope
already!”
The two young women were already hanging on by the rigging for dear
life; and Jocelyn was making it especially easy for Anne to hang on.
Indeed, she had a sensation which was very like being carried along in
his arms--which surprised her, for she knew she was not particularly
light in spite of her slim waist. A slender ash sapling can be as heavy
as a common pine nearly twice its size.
Presently the jerking was varied by a violent wrench, which laid the car
on its side, and almost upset it.
“Bad for that tree-top,” observed Bob, as the balloon sailed away again.
“What next, I wonder? Does any one see anything? One ought to, with that
moon up there; but it’s as dark as Erebus.”
“It’s the blackest moonlight night I’ve ever known,” laughed Anne.
Possibly she found it more amusing than the other did, and she certainly
felt more safe than Lady Dorothy possibly could. Jocelyn was a
surprisingly strong young man, and may have exaggerated her danger a
little.
“I believe we are over a desert island,” said her friend cheerfully.
“I’ve not seen any lights for an age.”
The conversation was interrupted by a tremendous wrench, and the car was
wrestling with another tree-top.
“That was a rather thrilling moment!” laughed Anne Trevelyan.
“I tell you what,” said Bob, not laughing at all, “at the first open
space we come to, down we go! We’re sinking every minute, and I don’t
want to stop her with my nose against the next oak we strike.”
He spoke quietly, but the others understood their danger, and all four
peered down over the edge of the car in breathless silence, while the
balloon moved on in a series of irregular bounds, as the trail-rope
encountered more or less resistance. A faint grey line now became
visible ahead, where the belt of trees ended.
“If we clear the trees, I’ll pop the valve,” said Bob quietly. “There
must be open ground beyond. Be ready with the anchor, Anne; Jocelyn will
help you. It’s a night for the ripping line, and I’ll manage that
myself.”
All four clung to the rigging in silence for some moments. Then the
report of the suddenly opened valve rang through the air like a muffled
gunshot. Two seconds passed, not more, and Bob ripped.
“Look out for the bump, girls!”
The fast sinking car descended, slanting on the wind, till it struck the
ground with considerable force and was instantly overturned. The four
clung on with all their might, almost where they were, while Trevelyan
ripped again; the balloon swayed wildly, darted forward a couple of
yards, wrenching the car along after it, and then collapsed like a dying
game-cock.
Bob crawled out of the wreck first, and then helped the others, and in
the gloom the two young girls silently straightened their hats; for that
is the first impulse of feminine humanity after an accident. If a woman
could be raised from the dead by radium, which begins to look possible,
she would straighten her hat before doing anything else.
“This is all very well, but where are we?” asked Lady Dorothy, as soon
as that was done.
“In a meadow,” answered Jocelyn. “Lucky it’s not a ploughed field.”
“What a night!” groaned the young girl.
For they had been dry and comfortable under the vast shelter of the
inflated balloon, but they were now almost instantly soaked through and
through by the lashing rain, and the two girls staggered as they stood
up and faced the raging gale. Again Jocelyn’s arm was very useful to
Miss Anne.
“We must make for shelter at once,” her brother said. “After all, we are
in England, and we can’t be very far from civilisation. No one will
steal the balloon on a night like this.”
“The old thing looks comfortable enough,” observed Jocelyn. “Rather
done, though!”
He and Anne followed her brother and Dorothy, who led the way, linking
arms and bending their heads to the storm, while they waded through what
felt like a field of wet bathing sponges. Against the dim grey light
they could see the trees over which they had lately passed, writhing and
twisting in the gale.
“If this is a meadow, it’s a pretty big one,” said Anne.
At that moment Bob uttered an exclamation: he and his companion had
struck a narrow path covered with fine white gravel that gleamed in the
uncertain light.
“We’re in a park!” cried Trevelyan. “What luck! That means a good-sized
house, at all events.”
“And a possible dinner,” added Lady Dorothy cheerfully.
But Jocelyn and Anne said nothing, because they were so busy in helping
each other to walk. All four tramped steadily along the path for a
couple of hundred yards or more, till they brought up short before an
insurmountable obstacle that suddenly loomed up out of the dark; it was
nothing less than a stone wall, at least fifteen feet high, which
evidently enclosed the grounds, and seemed to be topped by a row of
murderous-looking split spikes. The path turned aside some twenty feet
from it, and seemed to wander away aimlessly towards the trees.
“This is an odd sort of place we’ve dropped into!” said Lady Dorothy;
and all four stood in a row and stared at the forbidding wall.
“They evidently don’t encourage trespassers,” observed Trevelyan.
“Only an idiot would waste all that money,” said Jocelyn, who was still
hard up, and momentarily looked at everything from the financial point
of view.
“I rather wish we were on the other side of it,” Anne said.
“You’ll be left waiting, dear,” answered Lady Dorothy, who adored
American slang.
“Follow the path,” Jocelyn advised. “It must lead to the house in the
end.”
There was clearly nothing else to be done, and for some minutes no sound
was heard but the regular tread of four pairs of strong shoes crunching
the fine gravel, and the swish of the driving rain, and the howling of
the wind in the trees not far off. They could still see the wall
stretching away into the gloom.
Suddenly, there were lights in the distance, and a big house loomed
against the stormy sky; an ugly, square, uninviting house, as they saw
in a few minutes, for the sight had revived their spirits, and they
walked faster. Before long they struck the drive, towards which the path
led, and across the gravelled space to the front door. Trevelyan rang,
and the others huddled round him on the steps, to get shelter from the
rain.
A footman in a quiet brown livery opened in a few moments, and they did
not notice that he seemed exceedingly surprised when he saw them;
indeed, his astonishment was altogether out of proportion to the
circumstances, for his jaw dropped, and he gasped audibly. All the four
were dazzled by the blaze of light from the vestibule, after having been
so long out of doors in the dark, and did not notice the man’s manner.
Trevelyan at once explained what brought them; and as soon as the
footman understood, he let them in, shut and locked the door, put the
key in his pocket, and went off, muttering something about the master of
the house.
A few moments later the latter appeared in person, in evening dress,
and carrying his napkin in his hand, having evidently left his dinner in
the utmost haste. Though tired and half stupefied by the storm, the four
aëronauts were strongly impressed by his personality. He was by no means
an ill-looking man, yet there was something extraordinary and almost
terrifying in his appearance. He was tall, lean, strongly made, and of a
dark complexion, with smooth iron-grey hair; his jaw was broad and
square, his lips thin and determined. One sees many such men in England,
but not with eyes like his. They were round, but deep-set, and they were
at once luminous and hard, like those of the nobler birds of prey. I
know a tamer of wild beasts who has just such eyes as those; one would
almost say that he could not shut the lids if he tried, even for sleep,
and it is easy to
[Illustration:
“‘We are awfully sorry to intrude on your privacy in this way,’ he
said.”
]
understand why the big tigers slink down and crouch under them, watching
him cautiously, as if his look would kill.
Trevelyan spoke first. “We are awfully sorry to intrude on your privacy
in this way,” he said, remembering the spiked wall of the park, and
reflecting that it looked as forbidding as its owner. “We are
balloonists, and were caught in the storm, and had to come down where we
could, for fear of being blown out to sea--and it happened to be in your
grounds. Is the sea far off?”
“A quarter of a mile,” answered the master of the house, in a deep,
quiet voice, much as a tamer speaks to his lions.
Anne and Dorothy exchanged glances.
“Then, considering what a narrow escape we’ve had,” Trevelyan continued,
“I hope you won’t mind our having trespassed.”
At the last word a smile dawned on the grim face of the master of the
house. “I fancy you are the first people who have ever succeeded in
trespassing here,” he said.
“I should think so!” cried Lady Dorothy. “We saw your wall.”
They were beginning to think it strange that they were not asked to come
in, and Trevelyan was a trifle impatient. “Should you mind very much if
we came in and dried ourselves a bit?” he asked. “The ladies are
soaking.”
“And I am very sorry to bother you,” added Dorothy, “but really we are
starving. We had to throw all our eatables overboard as ballast, you
see.”
The master of the house did not answer at once, and seemed absorbed in
his reflections. He thoughtfully stroked his long upper lip. “By all
means,” he said at last, very slowly. “Of course! Come in, and make
yourselves as comfortable as you can.”
The vestibule in which this conversation had taken place opened upon a
hall of moderate size and plainly furnished, where a coal fire was
burning brightly. The host drew aside to let them pass in, and they
began to warm themselves. He looked up, apparently in some inexplicable
perplexity.
“Where have you come from?” he asked.
“From London,” Trevelyan answered. “Is there any way of going back
to-night? By-the-bye, where are we?”
“You’re in Yorkshire, and the nearest station is Hamley, six miles from
here.”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Jocelyn, on learning that he was not forty miles
from King’s Follitt. “What’s the last train to York?”
“Eight thirty-seven,” answered the host, and he looked at his watch.
“It’s almost that now. No train before to-morrow morning, I’m sorry to
say. You’re nearly five miles from any other house, too.”
Then Lady Dorothy Wynne, who had a sweet low voice, turned it to its
most persuasive tone. “I’m very, very sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid
we shall have to trespass on your kindness still further, and ask
shelter for the night.”
Again the master of the house stroked his upper lip with a thoughtful
expression before answering. His reluctance to offer any hospitality to
the dripping party was quite apparent, and he looked at the waiting
footman, who looked at him.
From far away the sound of voices, talking and laughing, reached the
hall in the silence that followed Dorothy’s speech. Clearly there was a
large party at dinner.
“By all means! Of course!” The host used the very words he had used
before. “I can certainly put you up, though I’ve rather a large party in
the house. Never mind; there is always room for more. John, call Mrs.
Williams.”
During the footman’s absence Trevelyan thought it was at last time to
introduce the party. “My name is Trevelyan,” he said. “This is Lady
Dorothy Wynne, and this is my sister.”
“My name is Follitt,” said Jocelyn, speaking for himself.
The man’s peculiar eyes turned from one face to the other as he heard
the names, and nodded slightly. A tamer might inspect a new set of wild
beasts with much the same look while making up his mind how to treat
each. “My name is Steele,” he answered. “I hope you will soon be none
the worse for your wetting.”
The arrival of Mrs. Williams at this juncture rendered an answer
unnecessary. She looked half a governess and half a housekeeper; she was
a quiet, superior sort of person, with a stiff starched collar and
gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and she wore a black silk dress, with a large
bunch of keys at her side.
Mr. Steele spoke to her very slowly and distinctly. “These ladies and
gentlemen,” he said, “have descended in the grounds with their balloon.
There is no train to-night, as you know, and there is no other place to
which they can go, so they must tarry here till to-morrow morning. There
are still some empty bedrooms, I think?”
“Three, sir. There are Five, Six, and Seven in the new wing unoccupied.”
Mr. Steele nodded, and looked at Mrs. Williams, and then at the footman.
Trevelyan was sure that they exchanged a glance of intelligence.
“You may find my house-party rather mixed,” said the host, almost with
geniality, now that he had at last made up his mind. “The fact is, I
have a sort of gathering of relations and distant connections. I like to
see many people about me, of all ages. You won’t mind dining with us? We
had just sat down when you came, so that there is plenty of time. I
daresay you will be glad to go to bed directly afterwards. You must be
very tired, I’m sure.”
He said a few words to Mrs. Williams in an undertone, leading the way
with her to the stairs, and she answered by a quick succession of nods.
The others followed, and went up after her, while Mr. Steele went back
to his guests.
The bedrooms to which the housekeeper showed the party lacked
individuality, and though they were thoroughly comfortable, there was
not the least attempt at luxury, or even good taste. The furniture was
new, but very plain, and the chintz was fresh, but utterly
uninteresting, if not quite hideous. A few cheap prints hung on the
walls.
“I’m sure there’s no lady of the house,” said Anne to Dorothy, and she
proceeded to extract information from the housekeeper.
Mr. Steele was not married. He had no near relations--at least, not in
the house; but he liked to be surrounded by many people, and the place
was generally full. Mrs. Williams would say no more, or possibly there
was nothing more to be said; but she did her best to make the newcomers
comfortable, and produced dry skirts and shoes for the ladies.
A few minutes later they were all ushered into the dining-room, where at
least five-and-twenty men were seated at a big table. All turned their
heads and looked curiously at the newly-arrived guests.
Mr. Steele rose to meet the latter as they entered. There were four
vacant places on his left.
“Will you and Miss Trevelyan sit together by me,” he said, speaking to
Lady Dorothy, “and the two gentlemen beyond?”
The arrangement seemed a singular one; but the four took their seats,
and as Jocelyn slipped in next to Anne, her brother was the only one who
found himself beside a stranger.
He glanced at his neighbour, who was a mild-eyed, benevolent old
gentleman, whose smooth grey hair was neatly parted and brushed over his
ears. He wore a single stud with a large carbuncle set in it, and he had
black silk mittens on his bony little hands. He returned Trevelyan’s
glance pleasantly, and then went on eating his fish with a faint smile.
Mr. Steele began to talk with Lady Dorothy, and though his voice was not
loud, it seemed to dominate the conversation as far as she was
concerned, so that she heard no one else.
“May I ask if Mr. and Miss Trevelyan are connected with the Dorsetshire
family of that name?” he inquired, after a few preliminary phrases.
“They are the Dorsetshire Trevelyans themselves,” answered Lady Dorothy.
“He is the eldest son.”
“Oh, indeed--indeed,” repeated Mr. Steele, thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he
added quietly; “it was mere curiosity. Do you go in for any sport
besides ballooning? Golf, for instance? We have excellent links here,
and we play a good deal.” He spoke louder, and looked down the table.
“Mr. Weede over there is one of our crack players.”
At this remark a pale young clergyman in spectacles, who sat at the
other end of the table, looked up with a deprecatory smile.
“You will make me vain of my poor accomplishment, if you say such
things,” he said humbly. “Remember the Preacher, Mr. Steele: ‘Vanity of
vanities, all is not vanity that glitters!’”
Lady Dorothy laughed kindly in an encouraging way, because he seemed so
humble. But every one at once began to talk of golf, almost excitedly.
“My friends are almost all very fond of out-of-door games,” said Mr.
Steele to Lady Dorothy, as if in explanation.
“Do you mind telling me who that good-looking man is?” she asked. “The
third from the other end on the left? The one with the grey moustache
and a tired face, who looks like an old soldier.”
“Trevelyan is his name, and he is an old army man. But do tell me
something about your trip,” Mr. Steele went on quickly: “you must have
had a terrible time of it in such a storm.”
“It wasn’t very successful,” the young girl answered carelessly; “but we
get used to all sorts of weather in balloons, you know. The last time I
was up, we came down rather suddenly in a cricket field where there was
a match going on. I remember that I got some most extraordinary bruises!
I can’t help looking at that man--Mr. Trevelyan, you say he is. I see
why you asked about my friend here--they may be connections. Where does
this one belong?”
“He’s a Lincolnshire man,” answered the host briefly, and as if he did
not care about him.
“Oh, the ‘mad’ Trevelyans, we call them! Then he is really a connection
of my friend. Their grandfathers were cousins, I believe. What is this
one’s first name?”
“Randolph, I believe. I’ve never made an ascent in a balloon. I should
really like to know whether it’s a new sensation worth trying. Do you
mind telling me how it struck you, the first time you rose above a
cloud?”
“Cosy,” Lady Dorothy answered without hesitation--“distinctly cosy!
There’s never any tiresome wind in a balloon, you know, as there is on a
yacht, to blow you about. It goes along with you, and it’s so amusing to
travel very fast and yet not feel that you are moving at all. And
there’s always some excitement when you come down, for it’s never twice
alike, and of course bones are only bones after all, and you always may
break one or two. I suppose that’s where the sport comes in.”
At this moment a distant peal of thunder was heard above the general
conversation. Lady Dorothy looked at her host, as if expecting him to
say something in answer to her explanations; but his expression had
changed, and he seemed suddenly preoccupied.
“I’m glad we’re not in the balloon now,” she said. “The gale is going
to end in a regular thunderstorm!”
Mr. Steele was speaking to the butler in a low voice. “Have those
curtains drawn closer,” Lady Dorothy heard him say, “and be quick as you
can with the rest of the dinner!”
It was clear that either he, or some of his guests, were nervous about
thunder and lightning. A second peal, much nearer than the first, made
the windows rattle. The conversation, which had already dropped to a
lower key, now ceased altogether, and a sort of embarrassed silence
followed, while most of the diners glanced nervously round the room and
towards the tall windows. Mr. Steele looked as if he were bracing
himself to meet an unexpected danger; his brows were knitted, his stern
mouth was tightly shut, and he was evidently scanning the faces of his
guests with anxiety.
“Do you often have bad thunderstorms here?” Lady Dorothy asked, to
attract his attention and break the silence.
“Seldom,” he answered abstractedly, and not looking at her. “Most of my
guests dislike them very much.”
“How very odd!”
She glanced down the table, and saw the nice-looking Mr. Trevelyan
leaning far back in his chair, his eyes half closed and his face very
white.
Mr. Steele made an attempt to revive the conversation, talking in loud
tones to the whole table about a lawn tennis tournament, for which he
said there would be a number of pretty prizes.
Bob Trevelyan was eating steadily, and took no interest in what was
going on. Suddenly he felt that the benevolent old gentleman was
plucking at his sleeve very quietly. He turned, and saw that his
neighbour was earnestly gazing at him. At that moment a third peal rang
out, and the glasses on the table trembled.
“Did he tell you who I am?” asked the old gentleman in an undertone, and
bending his head towards the master of the house.
“I beg your pardon: no--I don’t think I was introduced,” Bob answered.
“He would have told you that I am Mr. Simpson; and so I was,” said the
grey-haired man. “But that,” he added in low and tragic tones, “was by
another mother. I am the Dowager Empress of China, and I am here
incognito, disguised as a man.”
“What in the world do you mean?” asked Trevelyan, very much taken
aback.
“It is a sad story, and a long one.” The old gentleman shook his head
mysteriously. “They thought I took too active a part in politics.
Possibly I did, but at the time of the Boxer riots many outrageous
doings were unjustly traced to me. I give you my solemn assurance, on
the word of an empress, that I did not order the attack on the
Legations! Do you believe me, or not?”
He gazed at Bob with fixed eyes, but Trevelyan could only stare back in
blank surprise.
“They brought me here in tea chests,” he continued earnestly, “disguised
as a Chinese idol. It was a terrible humiliation. The Empress-mother in
Pekin, who gives audiences, is a painted doll with a gramophone inside
her, which quite accounts for her remarkably accurate memory.”
Mr. Steele overheard this singular statement. “Really, Mr. Simpson,” he
said in stern tones, “I must beg you not to poke fun at Mr. Trevelyan.”
“Trevelyan!” cried the nice-looking man at the other end, bending
forward in his chair to see Bob’s face. “Did you say Trevelyan?”
“Yes,” Bob answered, also leaning forward--“that’s my name. Why?”
“It’s mine too,” answered the other excitedly. “Are you Dorset or
Lincolnshire?”
“Dorsetshire,” Bob answered promptly.
Every one was listening now, and Mr. Steele seemed very anxious, to
judge by his face.
“If you were a Lincolnshire Trevelyan I’d break your neck directly after
dinner,” observed the nice-looking man, and he suddenly grew calm
again, and seemed to take no further interest in Bob.
The latter began to understand; and when the Empress of China suddenly
dissolved in tears and repeated that hers was a very, very sad story, he
had no doubts left as to where he and his friends were.
At this point the Rev. Mr. Weede pointed a thin finger at Lady Dorothy,
and addressed the company in pulpit tones. “Providence,” he said, “in
its inscrutable wisdom, has been pleased to afflict our dear sister with
the delusion that she entered these consecrated precincts in a balloon.
The prayers of the congregation are requested for--”
“Mr. Weede,” cried Mr. Steele in ringing tones, “I must insist that you
do not indulge in jests unworthy of a gentleman and not befitting your
cloth!”
The young golfing clergyman smiled blandly, quite unabashed, and
answered in a single syllable, sharp and clear--“Fore!”
At this wholly unexpected and irrelevant retort, Anne Trevelyan broke
into a laugh.
“One to the parson!” observed Jocelyn in an undertone.
Things might have ended then, but at this moment an old gentleman with a
very beautiful white beard and smooth snowy hair began to sing to
himself a music-hall song of forty years ago in a thin and quavering
tenor voice:
“Up in a balloon, boys, up in a balloon,
All among the little stars, sailing round the moon!”
“Silence!” roared Mr. Steele from the head of the table.
The old gentleman broke down under the rebuke, and began to weep
piteously.
“I know my voice isn’t what it was,” he whined, between his sobs--“when
I used to sing the late Mr. Gladstone to sleep, after his great
speeches--‘Lullaby baby, on the tree-top.’”
He began to sing again, through his tears.
Mr. Steele struck the table with his fist.
“Stop that immediately!” he shouted. “Lady Dorothy--Miss Trevelyan,” he
continued, in the silence that followed, “I don’t know what you must
think! The thunderstorm is to blame----”
At that moment the howling squall broke open the window at the other end
of the room, and a clap of thunder followed instantly. The shaded
candles on the table were almost all out, and only a few electric lights
illuminated the scene of indescribable panic and confusion that followed
a second later.
[Illustration: “A scene of indescribable panic followed.”]
“Fire! Fire! Save the child!” yelled old Randolph Trevelyan above the
noise.
Chairs were overturned, shrieks of laughter and wailing sobs filled the
air, men rushed wildly hither and thither, falling over each other and
rolling on the floor; the dismal, long-drawn howl of a famished wolf
pierced the babel of sounds, and a heavy man, running round the room on
all fours, stumbled against Lady Dorothy’s feet, and lay there in a
heap, suddenly silent. But still above all the rest rang Randolph
Trevelyan’s despairing yells: “Save the child! Save the child! I’ll give
you ten thousand pounds if you can save the child!”
Bob Trevelyan had Lady Dorothy fast by the wrist. Jocelyn held Anne
Trevelyan by the waist close against him, and she did not feel at all
frightened; but it is true that she was naturally courageous.
“I believe we’re in a mad-house!” cried Lady Dorothy; but only Bob heard
her through the noise, and she laughed rather nervously.
“Come along!” Trevelyan called out to Jocelyn.
They made for the nearest door at once. Mr. Steele had picked up the
young man who thought he was a wolf, and was holding him firmly. The
numerous servants, who were trained men, were already leading the most
noisy of the party towards another door. Old Trevelyan’s wild yells rent
the air as he was carried off: “The child! The child!”
None of the four aëronauts ever forgot the cry, repeated in
heart-rending tones, almost without a break. They heard it after they
had left the dining-room, but when they had got to the foot of the
staircase it ceased suddenly.
They reached their rooms, high up in the new wing. Each of the young
girls had one to herself, and the two men were to sleep in the third.
But in their haste they all four rushed into the last; Bob turned up the
electric light and Jocelyn locked the door.
“A lunatic asylum!” laughed Anne. “Of all places to come down in! You
told me it was,” she added, speaking to Jocelyn, “but it seemed so
absurd that I couldn’t believe it.”
“And our cousin Randolph is the showpiece, poor chap,” said Bob.
Lady Dorothy and Jocelyn looked at him, expecting more.
“What happened to his child?” asked Dorothy.
“I was going to ask the same question,” said Jocelyn.
“It was burnt to death. It’s rather an awful story, and I don’t wonder
he went mad. I believe he had only been married two or three years when
it happened. He was in the Carabineers, I believe; at all events they
went to India as soon as they were married, and it was while they were
there that his father died and he came into the estate. But he did not
mean to leave the service, and he sent his wife to England with the
little baby, six months before the regiment was ordered home. Half an
hour before he got to his place, when he came home himself, the house
took fire, and his wife and child were burnt to death. He went mad then
and there, and there was nothing to be done but to lock him up.”
“How awful!” exclaimed Dorothy. “I shall never forget his voice.”
The four were silent, and as nothing happened Jocelyn unlocked the door
and opened it a little. In the distance sounds of footsteps could still
be heard in the passages, and the opening and shutting of a door now and
then, and voices from different directions, but that was all. The
patients who occupied the nearest rooms were either already locked in,
or were of a quieter sort and had been allowed to stay downstairs.
Jocelyn was just going to shut the door again, when Mrs. Williams
appeared. He admitted her, and she looked round quietly before speaking.
“Of course, you must have understood where you are,” she said gravely.
“This is a private asylum--Dr. Steele’s Sanatorium. The patients who are
considered harmless play games and dine together, and the Doctor takes
none who are already violent or have shown homicidal or suicidal
tendencies. It is a very exclusive establishment, especially for
gentlemen of position and means. I may say that I was housekeeper at the
late Duke of Barchester’s before I came here. The Doctor wishes me to
say how sorry he is that there was trouble just this evening. Lunatics
don’t mind anything so much as a thunderstorm, and thunder and lightning
just drive them out of their poor senses, such as they are, which isn’t
much to boast of. There’s that poor Mr. Weede, for instance, such a
quiet gentleman, and a Christian soul if ever there was one. They never
knew he was at all queer till one day, while he was preaching, he just
stopped a minute and called out ‘Fore!’ as the gentlemen do when they
play; and then he went on preaching about golf being the only salvation
for sinners’ souls, till the congregation all ran out and the sexton
and policeman got him into a cab, still preaching.”
“Something like a sermon, that,” observed Jocelyn stolidly.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Williams gravely; “they say he was at it for
more than half an hour, and hadn’t half finished when they took him
away. But I came to say,” she went on, speaking to Bob Trevelyan, “that
the Doctor would like to speak to you alone, sir, if you don’t mind. He
will come to your room, or see you in his study, as you prefer, but he
is very anxious to see you.”
“It must be about cousin Randolph,” Bob said, glancing at his sister.
“I’ll go to the Doctor’s study, Mrs. Williams, if you’ll show me the
way.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll be back directly,” she added, “to see that the
ladies have everything quite comfortable for the night.”
Trevelyan followed the housekeeper through many passages and down a good
many stairs, till she brought him to the door of Dr. Steele’s study and
knocked, and then opened the door for him to go in.
The Doctor was standing before the fire; when he saw Bob he came forward
and moved a comfortable chair into position while he spoke.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I am so placed that I think it
is my duty to ask your advice in a very important matter.”
Trevelyan smiled pleasantly, and sat down.
“If it’s my advice you want, I warn you that I’m not thought clever,” he
said. “Unless it’s about balloons.”
Dr. Steele’s face was very grave, and he paid no attention to what Bob
said.
“I understood at dinner that you were a distant cousin of Sir Randolph
Trevelyan’s,” he said. “I am sorry to say that he is just dead.”
“Dead! How awfully sudden!”
The poor man’s despairing cry still rang in Bob’s ears.
“He had an aneurism of the heart,” Dr. Steele explained, “and this last
attack killed him. He fell dead as he reached the door of his room. I
have two good physicians in residence here, and they came at once. He
was quite dead.”
“I’m exceedingly sorry to hear it,” Bob said gravely; “but I don’t quite
see how I can be of use. I’m not his heir. There are several of the
Lincolnshire people alive.”
“Precisely. But do you know his story?”
“Of course. His wife and child were burnt to death, and he went mad.”
“That is not the point,” answered Dr. Steele. “They found the mother’s
body, or what was left of it, but they found no trace of the child.”
“Poor little thing! It was probably burnt to ashes. There was nothing to
find!”
“I’m not sure. There is a possibility that it may have been kidnapped,
for you may remember that the house was found to have been set on fire
by thieves, who got away with a large quantity of valuables in the
confusion, and afterwards wrote to the family, offering to produce the
child for a ransom of five thousand pounds. Sir Randolph had been in
India and had not seen the baby for many months, and he was already in
an asylum, and much worse than when you saw him this evening, before
the thunderstorm. Babies a year old are very much alike, he could not
have recognised his daughter, a large estate was involved, and a
lunatic’s evidence is worth nothing, of course. The relations declared
that none of them had ever seen the infant, and as a recognition was out
of the question, their counsel advised them to pay no attention to the
blackmailers. Thieves would be quite capable of producing a child as the
heir, and of keeping some hold on it, in order to extract more blackmail
when it grew up. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. I’m inclined to think that the heirs did right, though it
was to their own future advantage.”
“No doubt. But within the last few weeks the situation has changed. I am
morally persuaded that Sir Randolph’s daughter is alive and well, and
that at the present moment, since her father is dead, she is the sole
heir to the great Lincolnshire estate.”
“By Jove!” cried Bob. “That’s interesting. Of course I’ll help her to
get her own in any way I can! Where is she? And how are you sure she’s
the right baby?”
“It’s just a common criminal story. The baby had a nurse, of course, and
she was no better than she should be. The leader of the gang that burnt
and robbed the house had begun operations by establishing himself in the
village as a travelling photographer with a van. He had a proper license
for the van, and took very good photographs, and he got permission from
Lady Trevelyan to make a series of views of the park and the house. By
way of strengthening his position he made love to the nurse, and she
became his accomplice, and shared the profits afterwards. But she was
soft-hearted about children, and insisted that the baby should not run
any risk. She handed it over to the photographer-burglar just before the
house was set on fire. That’s the story.”
“How do you know it’s true?”
“Simple enough. Being a born criminal, she afterwards committed other
crimes, and was at last caught and sent to penal servitude. And now she
is dying of cancer, and has ‘experienced religion,’ as those people call
it, and has confessed the whole story to the chaplain, who has written
about it to me. For she had always kept track of Sir Randolph, and knew
that he had been brought here some years ago.”
“But what proof is there that she is telling the truth?”
“This. Before she parted with the baby, she broke a sixpence in two,
sewed half of it into the baby’s clothes and kept the other half.”
“But the clothes must have disappeared long ago!”
“No: they didn’t. When the thieves found that they could not get any
ransom, they left the baby on the doorstep of an old bachelor in
Kensington, who took care of it and ultimately adopted it. I suppose he
is a sentimental person, for he kept the clothes in which he found the
child, and, what is more, he has now discovered the half-sixpence sewn
up in the little frock, just where the dying woman says it was.”
“Jolly good luck for the girl! Where is she?”
“She goes by the name of Ellen Scott, and is governess in Colonel
Follitt’s family here in Yorkshire.”
“Miss Scott! Why, I saw her at King’s
[Illustration: “‘Miss Scott! Why, I saw her at King’s Follitt a month
ago.’”]
Follitt a month ago! And young Follitt, who is with us, is one of the
Colonel’s younger sons. He can tell you all about her.”
“It’s a singular coincidence, to say the least,” answered Dr. Steele,
“but I know more about Miss Scott at present than she knows herself. In
communicating with her adoptive father I have begged him not to let her
know anything till all is quite certain; but it will be impossible to
conceal the facts from her any longer, since Sir Randolph is dead. The
relations, who believe themselves the heirs, must be informed that his
daughter has been found and will claim the estate. They must know that
as soon as they know of his death, and I cannot put off writing to
them.”
“What can I do?” inquired Bob.
“Do you know any of your Lincolnshire relations?”
“Yes, I fancy I know most of them. They’ll show fight, you may be sure.”
“Perhaps, if you explained the case to them, and showed them these
copies of the more important documents, they would change their minds.
Sir Randolph’s solicitors have been very active. We have the sworn
evidence of the woman, who is still alive, and of Mr. Herbert Scott as
to the date when the infant was left on his doorstep, and he has
produced the baby’s frock, with the half-sixpence sewn up in the hem,
and the woman has sworn to that also. Besides, the handwriting of the
letters written to the family after the fire, offering to give up the
child for a ransom, has been declared by experts to be that of the
travelling photographer, of whose writing several specimens have been
found in the village, on the backs of photographs he sold. There is
also evidence that he disappeared on the night of the fire, leaving his
van and all his belongings. In fact, everything was ready, and Sir
Randolph’s solicitors were about to begin proceedings to establish Miss
Ellen Scott’s identity as Diana Trevelyan.”
“Nice name,” observed Bob.
“Very. Are you inclined, as a member of the family, to run over to
Lincolnshire and lay the case before your cousins? If they can be
persuaded to give up their claim without a suit, a vast amount of money
will be saved--and it can only end in one way, I can assure you. There’s
not a link missing.”
“All right,” answered Trevelyan. “Who are poor Randolph’s solicitors? I
shall have to know the name and address.”
Dr. Steele handed him the neat package of copies that lay tied up on the
desk. The lawyer’s name was stamped on the outside of the first paper.
“I suppose I had better say nothing to my sister and our friends?” said
Bob in a tone of interrogation.
“I think not. Miss Scott should be informed by the solicitors.”
“She’ll have a surprise,” observed Bob, thinking of the blotched face
and red nose of the pimping governess he had seen at King’s Follitt.
“I’ll just tell my party that you wanted to inform me of poor Randolph’s
death.”
“Precisely. That will explain our interview.”
So that was the end of the ballooning adventure. After thanking Dr.
Steele very warmly for his hospitality the party left on the following
morning, the balloon having been duly packed and carted to the station
and put on the London train.
It will be clear to the most simple-minded reader that the descent of
the party in the grounds of the asylum was not the grand incident which
really led to the identification of Miss Scott by establishing the
long-sought link in the evidence. That would have been thrilling, of
course; but such things do not happen in real life, and when they do
people do not believe they do. The simple result of the coincidence was
that Bob Trevelyan took the affair in hand, and managed it so that it
was all settled very quickly and out of court, which saved ever so much
time and money, to the great disappointment of several solicitors.