Kate uttered a gasp of relief on finding her fear needless, and darted
towards the door, when, to her despair, the grotesque head was snatched
back.
"Becky! Becky!" she cried piteously, as the door was closing; and she
stood still, not daring to approach.
Her action had its effect, for the door was slowly pressed open again,
and the bow of the washed-out cotton handkerchief which bandaged the
woman's face gradually appeared, the ends, which stuck up like a small
pair of horns, trembling visibly. Then by very small degrees the
woman's forehead and the rest of the face appeared, with the eyes
showing the white all round, as their owner gazed at the prisoner with
her usual scared look intensified.
"Pray come in, Becky," said Kate, softly; and she drew back towards a
chair, so as to try and inspire a little confidence.
The head was slowly shaken, and the door drawn once more tightly against
the woman's long thin neck.
"Whatcher want?" she said, faintly.
"I want you to come in and talk to me," said Kate in a low, appealing
tone. "I want you to help me."
"Dursn't."
"Yes, yes, you dare. Pray, pray don't say that I have no one to ask but
you. Oh, Becky, Becky, I am so unhappy. If you have a woman's heart
within your breast, have pity on me!"
"Gug!"
A spasm contracted the pallid face as a violent sob escaped from her
lips, and the tears began to flow from the dilated eyes, and were
accompanied by unpleasant sniffs.
"Don't make me cr-cr-cry, miss, please."
"No, no, don't cry, Becky dear, pray," whispered Kate, anxiously.
"You make me, miss--going on like that; and d-don't call me dear,
please. I ain't dear to nobody; I'm a miserable wretch."
"I always pitied you, Becky, but you never would let me be kind to you."
"N-no, miss. It don't do no good. On'y makes me mis'rable."
"But I must be; I will be kind to you, Becky, and try and make you
happy," whispered Kate.
"Tain't to be done, miss, till I die," said the woman, sadly; and then
there was a triumphant light in her eyes, and her face lit up as she
said more firmly, "but I'm going to be happy then."
"Yes, yes, and I'll try to make you happy while you live; but you will
help me, dear?"
The poor creature shook her head.
"Yes, you will--I'm sure you will," pleaded Kate. "But pray come in."
"Dursn't, miss."
"But I am in such trouble, Becky."
"Yes, I know; he wants to marry you, and he's going to keep you locked
up till he does. I know."
"Yes, yes; and I want to get away."
"But you can't," whispered the woman, and she withdrew her head, and
Kate in her despair thought she had gone. But the head reappeared
slowly. "Nobody watching," she whispered.
"I must go away, and you must help me, Becky," whispered Kate.
"It's no good. He won't let you, miss. But don't you marry him."
"Never!" cried Kate.
"Hush, or they'll hear you; and mother's siding with him, and going to
help him. She says he's an angel, but he's all smooth smiles, and talks
to you like a saint, but he's a horrid wretch."
"Yes, yes. But now listen to me."
"Yes, I'm a-listening, miss. It's all because you're so pretty and
handsome, and got lots o' money, aintcher?"
"Yes, unhappily," sighed Kate.
"That's what he wants. He got all poor old master's money, and the
house and furniture out of him."
"He did?" whispered Kate, excitedly.
"Yes, miss; I know. Mother says it's all nonsense, and that we ought to
love him, because he's such a good man. But I know better. Poor old
master used to tell me when I took him up his letters: `Ah, Becky, my
poor girl, you are disappointed and unhappy,' he says, `but I'm more
unhappy still. That man won't be satisfied till he has ground the last
farthing out of me, and there's nothing left but my corpse.' I didn't
believe him, and I said, `Don't let him have it, sir.' `Ah, Becky,' he
says, `I'm obliged; signed papers are stronger than iron chains,' he
says, `and he's always dragging at the end. But he shall have it all,
and heavy pounds o' flesh at the end, and the bones too.' I didn't know
what he meant, miss; and I didn't believe as anyone could be as unlucky
as me. But I believed him at last, when I went to his room and found
him dead on the floor; and then I knew he must be worse than I was, for
I couldn't have done what he did."
"Becky," whispered Kate, fixing the trembling woman with her eyes, "I
can understand how people who are very unhappy seek for rest in death.
Do you wish to come here some morning, and find me lying dead?"
"Oh, miss!" cried the woman, excitedly, pushing the door more open;
"don't, please don't you go and do a thing like that. You're too young
and beautiful, and--oh, oh, oh! Please don't talk so; I can't abear
it--pray!"
"Then help me, Becky, for I tell you I would sooner die."
"What, than marry him?"
"Yes, than marry this dreadful man."
"Then--then," whispered the woman, after withdrawing her head to gaze
back, "I feel that I dursn't, and p'raps he'll kill me for it--not as I
seem to mind much, and mother would soon get over it, for I ain't o' no
use--but I think I will try and help you. You want to get away?"
In her wild feeling of joy and excitement, Kate sprang toward the door,
and she would have flung her arms round the unhappy woman's neck. But
before she could reach her the head was snatched back, and the fastening
gave a loud snap, while when she opened it, Becky had disappeared and
her mother was coming up the stairs to fetch the breakfast tray.
"And not touched a bit, my dear," said the housekeeper, with a
reproachful shake of the head. "Now you must, you know; you must,
indeed. And do let me advise you, my dear. Mr Garstang is such a good
man, and so indulgent, and it's really naughty of you to be so foolish
as to oppose his wishes."
Kate turned upon her with a look that astounded the woman, who stood
with parted lips, breathless, while a piece of bread was broken from the
loaf on the tray, and a cup of tea poured out and placed aside.
"Take away that tray," said Kate, imperiously; "and remember your place.
Never presume to speak to me again like that."
"No, ma'am--certainly not, ma'am," said the woman, hastily. "I beg your
pardon, ma'am, I am sure."
"Leave the room, and do not come again until I ring."
"My!" ejaculated the woman, as soon as she was on the landing, "to think
of such a gentle-looking little thing being able to talk like that!
P'raps master's caught a tartar now."
There was a gleam of hope, then, after all. Poor Becky was not the
vacant idiot she had always appeared. Kate felt that she had made one
friend, and trembling with eagerness she went to the writing-table and
wrote quickly a few lines to Jenny Leigh, briefly explaining her
position, and begging her to lay the matter before her brother and ask
his help and advice.
This she inclosed and directed, and then sat gazing before her,
conjuring the scene to follow at the cottage, and the indignation of
Leigh. And as she thought, the warm blood tinged her pale cheeks once
more, and she covered her face with her hands, to sit there sobbing for
a few minutes before slowly tearing up the letter till the fragments
were too small ever to be found and read by one curious to know their
contents.
Gladly as she would have seen Pierce Leigh appear and insist upon her
taking refuge with his sister, she felt that she could not send such an
appeal to those who were comparative strangers; and though she would not
own to it even to herself, she felt that there were other reasons why
she could not write.
An hour of intense mental agony and dread passed, and she had to strive
hard to keep down the terrible feeling of panic which nearly mastered
her, and tempted her to rush down the stairs to try once more to escape,
or to go to one of the front windows, throw it open, and shriek for
help.
"It would be an act of madness," she sighed, as she recalled Garstang's
words respecting the sick lady. "And they would believe him!" she
cried, while the feeling of helplessness grew and grew as she felt how
thoroughly she was in Garstang's power.
Then came the thought of her aunt and uncle, her natural protectors, and
she determined to write to them. James Wilton would fetch her away at
once, for he was her guardian; and surely now, she told herself, she was
woman enough to insist upon proper respect being paid to her wishes.
She could set at defiance any of her cousin's advances; and her conduct
in leaving showed itself up in its strongest colours, as being
cowardly--the act of a child.
With a fresh display of energy she wrote to her aunt, detailing
everything, and bidding her--not begging--to tell her uncle to come to
her rescue at once. But no sooner was the letter written than she felt
that her aunt would behave in some weak, foolish way, and there would be
delay.
She tore up that letter slowly, and after hiding the pieces, she sat
there thinking again, with her brow wrinkled, and the look of agony in
her face intensifying.
"I have right on my side. He is my guardian, and he dare not act
otherwise than justly by me. I am no longer the weak child now."
And once more she took paper, and wrote this time to James Wilton
himself, telling him that Garstang had lured her away by the promise of
protection, but had shown himself in the vilest colours at last.
"He must--he shall protect me," she said, exultantly, and she hastily
directed the letter.
But as she sat there with the letter in her hand, she shrank and
trembled. For in vivid colours her imagination painted before her the
trouble and persecution to which she would expose herself. She knew
well enough what were James Wilton's aims, and that situated as he was,
he would stand at nothing to gain them. It was in vain she told herself
that anything would be preferable to staying there at John Garstang's
mercy, the horror of rushing headlong back to her guardian, and the
thoughts of his triumphant looks as he held her tightly once again,
proved too much for her, and this letter was slowly torn up and the
pieces hidden.
As she sat there, with every nerve on the rack, a strange feeling of
faintness came over her, and she started up in horror at the idea of
losing her senses, and being at this man's mercy. And as she walked
hurriedly to and fro, trembling as she felt the faintness increasing,
some relief came, for she grasped the fact that her faintness was due to
want of food, and it was past mid-day.
There was the bread close at hand, though, and turning to it she began
to crumble up the pieces and to eat, though it was only with the
greatest difficulty that she accomplished her task.
But it had the required effect--the sensation of sinking passed off.
And now she set herself the task of trying to think of some one among
the very few friends she had known before her father's death to whom she
could send for help; but there did not occur to her mind one to whom she
could apply in such a strait. There were the people at the bank, and
the doctor who had attended her father in his last illness, but they
were comparatively such strangers that she shrank from writing to them;
and at last, unnerved, and with her mind seeming to refuse to act, she
sat there feeling that there was not a soul in the world whom she could
trust but the Leighs. She could send to Jenny, who would, she knew, be
up in arms at once; but there was her brother. She could not, she dared
not, ask him; and it would be, she felt, asking him. It would be so
interpreted if she wrote.
And then came the question which sent a shiver through her frame--what
must he think of her, and would he come to her help as he would have
done before she committed so rash an act?
Kate's weary ponderings were interrupted by a tap at the door, which
produced a fit of trembling, and she glided to it to slip the bolt,
which had hardly passed into its socket before the housekeeper's voice
was heard.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but lunch is ready, and master would be glad
to know if you are well enough to come down."
A stern negative was the reply, and for about a quarter of an hour she
was undisturbed. Then came another tap, and the rattling of china and
glass.
"If you please, ma'am, I've brought your lunch."
She hesitated for a few moments. The desire was strong to refuse to
take anything, but she felt that if she was to keep setting Garstang at
defiance till she could escape, she must have energy and strength. So,
unwillingly enough, she unfastened the door, the housekeeper entered
with a tray, and set it down upon the table.
"Can I bring you up anything more, ma'am, and would you like any wine?"
"No," was the abrupt answer, in tones that would bear no reply, and the
woman went away, the door being fastened after her.
The lunch tray looked dainty enough, but it remained untouched for a
time. A desperate resolve had come upon the prisoner, and once more
seating herself, she wrote a piteous letter to Jenny, imploring help,
directed it, and placed it ready for giving to poor Becky when she came
again. Stamps she had none, but she had a little money, and doubtless
the girl would dispatch her note in safety.
The desperate step taken, she felt more at ease, and feeling that her
state of siege must last for a couple of days longer, she sat down and
once more forced herself to eat, but she shrank from touching the water
in the carafe, looking at it suspiciously, and preferring to partake of
some that was in the room.
The tray was fetched in due time, and the housekeeper smiled her
satisfaction; but she went off without a word, and Kate felt that she
would go straight to Garstang and report that the lunch had been eaten.
She winced at this a little, but felt that it was inevitable, and
feeling in better nerve she went to the door, which she had fastened,
opened it a little, and stood there to watch for the coming of Becky.
But the hours glided by, and with a creeping sense of horror she saw the
wintry evening coming rapidly on, and thought of the night.
Whenever a footstep was heard she was on the qui vive, but each time it
was the mother. The daughter, who had before this seemed to be always
gliding ghost-like about the place, was now invisible, and as Kate
watched she saw the housekeeper light the hall jets and then descend to
the kitchen region.
Twice over she shrank back and secured the door, for she heard Garstang
cough slightly, and saw him cross the hall from library to dining-room,
and in each case she let some minutes elapse before she dared open and
peer out again. The last time it was to be aware of the fact that the
dinner hour had come once more, and soon after the woman began to ascend
the stairs, Kate retiring within and slipping the bolt, to stand and
listen for the message she knew would be delivered.
"Master's compliments, and are you well enough to come down, ma'am?"
The brief negative sent the messenger down again, and the prisoner was
left undisturbed for a few minutes, when there was the sound of a tray
being brought to the door, but this time it was refused entrance.
Kate watched again eagerly now, feeling that in all probability Becky
would try to see her while her mother was occupied in the dining-room,
but the time passed on and there was no sign of her, and thoughts of
desperate venturing to try and reach the front door attacked the
listener, but only to be dismissed.
"It would only be to expose myself to insult," she said, and growing
more and more despondent, she once more closed and secured the door,
expecting that there would be a fresh message sent up.
In due time there was another tap at the door, but no request for her to
come down.
"I have brought you up some tea, ma'am."
Kate hesitated about admitting the woman, for the memory of the scene at
the same hour on the previous night flashed across her, but
instinctively feeling that the messenger was alone, she unfastened the
door and let her in.
"Master's compliments, ma'am, and he hopes that your quiet day's rest
will have done you good. He says he will not trouble you to see him
to-night, but he hopes you will be yourself again in the morning.
Good-night, ma'am; I won't disturb you again. The things can be left on
the side-table. Is there anything else I can do?"
"No, I thank you," said Kate, coldly.
"Very good, ma'am."
The woman went back to the door, and Kate's last hope of her turning a
friend to help her died out, for she heard her sigh and say softly,
evidently to be heard:
"Poor dear master; it's very sad."
"Good-night!" said Kate, involuntarily repeating the woman's words.
"God help me and protect me through the long night watches, and inspire
me with the thought that shall bring me help. How can I dare to sleep?"
The answer came from Nature--imperative, and who knew no denial; for
once more the prisoner awoke, wondering to find that it was morning and
that she must have slept for many hours in a chair.