IN THE CHURCHYARD
Nothing more of importance happened that day at Wynford, and Gifford had
no further opportunity of private talk with Edith Morriston. But it was
evident to him, and the knowledge gave him intense concern, that the girl
went in fear of Gervase Henshaw. That he was intimidating her, and using
his brother's death for that purpose, was beyond doubt, and the very fact
that Edith Morriston was a woman of uncommon courage and self-control,
one who in ordinary circumstances would be the last to give way to fear
or submit to bullying, showed how serious the matter had become.
Gifford on his part determined that this intolerable state of things must
come to an end, and that in spite of the command laid upon him by the
girl, he would now pit himself against her persecutor. He had given no
actual promise, and even if he had it would have been drawn from him in
ignorance of certain means which he possessed of help in this crisis.
And a significant circumstance which came to Gifford's knowledge a day or
two after his interview with Edith Morriston in the garden of Wynford,
was the cause of his beginning to take action without further delay.
Late on the next Sunday afternoon Gifford had gone for a country walk
which he had arranged to bring him round in time for the evening service
at the little village church of Wynford standing just outside the park
boundary. His way took him by well-remembered field-paths which, although
towards the end of his walk darkness had set in, he had no difficulty in
tracing. The last field he crossed brought him to a by-road joining the
highway which ran through Wynford, the junction being about a quarter of
a mile from the church. As he neared the stile which admitted to the road
he saw, on the other side of the hedge and showing just above it, the
head of a man. At the sound of his footsteps the man quickly turned,
and, as for a moment the fitful moonlight caught his face, Gifford was
sure he recognized Gervase Henshaw. But he took no notice and kept on his
way to the stile, which he crossed and gained the road. As he did so he
glanced back. A horse and trap was waiting there with Henshaw in it. He
was now bending down, probably with the object of concealing his
identity, and had moved on a few paces farther down the road.
Why was he waiting there? Gifford asked himself the obvious question with
a decidedly uneasy feeling. Henshaw the Londoner, on a Sunday evening,
waiting with a horse and trap in an unfrequented lane, a road which ran
nowhere but to a farm. What did it mean?
Naturally Gifford's suspicions connected Edith Morriston with the
circumstance, and yet he told himself the idea was monstrously
improbable. It was more likely that Henshaw was bound upon some search
with the police. His movements were and had been for some time
mysterious enough.
Gifford's impulse as he turned into the high road was to stay there in
concealment and watch for the upshot of Henshaw's presence. The
suggestion did not, however, altogether commend itself to him. He
disliked the idea of spying even upon such a man as Henshaw, whom he had
good reason to suspect of playing a dastardly game. It was probable, too,
that Henshaw had recognized him and might be on the look-out; it would be
intensely humiliating to be caught watching. So, turning the pros and
cons over in his mind, Gifford walked slowly on in a state of
irresolution till he came to a wicket-gate which admitted from the road
to a path which ran through the churchyard.
There he stopped, debating with himself whether he should turn back and
keep an eye on Henshaw or go on into the church where service was just
beginning. It did seem absurd to imagine that Henshaw with his conveyance
could be waiting there by appointment for a girl of the character and
position of Edith Morriston. True, he had seen them walking together in
secret, which was strange enough, but that need not necessarily have been
a planned meeting.
Such an urgent curiosity had hold of him at the bare possibility of
something wrong that he, temporizing with his scruples, was about to turn
back to the lane, when he saw the figure of a woman coming towards him
along the churchyard path. She was tall and so far as he could make out,
muffled in a cloak and veil. His heart gave a leap, for although the
woman's face and figure were indistinguishable the height and gait
corresponded with those of Edith Morriston.
As she came near the little gate where he stood she stopped dead, seemed
to hesitate a moment, and then turned as though to go back. Determined to
set his doubts at rest Gifford passed quickly through the gate and
followed her at an overtaking pace. Evidently sensible of her pursuit,
the woman quickened her steps and, as Gifford gained on her, turned
quickly from the path, threading her way among the graves to escape him.
She had gone but a few steps when in her hurry she tripped over the mound
of a small, unmarked grave and fell to the ground.
Gifford ran to her and taking her arm assisted her to rise.
"Miss Morriston!" he exclaimed, for he now was sure of her identity. "I
hope you are not hurt," he added mechanically, his mind full of a greater
and more critical contingency.
"Mr. Gifford!" she responded; but he was sure she had not recognized him
then for the first time. "Oh, no, thank you; I am not in the least hurt.
It was stupid of me to trip and fall like that. Are you going to church?"
she added, evidently wishing to get away.
"I was," he answered. "And you?"
"I was too," she said, conquering her embarrassment, "but I have a
headache, and prefer the fresh air. Don't let me keep you," she held out
her hand. "Service has begun."
He took her hand. "Miss Morriston," he said gravely, "don't think me very
unmannerly, but I am not going to leave you here."
In the bright moonlight he could see her expression of rather haughty
surprise. "I think you are unmannerly, Mr. Gifford," she retorted
defiantly. "May I ask why you are not going to leave me here?"
"Because," he answered with quiet decision, "Mr. Henshaw is waiting just
there in Turner's Lane."
"Is he?" The same defiant note; but there was anxiety behind the
cold pretence.
"Yes. And pardon me, I have an idea he is waiting there for you."
His firm tone and manner baffled equivocation. "What is it to you if he
is?" she returned with a brave attempt to suggest cold displeasure. But
her lip trembled and her voice was scarcely steady.
"It is something to me," he replied insistently, "because it means a
great deal to you. This man is persecuting you. He is--"
"Mr. Gifford!" she exclaimed. "You take--"
He held up his hand. "Please let me finish, Miss Morriston. I can
convince you that I am not taking too much upon myself. I am no fool and
am not interfering without warrant. This man Henshaw has succeeded in
persuading you that you are in his power. That is very far from being the
case, and I can prove it."
"I don't understand you, Mr. Gifford."
The tone of cold annoyance was gone now. Relief and a vague hope seemed
to be struggling with an almost overwhelming anxiety.
"You will understand directly," he replied. "I have more than a suspicion
that this man is seeking to connect you with his brother's death and is
making use of a certain half-knowledge he possesses to get a hold over
you. Is that not so?"
For a while she was silent, her breath coming quickly, as she hesitated
how to meet the direct question. Gifford hated, yet somehow rejoiced, to
see this proud, cold-mannered girl brought to this pass, and the reason
he rejoiced lay in the knowledge that he could help her out of it.
At length she spoke. "Mr. Gifford, I trust you as a man of honour. Your
conjecture is right, but unhappily there is no help for it."
"There is help," he declared reassuringly. "Can this man prove that you
are in any way guilty of his brother's death?"
The girl gave a shiver. "He can by implication," she admitted in a
low voice.
"Can he prove it?"
"Not actually, perhaps. But far enough to disgrace me and mine for ever,"
she said with a sob.
"And with that idea he terrorizes you?" The question was put with quiet
sternness.
"Yes, yes; but I cannot help it! I cannot bear it. Oh, let me go." She
seemed now in an agony of fear.
Gifford laid his hand on her as she sought to move away towards the gate
and the waiting enemy.
"Miss Morriston," he said with decision, "you must not go; you must have
no more communication with this man Henshaw. He can prove nothing against
you, while I can prove everything in your favour."
Her look of fear and impatience changed at the last words to one of
startled incredulity.
"You, Mr. Gifford? What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say," he returned decisively, "I can prove, if need be,
that you had no hand in that cowardly ruffian's death."
"You? How?" the girl gasped, staring at him with dilated eyes.
"I will convince you," he answered quietly. "When I told you the
other day that I had found your brooch on the lawn I said, for an
obvious reason, what was not true. I found it in the room where
Clement Henshaw died."
"You did," the girl gasped almost in terror. "When?"
"A few minutes after his death," Gifford replied calmly. "I happened to
be present in the room when he came by his fatal wound."