TO THE RESCUE
For the first mile I rode almost without heeding the direction I was
taking, or thinking of what was the best way to proceed.
My mind was too full of terror. Perhaps even then Wilfred with his
devilish cunning was weaving a net from which my darling could not
escape. Aided by the villain with whom he had been so friendly, he
might destroy my happiness for ever. And so, unthinkingly, I allowed
the mare to carry me whither she would. It did not matter, however.
By a strange instinct, which I am sure some animals possess, she seemed
to divine the road I wanted to go, and plunged forward joyfully.
I was no light weight to carry. It is true that the past year's sorrow
had worn me very much, so that there was but little flesh on my great,
gaunt frame; but I still weighed nine score pounds, and thus would tire
any horse that had to carry me a long distance. I could not have
ridden a more noble animal, however; I think she united all the
qualities of strength and speed, and tore along the road as though she
felt my weight no more than if I had been a feather. It was but little
I had done in riding during the eleven years I had been away, but I
found I had not lost my old skill, and soon I was able to bring Black
Bess into entire subjection, and settled down into a good swinging trot.
I longed to gallop the gallant animal all the way, so anxious was I to
reach Morton Hall; but I knew that she could not hold out at such a
speed, so I patted her neck and gave her a few kind, caressing words,
at which she whinnied a little and tossed her head proudly, as if to
tell me she was prepared to go as fast as I liked.
Thirty-five miles. It was a long stretch of land, and difficult to
cover quickly. In most places it was very hilly, which would often
check our speed. I calculated, however, to get to Morton village in
four hours. It was just after two o'clock when we started; by six we
should get there if nothing was amiss. It was in the month of October,
so that the day would be nearly gone ere I should see the old village
church, which a year before had been the scene of such a wonderful
event.
After riding an hour I was able to think more clearly, and to form some
idea as to the steps I should take. I remembered that I had a cunning,
unscrupulous man to deal with, one who, in his disappointment and
jealousy, would stop at nothing. There were but little data on which I
could build my theories, or form my plans. The first question that
appealed to me was, What was Wilfred likely to do? What steps would he
take?
From what Bill Tregargus had told me I gathered that he was going to
tell her that I was dead, and again press upon her his suit, and then
if she would not listen to him to--well, I knew not what.
But I was sure he would not dare to harm her in her own home, where she
would be surrounded by so many servants and friends. No, he would seek
to lure her away alone; where I could not guess; but knowing Wilfred as
I did, I felt sure that this would be his plan. The execution of this
plan would, however, be delayed till dark, so my hope lay in arriving
before sunset.
Let no one think, then, that I was riding on a scheme of vengeance; on
the contrary, my intention was to save. I hoped to save Wilfred from
committing a dark deed, I longed to save Ruth from becoming a villain's
prey. I had no desire to hurt either Wilfred or his accomplice. No
good could come of that. To meet evil with evil is useless for any
good purpose.
At length my heart began to beat loudly, for I knew I was nearing
Morton Hall. I passed by the farm where a year before a buxom maiden
had given me some new milk, and when I had ridden a little farther I
saw a great clump of trees which I knew surrounded Morton Church. It
was well that the journey was nearly over, for Black Bess was covered
with foam, and by her spreading nostrils and hard breathing I knew she
would be glad to rest.
Knowing nothing of Wilfred's schemes, I had no definite plans made; but
I had been revolving a dozen in my mind, and determined, if necessary,
not to hesitate to take bold action.
Just before coming to the village, I decided that it would not be wise
to go to the inn. My brother would very likely stable his horses there
and for aught I knew might have watchers on every hand. Where should I
go, then, so as not to be noticed?
When last there, I discovered that there was no need for me to go into
the village in order to reach Ruth's house. Perhaps it would be better
to ride there direct, and make the necessary inquiries. Perhaps--God
knows how I hoped it--she was still in the house, Wilfred not having
been able to concoct a plan sufficiently plausible to get her away
alone. If so, I should meet her, and be able to warn and protect her.
This I would do, then, but I dared not go dusty, dishevelled,
travel-stained as I was. So I got off my horse, and washed myself in a
streamlet that trickled beside the road. Then I picked up a wisp of
straw and rubbed down the mare. It was but little I could do for her,
but I wiped the foam from her, and made her look less conspicuous than
she had been before. This done, I mounted again and rode direct to the
Hall.
How my heart thumped as I neared the stately old mansion, and how I
hoped and prayed that I might be successful in my mission! I thought
not of myself now. My one thought was to save Ruth, and to save
Wilfred.
Daylight had begun to fade as I rode up to the Hall door. A stable boy
had seen and followed me. Without a moment's hesitation I flung myself
from the faithful creature who had borne me so gallantly over those
long weary miles.
"Take this mare, rub her down well, feed her well, and wrap her up
warmly. And, stay--don't give her too much water."
He looked at me in astonishment, then a look of recognition came into
his face. Evidently he had seen me before, for he grinned and touched
his cap as he said, "I'll zee to 'er proper, sur."
I would have followed him and made sure that he did as I commanded;
for, brought up among horses as I had been, I had learnt to care for
them, and to see them properly provided for, but now, other matters
were more pressing. So I threw him a crown piece, and hurried to the
door.
Again the bell clanged through the old hall, again I stood with beating
heart waiting for the answer, for now I was nearing the great crisis of
my life--at least, it seemed so to me then.
The old servant I had seen a year before met me, and despite the dim
light recognised me in a second--joyfully, I thought.
"Mr. Trewinion, sir," he said, quickly, "walk in."
Again I entered the house and with a fast beating heart.
"Is your mistress at home?" I said, hastily.
He looked up at me anxiously, I thought.
"Yes, sir," he replied, "she is at home; that is, sir, she is not at
home now, but we expect her home every minute."
"Has she been far away?"
"No, sir; oh, no, she's only gone to the village."
"Do you know why?"
"Why, sir!" he said, looking at me strangely. "She's not gone into the
village exactly, but to a little cottage just outside. You see, sir,
she's mighty good to the poor, and she do visit 'em and carry things to
'em."
"Do you know the one she's gone to visit now?"
"Oh, yes, sir. She's a bedridden old woman. Mistress has been to see
her many a time."
"Did she walk or ride?"
"Walked, sir; you see, she couldn't ride to Mrs. Bray's, her cottage is
among the fields, and there's no carriage road."
"She is not gone alone?"
"No, sir," said the man, evidently wondering more and more at my
questions, "one of the servants went with her to carry the basket.
"Have there been any callers here to-day?"
"No, sir, no one has been but Mrs. Bray's little maid, who came to say
that her grandmother was worse."
"Ah! You are sure it was Mrs. Bray's granddaughter; you know the maid?"
"Know her, sir! Of course, know'd her ever since she was a baby; you
don't think that----"
"How long ago did this girl come?"
"About two hours, sir."
"And how long since your mistress left?"
"Directly after the little maid."
"And the servant who is gone with her is trustworthy?"
"Oh, yes, sir; why sir, you don't----"
"Where is this old woman's house? Tell me quickly."
He told me the direction, and assured me that by going across the park
I could reach it in less than ten minutes.
"I'll go and meet her," I said, as calmly as I could, "but if she
arrives before I do, say nothing of my being here. I shall not be much
later than she. But point out the road by which she will come."
He did so, and then wanted to send a servant with me; but of this I
would not hear. I wanted no prying, gossiping servants to be around.
The truth was I feared Wilfred had succeeded in sending Mrs. Bray's
granddaughter on a false errand, or else had watched her and found out
hers. At any rate, I felt sure that he would be cognisant of the
child's visit, and would use it as a means to carry out his designs.
I hurried across the park like a deer when the hounds are behind it,
cleared the fence that lay at its utmost extremity, and struck into a
footpath that led to the cottage. The way was very lonely. A few
straggling houses formed the village and the cottage was some distance
from them. Two weak, defenceless women could easily be met and
overpowered and without anyone being the wiser.
Wilfred was not likely to attempt to carry out his designs in daylight,
so if the summons to Mrs. Bray's bedside were genuine, the chances were
that Ruth would be allowed to pay the visit first. Perhaps she might
be there even now, and if I went a little faster I might be in time to
see her before she left the cottage. Filled with this thought, I
rushed rapidly on to the little thatched house, and knocked at the door.
A little girl came, with a tallow candle in her hand.
"Does Mrs. Bray live here?" I said, pantingly.
"Iss, sur, she do," replied the child.
"Is she alone?"
"Iss, sur," wonderingly.
"Has any one been to see her this afternoon?"
"Iss, sur. Miss Murten 'ev bin."
"Miss Morton," I said, with a glad feeling at heart. "How long has she
been gone?"
"Not more'n 'bout vive or ten minutes, sur."
"Has she gone down the lane?" I said, pointing to the one I took to be
that of which the old servant at the Hall had told me.
"Iss, sur," said she, timidly.
Without another word I rushed down the narrow lane which led to a
distant farm, then coming to a stile I jumped over it into a field.
Daylight was now quite gone, and I knew that I must be careful. True,
I did not know that Wilfred and Blackburn had come to the village at
all, but I must be ready for any emergency.
I could dimly see the footpath by the hedgerow, so I ran noiselessly
along it, until I reached the end of the field, then I stood upon the
stile and listened. All was silent as death.
"Surely," I said. "My fears are in vain. Ruth has gone quietly back
to her home. If I am quick I shall overtake her."
With this hope in my heart, yet feeling terribly anxious, I rushed
along the hedgeside, and had nearly traversed the length of the field
when I heard what I thought was a smothered scream.
The sound was near me, too, it seemed to come from the other side of
the fence which was just before me.
With beating heart I went stealthily forward and looked over the hedge
into the other field.
In the dim light I saw four figures.
But there was no struggling. They seemed to have only just met, and as
I looked I heard a voice that set my every nerve quivering.
"Wilfred," said the voice, which I knew was Ruth's, "how came you here?"
"I came to see you, Ruth," said Wilfred in low, subdued tones.
"But why did you not go to the house? I have been home all day, and my
doors are never closed to any one bearing your name."
"I have met you here because I want to see you alone, and because I
have some strange things to tell you."
"Well, speak on," she said, haughtily; "here, Clara, come and stand by
my side."
"No," said Wilfred, hoarsely, "I want no servants near; I must speak to
you alone, here, now. Jake, take this jade a few yards away and stay
there."
Jake did as he was told, and the servant, having evidently seen Wilfred
before, seemed to think no wrong. I saw Ruth look around her as if in
fear, however, while I, scarce knowing why, waited for what should
follow next.
"Wilfred," said Ruth, "this is strange acting. Never before has any
one dared to treat me so; but you are an old friend, or I should say
perhaps that I have known you a very long time, and so I grant your
request. Speak, but speak quickly. Meanwhile we will walk home."
"No," said Wilfred, "I say what I want to say here."
"Why?"
"Ruth, I am a desperate man, and I must use desperate means. I am not
going to be frightened out of my purposes; nothing shall stay my hand!"
He spoke with the old intense tone of voice that I knew so well, and I
knew, as he said, that he was desperate.
"Well, what have you to tell me, Wilfred?" There was no fear in her
voice. Evidently, she felt she was on her own land, and that no one
would dare to molest her, where she was beloved by all.
"First of all, Ruth," he said hoarsely, "I am come to tell you that
Roger is dead. News came last night of his death."
"Died! How?" she gasped.
"Hanged," he said, savagely. "The pirate vessel on which he sailed was
captured, and he has been hanged. One or two of the crew were granted
a reprieve, but Roger was the most bloodthirsty man among them, and to
him no mercy was shown."
She did not speak, and, after being silent a second, he went on.
"I came to tell you that first of all; I thought you might be glad to
know that he will plague you no more.
"Then, Ruth," he went on, "I am come to tell you something else. I
cannot live without you, Ruth. I have been mad for love of you for
long, long years. Oh, if you only knew, if you only knew!"
"Wilfred," she answered, "say no more about that. Surely you know that
when I was nearly driven to marry you, the thought of it almost killed
me. You cannot come with that petition again."
"But, Ruth, Roger is dead, and now I have come to beseech you to have
pity. I am dying for you, Ruth. Oh, if you will only pity me, and if
although you do not love me, you will fulfil my father's wish, and your
father's wish, and wed me, you will save me. Save me from death
here--from death hereafter."
He spoke with passionate earnestness, which I can never forget. He
pleaded for her love as a man fearful of death might plead for his
life. But to all his petitions she gave no encouragement.
"I cannot do as you ask, Wilfred," she said, "neither would my father,
or your father, if either were alive, have me do it. My eyes have been
opened as to their real wishes, and I cannot marry you."
"But, Ruth," he continued, "you do not know. My very existence depends
on your answer. Do not think I care for your money; but, driven to
madness by your constant refusal of my love, I have acted foolishly, I
have blindly engaged in speculation, until Trewinion estate is no
longer mine, except in name. If you do not have pity on me it will
become the property of strangers, and those who care nothing for us or
ours will possess it. My mother will be homeless, and the old rooms,
which were my father's and--Roger's will be desecrated by others. For
myself I care nothing, but I cannot bear that my mother should have to
leave the home of our people."
She seemed moved at this, for in her pure guilelessness I do not
believe she ever thought that Wilfred was seeking her for her wealth
alone. Hence what he had said appealed to her, as my brother intended
it should, as an additional reason for her to accept him. Still, it
did not alter her determination.
"I will help you, Wilfred," she said, "if it is in my power to do so.
I will see that all shall be well with your mother, but I cannot do as
you wish."
"But why?" Wilfred asked hoarsely. "Roger is dead, and even if he were
not you could never wed him when you know that his heart is full of
murder. You know that he sought my life, and but for a fortunate----"
"I do not know it," she said passionately, "neither do I know that he
is dead."
"What!" he exclaimed, savagely, "you believe that I----"
"I know that you have deceived me about him in the past," she said. "I
know that you drove him from home. I know that you have tried to make
me believe that he sought to murder you, but let me tell you this,
Wilfred: If I believed he were dead, which I do not, and if he has been
all you say he has, then, knowing you as I do, I cannot, will not, be
what you ask. Now, I will go home. Stand aside, please?"
"You refuse, then?"
"Certainly, Wilfred. And now that I have yielded to your wish for this
unseemly interview, I wish it to be the end of all such scenes."
"Ay, and it shall be, for I have a few words to say." His tone
changed, and he spoke with haughty insolence. "We are in a lonely
place," he said, "half a mile from a house. No one will molest us
here, and you are in my power. I have begged you to grant my request,
now you will have to yield to one of two alternatives. The first is
this: The town of ---- is ten miles from here. You will ride there
with me this very night, quietly, and remain there until arrangements
are made for our marriage."
"What!" she exclaimed, "you seek to force me? You dare not do such a
thing."
"I dare do anything," he said, "for I am a desperate man. Will you
accede to this?"
"Never. I will die first."
"Then hear my other alternative. There is a vessel lying in the cove
yonder. I have got it for this emergency. You will come with me now,
and to-night we shall sail for a port where my wishes will be carried
out in spite of you. Stop, if you scream or cry for help I will gag
you, and Jake will do the same by your girl. He has my orders. Choose
which you like, but one of them you shall do."
All this time I had listened as in a dream. For a time I seemed
incapable of action. I was stupefied by the villainy of my brother,
while my blood surged madly at the sound of Ruth's voice. It seemed so
strange that I should have come thus, and be listening to such a
conversation. At first I could not think it real, and yet I remembered
I had ridden thirty-five miles to prevent whatever schemes he had
concocted.
"Choose quickly," he went on after a pause. "I have no time to waste.
Either you come to the three bridges, where horses are waiting, and
ride to ----, and marry me as soon as it can be arranged, or you come
to Pendugle Cove. I care not which, but as I am a maddened, desperate
man, it shall be one or the other."
She did not lose her presence of mind. I do not think she realised her
danger.
"Wilfred," she said, "I have long known that you were capable of much
that was bad, but I never thought you were as bad as this. You have my
answer. I will die rather than accede to either of your plans, and you
dare not carry them into execution."
"But I will. Then you will wish you had consented. Jake, Pendugle
Cove, and gag the girl. I will manage Miss Morton."
He laid his hand on her as he spoke. She gave a slight cry for help,
which was instantly choked.
Then all my stupefaction left me. With one bound I cleared the fence,
and in another second I was by Ruth's side.