Mr. Rayner slept that night in the dressing-room leading out of the
large front room which his wife now occupied. I met him coming out of
it as I went downstairs to breakfast the next morning. I spent the
hours until dinner-time in my own room, packing and preparing for the
journey the next day.
It was curious, I thought, that I had not heard again from my mother,
who would naturally be overflowing with excitement about such a great
event. I had written a long letter to her on Monday, and put it into
the post-bag, with no misgivings as to its safety now that my enemy
Sarah was ill. It was a very pleasant thing to think that I should
soon be with my mother again, and that in a few days I should see
Laurence; but there was a less bright view to be taken of the
expedition, and from time to time, in the midst of my happy
anticipation, it troubled me.
It seemed an unkind thing, in spite of her obstinate refusal to quit
the Alders, to leave delicate Mrs. Rayner alone in this dreary place,
the gloom and damp of which had evidently had much to do with the
morbid state of mind she was in, with no companions, and no other
inmates of the house, except a weird child who was not fond of her,
two servants, a sick-nurse, and a delirious invalid. I had noticed
faint signs of nervous agitation in her manner lately when the coming
journey was alluded to, and I had caught her eyes fixed upon mine
sometimes as if she had something to say to me which she could not
bring herself to the point of uttering; and the strange perversity of
the poor lady, who seemed now mad, now sane, puzzled me more and more.
The Doctor, for whose verdict Mr. Maynard was waiting, did not come
that day until just before dinner; and then his report was as gloomy
as possible. He did not think it probable that Sarah would ever
recover her reason, and the only change she was likely to get from her
sick-room was to the county lunatic asylum. On hearing this, the
detective, who had spent the morning in making inquiries, in searching
Sarah’s boxes, and even her room, at Mr. Rayner’s suggestion, in
examining every corner of the housekeeper’s room in which she
generally sat, and of the store-cupboard under the stairs, which was
also under her charge--but I do not think he went into the left wing,
where the large store-room was--having failed to make any discovery,
wished to return to town that afternoon; but Mr. Rayner pressed him to
stay, saying that he would drive him over to Denham village that
afternoon, and, in the character of a friend of his, come down from
town for a few days, he could examine the scene of the robbery and
make inquiries without any one’s suspecting who he was, and perhaps
pick up some scraps of information which would save him from the
reproach of having made a journey in vain.
“Do you know enough about railways to pass for an engineer, or
inspector, or anything of that sort?” asked Mr. Rayner. “You know, of
course, that suspicion has fallen upon a gang of navvies who are at
work upon the line near there; but, although there have been
detectives among them since, not one has been sharp enough to discover
anything yet.”
The man seemed a little shy at first of interfering in a branch of the
work of watching which had been put into other hands. But he was
rather put upon his mettle by the allusion to the fact that his
journey had been so far a failure. And Mr. Rayner whispered to me in
the hall, with his eyes twinkling, when the detective was already
seated in the dog-cart at the door, that he had put that fellow up to
discovering something--it did not matter what, wrong or right. He said
they should be back early, as the fog was rising already, and, in
order to repay Mr. Maynard for detaining him, there was to be dinner
at half-past six, instead of the usual tea at half-past five. And, in
the very highest spirits, Mr. Rayner patted my shoulder, told me to
save myself up for next day, and that he had a present to give me on
the journey, and jumped into the dog-cart.
I went back into the dining-room, where the cook was clearing away the
luncheon; Jane, as she had predicted, not having come back yet. Mrs.
Rayner was sitting by the fire, with Haidee on her lap.
“Are you unhappy at the thought of losing her so soon?” said I softly,
leaving my seat and kneeling by her side, as soon as the cook had left
the room.
Mrs. Rayner looked at me earnestly, and then whispered--
“No, I am not unhappy about her, but about you.”
“About me, Mrs. Rayner!” I exclaimed, in astonishment.
“Hush!” she whispered softly. She took her arms from her child’s neck,
and told her to go and play; and Haidee obediently walked to the
window, where her doll was lying on the floor.
“It is as much as my wretched life is worth to warn you,” whispered
she, taking the hand I had laid on her lap, and clasping and
unclasping her own about it nervously. “You are kind-hearted, and
innocent as a child--I see that now,” she continued, her eyes
wandering restlessly about the room.
I began to be afraid of a fit of hysterics, or worse; and I begged her
not to talk if it fatigued her, and asked her if I should fetch some
eau-de-cologne. She shook her head.
“I am not hysterical--don’t be afraid of that,” said she, turning her
great eyes upon me, as if in reproach. “I only want to tell you
this--when you arrive in London to-morrow, if your mother is not
waiting at the station, insist upon going to her house before you go
farther. Do not on any account enter another train without her. Call
the guard--make a disturbance at the station--do anything rather.”
“But how can I?” said I gently. “I cannot insist against Mr. Rayner.
He would not listen. You know that, when he tells one to do a thing,
there is such a strong authority about him, one must do it.”
“Try, try!” said she earnestly. “I believe you have the power, if you
have the courage. You have thwarted his wishes as nobody else has ever
dared to do--in sending for Doctor Lowe, in taking Haidee upstairs.
Try once more. It is not Sarah’s safety that is concerned this time,
nor Haidee’s, but your own. For Heaven’s sake, try!”
She lay back in the chair, her face, neck, and hands all wet with the
violence of her feeling and her unaccustomed vehemence. Yet her voice
had never once risen above a whisper that could not have been heard at
the other end of the room. She raised her head again, and read with
unexpected penetration the look on my face.
“I am not mad, Miss Christie,” she said quite quietly. “Think me mad
if you like--if your mother meets you at Liverpool Street Station.
But, if not, remember my warning; it may have cost me my life.”
She shook off my hand and lay back again, as if wishing for rest. And
I remained on my knees beside her, not knowing what to think, whether
she was mad or sane, whether I should follow her advice or dismiss her
words as--no, I could not think them idle; that she herself had been
in terrible earnest as she uttered them I could not doubt. What then?
She wanted to make me distrust her husband. She had not spoken like a
jealous woman; she was too cold, too indifferent for jealousy. What
strange fancy was this of hers about the journey? If my mother should
not be at the station waiting for us, which was very likely, as she
was seldom punctual, I should still have Haidee with me. I should
naturally suggest waiting for her; but, if she did not come soon,
probably Mr. Rayner himself would either send or go to my uncle’s
house in search of her. What had I to fear with Mr. Rayner, my best
and kindest friend, next to Laurence, in the world? Why should a
morbid fancy of his poor, sickly, fanciful wife trouble me?
And yet the impression her words had made upon me was so strong that I
determined, if my mother should not arrive at the station shortly
after us--that she would be there already was too much to expect of
her--that I would ask Mr. Rayner to let me take a cab to my uncle’s
house and fetch her myself.
Mrs. Rayner scarcely spoke for the rest of the afternoon; that unusual
burst of vehemence seemed to have exhausted her.
The fog, which had been hanging about us for days, grew so thick as
the afternoon wore on that we had to have the lamps lighted much
earlier than usual, and it was quite dark when, at about half-past
four, there was a ring at the front-door bell. The cook came in to say
that a boy from the village wanted to speak to Miss Christie; and I
went into the hall and found a little fellow of about ten whom I did
not know, who told me that Mrs. Manners, who was at the school-house,
had sent to ask me to come to her at once, as she wished to speak to
me about the dole. This was a yearly distribution of clothing and
money among the very poor people of the parish, which took place in
November. It was rather strange that Mrs. Manners should want to speak
to me about it, I thought at first, as I was not a district visitor.
However, of course I must go; and I went back into the dining-room and
told Mrs. Rayner about it.
“Don’t go, Miss Christie,” said she at once. “It is some trap, some
trick; Mrs. Manners never sends messages but by her own boys. Don’t
go.”
“I don’t like not to go,” said I hesitatingly. “It may be something of
importance, and Mrs. Manners has been so kind to me. Please let me go,
Mrs. Rayner.”
She shrank into herself, and leaned back again as the cook reappeared
at the door, saying the boy said Mrs. Manners’s message was--would I
make haste?
“Of course you can go, Miss Christie,” said Mrs. Rayner listlessly.
I ran upstairs and was down again ready for my walk in a few minutes.
The boy was evidently prepared to accompany me; and the fog was so
thick that I was glad of it, for he was more used to the turns of the
road than I; and even he had to go very slowly and to keep close to
the hedge. He kept urging me to make haste, however, and I followed
him as fast as I could, while he turned every other minute to see that
I was still behind him.
The school was about half a mile from the Alders, among the first
houses of the village. When I stumbled against a milestone which was,
I knew, not far from our destination, the boy said--
“Here, miss, take care! This way.”
And, taking a corner of my cloak, he led me round into a path which
branched off to the left.
“But you are going wrong,” I said. “It is straight on, I know--not up
here. This is the way to Dunning’s Farm, half a mile off.”
“It’s all right, miss,” said he. “I’m afraid of our being run over
along the high-road now we’re so near the village. Come on, miss; it’s
all right.”
He was very impatient; and I followed him, not without some
misgivings. We had groped our way up this lane for what seemed to me a
very long time, when the boy stopped and whistled.
“What are you doing that for?” said I sharply.
But the boy, who, by making but a few steps forward, was lost to my
sight in the fog, whistled again. I stood for a moment trembling with
terror. Then the boy exclaimed angrily--
“Why, he ain’t here!”
“He! Who?” I cried, in alarm; and at that moment I heard a crackling
of branches, and saw dimly through the fog, a few yards in front of
me, the figure of a man crashing through the hedge, and leaping down
from the field into the road.
Smothering a cry, I turned, and ran I knew not whither. It was Tom
Parkes or Gordon, who had decoyed me out here to punish me for my
discoveries, which Sarah must have told them about.
I heard the boy say, “Thank ye,” and then the footsteps of the man
coming nearer to me. My only hope was that I might perhaps escape him
in the blinding fog by crouching under the hedge till he had passed;
but, to my horror, he was coming as slowly and as cautiously as I. I
had found my way to the hedge and knelt down close under it, my face
almost in among the briers and thorns. He passed me; I could see the
vague form as it went by. But in my joy at the sight I drew a sharp
breath; he turned back, groped for me, found, and raised me to my
feet, all without a word. I closed my eyes and shuddered. For the
first moment I felt too exhausted by the excitement of those awful
minutes to struggle much. I could only feebly try to push him off,
crying brokenly--
“Don’t--don’t hurt me!”
“Hurt you, my own darling! Look up at me. Heaven help me, I have
nearly frightened you to death!”
I looked up with a cry, and flung my arms round his neck. It was
Laurence, his face so haggard and so dirty as to be scarcely
recognizable; but he told me, as he kissed me again and again, that I
must not mind that, for he had travelled night and day without a
moment’s rest since he got my letter on the morning of the previous
day.
“And, thank Heaven, I am in time, in time!” he cried, as he pressed me
again in his arms.
“In time for what, Laurence? I should have been near you in two days,”
said I wonderingly. “We were to start to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning! Just a few hours more, and I should have lost
you!” cried the poor fellow in such agony of horror and relief at the
same time that only to see him in that state brought the tears to my
own eyes.
“Lost me, Laurence? Oh, do tell me what you mean!” I cried piteously.
“Oh, Violet, are you still so innocent as to think that that man would
have brought you to me?”
“Why not?” asked I, in a whisper.
“Because he loves you himself,” said he between his teeth--“if the
feeling even you inspire in such a man can be called love. Your
innocence would not have protected you much longer. Oh, I was a fool,
a blind fool, ever to leave you, for father--mother--anybody in the
world! But I did not know quite all until your own sweet naïve letter
opened my stupid eyes.”
“Oh, Laurence, Laurence, what dreadful things are you saying?” I
cried, shaking with fear even in his arms.
“Never mind, my own darling; you are safe now,” said he very gently.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I ought to have warned you long ago;
but I could not bear to--”
“But, Laurence, my mother is going with us. Didn’t I tell you that? I
had a letter from her--”
“Which she never wrote. On my way back to London, I telegraphed to
your mother to meet me at Charing Cross Station, and there she told me
she had never seen Mr. Rayner and never heard a word of the journey to
Monaco.”
This blow was too much for me; I fainted in his arms. When I
recovered, I found that he had carried me some distance; and, as soon
as I began to sigh, he put me down and gave me some brandy-and-water
out of his flask.
“I’m always wanting that now, I think,” said I, trying weakly to smile
as I remembered that two or three times lately Mr. Rayner had given it
to me when I seemed to be on the point of fainting. “You are the first
person who has made me go off quite, though,” I said.
And poor Laurence took it as a reproach, and insisted on our stopping
again in the fog for me to forgive him. We were making our way slowly,
in the increasing darkness, down the lane to the high-road.
“But what am I to do, Laurence?” I asked tremblingly. “Shall I tell
Mr. Rayner--oh, I can’t think he is so wicked!--shall I tell him you
have come back, and don’t want me to leave England?”
“Not for the world, my darling,” said he, quickly. “Nobody in
Geldham--not even at the Hall--knows I have come back. That is why I
had to send for you on a pretext, and frighten you out of your life.
The boy I sent for you did not know me. I got here in a fly from the
station only a few minutes before I met him, and sent him off with the
promise of a shilling if he brought you back with him.”
“Ah, that is why he was so anxious not to lose sight of me for a
moment! But what is all this mystery about, Laurence? Why don’t you go
to the Hall and see your father?”
“Ah, that is a secret! You won’t mind waiting till to-morrow to know
that, will you, darling?”
“Oh, yes, I shall! I want to know now,” said I coaxingly. “Won’t you
trust me with your secret?”
He did not want to do so; but I was curious, and hurt at his refusal;
and, when he saw the tears come into my eyes, he gave way.
He had been so much struck by the postscript to my letter, telling him
of a suspicious-looking man whom I connected with the Denham Court
robbery hanging about the Hall, and promising to visit it again on
Wednesday, that he had obtained, by telegraphing to the chief of the
metropolitan police, a force of constables to lie in wait about the
Hall that night. He had appointed a trustworthy person to meet them at
Beaconsburgh station and conduct them to a rendezvous he had appointed
in the park, where they were probably waiting now. He was going to
station them himself, under cover of the fog, in places round the
Hall, among the shrubs, where they would be well concealed, and yet be
near the approaches of the house, especially on that side where the
strong-room was. The fog might work for them or against them; it might
throw the thieves--if indeed they came, which was a matter of
chance--into the constables’ hands, or it might help them to escape.
That must be left to fortune.
“And you know you said in your letter that Sarah was always raving
about a bad man named James Woodfall, who seemed to have a great
influence upon her and to be mixed up in everything evil she talked
about. Well, I have brought down among the constables a man who knew
James Woodfall, and swears he could identify him. This Woodfall used
to be a clever forger, and got caught only once, when he was quite a
lad; but he has been lost sight of for years. There is only an
off-chance of his having anything at all to do with this; but I
mentioned his name to the chief constable, and he thought it worth
trying. So now, my darling, you know everything, and you must keep my
secrets, every one, like grim death. As for your journey, don’t be
alarmed. I shall be in the same train with you; and your mother will
really meet you at Liverpool Street Station, for I have told her to do
so.”
Laurence insisted on seeing me home. We had crept along the high-road
until we were close to the cottage nearest to the Alders, when we
heard the sounds of hoofs and wheels, and men’s voices halloing
through the fog. Laurence opened the gate of the cottage garden and
led me inside till they should have passed.
It was the dog-cart, with Mr. Rayner on foot leading the horse, and
Maynard still in it.
“Lucky you are going to stay the night!” Mr. Rayner was saying. “I
wouldn’t undertake to find my way to my own gate to-night.”