CHAPTER XXV.
The moon was high by the time Captain Mulgrave and his subordinate started for the Abbey with their unwelcome guest.
John Thurley was still unconscious as they lifted him from the rock; and the jolting to which they were forced to subject him, as they made the difficult descent to the level land, failed to rouse him to the least sign of life. Indeed Freda, who followed close, not without suspicions of foul play in one of the bearers, was afraid that this journey was a hopeless one, and that it was a dead man they would carry into the Abbey.
“Up the steps,” directed Captain Mulgrave briefly.
And instead of turning to the left, towards the cave, they crossed the stretch of flat, grass-grown land in the direction of a rough flight of steps, partly cut in the cliff itself and partly formed of stones brought for the purpose, which, guarded on one side by a primitive handrail, formed the communication for the public between the top of the cliff and the scaur.
“It’s a long way round, guv’nor,” grumbled the other. “Better haul him up our way with the rest of the stuff.”
Freda uttered an angry and impatient exclamation. Her father who, to her horror, had appeared not unwilling to act on the suggestion, now shook his head and again nodded towards the steps. The other, though he had to submit to the directions of his chief, did so with a very bad grace, and muttered many expressions of ill-will as he staggered along under his share of the burden. For the unfortunate John Thurley was a solidly built, heavy man, and the ascent up the face of the cliff was not an easy one even in ordinary circumstances.
When they had at last, after many pauses, reached the top of the cliff, the little wizened face puckered up again with an expression of intense slyness.
“The boys won’t be able to get on without one or other of us, guv’nor,” he suggested. “They’ll have got the stuff through to the house by this time, and if there ’s nobody there to look after them they’ll just get roaring drunk, and perhaps manage to get up from the cellar for more liquor, and kick up no end of a disturbance.”
Freda, who was afraid her father might leave her alone with this odious man and the unconscious Thurley, instantly struck in with a suggestion.
“There’s Josiah Kemm waiting about by the ruin,” she said. “I suppose you have some whistle or signal that he would know, and he would bring his cart.”
She would have suggested going in search of him herself, but she could not pretend to have enough confidence in her companions for that. Her father smiled, and seemed to be both amused and pleased by her quickness. The other man, however, openly scowled at her. After a few moments’ consideration, Captain Mulgrave turned to his subordinate.
“You whistle,” he ordered shortly. “When Kemm comes, she” (nodding towards Freda) “will tell him what to do.”
So saying, he turned, and descending a dozen steps below the top of the cliff, concealed himself; while the other man, most unwillingly, whistled four times. By this Freda concluded that the fact of Captain Mulgrave’s being still alive was unknown to some members at least of the gang acting under him.
She knelt down by the wounded man, and was frightened by the coldness of his face and hands, and by the impossibility of discovering whether he still breathed. In a very few moments she was relieved to hear the rattle of wheels; and almost immediately afterwards the cart appeared in sight, and stopped in the road at the nearest point to where the wounded man was lying. There was a gate in the wall, and she could see Josiah Kemm opening it.
“Bring the cart through,” she cried out shrilly. “The cart!”
Kemm stopped, not at first understanding.
“T’ cart!” he echoed wonderingly.
“Yes, yes. Say yes,” she continued, turning with an impetuous air of command to her companion. He repeated sullenly:
“Yes, bring the cart.”
Kemm obeyed. But his disappointment, disgust and dismay were unbounded when, instead of a few bales of smuggled tobacco, he found that his cart was wanted to bear the wounded man. His superstitious fears were aroused, and he drew back hastily.
“He’s dead!” he muttered, “yon chap’s dead. It’s onlucky to carry a dead mon.”
But Freda besought him, coaxed, persuaded, promised until the stubborn Yorkshireman, impressed by her imperious manner, began to think that in obeying her, he was currying favour with the higher powers. So that at last he stooped, hoisted up the unfortunate man, placed him in his cart, lifted Freda herself into the front seat without waiting to be asked, and turned his horse’s head, by her direction, towards the Abbey.
Freda was trembling with triumph, but also with some apprehension. The Abbey was the only place to which she could take the wounded man, and yet she could not but fear that it might prove a very unsafe refuge. The little grinning man, whom they had left behind on the edge of the cliff, was a trusted person in her father’s mysterious house, and could go and come by secret ways, whenever he pleased. Her only hope lay with Mrs. Bean. Freda believed in the little woman’s real kindness of heart, and then too she would get at her first, before the housekeeper could be influenced by less honest counsels.
The cart with its occupants reached the Abbey-lodge in very few minutes. At the inner gate there was a little longer delay, and then Mrs. Bean appeared and let them in without question.
“I didn’t expect you to-night, Mr. Kemm,” was all she said.
But she started back in astonishment and dismay when he said:
“Ah’ve browt ye back a friend an’ a stranger, Mrs. Bean. One’s a leady, an’ t’other’s a gen’leman.”
At the same moment Freda, who had got down with Kemm’s help, ran up and put her arm round Nell’s neck.
“Mrs. Bean, dear Mrs. Bean,” she whispered, “it’s a friend of mine, the gentleman you saw me with at the churchyard, and he’s very, very ill. You’ll be kind to him, won’t you?”
But Nell was not at all sure about that. She even began by resolutely refusing to allow him to be brought into the house. Kemm, however, as resolutely refused to take him away again. At last Freda thought of away of overcoming the housekeeper’s objections.
“It was my father himself who brought him up from the scaur,” she whispered, in a voice too low for Kemm to hear. And as the housekeeper looked at her incredulously, she added: “My father, the man I have always called Crispin. He told me to bring him home.”
Mrs. Bean turned abruptly to Kemm.
“Where did you find this gentleman?” she asked. “Who was with him?”
“This little leady, and your husband.”
Freda started. The wizened and grinning man who had threatened her and stabbed John Thurley was, then, Nell’s husband, the veritable Crispin Bean.
Kemm’s answer, while it disturbed her, reassured the housekeeper, who reluctantly gave Kemm permission to bring the unconscious man indoors.
“I’m sure I don’t know where to put him,” she said discontentedly, though Freda was happy in discovering a gleam of pity in her round face.
“Put him in my father’s room,” said Freda with unexpected authority. And she led the way upstairs, beckoning to Kemm to follow her with his burden. She had rapidly decided that this room would be the safest in the house.
As soon as John Thurley had been placed upon the bed and Kemm had gone, Freda was delighted to find that her trust in Nell’s goodness of heart had not been misplaced. The young girl wanted to go for a doctor, but this the housekeeper would not allow, saying that she could do what had to be done as well as any man. She proceeded to prove this by binding up his wound with skilful hands. Presently John Thurley opened his eyes, as he had done several times during the journey from the beach. This time, however, he was not allowed to relapse into unconsciousness. Applying a restorative to his lips, Mrs. Bean spoke to him cheerfully, and got some sort of feebly muttered answer. He caught sight of Freda, who was helping Mrs. Bean, and gave her a smile of recognition. But Nell sent her away lest he should want to talk to her.
Freda left the room obediently, but went no further away than the great window-seat on the landing outside. Here she curled herself up, trying to keep warm, and looked out on the moonlit stretch of country. She was full of disquieting thoughts. This man, who had been kind to her, whose life she was trying to save, had seen the murderer of the man-servant Blewitt, and could recognise him. The fact of his having kept this knowledge to himself for so long could only be explained by his belief that the murderer was dead, and could not be brought to justice. If he were to learn that the murderer was not dead after all, Freda felt that she knew the man well enough to be sure that no consideration would deter him from bringing punishment upon the criminal. And that criminal she could no longer doubt was her father. If she could only see her father again, and warn him to keep away, as she had meant but had missed the opportunity to do, it would be all right. It never occurred to her that her influence with John Thurley would be strong enough to induce him to keep silence. On the other hand, there was danger to be feared from the real Crispin; perhaps also from his wife, who, when she learnt who struck the blow, might be too dutiful to her husband to continue her care of his victim. But in this she did Nell an injustice.
While the girl was still sitting in the window-seat crouching in an attitude of deep depression, the door of her father’s room softly opened, and Nell came up to her. She looked worried but spoke very gently.
“This is a bad business,” she began. “It’s one of my lord and master’s tricks, no doubt. And the worst of it is that when Crispin takes a job like this on hand, he doesn’t generally stop till he’s finished it.”
“But can’t you prevent him? Can’t you persuade him that he’s hurt this poor man enough?” asked Freda anxiously.
Nell shook her head.
“My dear,” said she, “since you’ve found out so much you may as well know the rest. Crispin’s a bad man, but a moderately good husband. If I were to interfere with him in any way, he would not be at all a better man, and he’d be a much worse husband. Those are the terms we live upon: I hold my tongue to him, and he holds his to me.”
“Then you won’t take care of this poor man any longer?”
“Yes, I will as long as I can. What he will most want is—watching. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Freda, trembling.
“The wound isn’t dangerous, I think if he’s kept quiet. And I’m used to nursing. Who is he?”
Freda hesitated. But the truth could not be concealed from Nell much longer, so at last she faltered:
“He is sent down—by the government—to look after the smuggling.”
The housekeeper’s face changed, as if a warrant of death had been contained in those words.
“The Lord help him then!” was all she said.
But Freda was so horror-struck at her tone that she sprang up and ran like a hare to the door of the sick man’s room.
“What are you going to do?” asked Nell.
“I don’t know,” sobbed Freda. “But—but I think I ought to put him on his guard.”
“No,” said Nell peremptorily. “Don’t disturb him now. Come here with me; I have something to tell you.”
Fancying from the housekeeper’s manner that an idea for helping John Thurley had occurred to her, Freda allowed herself to be led away to the disused room opposite.