CHAPTER XXIX.
As the detective pronounced the name “James Woodfall,” I gave a cry that startled them all. Shaken as my trust in Mr. Rayner had already been, the shock seemed in a moment to change the aspect of the whole world to me. I shrank even from Laurence as he would have put his arms round me, and my wild wandering eyes fell upon Mrs. Rayner, who sat with her hands tightly clasped and head bent, listening to the proclamation of the secret which had weighed her down for years. And, as I looked at her, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, my dull wits to become keener, and part of the mystery of the house on the marsh to grow clear to me.
I sank down upon the floor beside her, and she put her thin wasted arms round my neck and kissed me without a word. And the three men quietly left the room. We did not say much even then.
“Oh, Mrs. Rayner,” I whispered, “it is terrible for you!”
“Not so terrible to me,” she whispered back wearily. “I have known it for years—almost ever since I married him. But don’t talk about it any more,” said she, glancing furtively round the room. “He may be in the house at this moment; and they might search and watch for months, but they would never catch him. But he will make us suffer—me—ah, and you too now! You were so unsuspicious, yet it must have been you who set Laurence Reade upon the track.”
“Not of Mr. Rayner. Oh, I never thought of such a thing!” I whispered, shuddering.
And I told her all about my suspicions of Tom Parkes, my visit to the Hall, my letter to Laurence, and all I said in it.
“Mr. Reade has shown energy and courage,” said she. “But he will suffer for it too. You don’t know that man yet. He will never let Laurence marry you. Even if he were in prison, he would manage to prevent it.”
Luckily Laurence himself tapped at the door at that moment, for Mrs. Rayner’s gloomy forebodings were fast increasing the fever of my overwrought mind. He came to say that the constables had returned to the house, having failed in the fog to find any traces of Gordon, or of—of any of the others. He was going to return with them to the Hall, where they would sleep, leaving Maynard to pass the night at the Alders, as his missing host had invited him to do, and a couple of constables to keep watch in turn, though there was nothing less likely than that the—the persons they were in search of would return to the Alders that night. Then he said very gently to poor Mrs. Rayner—
“Will you forgive me for what I have done in all innocence? I had some vague suspicions, the reasons for which I will explain to you presently; but indeed I never thought to bring such a blow as this upon you.”
“It is no blow to me,” said she, raising her sad eyes to his face. “That man—my husband—would have got rid of me long ago, but that he hated violence and dreaded it. Everything short of that he has tried,” she whispered; “and it is not my fault that my wretched life has lingered on in spite of him.”
Laurence ground his teeth.
“The wretch!” he said, in a low voice. “But he shall pay for it now. I’ll ransack the whole world till we have unearthed him.”
“You will never do that,” said she calmly. “He dares too much for that. He is no coward to lie hid in a corner,” she went on, with a sort of perverse pride in the man for whom every spark of love was long since dead. “He will brave you to your faces and escape you all. But you have done your best. You are a brave man, Mr. Reade. You would help me if you could. Good-night.”
She shook hands with him, and left the room. He turned to me quickly.
“You must both leave this place,” said he. “The long-continued suffering has almost turned that poor lady’s brain. But she is safe from that vile wretch now; and you too, oh, my darling, thank Heaven!”
There was a tap at the door, and the voice of the elder detective said—
“Are you ready, sir?”
“All right,” said Laurence; and then added, in a voice for me only, “I’m not ready a bit. I should like to stay and comfort you for ever. Take care of your poor little wounded arm. Good-night, good-night, my darling!”
I heard him leave the house with the constables. Then, exhausted by the events of the day and night, I just managed to crawl upstairs to my room, and, throwing myself upon the bed without undressing, I fell into a deep sleep which was more like a swoon. In the early morning I woke, feeling stiff and ill, undressed, and got into bed; and when the sun had risen I got up with hot and aching head, and found that my arm was beginning to be very painful.
Haidee and I had breakfast alone, for the cook told me that Mr. Maynard had already started for London; and I was just going to see how Mrs. Rayner was when Doctor Lowe arrived on his daily visit to Sarah. As soon as he saw me he ordered me off to bed, and then, after making him swear secrecy, which did not make much difference, as the story would certainly be all over the neighborhood and in the London newspapers before long, I let him draw from me an account of the greater part of the events of the previous day. He said very little in comment beyond telling me that I was “a little simpleton to be so easily humbugged,” and that he had always mistrusted Mr. Rayner, but that now he admired him; and then, strictly forbidding me to leave my bed until his visit next day, he left me.
Jane came up to me soon after. She had only just come home from Wright’s Farm, and was full of curiosity excited to the highest pitch by the vague account that the cook, who was deaf and had not heard much, had given her of the events which had taken place in her absence. I told her that there had been a robbery at the Hall, that the man who had asked to speak to me was a detective, and that he and Mr. Rayner had left the Alders.
My faith in the latter was gone altogether; but my affection for him was gradually coming back again. The fearfully wicked things that he had done I had only heard about; and how could the impression so given outweigh that much stronger one of his constant kindness to me? And to think that it was I who had drawn down justice—for it was justice, I sorrowfully admitted—upon him caused me bitter remorse.
Laurence told me, in one of the little notes he kept leaving for me all day long, that it was expected that Mr. Rayner would brave everything and return to the Alders sooner or later, if only for a flying visit, and that, in consequence, the search of the house which must take place was to be postponed, and the place watched, with as much caution as possible, from the outside. By letting the life at the Alders go on as usual, it was hoped that he might be lured back under the impression that he was not expected to return there. Laurence had telegraphed to my mother to tell her that I was quite safe and the journey put off, in order to allay her fears about me.
Mrs. Rayner brought one of these notes up to me late in the afternoon. In addition to her usual pallor, she had great black rings round her eyes; and, in answer to my inquiries, she confessed that she had not slept all night.
“I have something to tell you,” she whispered in my ear. “Mrs. Saunders drinks, and is not a proper guardian for Sarah. She is afraid of Mr. Rayner; but last night, knowing he was not in the house, she was in nearly as excited a state as her patient, and was very rough with her. Sarah’s room is nearly opposite mine, and I opened my door and heard what sounded like a struggle. Maynard, who was in the room next to the dressing-room, either did not hear or did not like to interfere. But now he is gone; and I ought to be used to terrors, but I am afraid;” and she shuddered.
“Surely there is nothing to be afraid of if you lock your door, Mrs. Rayner?”
“I have no key. Will you leave your door open and the door at the foot of the turret staircase? I know you must not leave your bed; but it will be some comfort to know you are within hearing.”
I promised; and that night, when Jane came up to my room for the last time, I made her leave the doors open when she went down.
The sense of being on the alert made me wakeful, and two or three times during the night I rose and stood at the top of my staircase, listening. And the third time I did hear something. I heard a faint cry, and presently the soft shutting of a door, then steps in the corridor below, and whispering. I crept half-way down the stairs; the whispering continued. I got to the bottom, and recognized Sarah’s voice muttering to herself. I would rather have again faced Gordon with his revolver than this madwoman; but I was so anxious about Mrs. Rayner that, after a few minutes spent in prayer, I ventured out from the doorway, and found Sarah crouched in a corner muttering to herself. The wretched woman started up on seeing me; but, instead of attempting to approach me, she hung back, moving her still bandaged head and her one free hand restlessly, and saying—
“I’ve done it—I’ve done it! He’ll come back now. I’ve done what he wanted. He can marry the Christie girl now. It’s all right. He’ll come back again now.”
With a terrible fear at my heart, I dashed along the corridor to Mrs. Rayner’s room and went straight in. The atmosphere of the room was sickly and stifling. I went up to the bed. Mrs. Rayner was lying with a cloth over her face! I snatched it off. It was steeped in something which I afterwards learnt was chloroform. Thank Heaven, she was alive!—for she was breathing heavily. I rushed to the two windows and flung them wide open, pulled the bell-rope until the house echoed, and moved her arms up and down. The cook and Jane came in, terribly alarmed, in their night gowns. I left them with Mrs. Rayner while I ran downstairs for some brandy.
There was some on the sideboard in the dining-room, I knew; and I was returning with it, and was just outside the dining-room door, when I caught sight of a man in the gloom at the end of the passage leading from the hall. He had come from Mr. Rayner’s study, and disappeared in a moment in the darkness. It was impossible to recognize him; but I could not doubt that it was Mr. Rayner.
Where was he going? Was he going to escape by the back way? Did he know the house was watched? I made a step forward, anxious to warn him; but he had already disappeared, and I dared not follow him.
I crept upstairs, too much agitated to be of any use any longer; but happily Mrs. Rayner was already recovering, and the brandy-and-water restored her entirely to consciousness. I spent the rest of the night in her room, after I had, with the cook’s assistance, persuaded the unhappy lunatic who had done the mischief to return to her own room, where we found, as I had expected, Mrs. Saunders in a stupid, heavy sleep, half in her arm-chair and half on the floor. The cook declined to watch in place of her for the remainder of the night, but as a precaution locked the door on the outside and took the key away.
“Now, if Sarah wants to do any more mischief, let her try it on Mrs. Saunders,” said she.
I could scarcely approve of this way of settling the difficulty; but happily no harm came of it; and Mrs. Saunders profited by the lesson, and kept pretty sober after that.
This woman, having been sent from town by Mr. Rayner, had taken upon herself in some sort the authority formerly held by Sarah in the household, and she now suggested that Mrs. Rayner had better go back to her old room in the left wing, saying she would take charge of it for her as Sarah had done. The poor lady came up herself to my room, where, having made my arm much worse by my expedition in the night, I was lying in bed the whole of the next day.
“Why do you go back if you don’t wish to do so, Mrs. Rayner?” I asked.
“I expect it is by Mr. Rayner’s orders,” she whispered.
And, my strong suspicion that he was in the house acting like a spell upon me, I said no more.
But I was curious to know what was the mystery that hung about that bedroom in the left wing which no one was allowed to enter but Mrs. Rayner, Mr. Rayner, and Sarah; and I resolved that, as soon as I could, I would try to induce Mrs. Rayner to let me go in there.
As I lay thinking of all the strange and horrible events which had filled my life lately, the thought of Mr. Rayner lying concealed in his own house, perhaps hidden in some cellar the existence of which was unknown to every one else, came uppermost in my mind. It was the most dreadful blow I had ever experienced to have my respect and affection for a kind friend turned suddenly into horror of a great criminal. But I would not believe that he was all bad. How could a man who was so kind and sweet-tempered have no redeeming points at all? And it was I, who had never received anything but kindness at his hands, who—innocently indeed—had drawn down this pursuit upon him. There were only two things that I could do now. I could pray for him, as I did most earnestly, that he might repent of what he had done, and become in very truth all that he had seemed to me; and I could perhaps let him know how the thought that it was I who had brought down justice upon him tormented me.
A possible means of communicating with him occurred to me. In spite of the Doctor’s prohibition, I sprang out of bed, got my desk, and wrote a note asking his forgiveness, and giving him a full explanation of the way in which, in all innocence, I had written the letter which had led to this pursuit of him. I told him the house was being watched, and was to be searched before long, and begged that, when he had got away, he would find some means of letting me know he was in safety. “I do pray for you every night and morning. I can’t forget all your kindness to me, whatever you have done, and I don’t wish to do so,” I added, as a last thought in a P.S. And then I put on my dressing-gown, and, when I heard nobody about, slipped down by the back staircase to his study, where I put the note, directed simply to “G. Rayner, Esq.,” just inside the drawer of his writing-table, and crept guiltily upstairs again.
Mrs. Manners came to see me that afternoon; Laurence had confided nearly everything to her, and she was much more severe upon Mr. Rayner than I—quite unchristian, I thought, and rather angry with me for not being as bitter as herself against him.
“Don’t you know he wanted Sarah to kill his own wife that he might marry you, child, and, when Sarah was taken ill and couldn’t do it, he wanted to run away with you?”
“Yes; but, as he was prevented from doing either of those things, it is easier to forgive him. Don’t you think I ought to try to forgive him, Mrs. Manners?”
“I don’t know, I am sure, child,” said she, after a little hesitation. “But I think it ought to require an effort.”
Then she told me that, when Laurence had heard that morning through Jane of the night’s adventure, he had gone to Dr. Lowe and insisted upon Sarah’s removal to the county lunatic asylum that very day; and I never saw the poor creature again.
When Mrs. Manners had left me, and Jane had come up at four o’clock with a cup of tea, I insisted on getting up and being dressed, as I wanted to see Mrs. Rayner, and find out whether she had heard of Sarah’s departure. I heard that she had gone to her old room in the left wing, and, having taken the precaution to wrap a shawl round me before entering that long cold passage, I passed through the heavy swing-door, the very sight of which I hated.
I was opposite to the store-room door, when it was softly opened, and, without being able to make any resistance, I was drawn inside by a man’s arm. I looked up, expecting to see Mr. Rayner, and was horror-stricken to find myself in the arms of Gordon, the man who had shot me. It was so dark already in the store-room, lighted only by one little high window, that, his back being turned towards it, I could not see his face.
“Don’t tremble so,” said he—his voice was always hard, but he did not mean to speak unkindly. “I meant to do for you before I left this house; but this has saved you.” And he showed me my letter to Mr. Rayner.
“Do you know where he is?” I asked eagerly.
“No, ma’am,” said he, in his respectful servant’s manner; “but I should say that he is on his way to America by now, where he meant to have taken you.”
“Me? America?”
“Yes, ma’am. Miss Haidee was to have been left at Liverpool Street Station, and brought back to the Alders.”
“But I wouldn’t have gone.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am; but I don’t think your will would have stood out against James’s—Mr. Rayner’s. And, if this letter had not shown you to be loyal to him, I would not have left you here alive. I am surprised myself, knowing how set he was upon having your company, that he did not come back and carry you off with him. But I suppose he thought better of it, begging your pardon, ma’am. I may take this opportunity of apologizing for having once borrowed a trinket of yours while you were staying at Denham Court. But, as it was one which I myself had had the pleasure of assisting Mr. Rayner to procure from Lord Dalston’s, I thought it wisest to pull off the little plate at the back, for fear of its being recognized by Mr. Carruthers, in whose service I was when I was first introduced to Lord Dalston’s seat in Derbyshire.”
“My pendant!” I cried. “It—it was real then?”
“Yes, ma’am. I had to remonstrate then with Mr. Rayner for his rashness in giving it you; but nothing ever went wrong with him—daring as he is—till you came across his path, ma’am. He was too tender-hearted. If I did not feel sure that he is by this time on the high-road to fresh successes in the New World, I would shoot you dead this instant without a moment’s compunction.”
I shuddered, glancing at his hands, which were slim and small, like those of a man who has never done rough work. I saw that he had got rid of his handcuffs.
“I have nothing to keep me here now, ma’am; so I shall be off to-night: and, if you care to hear how I get on, you will be able to do so by applying to my late master, Mr. Carruthers.”
He led me courteously to the door, bowed me out, and shut himself in again, while I went on, trembling and bewildered, towards Mrs. Rayner’s room.
I knocked at the door. At first there was no answer. I called her by name, and begged her to let me in. At last I heard her voice close to the other side of the door.
“What do you want, Miss Christie?”
“May I come in, Mrs. Rayner? I have something to tell you.”
“I can’t let you in. Can you speak through the door?”
“No, no; I must see you. I have something very important to say about Mr. Rayner,” I whispered into the key-hole.
“Is he here?” she faltered.
“No; he has gone to America,” I whispered.
She gave a long shuddering sigh, and then said—
“I—I will let you in.”
She turned the key slowly, while I trembled with impatience outside the door.
When I found myself inside the room which had been a mystery to me for so long, nothing struck me at first but a sense of cold and darkness. There was only one window, which was barred on the inside; the fog still hung about the place, and the little light there had been all day was fading fast, for it was five o’clock. But, as I stepped forward farther into the room, I drew my breath fast in horror. For I became aware of a smell of damp and decay; I felt that the boards of the floor under the carpet were rotten and yielding to my feet, and I saw that the paper was peeling off the wet and mouldy walls, and that the water was slowly trickling down them.
“Oh, Mrs. Rayner,” I cried, aghast, “is this your room—where you sleep?”
“I have slept in it for three years,” said she. “If my husband had had his will, it would have been my tomb.”