CHAPTER XXVII.
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.”