Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.
Missing the Mail Train.
Ten o’clock had just struck, and the old tower was still vibrating, when Dally Watlock’s bedroom door was softly opened, and the little lady, clad in her tightly-fitting jacket and natty hat, came softly out, to stand upon the landing listening.
The lamp was burning on the hall table, and it sent up a faint yellow glow which shone strangely upon the girl’s face, as she stood listening to the murmur of voices proceeding from the curate’s study, and she could just make out a faint line of light coming from beneath the drawing-room door.
Dally went slowly and softly across the landing till she reached Leo’s door, where she paused to listen; but all was perfectly still, and stealing one gloved hand to the latch, she tried the door cautiously, but it did not yield, and though she tapped twice there was no response.
Dally drew her breath softly between her teeth, and uttered a low, vicious little laugh.
“Good night, dear,” she said softly; “it’ll be ten o’clock to-morrow when you wake, and then—we shall see!”
One of the stairs gave a loud warning creak as she stopped, bag in hand, holding on by the balustrade, and ready, rat-like, to dart back to her room should any one open the study door.
But the murmur of voices still went on, and Dally stole down the rest of the way to reach the hall, creep softly to a swing-door, and pass through into the neatly-kept kitchen, where a fire still glowed and a kettle sang its own particular song.
Dally closed the kitchen door after her, darted across the broad patch of warm light cast by the fire into the darkness of a scullery beyond, and closed a door after her to stand thinking.
“Craven Street, Strand,” she muttered. “Ten miles to King’s Hampton. Ten o’clock to half-past one; I can do it easy, and at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, my dear, we shall see!”
She said these words with a vicious little hiss, and the next minute two well-oiled bolts were shot, the key was turned, the door opened with a sharp crack, and then there was a rustle as Dally passed through, closed the door with a light click of the latch, and stood in the semi-darkness of a soft starlight night.
Drawing a long breath, as if to get a reserve of force, the girl stepped quickly along the path leading round to the front, passing as soon as she could on to the closely-cut lawn, and over it to the gate.
She had nearly reached it, bag in one hand and umbrella in the other, when she turned quickly round to see that she was not observed by any one in the curate’s study; and as she did so she plumped up against something hard and yet soft.
“Oh!” she involuntarily ejaculated, and she started back, as that which she had thumped against took a step forward, and she found that she was face to face with Joe Chegg.
“Where are you going?” he said sourly.
Dally was too much startled for a moment to speak. Then, recovering herself, she said shortly:
“What’s that to you?”
“Heverything,” replied Joe, in a low growl. “Parson said I was to look out about the place; and I’m a-looking. Where are you going?”
Dally drew her breath with a hiss. It was maddening to be stopped at a time like this, when every minute was of importance; and the mail train was always punctual at King’s Hampton at half-past one.
“D’yer hear?” said Joe. “Well, if you won’t answer me, come on to parson, and tell him.”
“No, no, Joe Chegg; don’t stop me, please,” she said softly. “Gran’fa’s ill, and I’m going to take him something.”
“At quarter arter ten, eh? No, you arn’t. Old Moredock went to bed at half-past eight, for I run down and looked in at his windy ’fore he drawed the blind. Yes, I run down and see.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” cried Dally. “How dare you stop me?”
“Parson said I was to look out.”
“Master didn’t tell you to stop me, you great stupid. Let me go by.”
“Nay, I shan’t,” said Joe. “You’re off on larks, and he arn’t here now.”
“Who isn’t here?” cried Dally.
“You know. He’s gone to London, where he’d better stop.”
Daily’s wrath hissed again, and she was about to say something angrily, but she dreaded a scene, and tried the other tack.
“Now, don’t be foolish, there’s a dear, good man,” she said softly. “I just want to go a little way.”
“Wi’ an umbrella and a bag, eh?” said Joe. “Parson Salis don’t know you’re off out, I know.”
“What nonsense, Joe!”
“Don’t you Joe me, ma’am; my name’s Mr Chegg, and you wouldn’t whisper and carny and be civil if you weren’t up to some games.”
“Oh, what a foolish man you are, Joe Chegg!”
“Oh, I am, arn’t I?” said Joe. “Always going up to the Hall of a night, eh? Gets out o’ my bedroom windy, and steals off to meet squires in vestry rooms, I do, don’t I?”
“Joe Chegg!”
“And carries on as no decent female would wi’ my missus’s young man.”
“Joe Chegg! Oh, please let me go by,” whispered Dally. “I want to go somewhere particular.”
“Then want’ll be your master, for you’re not going without parson says you are to. Come on and ask him.”
Joe caught her by the wrist, but she wrested it away, and nearly got through the gate, but he was too quick for her.
“That shows as you’re up to no good,” said Joe. “You wouldn’t fight against seeing your master if you weren’t off on the sly at half arter ten.”
“Half-past ten!” cried Dally. “It isn’t.”
At that moment the chimes ran out the half-hour, and Dally drew her breath hard, and made a desperate effort to pass; but this time Joe caught her round the waist and held her, avoiding a scratched face from the fact that the girl’s hands were gloved.
“How dare you?” she panted, ready to cry hysterically from vexation.
“I dare ’cause I’m told, and I don’t believe I did right in letting Miss Leo go.”
“What?”
Dally suddenly grew limp and ceased to struggle.
“I said I didn’t think I did right in letting Miss Leo go, but I didn’t like to stop her.”
“Miss Leo?” panted Dally. “When?”
“Hour and half ago.”
“It’s a story. She’s fast asleep in bed.”
“Where you ought to be,” said Joe. “So back you go.”
“It’s a story, I say,” panted Dally. “Miss Leo hasn’t been out of her room to-night.”
“Miss Leo went out of this here gate hour and half ago, just as I come back from your gran’father’s, and she arn’t come back.”
“Oh!”
Dally uttered a low, hoarse cry, and turning sharply round ran swiftly back to the place from which she had come, closely followed by Joe, in whose face the door was closed and the bolt slipped.
In another minute Dally had reached the landing, and was listening at Leo’s door, which she tried again.
All was still, and, her breath coming and going as if she were suppressing hysterical sobs, the girl ran into her bedroom, locked the door, threw bag, umbrella, hat and jacket on the bed, opened the window, crept out with wonderful activity, rolled down the sloping roof, dropped to the ground, and ran over the lawn to the summer-house.
Leo Salis had scaled that rustic edifice many a time with great agility, but her skill was poor in comparison with that of the sexton’s grandchild. In a few moments she was on the roof, and reaching up to Leo’s window, the casement yielding to her touch.
She uttered a low sob of rage and doubt now, as, without hesitation, she clambered in to run to the bed, and pass her hands over it.
Tenantless; and the cup of tea, heavily drugged with a solution of chloral, stood where it had been placed, untouched, upon the table.
Even then the girl was not convinced. She would not believe in the ill success of her plans, and that the handsome woman she despised was as keen of wit as herself.
She darted to the wardrobe.
Leo’s jacket was gone!
To another part of the room.
The hat she wore was missing!
Then for a moment the girl stood as if dumbfounded, as the thoughts crushed down upon her that even if she started now, and could get away, she would be too late to catch the London mail. Worse still: Leo must have caught the last up-train at twelve, and long before she could reach the great city, would have joined Tom Candlish at the place he had named in the note Dally herself had borne; and, though she had planned so well, her chances of being Lady Candlish were for ever gone.
She ground her teeth together and panted hoarsely, hardly able to breathe for the sobs which struggled for utterance.
“It isn’t true. It’s a trick!” she cried at last. “I won’t believe it! I’ll go and be there first, and then—
“Oh! what shall I do—what shall I do?” she cried hoarsely; and then, uttering a wild and passionate shriek of misery and despair, she threw herself heavily upon the floor, to tear at the carpet, like some savage creature, with tooth and nail.