Volume Three—Chapter Nine.
Torn from her Sphere.
The act was simultaneous.
Moved as if by the same set of nerves, Sir John Day and his brother dashed themselves against the door again and again, but the panelling was strong, and it was evidently well fastened within, and, for the time being, the door refused to yield. Then, as the brothers literally hurled themselves against it in their rage of disappointment, the fastenings gave way, and the door flew back with a crash, while Sir John fell forward into the darkness upon his knees.
“Quick, Jem, the light,” he cried, as he gathered himself up; but the major had forestalled him, and stepped back to take the candlestick from where it had been set down.
He had just passed the threshold, casting the light before him into the chamber, when Sir John’s hand was clapped upon his shoulder, and the candlestick snatched from his hand.
“Stand back, Jem, and guard the door. I am her father.”
The old officer promptly obeyed, and the door was swung to upon him, as others were being opened along the passage, and excited enquiries began to be heard on every hand.
For Sir John, in his one quick glance, as the light flashed into the room, had seen that which caused his prompt action. The door leading into Glynne’s little studio was wide open, and the current of soft, moist night air which struck his cheek told that the conservatory and its windows must be open too.
All this came to him in a flash as, after swinging to the door he had forced, Sir John ran to where, dishevelled, and with her face bleeding and distorted by the savage manner in which her cries for help had been stopped, lay Glynne by the bedside. She was insensible now, though a faint groan escaped her as he tenderly raised her from the carpet, and laid her upon the bed, a pang of combined rage and horror shooting through him as he felt one arm drop in a strangely unnatural way, which told that the bone had snapped.
One glance round, as he battled with his agony, showed how terrible a struggle had taken place; chairs were overturned, a little table, with its load of feminine knick-knacks, lay upon its side, and on every hand there were traces of the strife.
Sir John, who was trembling violently, grasped all this as he hurried back to the door, to find that the whole house had now been alarmed, and people were gathering fast.
“Find Morris, Jem,” said Sir John, in a hoarse voice. “Quick! send for Oldroyd.”
“Yes,” said the major, with military promptitude; “but, one word—Glynne?”
Sir John made an impatient gesture, and his brother ran down the corridor at once, the frightened women giving way at his approach, while their host looked sharply round at the scared faces of those present.
“Ah, Mason,” he cried, “go in to your mistress.”
“Sir John, what can I do?” cried a piteous voice. “Dearest Glynne, pray, pray let me help.”
He turned sharply upon the speaker to see Marjorie, with her beautiful hair lightly looped up, but resting upon her long pale blue peignoir; and as the wild, troubled eyes met his, Sir John softened a little towards her.
“Thank you,” he said hastily. “It is no place for you, my child. Yes: go to her. You are a woman, and your gentle face should be at her side.”
Marjorie darted into the room after Mason, and Sir John barred the door against further entrance.
“Here, Miss Emlin,” he whispered, “secure the door from within. No one enters till the doctor comes.”
Then, gathering presence of mind, he hurriedly responded to the enquiries being made, and in a few minutes the passage was once more clear.
The major returned then, and his eyes looked searchingly into his brother’s.
“This way,” said Sir John. “Her maid and Miss Emlin are with her. We can do nothing there.”
Major Day made an impatient gesture, but his old discipline prevailed, and he followed his brother to the studio door, which opened upon the corridor.
But it, too, was fastened, and Sir John stepped back to the bedroom door and tapped sharply.
There was a rustling sound within, and the door was held ajar by Mason, whose face looked scared and drawn, while a low, piteous moan came to their ears.
“Quick!” said Sir John. “Go round and open the other door. Shut this first, and admit no one, I say, but the doctor.”
The door was closed with a chain, and they heard the slipping back of the bolts of the little studio, Sir John waiting to give the maid time to go back into the bed-chamber before he opened the door, and entered with his brother.
All was in its customary state here, but the conservatory door was open, and, upon entering there, it was to find that the window was wide, and a long strand of the wistaria lay upon the floor, as if it had been torn off by someone who had mounted from below, or else had become entangled by the climber’s dress, and fallen from it when the inside of the window was reached.
The major was at his brother’s side, and together they looked out, holding a candle down to see plainly enough that the leaves and tender twigs of the beautiful climber that wreathed the place had been broken and torn down in several places, the big cable-like twisted main stem having evidently been utilised as a rope ladder by whoever had climbed up.
The brothers looked at each other.
“Her favourite creeper, Jem,” said Sir John, with a groan—“her destruction.”
“Jack?” whispered the major, in an appealing voice. Only the one word, but so full of question that Sir John bent toward him and whispered a few words.
The major turned away, and marched for the door, but his brother overtook him.
“To my room.”
“What for?”
“My pistols.”
“Jem!”
“I’ll shoot him like a dog.”
Sir John’s hand closed tightly upon his brother’s arm, and they glared at each other in silence for a few moments, while twice over there came a feeble groan through the door from the adjoining chamber.
“No,” said Sir John at last, with his voice trembling from emotion; “I am her father. It is my task, or her betrothed’s. Jem,” he whispered excitedly, “what am I to say to Rolph? Jem,” he whispered again, with the hands which clung to his brother trembling violently, “you—you don’t think—they were to be married to-day—he came to her window last night?”
“No,” said the major sternly; “give the devil his clue. It was not he.”
There was silence in the little room, about which lay the many little books and drawings favoured by her who lay moaning and insensible in the next room. Here was a sketch of the father; there one of the uncle; close by, arch and mocking of aspect, a clever representation of Lucy Alleyne; and, in a fit of fury, the major strode to the wall, tore it down, and stamped it under foot.
“What cursed stroke of fate brought them here?” he said hoarsely.
“Hush! This is no time for loud anger, Jem. We must act—like men—for her sake, old fellow! My God, Jem! what sin have I committed that the punishment should be struck at me through her? My poor, poor girl!”
He sank into a chair, sobbing like a child; but as his brother’s hand was laid upon his shoulder, he sprang up again.
“Yes,” he said huskily. “I’m ready. We need not search. We know enough. But, Jem, we must be silent. I can’t have all the horrible scandal spread abroad. We must, for her sake, hush it up.”
“Hush it up!” said the major bitterly. “Jack, the news is being spread already. You sent one messenger out a quarter-of-an-hour ago.”
Just then the door leading into the bedroom opened, and Marjorie appeared, quite calm and self-possessed.
“Brandy or sal-volatile!” she said in a quick, decisive whisper. “She is coming to, but deadly faint and weak.”
Half-an-hour later, Oldroyd was there, and busy in attendance till daybreak; while Sir John and his brother sat waiting till he joined them in the library—the calm, business-like doctor, apparently with no thought outside the condition of his patient.
He came into the room, bowed, looked from one brother to the other, and waited to be questioned.
Sir John’s lips parted, but no words came, and he turned his eyes imploringly to his brother, who drew himself up and began in his prompt military way; but his brief question was almost inaudible towards the end.
“How is she?”
“Suffering terribly from shock, sir, and exhaustion. Her left arm is fractured above the elbow; but it is the mental strain we have to fear.”
“You will stay of course?” said the major.
“I only came to you for a few moments, gentlemen, and am going back to my patient now.”
No further question was asked, and the brothers were left alone, to sit in silence till the major said,—
“You must send some kind of message over to The Warren, Jack.”
“Eh? Yes, yes, I suppose so,” said Sir John bitterly; “and get rid of these people in the house. Do that for me, Jem. I’m broken, lad—twenty years older since we shook hands last night. Who’s there?” he cried with a start, as there was a tap at the door.
Whoever knocked took this for a command to enter; and, looking very pale and wild-eyed, but perfectly self-possessed, Marjorie entered and fixed her eyes on Sir John.
“Will you kindly order the carriage?”
“Yes—yes, my dear,” he said. “Thank you for what you have done; but you wish to leave us?”
She looked at the old man half-wonderingly before answering.
“A message must be sent to my cousin,” she said in her sweet, musical voice; “the wedding cannot take place to-day.”
“No, no; of course not,” cried the major.
“And I thought it would be kinder to him, poor fellow, for me to be the bearer of these terrible tidings. A letter would be so cold and dreadful. Oh, Sir John,” she cried with a hysterical sob, as she flung herself at his knees, “it is too horrible to speak of. Poor darling Glynne! My poor cousin! It will drive him mad!”
“Hush, my dear; be calm; try and be calm,” whispered Sir John, laying his hand gently upon her head.
“Yes,” she said amidst her sobs, “I am trying so hard, dear Sir John, for everybody’s sake. My poor aunt! It will nearly kill her. I thought it would be so much better if I went myself to break the dreadful news.”
“Yes,” said Sir John, raising her. “Heaven bless you for your forethought. It is a time when we want a gentle woman’s help.”
He looked at his brother, who read his wish.
“I will order the carriage round,” he said. “In an hour?”
“No, no, as soon as possible,” said Marjorie wildly. “They must not hear the news from the village. Poor, poor, darling Glynne!” she cried, bursting into a fresh burst of sobs, which made her words almost inaudible. “All her jewels gone, too. She must have been trying to protect them when the wretches struck her down.”
Within half-an-hour Marjorie was on her way back to The Warren; and soon after breakfast, of the wedding guests not one was left, while the news rapidly spread that “Doctor” Oldroyd had been fetched suddenly in the night to Brackley, where he found Sir John’s daughter in a violent fever, and that she was now delirious, and in danger of being taken to the church as a bride, indeed, but as the bride of death.