Chapter Sixteen
In which Two Curious Facts are Established
Mabel’s sudden action both annoyed and surprised me, for I had believed that our friendship was of such a close and intimate character that she would at least have allowed me sight of what her father had written.
Yet when, next second, I reflected that the envelope had been specially addressed to her, I saw that whatever was contained therein had been intended for her eye alone.
“You have discovered something which has upset you?” I said, looking straight into her white, hard-drawn face. “I hope it is really nothing very disconcerting?”
She held her breath for a moment, her hand instinctively upon her breast as though to still the wild beating of her heart.
“Ah! unfortunately it is,” was her answer. “I know the truth now – the awful, terrible truth.” And without a word of warning she covered her face with her hands and burst into a torrent of tears.
At her side in an instant I was striving to console her, but I quickly realised what a deep impression of dismay and horror those written words of her dead father had produced upon her. She was filled with grief, and utterly inconsolable.
The quiet of that long, old-fashioned room was unbroken save for her bitter sobs and the solemn tick-tock of the antique grandfather clock at the further end of the apartment. My hand was placed tenderly upon the poor girl’s shoulder, but it was a long time ere I could induce her to dry her tears.
When she did so, I saw by her face that she had become a changed woman.
Walking back to the writing-table she took up the envelope and re-read the superscription which Blair had written upon it, and then for the first time her eyes fell upon the photograph of that lonely house by the crossways.
“Why!” she cried, startled, “where did you find this?”
I explained that it had dropped from the envelope, whereupon she took it up and gazed, for a long time upon it. Then, turning it over, she discovered what I had not noticed, namely, written faintly in pencil and half effaced were the words, “Owston crossroads, 9 miles beyond Doncaster on the Selby Road. – B.B.”
“Do you know what this is?”
“No, I haven’t the least idea,” I answered. “It must be something of which your father was very careful. It seems to be well worn, too, as though carried in somebody’s pocket.”
“Well,” she said, “I will tell you. I had no idea that he still preserved it, but I suppose he kept it as a souvenir of those weary journeys of long ago. This photograph,” she added, holding it still in her hand, “is the picture of the spot for which he searched every turnpike in England. He had the photograph but nothing else to guide him to the spot, and we were therefore compelled to tramp all the main roads up and down the country in an attempt to identify it. Not until nearly a year after you and Mr Seton had so kindly placed me at school at Bournemouth did my father, still on his lonely tramp, succeed in discovering it after a search lasting over three years. He identified it one summer evening as the crossways at Owston, and he found living in that house the person of whom he had been all those weary months in search.”
“Curious,” I said. “Tell me more about it.”
“There is nothing else to tell, except that, by identifying the house, he obtained the key to the secret – at least, that is what I always understood from him,” she said. “Ah, I recollect all those long wearying walks when I was a girl, how we trudged on over those long, white, endless roads, in sunshine and in rain, envying people in carriages and carts, and men and women on bicycles, and yet my courage always supported by my father’s declaration that great fortune must be ours some day. He carried this photograph with him always, and almost at each crossroad he would take it out, examine the landscape and compare it, not knowing, of course, but that the old toll-house might have been pulled down since the taking of the picture.”
“Did he never tell you the reason why he wished to visit that house.”
“He used to say that the man who lived there – the man who used to sit on summer evenings in that chair outside, was his friend – his good friend; only they had been parted for a long time, and he did not know that my father was still alive. They had been friends abroad, I fancy, in the days when my father was at sea.”
“And the identification of this spot was the reason of your father’s constant wanderings?” I exclaimed, pleased that I had at last cleared up one point which, for five years or so, had been a mystery.
“Yes. A month after he had made the discovery he came to Bournemouth, and told me in confidence that his dream of great wealth was about to be realised. He had solved the problem, and within a week or two would be in possession of ample funds. He disappeared, you will remember, almost immediately, and was away for a month. Then he returned a rich man – so rich that you and Mr Seton were utterly dumbfounded. Don’t you recollect that night at Helpstone, after I had come from school to spend a week with my father on his return? We were sitting together after dinner and poor father recalled the last occasion when we had all assembled there – the occasion when I was taken ill outside,” she added. “And don’t you recollect Mr Seton appearing to doubt my father’s statement that he was already worth fifty thousand pounds.”
“I remember,” I answered, as her clear eyes met mine. “I remember how your father struck us utterly dumb by going upstairs and fetching his banker’s pass-book, which showed a balance of fifty-four thousand odd pounds. After that he became more than ever a mystery to us. But tell me,” I added in a low, earnest voice, “what have you discovered to-night that has so upset you?”
“I have nearly found proof of a fact that I have dreaded for years – a fact that affects not only my poor father’s memory, but also myself. I am in peril – personal danger.”
“How?” I asked quickly, failing to understand her meaning. “Recollect that I promised your father to act as your protector.”
“I know, I know. It is awfully good of you,” she said, looking at me gratefully with those wonderful eyes that had always held me fascinated beneath the spell of her beauty. “But,” she added, shaking her head sorrowfully, “I fear that in this you will be powerless. If the blow falls, as it must sooner or later, then I shall be crushed and helpless. No power, not even your devoted friendship, can then save me.”
“You certainly speak very strangely, Mabel. I don’t follow you at all.”
“I expect not,” was her mechanical answer. “You do not know all. If you did, you would understand the peril of my position and of the great danger now threatening me.”
And she stood motionless as a statue, her hand upon the corner of the writing-table, her eyes fixed straight into the blazing fire.
“If the danger is a real one, I consider I ought to be aware of it. To be forewarned is to be forearmed!” I remarked decisively.
“It is a real one, but as my father has confessed the truth to me alone, I am unable to reveal it to you. His secret is mine.”
“Certainly,” I answered, accepting her decision, which, of course, was but natural in the circumstances. She could not betray her dead father’s confidence.
Yet if she had done, how altered would have been the course of events! Surely the story of Burton Blair was one of the strangest and most romantic ever given to man to relate, and as assuredly the strange circumstances which occurred after his decease were even more remarkable and puzzling. The whole affair from beginning to end was a complete enigma.
Later, when Mabel grew slightly calmer, we concluded our work of investigation, but discovered little else of interest save several letters in Italian, undated and unsigned, but evidently written by Dick Dawson, the millionaire’s mysterious friend – or enemy. On reading them they were, I found, evidently the correspondence of an intimate acquaintance who was sharing Blair’s fortune and secretly assisting him in the acquisition of his wealth. There was much mention of “the secret,” and repeated cautions against revealing anything to Reggie or to myself.
In one letter I found the sentences in Italian: “My girl is growing into quite a fine lady. I expect she will become a Countess, or perhaps a Duchess, one day. I hear from your side that Mabel is becoming a very pretty woman. You ought, with your position and reputation, to make a good match for her. But I know what old-fashioned ideas you hold that a woman must marry only for love.”
On reading this, one fact was vividly impressed upon me, namely, that if this man Dawson shared secretly in Blair’s wealth he surely had no necessity to obtain his secret by foul means, when he already knew it.
The clock on the stables chimed midnight before Mabel rang for Mrs Gibbons, and the latter’s husband followed, bringing me a night-cap of whisky and some hot water.
My little companion merrily pressed my hand, wishing me good-night, and then retired, accompanied by the housekeeper, while Gibbons himself remained to mix my drink.
“Sad thing, sir, about our poor master,” hazarded the well-trained servant, who had been all his life in the service of the previous owners. “I fear the poor young mistress feels it very much.”
“Very much indeed, Gibbons,” I answered, taking a cigarette and standing with my back to the fire. “She was such a devoted daughter.”
“She is now mistress of everything, Mr Ford told us when he was down three days ago.”
“Yes,” I said, “everything. And I hope that you and your wife will serve her as well and as faithfully as you have done her father.”
“We’ll try, sir,” was the grave, grey-haired man’s response. “Everybody’s very fond of the young mistress. She’s so very good to all the servants.” Then, as I remained silent, he placed my candle in readiness on the table, and, bowing, wished me good-night.
He closed the door, and I was alone in that great silent old room where the darting flames cast weird lights across into the dark recesses, and the long, old Chippendale clock ticked on solemnly as it had done for a century past.
Having swallowed my hot drink, I returned again to my dead friend’s writing-table, carefully examining it to see whether it contained any secret drawers. A methodical investigation of every portion failed to reveal any spring or unsuspected cavity, therefore, after glancing at that photograph which had taken Blair those many months of weary tramping to identify, I extinguished the lamps and passing through the great old hall with the stands of armour which conjured up visions of ghostly cavaliers, ascended to my room.
The bright fire gave the antique place with those rather funereal hangings a warm and cosy appearance in contrast to the hard frost outside, and feeling no inclination to sleep just then, I flung my self into an armchair and sat with arms folded, pondering deeply.
Again the stable-clock chimed – the half-hour – and then I think I must have dozed, for I was awakened suddenly by a light, stealthy footstep on the polished oaken floor outside my door. I listened, and distinctly heard some one creeping lightly down the big old Jacobean staircase, which creaked slightly somewhere below.
The weird ghostliness of the old place and its many historic traditions caused me, I suppose, some misgivings, for I found myself thinking of burglars and of midnight visitants. Again I strained my ears. Perhaps, after all, it was only a servant! Yet, when I glanced at my watch, and found it to be a quarter to two, the suggestion that the servants had not retired was at once negatived.
Suddenly, in the room below me, I distinctly heard a slow, harsh, grating noise. Then all was still again.
About three minutes later, however, I fancied I heard low whispering, and, having quickly extinguished my light, I drew aside one of my heavy curtains, and peering forth saw, to my surprise, two figures crossing the lawn towards the shrubbery.
The moon was somewhat overcast, yet by the grey, clouded light I distinguished that the pair were a man and a woman. From the man’s back I could not recognise him, but his companion’s gait was familiar to me as she hurried on towards the dark belt of bare, black trees.
It was Mabel Blair. The secret was out. Her sudden desire to visit Mayvill was in order to keep a midnight tryst.
Chapter Seventeen
Merely Concerns a Stranger
Without a moment’s hesitation I struggled into an overcoat, slipped on a golf cap and sped downstairs to the room below my own, where I found one of the long windows open, and through it stepped quickly out upon the gravel.
I intended to discover the motive of this meeting and the identity of her companion – evidently some secret lover whose existence she had concealed from us all. Yet to follow her straight across the lawn in the open light was to at once court detection. Therefore I was compelled to take a circuitous course, hugging the shadows always, until I at length reached the shrubbery, where I halted, listening eagerly.
There was no sound beyond the low creaking of the branches and the dismal sighing of the wind. A distant train was passing through the valley, and somewhere away down in the village a collie was barking. I could not, however, distinguish any human voices. Slowly I made my way through the fallen leaves until I had skirted the whole of the shrubbery, and then I came to the conclusion that they must have passed through it by some bypath and gone out into the park.
My task was rendered more difficult because the moon was not sufficiently overcast to conceal my movements, and I feared that by emerging into the open I might betray my presence.
But Mabel’s action in coming there to meet this man, whoever he was, puzzled me greatly. Why had she not met him in London? I wondered. Could he be such an unpresentable lover that a journey to London was impossible? It is not an uncommon thing for a well-born girl to fall in love with a labourer’s son any more than it is for a gentleman to love a peasant girl. Many a pretty girl in London to-day has a secret admiration for some young labourer or good-looking groom on her father’s estate, the seriousness of the unspoken love lying in the utter impossibility of its realisation.
With ears and eyes open I went on, taking advantage of all the shadow I could, but it seemed as though, having nearly five minutes’ start of me, they had taken a different direction to that which I believed.
At last I gained the comparative gloom of the old beech avenue which led straight down to the lodge on the Dilwyn road, and continued along it for nearly half-a-mile, when suddenly my heart leaped for joy, for I distinguished before me the two figures walking together and engaged in earnest conversation.
My jealous anger was in an instant aroused. Fearing that they might hear my footsteps on the hard frozen road I slipped outside the trees upon the grass of the park, and treading noiselessly was soon able to approach almost level with them without attracting attention.
Presently, on the old stone bridge across the river which formed the outlet of the lake, they halted, when, concealing myself behind a tree, I was enabled, by the light of the moon which had fortunately now grown brighter, to clearly see the features of Mabel’s mysterious companion. I judged him to be about twenty-eight, an ill-bred, snub-nosed, yellow-haired common-looking fellow, whose hulking form as he leaned against the low parapet was undoubtedly that of an agriculturist. His face was hard-featured and prematurely weatherbeaten, while the cut of his clothes was distinctly that of the “ready-made” emporium of the provincial town. His hard felt hat was cocked a little askew, as is usual with the yokel as well as with the costermonger when he takes his Sunday walk.
As far as I could observe he seemed to be treating her with extraordinary disdain and familiarity, addressing her as “Mab” and lighting a cheap cigarette in her presence, while on her part she seemed rather ill at ease, as though she were there under compulsion rather than by choice.
She had dressed herself warmly in a thick frieze driving cape and a close-fitting peaked cap which, drawn over her eyes, half-concealed her features.
“I really can’t see your object, Herbert,” I heard her distinctly argue. “What could such an action possibly benefit you?”
“A lot,” the fellow answered, adding in a rough, uncouth voice which bore the unmistakable brogue of the countryman, “What I say I mean. You know that, don’t yer?”
“Of course,” she answered. “But why do you treat me in this manner? Think of the risks I run in meeting you here to-night. What would people think if it were known?”
“What do I care what people think!” he exclaimed carelessly. “Of course you’ve got to keep up appearances – fortunately, I ain’t.”
“But you surely won’t do what you threaten?” she exclaimed in a voice of blank dismay. “Remember that our secrets have been mutual. I have never betrayed you – never in any single thing.”
“No, because you knew what would be the result if you did,” he laughed with a sneer. “I never trust a woman’s word – I don’t. You’re rich now the old man’s dead, and I want money,” he said decisively.
“But I haven’t any yet,” she replied. “When will you have some?”
“I don’t know. There are all sorts of law formalities to go through before, so Mr Greenwood says.”
“Oh! a curse on Greenwood!” the fellow burst forth. “He’s always with you up in London, they say. Ask him to get you some money from the lawyers. Tell him you’re hard up – got to pay bills, or something. Any lie will do for him.”
“Impossible, Herbert,” she answered, trying to remain calm. “You must really be patient.”
“Oh, yes, I know!” he cried. “Call me good dog and all that. But that kind of game don’t suit me – you hear? I’ve got no money, and I must have some at once – to-night.”
“I haven’t any,” she declared.
“But you’ve got lots of jewellery and plate and stuff. Give me some of that, and I can sell it easily in Hereford to-morrow. Where’s that diamond bracelet the old man gave you for a present last birthday – the one you showed me?”
“Here,” she replied, and raised her wrist, showing him the beautiful diamond and sapphire ornament her father had given her, the worth of which was two hundred pounds at the very least.
“Give me that,” he said. “It’ll last me a day or two until you get me some cash.”
She hesitated, evidently indisposed to accede to such a request and more especially as the bracelet was the last present her father had made her. Yet, when he repeated his demands in a more threatening tone, it became plain that the fellow’s influence was supreme, and that she was as helpless as a child in his unscrupulous hands.
The situation came upon me as an absolute revelation. I could only surmise that a harmless flirtation in the years before her affluence had developed into this common fellow presuming upon her good nature, and, finding her generous and sympathetic, he had now assumed an attitude of mastery over her actions. The working of the rustic mind is most difficult to follow. To-day in rural England there is so very little real gratitude shown by the poor towards the rich that in the country districts, charity is almost entirely unappreciated, while the wealthy are becoming weary of attempting to please or improve the people. Your rustic of to-day, while perfectly honest in his dealings with his own class, cannot resist dishonesty when selling his produce or his labour to the rich man. It seems part of his religion to get, by fair means or by foul, as much as he can out of the gentleman, and then abuse him in the village ale-house and dub him a fool for allowing himself to be thus cheated. Much as I regret to allege it, nevertheless it is a plain and bitter truth that swindling and immorality are the two most notable features of English village life at the present moment.
I stood listening to that strange conversation between the millionaire’s daughter and her secret lover, immovable and astounded.
The arrogance of the fellow caused my blood to boil. A dozen times as he sneered at her insultingly, now cajoling, now threatening, and now making a disgusting pretence of affection, I felt impelled to rush out and give him a good sound hiding. It was, indeed, only because I recognised that in this affair, so serious was it, I could only assist Mabel by remaining concealed and using my knowledge of it to her advantage that I held my tongue and stayed my hand.
Without doubt she had, in her girlish inexperience, once believed herself in love with the fellow, but now the hideousness of the present situation was presented to her in all its vivid reality and she saw herself hopelessly involved. Probably it was with a vain hope of extricating herself that she had kept the appointment; but, in any case, the man whom she called Herbert was quick to detect that he held all the honours in the game.
“Now come,” he said at last, in his broad brogue, “if you really ain’t got no money on you, hand over that bracelet and ha’ done with it. We don’t want to wait ’ere all night, for I’ve got to be in Hereford first thing in the morning. So the least said the better.”
I saw that, white to the lips, she was trembling in fear of him, for she shrank from his touch, crying —
“Ah, Herbert, it is too cruel of you – too cruel – after all I’ve done to help you. Have you no pity, no compassion?”
“None,” he growled. “I want money and must have it. In a week you must pay me a thousand quid – you hear that, don’t you?”
“But how can I? Wait and I’ll give it to you later – indeed, I promise.”
“I tell you I ain’t going to be fooled,” he cried angrily. “I mean to have the money, or else I’ll blow the whole thing. Then where will you be – eh?” And he laughed a hard triumphant laugh, while she shrank back pale, breathless and dismayed.
I clenched my fists, and to this moment I do not know how I restrained myself from springing from my hiding-place and knocking the fellow down. At that moment I could have killed him where he stood.
“Ah!” she cried, her hands clasped to him in a gesture of supplication, “you surely don’t mean what you say, you can’t mean that, you really can’t! You’ll spare me, won’t you? Promise me!”
“No, I won’t spare you,” was his brutal reply, “unless you pay me well.”
“I will, I will,” she assured him in a low, hoarse voice, which was eminently that of a desperate woman, terrified lest some terrible secret of hers should be exposed.
“Ah!” he sneered with curling lip, “you treated me with contempt once, because you were a fine lady, but I am yet to have my revenge, as you will see. You are now mistress of a great fortune, and I tell you quite plainly that I intend you to share it with me. Act just as you think best, but recollect what refusal will mean to you – exposure!”
“Ah!” she cried desperately, “to-night you have revealed yourself in your true light! You brute, you would, without the slightest compunction, ruin me!”
“Because, my dear girl, you are not playing straight,” was his cool, arrogant reply. “You thought that you had most ingeniously got rid of me for ever, until to-night here I am, you see, back again, ready to – well, to be pensioned off, shall we call it? Don’t think I intend to allow you to fool me this time, so just give me the bracelet as a first instalment, and say no more.” And he snatched at her arm while she, by a quick movement, avoided him.
“I refuse,” she cried with a fierce and sudden determination. “I know you now! You are brutal and inhuman, without a speck of either love or esteem – a man who would drive a woman to suicide in order to get money. Now you have been released from prison you intend to live upon me – your letter with that proposal is sufficient proof. But I tell you here to-night that you will obtain not a penny more from me beyond the money that is now paid you every month.”
“To keep my mouth closed,” he interrupted. And I saw an evil, murderous glitter in his black eyes.
“You need not keep it closed any longer,” she said in open defiance. “Indeed, I shall tell the truth myself, and thus put an end to this brilliant blackmailing scheme of yours. So now you understand,” she added firmly, with a courage that was admirable.
A silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the weird cry of an owl.
“Then that is absolutely your decision, eh?” he inquired in a hard voice, while I noticed that his face was white with anger and chagrin as he recognised that, if she told the truth and faced the consequence of her own exposure, whatever it might be, his power over her would be dispelled.
“My mind is made up. I have no fear of any exposure you may make concerning me.”
“At any rate give me that bracelet,” he demanded savagely, with set teeth, grasping her arm and trying by force to undo the clasp.
“Let me go!” she cried. “You brute! Let me go! Would you rob me, as well as insult me?”
“Rob you!” he muttered, his coarse white face wearing a dangerous expression of unbridled hatred, “rob you!” he hissed with a ford oath, “I’ll do more. I’ll put you where your cursed tongue won’t wag again, and where you won’t be able to tell the truth!”
And, unfortunately, before I was aware of his intentions he had seized her by the wrists and, with a quick movement, forced her backwards so violently against the low parapet of the bridge that for a moment they stood locked in a deadly embrace.
Mabel screamed on realising his intentions, but next second with a vile imprecation he had forced her backwards over the low wall, and with a loud splash she fell helplessly into the deep, dark waters.
In an instant, while the fellow took to his heels, I dashed forward to her rescue, but, alas! too late, for, as I peered eagerly down into the darkness, I saw to my dismay that the swirling icy flood had closed over her, that she had disappeared.