XXXIX
A dozen letters were written and burnt in the fireplace of her bedroom before Leslie composed the one that was eventually placed in an envelope and addressed to “Fabrian Gilder, Esq., 35, Regency Mansions, London.” She had written:
Dear Mr. Gilder:
I agree to your terms. The money or equivalent shares must be deposited in the Horsham branch of the Southern & Midland Bank, in the name of Leslie Gilder, so that I may have control of the account from the moment I am married. I do not expect you to trust the word of one of my family, and I presume that you will wish the marriage to take place in the next few days. Will you please make arrangements for the ceremony, and tell me when and where I am to meet you? I expect it to be at a registrar’s office by special license. I can only say that, although this marriage is not of my seeking, you may trust me to be a loyal wife.
Very sincerely,
Leslie Gwyn.
The last post was collected by a motor-cyclist postman at ten o’clock from a little wall box not a hundred yards from the house. There was an earlier collection, but somehow she could not bring herself to post the letter until the very last moment. Ten o’clock was an unusually late hour for a country collection, but it was the last box on the postman’s route and was an especially convenient arrangement, not only for the inhabitants of Fossaway Manor, but for the tenant farmers who wished to notify their daily consignments.
She saw Arthur at dinner after the letter was written, but beyond the exchange of a few commonplaces they did not speak. He went back to his study, carrying his coffee with him, and she was left alone to the contemplation of the dark future. She wished she had seen Dick before she wrote, but it was too late now. Gilder had asked her to give him his answer that night, and she had promised.
What would Dick say? She screwed up her eyes tightly as though to hide the vision of him, and her lips trembled.
“No weakness, Danton!” It was a favourite quotation of her childhood, and had been the slogan at all moments when tears were near at hand.
She took the letter from her bag and looked at it. Stamped, addressed, she had but to drop this into the little letter box, and thereafter the angle of life was twisted to a new prospect: the bleakest, dreariest prospect that any woman had faced.
And it had to be done. The hands of the clock moved slowly and inexorably round. Nine o’clock—a quarter after—twenty minutes before ten; she set her teeth and got up from the little table where she had been trying in vain to concentrate her mind upon a game of patience, went upstairs and put on her hat and coat, and, with the letter tightly gripped in her hand, stole down across the hall, opened the door, and went out.
It was very dark; she could scarcely see her way down the drive. Clear of the overhanging trees, her eyes, grown accustomed to the darkness, made out the road. She thought that she saw somebody on the road ahead and heard footsteps, but she was nervous, she told herself. Nevertheless, she stopped and listened. She heard nothing and went on.
A few minutes’ walk brought her to the pillar box, and here she waited. A big spot of rain fell upon her hand; she heard the sough of the wind through the trees; and then, far away, she saw a tiny star of light and heard the faint clank of the postman’s cycle. She thrust the letter into the box and turned to retrace her steps.
Then it occurred to her that the postman would pass her, and she did not wish to see him. Which way should she go? Her heart and inclinations beckoned to Fossaway Manor. Dick—she must see Dick. She fought against the madness; the postman’s light grew brighter. Then she ran down toward the cut road, through the gate and up the slope to the Abbey. There she sat down to recover her breath, and presently she saw the reflection of a lamp, heard the thunder of the postman’s motor-cycle as it passed.
There went fate, on that dark road, noisily, bumpily. The red light faded from sight, and she got up, walked leisurely past the Abbey ruins, without one thought of ghosts or haunting spirits, and took the lower and shorter path to the Manor.
She was halfway across the long meadow when she stopped. Fear was clutching at her heart; she could feel the flesh creep on her neck, and, turning, looked back. Somebody was following her. Consciously she had heard no sound, but to her heart flashed a warning signal that set it racing. She could see nobody. It must be her imagination, she told herself; yet here, reason and instinct were at variance, and instinct won. She knew there was somebody immediately behind her, less than twenty yards away.
She could intercept the long drive to Fossaway Manor before she could reach the house. She decided to make the longer journey, and, turning abruptly, walked with quick strides across the velvety grass-land in the direction of the elms which flanked the drive. Once she looked back, and thought she saw a moving shape. She quickened her steps, broke into a gentle run. She must not allow blind panic to overcome her, she told herself.
Again she looked back but saw nothing, and, ashamed of her fear, she slowed to a walk and reached the elms and the drive with heartfelt thankfulness. Exactly how she should break in upon Dick she did not know. She hoped he would be in his study, and that she could call him out from the lawn.
Nearer and nearer she came to the house, and then, of a sudden, she whipped round. Somebody was behind her: she was sure of it now. She heard the sound of feet upon the gravelled road.
“Who is there?” she called.
There was no answer, but the footsteps stopped. They might be walking on the grassy verge, she thought, and, turning, ran up the drive. Whoever followed was running, too. She heard a sibilant whisper and her blood turned cold. Then, as she emerged from the trees, she saw a figure against the gray sheen of the round pound, saw the shape of it—the long habit and the heavy cowl. With a scream she flew.
The drive continuing past the window would bring her to Dick’s study. She saw with a gasp of relief that the door was open and a light shining inside. Over her shoulder she saw the queer shape again, and screamed. In an instant Dick was out of the study and had caught her in his arms.
He listened to her breathless story, then, almost carrying her to his room, he put her in a chair and ran out into the night. In a few minutes he came back.
“I saw nothing,” he said. “It was the Black Abbot, you say?”
“I don’t know; something in a cowl and habit: I’m sure of that.”
It was a bad introduction to the story she had to tell; indeed, in her terror, she almost forgot the object of her visit.
“Did Arthur come with you?”
She shook her head.
“Dick, I know,” were the first words she said when she had recovered her breath.
“You know what?”
“About Lady Chelford’s money.”
She saw his face change.
“Did he tell you?” he asked, the red coming into his face.
“Not Arthur, no. It was Gilder.”
“Mr. Gilder told you? I knew he had been and I knew he had called. Was that why he came?”
She nodded.
“For nothing else?”
“Yes; he came to offer me the money.”
She saw his eyes narrow.
“He did? At a price, of course?”
She nodded.
“And you—what did you say?”
She found a difficulty in breathing; speech for the moment was impossible without making a fool of herself.
“You agreed?”
She nodded again.
“I have just posted the letter to him,” she said.
She saw him bite his lip and a red spot of blood showed. If he had stormed at her, cursed her, she could have borne it; but he did no more than look at her. There was nothing in his gaze that was uncharitable.
“Oh, Dick, Dick!” She was sobbing on his breast and his arms were about her, comforting her.
“You can’t do it, my dear. Anything is better than that.”
She shook her head, incapable of speech.
“I tell you anything is better than that.” His voice was hard, uncompromising. “Better Arthur go down for five years than that you should live in hell all your life! I know that man—I know his kind—it isn’t his years, it’s his mind and his evil heart. If he were twenty I would say, ‘No, you can’t do it, Leslie.’”
She pushed herself gently away from him and dried her eyes.
“I must, Dick; I have given my word. I cannot trick him. The last thing I said to him was ‘If I tell you I will marry you, you can make the arrangements about the money—I will not fail you.’ I cannot fail him; I cannot fail myself.”
His face was drawn and haggard.
“This can’t be!” he said. “Something will happen. I don’t know what——”
He stopped.
“What’s that?” she gasped, terrified.
From somewhere in the grounds came a shrill shriek that was hardly human. Again it came: a sobbing, blubbering shriek that turned her heart to ice.
“Stay here,” said Dick, as he made for the open window, but she flung herself upon him.
“You sha’n’t go! You mustn’t go!” she cried wildly. “Dick, something dreadful is happening. Oh, God! listen, Dick!”
This time the shriek was shriller, and died away into a thin wail of sound.
He pushed her aside and ran out on to the lawn.
“From which way did it come, do you think?”
“Over there.” She pointed ahead to the drive.
“Let me come with you—do, please do!” she begged. “I dare not be left alone.”
He hesitated.
“Come,” he said roughly, and took her arm with a grip that made her wince.
Together they ran toward Elm Drive, and then he stopped.
“Go back and get my hand lamp. It’s on my writing table,” he said. “I will wait here for you.”
She fled back to the room, took up the lamp with fingers that trembled so violently that she could scarcely hold it, and rejoined him.
“It was over there. I heard something a second ago. If I hadn’t promised to wait…”
He turned on the light, swinging its rays over the ground before him, and going ahead of her. Presently she saw him stop and a circle of light focus on something black that lay huddled on the grass.
“Stay where you are,” he commanded, “and turn your back.”
A voice hailed him in the distance: it was Puttler, and, guided by the lamp, he came on the scene.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Dick in a low voice.
At his feet was the huddled figure of a man. He was lying on his face, and was attired from head to foot in a long black habit around which a rope was girdled.
“The Black Abbot?” said Puttler incredulously. “Is he dead?”
“Look,” said Dick, and pointed to the wet shoulder and the horror of the throat.
Puttler knelt down, and, putting his arms under the figure, turned it on its back.
The face was covered by a black cowl, and this he gently raised.
“Merciful God!” said Dick, in a hushed voice.
He was looking into the gray face of Thomas, the footman.