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.
Volume Three – Chapter Ten.
The Little Orb Turns Round
There was but one thought in the minds of father and uncle at Brackley, and that was to silence busy tongues, get Glynne sufficiently well to move, and go right away abroad; and in Oldroyd they had a willing coadjutor, and one who seemed not to have a thought beyond his profession.
The major had been half mad, and ready to follow the bent of his suspicions again and again; but robbery as well as outrage appeared to have influenced the man who had escaped unseen, since the greater part of the valuable jewels, including a diamond bracelet given by Marjorie to the bride, were missing, and he felt that he was wrong.
Sir John prevailed.
“Jem,” he said, “if I knew who it was I’d shoot him ike a dog – curse him! No: I couldn’t wait to fire, I’d strangle him; but I can’t have this published abroad if we can hush it up. I won’t have my child dragged into a witness box to give evidence against the devil who has wrought us this ill. We must bear it, Jem, and wait.”
“But, my dear Jack – ”
“But, my dear Jem – I am her father. What would our darling wish if she could speak to us – if we could speak to her upon what it would be best to do?”
The major bowed his head, and as far as possible a veil was drawn over the events of that night.
Rumour was pretty busy during the next month, during which period several stories were afloat, but only one bore the stamp of truth – that, out of despair some said, Captain Rolph obtained leave of absence, and went off to Norway, shooting, while Mrs Rolph and her niece accompanied him as far as Hull, and then continued their journey to Scarboro’.
That was perfectly true, Mrs Rolph having her hands pretty full with Marjorie, who also turned ill having bad, nervous, hysterical fits, and refusing absolutely to go outside The Warren door without having tight hold of Mrs Rolph’s arm; and even then she was constantly turning her eyes wildly round as if in expectation of seeing someone start out from behind bush or hedge.
“The shock to her system,” Mrs Rolph used to say to herself, and she became increasingly gentle toward the girl whose nerves had been shattered by the affair at The Hall.
By this time the shutters were all closed at Brackley, for, after Sir John had been severely blamed for not getting down some big physician when Glynne’s brain fever was at its worst, people came to the conclusion that he knew what he was about, for if ever a clever practitioner did settle down in a place, it was “Doctor” Oldroyd, who had cured the young lady in a wonderfully short space of time. For the month at its end found the Days in Italy, where Glynne had been recommended to go on account of her health.
Oldroyd consequently was on the road to fame – that is the fame which extended for a radius of six miles; but his pockets were very little the heavier, and he still looked upon men who kept banking accounts with a feeling akin to awe.
Change in the neighbourhood of Brackley extended no further. The blunt-eyed, resident policeman, somehow never managed to come across the poachers who made raids upon The Warren and upon Brackley during the absence of their owners; while over at Lindham, the doctor learned from old Mother Wattley, who grew more chatty and apparently younger, under her skilful medical man’s care, that Ben Hayle – ‘my son-in-law’ – had taken an acre of land, and was ‘goin’ to make a fortun’ there as a florist; but when Oldroyd met the ex-keeper one day, and went over the garden with him, it seemed improbable that it would even pay the rent.
“Better turn to your old business, Hayle,” said Oldroyd.
“Easier said than done, sir,” replied the man. “Old master gave me my chance when I was a young fool, and liked to do a bit o’ poaching, believing honestly then that all birds were wild, and that I had as good a right to them as anybody. But I soon found out the difference when I had to rear them, and I served him honest, and Mrs Rolph too, all those years, till she discharged me because of the captain’s liking for my Judith.”
“But surely there were other places to be found by a man with a good character.”
“Didn’t seem like it, sir. I tried till I was beat out, and then, in a kind of despairing fit, I went out with some of the lads, and you know what I got for my pains.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “and it ought to be a lesson for you, Hayle.”
“Yes, sir, it ought; but you see, once a man takes to that kind of work it’s hard to keep from it.”
“But, my good fellow, you may be laid by the heels in gaol at any time. I wondered you were not taken over that affair.”
“So I should have been, if I’d had any other doctor, sir,” said Hayle, with a meaning smile, “and the police had been a little sharper. But you didn’t chatter, and our fellows didn’t, and so I got off.”
“But think, now; you, the father of a young girl like Miss Hayle, what would her feelings be if you were sent to prison like that young fellow – what’s his name – was.”
“Caleb Kent, sir?”
“Yes. What’s become of him? I haven’t seen him lately.”
“Racketing about somewhere, sir. Me and him had a quarrel or two about my Judith. He was always hanging after her; and it got so bad, at last, that I promised him a charge o’ shot in his jacket if he ever came anigh our place again. He saw I meant it, sir, and he has left the poor girl in peace.”
“Well, I must be off, Hayle.”
“Thankye for calling, sir. Been to see the old mother-in-law?”
“Yes; she keeps wonderfully well.”
“You mean you keep her wonderfully well, sir. Poor old girl, she’s not a bad one in her way.”
“No, and there’s nothing the matter with her but old age.”
“Hear that the missus is coming back to The Warren, sir?”
“Yes, and that the Brackley people are on their way too. Look here, Hayle, shall I put in a word for you to Sir John?”
“No thankye, doctor, let me bide; things ’ll come right in time. Think there’ll be a wedding at the Hall, now, sir? They tell me Miss Day’s got well and strong again.”
“I’ve enough to do with my people when they want me, Hayle,” said the doctor, drily, “and I never interfere about their private matters; but, as you ask me that question, I should say decidedly not.”
The ex-keeper smiled, as if the doctor’s words coincided with his own thoughts, and he stood watching Oldroyd, as he rode off, getting a peep at Judith seated by the window working hard as he went by, the girl’s face looking pale and waxen in the shade.
“Fretting a bit, by the look of her, and those dark rings,” said Oldroyd, as he rode away. “How much happier a place the world would be if there were no marrying and giving in marriage – no making love at all. Causes more worry, I think, than the drink.”
Volume Three – Chapter Eleven.
Drawn Together
“Well, dearest,” said Mrs Rolph, “have you been all round?”
Rolph, who was leaning back in his chair in the library at The Warren, reading a sporting paper, uttered a growl.
“Not satisfactory, dear?”
“Satisfactory! the place has gone to rack and ruin. I don’t believe those cursed poachers have left a head of game on the estate; but I know who’s at the bottom of it, and he’d better look out.”
“I’m very sorry, dear,” said Mrs Rolph, going behind her son’s chair to stroke his hair. “The garden looks very nice; both Madge and I thought so. Why didn’t you run over now and then to see that the keeper was doing his duty.”
“Run over?” cried Rolph, savagely; “who was going to run over here for every fool one met to be pointing his cursed finger at you, and saying, ‘There goes the fellow who didn’t get married.’”
“My dearest boy,” said Mrs Rolph, soothingly, as she laid her cheek on the top of his head, “don’t fret about that now. You know it’s nearly eighteen months ago.”
“I don’t care if it’s eighteen hundred months ago – and do leave off, mother, you know I hate having my hair plastered down.”
Mrs Rolph kissed the place where her cheek had been laid, and then drew back, showing that the complaint had not been merited, for, so far from the hair being plastered down, there was scarcely any to plaster, Rolph’s head being cropped close in athletic and on anti-Samsonic principles as regarded strength.
“It was very, very hard for you, my dearest, and it is most unfortunate that they should have chosen the same time to return as we did. You – er – heard that they are back?”
“Of course I did, and if you’d any respect for your son, you’d sell this cursed hole, and go somewhere else.”
“Don’t – don’t ask me to do that, Rob, dear,” said Mrs Rolph. “I know your poor father looked forward to your succeeding to it and keeping it up.”
“I hate the place,” growled Rolph rustling his paper; and Mrs Rolph looked pleased, but she said nothing for some time. Then, very gently, —
“Rob, dearest, you are going to stay now you are here?”
“No; I’m going to Hounslow to-morrow.”
“Not so soon as that, dear,” said Mrs Rolph, pleadingly, as she laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“Why not? What’s the good of staying here?”
“To please your mother, dearest, and – Madge, who is in a terribly weak state I had great difficulty in getting her back here.”
Rolph moved angrily, and crumpled up the paper, but Mrs Rolph bent down and kissed him.
“There, all right,” he said, “only don’t bother me about it so. I can’t forget that other cursed muddle, if you can.”
“No, my dear, of course not, but you should try to. And, Rob, dear, be a little more thoughtful about dearest Madge. She has, I know, suffered cruelly in the past, and does so now at times when you seem neglectful – no, no, don’t start, dear; I know you are not, but girls are exacting, and do love to spoil men by trying to keep them at their feet.”
“Like spaniels or pugs,” growled Rolph, the latter being the more appropriate.
“Yes, dear, but she will grow wiser in that direction, and you cannot be surprised at her anxiety. Rob, dearest, you must not blame her for her worship of one whom she looks upon as a demigod – the perfection of all that is manly and strong.”
“Oh, no; it’s all right, mother,” said Rolph, who felt flattered by the maternal and girlish adulation; “I’ll behave like a lamb.”
“You’ll behave like my own true, brave son, dearest, and make me very happy. When shall it be, Rob?”
“Eh? The marriage?”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Rolph, kneeling at his side and passing an arm about him.
“Has Madge been at you about it?”
“For shame, dearest! She would die sooner than speak. You know how she gave up to what you fancied would make you happy before. Never a word, never a murmur; and she took that poor unfortunate girl, Glynne, to her heart as a sister.”
“Damn it all, mother, do let that cursed business rest,” cried Rolph impatiently.
“Yes, dearest, of course; pray forgive me.”
“Oh, all right! But – er – Madge – she hasn’t seen her – hasn’t been over there?”
“No, my love, of course not. There must be no further communication between our families. It was Sir John’s own wish, as you know. No one could have behaved more honourably, or with more chivalrous consideration than he did over the horribly distressing circumstances. But that’s all dead, past and forgotten now, and you need not fear any allusions being made in the place. It was quite wonderful how little was ever known outside the house. But there, no more past; let’s have present and future. Time is flying, Rob, dearest, and I’m getting an old woman now.”
“And a deuced fine, handsome old woman, too,” said Rolph, with an unwonted show of affection, for he passed his arm about her, and kissed her warmly. “I tell you what it is, old lady, I only wish I could meet with one like you – a fine, handsome, elderly body, with no confounded damn-nonsense about her. I’d propose in a minute.”
“My dearest boy, what absurd stuff you do talk, when the most beautiful girl for miles round is waiting patiently for you to say, – ‘Come, and I will recompense you with my life’s devotion for all your long suffering, and the agony of years.’”
“Just what I’m likely to say, mother,” said Rolph, grimly.
“But you will in your heart.”
“All right, I’ll try. She will let me have my own way. But I say, mother, she has grown precious thin and old-looking while you have been on the Continent.”
“What wonder, dearest boy. Can a woman suffer, as she has about you for two years now, without showing the lines of care. But what of them. It will be your pleasant duty to smooth them all out, and you can, dearest, and so easily. A month after she is yours she will not look the same.”
Mrs Rolph’s words were spoken in all sincerity, and there was a great deal in them as to their probabilities, but not in the direction she meant.
“Rob, dearest,” she whispered caressingly, soon after, “when shall it be?”
“Don’t know.”
“To set your mother’s heart at rest – and hers.”
“Oh, very well, when you like; but hold hard a minute.”
“Rob!” cried Mrs Rolph in dismay, for her heart was beating fast with hope, and his words had arrested the throbbing.
“I can’t have two of my important meetings interfered with. I’ve the Bray Bridge handicap, and a glove fight I must attend.”
“Rob, my darling!”
“But I must go to them. The confounded service takes up so much of my time, that I’ve neglected my athletics shamefully.”
Marjorie came in from the garden just then, and as she appeared at the French window, the careworn, hunted look in her eyes, and a suggestion of twitching about the corners of her lips, fully justified her athletic cousin’s disparaging remarks.
“Ah, my darling!” cried Mrs Rolph, rising.
“I beg pardon, aunt dear. I did not know you and Rob were engaged.”
“Don’t go, dearest,” said Mrs Rolph, holding out her hands, her tone of voice making Marjories eyes dilate, and as she began to tremble violently, a deathly pallor overspread her cheeks, and she tottered and then sank sobbing in Mrs Rolph’s arms.
“My darling – my darling!” whispered her aunt. “There – there! Rob, dearest, help me!”
Rolph rose from his chair, half-pleased, half-amused by his mother’s action, as she shifted the burden to his great muscular arms.
“Help her to the couch, my love. Why, she is all of a tremble. I’ll go and fetch my salts. Rob, dearest, can’t you bring back the colour to her cheeks?”
