As We Forgive Them Part 17

"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 circ.u.mstances. 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 a.s.suredly the strange circ.u.mstances 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 d.i.c.k 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 a.s.sisting 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sing 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 arm-chair 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 ident.i.ty 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s 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 weather-beaten, while the cut of his clothes was distinctly that of the "ready-made" emporium of the provincial town. His hard felt hat was c.o.c.ked 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."