George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

She made no reply, but her eyes seemed to blaze.

“Yes,” he said, with a smile; “I understand your looks. I am a traitor, and a coward, and a villain; that is, I suppose, the interpretation from your point of view; but let me tell you there are thousands of men who would be ten times the traitor, coward and villain that you mentally call me, to win you and your smiles, as I shall.”

He stood looking down at her with a proud look of power, and she involuntarily shrank back in her seat and trembled.

“In the second place,” he continued, “I take it from your manner that you mean for a few days to be defiant, and that you will try to escape. Well, try if you like, and find how vain it is. I have you here, and in spite of everything I shall keep you safely. I will be plain and frank. For your fortune and for yourself I love you with a middle-aged man’s strong love for a beautiful girl who has awakened in him passions that he thought were dead. You will try and escape? No, you will not; for now, for the first time, I shall really cage the lovely little bird I have entrapped. You will keep to your room, a prisoner, till you place your hands in mine, and tell me that you are mine whenever I wish. You will appeal to my servants? Well, appeal to them. You will try and escape by your window? Well, try. You must know by now that it opens over a narrow yard, and an attempt to descend from that means death; but there are ways of fastening such a window as that, and this will be done, for I want to live and love, and your death would mean mine.”

He paused and looked down at her in calm triumph, but her firm gaze never left his, and her lips were tightly drawn together.

“I could appeal to your pity, but I will not now. I could tell you of my former loveless marriage, and my weary life with the wretched woman who entrapped me; but you will find all that out in time, and try to recompense me for the early miseries of my life, and for your cruel coldness now. There, I have nearly done. I have gambled over this, my child, and I have won, so far as obtaining my prize. To obtain its full enjoyment, I have treated you as I have since you have been here, during which time I have taught you to love me as a friend and father. I am going to teach you to love me now as a husband—a far easier task.”

“No!” she cried, angrily. “I would sooner die.”

“Spare your breath, my dear, and try and school yourself to the acceptance of your fate. Claud Wilton is in town, hunting for you, and do you think I will let that young scoundrel drag you into what really would be a degrading marriage? I would sooner kill him. Come, come, be sensible,” he cried, speaking perfectly calmly, and never once attempting to lessen the distance between them. “I startled you last night. See how gentle and tender I am with you to-day. I love you too well to blame you in any way. I love you, I tell you; and I know quite well that the passion is still latent in your breast; but I know, too, that it will bud and blossom, and that some day you will wonder at your conduct toward one who has proved his love for you. I cannot blame myself, even if I have been driven to win you by a coup. Who would not have done the same, I say again? You have charmed me by your beauty, and by the beauties of your intellect; and once more I tell you gently and lovingly that you must now accept your fate, and look upon me as a friend, father, lover, husband, all in one. Kate, dearest, you shall not repent it, so be as gentle and kind to me as I am to you.”

He ceased, and she sat there gazing at him fixedly still.

“Now,” he said, changing his manner and tone, “we must have no more clouds between us. You need not shrink and begin beating your wings, little bird. I will be patient, and we will go on, if you wish it, where we left off last evening when you came here from the dining-room. I am guardian again until you have thought all this over, and are ready to accept the inevitable. We must not have you ill, and wanting the doctor.”

A thrill ran through her, and as if it were natural to turn to him who came when she was once before sorely in need of help, she recalled the firm, calm face of Pierce Leigh; but a faint flush coloured her cheek, as if in shame for her thought.

Garstang saw the brightening of her face, and interpreted it wrongly.

“A means of escape from me?” he said. “What a foolish, childish thought! Too romantic for a woman of your strength of mind, Kate. No, I shall not let you leave me like that. There, you must be faint and hungry; so am I. Take off your things, and come and face your guardian at the table, in the old fashion. No? You prefer to go back to your room this morning? Well, let it be so. Only try and be sensible. It is so childish to let the servants be witnesses to such a little trouble as this. There, your head is bad, of course; and you altered your mind about going for a walk.”

He opened the door for her to pass out, and then rang the bell.

“Mrs Plant answered the bell last night,” he said, meaningly. “Poor woman, she had gone to bed, and came here in alarm; so she knows that you were taken ill and went to your room. I would not let her come and disturb you, as you were so agitated.—Ah, Mrs Plant, your mistress does not feel equal to staying down to breakfast. Go and get a tray ready, and take it up to her in her room.”

The woman hurried to carry out Garstang’s wishes, and Kate rose to her feet, while he drew back to let her pass.

“The front door is fastened,” he said, with a quiet smile, “and there is no window that you can open to call for help. Even if you could, and people came to inquire what was the matter, a few words respecting the sick and delirious young lady upstairs would send them away. It is curious what a wholesome dread ordinary folk have of an illness being infectious. Will you come down to dinner, or sooner, dearest?” he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, full of tenderness. “I shall be here, and only too glad to welcome you when you come, sweet dove, with the olive branch of peace between us, and take it as the symbol of love.”

A prisoner, indeed, and the chains seemed to fetter and weigh her down as, without a word, her eyes fixed and gazing straight before her, she walked by him into the hall, mastered the wild agonising desire to fling herself at the door and call for help, and went slowly to the stairs, catching sight of the pale bandaged face peering over the balustrade and then drawn back to disappear.

But as Kate saw it a gleam of hope shot through the darkness. Poor Becky—letters—appeals for help to Jenny Leigh. Could she not get a message sent by the hand of the strange-looking, shrinking girl?

She went on steadily up towards her room, without once turning her head, feeling conscious that Garstang was standing below watching her; but by the time she reached the first landing there was the sound of a faint cough and steps crossing to the dining-room, and she breathed more freely, and glanced downward as she turned to ascend the second flight.

The hall was vacant, and looking toward the doorway through which Becky had glided, she called to her in a low, excited whisper:

“Becky! Becky!”

But there was no reply, and hurrying up the rest of the way she followed the girl, entered the room into which she had passed, and found her standing in the attitude of one listening intently.

“Becky, I want to speak to you,” she whispered; but the girl darted to a door at the other end, and was gliding through into the dressing-room, through which she could reach the staircase.

This time Kate was too quick for her, and caught her by the dress, the girl uttering a low moan, full of despair, and hanging away with all her might, keeping her face averted the while.

“Don’t, don’t do that,” whispered Kate, excitedly. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“Let me go; oh! please let me go.”

“Yes, directly,” whispered Kate, still holding her tightly; “but please, Becky, I want you to help me. I am in great trouble, dear—great trouble.”

“Eh?” said the girl, faintly, “you?”

“Yes, and I do so want help. Will you do something for me?”

“No, I can’t,” whispered the girl. “I’m no use; I oughtn’t to be here; don’t look at me, please; and pray, pray let me go.”

“Yes, I will, dear; but you will help me. Come to my room when your mother has been.”

The girl turned her white grotesque face, and stared at her with dilated eyes.

“You will, won’t you?”

Becky shook her head.

“Not to help a poor sister in distress?” said Kate, appealingly.

“You ain’t my sister, and I must go. If he knew I’d talked to you he’d be so cross.”

With a sudden snatch the girl released her dress and fled, leaving Kate striving hard to keep back her tears, as she went on to the broad landing and reached her room, thinking of the little library and the account she had heard of the former occupant, who found life too weary for him, and had sought rest.

Her first impulse was to lock her door, but feeling that she had nothing immediate to fear, and that perhaps a display of acquiescence in Garstang’s plans might help her to escape, she sat down to think, or rather try to think, for her brain was in a whirl, and thought crowded out thought before she had time to grasp one.

But she had hardly commenced her fight when there was a tap at the door, and Sarah Plant entered with a breakfast tray, looking smiling and animated.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am; but I’ve made you a very strong cup of tea, and your breakfast will do you good. There. Now let me help you off with your things.”

“No, no, never mind now. Mrs Plant, will you do something to help me?”

“Of course, I will, ma’am. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Why are you smiling at me in that way?”

“Me smiling, ma’am? Was I? Oh, nothing.”

“I insist upon your telling me. Ah, you know what has taken place.”

“Well, well, ma’am, please don’t be angry with me for it. You did give the bell such a peal last night, you quite startled me.”

“Then you do know everything?”

“Well, yes, ma’am; you see, I couldn’t help it. Me and poor Becky always knew that you were to be the new missis here from the day you came.”

“No, it is impossible. I must go away from here at once.”

“Lor’, my dear, don’t you take it like that! Why, what is there to mind? Master is one of the dearest and best of men; and think what a chance it is for you, and what a home.”

“Oh, silence; don’t talk like that! I tell you it is impossible.”

“Ah, that’s because you’re thinking about Master being a bit older than you are. But what of that? My poor dear man was twice as old as me, and he never had but one fault—he would die too soon.”

“I tell you it is impossible, my good woman,” cried Kate, imperiously. “I have been entrapped and deceived, and I call upon you, as a woman, to help me.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course I’ll help you.”

“Ah! then wait here while I write a few lines to one of my father’s old friends.”

“A letter? Yes, ma’am; but if you please, Master said that all letters were to be taken to him.”

“As they were before?” said Kate, with a light flashing in upon her clouded brain.

“Yes, ma’am; he said so a week or two before you came.”

“Planned, planned, planned!” muttered Kate, despairingly.

“Yes, ma’am, and of course I must take them to him. You see, he is my master, and I will say this of him—a better and kinder master never lived. Oh, my dear, don’t be so young and foolish. You couldn’t do better than what he wishes, and make him happy, and yourself, too.”

“Will you help me, woman, to get away from here? I will pay you enough to make you rich if you will,” said Kate, desperately.

“I will do anything I can for you, ma’am, that isn’t going against Master; of that you may be sure.”

“Then will you post a couple of letters for me?” cried Kate, desperately.

“No, ma’am, please, I mustn’t do that.”

“Go away,” cried Kate, fiercely now. “Leave me to myself.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t, pray, go on like that I know you’re young, and the idea frightens you; but it isn’t such a very dreadful thing to be married to a real good man.”

Kate darted to the door, flung it open, and stood with flashing eyes, pointing outward.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, of course I’ll go; but do, pray, take my advice. You see, you’re bound to marry him now, and—”

The door was closed upon her, and Kate began to pace up and down, like some timid creature freshly awakened to the fact of its being caged, and grown desperate at the thought.

“Helpless, and a prisoner!” she groaned to herself. “What shall I do? Is there no way of escape?” And once more the thought of Jenny Leigh and her brother came to her mind, and the feeling grew stronger that she might find help there.

But it seemed impossible unless she could write and stamp a letter and throw it from the window, trusting to some one to pick it up and post it.

No; the idea seemed weak and vain, and she cast it from her, as she paced up and down, with her hands clasped and pressed to her throbbing breast.

“There is no help—no help!” she moaned, and then uttered a faint cry of alarm, for the door behind her was softly opened, and the idea that it was Garstang flashed through her brain as she looked wildly round.

Becky’s white tied-up face was just thrust in, and the door held tightly to, as if about to act as a perpendicular guillotine and shave through her neck.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Kate uttered a gasp of relief on finding her fear needless, and darted towards the door, when, to her despair, the grotesque head was snatched back.

“Becky! Becky!” she cried piteously, as the door was closing; and she stood still, not daring to approach.

Her action had its effect, for the door was slowly pressed open again, and the bow of the washed-out cotton handkerchief which bandaged the woman’s face gradually appeared, the ends, which stuck up like a small pair of horns, trembling visibly. Then by very small degrees the woman’s forehead and the rest of the face appeared, with the eyes showing the white all round, as their owner gazed at the prisoner with her usual scared look intensified.

“Pray come in, Becky,” said Kate, softly; and she drew back towards a chair, so as to try and inspire a little confidence.

The head was slowly shaken, and the door drawn once more tightly against the woman’s long thin neck.

“Whatcher want?” she said, faintly.

“I want you to come in and talk to me,” said Kate in a low, appealing tone. “I want you to help me.”

“Dursn’t.”

“Yes, yes, you dare. Pray, pray don’t say that I have no one to ask but you. Oh, Becky, Becky, I am so unhappy. If you have a woman’s heart within your breast, have pity on me!”

“Gug!”

A spasm contracted the pallid face as a violent sob escaped from her lips, and the tears began to flow from the dilated eyes, and were accompanied by unpleasant sniffs.

“Don’t make me cr-cr-cry, miss, please.”

“No, no, don’t cry, Becky dear, pray,” whispered Kate, anxiously.

“You make me, miss—going on like that; and d-don’t call me dear, please. I ain’t dear to nobody; I’m a miserable wretch.”

“I always pitied you, Becky, but you never would let me be kind to you.”

“N-no, miss. It don’t do no good. On’y makes me mis’rable.”

“But I must be; I will be kind to you, Becky, and try and make you happy,” whispered Kate.

“Tain’t to be done, miss, till I die,” said the woman, sadly; and then there was a triumphant light in her eyes, and her face lit up as she said more firmly, “but I’m going to be happy then.”

“Yes, yes, and I’ll try to make you happy while you live; but you will help me, dear?”

The poor creature shook her head.

“Yes, you will—I’m sure you will,” pleaded Kate. “But pray come in.”

“Dursn’t, miss.”

“But I am in such trouble, Becky.”

“Yes, I know; he wants to marry you, and he’s going to keep you locked up till he does. I know.”

“Yes, yes; and I want to get away.”

“But you can’t,” whispered the woman, and she withdrew her head, and Kate in her despair thought she had gone. But the head reappeared slowly. “Nobody watching,” she whispered.

“I must go away, and you must help me, Becky,” whispered Kate.

“It’s no good. He won’t let you, miss. But don’t you marry him.”

“Never!” cried Kate.

“Hush, or they’ll hear you; and mother’s siding with him, and going to help him. She says he’s an angel, but he’s all smooth smiles, and talks to you like a saint, but he’s a horrid wretch.”

“Yes, yes. But now listen to me.”

“Yes, I’m a-listening, miss. It’s all because you’re so pretty and handsome, and got lots o’ money, aintcher?”

“Yes, unhappily,” sighed Kate.

“That’s what he wants. He got all poor old master’s money, and the house and furniture out of him.”

“He did?” whispered Kate, excitedly.

“Yes, miss; I know. Mother says it’s all nonsense, and that we ought to love him, because he’s such a good man. But I know better. Poor old master used to tell me when I took him up his letters: ‘Ah, Becky, my poor girl, you are disappointed and unhappy,’ he says, ‘but I’m more unhappy still. That man won’t be satisfied till he has ground the last farthing out of me, and there’s nothing left but my corpse.’ I didn’t believe him, and I said, ‘Don’t let him have it, sir.’ ‘Ah, Becky,’ he says, ‘I’m obliged; signed papers are stronger than iron chains,’ he says, ‘and he’s always dragging at the end. But he shall have it all, and heavy pounds o’ flesh at the end, and the bones too.’ I didn’t know what he meant, miss; and I didn’t believe as anyone could be as unlucky as me. But I believed him at last, when I went to his room and found him dead on the floor; and then I knew he must be worse than I was, for I couldn’t have done what he did.”

“Becky,” whispered Kate, fixing the trembling woman with her eyes, “I can understand how people who are very unhappy seek for rest in death. Do you wish to come here some morning, and find me lying dead?”

“Oh, miss!” cried the woman, excitedly, pushing the door more open; “don’t, please don’t you go and do a thing like that. You’re too young and beautiful, and—oh, oh, oh! Please don’t talk so; I can’t abear it—pray!”

“Then help me, Becky, for I tell you I would sooner die.”

“What, than marry him?”

“Yes, than marry this dreadful man.”

“Then—then,” whispered the woman, after withdrawing her head to gaze back, “I feel that I dursn’t, and p’raps he’ll kill me for it—not as I seem to mind much, and mother would soon get over it, for I ain’t o’ no use—but I think I will try and help you. You want to get away?”

In her wild feeling of joy and excitement, Kate sprang toward the door, and she would have flung her arms round the unhappy woman’s neck. But before she could reach her the head was snatched back, and the fastening gave a loud snap, while when she opened it, Becky had disappeared and her mother was coming up the stairs to fetch the breakfast tray.

“And not touched a bit, my dear,” said the housekeeper, with a reproachful shake of the head. “Now you must, you know; you must, indeed. And do let me advise you, my dear. Mr Garstang is such a good man, and so indulgent, and it’s really naughty of you to be so foolish as to oppose his wishes.”

Kate turned upon her with a look that astounded the woman, who stood with parted lips, breathless, while a piece of bread was broken from the loaf on the tray, and a cup of tea poured out and placed aside.

“Take away that tray,” said Kate, imperiously; “and remember your place. Never presume to speak to me again like that.”

“No, ma’am—certainly not, ma’am,” said the woman, hastily. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, I am sure.”

“Leave the room, and do not come again until I ring.”

“My!” ejaculated the woman, as soon as she was on the landing, “to think of such a gentle-looking little thing being able to talk like that! P’raps master’s caught a tartar now.”

There was a gleam of hope, then, after all. Poor Becky was not the vacant idiot she had always appeared. Kate felt that she had made one friend, and trembling with eagerness she went to the writing-table and wrote quickly a few lines to Jenny Leigh, briefly explaining her position, and begging her to lay the matter before her brother and ask his help and advice.

This she inclosed and directed, and then sat gazing before her, conjuring the scene to follow at the cottage, and the indignation of Leigh. And as she thought, the warm blood tinged her pale cheeks once more, and she covered her face with her hands, to sit there sobbing for a few minutes before slowly tearing up the letter till the fragments were too small ever to be found and read by one curious to know their contents.

Gladly as she would have seen Pierce Leigh appear and insist upon her taking refuge with his sister, she felt that she could not send such an appeal to those who were comparative strangers; and though she would not own to it even to herself, she felt that there were other reasons why she could not write.

An hour of intense mental agony and dread passed, and she had to strive hard to keep down the terrible feeling of panic which nearly mastered her, and tempted her to rush down the stairs to try once more to escape, or to go to one of the front windows, throw it open, and shriek for help.

“It would be an act of madness,” she sighed, as she recalled Garstang’s words respecting the sick lady. “And they would believe him!” she cried, while the feeling of helplessness grew and grew as she felt how thoroughly she was in Garstang’s power.

Then came the thought of her aunt and uncle, her natural protectors, and she determined to write to them. James Wilton would fetch her away at once, for he was her guardian; and surely now, she told herself, she was woman enough to insist upon proper respect being paid to her wishes. She could set at defiance any of her cousin’s advances; and her conduct in leaving showed itself up in its strongest colours, as being cowardly—the act of a child.

With a fresh display of energy she wrote to her aunt, detailing everything, and bidding her—not begging—to tell her uncle to come to her rescue at once. But no sooner was the letter written than she felt that her aunt would behave in some weak, foolish way, and there would be delay.

She tore up that letter slowly, and after hiding the pieces, she sat there thinking again, with her brow wrinkled, and the look of agony in her face intensifying.

“I have right on my side. He is my guardian, and he dare not act otherwise than justly by me. I am no longer the weak child now.”

And once more she took paper, and wrote this time to James Wilton himself, telling him that Garstang had lured her away by the promise of protection, but had shown himself in the vilest colours at last.

“He must—he shall protect me,” she said, exultantly, and she hastily directed the letter.

But as she sat there with the letter in her hand, she shrank and trembled. For in vivid colours her imagination painted before her the trouble and persecution to which she would expose herself. She knew well enough what were James Wilton’s aims, and that situated as he was, he would stand at nothing to gain them. It was in vain she told herself that anything would be preferable to staying there at John Garstang’s mercy, the horror of rushing headlong back to her guardian, and the thoughts of his triumphant looks as he held her tightly once again, proved too much for her, and this letter was slowly torn up and the pieces hidden.

As she sat there, with every nerve on the rack, a strange feeling of faintness came over her, and she started up in horror at the idea of losing her senses, and being at this man’s mercy. And as she walked hurriedly to and fro, trembling as she felt the faintness increasing, some relief came, for she grasped the fact that her faintness was due to want of food, and it was past mid-day.

There was the bread close at hand, though, and turning to it she began to crumble up the pieces and to eat, though it was only with the greatest difficulty that she accomplished her task.

But it had the required effect—the sensation of sinking passed off. And now she set herself the task of trying to think of some one among the very few friends she had known before her father’s death to whom she could send for help; but there did not occur to her mind one to whom she could apply in such a strait. There were the people at the bank, and the doctor who had attended her father in his last illness, but they were comparatively such strangers that she shrank from writing to them; and at last, unnerved, and with her mind seeming to refuse to act, she sat there feeling that there was not a soul in the world whom she could trust but the Leighs. She could send to Jenny, who would, she knew, be up in arms at once; but there was her brother. She could not, she dared not, ask him; and it would be, she felt, asking him. It would be so interpreted if she wrote.

And then came the question which sent a shiver through her frame—what must he think of her, and would he come to her help as he would have done before she committed so rash an act?

Kate’s weary ponderings were interrupted by a tap at the door, which produced a fit of trembling, and she glided to it to slip the bolt, which had hardly passed into its socket before the housekeeper’s voice was heard.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but lunch is ready, and master would be glad to know if you are well enough to come down.”

A stern negative was the reply, and for about a quarter of an hour she was undisturbed. Then came another tap, and the rattling of china and glass.

“If you please, ma’am, I’ve brought your lunch.”

She hesitated for a few moments. The desire was strong to refuse to take anything, but she felt that if she was to keep setting Garstang at defiance till she could escape, she must have energy and strength. So, unwillingly enough, she unfastened the door, the housekeeper entered with a tray, and set it down upon the table.

“Can I bring you up anything more, ma’am, and would you like any wine?”

“No,” was the abrupt answer, in tones that would bear no reply, and the woman went away, the door being fastened after her.

The lunch tray looked dainty enough, but it remained untouched for a time. A desperate resolve had come upon the prisoner, and once more seating herself, she wrote a piteous letter to Jenny, imploring help, directed it, and placed it ready for giving to poor Becky when she came again. Stamps she had none, but she had a little money, and doubtless the girl would dispatch her note in safety.

The desperate step taken, she felt more at ease, and feeling that her state of siege must last for a couple of days longer, she sat down and once more forced herself to eat, but she shrank from touching the water in the carafe, looking at it suspiciously, and preferring to partake of some that was in the room.

The tray was fetched in due time, and the housekeeper smiled her satisfaction; but she went off without a word, and Kate felt that she would go straight to Garstang and report that the lunch had been eaten.

She winced at this a little, but felt that it was inevitable, and feeling in better nerve she went to the door, which she had fastened, opened it a little, and stood there to watch for the coming of Becky.

But the hours glided by, and with a creeping sense of horror she saw the wintry evening coming rapidly on, and thought of the night.

Whenever a footstep was heard she was on the qui vive, but each time it was the mother. The daughter, who had before this seemed to be always gliding ghost-like about the place, was now invisible, and as Kate watched she saw the housekeeper light the hall jets and then descend to the kitchen region.

Twice over she shrank back and secured the door, for she heard Garstang cough slightly, and saw him cross the hall from library to dining-room, and in each case she let some minutes elapse before she dared open and peer out again. The last time it was to be aware of the fact that the dinner hour had come once more, and soon after the woman began to ascend the stairs, Kate retiring within and slipping the bolt, to stand and listen for the message she knew would be delivered.

“Master’s compliments, and are you well enough to come down, ma’am?”

The brief negative sent the messenger down again, and the prisoner was left undisturbed for a few minutes, when there was the sound of a tray being brought to the door, but this time it was refused entrance.

Kate watched again eagerly now, feeling that in all probability Becky would try to see her while her mother was occupied in the dining-room, but the time passed on and there was no sign of her, and thoughts of desperate venturing to try and reach the front door attacked the listener, but only to be dismissed.

“It would only be to expose myself to insult,” she said, and growing more and more despondent, she once more closed and secured the door, expecting that there would be a fresh message sent up.

In due time there was another tap at the door, but no request for her to come down.

“I have brought you up some tea, ma’am.”

Kate hesitated about admitting the woman, for the memory of the scene at the same hour on the previous night flashed across her, but instinctively feeling that the messenger was alone, she unfastened the door and let her in.

“Master’s compliments, ma’am, and he hopes that your quiet day’s rest will have done you good. He says he will not trouble you to see him to-night, but he hopes you will be yourself again in the morning. Good-night, ma’am; I won’t disturb you again. The things can be left on the side-table. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No, I thank you,” said Kate, coldly.

“Very good, ma’am.”

The woman went back to the door, and Kate’s last hope of her turning a friend to help her died out, for she heard her sigh and say softly, evidently to be heard:

“Poor dear master; it’s very sad.”

“Good-night!” said Kate, involuntarily repeating the woman’s words. “God help me and protect me through the long night watches, and inspire me with the thought that shall bring me help. How can I dare to sleep?”

The answer came from Nature—imperative, and who knew no denial; for once more the prisoner awoke, wondering to find that it was morning and that she must have slept for many hours in a chair.

Chapter Forty.

In the hope that an opportunity would soon come, and to be ready at any moment, one of Kate’s first acts that morning was to write plainly a few words on a sheet of paper, begging Becky to post her letter, and inclosing it with the note in another envelope, which she directed to the woman herself. This she placed in the fold of her dress, where she could draw it out directly, and waited.

The housekeeper was not long before she made her appearance with the breakfast tray, and was respectful in the extreme.

“Master thought, ma’am, that perhaps you might like your breakfast alone this morning, but he hopes to see you at lunch. He is so unwell that he is not going out this morning.”

“Staying to watch for fear I should escape,” thought Kate, and a nervous shiver ran through her; but rest seemed to have given her mental strength, and after breakfast she felt disposed to ridicule the idea of her being kept there against her will. “It must be possible to get away,” she thought. It only wanted nerve and determination, for there was but the wall of the house between her and safety.

Soon after breakfast the housekeeper appeared again, to remove the breakfast things.

“Would you mind me coming to tidy up your room, ma’am, while you are here, or would you prefer my waiting till you go down?”

“Do it now,” said Kate, quietly; and to avoid being spoken to, she took up a book and held it as if she were reading. But all the time she was noting everything, with her senses on the alert, and the next minute her heart began to throb wildly, for she saw the woman go to the door, pass out the tray, and it was evident that some order was given.

Becky was there, and Kate sat trembling, her excitement increasing when the next minute there was a light tap at the door, and Becky was admitted to assist in rearranging the room.

This went on for about a quarter of an hour, with Becky carefully minding not to glance at the prisoner, who, with head bent, watched her every movement, on the hope of her being left alone for a few minutes.

But as the mother was always near at hand, the opportunity did not come; and at last, with the envelope doubled in her hand, Kate began to feel that she might give up this time, and would have to wait till she could see the woman passing her room.

The disappointment was terrible, and Kate’s heart sank in her despair as the housekeeper suddenly said:

“There, that will do—get on downstairs.”

She stood back for her daughter to pass her, and then followed to the door, where a whispered conversation ensued.

“What? Left the brush?”

“Yes; other side of the room.”

“Be quick, then. Fetch it out.”

The housekeeper was passing through the door as she spoke, and Becky reappeared, to cross the room hurriedly, with her face lighting up as she gave the prisoner a meaning look, drew something from her bosom, and thrust it into Kate’s hand, and took the note offered to her.

“Now, Becky!” came from outside.

The woman darted to the door.

“Well?”

“Can’t find it. Tain’t there.”

The door closed, and Kate was once more alone, to eagerly examine the tiny packet handed to her.

It was square, about an inch across, roughly tied up with black worsted, and proved to be a sheet of note paper, doubled up small, and containing the words, written in an execrable hand:

“You run away. Come down at twelve o’clock, and I’ll let you out threw the airy.”

Letter rarely contained such hope as this, and the receiver, as she sat there, with her pulses bounding in her excitement, saw no further difficulty. Her lonely position in London, the want of friends to whom she could flee, the awkward hour of the night—these all seemed to be trifles compared to the great gain, for in a few hours she would be free.

She carefully destroyed the note, burning it in the fireplace, and then sat thinking, after opening and gazing out of the window, to realise how true Garstang’s words had been. But they were of no consequence now, for the way of escape was open, and she repented bitterly that she had dispatched her letter to Jenny. Then once more a feeling akin to shame made her flush, as she thought of Leigh and what he would feel on hearing the letter read by his sister.

The day passed slowly on. A message came, asking if she would come down to lunch, and she refused. Later on came another message, almost a command, that she would be in her usual place at dinner, and to this she made no reply, for none seemed needed; but she determined that she would not stir from her room.

Then more and more slowly the time glided on, till it was as if night would never come.

But she made her preparations, so as to be ready when midnight did arrive. They were simple enough, and consisted in placing, bonnet, mantle, and the fewest necessaries. Her plans were far more difficult: where to go?

She sat and thought of every friend in turn, but there was a difficulty in the way in each case; and in spite of trying hard to avoid it, as the last resource, she seemed to be driven to take refuge with Jenny Leigh; and in deciding finally upon this step she forced herself to ignore the thought of her brother, while feeling exhilarated by the thought that the course pursued would be the one most likely to throw Garstang off her track, for Northwood would be the last place he would credit her with fleeing to.

Her head grew clearer now, as her hope of escape brightened, and the plans appeared easier and easier, and the way more clear.

For it was so simple. Garstang and the housekeeper would by that time be asleep, and all she would have to do would be to steal silently down in the darkness to where Becky would be waiting for her. She would take her into the basement, and she would be free. If she could persuade her, she would take the poor creature with her. She would be a companion and protection, and rob her night journey of its strange appearance.

The rest seemed to be mere trifles. She would walk for some distance, and then take a cab to the railway terminus at London Bridge, and wait till the earliest morning train started. The officials might think it strange, but she could take refuge in the waiting room.

And now, feeling satisfied that her ideas were correct, she thought of her letter to Jenny. This would only be received just before her arrival, but it would have prepared her, and all would be well. The only dread that she had now was that she might encounter anyone from the Manor House at the station. On the way, the station fly would hide her from the curious gaze, but the thought made her carefully place a veil ready for use.

Then came a kind of reaction; was it not madness to go to Northwood? Her uncle would soon know, and as soon as he did, he would insist upon her going back, and then—

Kate reached no farther into the future, for there was a knock at the door, and the housekeeper appeared, smiling at her, and handed her a note.

She saw at a glance that it was in Garstang’s handwriting, and she refused to take it, whereupon the woman placed it upon the table, close to her elbow, and left the room.

For quite half an hour, Kate sat there determined not to open the letter, and trying hard not even to look at it; but human nature is weak, and unable to control the desire to know its contents, and excusing herself on the plea that perhaps it might have some bearing upon her plans for that night—a bearing which would force her to alter them—she took it up, opened it, and then sat gazing at it in despair.

It was a large envelope, and the first thing which fell from it was her letter to Jenny, apparently unopened, but crumpled and soiled as if it had been held in a hot and dirty hand; while the other portion of the contents of the envelope was a letter from Garstang, calling her foolish and childish and asking her if she thought his threats so vain and empty that he had not taken precautions against her trying such a feeble plan as that.

“I can not be angry with you,” he concluded, “I love you too well; but I do implore you, for your sake as well as my own, to act sensibly, and cease forcing me to carry on a course which degrades us both. Come, dearest, be wise; act like a woman should under the circumstances. You know well how I worship you. Show me in return some little pity, and let me have its first fruits in your presence at the dinner-table this evening. I promise you that you shall have no cause to regret coming down. My treatment shall be full of the most chivalrous respect, and I will wait as long as you wish, if only you will give me your word to be my wife.”

Was there any other way of sending the letter? Could she cast it from the window, in the hope of its being picked up and posted? She feared not, and passed the weary minutes thinking that she must give it up. But she roused herself after a time. The mother had evidently taken the letter from Becky, and handed it to Garstang; but the flight was Becky’s own proposal, and now, after getting into trouble as she would have done over the letter, she would be the more likely to join in the flight.

Dinner was announced, but she refused to go down, and after partaking of what was sent up, she waited and waited till bed-time was approaching, giving the housekeeper cause to think from her actions that she was going to bed, and fastening her door loudly as the woman left the room after saying good-night.

And now came the most crucial time. She knew from old experience what Garstang’s habits were. He would read for about half an hour after the housekeeper had locked and barred the front door; and then go up to his room, which was in the front, upon the second floor; and she stood by the door, listening through the long leaden minutes for the sharp sound of the bolts and the rattle of bar and chain. Her brow was throbbing, and her hands felt damp in the palms with the dread she felt of some fresh development of Garstang’s persecution, and she would have given anything to have unbolted and opened her door, so as to stand in the darkness and watch, but shivered with fear at the very thought.

At last, plainly heard, came the familiar sounds, and now she pictured what would follow—the extinguishing of the staircase and hall lights, as the housekeeper and her child went up to bed in the attic, and the place left in darkness, save where a faint bar of rays came from beneath the library door. Half an hour later that door would be opened, and Garstang would pass up. Then there would be nearly an hour to wait before she dared to steal away.

The agony and suspense now became so unbearable that Kate felt that she must do something or she would go mad; and at last she softly threw back the bolt, opened the door, and looked out.

All was dark, and after listening intently, she glided out inch by inch till she reached the balustrade and peered down into the hall.

Exactly as she had pictured, there were a few faint rays from the library door, and just heard there was the smothered sound of a cough.

She stole back to listen, but first closed and bolted the door hastily, put on bonnet, veil, and mantle, and then put out the candles burning upon her dressing-table.

This done, she crept back to the door and stood there, waiting to hear some sound, or to see the gleam of a candle when Garstang went up, but she waited in vain.

The half-hour must have long passed, and she was fain to confess that since her coming she had never once heard him go up to bed. The thick carpets, the position of her door, would dull sound and hide the light passing along the landing, and when another half-hour had passed she mustered up sufficient courage to once more slip the bolt.

It glided back silently, but the hinges gave a faint crack as she opened them, and she then stood fast, with her heart beating violently, ready to fling the door to and fasten it again. But all was still, and at last once more, inch by inch, she crept out silently till she was able to gaze down into the hall.

The breath she drew came more freely now, for the faint bar of light from the library was no longer there, and in the utter silence of the place she knew that the door must be wide open, and the fire nearly extinct, for all at once there was the faint tinkling sound of dying cinders falling together.

He must have gone up to bed.

For a few moments Kate Wilton felt ready to hurry down the stairs, but she checked the desire. It was not the appointed time, and she stole back, closed the door, and forced herself to sit down and wait Becky had said twelve o’clock, and it would be folly to go down earlier.

Never had the place seemed so silent before. The distant roll of a cab sounded faint in the extreme, and it was as if the great city was for the time being dead. And now her heart sank again at the thought of her venture. She was going to plunge into the silence and darkness of the streets, so it seemed to her then; and the idea was so fraught with fear that she felt she must resign herself to her fate, for she dared not.

The faint striking of a clock sent a thrill through her, and once more she felt inspired with the courage to make the attempt. Becky would have stolen down, and be waiting, and perhaps after the trouble of the letter business be quite ready to go with her. “Yes, she must go,” she said; and now, with every nerve drawn to its highest pitch of tension, she opened the door, and stood for a few moments listening.

All was perfectly still, and hesitating no longer, she walked silently and swiftly to the staircase, caught at the hand-rail, and began to descend, her dress making a faint rustling as it passed over the thick carpet.

Her goal was the door leading to the kitchen stairs, and the only dread she had now was that she might in the darkness touch one of the hall chairs, and make it scrape on the polished floor; but she recalled where each stood, and after a momentary pause, feeling convinced that she could make straight for the spot, she went on down into the darkness, reached the mat, and then found that there was a faint, dawn-like gleam coming from the fan-light over the door.

Then her heart seemed to stand still, for just before her there was something shadowy and dark.

“One of the statues,” she thought for the moment, and then turned to flee, but stopped.

“Becky,” she whispered, and a hand touched her arm.

Chapter Forty One.

A wild, despairing cry escaped Kate Wilton’s lips, as the firm grasp of a man’s hand closed upon and prisoned her wrist.

“Hush, you foolish girl,” was whispered, angrily, and she was caught by a strong arm thrown round her, the wrist released, and a hand was clapped upon her lips. “Do you want to alarm the house?”

Her only reply was to struggle violently and try to tear the hand from her mouth, but she was helpless, and the arm round her felt like iron.

“It is of no use to struggle, little bird,” was whispered. “Are you not ashamed to drive me to watch you like this, and prevent you from perpetrating such a folly? What madness! Try to leave the house at midnight, by the help of that wretched idiotic girl, and trust yourself alone in the street. Truly, Kate, you need a watchful guardian. Now, as you prefer the darkness, come and sit down with me; I want a quiet talk with you. Kate, my dear, you force me to all this, and you must listen to reason now. There, it is of no use to struggle. Come with me quietly and sensibly, or I swear that I will carry you.”

Her answer was another frantic struggle, while, wrenching her head round, she freed herself from the pressure of his hand, and uttered another piercing scream.

“Silence!” he cried, fiercely; and he was in the act of raising her from the floor, when she writhed herself nearly free, and in his effort to recover his grasp, he caught his foot on the mat and nearly fell.

It was Kate’s opportunity. With one hand she thrust at him, with the other struck at him madly, ran to the stairs, and bounded up, just reaching her room as a light gleamed from above and showed Garstang a dozen steps below, too late to overtake her before her door was dashed to and fastened.

Then, as she stood there, panting and ready to faint with horror, she heard Garstang’s angry voice and the whining replies of the housekeeper, while, though she could not grasp a word, she could tell by the tones that the woman was being abused for coming down, and was trying to make some excuse.

How that night passed Kate Wilton hardly knew, save that it was one great struggle to master a weak feeling of pitiful helplessness which prompted her to say, “I can do no more.”

At times, from utter mental exhaustion, she sank into a kind of stupor, more than sleep, from which she invariably started with a faint cry of horror and despair, feeling that she was in some great peril, and that the darkness was peopled with something against which she must struggle in spite of her weakness. It was a nightmare-like experience, constantly repeated, and the grey morning found her feverish and weak, but in body only. Despair had driven her to bay, and there was a light in her eyes, a firmness in her words, which impressed the housekeeper when she came at breakfast time.

“Master’s compliments, ma’am, and he is waiting breakfast,” she said; “and I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I thought I ought to tell you he is very angry. I never saw him like it before; and if you would be ruled by me, I’d go down and see him. You have been very hard to him, I know; and you can’t, I’m sure, wish to hurt the feelings of one who is the best of men.”

Kate sat looking away from her in silence, and this encouraged the woman to proceed.

“He was very cross when he found out that you had been persuading poor Becky to post a letter for you. He suspected her, and had her into the lib’ry and made her confess; and then he took the letter away from her. But that was nothing to what he was when he found that instead of going to bed Becky had come down again and was waiting to try and let you out I thought he would have turned her into the street at once. But oh, my dear, he is such a good man, he wouldn’t do that. But he said it was disgracefully treacherous of her. And between ourselves, my dear, it was quite impossible. Master has, I know, taken all kinds of precautions to keep you from going away. He told me that it was only a silly fit of yours, and that you didn’t mean it; and, oh, my dear, do pray, pray be sensible. Think what a good chance it is for you to marry one of the noblest and best of—”

Sarah Plant ceased speaking, and stood with her lips apart, gazing blankly at the prisoner, who had slowly turned her head and fixed her with her indignant eyes.

“Silence, you wretched creature!” she said, in a low, angry whisper. “How dare you address me like this! Go down to your master, and tell him that I will see him when he has done his breakfast.”

“Oh, please come now, ma’am.”

“Tell him to send me word when he is at liberty, and I will come.”

Kate pointed to the door, and the woman hurried out.

She returned in a few minutes, though, with a breakfast tray, which she set down without a word, and once more Kate was alone; but she started at a sound she heard at the door, and darted silently to it to slip the bolt; but before her hand could reach it there was a faint click, and she knew that the key had been taken out and replaced upon the other side. She was for the first time locked in, and a whispering told her that Garstang was there.

The struggle with her weakness had not been without its result. An unnatural calmness—the calmness of despair—had worked a change in her, and she was no longer the frightened, trembling girl, but the woman, ready to fight for all that was dear in life. She knew that she was weak and exhausted in body, and sat down with a strange calmness to the breakfast that had been brought up, eating and drinking mechanically, but thinking deeply the while of the challenge which she felt that she had sent down to Garstang, and collecting her forces for the encounter.

Quite an hour had passed before she heard a sound; and then the key was turned in the lock, and the housekeeper appeared.

“Master is in the library, ma’am,” she said, “and will be glad to see you now.”

This was said with a meaning smile, which said a great deal; but Kate did not even glance at her. She walked calmly out of her room, descended the staircase, and went straight into the library, where Garstang met her with extended hands.

“My dearest child,” he began.

She waved him aside, and walked straight to her usual place, and sat down.

“Ah!” said Garstang, as if to himself; “more beautiful than ever, in her anger. How can she wonder that she has made me half mad?”

“Will you be good enough to sit down, Mr Garstang?” she said, gazing firmly at him.

“May I not rather kneel?” he said, imploringly.

“Will you be good enough to understand, Mr Garstang,” she continued, with cutting contempt in her tones, “that you are speaking to a woman whose faith in you is completely destroyed, and not to a weak, timid girl.”

“I can only think one thing,” he whispered, earnestly, “that I am in the presence of the woman I worship, one who will forgive me everything, and become my wife.”

“Your wife, sir? I have come here this morning, repellent as the task is, to tell you what you refuse to see—that your proposals are impossible, and to demand that you at once restore me to the care of my guardian.”

“To be forced to marry that wretched boy?” he cried, passionately; “never!”

“May I ask you not to waste time by acting, Mr Garstang?” she said, with cutting irony. “You call me ‘My dear child!’ You are a man of sufficient common sense to know that I am not the foolish child you wish me to be, and that your words and manner no longer impose upon me.”

“Ah, so cruel still!” he cried; but she met his eyes with such scathing contempt in her own that his lips tightened, and the anger he felt betrayed itself in the twitching at the corners of his temples.

“You have unmasked yourself completely now, sir, and by this time you must understand your position as fully as I do mine. You have been guilty of a disgraceful outrage.”

“My love—I swear it was my love,” he cried.

“Of gold?” she said, contemptuously. “Is it possible that a man supposed to be a gentleman can stoop to such pitiful language as this? Let us understand each other at once. Your attempts to replace the fallen mask are pitiful. Come, sir, let us treat this as having to do with your scheme. You wish to marry me?”

“Yes; I adore you.”

She rose, with her brow wrinkling, her eyes half closed, and the look of contempt intensifying.

“Perhaps I had better defer what I wished to say till to-morrow, sir?”

He turned from her as if her words had lashed him, but he wrenched himself back and forced himself to meet her gaze.

“In God’s name, no!” he cried, passionately; “say what you have to say at once, and bring this folly to an end.”

She resumed her seat.

“Very well; let us bring this folly to an end. I am ready to treat with you, Mr Garstang.”

“Hah!” he cried, with a mocking laugh. “An unconditional surrender?”

“Yes, sir; an unconditional surrender,” she said calmly. “You have been playing like a gamester for the sake of my fortune.”

“And your beautiful self,” he whispered.

“For my miserable fortune; and you have won.”

“Yes,” he said, “I have won. I am the conqueror; but Kate, dearest—”

She rose slowly from her seat.

“Will you go on speaking without the mask, Mr Garstang?” she said, coldly; and she heard his teeth grit together, as he literally scowled at her now, with a look full of threats for the future.

“I am your slave, I suppose,” he said, bitterly; but she remained standing.

“I wish to continue talking to Mr Garstang, the lawyer,” she said, coldly. “If this is to continue it is a waste of words.”

He threw himself back in his chair, and she resumed hers.

“Now, sir, you are a solicitor, and learned in these matters; can you draw up some paper which will mean the full surrender of my fortune to you? and this I will sign if you set me at liberty.”

“No,” he said, quietly, “I can not draw up such a paper.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be utterly without value.”

“Very well, then, there must be some way by which I can buy my liberty. The money will be mine when I come of age.”

“Yes, there is one way,” he said, gazing at her intently.

“What is that, sir?”

“By signing the marriage register.”

“That I shall never do,” she said, rising slowly. “Once more, Mr Garstang, I tell you that this money is valueless to me, and that I am ready to give it to you for my liberty.”

“And I tell you the simple truth—that you talk like the foolish child you are. You cannot give away that which you do not possess. It is in the keeping of your uncle, and the law would not allow you to give it away like that.”

“Does the law allow you to force me to be your wife, that you may, as my husband, seize upon it?”

“The law will let you consent to be my wife,” he said, wincing slightly at her words.

“I have told you my decision,” she said, coldly.

“Temporary decision,” he said, smiling.

“And,” she continued, “I shall wait until your reason has shown you that we are not living in the days of romance. Your treatment would be horrible in its baseness if it were not ridiculous. I own that I was frightened at first, but a night’s calm thought has taught me how I stand, has given me strength of mind, and I shall wait.”

“And so shall I,” he said, gazing at her angrily as he leaned forward; but she did not shrink from his eyes, meeting them with calm contemptuous indifference; and he sprang up at last with an angry oath.

“Once more, Kate,” he said, “understand this: you must and shall be my wife. You may try and set me at defiance, shut yourself up in your room, and keep on making efforts to escape, but all is in vain. I weighed all this well before I put my plans in execution. You hear me?”

“Every word,” she said, coldly. “Now hear me, Mr Garstang. I shall never consent to be your wife.”

“We shall see that,” he cried.

“I shall not shut myself up in my room, and I shall make no further attempt to leave this house. It would be too ridiculous. Sooner or later my uncle will trace me, and call you to account. I shall keep nothing back, and if he thinks proper to prosecute you for what you have done I shall be his willing witness.”

“Then you would go back to Northwood?” he said, with a laugh.

“Yes; if my uncle were here I should return with him at once. I was an impressionable, weak girl when I listened to you that night I had faith in you then. Events since have made me a woman.”

She rose again, and took a step or two to cross the room, and he sprang up to open the door.

“We shall see,” he said, with an angry laugh.

“Thank you,” she said, calmly. “I was not going upstairs.” And to his utter amazement she passed beyond him to one of the bookshelves, took down the volume she had been studying, and returned to her seat.

He stood gazing at her, utterly confounded; but she calmly opened the book, and, utterly ignoring his presence, sat reading and turning over the leaves.

There was a profound silence in the room for a few minutes, save that the clock on the chimney-piece kept on its monotonous tick; and then Garstang strode angrily to the door, went out, and closed it heavily behind him, while Kate uttered a low, deep sigh, and with her face ghastly and eyes closing, sank back in her chair.

The tension had been agonising, and she felt as if something in her brain was giving way.

Chapter Forty Two.

“Still obstinate?”

Kate turned her head and looked gravely at Garstang, but made no reply.

A week had passed since the scene in the library, and during that period she had calmly resumed her old position in the house, meeting her enemy at the morning and evening meals; and while completely crushing every advance by her manner, shown him that she was waiting in full confidence for the hour of her release.

She never once showed her weakness, or let him see traces of the misery or despair which rendered her nights, sleeping or waking, an agony; she answered him quietly enough whenever he spoke on ordinary subjects, but at the slightest approach to familiarity, or if he showed a disposition to argue about the folly, as he called it, of her conduct, she rose and left the room, and somehow her manner impressed him so, that he dared not try to detain her.

He felt, as she had told him, that it was no longer the weak girl with whom he was contending, but the firm, imperious woman; while her confidence in her own power increased as she, on more than one occasion, realised the fact that she had completely mastered.

But the position remained the same, and as soon as she was alone the battle with another enemy commenced. Despair was always making its insidious approaches, sapping her very life, and teaching her that her triumph was but temporary; and she shuddered often as she thought of the hour when her strength and determination would fail.

Another week commenced, and she noted that there was a marked change in Garstang. Consummate actor as he was, he had returned to his former treatment, save that he no longer played the amiable guardian, but the chivalrous gentleman, full of deference and respect for her slightest wish. He made no approaches. There was nothing in his behaviour to which the most scrupulous could have objected; but knowing full well now that he had only covered his face with a fresh mask, she was more than ever on her guard, never relaxing her watchfulness of self for a moment.

She could only feel that he was waiting his time, that it was a siege which would be long, but undertaken by him in the full belief that sooner or later she would surrender.

That he left the house sometimes she felt convinced; but how or when she never knew, and the greater part of his time was passed in the library, where he evidently worked hard over what seemed to be legal business. Japanned tin boxes had made their appearance, and she had more than once seen the table littered with papers and parchments; but all these disappeared into the boxes at night, and the evenings were spent much as of old, though the conversation was distant and brief.

At last, about a fortnight after the setting in of the fresh regime, she was descending the stairs one afternoon, when she had proof of Garstang’s having been away, for a latch-key rattled in the door, he entered, and stood with it open, while a cabman brought in a large deed box, set it down in the hall, and the door was closed and locked. After this, Garstang lifted the box to bear it into the library, when he caught sight of Kate descending to enter the inner room, the one into which he had ushered her on the morning of her coming, and in which he now passed a great deal of his time.

As their eyes met she saw that he looked pale and haggard, and it struck her at the moment that something had occurred to disturb him. Her heart leaped, for naturally enough she felt that it must be something relating to her, and in the momentary fit of exultation she felt that help was coming, and hurried into the room to hide the agitation from which she was suffering.

And now for the first time since her attempt to escape, she caught sight of Becky, passing down from the upper part of the staircase, but the glance was only momentary. As soon as she saw that she was observed, the pale-faced woman drew back.

There she stood, panting heavily as if suffering from some severe exertion. For she felt that Garstang would follow her in, that there would be a scene; but the minutes went by, and all was quite still, and by degrees her firmness was restored; but instinctively she felt that something was about to happen, and the dread of this, whatever it might be, set her longing to escape.

And now once more the idea came that it was absurd for her to be in prison there, when it seemed as if she had only to open the door and step out, or else descend to the basement, wait till one of the tradesmen came down the area, and then seize that opportunity to go.

But she had tried it and failed. The doors were always locked, save when tradesmen or postmen came; and then there was the area gate. No one ever came down.

The dinner time came, and she calmly took her place. Garstang was quietly cordial, though a little more silent than customary to her; but it was plain enough that he was suffering from some unusual excitement, when he addressed the housekeeper. For he found fault with nearly everything, and finally dismissed her in a fit of anger.

“Servants are so thoughtless,” he said, with an apologetic smile. “That woman knows perfectly well what I like, and yet if I do not go into a fit of anger with her now and then, she grows dilatory and careless. But there, I beg your pardon; I ought to have waited until we were alone.”

Kate rose soon after and went into the library, where, as she sat reading, she was dimly conscious of voices in the passage; and assuming that the housekeeper was again being taken to task, she forced herself to think only of her book, and soon after silence and the closing of the dining-room door told her that Garstang had gone back to his wine.

His stay after dinner had grown longer now, and it was quite half-past nine before he joined her, sometimes partaking of a cup of tea, but more often declining it, and sitting in silence gazing at the fire.

Upon this occasion she sat until the housekeeper brought in the tea tray, placed it upon its table, while a low, hissing sound outside told her that the urn was waiting; and Kate found herself thinking that Becky must be there until her mother fetched it, and she wondered whether it would be possible to get a few words with the woman again, and if she would be too frightened to try and post another letter.

Kate looked up suddenly and found that the housekeeper was watching her in a peculiar manner, but turned hurriedly away in confusion, and fetched the tea-caddy to place beside the tray. And again Kate found that she was watching her, and it seemed to her that it was with a pitying look in her eyes. This idea soon gave place to another. The woman wanted to talk to her, and her theme would be Garstang.

“That will do, Mrs Plant,” she said; when the woman darted another peculiar look at her, and Kate saw the woman’s lips move, but she said nothing aloud, and left the room, leaving its occupant thoughtful and repentant. For it struck her that the woman’s eyes had a pitying sympathetic aspect, and that perhaps a few words of appeal to her better feelings would be of no avail, and that help might come through her after all.

Should she ring and try?

A few minutes’ thought, and the idea grew less and less vivid, till it died away.

“She dare not, even if she would,” thought Kate; and calmly and methodically she proceeded to make the tea, just casually noticing that the screw which held in its place the ornamental knob on the lid of the silver tea-pot had been off and was secured in its place again with what appeared to be resin.

It was a trifle which seemed to be of no importance then, as she turned on the hot water from the urn, rinsed out the pot made the tea and sat thinking while she gave it time to draw. Her thoughts were upon the old theme, the way of escape, or to find a way of sending letters to both Jenny and her uncle.

She started from her reverie, poured out a cupful, took up her book again, grew immersed in it, and sat back sipping her tea from time to time, till about half the cup was finished, before she noticed that it had a peculiar flavour, but concluded that it was fresh tea, and she had made it a little too strong.

The old German book was interesting, and she still read on and sipped her tea till she had finished the cup, and then sat frowning, for the last spoonful or two had the peculiar flavour intensified.

It was very strange. The tea was very different. She smelt the dregs in her cup, and the odour was strongly herbaceous.

She tasted it again, and it was stronger, while the flavour was now clinging to her palate.

She sat thinking for a few moments, laid her book aside, and let a little water from the urn flow into the spare cup, and examined it.

Pure and tasteless, just boiled water; there was nothing there; so she drew the pot to her side, opened the lid and smelt it.

The odour was plain enough. A dull, vapid, flat scent, which seemed familiar, but she could not give it a name.

“What strange tea!” she thought; and then the mystery was out, for she caught sight of the fastening of the lid handle. It was as it usually appeared; but the screw was loose, and it turned and rattled in her fingers. The dark, resinous patch which had held it firmly had gone, melted by the heat and steam, and hence the peculiar flavour of the tea.

“How stupid!” she exclaimed; and rising from her seat, she rang the bell.

The housekeeper was longer than usual in answering, and Kate was about to ring again, when the woman appeared, looking nervous and scared.

“Did you ring, ma’am?” she asked; and her voice sounded weak and husky.

“Yes; look at that tea-pot, Mrs Plant; smell the tea.”

“Is—is anything the matter with it, ma’am?” faltered the woman.

“Matter? Yes! How could you be so foolish! I noticed that something had been used to fasten the knob on the lid.”

“Yes—yes, ma’am; it has worn loose. The screw has got old.”

“What did you use to fasten it with—resin?”

“I—I did not do anything to it, ma’am,” faltered the woman, whose face was now ghastly.

“Someone did, and it melted down into the tea. It tastes horrible. Take the pot, and wash it out I must make some fresh.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the woman eagerly, glancing from the tea-pot to her and back again. “You had better make some fresh, of course.”

She uttered a sigh, as if relieved, but Kate saw that her hands trembled as she took up the pot.

“There, be quick. I shall not complain to Mr Garstang, and get you another scolding.”

“Thank you, ma’am—no ma’am,” said the woman faintly, and she glanced behind her toward the door, and then caught at the table to support herself.

“What is the matter? Are you unwell?” asked Kate.

“N-no, ma’am—a little faint and giddy, that’s all,” she faltered. “I—am gettin’ better now—it’s going off.”

“You are ill?” said Kate kindly. “Never mind the tea. I will go to the cellaret and get you a little brandy. There, sit down for a few moments. Yes, sit down; your face is covered with cold perspiration. Are you in the habit of turning like this?”

The woman did not answer, but sat back in the chair into which she had been pressed, moaning slightly, and wringing her hands.

“No-no,” she whispered wildly; “don’t go. He’s there. I dursen’t. I shall be better directly. Miss Wilton, I couldn’t help it, dear; he—he did it. Don’t say you’ve drunk any of that tea!”

It was Kate’s turn to snatch at something to support her, as the horrible truth flashed upon her; and she stood there with her face ghastly and her eyes wild and staring at the woman, who had now struggled to her feet.

For some moments she could not stir, but at last the reaction came, and she caught the housekeeper tightly by the arm, and placed her lips to her ear.

“You are a woman—a mother; for God’s sake, help me! Quick, while there is time. Take me with you now.”

“I can’t—I can’t,” came back faintly; “I daren’t; it’s impossible.”

Kate thrust the woman from her, and with a sudden movement clapped her hands to her head to try and collect herself, for a strange singing had come in her ears, and objects in the room seemed a long distance off.

The sensation was momentary and was succeeded by a feeling of wild exhilaration and strength, but almost instantaneously this too passed off; and she reeled, and saved herself from falling by catching at one of the easy chairs, into which she sank, and sat staring helplessly at the woman, who was now speaking to someone—she could not see whom—but the words spoken rang in her ears above the strange metallic singing which filled them.

“Oh, sir, pray—pray, only think! For God’s sake, sir!”

“Curse you, hold your tongue, and go! Dare to say another word, and—do you hear me?—go!”

Kate was sensible of a thin cold hand clutching at hers for a moment; then a wave of misty light which she could not penetrate passed softly before her eyes, and this gradually deepened; the voices grew more and more distant and then everything seemed to have passed away.

Chapter Forty Three.

“Curse you! Do you hear what I say?” roared Garstang, furiously; “leave the room!”

“No, sir, I won’t!” cried the housekeeper, as she stood sobbing and wringing her hands by Kate’s side. “It’s horrible; it’s shameful!”

“Silence!”

“No, I won’t be silenced now,” cried the woman. “You’re my master, and I’ve done everything you told me up to now, for I thought she was only holding back, and that at last she’d consent and be happy with you; but you’re not the good man I thought you were, and the poor dear knew you better than I did; and I wouldn’t leave her now, not if I died for it—so there!”

“Come, come,” said Garstang, hurriedly; “don’t be absurd, Sarah. You are excited, and don’t know what you are saying.”

“I never knew better what I was saying, sir,” cried the woman, passionately. “Absurd! Oh, God forgive you—you wicked wretch! And forgive me too for listening to you to-day. You took me by surprise, you did, and I didn’t see the full meaning of it all. Oh, it’s shameful!—it’s horrible! And I believe you’ve killed her; and we shall all be hung, and serve us right, only I hope poor Becky, who is innocent as a lamb, will get off.”

“Look here, Sarah, my good woman; you are frightened, and without cause.”

“Without cause? Oh, look at her—look at her! She’s dying—she’s dying!”

“Hush, you silly woman! There, I won’t be cross with you; you’re startled and hysterical. Run into the dining-room and fetch the brandy from the cellaret.”

“No. If you want brandy, sir, fetch it yourself. I don’t stir from here till this poor dear has come to, or lies stiff and cold.”

Garstang ground his teeth, and rushed upon the woman savagely, but she did not shrink; and he mastered himself and took a turn or two up and down the room before facing her again, and beginning to temporise.

“Look here, Sarah,” he said, in a low, husky voice; “I’ve been a good friend to you.”

“Yes, sir, always,” said the woman, with a sob.

“And I’ve made a home here for your idiot child.”

“Which she ain’t an idiot at all, sir, but she ain’t everybody’s money; and grateful I’ve always been for your kindness, and you know how I’ve tried to show it. Haven’t I backed you up in this? Of course, you wanted to marry such a dear, sweet, young creature; but for it to come to that! Oh! shame upon you, shame!”

Garstang made a fierce gesture, but he controlled himself and stopped by her again.

“Now just try and listen to me, and let me talk to you, not as my old servant, but as my old friend, whom I have trusted in this delicate affair, and whom I want to go on trusting to help me.”

“No, sir, no. You’ve broken all that, and I’ll never leave the poor dear—there!”

“Will you hear me speak first?” said Garstang, making a tremendous effort to keep down his rage.

“Yes, sir, I’ll listen,” said the woman; “but I’ll stop here.”

“Now, let me tell you, then—as a friend, mind—how I am situated. It is vital to me that we should be married at once, and you must see as a woman, that for her reputation’s sake, after being here with me so long, she ought to give up all opposition. Now, you see that—”

“I’d have said ‘Yes’ to it yesterday, sir,” said the woman, firmly; “but I can’t say it to-night.”

“Nonsense! I tell you it is for her benefit. I only want her to feel that further resistance is useless. There, now, I have spoken out to you. You see it is for the best. To-morrow or next day we shall be married by special license. I have made all the arrangements.”

“Then, now go and make all the arrangements for the poor dear’s funeral, you bad, wicked wretch!” cried the woman passionately, as she sank on her knees and clasped Kate about the waist. “Oh, my poor dear, my poor dear, he has murdered you!”

“Silence, idiot!” cried Garstang, in a fierce whisper. “Can’t you see that she is only asleep?”

“Asleep? Do you call this sleep? Look at her poor staring eyes. Feel her hands.—No, no, keep back. You shan’t touch her.”

She turned upon him with so savage and cat-like a gesture that he stopped short with his brows rugged and his hands clenched.

There was a few moments’ pause, but the woman did not wince; and Garstang felt more than ever that he must temporise again. He burst into a mocking laugh.

“Oh, you silly woman,” he said. “All this nonsense about a girl’s holding off for a time. You’ve often heard her say how she liked me. You know she came here of her own free will. And I know you feel that I mean to marry her as soon as I can persuade her to come to the church. What a storm you are making about nothing! She has taken something. Well, you consented to its being given her; and you are going as frantic as if I had poisoned her.”

“I know, I know,” cried the woman, “and I was a vile wretch to consent to help you.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Sarah, old friend. Now look here; suppose instead of its being a harmless sleeping draught, it had been the effect of her drinking an extra glass or two of champagne. Would you have gone on then like this?”

“It’s of no use for you to talk; I know what a smooth winning tongue you’ve got, as would bring a bird down out of a tree; but I know you thoroughly now; and Becky was right; you’re a base man, and you did worry and worry poor dear Mr Jenour till he shot himself. You robbed him till you’d got everything that was his, and now you’ve murdered this poor darling girl.”

“That will do,” cried Garstang, stung now to the quick. “If you will be a fool you must suffer for it. Now, listen to me, woman; this is my house, and this is my wife. She came to me, and she is mine. I have told you that I will take her to the church. Now, go up to your room—I am desperate now—and if you dare to make a sound or to leave it till to-morrow morning, I’ll shoot you and your girl too.”

The woman stared at him, her lips parted, and with dilated eyes.

“You know what this place is. Not a sound can reach the outside. You have not a soul who would come to inquire after you, and the world would never know what had become of you. Now go.”

She stood up, trembling like a leaf, fascinated by his fierce eyes, and began to walk slowly round to the other side of the table, sidewise, so as to keep as far from him as she could.

“Hah!” he said, through his set teeth, “you understand me then at last. Upstairs with you at once,” and as he spoke he stepped quickly to Kate’s side, dropped on one knee, and took hold of her icy hand. But he sprang to his feet, half stunned, the next moment, for with a wild cry, the woman threw open the door as if to escape from him, but tore out the key.

“Becky! Becky!” she shrieked.

“Yes, mother!” came from where the tied-up face was stretched over the balustrade on the first floor.

“Lock yourself in master’s room, open the window, and shriek murder until the police come.”

“Damnation!” roared Garstang; and he rushed at and seized the woman, who clung to one of the bookshelves, bringing it down with a crash, and a shriek came from the upper floor.

“Stop her,” roared Garstang. “There, I give in. Here, Becky, your mother will speak to you.”

“Lock yourself in the room, but don’t scream till I tell you, or he comes,” cried the woman.

“That will do,” said Garstang, savagely, and he loosed his hold, with the result that the woman ran back to the insensible girl, and once more clasped her in her arms.

Garstang began to pace up and down the room, but paused at the door, to reach out and see Becky’s white face and eyes displaying the white rings round them, peering down from above.

At the sight of him she rushed to his bedroom, and stood half inside, ready to lock herself in if he attempted to ascend.

A wild cry from Sarah Plant took Garstang back to her side.

“I knew it—I knew it!” she cried, bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing; “you’ve killed her. Look at her, sir, look. Oh, my poor dear, my poor dear! God forgive me! What shall I do?”

A chill of horror ran through Garstang, and he bent down over his victim, trembling violently now, as he raised one eyelid with his finger, then the other, bent lower so that his cheek was close to her lips, and then caught her hand, and tried to feel her pulse.

“No, no; she is only sleeping,” he said, hoarsely.

“Sleeping!” moaned the woman, hysterically; “do you call that sleep?”

Garstang drew a deep breath, and his horror increased.

“Help me to lay her on the couch,” he said, huskily.

“No, no, I’m strong enough,” groaned the woman. “Oh, my poor dear—my poor dear! he has murdered you.”

She rose quickly, and in her nervous exaltation, passed her arms round the helpless figure, and lifted it like a child, to bear it to the couch, and lay it helplessly down.

“Oh, help, help!” she groaned, in a piteous wail. “A doctor—fetch a doctor at once.”

“No, no, go for brandy—for cold water to bathe her face.”

“I don’t leave her again,” cried the woman, passionately; “I’d sooner die.”

Garstang gazed down at them wildly for a few moments, and then rushed across into the dining-room, obtained the brandy, a glass, and a carafe of water, and returned, to begin bathing Kate’s temples and hands, but without the slightest result, save that her breathing became fainter, and the ghastly symptoms of collapse slowly increased.

“She’s going—she’s going!” moaned the shuddering woman, who knelt by the couch, holding Kate tightly as if to keep her there. “We’ve poisoned her! we’ve poisoned her!”

The panic which had seized upon Garstang increased, as he gazed wildly at his work. Strong man as he was, and accustomed to control himself, he began now to lose his head; and at last, thoroughly aghast, he caught the housekeeper by the shoulder and shook her.

“Don’t leave her,” he said, in a husky whisper. “I’m going out.”

“What!” cried the woman, turning and catching his arm; “going to try and escape, and leave me here?”

“No, no,” he whispered; “a doctor—to fetch a doctor.”

“Yes, yes,” moaned the woman; “a doctor—fetch a doctor; but it is too late—it is too late!”

Garstang hardly heard her words, as he bent down and took a hurried look at Kate’s face. Then hurrying to the door, he caught sight of Becky still watching.

“Go down and help your mother,” he cried, excitedly; and unfastening the door, he rushed out.

Chapter Forty Four.

Pierce Leigh returned home after a long weary day of watching. From careful thought and balancing of the matter, he had long come to the conclusion that Claud Wilton’s ideas were right, and that John Garstang knew where his cousin was. But suspicion was not certainty, and though he told himself that he had no right or reason in his conduct, he could not refrain from spending all the time he could spare from his professional work in town—work that was growing rapidly—in trying to get some news of the missing girl.

He was more amenable now, and ready to discuss the matter with his sister, who remained Kate’s champion and declared that she was sure there was some foul play in the matter; but he would not give way, and laughed bitterly whenever Jenny aired her optimism, and said she was sure that all would end happily after all.

“Silly child!” he said bitterly. “If Miss Wilton was the victim of foul play—which I do not believe—she could have found some means of communicating with her friends.”

“But she had no friends, Pierce,” cried Jenny. “She told me so more than once.”

“She had you.”

“Oh, I don’t count, dear; I was only an acquaintance, and it had not had time to ripen into affection on her side. I soon began to love her, but I don’t think she cared much for me.”

“Ah, it was a great mistake,” sighed Leigh.

“What was?” cried Jenny sharply.

“Our going down to Northwood. I lost a thousand pounds by the transaction.”

“And gained the dearest girl in the world to love.”

“Don’t talk absurdly, child,” said Leigh, firmly. “I beg that you will not speak to me in that tone about Miss Wilton. Has Claud been again?”

“I beg that you will not speak to me in that tone about Mr Wilton,” said Jenny, with a mischievous look at her brother, who glanced at her sharply.

“Claud Wilton is not such a bad fellow after all, I begin to think. All that horsey caddishness will, I daresay, wear off.”

“I am sorry for the poor woman who has to rub it off,” said Jenny.

“You did not tell me if he had called.”

“Yes, he did call.”

“Jenny!”

“I didn’t ask him to call, and he did not come to see me,” said the girl demurely. “He wanted you, and left his card. I put it in the surgery. I think he said he had some news of his cousin.”

“Indeed?” said Leigh, starting. “When was this?”

“Yesterday evening. But Pierce, dear, surely it is nothing to you. Don’t go interfering, and perhaps make two poor people unhappy.”

Leigh turned upon her angrily.

“What a good little girl you would be, Jenny, if you had been born without a tongue.”

“Yes,” she said, “but I should not have been half a woman, Pierce, dear.”

“Did he say when he would come again?”

“No.”

“Did he say more particularly what his news was?”

“No, dear, and I did not ask him, knowing how particular you are about my being at all intimate with him.”

He gave her an angry glance, but she ignored it.

“Anyone else been?”

“Yes; there was a message from Mrs Smithers, saying she hoped you would drop in after dinner and see her. Her daughter came—the freckly one. The buzzing in her mother’s head had begun again, and Miss Smithers says she is sure it is the port wine, for it always comes after her mother has been drinking port wine for a month.”

“Of course. She eats and drinks twice as much as is good for her.—Did young Wilton say anything about Northwood?”

“Yes,” said Jenny, carelessly. “The new doctor has got the parish work, but he isn’t worked to death. Oh, by the way, there’s a letter on the chimney-piece.”

Leigh rose and took it eagerly, frowning as he read it.

“Bad news, Pierce, dear?”

“Eh? Bad? Oh, dear no; I have to meet Dr Clifton in consultation at three to-morrow, at Sir Montague Russell’s.”

“Oh! I say, Pierce dear, how rapidly you are picking up a practice!”

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh; and then with an effort to be cheerful, “How long will dinner be?”

“Half an hour,” said Jenny, after a glance at the clock, “and then I hope they will let you have a quiet evening. You have not been at home once this week.”

“Ah, yes, a quiet evening would be pleasant.”

“Thinking, Pierce dear?” said Jenny, after a pause.

“Yes,” he said dreamily, as he sat back with his eyes closed. “I can’t make it all fit. He rarely goes to the office, I have found that out; and from what I can learn he must be living in the country. The house I saw him go to has all the front blinds drawn down, and last time I rode by I saw a woman at the gate, but I could not stop to question her—I have no right.”

“No, dear, you have no right,” said Jenny, gravely. “That was only a fancy of yours. But how strangely things do come to pass!”

Leigh started, and gazed at his sister wonderingly.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“I was only replying to your remarks, dear, about your suspicions of this Mr Garstang.”

“I? My remarks?” he said, looking at her strangely. “I said nothing.”