E. Phillips Oppenheim - The Betrayal

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Her eyes seemed to narrow a little, and the smile upon her lips was
forced.

"Is that kind of you?" she exclaimed. "Your father was in a position of
great trust. It is different with you. You are idle, and you need a
career. England has so little to offer her young men, but there are
other countries--"

I interrupted her brusquely.

"Thank you," I said, "but I have employment, and such ambitions as I
have admit of nothing but an honest career."

Again I saw that contraction of her eyes, but she never winced or
changed her tone.

"You have employment?" she asked, as though surprised.

"Yes. As you doubtless know, I am in the service of the Duke of
Rowchester," I told her.

"It is news to me," she replied. "You will forgive me at least for
being interested, Guy. But when you say in the service of the Duke of
Rowchester you puzzle me. In England what does that, mean?"

"I am one of the Duke's secretaries," I answered.

"Is the Duke, then, a politician?" she asked, "that he needs
secretaries?"

"Not at all," I answered drily. "His Grace is President of the Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, or Children, whichever you
like. We have a large correspondence."

She picked up her book.

"I am afraid that I understand you," she said. "You have a good deal of
the brutality of youth, Guy, and, I might add, of its credulity also.
Whose word is it, I wonder, that you have taken so abjectly--with such
an open mouth? If I have enemies I have not deserved them. But, after
all, it matters little."

We did not speak again until we neared the junction. Then she began to
gather up her things.

"How are you getting home?" she asked. "It is two o'clock, and
raining."

"I am going to walk," I answered.

"But that is absurd," she protested. "I have a closed carriage here. I
insist that you let me drive you. It is only common humanity; and you
have that great box too."

I buttoned up my coat.

"Mrs. Smith-Lessing," I said, "you perhaps wish to force me into
seeming ungracious. You have even called me brutal. It is your own
fault. You give me no chance of escape. You even force me now to tell
you that I do not desire--that I will not accept--any hospitality at
your hands."

She fastened her jacket with trembling fingers. Her face she kept
averted from me.

"Very well," she said softly, "I shall not trouble you any more."

At the junction I fetched the sleepy-looking porter to see to her
luggage, and then left her. My rug I left in the station-master's
office, and with the dispatch-box in my hand I climbed the steps from
the station, and turned into the long straight road which led to
Braster. I had barely gone a hundred yards when a small motor brougham,
with blazing lights and insistent horn, came flying past me and on into
the darkness. I caught a momentary glimpse of Mrs. Smith-Lessing's
pale face as the car flashed by, a weird little silhouette, come and
gone in a second. Away ahead I saw the mud and rain from the pools fly
up into the air in a constant stream caught in the broad white glare of
the brilliant search-lamps. Then the car turned a corner and vanished.

I was tired, yet I found the change from the close railway carriage, and
the tension of the last few hours, delightful. The road along which I
trudged ran straight to the sea, the distant roar of which was already
in my ears, and the wet wind which blew in my face was salt and
refreshing. It was a little after two in the morning, and the darkness
would have been absolute, but for a watery moon, which every now and
then gave a fitful light. For a mile or more I walked with steady,
unflagging footsteps. Then suddenly I found myself slackening my pace.
I walked slower and slower. At last I stopped.

About fifty yards farther on my left was Braster Grange. It stood a
little way back from the road. Its gardens were enclosed by a thin
storm-bent hedge, just thick enough to be a screen from the road. The
entrance was along a lane which branched off here from the main road,
and led on to the higher marshes, and thence on to the road from Braster
village to Rowchester and my cottage. Straight on, the road which I was
following led into Braster, but the lane to the left round past the
Grange saved me fully half a mile. In an ordinary way I should never
have hesitated for a moment as to my route. I knew every inch of the
lane, and though it was rough walking, there were no creeks or obstacles
of any sort to be reckoned with. And yet, as I neared the corner, I
came to a full stop. As I stood there in the road I felt my heart
beating, I seemed possessed by a curious nerve failure. My breath came
quickly. I felt my heart thumping against my side. I stood still and
listened. Down on the shingles I could hear the sea come thundering in
with a loud increasing roar, dying monotonously away at regular
intervals. I could hear the harsh grinding of the pebbles, the backward
swirl of long waves thrown back from the land. I heard the wind come
booming across the waste lands, rustling and creaking amongst the few
stunted trees in the grounds of Braster Grange. Of slighter sounds
there seemed to be none. The village ahead was dark and silent, the
side of the house fronting the road was black and desolate. It was a
lonely spot, a lonely hour. Yet as I stood there shivering with
nameless apprehensions, I felt absolutely certain that I was confronted
by some hidden danger.

In a moment or two, I am thankful to say, my courage returned. I struck
a match and lit a cigar, one of a handful which Ray had forced upon me.
Then I crossed stealthily to the other side of the road, and felt for
the hedge. I pricked my hands badly, but after feeling about for some
moments I was able to cut for myself a reasonably thick stick. With
this in my right hand, and the dispatch-box under my left arm I
proceeded on my way.

I walked warily, and when I had turned into the lane which passed the
entrance to Braster Grange I walked in the middle of it instead of
skirting the wall which enclosed the grounds. I passed the entrance
gates, and had only about twenty yards farther to go before I emerged
upon the open marshland. Here the darkness was almost impenetrable, for
the lane narrowed. The hedge on the left was ten or twelve feet high,
and on the right were two long barns. I clasped my stick tightly, and
walked almost stealthily. I felt that if I could come safely to the end
of these barn buildings I could afford to laugh at my fears.

Suddenly my strained hearing detected what I had been listening for all
the time. There was a faint but audible rustling in the shrubs
overgrowing the wall on my left. I made a quick dash forward, tripped
against some invisible obstacle stretched across the lane, and went
staggering sideways, struggling to preserve my balance. Almost at the
same moment two dark forms dropped from the shelter of the shrubs on to
the lane by my side. I felt the soft splash of a wet cloth upon my
cheeks, an arm round my neck, and the sickening odour of chloroform in
my nostrils. But already I had regained by balance. I wrenched myself
free from the arm, and was suddenly blinded by the glare of a small
electric hand-light within a foot of my face. I struck a sweeping blow
at it with my stick, and from the soft impact it seemed to me that the
blow must have descended upon the head of one of my assailants. I heard
a groan, and I saw the shadowy form of the second man spring at me.
What followed was not, I believe, cowardice on my part, for my blood was
up and my sense of fear gone. I dashed my stick straight at the
approaching figure, and I leaped forward and ran. I had won the hundred
yards and the quarter of a mile at Oxford, and I was in fair training.
I knew how to get off fast, and after the first dozen yards I felt that
I was safe. The footsteps which had started in pursuit ceased in a few
minutes. Breathless, but with the dispatch-box safe under my arm, I
sprinted across the marsh, and never paused till I reached the road.
Then I looked back and listened. I could see or hear nothing, but from
one of the top rooms in the Grange a faint but steady light was shining
out.

CHAPTER XXI

LADY ANGELA APPROVES

It was the only breath of fresh air which I had allowed myself all the
morning, though the dazzling sunlight and the soft west wind had tempted
me all the time. And now, as ill luck would have it, I had walked
straight into the presence of the one person in the world whom I wished
most earnestly to avoid. She was standing on the edge of the cliff, her
hands behind her, gazing seawards, and though I stopped short at the
sight of her, and for a moment entertained wild thoughts of flight, it
was not possible for me to carry them out. A dry twig snapped beneath
my feet, and, turning quickly round, she had seen me. She came forward
at once, and for some reason or other I knew that she was glad. She
smiled upon me almost gaily.

"So this sunshine has even tempted you out, Sir Hermit," she exclaimed.
"Is it not good to feel the Spring coming?"

"Delightful," I answered.

She looked at me curiously.

"How pale you are!" she said. "You are working too hard, Mr. Ducaine."

"I came down from London by the mail last night," I said. "I saw
Colonel Ray--had dinner with him, in fact."

She nodded, but asked me no questions.

"I think," she said abruptly, "that they are all coming down here in a
few days. I heard from my father this morning."

I sighed.

"I have been very unfortunate, Lady Angela," I said. "Your father is
displeased with me. I think that but for Colonel Ray I should have been
dismissed yesterday."

"Is it about--the Prince of Malors?" she asked in a low tone.

"Partly. I was forced to tell what I knew." She hesitated for a moment,
then she turned impulsively toward me.

"You were right to tell them, Mr. Ducaine," she said. "I have hated
myself ever since the other night when I seemed to side against you.
There are things going on about us which I cannot fathom, and sometimes
I have fears, terrible fears. But your course at least is a clear one.
Don't let yourself be turned aside by any one. My father has prejudices
which might lead him into grievous errors. Trust Colonel Ray--no one
else. Yours is a dangerous position, but it is a splendid one. It
means a career and independence. If there should come a time even--"

She broke off abruptly in her speech. I could see that she was
agitated, and I thought that I knew the cause.

"Lady Angela," I said slowly, "would it not be possible for you and
Colonel Ray to persuade Lord Blenavon to go abroad?"

She swayed for a moment as though she would have fallen, and her eyes
looked at me full of fear.

"You think--that it would be better?"

"I do."

"It would break my father's heart," she murmured, "if ever he could be
brought to believe it."

"The more reason why Lord Blenavon should go," I said. "He is set
between dangerous influences here. Lady Angela, can you tell me where
your brother was last night?"

"How should I?" she answered slowly. "He tells me nothing."

"He was not at home?"

"He dined at home. I think that he went out afterwards."

I nodded.

"And if he returned at all," I said, "I think you will find that it was
after three o'clock."

She came a little nearer to me, although indeed we were in a spot where
there was no danger of being overheard.'

"What do you know about it?"

"Am I not right?" I asked.

"He did not return at all," she answered. "He is not home yet."

I had believed from the first that Blenavon was one of my two
assailants. Now I was sure of it.

"When he does come back," I remarked grimly, "you may find him more or
less damaged."

"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "you must explain yourself."

I saw no reason why I should not do so. I told her the story of my
early morning adventure. She listened with quivering lips.

"You were not hurt, then?" she asked eagerly.

"I was not hurt," I assured her. "I was fortunate."

"Tell me what measures you are taking," she begged.

"What can I do?" I asked. "It was pitch dark, and I could identify no
one. I am writing Colonel Ray. That is all."

"That hateful woman," she murmured. "Mr. Ducaine, I believe that if
Blenavon is really concerned in this, it is entirely through her
influence."

"Very likely," I answered. "I have heard strange things about her. She
is a dangerous woman."

We were both silent for a moment. Then Lady Angela, whose eyes were
fixed seawards, suddenly turned to me.

"Oh," she cried, "I am weary of all these bothers and problems and
anxieties. Let us put them away for one hour of this glorious morning.
Dare you play truant for a little while and walk on the sands?"

"I think so," I answered readily, "if you will wait while I go and put
Grooton in charge."

"I will be scrambling down," she declared. "It is not a difficult
operation."

I joined her a few minutes later, and we set our faces toward the point
of the bay. Over our heads the seagulls were lazily drifting and
wheeling, the quiet sea stole almost noiselessly up the firm yellow
sands. Farther over the marshes the larks were singing. Inland, men
like tiny specks in the distance were working upon their farms. We
walked for a while in silence, and I found myself watching my companion.
Her head was thrown slightly back, she walked with all the delightful
grace of youth and strength, yet there was a cloud which still lingered
upon her face.

"These," I said abruptly "should be the happiest days of your life, Lady
Angela. After all, is it worth while to spoil them by worrying about
other people's doings?"

"Other people's doings?" she murmured.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Selfishness, you know, is the permitted vice of the young--and of
lovers."

"Blenavon can scarcely rank amongst the other people with me," she said.
"He is my only brother."

"Colonel Ray is to be your husband," I reminded her, "which is far more
important."

She turned upon me with flaming cheeks.

"You do not understand what you are talking about, Mr. Ducaine," she
said, stiffly. "Colonel Ray and I are not lovers. You have no right to
assume anything of the sort."

"If you are not lovers," I said, "what right have you to marry?"

She seemed a little staggered, as indeed she might be by my boldness.

"You are very mediaeval," she remarked.

"The mediaeval sometimes survives. It is as true now as then that
loveless marriages are a curse and a sin," I answered. "It is the one
thing which remains now as it was in the beginning."

She looked at me furtively, almost timidly.

"I should like to know why you are speaking to me like this," she said.
"I do not want to seem unkind, but do you think that the length of our
acquaintance warrants it?"

"I do not know how long I have known you," I answered. "I do not
remember the time when I did not know you. You are one of those people
to whom I must say the things which come into my mind. I think that if
you do not love Colonel Ray you have no right to marry him."

She looked me in the face. Her cheeks were flushed with walking, and
the wind had blown her hair into becoming confusion.

"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "do you consider that Colonel Ray is your
friend?"

"He has been very good to me," I answered.

"There is something between you two. What is it?"

"It is not my secret," I told her.

"There is a secret, then," she murmured. "I knew it. Is this why you
do not wish me to marry him?"

"I have not said that I do not wish you to marry him," I reminded her.

"Not in words. You had no need to put it into words."

"You are very young," I said, "to marry any one for any other reason
save the only true one. Some day there might be some one else."

She watched the flight of a seagull for a few moments--watched it till
its wings shone like burnished silver as it lit upon the sun-gilded sea.

"I do not think so," she said, dreamily. "I have never fancied myself
caring very much for any one. It is not easy, you know, for some of
us."

"And for some," I murmured, "it is too easy."

She looked at me curiously, but she had no suspicion as to the meaning
of my words.

"I want you to tell me something," she said, in a few minutes. "Have
you any other reason beyond this for objecting to my marriage with
Colonel Ray?"

"If I have," I answered slowly, "I cannot tell it you. It is his
secret, not mine."

"You are mysterious!" she remarked.

"If I am," I objected, "you must remember that you are asking me strange
questions."

"Colonel Ray is too honest," she said, thoughtfully, "to keep anything
from me which I ought to know."

I changed the conversation. After all I was a fool to have blundered
into it. We talked of other and lighter things. I exerted myself to
shake off the depression against which I had been struggling all the
morning. By degrees I think we both forgot some part of our troubles.
We walked home across the sandhills, climbing gradually higher and
higher, until we reached the cliffs. On all sides of us the coming
change in the seasons seemed to be vigorously asserting itself. The
plovers were crying over the freshly-turned ploughed fields, a whole
world of wild birds and insects seemed to have imparted a sense of
movement and life to what only a few days ago had been a land of
desolation, a country silent and winterbound. Colour was asserting
itself in all manner of places--in the green of the sprouting grass, the
shimmer of the sun upon the sea-stained sands, in the silvery blue of
the Braster creeks. Lady Angela drew a long breath of content as we
paused for a moment at the summit of the cliffs.

"And you wonder," she murmured, "that I left London for this!"

"Yes, I still wonder," I answered. "The beauties of this place are for
the lonely--I mean the lonely in disposition. For you life in the busy
places should just be opening all her fascinations. It is only when one
is disappointed in the more human life that one comes back to Nature."

"Perhaps then," she said, a little vaguely, "I too must be suffering
from disappointments. I have never realized--"

We had taken the last turn. My cottage was in sight. To my surprise a
man was standing there as though waiting. He turned round as we
approached. His face was very pale, and the back of his head was
bandaged. He carried his arm, too, in a sling. It was Colonel Mostyn
Ray!

CHAPTER XXII

MISS MOYAT MAKES A SCENE

Ray was smoking his customary enormous pipe, which he deliberately
emptied as Lady Angela and I approached. The sight of him and the
significance of his wounds reduced me to a state of astonishment which
could find no outlet in words. I simply stood and stared at him. Lady
Angela, however, after her first exclamation of surprise, went up and
greeted him.

"Why, my dear Mostyn," she exclaimed, "wherever have you sprung from,
and what have you been doing to yourself?"

"I came from London--newspaper train," he answered.

"And your head and arm?"

"Thrown out of a hansom last night," he said grimly.

We were all silent for a moment. So far as I was concerned, speech was
altogether beyond me. Lady Angela, too, seemed to find something
disconcerting in Ray's searching gaze.

"My welcome," he remarked quietly, "does not seem to be overpowering."

Lady Angela laughed, but there was a note of unreality in her mirth.

"You must expect people to be amazed, Mostyn," she said, "if you treat
them to such surprises. Of course I am glad to see you. Have you seen
Blenavon yet?"

"I have not been to the house," he answered. "I came straight here."

"And your luggage?" she asked.

"Lost," he answered tersely. "I only just caught the train, and the
porter seems to have missed me."

"You appear to have passed through a complete chapter of mishaps," she
remarked. "Never mind! You must want your lunch very badly, or do you
want to talk to Mr. Ducaine?"

"Next to the walk up to the house with you," he answered, "I think that
I want my lunch more than anything in the world."

Lady Angela smiled her farewells at me, and Ray nodded curtly. I
watched them pass through the plantation and stroll across the Park.
There was nothing very loverlike in their attitude. Ray seemed scarcely
to be glancing towards his companion; Lady Angela had the air of one
absorbed in thought. I watched them until they disappeared, and then I
entered my own abode and sat down mechanically before the lunch which
Grooton had prepared. I ate and drank as one in a dream. Only last
night Ray had said nothing about coming to Braster. Yet, there he was,
without luggage, with his arm and head bound up. Just like this I
expected to see the man whom I had struck last night.

Now though Ray's attitude towards me was often puzzling, an absolute
faith in his honesty was the one foundation which I had felt solid
beneath my feet during these last few weeks of strange happenings. This
was the first blow which my faith had received, and I felt that at any
cost I must know the truth. After lunch I finished the papers which,
when complete, it was my duty to lock away in the library safe up at the
house, and secured them in my breast-pocket. But instead of going at
once to the house I set out for Braster Junction.

There was a porter there whom I had spoken to once or twice. I called
him on one side.

"Can you tell me," I asked, "what passengers there were from London by
the newspaper train this morning?"

"None at all, sir," the man answered readily.

"Are you quite sure?" I asked.

The man smiled.

"I'm more than sure, sir," the man answered, "because she never stopped.
She only sets down by signal now, and we had the message 'no passengers'
from Wells. She went through here at forty miles an hour."

"I was expecting Colonel Ray by that train," I remarked, "the gentleman
who lectured on the war, you know, at the Village Hall."

The man looked at me curiously.

"Why, he came down last night, same train as you, sir. I know, because
he only got out just as the train was going on, and he stepped into the
station master's house to light his pipe."

"Thank you," I said, giving the man a shilling. "I must have just
missed him, then."

I left the station and walked home. Now, indeed, all my convictions
were upset. Colonel Ray had left me outside his clubhouse last night,
twenty minutes before the train started, without a word of coming to
Braster. Yet he travelled down by the same train, avoided me, lied to
Lady Angela and myself this morning, and had exactly the sort of wounds
which I had inflicted upon that unknown assailant who attacked me in the
darkness. If circumstantial evidence went for anything, Ray himself had
been my aggressor.

I avoided the turn by Braster Grange and went straight on to the
village. Coming out of the post office I found myself face to face with
Blanche Moyat. She held out her hand eagerly.

"Were you coming in?" she asked.

"Well, not to-day," I answered. "I am on my way to Rowchester, and I am
late already."

She kept by my side.

"Come in for a few moments," she begged, in a low tone. "I want to talk
to you."

"Not the old subject, I hope," I remarked.

She looked around with an air of mystery.

"Do you know that some one is making inquiries about--that man?"

"I always thought it possible," I answered, "that his friends might turn
up some time or other."

We were opposite the front of the Moyats' house. She opened the door
and beckoned me to follow. I hesitated, but eventually did so. She led
the way into the drawing-room, and carefully closed the door after us.

"Mr. Ducaine," she said, "I mean it, really. There is some one in the
village making inquiries--about--the man who was found dead."

"Well," I said, "that is not very surprising, is it? His friends were
almost certain to turn up sooner or later."

"His friends! But do you know who it is?" she asked.

I sank resignedly into one of Mrs. Moyat's wool-work covered chairs.
An absurd little canary was singing itself hoarse almost over my head.
I half closed my eyes. How many more problems was I to be confronted
with during these long-drawn-out days of mystery?

"Oh, I do not know," I declared. "I am sure I do not care. I am sorry
that I ever asked you for one moment to keep your counsel about the
fellow. I never saw him, I do not know who he was, I know nothing about
him. And I don't want to, Miss Moyat. He may have been prince or
pedlar for anything I care."

"Well, he wasn't an ordinary person, after all," she declared, with an
air of mystery. "Have you heard of the lady who's taken Braster Grange?
She's a friend of Lord Blenavon's. He's always there."

"I have heard that there is such a person," I answered wearily.

"She's been making inquiries right and left--everywhere. There's a
notice in yesterday's _Wells Gazette_, and a reward of fifty pounds for
any one who can give any information about him sufficient to lead to
identification."

"If you think," I said, "that you can earn the pounds, pray do not let
me stand in your way."

She looked at me with a fixed intentness which I found peculiarly
irritating.

"You don't think that I care about the fifty pounds," she said, coming
over and standing by my chair.

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