The Master of the Priory (16 page)

“I—I have come—” she began hoarsely, but the words died away in a stifled moan.

“Rosamond!”

Lady Treadstone stood as if petrified for a moment, then with a swift outward movement she caught the poor, shivering creature in her arms.

“Why, Rosamond!” she cried, and there was the sound of tears in her voice. “You have come home at last—Daddy's little Rose!”

She drew the girl in, then very quickly she closed the window and pulled down the blind. Rosamond stood numb and dazed, the change to the warmth and light, after the long cold walk in the darkness and rain, literally dazzled her, and the terror of the nearness of her escape was upon her. She put up her hands to her throat and swayed as she stood.

In an instant Lady Treadstone had caught her and guided her to the big couch before the fire.

“Poor little Rosamond,” she said as she laid her down among the cushions. “If you had only trusted me sooner, my dear—but you have come at last, that is all that counts.”

Rosamond made a desperate attempt to recall her wandering senses. She knew that there was much that she must tell—must explain. She opened her grey eyes, her lips quivered piteously.

“You knew—when you came to the Priory?” she said with little gasps between each word.

Lady Treadstone was busy taking off her hat and removing her damp jacket. She stooped and kissed the damp cheek.

“Knew!” she echoed. “Ah, yes, I knew you were Daddy's little Rose. That was why I came here—why I took the Grange. I wanted to be near you. Some day I felt you would come home!”

Rosamond began to sob. “Home,” she echoed. “Ah, if only I had known sooner!”

“Daddy left you in my charge,” Lady Treadstone went on, speaking in low caressing tones as to a child. “He said to me just at the last, ‘You will look after Rosamond, and when she comes home tell her her father always loved her. He never forgot his little girl.'”

Rosamond's tears fell thick and fast as she buried her face among the cushions.

“Ah, daddy, daddy!” she sobbed.

“He would have been so happy to-night,” Lady Treadstone said gently. “Nay, he is so happy! I am sure he knows, Rosamond!”

In the midst of her tears Rosamond tried to think again, there was something she must tell Lady Treadstone before this sledge-hammer pain in her temples made the telling impossible.

Then she tried to raise herself, to free herself from the encircling arms.

“I—it isn't coming home,” she faltered. “I have come for help—refuge. They are looking for me. I am not safe anywhere,” looking round wildly. “They want to take me to prison. They say I killed John.”

Lady Treadstone's face did not alter. Her hands still touched the girl gently, pitifully.

“You poor little girl,” she said softly. “I know all about it, Rosamond, and to whom should you go for help but to me? You will be quite safe here, dear.”

“But how—how—?”

“I will tell you,” Lady Treadstone said quietly. “Your friend, Miss Martin, wrote to me before she died and told me all. She was frightened at the end when she thought of the mad scheme she had evolved with you, and she begged me to help and save you. I was abroad when her letter came, or I should have tried to do something sooner. But when I did find you, you were not an easy person to help. I could only take this house and wait and watch. I shall always be thankful to Miss Martin.”

Rosamond tried to raise herself from the luxurious cushions. She tried to think, but nothing came coherently. She was only conscious that she was tired, so tired. Nevertheless she made one more effort.

“You know I am sorry—that I have repented—” she whispered.

For answer Lady Treadstone bent and kissed her.

“Dear Rosamond, yes. Now you are to forget the past and only remember that you are home again.”

She moved a few steps away. Rosamond caught her skirt.

“You are not going?”

“No, no!” Lady Treadstone said caressingly. “I am only going to send for some one who will be almost as pleased to see you as I am.” She rang the bell as she spoke. “Greyson—you remember Greyson?—she is with me still, and she has been waiting for you too. I think we shall want her help to-night.”

“Greyson!” Rosamond repeated beneath her breath. “Dear Greyson!”

Lady Treadstone waited silently until the door opened and an elderly woman appeared who looked inquiringly at her mistress.

Greyson looked a typical servant of the old school. She wore a gown of black cashmere, very fine and soft, and her cambric apron was edged with the daintiest frills that her own capable hands had goffered and got up. Her pleasant comely face was a little puzzled as Lady Treadstone motioned her to come in, and told her to close the door.

“Look here, Greyson. Some one you know has come home at last,” she said, moving aside.

Greyson gazed inquiringly at the woman who was half-lying, half-crouching on the couch, at the masses of dark hair.

“Some one I know, my lady?” she repeated in a bewildered tone. Then as she caught sight of Lady Treadstone's expression, her own changed, she turned back to the couch and took another glance this time at the delicate features, at the tear-filled eyes. The incredulity in her face gave way first to suspicion then to certainty. She sprang forward and caught the trembling figure in her arms.

“Missie! Missie! Come home at last Oh, if my lord had only lived to see the day!” she cried, cradling the girl against her shoulder as though she had still been the child she had nursed. Rosamond felt a vague sense of comfort as she nestled into the resting place where all her childish troubles had been brought.

Lady Treadstone's eyes were wet as she watched them. But presently she touched Greyson's arm.

“Come, Greyson, there is a great deal to be done yet. No one must know that Miss Rosamond is here. I suppose the room leading out of mine is ready?”

Greyson looked up. “Yes, my lady, as you bade me always keep it for Missie.”

“That is all right, then.” Lady Treadstone took Rosamond's hand. “Now, darling, we will put you to bed there, and I will have a bad cold, and Greyson shall wait upon us both. No one can get to you except through my room, you will be quite, quite safe.”

“But supposing they find out that I am here, they follow me?” Rosamond questioned, with dilated eyes. “You cannot bear it. There will be trouble, disgrace.”

“Will there?” Lady Treadstone stooped over her. “I don't think they will, but if they do—well, I can bear worse than that for your dear father's sake and your own.” 

P
ORTHCAWEL
was at its best in the springtime. Its thatched, irregularly-built cottages were sheltered in the gully that slanted down to the sea, the many coloured creepers on their walls were putting forth tiny tentative tendrils long before there was any sign of life among the gardens for miles along the coast. The hardy daffodils made a golden glory of Porthcawel street before they were even in bud on the headland, where later on they would gleam like patches of sunlight.

Coming suddenly upon Porthcawel after some miles of bleak, uninteresting scenery, Sir Oswald Davenant with his newly-recovered eyesight thought it the prettiest place he had ever seen. He liked the picturesque freshness of the whitewashed fishermen's cottages, the quaintness of the cobbled streets up which the donkeys were slowly drawing their loads of fish, above all he loved the glimpse of rippling water at the foot of the cliff and the rocky island that stood out beyond.

“Garth,” he said, turning to his companion, a bright-faced boy of twenty or thereabouts. “I think we will make this our headquarters for a day or two if we can find anywhere that will do for the car.

The recovery of his eyesight had worked wonders for Sir Oswald. He looked years younger, his face had regained its vitality and energy, he was much thinner and his figure looked alert.

More than a year had elapsed since the tragic disappearance of Elizabeth Martin from his house, and as far as he was concerned it remained inexplicable still. The detectives were nonplussed also, apparently. For months Sir Oswald had been afraid to open a paper lest it might contain the tidings of her arrest, but of late another dread had assailed him; he feared that in getting away from her pursuers the governess had come to some harm, fallen into some pool, or perhaps some disused coalpit, and that the body was lying there still undiscovered.

He had undertaken this motor tour with his cousin, Garth Davenant, partly in the hope of distracting his thoughts and attention from that one absorbing subject.

Of Sybil Lorrimer he had refused to hear anything since the discovery of her treachery. Her letters he returned to her unread.

There had been no renewal of the engagement between Barbara and Frank Carlyn. Barbara was still at Carlyn, and more than ever under the ban of Mrs. Carlyn's displeasure, since three months before Frank had departed to Africa with a big game shooting expedition. His mother persisted in regarding him as broken-hearted and Barbara as the cause of it all, and sent the girl to Coventry accordingly. It was very hard upon the girl and she was growing pale and thin, a contrast to the Barbara who had visited the Priory in the first flush of her engagement.

Lady Davenant remained at the Priory. It had been impossible to conceal from her all that had occurred, and she had been greatly shocked and shaken at the time both by the discovery of Sybil's treachery and Miss Martin's duplicity. In a little while, however, with her usual sweetness, she would have forgiven them both and even welcomed Sybil's return had Sir Oswald permitted it.

Another governess had replaced Elizabeth, but her little pupil was still loyal to Miss Martin's memory. No fairy tales were quite as good as hers; no one knew how to make lessons quite so attractive.

Sir Oswald and his cousin got out of their car and looked around. The descent into Porthcawel was far too steep for any motor and there were few dwellings about; a little search, however, revealed a few labourers at work and one of them knew of a shed which might serve as a temporary garage. It turned out all that he promised, and Sir Oswald and Garth turned their attention to the exploration of Porthcawel itself. Its aspect pleased them more and more as they made their way down the rough, uneven steps of the one village street. There was no such thing as apartments to let in Porthcawel, but they were told that it was possible they might get rooms at the “Fisherman's Rest,” a primitive inn facing the beach. It happened that the spare rooms were empty. The smiling landlady told them so as she took them upstairs to look at them; long low-raftered apartments with white dimity covered beds redolent of lavender and with the fresh sea air blowing in at the open window.

The two cousins felt that they were in luck as they sat down to their luncheon in the little bar parlour which was as clean and fresh as hands could make it, while the sea breeze gave them an excellent appetite for the fish and home-cured bacon with delicious butter and brown bread.

The landlady was quite a character evidently. She pottered in and out, waiting on them herself, giving them bits of local information the while.

Garth looked at the island, which seemed to rise like a rock sheer out of the sea; round its summit the sea-birds were flying and screeching.

“Is it possible to get over there?” he asked.

“Not that side, sir,” the landlady laughed. “I shouldn't fancy there was foothold for a sparrow there, but round to the right of the bay it is different. That is Porthcawel Rock; you may have heard tell of it. They have had pictures of it in some of the papers time back. The house is old and rare they say.”

“House? Is there a house there?” Sir Oswald questioned in some surprise.

“Dear me, yes, sir.” The landlady answered, evidently astonished at his ignorance. “That is Porthcawel Hold, one of the biggest houses in the country. It belongs to the Treadstones.”

“To the Treadstones?” Sir Oswald echoed, struck by the name. “Why, Lady Treadstone, the widow of the late lord, had a house near us for some time. Awfully nice woman she was too,” he added. He had always liked Lady Treadstone. Her pleasant voice and manner had attracted him from the first and her evident liking for the lost Elizabeth had won his heart. But she had left Walton Grange some time before he recovered his sight, and he had heard nothing of her since.

“She is living at the Hold now, sir, my lady is,” the landlady went on volubly. It was evident from her tone that her respect for her new customer was considerably increased by his acquaintance with Lady Treadstone. “She has been there for the best part of the year, she and Miss Treadstone.”

“Miss Treadstone? Ah, I don't know her. She wasn't at Walton,” Sir Oswald said easily. “But I remember hearing Lady Treadstone speak of a daughter once.”

“Stepdaughter, sir,” the landlady corrected. “My late lord was twice married and he and Miss Treadstone used often to be at the Hold in the old days before my second lady was ever thought of. But she has done her duty by Miss Rosamond, my lady has,” she concluded judicially. “And I have heard Miss Treadstone herself say she was as fond of her as if she had been her mother really.”

Sir Oswald rose and strolled over to the window.

“I think I shall go over to the Hold and call on Lady Treadstone. I suppose there is some wry of getting there?”

“Only by the sea, sir. And, begging your pardon but her ladyship don't see any visitors except by invitation. She and Miss Treadstone came here for perfect quiet.”

“Oh, well, then!” Sir Oswald shrugged his broad shoulders with an odd feeling of disappointment. “We must amuse ourselves in some other way, I suppose. What do you say to a sail, Garth?”

“Capital,” the young fellow exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm. “There are some decent boats over there too.”

“As good as you will find anywhere, sir,” the landlady told him with honest enthusiasm. “The Porthcawel fleet isn't to be beaten easily.”