The Secret of Greylands (28 page)

“I do not feel very well, thank you!” she said slowly. “My head aches worse than ever, but I dare say it will go off in a while if I get up.”

“I hope so,” Sybil was beginning; then, as the blind moved in the air, her glance wandered to the open window.

Her expression changed, a hard look came into her eyes, and for one second she compressed her lips tightly.

“I think it will be better for you to stay here,” she said authoritatively. “You are certainly not strong enough to get up yet. I will bring your luncheon to you.”

Cynthia realized that she had made an irrevocable mistake—that Sybil knew that she had been out of bed, that her suspicions were aroused, and that she herself was virtually a prisoner. A few minutes later the fact was brought home to her more fully, when Sybil, after having supplied her with an ample luncheon, calmly locked the door as she went out.

Parched and faint though she felt, Cynthia was too much afraid of being drugged again to touch the food; she took a long draught of water from her water-bottle and finished her dressing. As she caught sight of her face in the glass she could hardly believe that she was looking at her own reflection, so wan and heavy-eyed was it. Outside on the landing she could hear voices, Gillman's and Sybil's. She knocked loudly at her door and demanded to be let out, but call as she would there was no response.

At length, feeling the uselessness of appealing to her captors, she went to her window, but a glance told her that it was hopeless to think of escaping that way: there were no creepers on the old stone walls of Greylands, and there was a clear drop of twenty feet at least from the sill. She turned back and sat down on the edge of the bed.

The knowledge that she was in sore danger, that she was at the mercy of a man who would stop at nothing to gain his own ends, seemed in some sort to brace and steady her nerves. She turned her mind resolutely from the subject of Lady Hannah's fate. Terrible as were some of the misgivings that would present themselves to her when she recalled the various events, trifling perhaps in themselves and capable of an explanation when taken alone, but of terrible and sinister significance when reviewed together, she told herself with a shudder that she could not, dare not think of them now. The more she reflected upon her own situation the more desperate did it appear, but with the further knowledge of the difficulties in her way there came the determination to overcome them at all costs. The initial step was to get out of Greylands.

An idea flashed into her mind; she had heard of bedclothes being fastened together and of marvellous escapes from giddy heights being effected by their agency; it would surely be possible, even should the door be kept locked, for her to lower herself by them from the window. The sheets were strong and of a good size, and it would not be difficult to tie them together. She decided to make the attempt after dark, and thus minimize the danger of being seen by Gillman.

Already it was growing dark, and she began her few preparations. Making her little store of money and the jewellery she had with her into a parcel, she fastened it inside her dress. Then she began to put her rope together; it was not a hard task to make the knots firm, but when it was completed she glanced at it doubtfully; it did not look exactly the thing to trust to, she thought, and she very much doubted her own ability to get down by it. It seemed, however, to offer, at any rate, a chance of freedom, and she determined that no cowardice on her part should prevent her from availing herself of it. But she wanted something to which to fasten it, and she began to drag forward the heavy bed-stead. As she did so a sound caught her ear—a sound she had heard the night of her arrival—that of some one digging in the shrubbery. Despite all her resolution she quailed as she stood and listened.

What had Gillman been doing that first night? she asked herself with whitening cheeks. What was he doing now? As a certain sinister suggestion presented itself to her mind she shivered from head to foot. Clinging to the bedpost, she waited; the digging went on, now slowly, now almost with feverish haste. At length the sound stopped. Cynthia still waited motionless, hardly daring even to breathe. In the silence that followed there was a step in the passage outside, the key was turned stealthily.

Cynthia stood up, her limbs paralysed by fear, her eyes fixed as if spell-bound upon the door. It opened slowly, and Sybil put her head in.

“Cynthia!” She set down the lamp she carried and came swiftly across the room. “You must go! Do not stay one minute! Go—go at once!” catching at Cynthia with hot, dry fingers.

Still Cynthia did not stir; she stared back at the other as if fascinated. Sybil's whole aspect was changed; she looked like a creature over whom there had passed a terrible blight. There was no trace of colour in face or lips, the pretty delicate features were pinched and drawn, her eyes were darkened and dilated by terror.

“Don't—don't you understand?” she whispered hoarsely, catching her breath. “Go—be quick; I have left the front door open! You may get out if you do not lose one minute!” She tore Cynthia from her hold on the bedpost and forced her through the door.

“It—Oh, I know you do not trust me, but do not stop to argue! Go!”

The passion, the tragedy of her tone carried conviction. Cynthia moved quickly, silently down the stairs. At the bottom she paused, glancing irresolutely at the open door.

“You are coming too, Sybil?”

The other shook her head.

“No! Go! Do not think of me! My place”—holding up her head with a certain pathetic dignity—“is here!”

C
YNTHIA
heard the door close behind her and the bolts shot into their places with a feeling of absolute helplessness. The night was very dark, and there were tiny little scuds of rain in the wind as it beat upon her face. Stealing across the grass, she made her way to the fir shrubbery, and as she hurried down the path to the gate she heard the sound of a man's footsteps and the echo of a song.

Drawing back, she concealed herself behind a tree, but Gillman was not coming towards her. Apparently he had turned off, and was striding towards the brushwood; then, quite close to her as it seemed, she heard him digging. As if impelled by some force stronger than her own will, she moved stealthily forward.

The moon shone out for a minute from behind the heavy bank of clouds, and she saw that she was quite close to Gillman, who was standing in a deep hole. Only his head was visible, and that was fortunately turned away from her. Working quickly, he was throwing out spadefuls of earth; but as Cynthia still watched, fascinated by terror, he hoisted himself out, not without difficulty, and then, throwing a branch over the opening, strode off to the house. When his steps had died away in the distance Cynthia crept forward timidly and drew aside the covering. She saw a deep oblong hole. As she peered down into it the recollection of her mother's funeral came into her mind, and she seemed to see again the coffin on the bier, the yawning, open grave. For what, she asked herself, crouching on the brink, for whom—shaking from head to foot with a nameless terror—had this hole been dug? Suddenly from the house she heard a quick, sharp exclamation:

“Sybil! Sybil!”

A light was flashing in her room, and she knew that her flight was discovered.

The front door was thrown open, and Gillman was shouting:

“Nero! Nero!”

He had brought the dog to hunt her! Cynthia's flesh crept with the horror of it. She could see no hope of escape now; dark though it was, Nero would track her. Out there on the moor she would have no chance. A wild thought of a possible refuge occurred to her, and moving aside the branch as little as possible she sprang into the hole. It was deeper than she had thought, and she fell with a thud that, it seemed to her, must be audible everywhere.

Presently, overhead, Gillman's voice sounded loudly.

“Good dog! Find her, Nero! Find her!”

Cynthia shivered; the dog was making straight for her hiding-place. She breathed one short, silent prayer. Her mind went back for one moment to her dead mother, to the little home they had both loved; then she braced herself to meet the fate that was coming swiftly towards her.

Nero knew his work well; she heard him scenting among the pines; then he came straight as a dart for her hiding-place. She could hear him rustling, scratching the pine-needles, and a tiny piece of earth fell upon her face.

“Nero! Good dog! Go home!” she whispered. “Go home!”

Nero hesitated a moment, but Cynthia had fed him with cakes and odd bones, his doggish memory was faithful, and with a sharp bark he trotted off. Gillman was following; Cynthia heard his muttered imprecation as he fancied that the dog had lost the scent. Then there was a short, sharp yelp, and the hurrying footsteps crashed on.

Cynthia waited breathlessly. In a minute or two he would come back, she thought. He would find her, and then—she did not dare to let her mind go beyond that. She leaned against the wet earth. It seemed to her that a sudden stillness fell upon everything, that near her unseen forces were gathering themselves up in the silence that precedes the storm. Gillman's footsteps came round again, died away in the distance once more, and the silence grew intense. The minutes passed on slowly; it seemed to Cynthia that she had been standing there for hours, and she prayed for anything—anything to end the suspense.

Suddenly near at hand she caught the sound of voices; she held her breath, telling herself she must be mistaken. It could not be Farquhar she heard speaking? She tried to answer, to call out, but no words came, only a long, hoarse sob.

Almost simultaneously an awful shriek rang out from the house—a cry of horror and despair.

“Sybil!” Cynthia gasped as she tried frantically to raise herself.

At all hazards she must get out now; she must not leave Sybil to suffer in her stead. She could find no foothold at first by which to climb up, for the crumbling earth gave way as she clutched it, but she struggled wildly, desperately, with feet and hands, and at length stood panting and distraught under the pines once more.

Then she gazed round bewildered. Instead of the silence that had reigned a moment ago it seemed to her that there were voices everywhere. Lights were twinkling among the firs; dark forms sprang over the fence, and, crossing through the brushwood, ran against her. The spell that had held her silent was broken, and she cried aloud:

“Oh, help, help! He is killing her—Sybil!”

“Cynthia! Thank Heaven you are safe!”

It was Farquhar's voice, and as she swayed towards him he caught the half-fainting girl in his arms.

“My aunt, where is she?”

“I don't know!”

Then the sense of protection, of help, brought the blood rushing back to Cynthia's paralysed brain, and she caught feverishly at his arm.

“Come! Come! Didn't you hear her? She let me out! She saved me! Now—now he will kill her instead!”

“Aunt Hannah!”

Farquhar's tone was full of mystification. Side by side they were struggling through the underwood, and now sprang on to the path.

Cynthia shook her head.

“No! No! She is not there. I don't know where she is! It is Sybil!”

They had emerged on the grass in front of the house, and as they did so a man rushed out. People seemed to spring up out of the shrubbery on every side; he was surrounded, there was a struggle, the sound of a pistol-shot, and a man's voice said:

“Ah, that is no use! You don't try it again, my fine fellow!”

Then the struggling mass coalesced and came towards them, and Cynthia saw four policemen keeping guard over one man who was handcuffed in their midst.

Farquhar drew her quickly away.

“We must go to the house; I don't know what has happened.”

The old kindness was back in his tone, and, notwithstanding her terror, Cynthia felt a quick throb of gratitude. His warm clasp, the touch of his hand, sent a thrill of warmth through her chilled frame.

As they neared the door Mr Barsly met them; they could not see his face, but his tone was very grave.

“I am rejoiced to hear of your safety, Lady Letchingham, but I shall never forgive myself for having been so culpably blind. We have a carriage outside; let me take you to it.”

Cynthia put him aside.

“Sybil! Where is she? Let me go to her!”

“She has been injured—not, I think, fatally; but it is no place for you, Lady Letchingham.” Mr Barsly was endeavouring to keep her back. “She—I think you must have guessed it by now—she is no relative of yours or of Lady Hannah's; her name is not Hammond at all. She is a girl who was on the stage for some time, and her connexion with Gillman and his introduction of her to his household are—er—anything but creditable to either of them. Sir Donald, I must beg of you to use your influence with Lady Letchingham to prevent her coming into the house.”

“It would not be any use,” Cynthia said steadily.

It seemed to her as she heard Mr Barsly's words that a veil had been torn from her eyes—that things that had mystified her all along were becoming clear. Of one great black cloud of dread she dared not even allow herself to think, but her whole heart was now filled with an intense pity for Sybil. Whoever the girl might be, however she might have sinned, Cynthia could not doubt that through her agency she herself had been saved from Gillman, and that the girl had paid the penalty for her compassion. The hall was in darkness, but the door into the dining-room stood wide open. Sybil had been placed on a couch, and Cynthia looked from its red chintz cushions to the white stricken face resting on them with a kind of stupid wonder. It was all so familiar and yet so terribly altered. She must be dreaming, she told herself.

Then as Sybil slowly turned her head and looked at her everything else was forgotten in a great rush of pity. Cynthia could not withstand that piteous appeal, and she hurried forward.