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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In "The Lonely Bride," Fred M. White weaves a poignant tale that unravels the complexities of love and isolation through the experiences of a young woman caught in the throes of societal expectations. The narrative is characterized by White'Äôs atmospheric writing style, rich in vivid descriptions and emotional depth, inviting readers into the protagonist's inner world. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century societal norms, the novel deftly explores themes of loneliness, yearning, and the struggle for identity, reflecting the socio-cultural landscape of the time. Fred M. White, an esteemed novelist of the late Victorian and Edwardian eras, had a profound interest in the intricacies of human relationships, as evident in his extensive body of work. His experiences as a journalist and his keen observation of social dynamics undoubtedly shaped his portrayal of the psychological nuances of his characters. "The Lonely Bride" exemplifies White'Äôs ability to blend romance with existential inquiry, providing insight into the emotional landscapes of his characters. I highly recommend "The Lonely Bride" to readers seeking a deeply reflective and atmospheric exploration of love and identity. White's masterful storytelling not only entertains but also challenges readers to introspect on the societal constraints that shape their own lives.
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The Lonely Bride
Table of Contents
I. — 'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY
It was peaceful and quiet now under the trees by the brookside, a typical English landscape, reminding one of Tennyson's "Haunt of Ancient Peace." From the far side of the fields came the call of the birds and the bleating of lambs. The woods hardly moved, they seemed to be sleeping under the perfect arch of the summer sky. And yet the two young people lingering there did not seem so perfectly attuned to the spot as one might have expected. It did not demand a keen eye to see that they were lovers, or that something had come between them. Not that there was any suggestion of a quarrel in the air, for the girl lay back against the young man's shoulder, and his arm was caressingly wound about her waist. There was a shadow of some haunting trouble lurking in Grace Anstey's clear grey eyes, a somewhat moody frown knitted Max Graham's brows. They were absolutely alone there, little chance was there of any interruption, so that it was possible to speak freely.
"I cannot understand it at all," Max Graham was saying. "Ever since I have known you—and that is a great many years now—it has always seemed to me that I was a favorite with your father rather than otherwise. What has he got against me, Grace? It is not that I have done anything wrong, it is not as if there was anything against my moral character. And yet of late I feel as if I were an intruder every time that I come to the bank house. And since my uncle died and left me that legacy I have looked forward to the time when I could see your father and ask his consent to our marriage. Am I not justified in resenting this treatment? It is only a year since your father told mine that he would like nothing better than to see a match arranged between ourselves. And now——"
"Do not ask me," Grace replied. "I am as much puzzled as yourself. I would not tell anybody but you, my dearest Max, but my father is a changed man lately. You know how sunny-tempered he always has been, and how kind he has ever proved himself to be. And yet now he hardly speaks; he has strange fits of irritability. I am quite sure that he is seriously frightened about something."
"Does he ever mention me?" Max asked.
"Yes," Grace said. "He speaks of you as one might mention a child who is in disgrace. I am quite certain that if you went to him now he would refuse his consent to our marriage."
There was silence for a moment or two before Graham spoke again. He looked tenderly down into the eyes of his companion.
"Heaven grant that I may be wrong," he said, "but there is something strange here. It may be said that your father is merely the head of Anstey's Bank, which is a small thing as such concerns go nowadays, but it must not be forgotten that the Ansteys have been people of importance for the past three hundred years. There is no family of distinction in the county into which the Ansteys have not at some time or other married. Everybody knows your father's reputation for geniality and kindness, and yet there is no prouder man living. I confess it was a great shock to me, when I found that your father was encouraging Stephen Rice to visit the bank house. Of course, Rice is a rich man, and all that, but——"
Max shrugged his shoulders significantly. He was not given to slandering other men, and he did not wish to speak too freely of Stephen Rice, the son of a rich manufacturer at Leverton, some ten miles away.
"I detest him," Grace said with a shudder. "That hard, bulldog face of his frightens me. He is not a gentleman, Max; he is cruel to his horses, and he bullies his servants. I have heard whispers, too, that he drinks frightfully, though I am bound to say that whenever he comes to the bank house he is very moderate."
"He has not dared," Max asked, "to suggest to you——"
Grace colored slightly, and shook her head. So far there had not been much the matter with Stephen Rice's conduct, so far as she was concerned. But deep in her heart of hearts she knew that the man loved her in his dogged way, and she felt certain that he had her father's encouragement. This was the first time that any cloud had settled upon the young girl's happiness, and it troubled her sorely. It was uppermost in her mind now as she walked homewards, with the afternoon sunset in her face, in the direction of the bank house.
The residence of Mr. Mark Anstey was something more than the ordinary house attached to a provincial bank. In the first place, the Ansteys had been people of considerable importance for some generations. They were county people in the best sense of the word; indeed, Mark Anstey was a public institution. Reputed to be rich, charitable, benevolent, and handsome, no gathering was complete without his cheery presence. Troubled and worried as she was, Grace could not but admire her father as he stood before the fireplace in the grand old oak-panelled drawing-room awaiting his guests. He might have been some great magnate instead of a private banker. And yet the handsome face was lined and seamed with care; there was a furtive look in the grey eyes which Grace had noticed several times lately. She floated into the room attired in some soft white gown that suited her slim figure to perfection. Usually she would have gone to her father and kissed him, but there was something about him now that repelled her.
"You have been out this afternoon?" he asked. "I saw you going across the fields with Max Graham. Don't you think it is time to put an end to that nonsense, Grace?"
Anstey did not look at his daughter as he spoke. It occurred to her that he seemed just a little ashamed of himself. The hot blood mounted to her face. The time had come to speak plainly. Mark Anstey recognised at last that his daughter was no longer a child. The girl spoke slowly and deliberately.
"I am glad you mentioned Max," she said. "We have been talking about you this afternoon. What is it that has come between us, father? Why do you so suddenly take this violent dislike to Max? I have heard you say more than once that Max was your beau ideal of all a young man should be. You know perfectly well that Max and myself have regarded each other with affection ever since we were children. You have always given me my own way before, and I have always endeavored to repay your kindness with all my heart and soul. And now, when the whole of my life's happiness is concerned, you deliberately——"
"Stop," Mark Anstey cried. "I cannot permit you to speak to me like this, Grace. I have my own reasons for declining to regard Max Graham in the light of a prospective son-in-law. I have already told his father, General Graham, so."
For the first time Mark Anstey looked fixedly at his daughter. It startled him to see how steadily that gaze was returned. It was a bit of a shock to this keen man of the world to find that his pet and plaything had suddenly become a resolute woman.
"The subject cannot be dropped here," Grace said. "I love Max, and I have promised to be his wife. I can never care for anybody else; nothing will induce me to change my mind. Father, I am going to speak plainly to you. I am not altogether blind to the reason that brings Stephen Rice here. I do not mean to pry into your private matters, but I feel certain, that six months ago you would have laughed at the suggestion of Stephen Rice being a guest of yours."
Anstey made no reply for a moment. He seemed to be struggling with some inward emotion. Grace could see that there was the shadow of some great trouble upon his face.
"I have my own reasons," he said hoarsely. "Grace, did it ever occur to you that things are not exactly what they seem? We live in this big house here, we have our horses and carriages and servants, you have your dresses from Paris—in fact, we ruffle it with the best of them. And yet even greater concerns than mine have failed from time to time. Have you so soon forgotten the Swepstones? Yet they were bankers like myself, who failed, and failed so disgracefully that the head of the firm died in prison. I suppose it never occurred to you that the same thing is likely to happen to me?"
Grace looked up swiftly; all the blood had left her face. Was her father making confession, or was he only drawing a parallel? The girl could see now that Anstey's face was as pale as her own and that his lips were twitching.
"I—have—to justify myself," he said hoarsely. "I have borne this thing so long that I cannot keep it to myself; but we won't go into that. Anything better than disgrace the name of Anstey."
"It must not be disgraced," Grace whispered. "Anything that I could do, any sacrifice in my power——"
Anstey bent and gripped his daughter by the arm. The grasp was so powerful that the girl winced before it.
"You can do everything," Anstey said. "You can be my salvation. What I must have now is twenty thousand pounds. Unless that is procured soon, the name of Anstey will fairly reek in the nostrils of the whole countryside. Oh, I know I have been rash and foolish, but if you knew what I have gone through you would pity me. But for you, I should have ended it long ago—it only meant a pistol shot or a few grains of some deadly poison. But you can save me if you will. By holding up your right hand——"
"But how?" Grace asked. "If you mean Stephen Rice——"
"I do mean Stephen Rice," Anstey cried. "His father is a millionaire, an old man who practically leaves the business to his son. And Stephen Rice has fallen in love with you. He is a sullen, obstinate man, who will have his own way at any cost. For your sake he is prepared to do anything I ask him. We have already talked the matter over, and on the day that you promise to become his wife Rice will advance more than sufficient money to put the old concern on its legs again and float it into the harbor of prosperity."
Grace made no reply for a moment; she felt as if all the blood had left her body; as if some icy hand was clutching at her heart. It seemed impossible to realise that the shadows of disgrace lay so close. In a dreamy kind of way she looked about her, she took in the priceless pictures on the walls, the old silver and statuary, the thousand and one odds and ends that go to make up a luxurious and refined home. And yet here was the honored master of it all no better than a felon. It all rested in the hands of one weak woman, she had only to say one small word and the folded wings of disgrace would flutter from the house-hold. But the perjury of herself to Max, yes and the perjury of herself to Rice also, was a thought not to be endured.
"Mr. Stephen Rice," said the butler with a startling suddenness, or so it seemed to Grace.
Rice came forward, a square, heavily-built young man, with small eyes and clean-shaven mouth, as cruel and hard as a steel trap. He did not look Grace in the face as he shook hands with her; in fact, he rarely looked anyone in the face. All the same, there was an air of quiet triumph about him that Grace secretly resented. Anstey's manner had changed entirely, he had forced a smile to his lips, he did not look in the least now like a man with the shadow of disgrace hanging over him.
"We were just talking about you, Rice," he said smoothly. "I was telling my daughter that there was a chance of your coming into the firm as a kind of partner."
Grace felt the hot blood mounting to her face. She was almost grateful to the young man for not looking at her at that moment. Rice smiled a slow, cruel smile.
"I suppose you have told Miss Grace everything?" he said.
"I think so," Grace forced herself to say. She was inwardly wondering at her own calmness. "So far as I can gather, it seems to be a partnership all round."
The girl turned away to greet another guest who had just entered the room. Other guests followed in rapid succession until there were a dozen people in the drawing-room. It seemed to Grace that she was in the midst of some dreadful dream, from which she would wake presently. She wondered if she had not acquired the mind and brain of somebody else, so cool and collected was she. And yet this was the first sorrow that had ever troubled her young life.
But she must be an Anstey, she told herself. She must carry this thing through till the end of the long evening, and then she would have time to break down and be a very woman. She prayed for strength to endure it all; she wondered vaguely what Max would say if he knew everything.
Yes, she was getting on very well indeed. In the same calm judicial manner she paired off her dinner guests and took her place at the bottom of the table. There was no sign of care or suffering there, nothing but laughter and cheerfulness and the din of animated conversation. The well-trained servants waited softly and silently as usual, the old wine sparkled in the crystal decanters, the soft, shaded lights fell upon the banks of flowers. It seemed impossible to believe that the founder of this cheerful feast was in measurable distance of the grip of the law. Grace watched her father anxiously, she saw his gay face change to the whiteness of a table cloth, as a footman went up to him with a card on a silver salver, and information to the effect that its owner desired to see Mr. Anstey, just for a moment, on important business.
Anstey swayed, and would have fallen from his chair if Grace had not slipped from her place and caught him by the arm. Strange as it may seem, none of the guests appeared to notice that anything was wrong. Grace whispered to her father; he looked up dully.
"Go down and see this man," he whispered hoarsely. "Tell him I will come as soon as possible. Amuse him, chatter to him, anything to give me five minutes to pull myself together. My God, to think that this blow should fall just now!"
Grace walked down the stairs of the library where the stranger awaited her. She saw a tall, thin man, with dark eyes and beard, a man in evening dress, evidently a gentleman.
"Mr. George Cattley, at your service," he said quietly. "And you, of course, are Miss Grace Anstey."
II. — THE MESSAGE
Grace looked at the stranger with some confused idea that she had seen him before. He seemed to bring back to her recollections of her early childhood, which were in some strange way mixed up with trouble. Perhaps the man Cattley saw something of this, for there was just the suggestion of a smile on his face.
"You do not recollect me," he said. "Have you forgotten that time some sixteen years ago when I came——"
The speaker broke off abruptly, as if conscious that he was about to betray himself. Grace waited for him to say more, but he turned the conversation adroitly and began to speak of other things. He seemed perfectly at home there; evidently the man was accustomed to good society; he seemed to wear his evening clothes with the air of a man who is accustomed to that kind of thing.
"My father will be down in a few moments," Grace said. "We have friends to dinner to-night."
"I am exceedingly sorry to intrude," the stranger said, "but my business is of the most pressing importance. I presume your father was somewhat surprised to get my card."
The speaker asked the question as if something amused him. There was just the ghost of cynical smile on his face. It was foolish, perhaps, but Grace had a kind of feeling that the coming of this man was the beginning of some fresh trouble. She had never felt more utterly foolish and self-conscious than she did at that moment. Usually the girl was not short of conversation. Five minutes dragged slowly along before Mark Anstey came into the room. At that moment the stranger was bending over a great bowl of roses on the library table and seemed quite lost in the contemplation of their beauty. He did not appear to heed Anstey's presence, so that Grace was in a position to watch her father's face. Its malignant expression startled her. Just for an instant there passed across Anstey's face a perfectly murderous expression; his hands went out instinctively in the direction of his visitor. It was all gone like a flash, but it served to deepen the bad impression that was already forming in Grace's mind. She had never dreamt that her father could look like that; she almost felt a hesitation in leaving the two men together. Anstey advanced now with outstretched hand and smiling face, and patted the stranger almost affectionately on the back. His manner was genial in the extreme.
"Ah, this is indeed a pleasant surprise, Cattley," he said. "Fancy you turning up after all these years."
The stranger smiled in turn, but there was the same dry cynicism on his dark features.
"I felt quite sure you would be delighted to see me," he said. "It is indeed a long 'time since we last met. I am very loth to make myself a nuisance to you, but my business is pressing, and I am afraid I shall have to detain you some little time."
Just for an instant the hard expression came into Anstey's face again. Grace would have lingered there, only her father made her a sign to go. His voice was hard and dry.
"You had better go back to our guests," he said. "You must get them to excuse me for a little while. Tell them that I have been called away on a pressing matter."
Grace crept away up the stairs, striving in vain to throw off the feeling that some great disaster was impending. It seemed to her as if she had lost her father and that some strange sinister being had stepped into his place. It was a great shock to the girl—perhaps the greatest shock she had ever had in her short, sunny life. Hitherto she had regarded Mark Anstey as one of the most perfect of men. And here on his own confession he was within measurable reach of the felon's dock, he was prepared to barter his daughter's happiness to save his tainted reputation.
With a great effort Grace managed to put her emotion on one side. She must play her part in the game of life with a smile on her face, though her heart ached ever so sadly. Besides, there was always a chance that the calamity might be averted. She could hear the chatter of her guests now, those unconscious guests who knew nothing, and she knew that she would have to hide from them all signs of misery and distress. Here were the servants, respectful as ever; here were all the art treasures which generations of Ansteys had gathered together. Was it all to be a sham and a delusion, or could the whole situation be saved by pluck and courage? Grace forced a smile to her lips as she entered the drawing-room. She could see her face in the mirror opposite; she was surprised to notice that her features gave no index of her disturbing emotions. She plunged into the conversation gaily and almost desperately; probably she was answering her questioners all right, for they did not seem to notice anything. She dropped into a seat presently, and Stephen Rice crossed the room and took his place by her side. There was an air of possession about him that fairly maddened Grace, though she could not resent it.
"Our conversation before dinner was interrupted at a most interesting point," he said. "From what your father told me, he has been talking to you about me. I don't think I need say any more."
There was no mistaking the meaning of the speaker's words.
"I perfectly understand you," Grace said quietly. "It is perhaps just as well that you should have mentioned the matter now. Living so close to us as you do, you must be aware of the fact that I am engaged to Mr. Max Graham. You see I am speaking as plainly as yourself. It is just as well to be candid."
Rice smiled by way of reply. He liked Grace none the less for this display of spirit, but he felt that he had all the winning cards in his hand; he had only to play them and the game would be his. He rose from his chair and strolled across the room, leaving Grace with an unpleasant impression that she had a strong man to deal with. She would have given much to have known exactly what Rice knew as to the state of her father's private affairs. But she had no time to think of this now; one of the lady guests fluttered up to her with a request that she would sing.
"'The Message,'" somebody cried. "Please sing 'The Message,' Miss Anstey. It is one of your songs."
It was all the same to Grace what she sang—anything so long as she could get away from those haunting thoughts. She turned over her music rapidly, but the song in question was not to be found. Then Grace recollected that she left it in the morning-room. She would go down and fetch it; she would not be a moment, she explained.
It was very quiet down in the hall now; most of the servants had retired, and the dining-room was deserted. Grace found the song at length and was about to return to the drawing-room when the sound of voices broke on her ear. Almost before she was aware of it, Grace was playing the part of the eavesdropper. The voices were quite clear and distinct; they came from the library, and the speakers were her father and the stranger, George Cattley. Just for the moment Anstey seemed to be speaking in pleading tones, for Grace could hear him ask a question almost humbly and the stranger's curt refusal. Then Anstey seemed to burst out into sudden passion, for his voice vibrated with anger.
"I tell you I can't do it, and I won't," he said. "What you ask me is utterly impossible. If you give me time——"
"You have already had sixteen years," the stranger said. "Come, you can't say that you have not expected this moment. You must do as I ask you, and you must do it to-night."
"Impossible!" Anstey cried. "In any case, I could not do it by myself. I must have the assistance of my cashier, James Holder."
The name of Holder was quite familiar to Grace. For nearly thirty years James Holder had been the cashier at the bank. Not even the name of Anstey itself was more respected than that of Holder. If there was any rascality going on here, Grace felt confident that Holder had nothing whatever to do with it.
"That is quite an easy matter," said the stranger. "We can send a message to Holder; in fact, I have a messenger close by."
Grace had hardly time to step back before Cattley came out of the library and walked across the hall in the direction of the front door. This he opened and made a sign to somebody outside. Then there came into the light a ragged tattered figure which was quite familiar to Grace. She had no difficulty in recognising the village idiot who was generally known as "Poor Billy," a deaf mute who lived on the charity of the neighbours. A moment later and the poor creature was outside again, and Cattley had returned to the library.
What more Grace might have heard was prevented by a shrill cry at the top of the stairs. Her guests were getting impatient to hear the song, and already several of Grace's girl friends were half-way down the stairs with a view to helping her in the search. There was no help for it now; it was impossible to stand there and listen any longer. Grace waved the sheets of music above her head and declared that she had just found it.
The long evening was coming to an end at length, although it was not yet eleven o'clock. Mark Anstey had been back in the drawing-room for some little time. Closely as Grace scrutinised his face she could read no signs of his peril and trouble there. One by one the guests dropped away, until daughter and father were alone together. Grace's head was aching terribly, her one desire was to be alone now. She felt that she could not stand and endure the conversation that she had had with her father earlier in the evening. She rose as if to go; in the usual way she lifted up her face to kiss her father good-night. She was surprised to see that his features were absolutely bright and smiling. Perhaps Anstey read something of the surprise in his child's eyes, for he bent and kissed her tenderly. He held her in his arms just a moment.
"Perhaps things will come an right after all," he said. "At any rate, we will postpone further trouble for the present."
"And that man?" Grace asked. "Has he gone? Why did he say that he knew me years ago? I do not recollect him at all."
"I met him in business," Anstey said hastily. "I had to be civil to the man; it really is not worth talking about, and you are not in the least likely to see him again. He has been gone the last hour and now you had better go to bed."
Grace crept up the stairs, feeling in some way that her father was lying to her. It was a most uncomfortable impression, but the girl could not shake it off. She was too restless and anxious to think of sleep; she felt a desire for food without the appetite of enjoying it. Trouble was so great a novelty to her that she felt the keenness of it more than most people. She half undressed herself, she combed put the long masses of her shining hair, and slipped into a dressing-jacket. The idea of sleep was out of the question; she would get a book and try to lose herself in it for an hour or so.
The old house seemed full of noises to-night—strange, creeping noises that suggested mystery. It was a common tradition in Pearlborough that the bank house was haunted, but Grace had always declared that the ghosts had been most considerate to her. Yet to-night she felt as nervous and frightened as the most ignorant gossip in the village. It seemed to her that she could hear stealthy footsteps stealing cautiously down the stairs. The footsteps came from the direction of her father's bedroom. Grace tried to restrain herself, she fought down her unworthy suspicions, but some impulse she could not control dragged her to her feet and forced her into the corridor. One or two dim lights had not been extinguished yet, and in the half-gloom Grace could plainly see her father stealing down the stairs carrying some short object in his hand. He was in his stockinged feet, and in shirtsleeves and trousers. Of course, he might have gone downstairs for something that he had forgotten, but there was a furtive air about him that made him look like a burglar in his own house. A speck of light fell upon his face and picked out the ghastly whiteness of it. With a fresh terror gripping at her heart Grace watched the receding figure, almost powerless to move. She saw Anstey vanish down the passage which led to the bank premises proper; it seemed to her that she could hear the click of a lock and the dull slamming of a door.
Grace hesitated as to whether she should follow her father or not. She did not care to play the spy upon him, but she was determined on one point—she would wait there till Anstey returned. As she stood shivering there a quick, broken cry rang through the house. There was no mistaking this—it was no figment of an overheated imagination. The cry had been too clear and sharp for that, the cry of an old man who is taken by surprise and who struggles with an unscrupulous foe.
Grace stood there almost petrified by fear. How long she remained standing in that one spot she could not have told. It seemed an age before she heard the click of the lock again, and her father reappeared. He was no longer carrying the short object in his hand, his nervous fingers were pressing to his forehead, as if to crush out some overwhelming pain, he staggered up the stairs like a man overcome with wine. Grace could see now that there were dull red spots on his shirt front, and that the tips of his fingers were stained with crimson. Anstey stumbled into his bedroom and closed the door behind him, then all was still.
How Grace got back to her room she hardly knew. Probably the strain had been too much for her, and she had lost consciousness, for when she came to herself it was broad daylight, and her maid Helen was bending anxiously over her. There was an expression of horror on Helen's face which could not have been altogether due to the fact that she had discovered her mistress on the bed still partially dressed. Grace's mind was clear now, and the events of the previous night flashed into her brain with startling suddenness.
"What has happened?" she asked. "Helen, I have a curious feeling that something dreadful has taken place."
The maid affected not to hear; she appeared to be busying herself at the toilet table, but Grace could see that her hands were trembling strangely.
"What is it?" Grace repeated. "I insist upon being told. What is all that noise I can hear in the house? They are strange voices, too; don't say that my father——"
"It is not your father, miss," Helen replied in a shaky voice. "It's poor Mr. Holder. They found him an hour ago——"
"Not on the bank premises," Grace cried. "You don't mean to say that he came here and was murdered at the time——"
"He is not dead yet," Helen said. She did not appear to notice Grace's significant pause. "Not dead yet, miss, but the doctor says it is only a question of hours."
III. — THE PEARL STUD
All the blood seemed slowly to recede from Grace's heart, her breath came quickly; just for a moment the whole room swam round her, and the stars danced before her eyes. It was a new sensation for the girl who had never known illness or fear before. Then with a great effort she rose from the bed, and sat facing her maid. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the latter had seen nothing of her mistress's terrible agitation. Everything was coming back to Grace now with blinding force. She saw in her mind's eye the figure of her father coming up the stairs, she noticed the blood stains on his shirt, and the terrible anguish of his face. If Helen had stood up there and roundly denounced Mark Anstey as the murderer of his cashier, Grace could not have been more frightened. It seemed almost impossible to believe that her father, above all men, had committed this dreadful crime; but circumstances certainly pointed that way. Grace forced herself to speak.
"But what brought Mr. Holder in the bank last night?" she asked. She was surprised at the evenness of her own voice. "Mr. Holder has always been so methodical a man."
"No one quite seems to know, miss," Helen replied. "When Mr. Walters came this morning and opened the bank he found Mr. Holder lying there in front of the counter apparently dead. There was a wound in his forehead, and he had been bleeding freely. Possibly he had been attacked from behind, though that is uncertain. The skull was fractured, but that might have been caused by a fall after the wound was inflicted by his assailant. Again, it was possible that the poor gentleman attempted to commit suicide. That is all I can tell you, miss; but they say that there is very little hope of the poor old man's recovery."
Grace shuddered as she listened. It seemed to her that she must cry aloud and tell the world all she knew of this terrible crime. She did not for a moment doubt that she could lay her finger on the culprit. In the light of last night's happenings there could be no question as to where the blame lay. And yet Grace had read of things as bad as this; her newspaper reading told her that it was possible for men and women to lead long and honorable lives, and then commit some dastardly act at the finish.
But for her father's sake she must be silent. She would have to go downstairs presently and face him at the breakfast table, she would have to discuss this awful thing as if she were entirely ignorant of the past few hours.
"Was anything missing?" Grace asked. "Was robbery the motive of this shocking business? I am sure that Mr. Holder——"
"Nothing was missing at all," Helen explained. "There was no sign of a struggle, nothing had been disturbed, and none of the safes had been opened. I am told that the only thing is missing is Mr. Holder's duplicate key. They tell me it is impossible to open a safe unless master and Mr. Holder were there together. If this is so, it is very strange that the key should be missing."
Grace felt that she could discuss this thing no longer. She allowed herself passively to be dressed, and then went down to breakfast to face her father and play the sorry part that she had cast for herself. What a difference the last few hours had made. Here was the old house she loved so well looking just the same, and yet so strangely different. Anything would have been preferable to this gilded splendour, any broken-down ruin, so long as peace and contentment went with it. The mere sight of the well-appointed breakfast table filled Grace with a sense of nausea. The sight of food was distasteful. Before the empty grate stood Mark Anstey. He said nothing as Grace entered, he expressed no opinion and gave no sign of surprise as Grace proceeded to her place without the morning kiss she had given him ever since either of them could remember. Then there was a long and painful silence between them, so that Grace was forced to speak at length.
"I have heard everything," she murmured. "How is that poor man?"
It was some time before Anstey replied, indeed, he did not appear to hear Grace's question. He looked up with a guilty kind of start, his face was terribly old and grey in the strong morning light.
"I can't tell you," he stammered. "The shock has been so great that I have not recovered myself yet. I have just seen both the doctors, and they have considered it advisable to take poor Holder to Leverton Infirmary. It is the only chance they have of saving our old friend's life."
"There is no clue," Grace asked. "Nothing has been found I suppose to identify the culprit?"
"There is no clue whatever," Anstey replied. "We shall never discover who did that awful business."
"Oh, I am glad of that," Grace said hoarsely. "I am glad of that."
Anstey started as if something had stung him. He had taken in the full significance of Grace's strange speech. Anybody else might have wondered what she meant, but Anstey knew. For a full minute father and daughter sat looking into each other's eyes as if searching to peer into the depths of their own souls. There was a greyer tinge on Anstey's face as he forced himself to speak.
"What do you mean?" he whispered. "Why should you be glad to know that there is no chance——?"
"Oh, you know, you know," Grace said wildly. She crossed the room and closed the door gently. "Why should this shameful secret be made a mystery between you and me? During the last few hours I have lost everything that makes life dear. I have lost my lover, I have lost my father, though I am pledged to a life of misery for his sake. But I cannot play the hypocrite; I cannot sit opposite you day by day and carry out the miserable pretence of ignorance."
Anstey's face bent lower and lower over his plate. He had given up the farce of pretending to eat, the mere sight of food filled him with loathing.
"I must ask you to explain yourself," he whispered hoarsely.
"Is there any reason for explanation?" Grace asked. "You told me last night that you were on the verge of ruin, you told me that I should have to marry a man whom we both dislike and despise, so that the old name and the old house should be saved from disgrace. That was bad enough, but there is worse to come. When we parted a few hours ago you said that it was possible that I might be spared the sacrifice yet. But I was not easy in my mind; I could not shake off the impression that Mr. Cattley made upon me. When I saw him standing in the library he aroused vague memories. I could not forget that I had seen somewhere before the quaint pearl stud he was wearing in his shirt. Heaven knows why so small a thing made a great impression upon me, but there it was. It seemed to revive some unpleasant memories of my childhood——"
"For goodness sake, get to the point," Anstey cried irritably.
"That is the starting point of it all," Grace said. "I was worried and distressed, I could not sleep. I could not get that man out of my mind, and then it seemed to me that I heard footsteps. I watched and waited—I saw you go downstairs into the bank premises, and presently I saw you return. Your face was that—but I dare not describe your face. And on your hands and on the front of your shirt were spots—hideous spots—of blood."
But no reply came from Anstey, he seemed to have suddenly shrunk to the similitude of an old, old man. What reply he might possibly have made was prevented by the entrance of a young man who half apologised for his intrusion.
"You can come in, Mr. Walters," Grace said, with a faint smile. "Have you any fresh news to tell us?"
"I think we have found something, at any rate, Miss Anstey," Walters said. "I have just been to see poor Mr. Holder's landlady. I was desirous to find out if she happened to know what time he left the house last night. So far as Mrs. Pearson could tell she had not the remotest idea that he had left the house at all. As you may possibly be aware, Mr. Holder's rooms are exceedingly good ones; in fact, he has the best sitting-room at Pearson's Farm. There are two French windows in the room leading out on the lawn. Mr. Holder was a man of exceedingly regular habits, and invariably he spent the evening after dinner in reading. Being a student, he did not go to bed particularly early; indeed, not till long after the Pearsons as a rule. Pearson had gone into Leverton market yesterday; he did not return till late, so his wife was sitting up for him. As the night was warm Mr. Holder had the door open as well as the window, so that if anybody had been in the room besides himself Mrs. Pearson must have known it. She says that just after eleven she heard Mr. Holder talking to somebody, though she took little notice of the incident, thinking perhaps that Mr. Holder's visitor had entered by means of the window. He could not have come in by the front door, for the reason that the chain was up. So far as Mrs. Pearson could gather, the conversation was all one-sided, for she never heard the voice of the visitor at all. But she is prepared to swear to the fact that Mr. Holder said something to the effect that it was all right, and that he would see to the matter at once. Moreover, she heard him distinctly tear open an envelope as if somebody had brought him a letter. I could not find any more out than that, nor was there any sign of a note to be seen."
Grace did not dare to glance at her father during the recital of this story. It was not till Walters had left the room again that she spoke, and then in a whisper.
"That note must be found," she said. "Oh, it is no use your looking at me in that stupid way. I know what that note was—it was sent by you to Mr. Holder at the suggestion of Mr. Cattley, and 'Poor Billy' took it to Pearson's Farm."
Anstey looked at his daughter with an almost pitiful expression on his face. Grace proceeded in low and rapid tones.
"I overheard your quarrel. I came down for a piece of music, and certain words came to my ears. It is not for me to advise you what to do, it is enough that I am your daughter, and that I wish to save you from the consequences of this terrible crime. That note must be found, at any hazards you must get possession of it."
Anstey shook his head with the air of a man who finds fate too strong for him. His trembling hands sought Grace's, his touch was cold and clammy. She suffered it for a moment.
"I am prepared to swear to you," Anstey said in a voice scarce above a whisper. "In the presence of my Maker I am prepared to swear that if Holder dies the guilt will not lie on my soul. I want you to believe this, my child. I want you to feel that this disgrace is none of mine. Won't you believe me?"
Grace hesitated just for a moment, then she hardened her heart again. It seemed impossible in the light of common sense to doubt that Anstey was at the bottom of this thing.
"If you are innocent," she said, "then prove it. Surely it is easily done. Oh to think that I should sit here and judge the actions of my own father. I would give ten years of my life to undo the past few hours; but if you are guiltless, then tell me who the criminal is. Tell me what you were doing downstairs last night; tell me why your hands were stained with blood."
But Mark Anstey had no reply. He walked aimlessly about the room, he started at every sound outside. A servant came in presently with a message to the effect that the inspector of police from Leverton desired to see Mr. Anstey. As her father left the room Grace crossed over to the window and walked on to the lawn. She had absolutely no breakfast, she felt as if she would never want to eat again. As she stood there, with the fresh air of the morning blowing about her aching head she could see that Max Graham was coming up the drive. No words passed between them for a moment. Indeed Max was too shocked by Grace's white strained face to say anything. He could only hold her hand in his and look down into her grey eyes. For a time they walked up and down the terrace in silence. It was Max who spoke at length.
"This is a very sad business," he said. "I only heard it an hour ago. As I was riding along I met the ambulance going into Leverton, and they told me that poor Holder was in an exceedingly bad way. What has your father got to say about it?"
Grace controlled herself with a great effort. She felt a wild desire to tell Max everything. It seemed impossible to go on like this with no one to confide in. But even with Max such an act would be impossible. She replied in a dull, mechanical way that her father was greatly distressed by the extraordinary incidents of the night before.
A crowd had gathered round the outside of the bank premises proper, a policeman's helmet or two stood out from the group. Inside the bank were Inspector Baines, from Leverton, and a detective or two in plain clothes. Baines was talking earnestly to Anstey as Max Graham entered the bank. He said something to Anstey, but the latter did not appear to heed. There was no sign of the tragedy now, all that had been removed as soon as the body of the unfortunate man had been conveyed to Leverton.
"I hope you have a clue, inspector," Max asked. "This is a really terrible affair. Had you not better keep away, Grace?"
Grace had followed her lover into the bank, and was looking about her as if trying to reconstruct the dramatic scene of the night before. Inspector Baines turned from Anstey and shook his head. He was frankly and candidly puzzled.
"Not a trace of a clue, sir," he said. "A more mysterious affair I never tackled. And Mr. Holder of all persons in the world, too. He comes down to the bank at a most extraordinary hour, he finds somebody here who very nearly murders him, and yet so far as I can see there is not the slightest motive for crime. There is nothing missing, nothing has been tampered with, and if we could only find Mr. Holder's duplicate key, I should not be able to place my finger on any cause for this brutal crime. If you will excuse me gentlemen, I think I'll take a step over in the direction of Pearson's farm. I may find something there."
So saying Inspector Baines went off, followed by his satellites. Anstey walked out of the bank as if he saw nothing, and Graham followed him. One or two of the junior clerks were behind the counter by this time, attending to the routine business of the day, a few customers were there waiting to be attended to. Grace glanced about her, looking from the polished mahogany counters down to the plain brown linoleum with which the floor was covered. There was an ugly patch in the centre of it, and Grace shuddered as she averted her eyes. A tiny shining disc lay close to the bottom ledge of one of the counters. In some vague way it seemed familiar to Grace. She stooped and picked it up and held it to the light. She gave a sudden gasp; her heart was beating to suffocation. She clasped the tiny object in her hand, and made rapidly for the house.
For the thing that she held in her hand was the pearl stud she had noticed in Cattley's shirt-front the night before.
IV. — THE SCARLET LETTER
With a feeling of thankfulness that she had not met anybody on the way, Grace went up to her own bedroom. Not till she had locked the door behind her did she feel safe. Then she placed the pearl stud on the dressing-table and examined it carefully. She was quite sure that there was no mistake. There was the stud right enough, or, at least, so much of it as was needful for the purposes of identification. The gold part of it was missing, or probably it had remained firmly fixed in Cattley's shirt-front; but here was the jewel right enough. It was a black pearl of peculiar shape, and Grace felt no hesitation in believing it to be the one she had seen Cattley wearing the night before.
But this discovery only added to the mystery. Her father had told her that Cattley had left the premises at least an hour before it would have been possible for Mr. Holder to respond to the letter of his employer and reach the bank. According to what Walters said it was fully eleven o'clock before Mrs. Pearson had heard Holder talking to some visitor in his private sitting-room. The farmer's wife could have made no mistake, because she was sitting up for her husband, and had one eye on the clock all the time. The only explanation possible for the moment that Grace could think of was that her father was deceiving her. According to his account, Mr. Cattley had left the bank house an hour before Holder received that letter. On the face of it this could not be possibly true, or if it was true, then the evidence of the pearl stud went for nothing. That her father had sent a letter to Holder, Grace felt certain. She had overheard Cattley suggest this course; indeed she had seen the messenger produced who was going to take the note. In choosing his messenger, Cattley had displayed considerable cunning. "Poor Billy," being a deaf mute, was not in the least likely to be in the position to tell anybody that he had visited Mr. Holder the night before. More than this, Cattley betrayed a knowledge of the people of the neighborhood, or he would not have picked out "Poor Billy" to act as his tool in the matter.
The more Grace thought over the matter, the more puzzled did she become. It was quite evident to her that Cattley had not left the bank house at the time stated by her father. On the contrary, he must have been placed in the bank proper for some good reason. Indeed, he could not have got into the business premises without Anstey's consent and the use of his keys. Therefore, he must have been concealed there at the time of Holder's arrival.
It was a dreadful problem for a girl to have to work out unaided; and Grace's head ached now to such an extent that she could think no longer. She carefully locked the stud away, for there would be plenty of time to decide upon her course of action, and then she went downstairs once more. By this time the crowd had cleared away, and the business of the bank was proceeding as if nothing unexpected had taken place. To Grace's great relief her father was no longer in the house; evidently he had gone into the bank on business bent. Max had disappeared also, but he had left a message to say that he was coming back as soon as he had been to Pearson's Farm. Grace crossed the meadows in the direction of the river, vaguely hoping that she would meet Max there as usual. She waited some little time before she heard the familiar footstep at length, and Max's familiar figure came in sight. It was very quiet there, with no chance of interruption. Max's face was somewhat grave as he took his seat by Grace's side. Neither of them spoke for a moment; it was evident to Grace that Max had a weight upon his mind almost as great as her's.
"I am going to speak very plainly to you, dearest," he said. "It seems to me that I have made a discovery. I was dining with the Brookses last night—you know Brooke, the London banker, who has taken Lord Fernley's place?"
"I have not yet called upon them," Grace said, abruptly.
"Well, old Brooks is a great friend of my father's, and he let something out last night which rather opened my eyes to the reason why your father has so greatly changed his manner to me of late. My dearest girl, did it ever strike you that possibly your father is short of money? But such things do happen, you know."
Grace looked up at her lover with a startled expression on her face. She let her head fall wearily against his shoulder; it was good to feel the pressure of that strong arm about her waist. Here was the one man she loved best of all in the world, and to him she could confide, feeling that her confidence would not be violated. But not everything, Grace told herself. She could not tell even Max everything. The dreadful secret must remain.
"It is strange that you should mention that," she said. "Max, I am going to tell you all I dare. My father wants me to marry Stephen Rice. A few weeks ago and he would have scorned the suggestion of even asking that man to the house. He cannot defend himself when I mention you; he has nothing to say against you, and how he is going to account for his conduct when he meets the general, I cannot possibly tell."
"I hope it won't be when my father is suffering from one of his attacks of neuralgia," Max said. "But this is too serious a subject for jest, darling. I suppose the long and short of it is that your father has been speculating. Did he not tell you as much when you spoke to him last night?"
"I am afraid there is something more than mere lack of money," Grace said. "My father hinted at dishonor and a scandal which would be talked over for years. I don't know how Stephen Rice got to know of this, but I am perfectly sure that he is fully acquainted which the real position of affairs."
"I know," Max said between his teeth. "I know what that scoundrel means to do. You must not marry him, little girl; much as I love you I would see you in your grave first. It is not for me to say anything of that man's vices. But I know what an abandoned scoundrel he is. A greater ruffian never lived. So he would come in and buy your father's freedom, and your poor white body will be the price of the sacrifice. Before God, this thing must not be, it shall not be. I would kill Stephen Rice with my own hand first. I would shoot him like a dog."
Max had risen to his feet in his passion, his voice rang out loud and clear. A passing keeper paused and looked towards the speaker, and then passed on wondering what young Mr. Graham was quarrelling with his sweetheart about. Grace had risen too and laid her hand timidly on her lover's arm. The touch seemed to soothe him, for he grew quiet again.
"I feel like a slave in the market," Grace said. "Oh, it is horrible to think that a father should sell his child like this. For it is exactly as you say, Max. Twenty thousand pounds stands in the one scale and myself in the other. That man professes to love me—possibly he does love me in his own dogged way—and yet I cannot bear the touch of his fingers."
But Max did not appear to be listening. Evidently he was turning over some deep project in his mind.
"I think I can see a way out of the difficulty," he said. "At any rate, I can show your father that my affection for you is pure and disinterested. As you know, I am entitled to a little more than that amount of money when I reach the age of twenty-five. I will go to London to-morrow and make arrangements with my trustees to advance me the whole of the money. Then I can go to your father and tell him boldly that I have learnt everything and offer to free him from Rice altogether. Badly as your father is behaving to you, I cannot bring myself to believe that he favors Rice from any feelings of friendship."
Grace looked up with a grateful smile; the tremendous sacrifice that Max was prepared to make filled her with an overpowering sense of love and gratitude. It was good to know that a man so noble as this loved her so deeply for her own sake.
"But I could not let you do it," she protested. "I could not allow you to beggar yourself like that for me."
"But I should not suffer," Max said. "I should place the money, implicitly, in your father's hands and should get just as much interest on it as I do now. Let us look upon it as a business transaction, Gracie. And now that your troubles are as good as over, just give me a kiss and let us talk about more pleasant things."
