The Master of the Priory (19 page)

The pity in Sir Oswald's eyes grew and strengthened.

“I think I understand,” he said quietly.

“How can you when I cannot even understand myself?” the girl questioned hotly. “He saw the tear-marks on my face, he saw the state of agitation I was in, and with a few adroit words he got the whole story out of me. Then he played upon my feelings until I burst out passionately that I would do anything to revenge myself upon my father. That I too would marry—would marry anybody. That was his opportunity, and he took it. The end of it was that I never went back to the house, that I went away with him to London. There he procured a special licence—he had saved a hundred or two, and was not inclined to spare them when it was a question of marrying Lord Treadstone's daughter—and before I had time to realize anything I was married.”

She paused and glanced around. Sir Oswald caught a glimpse of the anguish in her eyes.

“That I awoke to find myself in hell was a foregone conclusion,” she went on. “But I had a proud and stubborn nature. I hugged my poor revenge, I would not go to my father for help, and he would do nothing for me as long as I remained with my husband. That he—John—was disappointed is easily understood, and also that he vented his disappointment on me. The rest you can guess for yourself—the utter misery such folly must entail, culminating in that tragedy at Carlyn.” She shuddered and hid her face in her hands.

Sir Oswald's knee was again forgotten as he stood up beside her.

“I can imagine everything,” he said gravely. “But I want you to forget all that, dear. I want you to remember only that we are together and that we love each other.”

For a moment he thought she was about to yield to his embrace, but she put out her hands to keep him at arm's length.

“I have never said I loved you.”

“No you have not,” he assented. “But you are going to, aren't you, Elizabeth? You don't know how I am longing to hear those words from your lips—‘I love you, Oswald.'”

“Oh, what does it matter whether I do or don't?” she burst out passionately. “Because it must end here. What difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world to me,” Sir Oswald said as he drew her into his arms at last. “Just all the difference, my sweet Elizabeth. For you may be Rosamond to all the world. You will always be Elizabeth to me.”

S
IR
O
SWALD
D
AVENANT
was resting after dinner. In accordance with Dr. Spencer's instructions it had been brought to him in the morning-room. Garth was dining with the Treadstones. Every now and then, when the dining-room door was opened, Sir Oswald could catch the sound of voices. He strained his ears and listened for the faintest echo of the one he loved. But it was always Garth who was talking, no slightest sound from Elizabeth reached him.

Presently, however, he could tell that they were leaving the dining-room. His face brightened, the expectancy in his eyes deepened. Surely she would have pity on him—his lady of delight. She had torn herself from him so abruptly an hour ago, she had refused to listen to him any longer, but she must know that he longed for her presence, how the very thought that she was in the house was a sort of intoxication to him. At last the door opened slowly, and Sir Oswald started forward eagerly, only to fall back with a sigh of disappointment when Lady Treadstone entered.

She smiled as she saw his expression. “I feel that I must apologize to you for being myself,” she said as she sat down in a low chair by the fire. “But Rosamond has asked me to talk to you, Sir Oswald, to explain.”

Sir Oswald stirred restlessly.

“It seems to me that we have had enough explanations. I don't want them, but I did want Elizabeth.”

“But I am sure you will not refuse to hear what she wishes you to know?” Lady Treadstone returned with a quiet air of dignity.

She made a very gracious and pleasant picture as she sat there, the silk folds of her gown falling round her, priceless old lace shrouding her neck and wrists, the firelight shining on the jewels in her hair, gleaming round her throat and arms. But there was sadness in her smile and in the glance of her eyes.

“First she sends you a message,” she went on slowly. “She bade me tell you that though you surprised the secret of her love from her this afternoon, you must forget it and her.”

“Forget it and her!” Sir Oswald repeated incredulously. His dark face looked haggard as he leaned forward, his eyes were restless and eager.

“Tell her that I shall think of it and her every moment of my life,” he said passionately. “What does she take me for? That she thinks I can forget at a word.”

“She thinks you are her very true and loyal friend,” said Lady Treadstone softly. “For anything else”—she spread out her hands—“she looks upon herself as one set apart, no closer ties are possible.”

“They are possible. They shall be possible,” affirmed Sir Oswald stoutly. He caught his breath quickly. “Won't you be on my side, Lady Treadstone? Can't you help me to persuade her to be my wife? To give me the right to defend her?”

Lady Treadstone looked back at him steadily.

“I am sure that I could not shake her determination, Sir Oswald, nor do I wish to. I believe her to be quite right. How could she marry you, or anyone, knowing that this charge of murder was hanging over her, that at any moment she might be arrested?”

That for one second before he answered Sir Oswald hesitated was obvious, and Lady Treadstone smiled slightly. He recovered himself instantly.

“I would take her abroad where no rascally detectives could find her,” he said stoutly. “I will take care of her.”

Lady Treadstone sighed.

“And what sort of a life would you lead, Sir Oswald? Haunted, a prey to a thousand fears. And what of your duties at the Priory, your mother and Maisie? No, Rosamond is right, she can never be your wife unless—”

Sir Oswald caught at the words. “Unless what?” he questioned eagerly.

“Unless the cloud is cleared away from her life,” Lady Treadstone said impressively. “Until the world knows that she had no share in her husband's death, and the real murderer is found. Ah, Sir Oswald, it is a harder task than was ever set to knight-errant of old, but if you could do that—” she paused expressively.

Sir Oswald started.

“You have given me hope at last, Lady Treadstone,” he cried enthusiastically. “I will devote my life to clearing her name, and then—then I will come back to the Hold.”

“And I don't think you will come in vain,” Lady Treadstone said soberly. “But there is much to do before that can happen, Sir Oswald.” She put up her handkerchief and wiped away a tear. “You don't know how I have longed for someone to give me help and counsel,” she went on. “The whole story seems fraught with mystery. Often I lie awake all night thinking of it, trying to see some explanation. My poor Rosamond cannot bear to speak of Winter's death. Until last night I had never heard from her the true story of that dreadful day as she knew it.”

Sir Oswald sat upright, a look of energy and purpose had come into his face, and his eyes were bright and determined.

“Please give me all the help you can, Lady Treadstone. Tell me everything you know.”

“I will, very gladly,” was Lady Treadstone's response.

She leaned back in her chair and holding up her fan moved it to and fro in her delicate fingers as she spoke.

“Rosamond has told you the story of her most unhappy marriage, I know,” she said slowly. “I will leave that, except to say that I shall always blame myself for my share in it, for consenting to marry Lord Treadstone, the lover of my girlish days, without insisting on making his daughter's acquaintance first. He thought it best so, the girl had been so spoiled, she would resent the marriage less if she knew nothing of it until it was an accomplished fact. The event proved how utterly he was wrong, and Rosamond in her anger spoiled her own life and broke her father's heart. For he was never the same afterwards; he had been very proud of her beauty and high-spiritedness, and the news of her elopement was the most horrible blow to him. As for her, poor unhappy girl, one can imagine what her life must have been with a man like Winter—a man, moreover, who cared nothing for her, who only thought of marrying Lord Treadstone's heiress.”

She stopped a moment and looked into the flames with reflective eyes.

Sir Oswald did not speak, but the lines of his mouth were stern beneath his drooping dark moustache; his right hand clenched and unclenched itself nervously.

Presently Lady Treadstone went on:

“Winter soon found that he had made a mistake. Rosamond had no money of her own; there had been some flaw in her mother's marriage settlement, and her father refused to help her while she remained with her husband, and unhappy as she was the girl was far too proud to confess her mistake. Winter lost money over his farming, over his attempt at horse training, drifted from one thing to another until finally he became gamekeeper at Carlyn Hall. Then the final tragedy began. Rosamond had had one child; it died the year before they went to Carlyn, and she was more miserable and more embittered than ever. She had no friends, and it was impossible for her to associate intimately with the village women. Then Frank Carlyn came to the cottage one day. He was kind and sympathetic; he spoke to her as if she had been of his own class, he offered to lend her books. He came again and talked them over with her. Rosamond has told me, and I fully believe her, that there was nothing, not even friendship between them; but his visits to the cottage were noticed, and comments upon them reached Winter's ears. He was furious; coming home the worse for drink, he abused Rosamond in the coarsest terms; from words he went on to blows.”

Sir Oswald drew a long breath.

“Brute! I wish I had had the good luck to be the man that shot him.”

“Ah!” He could see that Lady Treads tone was deeply moved, her voice trembled as she went on. “In the midst of it Frank Carlyn appeared on the scene; he, of course, espoused Rosamond's part, and further infuriated Winter, who assailed him with the vilest accusations and threats. The quarrel was hot and furious; terrified, Rosamond rushed away into the wood; how long she remained there, crouching and sobbing, she never knew, but when at last she made her way back to the cottage all was quiet—too quiet. Of Carlyn there was no sign, but Winter lay in front of the cottage dead. Then Rosamond made the second great mistake of her life. She felt convinced that Carlyn had killed her husband; she knew that if she stayed to face the inevitable inquiry the fact that she was Lord Treadstone's daughter was certain to leak out. It never occurred to her that she might be accused of the murder, and she thought that by running away she would avoid bringing this terrible disgrace upon the father she still loved. She had always kept up with one friend of her past life, Elizabeth Martin, the vicar's daughter, and in her despair she turned to her for refuge. Miss Martin was just then living in rooms in London; she took Rosamond in and mothered her; she tried to persuade her to declare herself. In vain; Rosamond was terrified when she found herself accused of the murder in the papers, and nothing could be done with her. When illness overtook Miss Martin she had just obtained the post of governess to Maisie, and on her death-bed the scheme whereby Rosamond took her place was evolved by her. The rest you know, Sir Oswald.”

“Some of it!” Sir Oswald qualified. His deep-set eyes were bright and eager. “But there is one important point that I want clearing up. Who do you, who does Rosamond, think killed her husband?” Lady Treadstone sighed again.

“Rosamond has never doubted that Frank Carlyn fired the fatal shot in a rage,” she said slowly. “And she blames herself cruelly for her share in the matter, for her folly, as she calls it, in talking to Carlyn and reading his books, and thereby rousing Winter's anger.”

Sir Oswald leaned back in his chair.

“Frank Carlyn never did it,” he said conclusively. “Though I haven't seen much of him of late years I knew him well as a boy; he was frank, generous and open-hearted, passionate too, I grant. He might have shot Winter in a rage. But as for concealing the fact and letting a woman be accused of his crime and hunted high and low—why, the idea is impossible, unthinkable.”

“So I have sometimes argued,” Lady Treadstone assented, shutting up her fan and letting it drop in her lap. “But if he did not, who did? There does not seem to be room for a third person in Rosamond's story.”

“Room or not, there is one,” Sir Oswald declared vigorously; he paused a moment, then he broke out again energetically, “I'll go down to Carlyn at once. I have been told sometimes that I have the detective instinct. I'll see if I can't make use of it for once.”

Lady Treadstone did not look very hopeful. It seemed to her that not much could be expected of amateur help. She would have preferred to hear that Sir Oswald was going to engage a capable private detective. Still, she did not argue; time, she reflected, would probably show him the wiser course.

She got up now and standing for a moment on the fur rug, looked down at the young man with her faint, troubled smile.

“I think your cousin wants to see you! I will send him in now that I have accomplished my errand. If I have somewhat exceeded my instructions—well, I hope I shall not find it difficult to win Rosamond's forgiveness.”

Sir Oswald caught her hand as she passed and pressed his lips to it.

“You have at least gained my eternal gratitude,” he said fervently. “You have given me something to hope and work for. I will find this cowardly scoundrel, Lady Treadstone.”

“I hope so,” she said wistfully, as she opened the door. She waited a minute, as if about to speak, then changing her mind she closed the door behind her. In the hall she hesitated; she could hear voices, Garth Davenant's and her step-daughter's.