The Black Abbot
down and spend the week-end with them, and of course I’d much rather
stay up here with you. But I feel I ought to have it out with Arthur
and let him know that my affections are no longer his. After all, even
if we didn’t get the fortune, I know that I’m dealing with a gentleman
who doesn’t want me for my money alone. And you’re not exactly a
pauper, are you, dear? I went and asked a young gentleman I know at
Stubbs’ Agency, and they told me that you were worth at least a
hundred thousand pounds.”
Gilder groaned.
“And I have your promise, in writing.”
“Yes, you’ve got everything, my dear Mary,” he said wearily.
“And, Fabe, dear, such a curious thing happened about that paper. When
I took it from under my pillow this morning what do you think? All the
writing had disappeared! You could have knocked me down with a
feather.”
He stirred uneasily in his chair.
“That is most extraordinary,” he found words to say.
“I was so upset about it that I took it to a gentleman friend of mine,
who’s in the conjuring business. You’ve probably seen him: he takes
rabbits out of paper bags, and he says that you must have used
invisible ink, and he showed me how to bring the writing back and make
it permanent.”
“And did you?” asked Gilder hollowly.
“Why, of course I did, dear. You just squeeze a lemon, rub it over the
paper and hold it in front of the fire.”
Gilder’s head reeled. All he could say was “Oh!” This was
awkward--very awkward; but it was a difficulty that might easily be
surmounted. At the worst he could buy her off for a thousand, and the
promise of marriage was contingent.… Still it was a very unpleasant
document to be produced even in a breach of promise case; for, strong
in the faith of the invisible quality of his ink, he had made an
agreement which was very damaging to himself.
“Are you going to stay with the Gwyns?”
“I think so, dear.” The hesitation was assumed, he knew; she had
already made up her mind. “I really think that I ought to go. Arthur,
of course, is a very old friend, and although he’s nothing to me, any
more than the dirt beneath my feet, and I should no more think of
throwing myself at his head than I should of flying to the moon--well,
I feel I ought to go.”
“Then, for heaven’s sake, go!” he said curtly, and she murmured her
thanks, and would have lingered on, but he accompanied her to the door
and opened it very pointedly.
He gathered that, whilst she held him to his promise, she had not
altogether lost hope of bringing Arthur Gwyn to heel.
She had hardly left the place before a telegraph boy arrived. Gilder
was expecting a wire from one of his bookmaking businesses, now in
process of liquidation, since their only client had passed from active
operations. The telegram was addressed from a village five miles from
Chelfordbury and ran:
Get down here as fast as you can. Big news for you.
It was signed “T.”
Would Thomas talk? And what had he to say?
XXXIII
The groom who brought Dick Alford’s horse to the door had a report
to make.
“That fellow was seen last night, sir.”
“Which fellow is this?” asked Dick, as he swung into the saddle.
“The Black Abbot, sir. Gill, the gamekeeper up at Long Meadow Cottage,
saw him at four o’clock this morning walking through the long meadow.
By the time Gill got his gun he’d vanished.”
“And what was the Black Abbot doing in the Long Meadow?” asked Dick
sardonically. “Picking buttercups?”
“It’s rather late for buttercups, sir,” said the unimaginative groom.
“But Gill says that if he’d had his gun he’d have taken a pot at him.”
“And there would have been an inquest, and the best Gill could hope
for would be a verdict of justifiable homicide. You can tell Gill from
me that the Black Abbot is to be tackled--by hand! A live ghost will
tell us a lot, but a dead ghost is practically useless as an
information bureau.”
He cantered through the home meadows, behind the house, and, avoiding
the Abbey ruins, rejoined the winding Ravensrill. Setting his horse at
a walk, he followed the bank of the stream, his mind so completely
occupied by the events of the past twenty-four hours that he would
have passed unnoticed the girl who was lying face downward on the
opposite bank.
It was a glorious morning, warm and sunny. The sky was an unblemished
blue, the world was bathed in yellow radiance. Overhead, a flight of
migratory birds were moving southward, and the faint chatter of them
came down to him.…
“Good-morning, Sir Galahad!”
He reined up his horse and looked round in bewilderment. Presently he
saw her.
“Good-morning, Guinevere!” he said, and, turning his horse’s head to
the stream, he came gingerly down the slope and sent the reluctant
horse into the water.
“Be careful!”
“There’s a ford here,” he said. “In fact,” as he emerged with his
horse’s girth dripping, “this is the original Chelford. Knights in
armour, and probably Britons in feathers and woad, have crossed
Ravensrill at this spot. What on earth are you doing?”
He slipped to the ground, dropping the reins, and allowed his mount to
forage at will. She was lying now at full length, but resting on her
elbows. Immediately beneath her face was a slab of rock in the centre
of which a hole some eighteen inches in diameter had been worn. When
he saw this he laughed softly.
“Leslie, what questions have you to ask the Wishing Well?”
Why it was called the Wishing Well he had never learnt--no water had
ever risen from that deep cavity which, by some freak of nature,
extended to unplumbed depths. Yet here, generations of country swains
had come to prostrate themselves and bellow into the cavity the burden
of their hearts’ desire. And tradition had it that the well answered
them clearly and intelligibly.
“I’m asking about me.” Her face was pink, probably from her unusual
posture.
“And what said the well?” he mocked.
She scrambled to her knees and pushed back the hair from her forehead.
“I’ll not tell you. Ask something!”
With a growl and a groan he stretched himself on the warm grass and,
hollowing his hands, roared into the crevice:
“What is going to happen to Leslie?”
They waited, and then the echo came back, queerly distorted yet
distinct.
“Marry her!”
They laughed together. It was the trick of some hollow place below
that through the ages had sent back the same reply to every question.
He got up to his feet.
“I wish you wouldn’t wander around without my escort,” he said
seriously, and she laughed.
Never had he seen her looking more beautiful than that morning. She
was a thing of air and sunlight, a baffling unreality that did not
belong to the sordid world in which he was living.
“I got up early and was bored, so I went walking, and then I thought
of the well and wondered whether it had learnt any new tricks.
Arthur’s very conscious of his eye and he won’t go out until his face
is normal. Poor Arthur!” She hesitated, looking at him. “You haven’t
found----” She did not finish the sentence.
“The gentleman who did the shooting? No, but we have a pretty shrewd
idea. By the way, I have fired Thomas. You remember that hang-dog
footman who was always near at hand when he shouldn’t have been?”
“What has he done?” she asked.
“Nothing particular. He is an ex-convict: Puttler recognized him as
soon as he arrived; and I found him at three o’clock this morning
coming out of the library and made him turn out his pockets. He had no
very considerable sum of money in his possession, but the chances are
that he had cached it. Poor old Harry is such a slacker in the matter
of keeping accounts that it will be almost impossible to secure a
conviction. Of course, Thomas swore the money we found--not a large
amount--was his, and as it meant a fuss in waking up Harry, who I am
perfectly sure could have given us no information, we allowed the
brute to get away with it.”
“Where is he now?”
“Thomas? I expect he caught the first train for London. I don’t
suppose he’ll be applying for a job in the neighbourhood, but to be on
the safe side you had better tell your brother.”
There was a moment of silence, then she asked:
“Did you find the rifle?”
He shook his head.
“It was an army rifle, but there isn’t such a thing at Fossaway Manor,
though there are plenty in the village. In fact, nearly a dozen of our
people working on the estate are Territorials. Puttler says that a
poacher’s gang was responsible.”
Dick was a poor liar, but Leslie suspected nothing and did not
question this theory. If she had, she might have pointed out that
poachers use shotguns and snares, and that the rifle as an instrument
for the destruction of game was about as valuable as a steam-hammer
for tacking down carpets.
They walked across the field toward Willow House, Dick leading his
horse.
“I want you to make me a promise, Leslie,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked, knowing before he spoke what it would be.
“I want you to promise me not to take these early morning walks, to
use your car and to keep to the roads.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Why? Surely there is no danger? You’re not afraid of the Black
Abbot?”
But he did not answer her smile.
“No,” he said. “I’m not afraid especially of the Black Abbot, but I’m
very much afraid of the something that is behind the Black Abbot.”
She knew that he did not wish to be questioned further, and changed
the subject. She had a visitor coming, she told him, and only when she
told him who it was, did his eyes twinkle.
“Good Lord! That lady? I suppose you realize you’re harbouring a
dangerous rival?”
“Don’t be horrid, Dick. The poor girl was very fond of Harry, and in
the letter she wrote to me she told me that she hoped I wouldn’t be
embarrassed by her coming----”
“She would say that,” said Dick grimly.
“--and that she had almost forgotten Harry’s stupid infatuation.”
Dick stopped to laugh.
“Can you beat that?” he asked, with tears in his eyes. “Jumping
snakes! ‘Harry’s stupid infatuation’! Well, I won’t be ungenerous.”
“Don’t,” she warned him. “I’m rather sorry for the girl.”
“Don’t,” he mimicked. “You need never be sorry for Mary. If you keep
her off the subject of me, you’ll have a very pleasant week-end. But
in the matter of Richard Alford she is a fanatic. I won’t tell you the
horrid things she says of me, because it would prejudice you against
her.”
“How do you know?” she challenged. “Quite a number of people say
horrid things about Richard Alford.”
“Not to you,” he said quietly, and she flushed and again changed the
subject.
“I don’t know why I’m up so early; I didn’t go to bed till two.”
“It was ten minutes past two when your light went out,” he said
promptly, and she stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“I happened to be passing your house.”
He was in such a hurry to explain that she was suspicious.
“The Black Abbot was about last night. Puttler and I did a little
ghost-hunting.”
“Did you see him?”
He shook his head.
“Nobody saw him except a terrified gamekeeper.”
Suddenly she turned to him with a little gasp of surprise.
“It _was_ you!” she accused.
“What was me?”
“I am sure I saw somebody at the lower end of the drive. You were
smoking a cigar: I could see the little red glow; and at first I
thought it was Harry, and this morning I found the end of the cigar
near the lodge gates--Richard Alford, do you ever sleep?”
“Frequently,” he said, with a smile, and put his arm round her
shoulder. “I’m being brotherly: take no alarm,” he mocked her.
“Leslie, dear, will you promise?”
“What?” she asked.
“Not to wander through the fields at odd hours. I don’t want to alarm
you--I feel a brute as it is--but there may be real danger for the
next day or two. Please don’t ask me what it is, because I can’t tell