The Black Abbot
whole wretched trouble is at an end, come to me for any money you
want--for the girl. I knew her father and her uncle, and the
great-uncle who left her a lot of money, which I suppose has gone up
in smoke with the rest, and I’m willing to go a long way to help her.
But you mustn’t pledge your credit, Dick, for that worthless man.”
Dick came away from the City, weary and sick at heart, too dispirited
even to interview the fourth man he had intended to see. His only hope
now was his brother, and he knew Harry’s obstinacy too well to expect
help from that quarter, which could not even be asked for except by
betraying as the borrower the man for whom he had conceived an
unreasoning hatred.
Monkey Puttler met him at the station and had a piece of news to
impart.
“That bird Thomas is still in the neighbourhood,” he said. “He’s been
living in Gilder’s cottage.”
“Indeed?” said Dick. He was really not concerned with Thomas or Gilder
or anything in the wide world except the heartbreak that awaited
Leslie Gwyn.
“Gilder’s been down to-day. Ascot’s all over, isn’t it? Anyway, he was
dressed like a doctor in new clothes--top hat and everything.”
“Where has he been?” asked Dick, with sudden interest.
“I don’t know. I guess he went to call on Mr. Gwyn. I saw his car
coming out of the drive, and he looked very pleased with himself. And
I’ve found the rifle.”
“Where did you find it?” asked Dick quickly.
“Up against the river. Someone must have thrown it in, but didn’t
throw hard enough. There were three or four cartridges still in the
magazine--a sporting Lee-Enfield. They’ve tried the knife and they’ve
tried the gun; I wonder what new one they’ll put out on us.”
“Have you seen Harry?”
“Saw him this afternoon,” said the cheerful Puttler. “He worked that
chesil gag on me, but I didn’t give him my views.”
In spite of his anxiety, Dick smiled.
“Have you any views on chesils?”
“Yes, sir,” said the other confidently. “He thinks chesil is an
instrument. He doesn’t seem to realize that in Elizabethan times
‘chesil’ meant ‘gravel’ or ‘shingle.’”
Dick stopped and stared at him.
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Ever heard of a place called Chelsea?” said the informative Mr.
Puttler. “Do you know what ‘Chelsea’ means? It means ‘Chesil Ey’ or
Shingle Island. Why, the word isn’t even obsolete; you’ll find it in
any dictionary. The new ‘chesil’ that is spoken of in the Diary is a
load of shingle he got from Brighthelmstone. That’s Brighton. Now, why
did the old bird want shingle? Obviously to put in some kind of
concrete or mortar.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t start on the treasure, or I shall go mad!”
groaned Dick. “At any rate, you don’t believe in its existence, thank
goodness!”
“I do,” said the surprising man emphatically. “I’m as sure that those
thousand bars of gold are in existence as I’m certain you and I are
walking up this road. Your brother’s got a book down that shows all
Queen Elizabeth’s private accounts; there’s the million she stole from
the Spanish ships that put into an English port when they were on
their way to Holland; there’s the money she got from Drake and the
other seagoing burglars; but there’s not a hint of the Chelford gold.”
“Then where is it?” asked Dick in exasperation.
“Ask me before I go,” replied the other cryptically.
XXXIX
A dozen letters were written and burnt in the fireplace of her
bedroom before Leslie composed the one that was eventually placed in
an envelope and addressed to “Fabrian Gilder, Esq., 35, Regency
Mansions, London.” She had written:
Dear Mr. Gilder:
I agree to your terms. The money or equivalent shares must be
deposited in the Horsham branch of the Southern & Midland Bank, in the
name of Leslie Gilder, so that I may have control of the account from
the moment I am married. I do not expect you to trust the word of one
of my family, and I presume that you will wish the marriage to take
place in the next few days. Will you please make arrangements for the
ceremony, and tell me when and where I am to meet you? I expect it to
be at a registrar’s office by special license. I can only say that,
although this marriage is not of my seeking, you may trust me to be a
loyal wife.
Very sincerely,
Leslie Gwyn.
The last post was collected by a motor-cyclist postman at ten o’clock
from a little wall box not a hundred yards from the house. There was
an earlier collection, but somehow she could not bring herself to post
the letter until the very last moment. Ten o’clock was an unusually
late hour for a country collection, but it was the last box on the
postman’s route and was an especially convenient arrangement, not only
for the inhabitants of Fossaway Manor, but for the tenant farmers who
wished to notify their daily consignments.
She saw Arthur at dinner after the letter was written, but beyond the
exchange of a few commonplaces they did not speak. He went back to his
study, carrying his coffee with him, and she was left alone to the
contemplation of the dark future. She wished she had seen Dick before
she wrote, but it was too late now. Gilder had asked her to give him
his answer that night, and she had promised.
What would Dick say? She screwed up her eyes tightly as though to hide
the vision of him, and her lips trembled.
“No weakness, Danton!” It was a favourite quotation of her childhood,
and had been the slogan at all moments when tears were near at hand.
She took the letter from her bag and looked at it. Stamped, addressed,
she had but to drop this into the little letter box, and thereafter
the angle of life was twisted to a new prospect: the bleakest,
dreariest prospect that any woman had faced.
And it had to be done. The hands of the clock moved slowly and
inexorably round. Nine o’clock--a quarter after--twenty minutes before
ten; she set her teeth and got up from the little table where she had
been trying in vain to concentrate her mind upon a game of patience,
went upstairs and put on her hat and coat, and, with the letter
tightly gripped in her hand, stole down across the hall, opened the
door, and went out.
It was very dark; she could scarcely see her way down the drive. Clear
of the overhanging trees, her eyes, grown accustomed to the darkness,
made out the road. She thought that she saw somebody on the road ahead
and heard footsteps, but she was nervous, she told herself.
Nevertheless, she stopped and listened. She heard nothing and went on.
A few minutes’ walk brought her to the pillar box, and here she
waited. A big spot of rain fell upon her hand; she heard the sough of
the wind through the trees; and then, far away, she saw a tiny star of
light and heard the faint clank of the postman’s cycle. She thrust the
letter into the box and turned to retrace her steps.
Then it occurred to her that the postman would pass her, and she did
not wish to see him. Which way should she go? Her heart and
inclinations beckoned to Fossaway Manor. Dick--she must see Dick. She
fought against the madness; the postman’s light grew brighter. Then
she ran down toward the cut road, through the gate and up the slope to
the Abbey. There she sat down to recover her breath, and presently she
saw the reflection of a lamp, heard the thunder of the postman’s
motor-cycle as it passed.
There went fate, on that dark road, noisily, bumpily. The red light
faded from sight, and she got up, walked leisurely past the Abbey
ruins, without one thought of ghosts or haunting spirits, and took the
lower and shorter path to the Manor.
She was halfway across the long meadow when she stopped. Fear was
clutching at her heart; she could feel the flesh creep on her neck,
and, turning, looked back. Somebody was following her. Consciously she
had heard no sound, but to her heart flashed a warning signal that set
it racing. She could see nobody. It must be her imagination, she told
herself; yet here, reason and instinct were at variance, and instinct
won. She _knew_ there was somebody immediately behind her, less than
twenty yards away.
She could intercept the long drive to Fossaway Manor before she could
reach the house. She decided to make the longer journey, and, turning
abruptly, walked with quick strides across the velvety grass-land in
the direction of the elms which flanked the drive. Once she looked
back, and thought she saw a moving shape. She quickened her steps,
broke into a gentle run. She must not allow blind panic to overcome
her, she told herself.
Again she looked back but saw nothing, and, ashamed of her fear, she
slowed to a walk and reached the elms and the drive with heartfelt
thankfulness. Exactly how she should break in upon Dick she did not
know. She hoped he would be in his study, and that she could call him
out from the lawn.
Nearer and nearer she came to the house, and then, of a sudden, she
whipped round. Somebody was behind her: she was sure of it now. She
heard the sound of feet upon the gravelled road.
“Who is there?” she called.
There was no answer, but the footsteps stopped. They might be walking
on the grassy verge, she thought, and, turning, ran up the drive.
Whoever followed was running, too. She heard a sibilant whisper and
her blood turned cold. Then, as she emerged from the trees, she saw a
figure against the gray sheen of the round pound, saw the shape of
it--the long habit and the heavy cowl. With a scream she flew.
The drive continuing past the window would bring her to Dick’s study.
She saw with a gasp of relief that the door was open and a light
shining inside. Over her shoulder she saw the queer shape again, and
screamed. In an instant Dick was out of the study and had caught her
in his arms.
He listened to her breathless story, then, almost carrying her to his
room, he put her in a chair and ran out into the night. In a few
minutes he came back.
“I saw nothing,” he said. “It was the Black Abbot, you say?”
“I don’t know; something in a cowl and habit: I’m sure of that.”
It was a bad introduction to the story she had to tell; indeed, in her
terror, she almost forgot the object of her visit.
“Did Arthur come with you?”
She shook her head.
“Dick, I know,” were the first words she said when she had recovered
her breath.
“You know what?”
“About Lady Chelford’s money.”
She saw his face change.
“Did he tell you?” he asked, the red coming into his face.
“Not Arthur, no. It was Gilder.”
“Mr. Gilder told you? I knew he had been and I knew he had called. Was
that why he came?”
She nodded.
“For nothing else?”
“Yes; he came to offer me the money.”
She saw his eyes narrow.
“He did? At a price, of course?”
She nodded.
“And you--what did you say?”
She found a difficulty in breathing; speech for the moment was
impossible without making a fool of herself.
“You agreed?”
She nodded again.
“I have just posted the letter to him,” she said.
She saw him bite his lip and a red spot of blood showed. If he had
stormed at her, cursed her, she could have borne it; but he did no
more than look at her. There was nothing in his gaze that was
uncharitable.
“Oh, Dick, Dick!” She was sobbing on his breast and his arms were
about her, comforting her.
“You can’t do it, my dear. Anything is better than that.”
She shook her head, incapable of speech.
“I tell you anything is better than that.” His voice was hard,
uncompromising. “Better Arthur go down for five years than that you
should live in hell all your life! I know that man--I know his
kind--it isn’t his years, it’s his mind and his evil heart. If he were
twenty I would say, ‘No, you can’t do it, Leslie.’”
She pushed herself gently away from him and dried her eyes.