The Secret of Greylands (3 page)

Presently the road grew rough and uneven. The market-cart was of the most primitive description, and Cynthia was jolted about and shaken from side to side till she had much ado to hold herself in her place. The driver took it all phlegmatically, never even glancing at Cynthia. At length a particularly deep rut almost shook the girl from her seat, and she caught hold of the rail in front.

“Are we far from Greylands?” she gasped.

“A matter of four miles or so,” Mr Joyce replied stolidly.

“Oh!” Cynthia drew a long breath. “Is it like this all the way?”

“It is a roughish bit like just here,” the driver answered, without turning his head, “but it is a good road, take it altogether.”

Cynthia felt inclined to dissent most emphatically from this statement as another jerk sent her up against the speaker.

“If—it is only four miles,” she said breathlessly, “perhaps I could walk?”

“You'd miss your way for a surety,” Mr Joyce replied without slackening. “Happen you'll get caught in the bog. It'll be pitch-dark directly. Best bide where you be.”

Cynthia shivered as she resigned herself to the inevitable.

“Well, perhaps so,” she said reluctantly. “I am sure it is very kind of you to drive me,” she added politely.

Mr Joyce only responded by a grunt; evidently he was not inclined to carry on the conversation, and Cynthia relapsed into silence, clinging with both hands to the side of the cart, and endeavouring to steady herself to the best of her ability. In a short time, however, the road grew a trifle less rough, the worst of the jolts grew less frequent, and Cynthia was able to sit up and survey her surroundings once more, though it was little enough she could see now. The last gleams of light were fading away; the lamps at each side of the cart only served to make the darkness more visible; in the distance she could hear the wind rising and soughing among the leaves of unseen trees. To complete her discomfort a drizzling rain began to fall. She drew her rug over her shoulders and tried to forget her miserable plight, but, look where she would, no very pleasant subject for meditation presented itself, and her thoughts flew back to Lord Letchingham.

What had he said when he discovered her flight, she wondered. Was he still searching for her? She shuddered as she told herself she had undoubtedly taken the best course.

At length Mr Joyce pulled up and said:

“Yon's Greylands.”

Cynthia peered forward into the darkness.

“I don't see it,” she remarked helplessly.

“Noa; but you've naught to do but follow the road. I'll show you, if you'll get down.” He clambered slowly and heavily out of the cart.

“You are not going to leave me here?” Cynthia cried in dismay, as, with difficulty, she managed to make her way to the ground. “You will at least drive me up to the house?”

“I can't do that,” Mr Joyce said slowly. “You can't miss it, keeping to the road, I tell you. Your trunk will be all right till Gillman can send for it in the morning.” He hoisted it out of the cart as he spoke, and, opening the gate, deposited it inside a kind of small barn. “There it'll be dry and under cover.” He unfastened the reins and put his foot on the step.

“You are not going to leave me like this? I cannot even see Greylands!” Cynthia cried, catching at his arm in her desperation.

Mr Joyce deliberately shook himself free as he made his way to his former seat.

“I can't do no more for you, miss. I said I'd bring you as far as Gillman's gate, and at Gillman's gate you are. It is a roughish bit of road to the house, and it ud mean a difference of half an hour to drive there and back by this light, and I've got my time to account for to my master.”

Cynthia looked round despairingly.

“If you will only drive me up to the house, I will pay you.”

“'Tain't that, miss. It is just as I can't. As for Greylands, you can't miss it, and there's naught to be feared of. You won't meet anyone, and walking'll get you there as quick as driving a night like this. Just go through that there gate and keep straight on. It is but a step. Good night, miss.”

Thus deserted Cynthia had no choice but to make the best of the situation and try to find her way to the house. She went through the gate, only to discover that merely to keep on the rough path that apparently led across a field was a matter of some difficulty in the dark. Stumbling along, however, falling occasionally over a loose stone or an unusually deep rut, she accomplished it, and found herself at another gate, which apparently opened into a wood.

Rightly concluding this to be a belt of trees surrounding the house, Cynthia kept on her way and was soon rewarded by seeing a big gloomy pile of buildings looming before her in the darkness. This, then, must be Greylands; but Cynthia's spirits were not raised by the fact that the end of her long journey was now in sight. Instead she felt a nameless depression, an unaccountable prevision of some terrible evil; and as she stood in the great dark porch a longing to get away, an almost over-mastering impulse to turn back, to spend the night in the barn with her trunk or on the moors rather than ask for shelter at this big, desolate- looking house, took possession of her.

Chiding herself, however, for her foolishness, she resolutely stood her ground and lifted the heavy knocker.

The noise it made was startling in the intense stillness around. As it died away, somewhere inside the house a dog howled loudly—a long-drawn-out wail of misery.

Standing there in the damp and the cold Cynthia felt an eerie sense of horror, against which she struggled in vain. Loud though her knock had sounded in her own ears there was no sign of response of any kind. The same stillness prevailed; even the rustling of the wind amid the trees had ceased, not a leaf seemed astir.

Cynthia stepped back and looked up at the house. It was apparently all in darkness. With the thought that possibly her cousin might be away and the place shut up or left to a caretaker, she determined to find her way to the back. Clinging to the wall she managed to turn the corner of the house. As she did so there was a loud clamorous barking inside, and she saw that a distant window was lighted up. With some difficulty she found another door. Knocker or bell there was none, but with the handle of her umbrella she thumped loudly again and again.

Meanwhile the drippings of the eaves fell upon her shoulders, with a great splash on her hat—her only hat, Cynthia reflected forlornly as she attempted to protect herself. It seemed to her that she had stood there for an eternity, feeling in her nervous terror as though the darkness around was filled with living things—things that whispered together and gibed at her. When at length she caught the sound of heavy, lagging footsteps coming down the passage the dog howled more loudly. Cynthia felt a sudden pang of swift unreasoning terror—something seemed to whisper to her to run away, to hide herself while yet there was time; but she was no coward, and in spite of her terrors she stood her ground as the door was slowly unbarred and unbolted. Then her heart beat quicker as it was opened a foot or two, and, by the light of a dim, flickering lamp suspended above, she saw a man's face—a white, scared face, with a certain defiance underlying its ghastly pallor.

“What is wanted? Who are you?” a voice inquired roughly; but in spite of the abrupt words the intonation was that of a gentleman.

Cynthia gathered up her courage. 

“This is Lady Hannah Gillman's house, is it not?” she asked in her clear girlish voice. “I want to see her. She asked me to come. I am her cousin, Cynthia Densham.”

“You are—what?” There was an accent of amazement, not unmixed, as Cynthia fancied, with fear.

“Cynthia Densham—Lady Hannah's cousin,” she repeated impatiently. “Is she here?”

There was a pause, a long-strained silence, then the answer came in a harsh rasping tone:

“Yes, she is here, but she does not receive strangers.”

“Her own cousin, though!” Cynthia began indignantly. “At least you will let me in? Don't you understand—she has asked me to stay with her.”

The man made no motion to open the door wider; instead, Cynthia fancied that he moved as though about to close it.

“You are making some mistake. Lady Hannah never receives visitors; she has no wish for them. It is impossible for you to come in.”

This time the desire to shut the door was unmistakable, and Cynthia put out her hands in desperation.

“You cannot mean it? I dare not stay out here in the cold. You must let me see my cousin; she asked me to come—she wrote to me!”

“She wrote to you—when?”

“A fortnight ago at least. The letter was delayed—I only had it the day before yesterday; but she said she wanted me to come to her at once.”

“What—she wrote before? I cannot believe it!”

There was an indescribable change in the man's voice. He stopped short. Cynthia felt in her pocket.

“Yes, here it is!” she cried, drawing out the letter.

He glanced at the envelope in her hand; then a curious tremor shook him. The lamp above him flickered and went out.

“Wait a minute!” he said brusquely, and turned abruptly down the passage.

C
YNTHIA
stepped inside to be out of the damp. At the end of the passage she could see the interior of a long, low-raftered room, which looked pleasant and homely, and for a moment her spirits rose. Then, as if suddenly released from some back region, with a mingled growl and whine, a wire-haired terrier sprang towards her, menacingly, as she thought. Before it reached her, however, it stopped and sprang at a closed door at the side of the passage, scratching and giving vent to long ear-piercing howls. Cynthia wondered what could cause its excitement; but the man was coming back, still without a lamp. With an angry word he kicked the dog through the outer door, and drawing Cynthia farther in, closed it behind her.

“That dog is a perfect nuisance!” he said irritably. “I would get rid of him at once if my wife were not so devoted to him. Now, you are Cynthia Densham, you say? I ought to have recognized the name. You are the daughter of Lady Hannah's—of my wife's cousin, are you not?”

“Oh, then, you are Mr Gillman?”

Cynthia's accent was one of considerable relief as she glanced at his tall figure, outlined in the darkness against the warmth and the light of the room beyond.

“I am Henry Gillman,” he acquiesced. “You must excuse this unceremonious reception. If we had had any idea of your coming you should have found us prepared for you in a very different way. But, now that you are here, you must stay the night. We must manage somehow. Come in! Can you see your way?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Cynthia replied as she obeyed.

“I fancy somehow that you have not heard that we are in great trouble?” he went on. “That makes your coming so difficult. I don't see what is to be done.”

Cynthia felt increasingly uncomfortable.

“No, I had not heard, though I fancied that perhaps—that Cousin Hannah—You do not mean—”

Before she could finish the sentence she set her foot in something slimy near the door at which the dog had barked and came violently to the ground.

With a sharp exclamation Gillman turned and helped her to rise. “How did that happen? I hope you have not hurt yourself?”

“No, I—I think not,” Cynthia said uncertainly as she stood up, too much dazed and bruised to form any very clear idea of her injuries. “I slipped on something—there. I do not know what it is.”

Gillman's expression changed curiously as he looked down. He caressed his long, fair moustache with one hand and glanced furtively at Cynthia from beneath his narrowed eyelids.

“I am very sorry! I do not know what it is—something the charwoman has spilt, I suppose; she is a careless mortal. But come in. We can at least make you a little more comfortable. You look as though the elements had dealt hardly with you.”

Catching sight of herself in a little old-fashioned glass to her right as she entered the room, Cynthia hardly wondered at his words. Her hair was loosened and hung about her face in untidy wisps, her hat was askew, but her cheeks were glowing from their contact with the cool fresh air, and her eyes looked big and startled.

Gillman pulled forward a chair and stroked his chin in a thoughtful fashion.

“Presently we must see what can be done about the night; but wait and rest awhile first. Let me explain matters.”

Cynthia was nothing loath. The capacious armchair rested her tired young body; the very feeling of the cool fresh chintz was refreshing.

Gillman poked the already glowing fire noisily. As he stood with his back to her, she could not help noticing his stalwart proportion and length of limb, the broadness of his shoulders. He was absolutely unlike anything she had expected, and she could not help thinking what a curious contrast he must present to her Cousin Hannah as she had been described to her, and as her childish imagination pictured her—a little, prim, delicate-looking woman, yet with a will of iron beneath her quaint, old-fashioned courtesy. With that thought the remembrance of his words as she fell recurred to her.

“How is Cousin Hannah?” she asked hastily. “You were saying you were in trouble. Surely—”

Gillman did not turn round, but went on poking the fire.

“She was taken ill a fortnight ago. It was paralysis and it has affected her spine. The doctors do not give much hope that she will ever be able to walk again. Still, one never can tell, and I fancy myself we shall see a great improvement as the summer advances.”

“Oh, poor Cousin Hannah!” Cynthia cried, indescribably shocked at this intelligence. “It must have been this she meant when she wrote; she seemed to hint at some impending trouble. Perhaps she had some sort of presentiment. I have heard of such things.”

Gillman turned, poker in hand.