Chapter Eight.
A Catastrophe
For a moment or two we stood, as people generally do in such a case, stupefied, paralysed, so to say, staring at each other blankly. Then there came a reaction of incredulity. It could not be so.
“It must have stuck,” said Moore, seizing the handle in his turn. But no! He shook and pulled and pushed in vain, there was no sign of yielding, not even the faintest creak. The door was a strong one, and the lock in good order.
Some one must have passed out since I entered – a gardener probably – with authority in the shape of a key, to fasten up for the night. There was no use in hiding from ourselves any longer the dire certainty that we were trapped, however involuntarily on the part of our captors.
“It must be the rule, I suppose, to lock up here late every evening. Moore, what have you got me into? It is far worse for me than for you.”
“You shouldn’t have followed me,” he said half sulkily, then his better feelings reasserted themselves. “I am awfully sorry, Reggie, dreadfully sorry, but don’t lose heart yet. There are ways and means; the wall isn’t so very high after all,” and he stepped back a pace or two, and stood regarding it with anxious criticism.
“Yes,” he said at last, “I thought so! It is lower a bit farther on. Either it is lower or the ground slopes upwards, which, as far as we are concerned, comes to the same thing; and now that all is shut up for the night, it’s most unlikely that any one will be coming this way. We can go about things quietly, without fussing.”
“What will they be thinking about us at the Manor-house!” I exclaimed. “There’ll be a hue and cry over the neighbourhood if we don’t return soon!”
“No fear?” said Moore reassuringly. “Servants’ nerves are not so easily upset. They will just think we’ve missed our way, or something of that kind. Besides, I hope we shall not be so very late after all; once over the wall we can run all the way home. You can get over the ground nearly as fast as I can if you like, you know, Reggie!”
I felt that he was doing his best to keep up my spirits, and, in spite of everything, I was sorry for him; so I allowed him to take the lead, and followed him silently to the spot he had pointed out, where the wall certainly looked more easy to scale. Arrived there, Moore began feeling in his pockets; out came the stout piece of whipcord and the old geological hammer which I mentioned before, with which he started operations. The wall was rough and uneven, fortunately for us; I think it was of brick – there were already small ledges, so to say, here and there, one or two of which Moore chipped away at to make them deeper, with a great air of importance. I could have danced with impatience!
“We shall be here all night,” I said at last, “if you are going on like that. I believe I could climb the wall as it is!” But he tapped on for a moment or two longer without replying.
“Now,” he said, “I dare say you could! There are enough footholds, but of course I will go up first. Then, as I couldn’t reach to your hands, I’ll let down two long loops of cords to you, which you can pull yourself up by.”
“No, thank you,” I replied ungratefully. “I had much rather trust to clutching at the stones or the ivy.” For though the ivy was cleared on this side, branches here and there came straggling over.
Moore took my snub quietly.
“You will see,” he said, “once I am up, you’ll be glad enough of the loops.”
See I did not; for, alas! just as the boy was close to the top, something, I know not what – a loosened brick perhaps – gave way, and with a cry he fell heavily, poor child, down on to the ground beside where I stood. At first I was too terrified to think of anything but him; for a moment or two I thought he was killed, and my relief was great when he spoke.
“I’m not badly hurt, Reggie,” he whispered; “my head’s all right, it is only my – ” and a little moan escaped him – “my ankle,” he continued. “Can I have broken it?”
He sat up and began to examine it. Even in the dim light I could see that he was very pale.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “if I could get my shoe off! My foot feels bursting!”
I was not altogether without experience in injuries of the kind. With so many brothers always coming to grief more or less, I had acquired a smattering of “first aid to the injured,” as it is called nowadays. I stooped down, and getting Moore’s pocket-knife from him, I cut the shoelaces, and rather deftly, I flattered myself, released the poor, already painfully swollen foot.
“No,” I said, “I think and hope it is only a bad sprain. But even if no worse, you cannot possibly attempt to stand, or drag yourself along with it in such a state.”
“I don’t think I could,” he allowed, and he looked so nearly fainting that I grew desperate.
“I must go for help,” I said, “whatever or whoever these people are! It is the only thing to do.”
Moore was too utterly knocked over to remonstrate, and I felt it would be cruel and useless to reproach him. I started off, running as quickly as was safe in the increasing dusk, scarcely giving myself time to think how I could explain our unwarranted intrusion. Some instinct told me that it was better to go straight to the front door than through the conservatory. I did so, but before I had time to ring, I saw that it was standing wide open, and almost immediately two figures crossed the hall. They must have caught sight of me at once, for the foremost of them – it was the elder Mr Grey – came forward, amazement depicted on his face, and stood gazing at me for a moment as if unable to speak. His stupefaction gave me a sort of courage, or rather I felt the necessity of speech.
“I beg your pardon,” I began. “I don’t know how to explain, but – oh! my brother – he’s quite a boy – has hurt himself badly. He has fallen from the top of your wall, and – and – somebody must come to help him!”
I could not utter another word. I felt myself beginning to choke and sob.
“How the – ” Then the speaker checked himself. “What in the world was he doing at the top of the wall, and how did he get there? And how did you – ” Here again he stopped. I think it dawned upon him at that moment that he was addressing a lady. Probably, too, it struck him that if some one was lying badly injured by some accident, the first thing to do was to see to him, and reserve explanations till after this had been done. But the poor man was terribly upset – as to that there could be no doubt; and excited though I was, I was able to feel fearfully ashamed and penitent.
During the moment or two that had passed, the second person in the hall, a travelling-rug over his arm, had come forward. To him Mr Grey now turned.
“Have you heard?” he said. “Come with me. We must at all costs see what is the matter.”
The younger man, for considerably such he was had taken it all in, though in silence.
“Where is the boy?” he said to me abruptly, though not uncourteously.
I pointed to the side of the grounds where Moore was lying.
“Over there,” I said, “not far from the – the door in the wall. It is locked, and we were trying to climb over.”
As I said this, the prelude to the inevitable confession, the misery and shame of the whole position almost overwhelmed me, in spite of my increasing anxiety about Moore’s injuries. It was with great difficulty that I suppressed a sob.
The last speaker, less startled and bewildered than the hermit-like owner of the place, was naturally quicker to realise what I was feeling, and I think he heard the catch in my voice, and was sorry for me. He turned to the other.
“I will hurry on with this young lady, Mr Grey,” he said, “and see what can be done. Perhaps you – ”
“Yes, yes,” our host interrupted. “I’ll – I had better – the others might be startled, and – ” I fancied I heard him mutter something about “the servants.”
“I will follow you immediately,” he went on, and as he spoke he dived back into the dim recesses of the gloomy hall and disappeared.
We – the younger man and I – hurried out. As we went, I felt that, however badly hurt my brother was, I must say something. So I began —
“I – I am so terribly ashamed,” I said. “We had no right to come into the grounds at all. We are well punished. I – you see I got frightened about Moore, my brother, and I followed him in, and then – the door had been locked in the meantime, and – we thought we could climb over.”
My companion assuredly was very quick of apprehension. He glanced at me, and I could feel that his eyes were kind, dark as it was.
“Try not to distress yourself,” he said very gently. “I do not see that you are the least to blame – rather the other way, indeed, for bravely entering the ogre’s den,” he laughed a little, evidently taking for granted that I was acquainted with the uncanny reputation of the place, “for your brother’s sake, and – ”
Here I interrupted him. I think, I hope, that I am really candid by nature. Unmerited praise is always painful and humiliating to me, as to all honestly-inclined folk.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “please don’t say that. If you knew – ”
Then he interrupted. I think he was terrified of my beginning to cry!
“One thing I do know,” he said, “and that is, what boys are, and the inconceivable hobbles they get themselves and their belongings into. Let us hope your brother is not badly hurt after all. Ah! there he is,” for his quick eyes had discerned Moore’s half-prostrate form even before I had done more than peer about, knowing we must be near him.
“Moore,” I exclaimed, “here we are. I – this gentleman will help us.”
I spoke encouragingly. I was very sorry for him. I was answered by an exclamation of relief.
“O Reggie,” he said, with something like a smothered sob, “I am so thankful. I thought you were never coming.”
“Yes,” said our new friend, who was already on his knees beside the boy, “under such circumstances time does not fly. Let me see! which foot is it? The left? Ah,” – for Moore must have winced even at his careful touch – “yes; a good thing you got the boot off. I am not a doctor – ” (as to which fact I had had a slight doubt), “but I think it’s not worse than a sprain. Of course the thing is to get you home at once. You live near here?”
“No,” I began; “yes, I mean. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard’s, in the village.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know the neighbourhood at all,” he said. “I have only been here two or three times, and only for a few hours together. Is the village – oh yes, I remember – is the Manor-house on the way to the church?”
“Yes,” I replied, and I went on to explain, as well as I could, whereabouts stood our temporary home. Then a sudden remembrance flashed across me, and I exclaimed impulsively, “Was it not you whom I met a week or two ago out there?” and I nodded towards the road, “You had lost your pocket-book?”
“Exactly,” he replied; “and you kindly looked for it. One good turn deserves another. I wonder how I can best help you and your brother just now. By-the-bye, my fly must be at the door by this time.” He peered at his watch. “I am – I was to catch the London express, if possible.”
“Oh don’t,” I began.
“It is not of enormous importance if I miss it,” he said. “It’s about the fly.”
“Reggie,” whispered Moore, “stoop down a moment.”
I did no, and nodded in agreement.
“If,” I began again – “the thing is – can we possibly get Moore home without any one knowing about it? About how it happened, I mean? You don’t know how perfectly horrible it would be for Mr Wynyard to know. He is very, very particular, and he would make no allowances or excuses.” Here I unconsciously clasped my hands in entreaty. “If we were at home,” I went on, “I would tell father and mamma all about it. Don’t think I want to conceal it from them. But as visitors – and Moore is sure to be laid up here for some time.”
“I see,” said our friend thoughtfully. “It would be rather horrid for you. But – can you propose anything?”
“Mr Wynyard and his daughter are away,” I replied. “We can’t hide the accident of course, but if we could hide that it was here. Oh, if we could!”
Moore echoed what I said. In his anxiety he sat up, almost forgetting the pain.
“If you could get me outside the wall,” he said, “and then Reggie could fetch some one – there are cottages not far off – or I wouldn’t even mind waiting while you went home,” he added, turning to me.
“No, no,” said the stranger, “that would never do. There must be no avoidable delay.” He stopped a moment. “I think I have it!” he exclaimed, “and here comes Mr Grey. For his sake, too, it is best to avoid any gossip, as he is so sensitive. I will go and speak to him for a moment;” and he was moving away, when he turned towards me again. “Don’t misunderstand him or them,” he said quickly. “They are the kindest-hearted people in the world.”
Then for two or three minutes Moore and I were left alone.
“I wonder what they are going to do,” I said anxiously, for I saw that the two were talking together eagerly. “O Moore, I shall never, never for – ”
“Forgive me?” said the boy, trying to smile, though he winced with pain as he did so. “Well, I suppose I must bear it.”
“Nonsense?” I replied indignantly. “I was only going to say that I shall never forget this evening, not if I live to be a hundred. But I would not be so mean and cruel as to talk of never forgiving, when you are already so punished.”
By this time Mr Grey and the stranger were close to us, the former looking, if possible, more gloomy and harassed than usual; by which term must be understood, so far as I am concerned, the expression of his face in church! His companion was still talking quickly, but I only heard the elder man’s reply.
“Well, yes,” were his words. “I suppose it is the best thing to do. The servants would make a wild story of it. The flyman – ” – and here I think I detected a grim smile – “would probably give out that we set man-traps along the wall.”
“We have thought of a plan, Miss – ” began the young man, then stopped suddenly, realising that he had not heard our name. “We have thought of a plan which will obviate all that you are afraid of.”
“The only objection to it,” interrupted Mr Grey, turning to him, “being that you will lose your train.”
“That is really of no consequence,” was the reply. “I can wire to my people from the station when to expect me.”
Mr Grey’s interruption annoyed me. I was all on tenter-hooks to hear the “plan,” and I could see that the stranger sympathised with my impatience.
“It is this,” he explained. “A fly is now waiting for me to take me to the station. Mr Grey and I will carry your brother outside, as carefully as possible. He must be carried somewhere, and a little bit down the road will be scarcely farther than back to the house. Then, as I pass in the fly, you must call out to me for help. I shall stop, and between us we will lift him in, and I will take you both home – to the Manor-house, I think you called it? So the driver will have nothing to tell except that his fare behaved with ordinary humanity,” and here he smiled, nor was his smile a grim one. “And on the way,” he went on, “you must give me the doctor’s address if you know it, so that I may send him as I pass through the village.”
“There is no doctor in the village,” said Mr Grey, “but you can save time nevertheless, as his house is close to the railway station.”
“Thank you, oh! thank you so much,” Moore and I exclaimed together, but that was all we had time for, for by now the two men were busied in lifting my brother, with the least possible jar to the poor foot, preparatory to carrying him outside. They were both strong men, and their gentleness and deftness, especially perhaps as regarded Mr Grey, struck me with admiration.
I followed the little cortège meekly enough to the fateful door in the wall. Here they halted, Mr Grey requesting me to unlock it with a key which he had handed to me before lifting Moore off the ground. Then we all passed through.
“Close it, if you please,” said our host, for such he was, however unwillingly. “Draw it to, that is to say, and leave the key in the lock. It cannot shut itself.”
I did as I was bid, and we proceeded down the road till we had reached an unsuspicious distance from the entrance in the wall, sufficiently near the corner which the fly must pass on its way to the station, for it to be easy to attract the driver’s attention without any appearance of collusion. Then they placed Moore in as easy a position as possible; happily the excitement of all that had passed, aided by the stimulus of the brandy and water which Mr Grey had brought with him in a flask, had quite revived the patient, and he declared that the pain was much less severe.
“I am sorry to leave you,” said the older man, as he lifted his hat in farewell, “but – considering everything, primarily of course your own wishes – it cannot be helped.”
“And it will only be for a very few minutes that you will be alone,” added the younger one.
“I do not mind in the least,” I replied. “I only wish, O Mr Grey,” – involuntarily almost the name escaped me, and at its sound he stopped and half moved – “will you not allow us to apologise to you – we shall probably not have another opportunity of doing so – for our unwarrantable, our impertinent – ” (at this word I felt, rather than saw, that Moore grew red) “intrusion? I do not know how to express what I feel, nor how to thank you for your kindness.”
“My dear young lady,” replied the hermit, “pray do not take the matter so much to heart. Mr – my friend here, has explained it to me. I cannot see that you personally have anything whatever to reproach yourself with, and as for your brother – why,” and for the first time the cold, almost hard, voice softened, “I know well the love of adventure and – and – ” he seemed at a loss to find a word, evidently unwilling to supply so hurting a one as “curiosity” – “and all that sort of thing of young folk. You may rely on us to keep this affair to ourselves, and I trust the doctor’s report will relieve your anxiety.”
Then, for the second time, he lifted his hat, and in another moment both he and his companion had disappeared.
“Moore,” I said, as soon as I was sure that the two were well out of hearing, “Moore, they – he – that poor man has been very, very good about it.”
“Yes,” he agreed, meekly enough at first, “he has. All the same, Reggie, I don’t see that you need have spoken of what I did – it was only a bit of a lark after all – as ‘impertinent’.”
“I did not apply it only to you,” I replied. “I said our. And you needn’t suppose I don’t blame myself. I do, bitterly, and I shall do so as long as I live, for having tried to pry into these poor people’s secret – above all, for having put it into your head to do so.” Here Moore grunted, but he did not attempt any further defence. “You don’t know how I hated being told I was not to blame at all, and not being able to confess that I was.”
“Why weren’t you able?” Moore asked.
“Because of course it would only have made it far worse for the Greys to hear how, after all these years, they are still talked over. And besides that, I should have had to bring in poor Isabel! But for her, I shouldn’t have so much minded telling the other man how inquisitive I had been – only after all, there was really no time to explain.”
“You can tell him in the fly, if you like,” said Moore. I was not sure if he said it to tease me or if he were in earnest. I preferred to think the former, especially as it showed that he could not be in any very great suffering if he were equal to teasing!
“I wish the fly would come,” was the only reply I condescended to make.
“So do I,” began Moore, and his rather plaintive tone made me very sorry for him again.
“Is your foot – ” I was just going to ask, when the welcome sound of approaching wheels caught my ears. Our unknown friend had lost no time!
“Here it is,” I exclaimed, “I must run to meet it, Moore.”
I was not a moment too soon. The man was driving quickly, and I inferred that the stranger had not ventured to prevent his doing so, as he doubtless was in hopes of still catching the train he had been ordered for. And the reception of my first call was not encouraging.
“Stop, please,” I cried. “Do stop for a moment.”
“Can’t,” was the reply; “I’m bound to catch the London express. You must send your order to the inn.”
“It’s not an order,” I replied. “Some one, my brother, has had an accident, and is lying on the road,” and I pointed towards the spot. “You must stop in common humanity. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard’s.”
By this time the man had probably found out that I was a lady – possibly even recognised me, as the Scart Bridge flys were sometimes used by the Wynyards for station-work. And in spite of his protest, he had slackened speed a little. This gave the occupant of the vehicle time to put his head out and ask questions – to the driver’s disgust no doubt, little suspecting that his hirer, the principal in the matter of catching the express, had no expectation whatever of doing so.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired.
“The lady says as there’s some one been and hurted hisself down the lane,” began the man. “We can send a man up from Hart’s Cottages,” and he pointed with his whip, “but if we stop, sir – ”
“Stop!” was the interruption in imperative tones. “Of course we must,” and he jumped out as he spoke. “Follow us,” he said sharply to the driver, who thereupon proceeded to obey, murmuring some thing to the effect that the train would be gone, but that “it’ll be no fault o’ mine.”
“Nobody said it would be,” my companion called back, and then we walked on the few paces to where Moore was propped up in a half-sitting posture against the wall.
“I was as quick as possible,” said the stranger, though already he hardly seemed such. Circumstances sometimes lead to familiarity so quickly. “Is he all right – the boy; your brother?”
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think the pain is very bad. I am sure you have been wonderfully quick, and I don’t know how to thank you. And how kind that poor Mr Grey has been!”
I felt my companion glance at me almost sharply.
“I told you,” he said, “that they are the kindest-hearted people possible. But – may I ask why you speak of him as ‘poor Mr Grey’?”
I was surprised, almost startled by the question. I had somehow taken it for granted, not only that this visitor was completely au fait of the Greys’ peculiar position, but that he must be aware that the mystery concerning the Grim House was common talk in the neighbourhood.
“Oh!” I replied, rather lamely, “because, of course, everything about them seems so strange and sad!”
There was no time for him to reply, for we had now reached Moore, and at once set to work to get him into the fly, which drew up at the place where we stopped, the driver, rather snubbed by the very peremptory tone assumed by his “fare,” was much on the alert to obtrude his benevolent instincts.
“Dear, dear!” he exclaimed. “It’s a bad business. I’m afraid there’s bones broke! Did you fall far, sir?” he went on, to Moore, evidently anxious to get all the information he could for the delectation of his cronies at the White Hart, or whatever was the name of the inn. But before Moore replied, our friend in need did so for him.
“You don’t need to fall far to sprain your ankle,” he remarked quickly, “and I hope it is nothing worse than that. A slip on level ground is quite enough sometimes.”
“Yes,” I agreed; “indeed I often wonder that we hold together as we do, considering our complicated bones and joints.”
The driver, imagining himself gifted with great discrimination, evidently thought we were trying to encourage Moore, and took his cue accordingly.
“Young bones ain’t so hard to mend as old ones,” he said philosophically, as he closed the door; “and where shall I drive to if you please?”
“To Mr Wynyard’s – the Manor-house,” I answered promptly, and off we set, this time at a moderate speed, all thought of train-catching eliminated from our conductor’s mind.