CHAPTER XII GEOFFREY IS PUT TO THE TEST
The house was quiet at last. When these mysterious things had first happened, fear and alarm had driven sleep from every eye, and many was the long night the whole family had spent, huddled round the fire till gray morn chased their fears away.
But as the inhabitants of a beleaguered city learn to sleep through a heavy bombardment, so had the Ravenspurs come to meet these horrors with grim tenacity. They were all upstairs now, behind locked doors, with a hope that they might meet again on the morrow. Only Geoffrey was up waiting for his uncle Ralph.
He came at length so noiselessly that Geoffrey was startled, and motioned to him that he should follow him without a word.
They crept like ghosts along the corridor until they reached a room with double doors at the end of the picture gallery. Generations ago this room had been built for a Ravenspur who had developed dangerous homicidal mania, and in this room he had lived virtually a prisoner for many years.
After they had closed the two doors, a heavy curtain was drawn over the inner one, and Ralph fumbled his way to the table and lighted a candle.
"Now we can talk," he said quietly, "but not loud. Understand that the matter is to be a profound secret between us and that not a soul is to know of it; not even Vera."
"I have already given my promise," said Geoffrey.
"I know. Still there is no harm in again impressing the fact on your mind. Geoffrey, you are about to see strange things, things that will test your pluck and courage to the uttermost."
Geoffrey nodded. With the eagerness of youth he was ready.
"I will do anything you ask me," he replied. "I could face any danger to get at the bottom of this business."
"You are a good lad. Turn the lamp down very low and then open the window. Have you done that?"
"Yes, I can feel the cold air on my face."
Ralph crossed to the window and, putting out his hand, gave the quaint mournful call of the owl. There was a minute's pause and then came the answering signal. A minute or two later and a man's head and shoulders were framed in the open window. Geoffrey would have dashed forward, but Ralph held him back.
"Not so impatient," he said. "This is a friend."
Geoffrey asked no questions, though he was puzzled to know why the visitor did not enter the castle by the usual way. At Ralph's request he closed the window and drew the heavy curtains and the lamp was turned up again.
"My nephew," said Ralph. "A fine young fellow, and one that you and I can trust. Geoffrey, this is my old friend, Sergius Tchigorsky."
Geoffrey shook hands with Tchigorsky. To his intense surprise he saw the face of the stranger was disfigured in the same way as that of his uncle. Conscious that his gaze was somewhat rude he looked down. Tchigorsky smiled. Very little escaped him and to him the young man's mind was as clear as a brook.
"My appearance startles you," he said. "Some day you will learn how your uncle and myself came to be both disfigured in this terrible way. That secret will be disclosed when the horror that haunts this house is lifted."
"Will it ever be lifted, sir?" Geoffrey asked.
"We can do so at any time," Tchigorsky replied in his deep voice. "You may be surprised to hear that we can place our hand on the guilty party at a moment's notice and bring the offender to justice. Your eyes ask me why we do not do so instantly. We refrain, as the detectives refrain from arresting one or two of a big gang of swindlers, preferring to spread their nets till they have them all in their meshes. There are four people in this business, and we must take the lot of them, or there will be no peace for the house of Ravenspur. You follow me?"
"Perfectly," Geoffrey replied. "An enemy so marvelously clever must not be treated lightly. Do you propose to make the capture to-night?"
Ralph Ravenspur laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh and was mirthless. His scarred face was full of scornful amusement.
"Not to-night or to-morrow night, or for many nights," he said. "We have all the serpent wisdom of the Old World against us, the occult knowledge of the East allied to the slippery cunning that Western education gives. There will be many dangers before we have finished, and the worst of these dangers will fall upon you."
Ralph brought his hand down with a sudden clap on his nephew's shoulders. Tchigorsky regarded him long and earnestly as if he would read his very soul.
"You will do," he said curtly. "I am satisfied you will do and I never made a mistake in my estimate of a man yet. Ravenspur, are you ready?"
"Ay, ay. I have been ready this long time."
The lamp was extinguished and list slippers were donned, and with no more provision than a box of wax matches they left the room. Instructed by Ralph Ravenspur, they fell behind him, each holding by the coat-tail of the other. Down the corridor they went, down the stairs, along stone-flagged passages until they reached the vast series of cellars and vaults over which the castle was built.
There were many of these with twists and turns and low passages; the place was large enough to conceal a big force of troops. And yet, though it was pitchy dark and intricate as a labyrinth, the blind man made no error; he did not hesitate for a moment.
Well as Geoffrey imagined that he knew the castle, he was fain to confess his utter ignorance alongside the knowledge displayed by the blind guide.
Ralph pulled up suddenly and began to speak.
"I brought you here to-night, Geoffrey," he said, "so that you might have the first lesson in the task that lies before you. Listen! can you hear anything?"
"I hear the roar of the sea, the waves grating on the shingle."
"Yes, because we are on a level with the sea. There are deeper vaults yet, which you will see presently, and they are below the level of the sea. Our ancestors used to place their prisoners there, and, by removing a kind of sluice, allowed the tide to come in and drown them. You see, those walls are damp."
They were, indeed. As a wax vesta flared up, the dripping stones and the long white fungi gave the place a weird appearance. Then Ralph dropped suddenly, extinguished his match, and drew his companions behind a row of cupboard-like timbers.
"Somebody is coming," he whispered.
The others could hear nothing. But the blind man's powers of hearing were abnormal. It seemed a long time before the sound of footsteps could be heard. Then a figure in white, a fair figure with long shining hair hanging down her back and carrying a taper, crept down the steps.
An exclamation trembled on Geoffrey's lips—an exclamation of alarm, of admiration, of the utmost astonishment. But Ralph laid a hand on his mouth. The figure passed into the vault beyond.
"It was Marion!" said Geoffrey in a thrilling whisper. "And yet it did not look like Marion. She seemed so dreamy; so far off."
"She was walking in her sleep," Ralph said quietly.
"But the danger of it, the danger!"
"My dear boy, there is no danger at all. Blind as I am, I found out this peculiarity of Marion's directly I returned. Danger to her! I would not have a hair of her head injured to save Ravenspur from destruction. Geoffrey, it is through Marion and Marion alone, that we are going to solve the mystery."
"Ay," Tchigorsky muttered, "that is so."
Ralph raised his hand to impose silence. The soft returning footfalls were clear to the ears. Then, rigid, unbending, with dilated eyes, Marion passed, the flash of the lantern behind her.
"Come," said Ralph, "let us return. A good night's work, Tchigorsky!"
"Ay," Tchigorsky murmured; "a good night's work, indeed."
CHAPTER XIII REELING OFF THE THREAD
It was fortunate for all parties that Geoffrey was possessed of strong nerves, or he would have been certain to betray himself and them.
Since he had left school at the time when the unseen terror first began to oppress Ravenspur, he had known nothing of the world; he had learnt nothing beyond the power to suffer silently and the power of love.
To confide in him was, perhaps, a daring thing on the part of Ralph Ravenspur. But, then, Ralph knew his world only too deeply and too well, and he rarely made a mistake in a man. All the same, he followed as closely as possible the meeting between Marion and Geoffrey the following morning.
Marion came down a little pale, a little quieter and more subdued than usual. Geoffrey rallied her in the spirit of mingled amusement and affection that he always assumed to Marion. His voice was natural and unaffected. Ralph was grimly satisfied. He knew now that his ally had brains as well as courage.
"I believe you have been sitting up writing poetry," Geoffrey laughed.
"Indeed, I had a very long night's rest," Marion responded. "And I can't imagine why I look so pale and washed-out this morning!"
"Bad dreams and an evil conscience," Vera suggested demurely.
Marion laughed. Usually at meal times the young people had the conversation entirely to themselves. Sometimes the elders joined in; sometimes they listened and smiled at the empty badinage; usually they were wrapped in their gloomy thoughts. Ralph's face had the expression of a stone idol, yet he followed every word that was said with intense and vivid interest.
"Bad dreams, indeed," Marion admitted. "They were with me all night. It seemed to me that I was wandering about all night looking for something. And I had nothing on but my nightdress. In India as a child I used to walk in my sleep. I hope I am not going to do that again."
Marion laughed and passed on to another subject. Curiously enough, she seemed to shrink from speaking of her life in India. Of her dead parents she would discourse freely; of her own early life she said nothing. It had always seemed to Geoffrey that Marion's childhood had been unhappy. There was an air of gentle melancholy when her features were in repose, an air far older than her years.
Meanwhile Ralph had been following all this keenly. He appeared to be interested in his breakfast. The streaming sunshine filtered through the great stained glass windows full upon his scarred face; his head was bent down upon his plate.
But the man's mind was at work. He had his opportunity to speak to Geoffrey presently.
"You will do," he said approvingly. "Keep up that easy, cheerful manner of yours. Whatever happens, try to ignore it; try to keep up that irresponsible boyish manner. You will find it invaluable in disarming suspicion later, when one false move may dash all our delicate plans to the ground."
"I will do anything you require of me, uncle."
"That is right; that is the spirit in which to approach the problem. And, remember, that what may appear to you to be the most trivial detail may prove to be of the utmost importance to our case. For instance, I am going to ask you to do something now that may produce big results. I want you to get your grandfather's permission to use the top room over the tower."
"But what can I want it for? It is useless to me."
"At present, yes; but later it will be useful. You require it for an observatory. You are going to try to repair the big telescope. You are enthusiastic on the subject, you are hot-foot to get to work at once. There is nothing but lumber there."
"Boxes belonging to Marion, uncle. Cases that have remained unpacked ever since she came over from India."
Ralph smiled in his most inscrutable manner.
"Mere trifles," he croaked. "But, there, I am one of the men who deny there are such things as trifles. You may lose a pin out of your watch, a trifle hardly visible to the eye a yard off. And yet your costly watch, with its marvelous mechanism, is useless without that 'trifle.' Now go."
An hour later and Geoffrey was busy in the corridor with the big telescope, the telescope that nobody had troubled about at Ravenspur for many years. Geoffrey, in his shirt sleeves, was polishing up the brasses. Vera was with her mother somewhere.
There had been no trouble in getting permission from Rupert Ravenspur. It was doubtful if he even heard Geoffrey's request. Everything the young people asked they got, as a rule. Why not, when a day might cut off their lives and their little pleasures for all time! The head of the family was fast becoming a fatalist. So far as he was concerned, there was no hope that the terror would ever lift. He had escaped once; the next time the foe would not fail. But there would be rest in the grave.
Marion found Geoffrey in the corridor. The yellow and purple lights from the leaded windows filled the place with a soft, warm glow. Marion's dark hair was shot with purple; her white dress, as she lounged in a window seat, was turned to gold. She formed a wonderfully fair and attractive picture, if Geoffrey had only heeded it. But, then, Geoffrey had no eyes for any one but Vera.
"What are you going to do?" Marion asked. "Read your fortune in the stars? Get inspiration from the heavenly bodies to combat the power of darkness?"
"I'm going to have a shot at astronomy again," Geoffrey replied, in his most boyish and most enthusiastic manner. "I was considered a bit of swell at it at school. And when I saw this jolly old telescope lying neglected here, I made up my mind to polish my knowledge. I'm going to set it up in the tower turret."
"But it is packed full of boxes—my boxes."
"Well, there is plenty of room for those boxes elsewhere—in fact, we've got space enough to give every box a room to itself. There is an empty bedroom just below. Presently I'm going to shunt all your lumber in there."
Marion nodded approvingly. Of course if Geoffrey said a thing it was done. He might have turned the castle upside down and the girls would have aided and abetted him.
"I should like to be present when those boxes are moved," she said. "There are hundreds of rare and curious things that belonged to my mother—things that the British Museum would long to possess. Remember, my ancestors were rulers in Tibet for thousands of years. Some day I'll show you my curios. But don't begin to move those boxes till I am ready to assist."
"I shall not be ready for an hour, Marion."
"Very well, then, I shall be back in an hour, astronomer."
Geoffrey finished his work presently. Then he ran up to the turret-room and opened the door. The place was dusty and dirty to a degree, and filled with packing-cases. Apparently they were all of foreign make—wooden boxes, with queer inscriptions, lacquered boxes, and one fragile wooden box clamped and decorated in filigree brass.
"A queer thing," Geoffrey murmured. "And old, very old, too."
"Over a thousand years. There is only one more like it in the world, and no Christian eyes save four have ever looked upon it. When you take that box from the room, see that it is the last, Geoffrey. You hear?"
It was Ralph who spoke. He had appeared silently and mysteriously as usual. He spoke calmly, but his twitching lips were eloquent of suppressed excitement.
"Very well," Geoffrey said carelessly. He was getting used to these strange quick appearances and these equally strange requests. "It shall be as you desire, uncle."
Ralph nodded. He gave a swift turn of his head as if looking for some one unconsciously, then he crossed the room and stooped down beside the brass-bound box, which was at the bottom of a pile of packages. His long fingers felt over the quaint brasses.
"A most remarkable-looking pattern," said Geoffrey.
"It is not a pattern at all," Ralph replied.
"The quaint filigree work is a language—the written signs of old Tibet, only you are not supposed to know that; indeed, I only found it out myself a few days ago. It had been a long search; but, as I can only see with my fingers, you can understand that. But this is part of the secret."
Geoffrey was profoundly interested.
"Tell me what the language says?" he asked.
"Not now—perhaps not at all. It is a ghastly and terrible thing, and even your nerves are not fireproof. There is only one thing I have to ask you before I efface myself for the present. When you take up that box to carry it down stairs it is to slip through your fingers. You are to drop it."
"I am to drop that box. Is there anything else?"
"Not for the present. You are smiling; I feel that you are smiling. For Heaven's sake take this seriously; take everything that I say seriously, boy. Oh, I know what is in your mind—I am going in a clumsy way to get something. I might so easily get what I require by a little judicious burglary. That is what your unsophisticated mind tells you. Later you will know better."
Ralph turned cheerfully round and left the room. He paused in the doorway. "Don't forget," he said, "that my visit here is a secret. In fact, everything is a secret until I give you permission to make it public."
This time he left. Geoffrey had managed to drag one or two of the boxes away before Marion appeared. She reproached him gently that he had not waited for her. There might be spooks and bogies in those packages capable of harm.
"I dare say there are," Geoffrey laughed. "But you were such a long time. Every girl seems to imagine that an hour is like a piece of elastic—you can stretch it out as long as you like. At any rate I have done no harm. As far as I can judge there's only one good thing here."
"And what is that?" Marion asked.
Geoffrey pointed to the floor.
"That one," he said. "The queer brass-bound box at the bottom."
CHAPTER XIV "IT MIGHT BE YOU"
Marion caught her breath quickly. The marble pallor of her face showed up more strongly against her dark hair. Geoffrey caught the look and his eyes grew sympathetic.
"What's the matter, little girl?" he asked. "It isn't like you to faint."
"Neither am I going to faint, Geoff. But I had forgotten all about that box. I cannot go into details, for there are some things that we don't talk about to anybody. But that box is connected with rather an unhappy time in my youth."
"Hundreds of years ago," Geoffrey said flippantly.
"Oh, but it is no laughing matter, I assure you. When my mother was a child she was surrounded by all the craft and superstition of her race and religion. That was long before she got converted and married my father. I don't know how it was managed, but my mother never quite broke with her people, and once or twice, when she went to stay in Tibet, I accompanied her.
"My mother used to get restless at times, and then nothing would do but a visit to Tibet. And yet, at other times, nobody could possibly have told her from a European with foreign blood in her veins. For months and months she would be as English as you and I. Then the old fit would come over her.
"There was not a cleverer or more brilliant woman in India than my mother. When she died she gave me these things, and I was not to part with them. And, much as I should like to disobey, I cannot break that promise."
It seemed to Geoffrey that Marion spoke more regretfully than feelingly. He had never heard her say so much regarding her mother before. Affectionate and tender as Marion was, there was not the least trace of these characteristics in her tone now.
"Did you really love your mother?" Geoffrey asked suddenly.
"I always obeyed her," Marion stammered. "And I'd rather not discuss the subject, Geoff. Oh, they were bad people, my mother's ancestors. They possessed occult knowledge far beyond anything known or dreamt of by the wisest Western savants. They could remove people mysteriously, they could strike at a long distance, they could wield unseen terrors. Such is the terror that hangs over Ravenspur, for instance."
Marion smiled sadly. Her manner changed suddenly and she was her old self again.
"Enough of horrors," she said. "I came here to help you. Come along."
The boxes were carried below until only the brass-bound one remained. Geoffrey stooped to lift it. The wood was light and thin, the brass-work was the merest tracing.
A sudden guilty feeling came over Geoffrey as he raised it shoulder-high. He felt half inclined to defy his uncle Ralph and take the consequences. It seemed a mean advantage, a paltry gratifying of what, after all, might be mere curiosity.
But the vivid recollection of those strained, sightless eyes rose before him. Ralph Ravenspur was not the man to possess the petty vice of irrepressible curiosity. Had it not been a woman he had to deal with, and Marion at that, Geoffrey would not have hesitated for a moment. Down below in the hall he heard the hollow rasp of Ralph's voice.
Geoffrey made up his mind grimly. He seemed to stumble forward, and the box fell from his shoulder, crashing down on the stone floor. The force of the shock simply shivered it in pieces, a great nest of grass and feathers dropped out, and from the inside a large mass of strange objects appeared.
The force of the shock simply shivered it in pieces, and from inside a large mass of strange objects appeared.—Page 78.
"I am very sorry," Geoffrey stammered after the box had fallen.
"Never mind," she said, "accidents will happen."
But Geoffrey was rapt in the contemplation of what he saw before him—some score or more of ivory discs, each of which contained some painting; many of them appeared to be portraits.
Geoffrey picked up one of them and examined it curiously. He was regarding an ivory circle with a dark face upon it, the face of a beautiful fury.
"Why, this is you," Geoffrey cried. "If you could only give way to a furious passion, it is you to the life."
"I had forgotten that," Marion gasped. "Of course, it is not me. See how old and stained the ivory is; hundreds of years old, it must be. Don't ask any more questions, but go and throw that thing in the sea. Never speak of the subject again."
Geoffrey promised. He strode out of the house and along the terrace. As he was descending the steps, a hand touched his arm. Ralph stood there.
"Give it me," he said, "at once."
"Give you what, uncle?"
"That ivory thing you have in your pocket. I felt certain it was there. Give it to me. Assume you have cast it over the cliffs. Marion will be satisfied."
"But I promised Marion that——"
"Oh, I know. And if you knew everything, you would not hesitate for a moment to comply with my request."
"Uncle, I cannot do this thing."
A hard expression came over Ralph's face.
"Listen," he said in his rasping voice. "The lives and happiness of us all are at stake. The very existence of the woman you love is in your hands."
"I have schemed for this," he said. "I expected it. And now you are going to balk me. It is not as if I did not know what you possess."
"That is because you must have overheard my conversation with Marion."
"I admit it," Ralph said coolly. "I listened, of course. But you found it and I heard what I expected. It is for you to say whether the truth comes out or not."
"The truth, the truth," Geoffrey cried passionately. "It must out."
"Then give me that miniature. I'll ask you on my knees if you like."
There was an imploring ring in the speaker's voice. Geoffrey hesitated.
"If no harm is to come to Marion," he said, "I might break my word."
Ralph gripped him by the arm convulsively.
"I swear it," he whispered. "On my honor be it. Have I not told you before that not for all Ravenspur would I have a hair of that girl's head injured! If ever a man in this world meant anything, I mean that. The miniature, come!"
And Geoffrey, with a sigh, handed the ivory disc to Ralph.
CHAPTER XV RALPH RAVENSPUR'S CONCEIT
"I should like to know why you wanted the ivory picture?"
It was Geoffrey who asked the question. He and Ralph Ravenspur were moving along the lanes that led up to the cliffs. They were deep lanes, with overhanging edges on either side—lanes where it was not easy for two conveyances to pass.
"I dare say you would," Ralph replied. "But not at present. In due course you must know everything. Geoffrey, you are fond of novel reading?"
"Yes, especially books of the Gaboriau type. And yet, in all my reading, I never knew a more thrilling mystery than that of the ivory portrait."
"You had a good look at it, then?"
"Of course I did. The likeness to Marion was amazing. It might have been her own photograph on the ivory. It was the same, yet not the same—Marion transformed to an avenging fury."
"An ancestress of hers, no doubt?"
"Of course. The idea of it being Marion herself is out of the question."
"That you may dismiss at once," Ralph said. "The age of the medallion proves that and Marion is an angel."
"She is. Uncle Ralph, I am fearfully puzzled. What can Marion's queer ancestors and all that kind of thing have to do with our family terror?"
Ralph declined to say, beyond the fact that there was a connection. A horseman was coming pounding down the lane and he stepped aside instinctively.
"Jessop," he murmured, "I can tell by the trot of his horse."
Jessop, one of the farmers on the estate, it was. Geoffrey regarded his companion admiringly. He seemed to be able to dispense with eyes altogether. A long course of training in woodcraft stood him in good stead now. The apple-cheeked farmer pulled up so as to pass the squires at a walking pace.
"Morning, Jessop," Geoffrey cried cheerfully. "Where are you going dressed in your best. And what are you doing with that feminine-looking box?"
The big man grinned sheepishly.
"Riding into town," he explained. "Fact is, missus and myself have got a lodger, a great lady, who's taken our drawing-room and two bedrooms. They do say it's going to be the fashion for the 'quality' to spend their holidays right in t'country. It's a rare help to us these hard times."
Ralph Ravenspur turned round suddenly upon his nephew.
"Is it a fact?" he demanded. "Is it as Jessop says?"
"I believe so," Geoffrey replied. "I know that for the last five years the influx of visitors along this lonely coast has been steadily growing. It seems to have become quite the thing for good-class people to take cottages and farmhouses miles away from everywhere, but I have not heard of any of our tenants having them before."
"I be the first here, sir," Jessop replied. "The lady came over and said she had been recommended to come to us. Not as I wanted her at first, but six guineas a week for two months ain't to be despised. But the lady has a power of parcels to be fetched and carried, surely. That's why I'm off to town."
Jessop touched his hat and rode on. For a time Ralph was silent.
"It's some time since I last visited an English watering-place," he said, "and Scarborough was the spot in question. We had a furnished house there one season, a good house, well furnished, and beautifully situated. We paid eight pounds a week for it, and it was considered to be a lot of money. Don't you think that Jessop's lodger must be a very extravagant kind of woman?"
Geoffrey laughed. Like most young men born to the purple, he had a light estimate of the value of money.
"Now you come to think of it, perhaps so," he said. "Over at Brigg, the farmers fancy they do well if they get ten shillings a room for the week."
Again Ralph was thoughtful. He and his companion came up out of the lane, and then it dawned upon Geoffrey that the other had turned, not towards the cliffs as arranged, but inland in the direction of Jessop's farm.
There was a long, deep lane to the west side of the stone farmhouse, into which Ralph turned. From a gap in the hedge a peep into the garden could be obtained. There was a trim lawn bordered by old-fashioned flowers, two bay windows led from the house to the garden. These bay windows led from the show rooms of the house, rooms never opened except on state occasions. The house might have been made fit for anybody with very little alteration.
Ralph sat down on the grass and slowly filled an aged black pipe.
"I'm going to smoke here while you see Mrs. Jessop. I have a fancy to find out all about this fashionable lady who buries herself in the country like this. Call it curiosity if you like, but do as I ask you. If you can see the lady so much the better."
Geoffrey agreed cheerfully. A moment or two later and he was gossiping with the buxom farmer's wife in the kitchen, a glass of amber, home-brewed ale before him. He was a favorite with the tenantry, and none the less beloved because of the cloud that was hanging over him.
"It does one's eyes good to see you again, Mr. Geoffrey," Mrs. Jessop cried. "And you so cheerful and bright, and all, dear, dear! I'm main sorry I can't ask you in the parlor, but we've got a lodger."
"So Jessop told me. Not that I don't feel far more comfortable here. And what may your distinguished visitor be like, Mrs. Jessop?"
"Dark and handsome. And dressed over so. Might be a princess, who had just slipped off her throne. And clever. She had books and books, some in languages that look like Chinese puzzles."
"Some great society dame, no doubt."
"I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Geoffrey. But not English, I should fancy, though she speaks the language as well as you or I. And simple, too. Just tea and toast for breakfast with a little meat and rice for luncheon and dinner with stewed fruit. And she never drinks anything but water. What she spends a week in food wouldn't keep one of our laborers. And she had pounds' worth of hot-house flowers sent from York every day."
Mrs. Jessop paused. There was a rustling of something rich, and a lady entered the kitchen. Geoffrey rose instantly from the table upon which he had been seated.
He saw a tall woman who might have been anything between thirty and fifty years of age, a woman of great beauty. It was the hard, commanding style of beauty that men call regal. She might have been a queen, but for the faint suggestion of the adventuress about her. To Geoffrey's bow she made the slightest possible haughty recognition.
"I'm going out, Mrs. Jessop," she said. "I shall be back to luncheon. If a telegram should happen to come for me, I shall be along the cliffs between here and Beauhaven."
She flashed out of the kitchen all rustling and gleaming, and leaving the faint suggestion of some intoxicating perfume behind her. And yet, notwithstanding her proud indifference, it seemed to Geoffrey that she had regarded him with more than passing interest just for the moment.
"She is very beautiful," he said. "She is a total stranger to me, and yet she reminds me of somebody else, somebody whose name I can't recall, but who is totally different. It is a strange sort of feeling that I cannot explain."
"She's interested for all her haughtiness," said Mrs. Jessop. "I'm sure if she has asked me one question about your family, she has asked a thousand."
Geoffrey strolled away round the house. There was a short cut to the place where Ralph was seated, and this short cut lay along the lawn. Geoffrey's feet made no noise. As he passed the window of the sitting-room he looked in.
The place was full of flowers, white flowers everywhere. There were azaleas and geraniums and carnations, with delicate foliage of tender green, thousands of blooms, arranged wherever a specimen glass or a bowl could go.
Standing with his back to the window, a man was arranging them. And the man was a Hindoo, or other Eastern, one of the men Geoffrey had seen going through that queer incantation on the cliffs. Strange, more than strange, that Mrs. Jessop had said nothing of him.
Geoffrey prudently slipped away before he had been seen. He found his uncle doggedly smoking under the hedge. He looked like patience personified.
"Well," he said, "have you anything wonderful to relate?"
"Pretty well," Geoffrey replied. "To begin with, I have actually seen the lady."
"Ah! But go on. Tell me everything, everything mind, to the minutest detail."
Geoffrey proceeded to explain. Whether he was interesting his listener or not he could not tell, for Ralph had assumed his most wooden expression; indeed, a casual spectator would have said that he was not paying the slightest attention. Then he began to ask questions, in a languid way, but Geoffrey could see that they were all to the point.
"I should not be surprised," he said, "if the man you saw in the house was one of the men you saw on the cliffs. Mrs. Jessop said nothing about him, because she knew nothing. So he was arranging the lady's flowers. What flowers?"
"Azaleas and carnations and geraniums. Nothing else."
"Well, there may be worse taste, if there can be bad taste with flowers. Any color?"
"Yes, they were all white. I was a little surprised at that, considering that the lady was so dark and Eastern-looking."
"Of course you ascertained her name?"
"Indeed, I did nothing of the kind. I forgot all about it. But I had a good look at her, and the description I gave you is quite correct. Uncle, I don't want to seem unduly curious, but I fancy you expected to find this lady here."
Ralph rose to his feet slowly, and knocked out the ashes of his pipe. He turned his face toward the castle.
"I am not altogether surprised," he said.
Not another word was said for some time. Ralph appeared to be deeply cogitating, so deeply that Geoffrey asked of what he was thinking.
"I was thinking," Ralph said slowly, yet drily, and with the same dense manner, "that a pair of dark, gold-rimmed glasses would improve my personal appearance."
CHAPTER XVI THE WHITE FLOWERS
Surely enough, when Ralph Ravenspur came into the great hall, where tea was being served, he was wearing a pair of dark glasses, with gold rims. Slight as the alteration was in itself, it changed him almost beyond recognition. He had been doing something to his face also, for the disfiguring scar had practically disappeared. As he came feeling his way to a chair, the slight thread of conversation snapped altogether.
"Don't mind me," he said quietly. "You will get used to the change, and you cannot deny it is a change for the better. One of the causes leading to this vanity was a remark I overheard on the part of one of the servants. She expressed the opinion that I should look better in glasses. That opinion I shared. I have no doubt the maid was correct."
All this was uttered in the dry, soft, caustic manner Ralph constantly affected. Nobody answered, mostly because it was assumed that no reply was expected. With a cup of tea in his hand Ralph began to speak of other things.
Leading from the hall was a big conservatory. Here Marion was busy among her flowers. She was singing gently as she snipped a bud here and there, and Vera was helping her. Curled up in a leisure chair, Geoffrey was absorbed in a book. The smoke from his cigarette circled round his head.
Ralph placed his cup down again and felt his way into the conservatory. He stood in the doorway listening to the controversy going on beyond.
"I don't fancy I shall like it," said Vera. "It will be too cold, too funereal."
"My dear child," Marion cried, "then we will abandon the idea. Only don't forget that it was your own suggestion. You said it would look chaste."
"Did I really! Then I had forgotten about it. And we are not going to abandon the idea. It shall not be said that I change my mind like a weathercock. The flowers on the dinner table to-night are all going to be white."
Marion paused in the act of cutting a lily.
"I don't fancy I would," she urged. "After all, second thoughts are best. White flowers on a table do suggest a funeral, that is if they are all white. And in an unfortunate house like this anything melancholy is to be discouraged. I think I will throw these blooms away——"
"You will do nothing of the kind," Vera cried. "White it shall be, and you and I shall arrange them in the best possible style. Why, you have enough already. Come along and we'll 'fix' up the table at once. Uncle Ralph, how you startled me."
"Did I?" Ralph said coolly. "I fancy it is my mission in life to startle people. What have you two been quarreling about?"
"We were not quarreling," Vera replied. "Marion insists that white flowers on a dinner-table are cold and chilly, not to say funereal. I say they are chaste and elegant. And, to prove that I am right, the table to-night will be decorated with white flowers."
"Not with my consent," Marion laughed. "I have set my face dead against the whole business. But spoilt Vera always gets her own way."
Vera smiled as she passed on with an armful of the nodding white flowers. Ralph passed slowly into the conservatory and closed the stained-glass door behind him.
Then he crossed the tiled floor rapidly as if his eyes were all that could be desired, and slipped up a glass panel at the far end of the conservatory. From this point there was a sheer fall down the cliffs on to a hard sandy beach below.
"Just the same," Ralph muttered. "Nothing altered. And just as easy."
He crossed the tiles again and passed into the great stone flagged hall in his slow way. Then he proceeded to light his pipe and strolled into the grounds. Past the terrace he went until he came to the cliffs where he was out of sight of the house.
Then with the confidence of the mountain goat he made his way to the beach, the hard strip of beach that lay under the shadow of the castle. Here he fumbled for some time among the damp slippery rocks, feeling for something with infinite care and patience.
His perseverance was rewarded at last. His hands lay on a mass of flowers, damp and sodden and yet comparatively fresh. He lifted one to his nostrils and sniffed it.
"As I thought," he said, "as I expected. How cunning it all is, how beautifully worked out! And nothing, however small, is left to chance. Well, I came home in the nick of time, and I have found an ally I can depend upon. Only it was just as well not to let Geoffrey know that I knew of Jessop's lodger before to-day. I wonder if my lady guesses how carefully she is being watched."
Half an hour later Ralph was in the castle again, wandering about in his restless way and appearing to be interested in nothing, as usual. Presently the great bell began to clang in the turret, and the family partly gathered in the dining room before dinner. Vera was the last to arrive.
"How lovely you look," Geoffrey whispered.
Vera laughed and colored. She had a white dress without ornament and without flowers, save a deep red rose in her hair.
"That red rose is the crowning touch," said Geoffrey.
"I thought it was to be all white to-night," Ralph said. He had caught the whispered words, as he seemed to catch everything. "Was that not so, Vera?"
"Not for me, sir," Vera replied. "I am in white."
"I wish you could see her," Geoffrey said tenderly, "she looks lovely. Her eyes are so blue, her skin is like the sunny side of a peach."
"And your tongue is like that of a goose," Vera laughed. "Never mind, Uncle Ralph. Never mind. If you can't have the inestimable advantage of gazing on my perfect beauty, you shall have the privilege of sitting by me at dinner."
Geoffrey pleaded with comic despair, but Vera was obdurate. As the bell clanged again, she laid a hand light as thistledown on Ralph's arm. She was brighter and more gay than usual this evening and Marion played up to her, as she always did.
The elders were silent. Perhaps the white flowers on the table checked them. They were so suggestive of the wreaths on a coffin.
When once the cloth was drawn in the good old-fashioned way, and the decanters and lamps and glasses stood mirrored in the shining dark mahogany, the resemblance was more marked than ever. The long strip of white damask, whereon lamps and flowers and decanters rested, might have been a winding sheet. Rupert Ravenspur protested moodily.
"It's dreadful in a house like this," he said. "Who did it?"
"I am the culprit, dearest," Vera admitted prettily. "Marion did all in her power to prevent me, but I would have my own foolish way. If you will forgive me I will promise that it shall not occur again."
Rupert Ravenspur smiled. It was only when he was looking at Vera that the tender relaxation came over his stern old face. Then his eyes fixed on the flowers and they seemed to draw him forward.
"You are forgiven," he said. "Marion was right, as she always is. What should we do without your cheerfulness and good advice? Upon my word I feel as if those flowers were drawing all the reason out of me."
Nobody replied. It was a strange and curious thing that everybody seemed to be regarding the waxen blossoms in the same dull, sleepy, fascinating way. All eyes were turned upon them as eyes are turned upon some thrilling, repulsive performance. The silence was growing oppressive and painful.
Geoffrey gave a little gasp and laid his hand upon his chest.
"What is it?" he said. "There is a pain here like a knife. I am burning."
Nobody took the faintest notice. Only Ralph seemed to be alive, and yet there was no kind of expression on his face. Heads were drawing nearer and nearer to the vases where the graceful flowers were grouped—those innocent looking blooms which were the emblems of all that was fair and fine and beautiful.
What did it mean, what strange mystery was here? Nobody could speak, nobody wanted to speak; all were sinking, lulled and soothed into a poppyland sleep, even Geoffrey who seemed to be fighting for something he knew not what.
Then Ralph reached out his hand to the foot of the table. His long, lean fingers were tangled in the strip of damask down the mahogany table on which lamps and decanters and glasses and dishes of fruit were placed.
With a vigorous pull he brought the whole thing crashing on the polished floor, where two pools of paraffin made a blaze of the wreck that Ralph had caused. Then he slid over the floor and opened one of the windows, letting in the pure air fresh from the North Sea.
CHAPTER XVII WHENCE DID THEY COME?
In the darkness nobody spoke for a moment. Not one of them could have said anything for a king's ransom. Apart from the feeling of suffocation, the gradual poppy sleep of death that filled the room as a great wave suddenly engulfs some rocky cave, the dramatic horror of the darkness held them fast.
At the same time there was something of a shock, a healthy shock in the plunge from light to gloom. A fitful purple gleam still flickered where the blazing paraffin had licked the hard oak polished floor; the breath of the sea breeze was bracing. It was Marion who first came to herself as one comes out of a horrid nightmare.
"Oh, oh," she shuddered. "Who opened the window?"
Nobody responded for a moment. Ralph had crept to Geoffrey's side. It was marvelous how he found his way in the intense darkness.
"Say you did it," he whispered. "You must say you did it. Speak."
"I suppose I did," Geoffrey murmured. "I seem to recollect something of the kind."
"You have saved our lives," said Marion. "Will somebody ring the bell?"
Servants came without much dismay or surprise. They were used to amazing things at Ravenspur. It would have caused no more than a painful sensation to come in some night after dinner and find the whole family murdered.
"Bring more lamps," Ralph Ravenspur said quietly.
Lamps were brought. The disordered litter on the floor was swept up, the broken globes, the dainty china, the glass and silver. The white flowers were no longer there. This was a puzzle to everybody but Ralph, who had gathered them at the first distraction, and thrown them out of the window.
There was silence for a minute or two after the servants had withdrawn. Then Rupert Ravenspur dashed his fist on the table in a passion of despair.
"Great Heaven!" he said. "How long, how long? How much more of this is it possible to bear and still retain the powers of reason? What was it?"
"Could it have been the flowers?" Vera suggested. "It was my fault."
"No, no," Marion cried. "Why your fault? Those white blossoms were innocent enough; we packed them ourselves, we arranged them together."
"Still, I believe it was the flowers," Geoffrey observed. "Why should they have fascinated us in that strange way? It was horrible!"
Horrible indeed, and not the less so because the horrible was not conspicuous by its absence. That innocent flowers, pure white blossoms, could lend themselves to a dark mystery like this was almost maddening.
And yet it must have been so, for no sooner had the flowers been removed and the air of heaven had entered the room than the grip and bitterness of death were past.
"I am sure we were near the end," Marion cried. "Geoff, was it you who snatched the cloth from the table?"
Geoffrey was about to deny the suggestion when his eyes fell upon Ralph's face. It was eager, almost pleading in its aspect. Like a flash the changing expression was gone.
"It must have been mechanical," Geoffrey murmured. "One does those things and calls them impulses. Inspiration would be a better expression, I fancy."
They crowded round him and gave him their thanks, all save Ralph, who sat drumming his fingers on the table as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Nothing seemed to draw him out of his environment.
Still, it was another man who came creeping to Geoffrey's room when the lights were extinguished and the castle was wrapped in slumber. There was an inner room lying out over the sea, which Geoffrey used indifferently for a smoking room and study.
"I can smoke my pipe here without a chance of our being overheard," he said. "Well, was the adventure this evening creepy enough for you?"
Geoffrey shuddered slightly. Flagrant, rioting dangers would have had no terrors for him. It was the unseen that played on the nerves of imagination.
"Horrible," he said, "but why this mystery?"
"As far as I am concerned, you mean? My dear Geoffrey, it is imperative that I should be regarded by everybody as a poor blind worm who is incapable for good or evil. I want people to pity me, to make way for me, to treat me as if I were of no account, a needless cumberer of the ground. I want to see that you prevent these tragedies by sheer chance. I will strike when the time comes!"
The hoarse voice had sunk to a whisper, the sightless eyes rolled, the thin fingers crooked as if dragging down an unseen foe to destruction. As suddenly Ralph changed his mood and laughed noiselessly.
"Let us not prophesy," he said. "What did you think of the episode?"
"I don't know what to think about it."
"Then you have no theory to offer?"
"No, uncle. I am in the dark. That is where the keen edge of the terror comes in. I should say it was the flowers. As the atmosphere of the room grew warmer, as the heat from the lamps drew out the fragrance of the blooms, the perfume seemed to become overpowering. The perfume riveted attention, arrested the senses, and gradually sense and feeling appeared to go altogether."
"Perfectly right, Geoffrey. Still, there is nothing very wonderful about it. Lucretia Borgia used the same means to despatch her victims. A poisoned bouquet was a favorite weapon of hers, you remember."
"But the poison there was conveyed through the palms of the hands. Why do we never hear of that sort of poison nowadays?"
Ralph smiled as he refilled his pipe.
"I've got some of it myself," he said, "or at least Tchigorsky has. It is poor, inartistic stuff, compared to some of the poisons known to Tchigorsky and myself. There are Eastern poisons unknown to science; toxicology little dreams of the drugs that Tchigorsky and your poor uncle wot of.
"You are right. Those flowers were impregnated with the deadly drug that comes out with warmth. It comes as quickly as a breath of wind and does its work and vanishes almost immediately, leaving no trace behind. Another minute and the whole family of Ravenspur had been no more. There would have been a fearful sensation: doctors would have discoursed learnedly—and vaguely—and there would have been an end to the matter. Not a soul in England would have had the remotest idea of the source of the tragedy. Look here."
From under his coat Ralph produced a single white carnation.
"That was on the table to-night," he said. "Take it in your hands. Smell it. Do you recognize anything beyond the legitimate perfume?"
Geoffrey held the perfect bloom to his nostrils. He could detect nothing further.
"It seems to me to be as innocent as beautiful," he said.
"So it is, so it is—at present. Give it me back again. See, I have here a little white, dull powder. In it is the one-thousandth part of a grain of the deadly drug. I dust the powder on the carnation, thus. The natural moisture in the leaves absorbs it and the flower presents a normal aspect. Smell it."
"I smell nothing at all," said Geoffrey.
"Not yet. Hold it to the lamp for ten seconds."
Geoffrey did so. At the end of the brief space he placed it to his nostrils as Ralph suggested. Immediately a drowsy feeling came over him, a desire for sleep, a desire to be at rest in body and mind, in heart and pulses. Indeed, it seemed to him as if his heart had stopped already.
Through a yellow scented mist he seemed to see his uncle and hear the latter's voice commanding him to drop the carnation. He could not have done it to save himself from destruction. Then the flower was plucked away.
"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, suddenly opening his eyes.
"You have been across the Styx and back in exactly fifty seconds," Ralph said gravely. "Now you see the effect of that stuff. Wonderfully artistic, isn't it?"
Geoffrey gazed at the flower with sickening horror. Ralph seemed to divine this, for he picked it up, sniffed it coolly and placed it in his button-hole.
"The evil effect has gone, believe me," he said. "The dose was very small, and I did not mix it with water, which makes a difference."
"Still, I don't follow," Geoffrey said. "We know those flowers were cut and arranged by Vera and Marion. It would have been impossible for any one to have entered the dining-room and replaced them with other white flowers. And for anybody to have had the time to impregnate them one by one—oh, it is impossible!"
"Not at all, Geoffrey. A mystery is like a conjuring trick—seemingly insoluble, but you know how it is done, and then it becomes bald and commonplace. Suppose the stuff is mixed with water and the mixture placed in a small spray worked by an india-rubber ball. Then one goes into the dining hall for half a minute, gives two or three rapid motions of the hand, and the thing is accomplished."
"Yes, that sounds easy. You speak as if you knew who did it."
"Yes," Ralph said, with one of his spasmodic smiles, "I do."
"You know the author of this dastardly thing. Tell me."
"Not yet. I dare not tell you, because you are young and might betray yourself. I could not confide my secret to any one, even the best detective in England. It is only known to Tchigorsky and myself. You shall help me in drawing the net around the miscreants, but you must not ask me that."
"And to-night's doings are to remain a secret?"
"Of course. Nobody is to know anything. They may conjecture as much as they like. Good heavens, if any one in the house were to know what I have told you to-night, all my work would be undone. You are my instrument, by which I ward off danger without attracting attention to myself. You are the unsuspecting boy, who by sheer good luck foils the enemy. Keep it up, keep it up; for so long as you appear young and unsophisticated, there is less of the deadly danger."
CHAPTER XVIII MRS. MONA MAY
Geoffrey was slightly puzzled but, like a good soldier, he asked no questions. More and more he was coming to recognize that it was Ralph's to command and his to obey. Doubtless Ralph had some good reason when he treated his nephew like a puppet, but then the puppet was a long way from a fool, and as the days went on, it came home to him with an increasing force that he had a master mind to deal with.
He had been told off this afternoon to lurk more or less concealed at the top of the steep pitch leading to the village, and there wait until something happened. It came at the end of a few minutes in the shape of a lady in perfect cycling costume, wheeling a machine up the hill towards Jessop's farm. As she came nearer to the spot where Geoffrey was smoking, a ragged nomad sprang from the hedge and demanded alms. The man was coarse and threatening, he was by no means sober, and his demands took the by no means modest form of a shilling.
A second later there was a slight scream and Geoffrey darted forward. The sight of a woman in distress sufficed for him; Ralph was forgotten in an instant. There was a scuffle and a plunge, a rapid exit of the nomad and, hat in hand, Geoffrey was receiving the thanks of a beautiful woman, who was pleased to assure him that he was her preserver.
"It is nothing," Geoffrey stammered, "nothing, really."
It was not usual for him to be confused like this. But then he was standing face to face with the handsome stranger who had taken Mr. Jessop's rooms, the lady with the love of white flowers, the woman who employed Oriental servants, who were given to strange incantations, the creature in whom Ralph Ravenspur had taken so vivid an interest.
And Geoffrey's confusion grew none the less as it flashed upon him that the intoxicated tramp had been the god in the car designed by Ralph to bring this introduction about.
He steadied himself. There was work before him now.
"You exaggerate my poor services," he said.
"Not at all, I assure you," the lady said. Her eyes held a strange fascination; her voice was low and sweetly sedative. She was years older than Geoffrey, but just the kind of siren who drove young men mad, or lured them to destruction. "Few strangers would have faced so formidable an opponent for me."
"Most of my countrymen would," Geoffrey said. "I hope you have a better opinion of Englishmen than that. But Englishmen are not favorites abroad."
The dark eyes were dancing with amusement.
"You are under the impression that I am not English?" she asked.
"Well, there is a certain grace," Geoffrey stammered, "that spoke of——"
"Foreign blood. Precisely. But all the same, I am proud to call myself an Englishwoman. My name is Mrs. May—Mona May. You are Mr. Geoffrey Ravenspur."
"At your service. I had the pleasure of seeing you the other morning in Mrs. Jessop's kitchen. Meanwhile, to prevent any further trouble from our predatory friend, I am going to walk with you as far as the farm."
Mrs. May raised no objection; on the contrary, she seemed pleased with the idea. She was dangerous, she was mixed up in some way with the conspiracy against the peace and happiness of the house of Ravenspur, and yet Geoffrey found it hard to resist her fascinations.
She spoke almost perfect English, her dress, and style and manner were insular, but there was a flashing grace about her, a suggestion of something warm and Eastern, that gleamed and flashed in spite of her cycling dress and the wheel she pushed along so skillfully.
She gave a sigh of regret as the farmhouse was reached.
"Well, I suppose we must part," she said. "Really, it seems years since I spoke to a gentleman and I have only been here for days. I have been ordered absolute rest and quietness for the benefit of my health and, upon my word, I am getting it. Would you take pity upon my loneliness and come to tea?"
Many an older man than Geoffrey had been excused from yielding to such a request. Those eyes were so dark and pleading, and the man was young. Besides, he had an excuse. Had not his uncle Ralph planned this thing and was it not intended to bring about an introduction! Besides, once inside that room, it might be possible to find something that in the future would yield great results.
"I shall be only too pleased," Geoffrey murmured.
"Then come along," Mrs. May said gaily. "If you are fond of a good cup of tea, then I have some of the most perfect in the world."
She led the way into the old-fashioned drawing-room, which she had rendered beautiful with flowers. The stiff furniture looked stiff no longer. The hand of an artistic woman had been here and the whole aspect was changed.
"You should have seen it when I came here," Mrs. May smiled as she followed Geoffrey's glance. "It was like a condemned cell. And yet there are things of price here. A little alteration and a few flowers—ah, what a difference flowers make!"
She pointed to her own floral decorations. The room was ablaze with them. And they were all scarlet.
There was not a single bloom of any other kind to be seen.
"They match my style of beauty," Mrs. May laughed. "I never have any other here."
"You do not care for white flowers?" Geoffrey asked.
"I abhor them. They suggest beautiful maidens cut off in their prime, dead children, the tomb, and all kinds of horrors. I would not have one in the house."
Geoffrey was discreetly silent. Remembering the hundreds of white flowers he himself had seen in this very room not so long ago, this speech staggered him. In a dazed kind of way he watched Mrs. May light a spirit lamp under a silver kettle, after which she excused herself on the score of fetching the famous tea.
Geoffrey picked up an album and turned the leaves over rapidly. There were soldiers, one or two native Indian officials, a great number of Society people, professional beauties, and the like and—and Marion!
Yes, her fair tender face smiled from the embossed, richly gilt page. The picture had been taken some years ago, but there was no mistaking those pure features. Geoffrey closed the book and walked over to the window. Surprise upon surprise had come upon him lately, but this was staggering.
When Mrs. May returned he was himself again. He could answer her questions gaily and smoothly. It was only when he was on his way home again that he recollected how much information he had imparted and how little he had got in return.
"You must come and see me again," Mrs. May said. "Now, can't you come up some evening and dine with me? Say Thursday. Unless I hear from you to the contrary I shall see you on Thursday at seven. A primitive time, but then we are in the country."
"You may be certain," Geoffrey said carelessly, "that I shall come if possible. Good-bye, Mrs. May. In ordinary circumstances my people would have called upon you. You will know why it is impossible."
Mrs. May pressed Geoffrey's hand with gentle sympathy.
"You have my real regrets," she said. "What a horrible thing it is to think that you are all powerless to help it. Good-bye."
Geoffrey found Ralph at the entrance to the castle gate. There was a queer smile on his face, a smile of amused expectation.
"You found her charming?" he asked.
"And clever," said Geoffrey. "I guessed your plot, uncle. She is very clever."
"The cleverest woman in the world, the most wicked, the most unscrupulous. Of course she asked you to dinner, and, of course, you will go. Nobody is to know of it, mind."
"Uncle, how did you guess that?"
"I'll tell you presently. And I'll tell you many things you will have to say and leave unsaid to—Mrs. May."
"Tell me why Marion's photograph is in her album."
"So she showed you that!"
"No, I found it out by accident. Is Marion connected with her?"
"Very closely, indeed. She is Marion's evil genius. And yet through that pure and innocent girl we are going to strike at the heart of the mystery. Ask me no questions, now; to-night we will go carefully into the matter."