The Castle Inn: Chapter 30

Chapter 30

A GREEK GIFT

Julia, left alone, and locked in the room, passed such a night as a girl
instructed in the world's ways might have been expected to pass in her
position, and after the rough treatment of the afternoon. The room grew
dark, the dismal garden and weedy pool that closed the prospect faded
from sight; and still as she crouched by the barred window, or listened
breathless at the door, all that part of the house lay silent. Not a
sound of life came to the ear.

By turns she resented and welcomed this. At one time, pacing the floor
in a fit of rage and indignation, she was ready to dash herself against
the door, or scream and scream and scream until some one came to her. At
another the recollection of Pomeroy's sneering smile, of his insolent
grasp, revived to chill and terrify her; and she hid in the darkest
corner, hugged the solitude, and, scarcely daring to breathe, prayed
that the silence might endure for ever.

But the hours in the dark room were long and cold; and at times the
fever of rage and fear left her in the chill. Of this came another phase
through which she passed, as the night wore on and nothing happened. Her
thoughts reverted to him who should have been her protector, but had
become her betrayer--and by his treachery had plunged her into this
misery; and on a sudden a doubt of his guilt flashed into her mind and
blinded her by its brilliance. Had she done him an injustice? Had the
abduction been, after all, concerted not by him but by Mr. Thomasson and
his confederates? The setting down near Pomeroy's gate, the reception at
his house, the rough, hasty suit paid to her--were these all parts of a
drama cunningly arranged to mystify her? And was he innocent? Was _he_
still her lover, true, faithful, almost her husband?

If she could think so! She rose, and softly walked the floor in the
darkness, tears raining down her face. Oh, if she could be sure of it!
At the thought, the thought only, she glowed from head to foot with
happy shame. And fear? If this were so, if his love were still hers, and
hers the only fault--of doubting him, she feared nothing! Nothing! She
felt her way to a tray in the corner where her last meal remained
untasted, and ate and drank humbly, and for him. She might need
her strength.

She had finished, and was groping her return to the window-seat, when a
faint rustle as of some one moving on the other side of the door caught
her ear. She had fancied herself brave enough an instant before, but in
the darkness a great horror of fear came on her. She stood rooted to the
spot; and heard the noise again. It was followed by the sound of a hand
passed stealthily over the panels; a hand seeking, as she thought, for
the key; and she could have shrieked in her helplessness. But while she
stood, her face turned to stone, came instant relief, A voice, subdued
in fear, whispered, 'Hist, ma'am, hist! Are you asleep?'

She could have fallen on her knees in her thankfulness. 'No! no!' she
cried eagerly. 'Who is it?'

'It is me--Olney!' was the answer. 'Keep a heart, ma'am! They are gone
to bed. You are quite safe.'

'Can you let me out?' Julia cried. 'Oh, let me out!'

'Let you out?'

'Yes, yes! Let me out? Please let me out.'

'God forbid, ma'am!' was the horrified answer. 'He'd kill me. And he has
the key. But--'

'Yes? yes?'

'Keep your heart up, ma'am, for Jarvey'll not see you hurt; nor will I.
You may sleep easy. And good-night!'

She stole away before Julia could answer; but she left comfort. In a
glow of thankfulness the girl pushed a chair against the door, and,
wrapping herself for warmth in the folds of the shabby curtains, lay
down on the window seat. She was willing to sleep now, but the agitation
of her thoughts, the whirl of fear and hope that prevailed in them, as
she went again and again over the old ground, kept her long awake. The
moon had risen and run its course, decking the old garden with a solemn
beauty as of death, and was beginning to retreat before the dawn, when
Julia slept at last.

When she awoke it was broad daylight. A moment she gazed upwards,
wondering where she was; the next a harsh grating sound, and the echo of
a mocking laugh brought her to her feet in a panic of remembrance.

The key was still turning in the lock--she saw it move, saw it
withdrawn; but the room was empty. And while she stood staring and
listening heavy footsteps retired along the passage. The chair which she
had set against the door had been pushed back, and milk and bread stood
on the floor beside it.

She drew a deep breath; he had been there. But her worst terrors had
passed with the night. The sun was shining, filling her with scorn of
her gaoler. She panted to be face to face with him, that she might cover
him with ridicule, overwhelm him with the shafts of her woman's wit, and
show him how little she feared and how greatly she despised him.

But he did not appear; the hours passed slowly, and with the afternoon
came a clouded sky, and weariness and reaction of spirits; fatigue of
body, and something like illness; and on that a great terror. If they
drugged her in her food? The thought was like a knife in the girl's
heart, and while she still writhed on it, her ear caught the creak of a
board in the passage, and a furtive tread that came, and softly went
again, and once more returned. She stood, her heart beating; and fancied
she heard the sound of breathing on the other side of the door. Then her
eye alighted on a something white at the foot of the door, that had not
been there a minute earlier. It was a tiny note. While she gazed at it
the footsteps stole away again.

She pounced on the note and opened it, thinking it might be from Mrs.
Olney. But the opening lines smacked of other modes of speech than hers;
and though Julia had no experience of Mr. Thomasson's epistolary style,
she felt no surprise when she found the initials F.T. appended to
the message.

'Madam,' it ran. 'You are in danger here, and I in no less of being held
to account for acts which my heart abhors. Openly to oppose myself to
Mr. P.--the course my soul dictates--were dangerous for us both, and
another must be found. If he drink deep to-night, I will, heaven
assisting, purloin the key, and release you at ten, or as soon after as
may be. Jarvey, who is honest, and fears the turn things are taking,
will have a carriage waiting in the road. Be ready, hide this, and when
you are free, though I seek no return for services attended by much
risk, yet if you desire to find one, an easy way may appear of
requiting,

'Madam, your devoted, obedient servant, F.T.'

Julia's face glowed. 'He cannot do even a kind act as it should be
done,' she thought. 'But once away it will be easy to reward him. At
worst he shall tell me how I came to be set down here.'

She spent the rest of the day divided between anxiety on that point--for
Mr. Thomasson's intervention went some way to weaken the theory she had
built up with so much joy--and impatience for night to come and put an
end to her suspense. She was now as much concerned to escape the ordeal
of Mr. Pomeroy's visit as she had been earlier in the day to see him.
And she had her wish. He did not come; she fancied he might be willing
to let the dullness and loneliness, the monotony and silence of her
prison, work their effect on her mind.

Night, as welcome to-day as it had been yesterday unwelcome, fell at
last, and hid the dingy familiar room, the worn furniture, the dusky
outlook. She counted the minutes, and before it was nine by the clock
was the prey of impatience, thinking the time past and gone and the
tutor a poor deceiver. Ten was midnight to her; she hoped against hope,
walking her narrow bounds in the darkness. Eleven found her lying on her
face on the floor, heaving dry sobs of despair, her hair dishevelled.
And then, on a sudden she sprang up; the key was grating in the lock!
While she stared, half demented, scarcely believing her happiness, Mr.
Thomasson appeared on the threshold, his head--he wore no wig--muffled
in a woman's shawl, a shaded lanthorn in his hand.

'Come!' he said. 'There is not a moment to be lost.'

'Oh!' she cried hysterically, yet kept her shaking voice low; 'I thought
you were not coming. I thought it was all over.'

'I am late,' he answered nervously; his face was pale, his shifty eyes
avoided hers.' It is eleven o'clock, but I could not get the key before.
Follow me closely and silently, child; and in a few minutes you will
be safe.'

'Heaven bless you!' she cried, weeping. And would have taken his hand.

But at that he turned from her so abruptly that she marvelled, for she
had not judged him a man averse from thanks. But setting his manner down
to the danger and the need of haste, she took the hint and controlling
her feelings, prepared to follow him in silence. Holding the lanthorn so
that its light fell on the floor he listened an instant, then led the
way on tip-toe down the dim corridor. The house was hushed round them;
if a board creaked under their feet, it seemed to her scared ears a
pistol shot. At the entrance to the gallery which was partly illumined
by lights still burning in the hall below, the tutor paused anew an
instant to listen, then turned quickly from it, and by a narrow passage
on the right gained a back staircase. Descending the steep stairs he
guided her by devious turnings through dingy offices and servants'
quarters until they stood in safety before an outer door. To withdraw
the bar that secured it, while she held the lanthorn, was for the tutor
the work of an instant. They passed through, and he closed the door
softly behind them.

After the confinement of her prison, the night air that blew on her
temples was rapture to Julia; for it breathed of freedom. She turned her
face up to the dark boughs that met and interlaced above her head, and
whispered her thankfulness. Then, obedient to Mr. Thomasson's impatient
gesture, she hastened to follow him along a dank narrow path that
skirted the wall of the house for a few yards, then turned off among
the trees.

They had left the wall no more than a dozen paces behind them, when Mr.
Thomasson paused, as in doubt, and raised his light. They were in a
little beech-coppice that grew close up to the walls of the servants'
offices. The light showed the dark shining trunks, running in solemn
rows this way and that; and more than one path trodden smooth across the
roots. The lanthorn disclosed no more, but apparently this was enough
for Mr. Thomasson. He pursued the path he had chosen, and less than a
minute's walking brought them to the avenue.

Julia drew a breath of relief and looked behind and before. 'Where is
the carriage?' she whispered, shivering with excitement.

The tutor before he answered raised his lanthorn thrice to the level of
his head, as if to make sure of his position. Then, 'In the road,' he
answered. 'And the sooner you are in it the better, child, for I must
return and replace the key before he sobers. Or 'twill, be worse for
me,' he added snappishly, 'than for you.'

'You are not coming with me? 'she exclaimed in surprise.

'No, I--I can't quarrel with him,' he answered hurriedly. 'I--I am under
obligations to him. And once in the carriage you'll be safe.'

'Then please to tell me this,' Julia rejoined, her breath a little
short. 'Mr. Thomasson, did you know anything of my being carried off
before it took place?'

'I?' he cried effusively. 'Did I know?'

'I mean--were you employed--to bring me to Mr. Pomeroy's?'

'I employed? To bring you to Mr. Pomeroy's? Good heavens! ma'am, what do
you take me for?' the tutor cried in righteous indignation. 'No, ma'am,
certainly not! I am not that kind of man!' And then blurting out the
truth in his surprise, 'Why, 'twas Mr. Dunborough!' he said. 'And like
him too! Heaven keep us from him!'

'Mr. Dunborough?' she exclaimed.

'Yes, yes.'

'Oh,' she said, in a helpless, foolish kind of way. 'It was Mr.
Dunborough, was it?' And she begged his pardon. And did it too so
humbly, in a voice so broken by feeling and gratitude, that, bad man as
he was, his soul revolted from the work he was upon; and for an instant,
he stood still, the lanthorn swinging in his hand.

She misinterpreted the movement. 'Are we right?' she said, anxiously.
'You don't think that we are out of the road?' Though the night was
dark, and it was difficult to discern, anything beyond the circle of
light thrown by the lanthorn, it struck her that the avenue they were
traversing was not the one by which she had approached the house two
nights before. The trees seemed to stand farther from one another and to
be smaller. Or was it her fancy?

But it was not that had moved him to stand; for in a moment, with a
curious sound between a groan and a curse he led the way on, without
answering her. Fifty paces brought them to the gate and the road.
Thomasson held up his lanthorn and looked over the gate.

'Where is the carriage?' she whispered, startled by the darkness and
silence.

'It should be here,' he answered, his voice betraying his perplexity.
'It should be here at this gate. But I--I don't see it.'

'Would it have lights?' she asked anxiously. He had opened the gate by
this time, and as she spoke they passed through, and stood together
looking up and down the road. The moon was obscured, and the lanthorn's
rays were of little use to find a carriage which was not there.

'It should be here, and it should have lights,' he said in evident
dismay. 'I don't know what to think of it. I--ha! What is that? It is
coming, I think. Yes, I hear it. The coachman must have drawn off a
little for some reason, and now he has seen the lanthorn.'

He had only the sound of wheels to go upon, but he proved to be right;
she uttered a sigh of relief as the twin lights of a carriage apparently
approaching round a bend of the road broke upon them. The lights drew
near and nearer, and the tutor waved his lamp. For a second the driver
appeared to be going to pass them; then, as Mr. Thomasson again waved
his lanthorn and shouted, he drew up.

'Halloa!' he said.

Mr. Thomasson did not answer, but with a trembling hand opened the door
and thrust the girl in. 'God bless you!' she murmured; 'and--' He
slammed the door, cutting short the sentence.

'Well?' the driver said, looking down at him, his face in shadow; 'I
am--'

'Go on!' Mr. Thomasson cried peremptorily, and waving his lanthorn
again, startled the horses; which plunged away wildly, the man tugging
vainly at the reins. The tutor fancied that, as it started, he caught a
faint scream from the inside of the chaise, but he set it down to fright
caused by the sudden jerk; and, after he had stood long enough to assure
himself that the carriage was keeping the road, he turned to retrace his
steps to the house.

He was feeling for the latch of the gate--his thoughts no pleasant ones,
for the devil pays scant measure--when his ear was surprised by a new
sound of wheels approaching from the direction whence the chaise had
come. He stood to listen, thinking he heard an echo; but in a second or
two he saw lights approaching through the night precisely as the other
lights had approached. Once seen they came on swiftly, and he was still
standing gaping in wonder when a carriage and pair, a postboy riding and
a servant sitting outside, swept by, dazzling him a moment; the next it
was gone, whirled away into the darkness.

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