The Hunt Ball Mystery Part 28

"When you hear my story," she said, composedly but with an underlying bitterness which was hardly to be concealed, "the story of a long martyrdom of persecution--for it has been nothing less--you will acquit me of being guilty of anything disreputable. What I did was innocent enough and it moreover was forced upon me."

"Tell me," he urged tenderly.

"I must tell you," she returned, "if only to set myself right in your eyes who have been witness of the terrible sequel to it all. But not to-night; it is too late, and the story is long: it must be told at length. d.i.c.k will be home by this and I must go. I would ask you to come in, but there would be no opportunity for private talk there. Will you meet me to-morrow morning at half-past ten by the summer-house near the wood that runs up to James' farm? You know it?"

"Well. I will be there."

"It is rather a long way for you to come," she said, "but there are reasons for avoiding the big wood with the rides."

"I know," he replied. "Henshaw might be on the look-out there for you."

Then he added in answer to her quick look of curiosity, "I happened once by accident to see him there with you."

"Ah, yes," she admitted with a shudder, "I will tell you about that."

"I think I can guess," he said quietly. "Now in the meantime you will take no notice of this man if he writes or tries to see you. He will probably be exasperated by your not keeping the appointment this evening and may determine to put the screw on."

"Yes," she agreed with a lingering fear in her voice.

"Leave him to me to deal with," Gifford said rea.s.suringly. "And do make up your mind that all will be well."

"I will, thanks to you, my friend in need."

And so, with a warm pressure of the hands, they parted.

CHAPTER XXIII

EDITH MORRISTON'S STORY

Next morning Gifford was in good time at the rendezvous, a sequestered corner of the park, and Edith Morriston soon joined him. "Let us come into the summer-house," she suggested; "it will be more convenient for my long story."

"First of all, tell me," Gifford said, "has anything happened since last night? Has Henshaw made any move?"

She took out a note and handed it to him. "Only that," she said with an uneasy laugh.

"There must have been some misunderstanding last evening," Gifford read.

"I cannot think that your not keeping the appointment was intentional.

Anyhow I can wait till to-night, then I shall be at the lane just beyond the church at 7.30. That you may not repent I hope you have not repented." That was all.

"A thinly veiled threat," Gifford observed. "The man in his way seems as great a bully as his brother. May I keep this? I am going to see Mr.

Henshaw presently, and have a serious talk with him. After which I shall hope to be able to convince you that your troubles are at an end."

"If you can do that--" she said.

"The knowledge that I have been of service to you will be my great reward. I hope I am sufficiently a gentleman not to ask or expect any other."

She made no reply. They had entered the little rustic summer-house, and sat down.

"d.i.c.k has driven into Branchester," Edith Morriston said, perhaps to end an embarra.s.sing pause. "He will not be back till luncheon, so we are not likely to be interrupted."

"That's well," Gifford answered. "Now please begin what I am most anxious to hear."

"The story I have to tell you, Mr. Gifford," Edith Morriston began, "is not a pleasant one and is as humiliating to me to relate as was the experience, the terrible experience, I had to go through. But to be fair to myself I must be quite frank with you, and am sure you will never give me cause to repent speaking unreservedly."

"You can rely upon my honour to respect your confidence," Gifford responded warmly.

"I know I may," the girl answered. "Well, then, you must know first of all, that my father married a second time, and he unfortunately chose a woman well connected enough, but heartless and an utter sn.o.b. I suppose men are often blind to these hateful qualities before marriage; doubtless a clever, unscrupulous woman is able to hide her faults when she has the main chance in view. My stepmother was a good deal younger than my father, and I dare say on the whole made him, socially at any rate, a fairly good wife. Her one idea was social aggrandizement at any cost, and I unhappily was to fall a victim to it.

"I suppose we ought not to blame her for determining that I ought to marry well; she wanted to do the best for the family and was const.i.tutionally incapable of making allowance for or considering any one's private feelings. To make a long story short, my stepmother, in pursuance of her policy, determined that I should marry a certain peer whose name I need not mention. He was altogether a bad lot, and I soon came to know it. I received certain warnings, but without them I could see that the man was all wrong, and I told my stepmother what I thought of him.

"She scoffed at the idea that he was any worse than the average man. All I had to concern myself with was the fact that he was a peer of ancient lineage, of large property, and there wasn't another girl in the kingdom who wouldn't jump at him. I might well chance his making me unhappy since he could make me a countess, and to refuse him would be absolute madness; Mrs. Morriston's face grew black at the very thought of it. She soon got my father on to her side, and between them I had a hateful time of it.

It's the old story, which will be told as long as there are worldly, selfish women on the earth, but it was none the less fresh and poignant to me who had to live through the experience.

"Things got so bad through my continued refusal to fall in with my stepmother's wishes that I was reduced to a state bordering on despair.

My father, whom I loved, was turned against me; his mind was so prejudiced in favour of the man whom I was being gradually forced to take as a husband that he could see no good reason, only sheer obstinacy, in my refusal. Altogether my life was becoming a perfect h.e.l.l. d.i.c.k, who might have stood by me, and made things less unbearable, was away on a two years' tour for big game shooting; I had no one to confide in, no one to help me.

"Just as things were at their worst and I was getting quite desperate, I met at a dance a man named Archie Jolliffe. He had been a sailor, but having come into money had given up the Service and settled down to enjoy himself. He and I got on very well together from the first; he was a breezy, genial, young fellow, fond of fun and adventure and a pleasant contrast in every way to the man who was threatening to ruin my life. I don't know that in happier circ.u.mstances I should have cared for Jolliffe; there wasn't much in him beyond his capacity for fun; he was inclined to be fast in a foolish sort of way; a man's man rather than one for whom a woman could feel much respect. Still he was not vicious like the other, for whom my dislike increased every time I saw him.

"Well, Archie Jolliffe fell in love with me and in his impetuous way made no secret of it. I need not say it did not take long for my step-mother to become aware of it, and with the idea that I was encouraging him she became furious. Except that poor Archie was a welcome change from the atmosphere of my home and the hateful attentions of the man who was always being left alone with me, I did not really care for him, and but for Mrs. Morriston's att.i.tude I should have told him it was no use his thinking of me. Considering the sequel, I wish I had done so; but it is too late now for regrets. His love-making gave me a chance of defying my stepmother, and I rather enjoyed baulking her plans to keep Archie and me apart. If I did not encourage him--indeed, I refused him every time he proposed--I did not dismiss him as I ought to have done, and he evidently had an idea that perseverance would win the day. And so, after a fashion, it did.

"Matters reached such a pitch at last that it became plain that I must either consent to marry the man I loathed or leave my home for good.

Goaded on by my apparent encouragement of Archie Jolliffe, my stepmother resolved to bring matters to a crisis. She started a terrific row with me one day, my father was brought into it, and I stood up against them both.

The upshot was that when the interview was over I went out of the house boiling with indignation and for the time utterly reckless. Chance caught the psychological moment and threw me in the way of Archie Jolliffe. He saw something was wrong and pressed me to tell him what had happened. He was so chivalrous and sympathetic that I was led in my turbulent state of mind to become confidential, the more so when he told me he had known for some time how I was being treated.

"'You must not marry that man,' he said 'It is an outrage for your people to suggest such a thing. He is a big swell and all that, with heaps of money, but any man in town who knows anything will tell you he is quite impossible,'

"I had heard that, and had told my stepmother, but of course it did not suit her to heed me. She cared for nothing beyond the fact that I should be a countess, and said so.

"Archie and I talked together for a long time and with the result that in my longing for protection from the powers against me and my indignation at the way I was being treated I had promised when we parted to marry him, and we had planned to elope together that very night.

"At that time we were living at Haynthorpe Hall--you know it?--about ten miles from here. That evening I slipped out of the house after dinner and met Archie, who was waiting for me at a quiet spot outside the village.

His plan was to drive across country to Branchester Junction, where it was not likely we should be noticed or recognized, catch the night train up to town and be married there next morning. You may imagine the state of desperation--utter desperation and recklessness--I was in to have consented to such a thing, but I could see no help for it, and of two evils I seemed to be choosing the least. The future looked hideously vague and dark; still Jolliffe was capable of being transformed into a decent husband, while the other man a.s.suredly was not.

"Archie seemed overjoyed, poor fellow, as I mounted into the dog-cart; he had hardly expected that I should not repent. Once we were fairly off and bowling along the dark road, a sense of relief came to me, and whatever qualms I may have felt soon vanished. However wrong my conduct was I had been driven to it and my father, for whom I was sorry, by taking part against me, deserved to lose me.

"My companion had the tact not to talk much, and I was glad to think he could realize the seriousness of the step he had persuaded me to take.

But the little he did say was affectionately sympathetic and, now that the die was cast, it comforted me to indulge hopes of him.

"All went well till we were about three miles from Branchester; then an awful thing happened. Our horse was a fast trotter, and Archie let him have his head, knowing that it would never do for us to miss the train.

As we turned a blind corner we came into collision with another dog-cart which we had neither seen nor heard. The force of the impact was so great that our off-wheel was smashed; the cart went over, we were both flung out, and as I fell I realized horribly that my desperate expedient was a failure.

"I was not much hurt, for my fall was broken, and I soon scrambled to my feet. But Archie lay there motionless. The man who was the only occupant of the other dog-cart had pulled into the hedge and alighted. He came up to offer his help, and to express his sorrow at the accident, which he said, doubtless with truth, was not his fault. I dare say you will have guessed that the man was Clement Henshaw. Between us we raised Archie and carried him to the side of the road. He was quite insensible, and breathing heavily.

"'I am afraid he is rather seriously hurt,' the man said sympathetically.

'We ought to get him to Branchester Hospital as soon as possible.'