by Annie Haynes
There had been no renewal of the engagement between Barbara and Frank Carlyn. Barbara was still at Carlyn, and more than ever under the ban of Mrs. Carlyn’s displeasure, since three months before Frank had departed to Africa with a big game shooting expedition. His mother persisted in regarding him as broken-hearted and Barbara as the cause of it all, and sent the girl to Coventry accordingly. It was very hard upon the girl and she was growing pale and thin, a contrast to the Barbara who had visited the Priory in the first flush of her engagement.
Lady Davenant remained at the Priory. It had been impossible to conceal from her all that had occurred, and she had been greatly shocked and shaken at the time both by the discovery of Sybil’s treachery and Miss Martin’s duplicity. In a little while, however, with her usual sweetness, she would have forgiven them both and even welcomed Sybil’s return had Sir Oswald permitted it.
Another governess had replaced Elizabeth, but her little pupil was still loyal to Miss Martin’s memory. No fairy tales were quite as good as hers; no one knew how to make lessons quite so attractive.
Sir Oswald and his cousin got out of their car and looked around. The descent into Porthcawel was far too steep for any motor and there were few dwellings about; a little search, however, revealed a few labourers at work and one of them knew of a shed which might serve as a temporary garage. It turned out all that he promised, and Sir Oswald and Garth turned their attention to the exploration of Porthcawel itself. Its aspect pleased them more and more as they made their way down the rough, uneven steps of the one village street. There was no such thing as apartments to let in Porthcawel, but they were told that it was possible they might get rooms at the “Fisherman’s Rest,” a primitive inn facing the beach. It happened that the spare rooms were empty. The smiling landlady told them so as she took them upstairs to look at them; long low-raftered apartments with white dimity covered beds redolent of lavender and with the fresh sea air blowing in at the open window.
The two cousins felt that they were in luck as they sat down to their luncheon in the little bar parlour which was as clean and fresh as hands could make it, while the sea breeze gave them an excellent appetite for the fish and home-cured bacon with delicious butter and brown bread.
The landlady was quite a character evidently. She pottered in and out, waiting on them herself, giving them bits of local information the while.
Garth looked at the island, which seemed to rise like a rock sheer out of the sea; round its summit the sea-birds were flying and screeching.
“Is it possible to get over there?” he asked.
“Not that side, sir,” the landlady laughed. “I shouldn’t fancy there was foothold for a sparrow there, but round to the right of the bay it is different. That is Porthcawel Rock; you may have heard tell of it. They have had pictures of it in some of the papers time back. The house is old and rare they say.”
“House? Is there a house there?” Sir Oswald questioned in some surprise.
“Dear me, yes, sir.” The landlady answered, evidently astonished at his ignorance. “That is Porthcawel Hold, one of the biggest houses in the country. It belongs to the Treadstones.”
“To the Treadstones?” Sir Oswald echoed, struck by the name. “Why, Lady Treadstone, the widow of the late lord, had a house near us for some time. Awfully nice woman she was too,” he added. He had always liked Lady Treadstone. Her pleasant voice and manner had attracted him from the first and her evident liking for the lost Elizabeth had won his heart. But she had left Walton Grange some time before he recovered his sight, and he had heard nothing of her since.
“She is living at the Hold now, sir, my lady is,” the landlady went on volubly. It was evident from her tone that her respect for her new customer was considerably increased by his acquaintance with Lady Treadstone. “She has been there for the best part of the year, she and Miss Treadstone.”
“Miss Treadstone? Ah, I don’t know her. She wasn’t at Walton,” Sir Oswald said easily. “But I remember hearing Lady Treadstone speak of a daughter once.”
“Stepdaughter, sir,” the landlady corrected. “My late lord was twice married and he and Miss Treadstone used often to be at the Hold in the old days before my second lady was ever thought of. But she has done her duty by Miss Rosamond, my lady has,” she concluded judicially. “And I have heard Miss Treadstone herself say she was as fond of her as if she had been her mother really.”
Sir Oswald rose and strolled over to the window.
“I think I shall go over to the Hold and call on Lady Treadstone. I suppose there is some wry of getting there?”
“Only by the sea, sir. And, begging your pardon but her ladyship don’t see any visitors except by invitation. She and Miss Treadstone came here for perfect quiet.”
“Oh, well, then!” Sir Oswald shrugged his broad shoulders with an odd feeling of disappointment. “We must amuse ourselves in some other way, I suppose. What do you say to a sail, Garth?”
“Capital,” the young fellow exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm. “There are some decent boats over there too.”
“As good as you will find anywhere, sir,” the landlady told him with honest enthusiasm. “The Porthcawel fleet isn’t to be beaten easily.”
“Well, we will have a look at it,” Sir Oswald said, strolling to the door. But he was looking at Porthcawel Rock. It seemed to possess a sort of eerie fascination for him.
They got a rowing boat without much difficulty, though the boatman seemed a little doubtful about trusting them alone, and gave them a good deal of advice about his craft’s management and the direction of the currents, advice which somewhat amused Garth, who had rowed in his eight at college.
“If we were the greatest duffers going we couldn’t come to harm in a sea like this,” he laughed as they got in.
“It don’t do to trust too much to that, sir,” the old man said. “The wind is rising and we have some sudden storms at this time of the year. This is a nasty bit of coast, you know. But the boat is a good one and if you know how to manage her and humour her a bit you’ll do.”
He stepped back and Sir Oswald and Garth bent themselves to their oars.
They passed Porthcawel Rock and Sir Oswald saw that there was a little landing-stage, and caught a glimpse through the trees and rocks of the Hold itself. But there was something lonely and chill about it. He wondered that Lady Treadstone with her knowledge of the world, her wealth and many friends should live there. He wondered, too, what sort of a girl Miss Treadstone—the Miss Rosamond of whom the landlady had spoken—could be to shut herself up voluntarily in such seclusion.
But they were rowing in real earnest. Garth had made up his mind to get round a rock which formed the northern extremity of the little bay, and, though the tide was with them, Sir Oswald was aware that the under current was stronger than he had expected.
They had nearly reached the desired point when they became conscious that the sky, so clear and blue when they started, had suddenly clouded over. There were great dark banks of clouds on the horizon and the wind was rising until it threatened to become a hurricane. Evidently one of the storms of which the fisherman had spoken was upon them. Garth welcomed its coming with enthusiasm.
“Here is a chance to show what we can do,” he cried as they turned and the boat sprang forward beneath their hands like a living thing.
Sir Oswald did not answer. He bent to his oars with renewed energy. The tide was on the turn, the wind was catching them sideways. It seemed to him that they would need all their skill to bring them back to Porthcawel in safety. They were nearing the Rock when they found themselves caught in one of the hidden currents of which they had been warned. Now, with the raging wind and turning tide, what was always a dangerous bit of water even to the experienced became a veritable maelstrom to Sir Oswald and Garth. In vain they put forth all their strength, their skiff was little more than a cockle-shell in the grasp of the element. At last a great wave catching them broadside turned the boat over and both men found them
selves in the water.
Sir Oswald struck out blindly. He was not much of a swimmer at the best of times, and during this long period of blindness his muscles had got out of condition, so that he was in no state to fight the waves. He battled on, however, thinking of Maisie and his mother and Elizabeth. He was conscious that Garth was shouting encouragement, other noises seemed to mingle with the dash of the waves and the roar of the wind, then the darkness closed in upon him and for a time he knew no more.
He seemed to have been unconscious an eternity, when a glimmering of light returned to him. He became aware that he was being moved—carried—that he was on land, no longer buffeting with the waters. He heard voices that seemed very far off, Garth’s and another, very soft and sweet, that he would have known among a thousand—Elizabeth’s. For a minute he thought that death had passed, that he was already in Paradise, and he was content to rest in dreamy semi-consciousness.
Then some thought of what was being said penetrated to his brain.
“I believe his eyelids flickered,” Garth was saying.
“Yes, I am sure I saw a movement,” the other voice said, the one to which Sir Oswald often had listened in his blindness.
So she was alive then! This was no shadow land, but blessed flesh and blood reality. He tried to speak.
“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” His weak lips strove to form the name he loved. With a supreme effort he opened his eyes to gaze upwards into the loveliest face he thought he had ever seen—a woman’s face of purest oval, framed in masses of red-gold hair, with great, grey eyes that met his fully.
But Sir Oswald tried to look beyond for the face he wanted to see.
“Elizabeth! I want Elizabeth!” he said faintly, ere his head sank back and once more the darkness engulfed him.
Chapter Eighteen
SIR OSWALD was vaguely aware, through the thick mist that enveloped him, that he was being pommelled and rubbed, that his tongue and throat were hot and aching intolerably. Vaguely he saw always two faces—his cousin Garth’s and that of an older man; he was conscious of only one desire, that they would let him relapse into the friendly darkness that seemed to be waiting for him. But the pommelling went on, and presently there was an exclamation of relief and some hot fluid poured down his throat. It brought the tears to his eyes, it made him cough and choke like a child.
Garth’s voice said, “That’s right, old fellow, now you’ll do.” And he was made to swallow a few more drops of the stimulant.
Then Sir Oswald opened his eyes and looked round. He saw that he was in a big bedroom, every features of which was unfamiliar to him; that beside Garth and the man he had seen before, a pleasant-faced, elderly woman was standing near the fire, apparently stirring some compound in a saucepan.
“Where am I?” he questioned, and his voice sounded very weak and far away.
The strange man took the answer upon himself.
“You are in Porthcawel Hold, my dear sir, and you have had just about as near a squeak for your life as any man ever did. That I can tell you.”
“Who are you?” Sir Oswald asked feebly. He was beginning to realize that he was wrapped in blankets and that he was in a most disagreeable state of perspiration.
“I am John Spencer, at your service,” the man said with a twinkle of his eye. “And I doctor the bodies of the people of Porthcawel, and many of them as can be got to be ill, that is to say, for it is a remarkably healthy place, and if it wasn’t for a bit of a wreck now and then it is little enough I would have to do to keep my hand in. I had just come over to the Hold to have a talk to Lady Treadstone before the storm burst, and I am right glad I was here, as it enabled me to be of some use to you.”
But Sir Oswald’s attention had wandered. He looked at Garth.
“Where is Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth!” Young Davenant repeated in a puzzled tone. “Who is Elizabeth? Oh, you are dreaming, old chap. Nobody else has been here.”
“Not here,” Sir Oswald said weakly. “But when they were carrying me I heard her speaking.”
Garth laughed. “Oh, my dear fellow, there was no one there but the men of the lifeboat who saved us, and Miss Treadstone.”
“Miss Treadstone?” Sir Oswald repeated in a puzzled tone. “What is she like?”
“The most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life,” Garth answered with enthusiasm. “Red-gold hair, grey eyes and a complexion like milk and roses.
Dr. Spencer laughed. “Ay, you are not the first that has called our Miss Rosamond Treadstone beautiful,” he said dryly. “But now my patient has just got to go to sleep and think of nothing else, so I am going to turn you out of the room, Mr. Garth. Now, Sir Oswald, you will drink this.” He held a cup to Sir Oswald’s lips.
The other paused a moment before he drank.
“When are you going to get us back to the inn, doctor? We can’t trespass on Lady Treadstone’s hospitality.”
“Well, we can none of us get to Porthcawel to-night, in the face of the storm,” the doctor remarked philosophically. “And you have had a crack on your knee that will keep you a day or two longer than that, I’m thinking. But we shall know more about that to-morrow. For the present, all you have to do is just to drink this.”
Sir Oswald obeyed mechanically. Every coherent thought of which he was conscious was centred on Elizabeth. That she was near him he felt certain. In the morning, when he was well, he would find her, his long search would be over. He soon fell into a profound sleep, one that lasted many hours. When next he opened his eyes the sunlight was streaming in through the open window, no trace of last night’s storm was visible. As he lay on his pillows he could look across the blue water, scarcely stirred by a ripple, to the many coloured roofs of Porthcawel.
He felt very stiff as he tried to move, his right leg was numb and helpless. He had an early visit from Dr. Spencer, who assured him that his worst injury was a sprained knee, which would keep him a prisoner for a day or two.
“Anyhow, you would have had to have stayed,” the doctor finished. “Lady Treadstone is too anxious to renew her acquaintance with you to let you go sooner. And as soon as you have had your breakfast, Mr. Garth and I are going to carry you into the morning-room, and then I warrant you won’t find the time long.”
Sir Oswald made no objection to this scheme. His one desire was to get downstairs to try and find Elizabeth.
Yet when he was established on the comfortable sofa in the morning-room he seemed as far from accomplishing his object as ever. Lady Treadstone came to him at once, the same pleasant, sweet-faced woman as ever, yet, as it struck him, with a new look—one which he would have described as a nervous, haunted look—in her eyes.
She greeted him warmly, and told him laughingly that she was glad of the wreck since it brought him to her doors.
Sir Oswald thanked her for all her kindness, but, when she went on to ask him about Maisie and his mother and her old friends at Davenant, it was easy to see that his attention was wandering and when she paused he broke in eagerly:
“Lady Treadstone, do you know where she is? You must, for I heard her talking as they brought me here. And you were always kind to her. I see now that you must have helped her. You will let me see her, won’t you?”
Lady Treadstone looked at him apparently in absolute bewilderment. “Who are you talking about, Sir Oswald? I can’t understand,” she said.
“Why, of Elizabeth,” Sir Oswald said quickly. “Elizabeth Martin. You always liked her.”
“Oh! Of course,” Lady Treadstone raised her eyebrows. “You mean Miss Martin, Maisie’s governess. But what makes you come to me for information about her? I assure you there is no one at the Hold but my daughter and myself and the servants, and certainly Miss Martin is not one of them.”
“But you know where she is—you can tell me where to find her?” Sir Oswald urged.
Lady Treadstone shook her head.
“Indeed I cannot,” she said in a tone of finality. “She was not very amiable when
I made some advances to her, Sir Oswald, and she left the Priory under such unpleasant circumstances that really”—she spread out her hands—“I quite wonder you should wish to find her,” she added.
Sir Oswald raised his head, his face grew stem and serious. “Before you say any more, Lady Treadstone, may I tell you that my one great object in life is to find Miss Martin, to ask her to let me give her the shelter of my name—to make her my wife?”
“Sir Oswald!” Lady Treadstone’s face expressed nothing but the profoundest amazement. “I am sorry I am quite unable to help you,” she finished with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Ah, here is Rosamond,” as some one came along the terrace and paused before the open window. “Come in my dear. Here is Sir Oswald, not much the worse for last night’s adventure after all.”
Rosamond Treadstone stepped through the window. Sir Oswald knew at once that it was her face he had seen when he woke from unconsciousness. But it was the face of a woman, not a girl, and the grey eyes looked weary and sad.
She smiled, though, as she greeted Sir Oswald.
“I am so glad matters were no worse,” she said quietly. “And see, I have brought you some daffodils. They are the first on the Rock, though they are blooming bravely in Porthcawel. I will put them in this jar, and then you can look at them.” She turned to the table and stood at the near end of the sofa.
At her first words Sir Oswald started violently, then he lay still and looked at her. Surely Rosamond Treadstone was speaking with Elizabeth’s voice. It sounded the same, and yet, as she went on, not quite the same. There was a certain quality in it that Elizabeth’s had lacked, an added note of richness. But the likeness was there, it was unmistakable.
Lady Treadstone looked from one to the other with a smile.
“Well, now I think I will leave you two to become better acquainted,” she said lightly. “I know Dr. Spencer has ever so many instructions to give me. I shall see you again presently, Sir Oswald. Mind you look after the invalid, Rosamond!” She nodded laughingly as she left the room.
