The hour that followed was one Marianne would never forget. Drinking her tea, the Duchess contributed little; she sat smiling with dreamy detachment while the others argued about what had happened.
Rose had been given a sleeping draft and was snoring on a sofa in the boudoir.
"Though heaven knows it is only postponing the inevitable," the doctor groaned, running his hand through his wildly ruffled hair. "The moment the wretched woman wakes up she will tell every servant in the house what she saw."
"If you had not seen it too, I would think -" Carlton began. He broke off, with a sidelong look at the Duchess.
"There are enough witnesses," the doctor said gloomily.
"Then someone wrote it while the Duchess was asleep," Carlton said. "There was a period of time after you left, Gruffstone, and before Miss Ransom came in."
"I was outside the door the entire time," the doctor said.
"What about the secret passages?" Marianne asked. "The Duke said…" Then she remembered her promise to Henry and could say no more. "However," she went on, "the wall was unmarked when I lighted the lamps. I am sure of that, because one lamp, one of the largest, was on the table just below that section of the paneling."
A long discouraged silence followed, while they stared at one another. Marianne felt slightly sick. She knew the finger of suspicion pointed at her. She could have written the message in phosphorous paint, or some similar chemical, while the Duchess dozed. Only she knew she had not done so.
Finally the Duchess spoke. "You are all behaving very foolishly. There is nothing to be afraid of. Go down to dinner, all of you. I would like to be alone for a while. After you have dined, Roger, will you come up to me? I will not keep you long, I promise."
The dismissal could not be ignored. Carlton rose uncertainly, and Marianne followed suit. The doctor remained seated.
"Honoria," he began.
"Dear old friend." She held out her hand and the doctor took it in his. "I am perfectly well. I only want to think about… matters I have put off too long. You may come and say good night, later."
The doctor raised her hand to his lips. When he turned away Marianne saw his eyes held an unnatural shine, as if they were filled with tears.
Not until she glanced at herself in the mirror in her own room did Marianne realize she was still wearing the dusty, crumpled frock in which she had played with Henry. She dropped wearily into a chair. This latest and most bewildering phenomenon had exhausted her strength. She did not know what to make of it, and she was too tired to think.
If she had obeyed her own desires she would have remained in her room. However, the Duchess's command had been explicit, and besides, not to put too fine a face upon it, she was hungry.
Dinner could not be called a success. The doctor spoke but little; Carlton made inane comments at random, and several times Marianne caught him staring wildly at her, as if she had changed into a person he had never seen before. Not feeling in spirits enough for the finish of Wuthering Heights (she had peeked at the ending and read just enough to curdle her blood), she went to the library to find another book. Rejecting any work of fiction that smacked even slightly of the sensational, she selected a volume of
Carlyle's essays and went dispiritedly up to her room.
The volume did what she hoped it would do; it put her to sleep, in spite of a rising wind that made uncanny sounds behind the drawn draperies. And if a hand opened her door and a shadowed face looked in, Marianne was unaware of it.
The wind that had howled so drearily had not been an evil portent but the reverse. Not only did Marianne sleep through the night, but she awoke to find her room bright with sunlight. The lift to her spirits was tremendous. She dressed as quickly as she could and without waiting for breakfast put on her coat and ran outside.
The air was cold, and frost whitened the grass. Puddles of water had fringes of ice. It would have taken more than cold to discourage Marianne; she felt like an animal freed from a narrow cage. Swinging her arms and striding briskly, she set off down the driveway. As soon as she was out of sight of the house she broke into an undignified run, for the sheer joy of it. The distance from the front steps to the iron gates was a good mile.
Still exhilarated, she turned onto the footpath and walked toward the village.
The smoke of the cooking fires rose up into a cloudless sky. There were few people abroad; early as it was for the pampered upper classes, most of the villagers had been up for hours and had gone to their work. Marianne saw only a few housewives, baskets on their arms, on their way to market, and one gentleman enjoying his morning constitutional.
She had intended to go as far as the church – for no particular reason, just to have a goal in mind – but the sight of the stroller ahead of her made her self-conscious. She turned and started back.
Before long she heard rapid footsteps approaching; then around a curve in the drive came Carlton, trotting along like a man who is late for an urgent appointment. He was hatless; his dark hair blew in the wind. Marianne was about to hail him with a joking reference to his passion for early-morning exercise when he caught sight of her and came to an abrupt halt. A formidable scowl darkened his face. "Where have you been?" he demanded.
"Walking. The sun was so welcome I could not wait to enjoy it."
"You have no business rushing out like that. If one of the footmen had not seen you I would have had no idea where you were."
"Why should you concern yourself about my whereabouts?" Marianne demanded. "Ah, I know; you thought I had run off with the Duchess's jewels. You suspect me of every mean and contemptible act; why not that?"
As her anger grew, Carlton became cooler. He smiled in a superior way and replied, "Oddly enough – that had not occurred to me. I hope you have no such scheme in mind; I am far too busy to be forever searching your room."
"I don't see you actively engaged in anything," Marianne retorted. "In fact, I wonder that a busy lawyer like yourself can spare so much time for one client. Shouldn't you be in your office?"
"As a matter of fact, I am leaving almost at once."
"Oh," Marianne said flatly.
"But I shall return."
"When?"
"Ah, you do care!" Carlton exclaimed, clasping his hands in mock rapture. "I don't know when, Miss Ransom. Hopefully in two or three days. Now I want you to promise me something before I go."
"What?"
"You are monosyllabic today – and wary, too. Couldn't you have said, 'Anything,' instead of pronouncing that flat, skeptical 'what?' I merely want your word that you will not leave the house until I return."
"Impossible! I will lose my mind cooped up any longer. Surely a ride, with one of the grooms -"
"No. Not even a walk in the garden. I have postponed discussing this matter with you because… Well, for a variety of reasons which need not concern you. But now I must speak out. There is a stranger staying at the Devenbrook Arms."
"The man I saw this morning?"
"Ah, you saw him. Then it was not Bagshot?"
Marianne gasped. Strolling side by side, they had reached the castle; in her agitation she turned away from it and began pacing back and forth.
"I… I cannot say for certain. I saw the man at a distance; his back was to me and he wore a broad-brimmed hat and a long cloak."
"I have not been able to get a look at him," Carlton said. "He keeps very much to himself. But even if I had seen him I might not know him; there are such things as disguises. I do not really believe this man is Bagshot.
He probably is not. But I learned a few days ago, from my informants in London, that Bagshot is not to be seen in his usual haunts, and that he is rumored to have left the city."
"Days ago! Why didn't you tell me?"
Carlton shrugged. "You would not believe my reasons," he said enigmatically. "I am telling you now only because I am going away and you will have to watch out for yourself."
"But it is so vague," Marianne said obstinately. "I cannot imagine that he would have the audacity to come here, even in disguise. You are starting at shadows, Mr. Carlton… and the sun is shining."
"If you take that attitude I will be forced to tell you another fact I had meant to keep from you, because of its distressing nature. I have found Maggie."
Marianne clapped her hands with joy. "You have found her! Oh, how cruel of you not to…" Carlton's grim look gave her a hint of the truth. She caught her breath. "She is dead. Oh, good heavens, is that it?"
"Not dead, no; but she was badly beaten and left for dead. Precisely when the attack happened is uncertain; but she finally managed to reach the man she had mentioned to you, old Harry. A scavenger and ragpicker by trade. He took her in and did his best for her, but when my people found her she was delirious and sinking fast. She is now receiving the finest care," he added quickly, seeing Marianne's stricken face. "Her prospects are good, Marianne, indeed they are. Such women are tough. They must be, to survive the lives they are forced to lead."
Marianne covered her face with her hands. "I cannot bear it," she sobbed. "It was on my account, I know it was; it is all my fault."
Carlton took a quick, impulsive step toward her, his hands extended; but caught himself before he actually touched her. When Marianne took her hands from her face he was standing several feet away, his pocket handkerchief held out. She took it, sniffling, and Carlton said composedly, "You are leaping to unwarranted conclusions. We do not know that it was Bagshot who instigated the attack; in that section of London there are men who would murder for a few coins. I assure you, Maggie is in good hands. You had better think of yourself. Will you give me that promise now?"
Marianne nodded submissively. She mopped her wet forehead with the handkerchief.
"Good. Let us go in now. I will return as soon as I possibly can. Take sensible precautions, but don't let your fears get the better of you."
Marianne might not have been able to follow this excellent advice; but the rest of the day was so busy, it left her little time for moping. In spite of the remonstrances of Dr. Gruffstone, the Duchess decided she had been in bed long enough. Marianne found her up and dressed and declaring her intention of returning to her duties.
Precisely what those duties were Marianne could not make out at first, though she was kept fully occupied in assisting them. The Duchess spent hours at her desk writing and sorting through papers. She also instigated what appeared to be a limited and belated kind of fall housecleaning; the maids were required to turn out her wardrobes and her dresser drawers, and under her crisp orders the various garments were sorted into piles, some of which were returned to their places, while others were packed into boxes and carried away.
Not until this last activity was in progress did Marianne guess at a possible explanation; and she felt a chill of foreboding. The Duchess seemed composed, even happy; she hummed quietly to herself as she wrote letters and lists. But Marianne thought the delicate white hands had a new transparency, and the face an unearthly look of peace.
Late that afternoon Marianne returned to the boudoir after looking in the library for a book the Duchess had requested – a book of sermons. This in itself meant nothing; the Duchess often read devotional works, both spiritualist and conventional. But when Marianne entered the dainty sitting room she found her friend reclining on a chaise longue sorting through the contents of a velvet case. She held up one piece of jewelry after another; the lamplight shone upon the sullen blood-red of garnets, the limpid glow of moonstone and opal, the variegated blues of aquamarines, sapphires, and Persian turquoise.
"Do sit down, my dear," the Duchess said, indicating a nearby chair. "How tired you must be, after running my errands all day long. And on such a fine day, too, when you must have longed to be out."
"I had a nice brisk run this morning," Marianne replied. "Besides, after all you have done for me, I am only too happy to be able to help, even in such small ways." The Duchess held up a gold chain hung with dangling multicolored gems, and Marianne exclaimed involuntarily, "Oh, how pretty!"
"It is only an inexpensive trinket; the stones are citrines and amethysts and other semiprecious gems. Like most of the pieces in this case, it is a personal memento of mine. The valuable family jewels are in the bank in London. Do you really like it? Take it, then."
She handed it to the girl, whose hand moved automatically to receive it, and continued to sort through the other ornaments, inquiring calmly, "What else would you care to have? These garnets are pretty, but perhaps they are too somber for a young girl. Ah, this is what I was searching for."
The jewel was a ring shaped like two small golden hands, the fingers curved around a central aquamarine. To Marianne its deep-blue color and sparkling clarity were prettier than many of the more valuable stones.
"Just the color of your eyes," the Duchess said with a smile. "No" – for Marianne, confused and apprehensive, tried to hand it back – "I want you to have that now. And any of the others that appeal to you."
The stress on the word "now" had been unmistakable. Marianne's eyes filled with tears.
"Please don't speak as if…" She could not finish the sentence.
"Now your eyes are as bright as the stone," the Duchess said, with a little laugh.
"My dear child, don't be distressed; I am not being morbid. I am merely facing a fact I have refused to face before. We are all immortal; but none of us remains on this plane forever. The ring is not valuable, but I know you will cherish it as a memento. And who knows? I may see you wear it for many years yet."
"God grant that it may be so," Marianne exclaimed.
"Now there is one more little task you can perform for me, and then we will take a well-deserved rest. I want a list of all these trinkets. Suppose I give you the description and you write it down for me."
Marianne's fingers were willing; but her heart was heavy as she made out the list in her very best handwriting. There was no longer any doubt about the Duchess's state of mind. She had accepted the imminence of death and was disposing of her worldly possessions.
And why, Marianne wondered, should the idea of receiving a few of these treasures repel her? She had complacently accepted expensive clothes and pretty ornaments, and the attentions of servants; she had enjoyed borrowed luxuries as if they were her own. Ah, but that was the point – she had never really thought of these things as hers by right. They were only lent to her, and in her heart she had known that one day they would vanish, as fairy gold turns to dust when the spell is wound up. Besides, she was no longer the careless, selfish child who had arrived in London. Since then she had experienced the most profound human emotions – terror and love, gratitude and pity. She had grown up – and she almost wished she could have remained a child forever.
Finally the list was finished and the Duchess dismissed her.
"Put on your prettiest dress," she instructed. "Then you may come back and sit with me while I dress. I am dining downstairs tonight. I wish to enjoy the company of my dear friends as much as possible."
Marianne managed to get outside the door before she broke down. Leaning against the wall she wept silently, wiping her eyes with her fingers. She knew she should not be distressed; the spectacle of a Christian preparing tranquilly for the long-awaited meeting with her Saviour and God ought to have been edifying. Marianne believed in the immortality of the soul. Why, then, should she feel so sad?
Lost in her illogical but overwhelming grief, she did not hear the soft footsteps approaching till they were almost upon her.
Turning, with a choked gasp, she saw Victor standing a little distance away. The lamps in the hall had not yet been lighted and the air was shadowy with twilight; she could not make out his features. But when he spoke his voice left no doubt as to his state of mind.
"So you spoke to the old besom after all, and I've lost me position. I'll be getting no references, after what you said; what the devil will become of me now?"
Marianne knew the Duchess had seen Victor that day, but he had been only one of a number of servants and dependents who had come and gone on various errands. Until now she had not known why he had been sent for.
"I said nothing," she protested.
"Indeed! I'll not be taking your word for that."
"I don't care whether you believe me or not. Your drunkenness and incompetence have led to your dismissal, and it serves you right! Now let me pass."
He came so close that she could see his face, set in an ugly sneer. She had never felt any real fear of this contemptible creature and she was not afraid now; but she was glad to see a light approach, for she was not anxious for any further unpleasantness.
"The maids are coming to light the lamps," she said. "You had better take yourself off before you get into more trouble."
With a muttered Celtic curse Victor pushed past her and walked away. Marianne went into her room. The meeting had annoyed but not alarmed her; she was unable to regard Victor's veiled threats with any stronger emotion than contempt. Furthermore, the solemn knowledge that had come upon her left no room in her heart for transitory fears. All her thoughts were now bent on the great Mystery – and on what she could do to prevent its happening. She considered some such action as Carlton had suggested, though she could not believe he had been serious about the idea of fabricating a message from David Holmes. Thank heaven Carlton would be back before the fateful day. Perhaps together they could invent some scheme.
With Annie's reluctant assistance she made an elaborate toilette. Since the most recent manifestations the maid had reverted to her original wide-eyed terror of Marianne, and the latter had given up trying to soothe her. After dressing she looked into the mirror only long enough to make sure she had been able to manufacture a cheerful expression. Then she went next door.
The Duchess was seated at her dressing table while Rose tried to arrange her hair. The poor woman's hands trembled so much they had lost their usual skill, and her face was swollen with weeping. So, Marianne thought sympathetically, she too understands the meaning of what has happened today.
"There you are," the Duchess exclaimed, catching sight of Marianne's reflection. "Just in time, too. Rose is pulling the hairs out of my head, she is so clumsy tonight. Would you replace her?"
"With pleasure," Marianne replied. "Rose, you look unwell. Why don't you go and rest?"
This kindly offer was received with a look of unconcealed hatred. Putting her apron to her eyes, Rose stumbled out of the room.
"Ridiculous woman," the Duchess said, as Marianne began to brush her white locks.
"She is jealous of me, I think. And she has had a bad shock, you know."
"So have you. It is amazing how shocked people are when the things they have always believed to be true actually happen. Rose knows her Bible, she is devout; but when she sees evidence of the survival of the spirit she loses her wits. Ah, that feels splendid. How gentle your touch is."
They went downstairs together to find the others waiting. Even Lady Violet was present, dressed in her usual gray, a lace veil covering her pretty hair and shadowing her face. The evening was not a success, despite the doctor's spasmodic attempts at cheerful conversation; in between his comments his face would sag like that of a sad old bloodhound.
After dinner, at the Duchess's request, Marianne went to the piano. The music soothed her, and it seemed to comfort the Duchess, who listened with a dreamy smile. Lady Annabelle did not stay long. Remarking that music always made Horace the cat start to howl, she departed, carrying the said animal, who did indeed give Marianne a pained stare in passing.
The night and the next day were a repetition of the nights and days that had gone before – quiet sleep, hours of sorting and making lists. By midafternoon the Duchess had finished her self-appointed tasks and declared she intended to rest awhile.
"My dear Marianne, run out and enjoy the sunshine," she said. "We will not have many more such days before winter comes; make the most of them. Only, if you ride, do take one of the grooms so you don't risk getting lost. That selfish Roger and his mysterious business! I am really vexed with him for being away just now."
Marianne was sorely tempted to follow the suggestion. She went to the rose parlor which overlooked the garden, and stood at the window looking wistfully out. All the roses were brown and withered now, and most of the trees were bare. The clear light and wide blue skies drew her, but she had promised Carlton not to go out; and, although she was sure his fears were groundless, she would not violate her word. Feeling very sorry for herself, she went to the music room and practiced for an hour on some of the pieces she most disliked.
Upon leaving the room she was surprised and annoyed to see Victor standing by the stairs, apparently intent on the design of a handsome Ming vase that stood on a table there. She would rather not have seen him, but she had no intention of going out of her way to avoid him, so she advanced resolutely toward the stairs. Victor looked up.
"Ah, Miss Ransom. You don't ride today?"
"No."
"But the weather is tres beau, n'est pas? What a pity to stay indoors."
Marianne did not reply. She ascended the stairs without looking back. She sensed that he continued to stand there watching her, and she had an equally strong impression that if she had turned she would have found that his obsequious smile had changed into an expression more indicative of his real feelings.
She was sufficiently upset by the encounter and by Victor's belated attempt to ingratiate himself to ask the Duchess how much longer the tutor would be with them.
"Only until I can find a replacement," was the reply. "I have written to friends in Edinburgh asking for recommendations and with luck I shall begin interviewing applicants this week. Why do you ask? The man has not bothered you, I hope?"
The serenity of her tone showed how far this possibility was from her mind. Marianne saw no reason to disabuse her. "I was only wondering," she said; and so the subject passed.
Another uneasy evening followed. The party broke up early. As Marianne was leaving, the doctor asked for a private word with her.
"I am sorry to keep you from your rest," he said formally, closing the parlor door. "I assure you I will not keep you long."
"Indeed, you need not apologize. I have been so anxious to talk to you! Only, I did not want to intrude."
The doctor smiled sadly. "You understand what is happening, don't you? You are fond of her too, I daresay."
"I love her," Marianne said simply. "It breaks my heart to see her accepting – nay, embracing…"
"Death. Strange, how hard it is for us to pronounce the word. Or perhaps not so strange, since we fear the actuality so much. I am afraid that in my own grief I have been selfish. I ought to have talked with you earlier. The position is difficult for you."
"Is there nothing we can do? Mr. Carlton suggested -"
The doctor's eyes flashed. "Carlton! Where is he, when I need him? He went off without so much as a word or a by-your-leave; most heartless and inconsiderate of him! Any suggestion of his would be absolute balderdash… But now you had better go to bed. You are very tired, I see."
Marianne put her hand to her head. "I do feel dizzy."
"Small wonder. Your nerves are under a great strain. We will talk again – tomorrow, perhaps. It will comfort both of us, I think."
He patted her hand. So natural was the gesture that Marianne could not even remember when he had taken her hand in his.
"Sleep well," he said softly. "Sleep well and soundly."
Marianne was so tired she had to drag herself upstairs. She got ready for bed without bothering to summon Annie, tucking her hair helter-skelter under her nightcap and kicking her slippers carelessly into the corner. As she reached for the candle, to snuff it, the light caught the gem on her finger and set it into a blue blaze. The ring fit her perfectly. She decided she would never take it off. It would always be a reminder of the dear friend who had given it to her.
Perhaps it was the thought of one kind elderly lady that recalled Mrs. Jay to her mind, with such vividness that she actually turned, half expecting to see the familiar, black-gowned form sitting in the armchair by the fire. The chair was, of course, empty. Marianne rubbed her eyes. She was becoming fanciful. Small wonder, as the doctor might have said.
She was about to get into bed when she remembered she had not locked the door. Foolish it might be, but she was determined to neglect no precaution, though she was now so weary she could barely force her limbs to walk to the door and back. She left one candle burning. Scarcely had her nightcap touched the pillow than she was asleep.
Deep in the grasp of nightmare, Marianne moaned and turned, flinging her arm free of the bedclothes. It was the same dream that had haunted her before: the eerie dream landscape, dim with fog, the jeering, hating faces. But this time Mrs. Jay did not scream curses at her. Marianne seemed to see her leaning against a column of rough dark stone whose top faded into the lowering mist. Her face was so thin and drawn the girl scarcely recognized it, and she wrung her gnarled hands. Her lips parted; but instead of the well-known, incisive tones Marianne heard a hollow, distant wailing, in which only a few words were audible. "Danger… care… beware…"
The mist curdled and lifted and Marianne saw that the support against which her old friend leaned was not a column but a cross, and that the tormented figure it bore was a living man, twisted in agony, the dark blood streaming from His pierced hands and feet.
She felt her lips part and a scream form in her throat. Before she could utter it, something was forced into her mouth, something coarse and crumpled that tasted, bizarrely, of tobacco. Gagging, she tried in vain to spit it out. The dream landscape had dissolved and blown away; darkness was all around her. Rough hands touched a body that belonged to her, but over which she had no power of control. She felt cold air on her bare legs and tried to move her hands, to adjust her nightgown. They would not respond. Something came over her head, down the length of her body and limbs; hands fumbled at her ankles. With an effort that made perspiration spring out all over her, she tried to break through the nightmare by opening her eyes.
They were already open.
She was close to fainting, then, and indeed the smothering gag and the muffling folds that enclosed her would have given her good cause to lose her senses. But as she was about to succumb, something peculiar happened. It was almost as if the failure of her normal, waking senses had freed some other entity that lay curled, silent and unsuspected, in the deepest recesses of her mind. A small, cool voice pointed out that there was no point in fainting; better to keep her wits about her – such of them that remained – and try to understand what was happening.
So Marianne lay still and listened; and she heard a voice growl, "Be quick about it, can't you?"
"Ah, that's better," was the reply. "The gel must've swooned; she's stopped squirming."
Marianne now realized that she had been enclosed in a blanket or a bag or something of the sort, which covered her from the top of her head to her feet and was tied around her ankles. Scarcely had she deduced this when she was hoisted up, bag and all, and tossed over a hard surface, from which she dangled ignominiously, her head hanging down on one side and her bare feet on the other. It took little exercise of intelligence to know that she was lying over a man's shoulder. The hard bone and muscle cut painfully into her diaphragm, making breathing even more difficult.
"Hurry, hurry," a third voice urged.
Marianne would have uttered an exclamation then, if she had been able. She knew that voice, though it was almost as high as a woman's. Victor! He sounded as if he wanted to scream. How on earth had such a limp custard of a man gotten the courage to abduct her, or the money to hire confederates? For there were at least two other men present.
Even as these thoughts passed through her mind she was carried swiftly across the room. The man stooped, but not quite far enough, for something scraped across her back. She knew then where she was being taken, and braced herself for an unpleasant journey, for she well remembered the narrowness of the passage she had seen. The succeeding moments were as uncomfortable as she had feared; the men had to pass her on from hand to hand, like a sack of potatoes, since it was impossible for them to descend the stairs carrying her.
In spite of her resolution she fell into a sort of half-swoon, as a result of the stifling air and the rough handling. A sudden blast of icy air roused her and she began to shiver. The sack was not very warm, and it was her only covering, besides her nightgown. Again she was transferred to a man's shoulder. The man began to run, jolting Marianne painfully. Her bare feet tingled with cold.
She had now reached a plateau of complete detachment and was surprised at her own control – although the doctor could have told her that this was not an unusual symptom in cases of emotional shock. The man who was carrying her came to a stop. Hearing horses stamp and snort, and the creaking of springs, Marianne postulated a conveyance of some sort. Then another voice spoke, and her abnormal self-control shattered.
"Damn you, what took you so long?
You've bungled it somehow; there are lights springing up all through the house. Here, hand her up and be quick about it!"
The voice, the arms that grasped her shrinking body and flung it down onto a soft, yielding surface… Bagshot!
Very well, said the small silent voice, no longer so cool; very well, you may as well faint now. So Marianne did.
She was awakened by a tingling, sharp discomfort in her nose and instinctively turned her head away. She kept her eyes obstinately closed; but she imagined the enclosing bag had been removed, or slit open, for she could see dim light through her lids.
"Clever of me to have had the foresight to bring along smelling salts," said a familiar, hateful voice. "I know you are awake, my love; don't pretend." Fingers grasped her chin in a tight grip and forced her head around.
Marianne opened her eyes. The sight of the yellow, unhealthy face and twisted smile, only inches from her own face, made her stomach lurch. She could still taste tobacco, though the muffling gag had been removed, and her lips were dry and stiff.
"You will not escape," she said faintly. "You cannot hope to succeed in this -"
"Vile plot?" Bagshot grinned wolfishly.
"How very unoriginal, my dear. But then I never was interested in your mind, you know." His smile turned to a grimace of utter malignancy. "No one plays tricks like that on me with impunity. I'd have tired of you soon enough if you had been sensible; but after what you did, I'd have followed you to the ends of the earth." Marianne shivered, and he added, with a return to his suave manner, "Sorry to have removed your warm sack; I wanted to make sure those bungling idiots had snatched the right girl."
He leaned toward her. Marianne shrank back into the corner as far as she could. Her hands and feet were still bound, so she could not move easily.
"How much did you pay Victor to help you?" she asked, with some forlorn hope of distracting him from his obvious intention.
"Much less than I was prepared to offer for such a prize," was the gloating reply. "He patronizes the local tavern; one of my men heard him complaining in his cups and fancied he would be the tool we were looking for. What did you do to the poor fool? He seemed quite bitter about you. But I can understand his feelings; you really are a delicious little morsel. I'm not sure I can contain myself till we reach the cozy nest I have prepared for us."
With a horrid parody of delicacy he put out his hand and untied the ribbon at the neck of Marianne's gown. She could retreat no further. She bent her head and bit him on the finger.
With a howl of pain he pulled back, shaking the wounded member. Then he lifted his hand and would have struck her if the trap on the ceiling had not opened to show the coachman's face. Marianne could not make out the words he shouted; but Bagshot understood. His face turned even blacker with rage, if that was possible, and with a muttered oath he opened the window and put his head out. Then Marianne heard it too – voices shouting, a distant rumble of hoofbeats. Her heart pounded with hope and excitement.
Bagshot banged on the trap. "Faster, damn you," he shouted.
They were already traveling at considerable speed, but now the coach began to sway wildly as the coachman urged his steeds on. Bagshot paid no more attention to Marianne. Drawing a pair of pistols from his pocket, he stationed himself at the window. Marianne bit her lip to keep from crying out. Common sense warned her not to attempt any foolhardy act of heroism, bound and helpless as she was; and really it seemed unlikely that Bagshot could hope to hit a moving target when the coach was going at such speed.
Suddenly a dark mass rushed past the open window. Marianne caught only a glimpse of it, since Bagshot's head and shoulders filled most of the space. Swearing obscenely, he let out a fusillade of shots. Then, with a rending crash, the coach reeled to one side, rocked violently, and overturned. Marianne was crushed by the weight of a heavy body; her ears were deafened by cries and curses and the screech of cracking metal.
Bagshot had been thrown against her, but he had not been rendered unconscious. He moved almost at once, scrambling out the window, which was now directly over their heads, since the coach was lying on its side. As soon as he was gone Marianne felt it would be safe to scream, which she did with extreme vigor. The sounds of struggle continued outside. Between screams she strained her ears, trying to discover what was happening, but heard only indistinguishable cries of rage and pain.
The sounds finally died away. Marianne emitted a final scream, the loudest of the lot, and sank back, breathless. For an interval nothing happened; she had time to wonder, despairingly, if her rescuers had lost the fight, before the square of light marking the window was obscured by the black silhouette of a head and shoulder.
"Marianne," a voice said. "Speak to me! Are you conscious? Are you unwounded? Are you – er – unharmed?"
The voice was the last one Marianne had expected to hear. Dizzy with surprise and joy she managed to croak, "I can't talk. I am hoarse from screaming."
The door was wrenched open and with some effort Marianne was extracted, rather like a very large puppet from a deep packing box, for she could do nothing to help herself. Her feet had barely touched the ground when she felt herself clasped in Roger Carlton's arms.