that musthave been in his possession, and this somewhat puzzled me. The proceedsof the great theft at the Villa Verde must be concealed somewhere--butwhere?
As soon as I was able to travel I went down to Worcester, and hiring adogcart drove out six miles along the Tenbury Road through a picturesqueand fertile country glorious in its autumn gold, when of a sudden thegroom raised his whip, and pointing to the left across the hedgerow to achurch spire on rising ground in the distance said:--
"That's Wichenford yonder, sir. The Place is a mile and a half fartheron."
I had never been to Ella's home, and was wondering what kind of house itwas.
At about two miles along a road to the left we came to fine lodge-gatesthat swung open to allow us to pass, and then driving up a long beechavenue there suddenly came into view a splendid old Tudor mansion ofgrey stone half covered with ivy. It had no doubt gone through somechanges in modern times, but the older parts, including the Great Halland the Tapestry Gallery, certainly were of pure Tudor structure. To meit seemed probable that the original purpose was to erect a manor houseof the E form, so common in Tudor times; but if that was the intentionit was never carried out, for only one block with the central projectionhad been completed, and the house must have taken its present form aboutthe time of Charles the First, when two wings had been added in the rearof the then existing building.
In any case I had no idea that Wichenford Place, the home of theWorcestershire Murrays for the past three centuries, was such amagnificent old mansion.
The great oak door was open, therefore, after ringing the bell, I passedthrough the porch, entered the hall and glanced around, finding it mostquaint and interesting, and full of splendid old furniture. Its highflat ceiling was of large size and excellent proportions, the panellingwas of oak, rich in character and colouring, with beautiful carvingalong the top in many places. The fireplace I noticed had flutedpilasters of an early type and a mantel surmounted by arches of woodfinely carved with caryatid figures supporting the frieze. The ancientfire-back bore the date 1588, while in the old armorial glass of thelong windows could be seen the rose of the Tudors with the Garter andthe shield of the Murrays emblazoned with various quarterings. It was adelightful old home, typically English.
Above the panelling hung many time-mellowed old family portraits, whileat the far end a fine old long clock in marquetrie case ticked solemnly,and the door was guarded by the figure of a man armed cap-a-pie.
A clean-shaven man-servant in livery came along the hall towards me, andI inquired for Mr Murray.
"Not at home, sir," was his prompt answer.
"Miss Ella?"
"What name, sir?"
I gave the man a card, and he disappeared through another door.
Three minutes later I heard a bright voice calling me:--
"Godfrey! Is it actually you!" And looking up, I saw my well-belovedstanding upon the oak minstrels' gallery, fresh and sweet in a whiteserge gown, and little changed from those old well-remembered days whenwe had met and wandered together beside the sea. Ah! how my heart leaptat sight of her.
She ran swiftly down the stairs, and next moment I held both her softhands in mine and was looking into those beautiful blue eyes that foryears had been ever before me in my day-dreams. Assuredly no woman onearth was fairer than she! Love does not come at will; and of goodnessit is not born, nor of gratitude, nor of any right or reason on theearth.
"Fancy!" she cried. "Fancy your coming here. But why have you come?"she asked anxiously. "You don't know in what peril your presence hereplaces me."
"Have you seen Lucie?" I asked.
"Not since she went to Italy. Has she returned?"
"Yes. I am here in order to tell you something."
"Then let's go into the garden. My father has gone in the car toBewdley." And she led me through the old stone-paved corridor andacross the quiet ancient courtyard and out into a beautiful rose-gardenwhere the high box-hedges were clipped into fantastic shapes, and theroses climbed everywhere upon their arches.
"What a delightful place!" I exclaimed. "I had no idea that Wichenfordwas like this."
"Hadn't you?" she laughed. Then sighing, she added: "Yes. I love itjust as much as dear old dad does. Let us sit here." And she sank uponan old seat of carved stone, grey and lichen-covered. It was in a spotwhere we were hidden by the foliage, yet before us spread the beautifulgardens with the long terrace, and beyond the broad undulating park withthe great old oaks in all their autumn glory.
There in the quiet tranquillity, the silence only broken by the song ofthe birds, I briefly told my love of the attempt made upon my life andof the death of Lucie's father--a story which held her speechless inamazement.
We sat there hand in hand.
"I had no idea that you were ill, otherwise I should have, of course,gone at once to see you," she said, with the old love-looking in herdear eyes as she looked at me.
"Ah! I knew you would, my darling!" I cried, raising her hand to mylips. "I dare not write for fear that my letter might fall into thatman's hands. I called upon your aunt, and she told me that you are tobe married shortly. Is that really so?" I asked huskily.
"Alas! Godfrey, it is," she murmured. "I have tried and struggled andschemed, but I cannot escape. Ah! if my father only knew the truthconcerning him! But I am compelled to wear a mask always--always. Itis horrible!" And she covered her face with her hands.
"Yes, horrible!" I echoed. "Why don't you let me stand before thatthief and accuse him?"
"And reveal my secret to my father. Never--never! I would die ratherthan he should know." And her face grew pale and hard, and her smallhand trembling in mine.
"Ella!" I cried, kissing her passionately on her cold white lips. "Howcan I save you? How can I gain you for my own? This awful suspense iskilling me."
"Godfrey," she answered, in a low, distinct voice, "we can never be manand wife--impossible, why therefore let us discuss it further? We loveeach other with a fond true love, it is true, fonder than man and womanever loved before, yet both of us are longing for the unattainable," shesighed. "My future, alas! is not in my own hands."
"Ah! yes!" I cried in despair. "I see it all! Your fear prevents youfrom allowing me to unmask this man--you fear that your father shouldlearn your secret!"
"I fear that you, too, should learn it--that instead of loving me," shesaid, with a wild look in her splendid eyes, "you would hate me!"
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
TELLS THE TRUTH.
In the rich glow of the autumn evening we sat together for some time,our hearts too full of grief for words. The future of both of us wasfilled with blank despair. My presence there brought back to her allthe sweet recollections of those long-past days when she was free, andwhen to save her father from ruin she had so nobly sacrificed her love.
Presently the whirr of the motor-car announced Mr Murray's return, andrising we went into the house to greet him. He welcomed me, but nonetoo warmly I noticed. Probably he did not approve of my calling uponElla now that she was engaged to marry the man who had so firmlyestablished himself in his confidence.
Nevertheless, he asked me to remain to dinner, which I did gladly. Hewas a slow-speaking gentlemanly man, dark-eyed and dark-bearded, whom Ihad always liked.
From him I learned that Ella's marriage was to take place in the villagechurch of Wichenford in the first week in October, and that thehoneymoon was to be spent in St Petersburg. His words cut me like aknife.
"Gordon-Wright is down at his country place just now," he remarked anhour later, as we all three sat at table in the great old panelleddining-room with the wax candles burning in the antique Sheffieldcandelabra. "We go to town next week, and he meets us there. He's agood fellow. Do you know him?"
"I met him quite casually once," I replied, glancing across at mywell-beloved who had now exchanged her white dress for a black lacedinner gown, in the corsage of which was a single red rose--herfavourite flower.
Ah! as I looked at her my heart was aflame. I loved her better than mylife. Alas! She could never now be mine--never.
I left early and drove back to Worcester through the pelting rain--withher rose that she had slipped into my hand at parting, a silent pledgethat spoke volumes to me.
"Good-bye, dear heart!" she whispered. "We shall perhaps meet again inLondon."
"Yes," I said earnestly. "We must meet once again before your marriage.Promise me you will--promise?"
"I'll try. But you know how very difficult it is to see you when I'm atPorchester Terrace. Aunt Henrietta is such an impossible person."
"You must," I whispered. And I would have clasped her to my heart