No Name Wilkie Collins (e book reader android TXT) 📖

the voices of the summer idlers on the Parade floated through the open window, and filled the empty stillness of the room.

She raised her head; she lifted her hand and pointed steadily to the envelopes.

“Put them back,” she said.

“Do you mean it?” he asked.

“I mean it.”

As she gave that answer, there was a sound of wheels on the road outside.

“You hear those wheels?” said Captain Wragge.

“I hear them.”

“You see the chaise?” said the captain, pointing through the window as the chaise which had been ordered from the inn made its appearance at the garden gate.

“I see it.”

“And, of your own free will, you tell me to go?”

“Yes. Go!”

Without another word he left her. The servant was waiting at the door with his traveling bag. “Miss Bygrave is not well,” he said. “Tell your mistress to go to her in the parlor.”

He stepped into the chaise, and started on the first stage of the journey to St. Crux.

XII

Toward three o’clock in the afternoon Captain Wragge stopped at the nearest station to Ossory which the railway passed in its course through Essex. Inquiries made on the spot informed him that he might drive to St. Crux, remain there for a quarter of an hour, and return to the station in time for an evening train to London. In ten minutes more the captain was on the road again, driving rapidly in the direction of the coast.

After proceeding some miles on the highway, the carriage turned off, and the coachman involved himself in an intricate network of crossroads.

“Are we far from St. Crux?” asked the captain, growing impatient, after mile on mile had been passed without a sign of reaching the journey’s end.

“You’ll see the house, sir, at the next turn in the road,” said the man.

The next turn in the road brought them within view of the open country again. Ahead of the carriage, Captain Wragge saw a long dark line against the sky⁠—the line of the seawall which protects the low coast of Essex from inundation. The flat intermediate country was intersected by a labyrinth of tidal streams, winding up from the invisible sea in strange fantastic curves⁠—rivers at high water, and channels of mud at low. On his right hand was a quaint little village, mostly composed of wooden houses, straggling down to the brink of one of the tidal streams. On his left hand, further away, rose the gloomy ruins of an abbey, with a desolate pile of buildings, which covered two sides of a square attached to it. One of the streams from the sea (called, in Essex, “backwaters”) curled almost entirely round the house. Another, from an opposite quarter, appeared to run straight through the grounds, and to separate one side of the shapeless mass of buildings, which was in moderate repair, from another, which was little better than a ruin. Bridges of wood and bridges of brick crossed the stream, and gave access to the house from all points of the compass. No human creature appeared in the neighborhood, and no sound was heard but the hoarse barking of a house-dog from an invisible courtyard.

“Which door shall I drive to, sir?” asked the coachman. “The front or the back?”

“The back,” said Captain Wragge, feeling that the less notice he attracted in his present position, the safer that position might be.

The carriage twice crossed the stream before the coachman made his way through the grounds into a dreary inclosure of stone. At an open door on the inhabited side of the place sat a weather-beaten old man, busily at work on a half-finished model of a ship. He rose and came to the carriage door, lifting up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking disconcerted at the appearance of a stranger.

“Is Mr. Noel Vanstone staying here?” asked Captain Wragge.

“Yes, sir,” replied the old man. “Mr. Noel came yesterday.”

“Take that card to Mr. Vanstone, if you please,” said the captain, “and say I am waiting here to see him.”

In a few minutes Noel Vanstone made his appearance, breathless and eager⁠—absorbed in anxiety for news from Aldborough. Captain Wragge opened the carriage door, seized his outstretched hand, and pulled him in without ceremony.

“Your housekeeper has gone,” whispered the captain, “and you are to be married on Monday. Don’t agitate yourself, and don’t express your feelings⁠—there isn’t time for it. Get the first active servant you can find in the house to pack your bag in ten minutes, take leave of the admiral, and come back at once with me to the London train.”

Noel Vanstone faintly attempted to ask a question. The captain declined to hear it.

“As much talk as you like on the road,” he said. “Time is too precious for talking here. How do we know Lecount may not think better of it? How do we know she may not turn back before she gets to Zurich?”

That startling consideration terrified Noel Vanstone into instant submission.

“What shall I say to the admiral?” he asked, helplessly.

“Tell him you are going to be married, to be sure! What does it matter, now Lecount’s back is turned? If he wonders you didn’t tell him before, say it’s a runaway match, and the bride is waiting for you. Stop! Any letters addressed to you in your absence will be sent to this place, of course? Give the admiral these envelopes, and tell him to forward your letters under cover to me. I am an old customer at the hotel we are going to; and if we find the place full, the landlord may be depended on to take care of any letters with my name on them. A safe address in London for your correspondence may be of the greatest importance. How do we know Lecount may not write to you on her way to Zurich?”

“What a head you have got!” cried Noel Vanstone, eagerly taking the envelopes. “You think of everything.”

He left the carriage in high excitement, and ran back into the house. In ten minutes more Captain Wragge had him in safe custody,