Annie Haynes Premium Collection – 8 Murder Mysteries in One Volume. Annie Haynes

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СКАЧАТЬ XXXII

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      December though it was, the air was lush and moist, there were little scuds of rain in the wind; a few belated primroses and violets were poking up their heads in the warm corners of the gardens. The old people in the village were shaking their heads and croaking. "A green Yuletide makes a full churchyard."

      Dark drops from the trees in the Dower House drive dripped on Stephen Crasster's hat as he drove up to the door.

      The firelight from within made a pleasant glow about his broad figure as he got out and rang the bell.

      It looked bright and home-like after the dusk and the damp outside.

      A glow of pleasure overspread the old butler's face as he saw the unexpected visitor, and Stephen greeted him cheerfully by name.

      "We didn't know you were at Talgarth, sir."

      "I only came down last night," Stephen answered, divesting himself of his coat and goggles. "Is Lady Carew at home, Jenkins?"

      "Her ladyship is just walking a little way towards Heron's Carew with Mrs. Rankin, sir," the butler responded. "I expect her in every moment. Miss Carew is in the drawing-room, sir."

      There was a smile in Stephen's eyes as he followed the man down the familiar passage. He had not been at Carew or Talgarth for nearly three months now, since the death of the man who had called himself Lord Chesterham.

      For Ronald Lee, as the evidence most indisputably proved him to be, had not lived to answer to the law for his crimes. The gunshot wound in the leg, which had not been deemed serious at the time of his arrest, began to exhibit dangerous symptoms soon after he was taken to London to await his trial. It was whispered that the prisoner himself was accountable for this, that he had managed in some way to poison the wound. Be that as it might, he died in the beginning of the very week in which the assizes were held, and the public felt itself cheated of a sensation.

      Through all the time of the trial Stephen Crasster had been a veritable tower of strength to his friends; but when the worst was over, and they had gone down to Heron's Carew, no invitations had been able to lure him there, so that his appearance this afternoon at the Dower House was absolutely unexpected.

      When the drawing-room door was thrown open Stephen saw that Peggy was crouching, a forlorn-looking heap, on the hearthrug. The fire had been allowed to die down; some of the damp atmosphere outside seemed to have crept into the room.

      Peggy uttered an amazed exclamation and sprang to her feet as she saw Crasster. "I did not know you were here," she said confusedly. "When did you come to Talgarth?"

      "Last night at seven o'clock, to be precise," he answered, his kind eyes smiling down at her. "I meant to spend Christmas at the old place."

      "Ah, yes!" Peggy said, with a little indifferent air that was new to Stephen's recollection of her. "When are the Annesley Wards coming in?"

      "Not at all," Stephen answered. "That plan is off, I am thinking now of keeping Talgarth in my own hands, at any rate for a time. But you are cold—you are shivering, Peggy. Why have you let the fire out?"

      "I don't know," Peggy said, looking at it vaguely. "I was thinking. It is cold!" she shivered.

      "Never mind, we will soon make it burn. I am a dab hand at fires," Stephen said practically as he raked the embers carefully together.

      Peggy watched him without speaking. Her childish wild-rose prettiness was sadly blurred and dimmed; her face looked very white and pitifully small, overshadowed by the heavy mass of brown hair. She was wearing a black velvet gown with no relief except a little tucker of old lace at the throat.

      It struck Stephen that he had never seen her wearing black before. With a sharp throb of anger, he asked himself whether it could be put on for the sake of a man—the scoundrel—who died in prison.

      Peggy had got up from the hearthrug. She was sitting in an uncomfortable attitude on the extreme edge of a low chair now.

      "Yes, I have decided not to let the Wards have Talgarth," Stephen said slowly. "But the old place wants a mistress, not only a master. Will you marry me, Peggy?"

      The tone was oddly matter-of-fact.

      For a moment Peggy was too taken aback to grasp the sense of the words. She gazed up at him uncomprehendingly.

      But unemotional though his voice—his words—might be, there was that in his eyes that would have revealed his secret to Peggy if she had met their gaze fully—that would have told a keen observer that all this big, stern-looking man's heart had gone out to the pretty pale girl, that his whole being was absorbed in waiting for her answer.

      "Will you marry me, Peggy?" he repeated quietly, after a minute's waiting.

      The girl flushed up, then she twisted her small cold hands nervously together.

      "No thank you, Stephen!"

      A shade darkened Crasster's face, but his voice was as controlled as ever when he spoke again.

      "Why not, Peggy?"

      Peggy was not looking at him now. She was gazing past him, at the cheerful little flames that were darting up the chimney.

      "I—I do not want to be married at all, I shall not marry anyone, but it is good of you to ask me, Stephen."

      "Good of me," Stephen repeated. "I don't understand you. What do you mean?"

      "It is good of you," Peggy said again. "I know it is only because you are sorry for me of course, because you would like to help me to make people forget—this last year. But I would not let you make the sacrifice; I would not let you link your fate with mine."

      "Would you not?" Stephen questioned in his low kind tones. Then he laughed as he looked at her bent head. "Sacrifice!" he repeated. "Because I'm sorry for you! Why, don't you know me better than that, Peggy?"

      "Know you?" Peggy lifted her startled eyes. "I know that you are all that is good and kind," she faltered, "but—"

      Stephen laughed again.

      "Good, kind!" he repeated scornfully. "Don't you know that I love, you, Peggy, that I have loved you always? Have you been blind all this time?"

      A little of Peggy's wild-rose colour was stealing back to her cheeks again now.

      "I—I think I must have been," she said beneath her breath. "Yes! I was blind, Stephen."

      Looking at her, Stephen was conscious of a great desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. He dropped into the chair near her and put his strong brown hand over the two small white ones lying forlornly in her lap.

      "And is it quite hopeless, Peggy?" he questioned gently. "Are you going to tell me that you cannot care for me? That I am an old fool for dreaming that you ever could?"

      "No, no! I'm not. How could I?" Peggy cried incoherently. "Oh, Stephen, why didn't I—why didn't you—"

      "Why didn't I what?" СКАЧАТЬ