Chapter IX: A Moonlit Battle

NORMAN'S first craving was for fresh air and rapid movement. He went along the lane, turned on into a side path, and presently emerged on a wide and lonely common, flooded with silver light. Across it led a road, and this he followed. Overhead, the moon shone brightly.

His mind was bent upon the past talk, especially upon Dulcie's unexpected confession. He realized afresh how devoted a sister she had been; he saw the heart-break that must have been hers, had he fled as he purposed. He understood what her position would have been, had she been left alone to meet her former lover and to bear the brunt of her brother's wrong-doing.

That his plain duty was to stay at Apthorne, to encounter the friend whom he had injured, and to make a clean breast of everything, had become clear: but—could he do it? That was the question. He had not been too proud to misuse money left in his charge: but to confess the same would be a tremendous blow to his pride.

He pictured himself meeting George Kennedy, trying to explain, faltering, breaking down overcome with shame—and it seemed impossible. Again he was gripped by a fierce temptation to flee, even now to make his escape.

But—his promise! He had given his word of honour. Dulcie trusted him. He could not go. Then, he recalled her last words; and in the moonlight, he fell upon his knees, and his whole soul went up in a passionate cry for help, that he might be able to stand. Norman learnt in that hour the true meaning of prayer.

His pleading and Dulcie's were not in vain. Presently, as he again hurried on, he found himself no longer hesitating, debating, swayed to and fro, but coming to a firm resolve. Things were as Dulcie had said. He had no choice. Nothing remained to be done but to stick to his post, and to speak out like a man. He would not be a selfish coward, thinking only of what he himself had to bear, and shirking the just results of his wrong-doing. He would tell Kennedy everything, and would patiently accept the consequences.

As he so resolved, peace settled down upon his tempest-tossed spirit. If in very truth he repented, forgiveness would be his—so much he knew from early training—forgiveness for the evil he had done, strength for the present trouble, power for keeping to straight paths in the future. This hour might, if he willed, become the turning-point in his life.

Walking rapidly, he had wandered from the roadway, half unconscious of the fact, stumbling through bracken and undergrowth, away to a wild and unfrequented part of the common, farther than he had been aware, and the thought arose that he ought to make his way homeward. Dulcie would be watching for his return.

A sound broke in upon his abstraction: a low moaning, which he had taken for the wind among the branches. Now he heard the same more clearly, and he peered into the darkness, intently listening. A human note in it touched him, and he realized that somebody else beside himself was in distress.

A strong temptation assailed him to pursue the quest no further, and to hasten home. It might be only the breeze, or his own imagination. He did not want to be bothered. Why should he concern himself with other people's affairs?

He moved a few steps, then stopped to listen again. Heavy clouds had gathered, shutting off the moon, but they parted, and a search-light beam cut an alley through surrounding gloom.

He saw, as in a vision, a ruined building rising out of rank vegetation, the walls nearly intact, though the roof had fallen in. Lending a spectral appearance to the whole, was a central chimney, oddly placed, and high for such a ruin in such a situation.

In a flash, he recalled the existence and the history of Marston Grange, an old haunted house, grim tales connected with which rose swiftly to mind.

With one brief exception, it had not been inhabited during a century past. It belonged to the Apthorne property, but so long had it been a ruin, and so widespread was the impression of its being haunted, that neither Dewsbury nor previous agents had even thought of letting it.

One day, some ten years before this date, an old and shabby man tramped into Apthorne, seeking shelter. He declared his fixed intention of remaining there, scouted the notion of a neighbouring workhouse, and offered to take up his residence in the ruin for a nominal rent. He confided to the agent that, though very poor, he was not absolutely penniless.

Nervous people held up their hands in horror when his wish became known, but he was not to be baulked. He liked the quiet of the old Grange, and its apartness from talkative human beings. An old lean-to hut would give him all the shelter he needed; and he begged permission to make it his home.

Mainly out of compassion, Dewsbury yielded. Thring installed himself there, and settled down. He seldom came to Apthorne, and spent so little in the way of food, that people wondered how he kept body and soul together. In point of fact, he did not long succeed in so doing. Before winter, he had passed away.

During those few months, Dewsbury was kind to the old man, sometimes looking in for a chat, sometimes taking him a present of food. Towards the end, Thring's reserve yielded slightly. He told the agent that he had no friends, no relatives.

"All are dead before me," he said. "You're the only chap that has shown me kindness for many a year, and I'm leaving my goods and chattels and all I'm possessed of to you."

Dewsbury went home, laughing to himself. The old man's "goods and chattels" would hardly be worth the trouble of carrying away.

Then Timing died, silently, alone, untended; and Dewsbury, happening to come in next day, found him thus. He also found a will, properly signed and witnessed, leaving everything to himself, and, to his surprise, a purse containing twenty-five pounds.

This tale sprang to Norman's mind, as he found himself confronting the old ruin. He had been here once in broad daylight, but to be here alone at night was another matter. Whether or not he put any real faith in ghost-stories connected with the place, he was not free from a superstitious side, and involuntarily, he recoiled. A chill ran through him. Who could say what the moaning might mean? A haunted ruin, an old man dying his lonely death within, friendless and forsaken! What if the sound were from the inhabitant of another world? The unresting spirit of old Thring himself?

The moaning stopped, only to begin anew, broken by speech. He could distinguish no words, but somebody seemed to be protesting.

Norman was not by nature a courageous man. There are men, happily not few, who at the first sign of another in need will dash headlong to the rescue, but he was not of that type. His first impulse was to think of self, to shrink from trouble and danger.

Something withheld him from the instant flight to which he was urged by impulse. Was it a dim consciousness that he might sink lower yet than he had already sunk?—That here was an opportunity for a good deed? He stood suspended, hesitating, doubting, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, unable to make up his mind. Why needed he to do anything? Why not at once decamp? The whole might be a delusion? And he had troubles enough of his own.

He had been backing slowly, but a hollow laugh pulled him up. It seemed to rattle on his brain. The sound recurred, and was followed by a rush of words, excited and vehement, yet still muffled, as if proceeding from a box or a tube.

He longed to take to his heels, but sober thought and earnest resolve, born in him that night, were already working towards his salvation. Though he still thought first of self, he did not think of self only.

"I've been calling myself a miserable wretch, and a spendthrift of God's mercy! I've been hoping to be forgiven and set on my feet again! And now, at the first chance of doing something for somebody, I'm ready to act the coward and to let things go. I'll not do it. I'll not be beaten. Man or spirit, things are wrong yonder, and I'll see if they can't be put right." Such thoughts, half shaped into words, stirred him to action.

He picked his way over the rough ground, among stones and bracken, climbed the nearer broken-down wall, and found himself within the ruin, knee-deep in grass and weeds. The moon still shone, though less brightly, and he could dimly see what lay around. No voice or sound now broke the stillness.

"Anybody here?" he called. "Eh! Hallo! Who are you? Where are you? What are you doing?"

Another minute of this profound hush, and the utmost effort of will would hardly have kept him longer within the ruin, pallid and ghostly as it looked. But the voice he had heard broke out afresh, with a torrent of words. There was a delirious sound in the rush of utterance.

"Ho, ho! So it's you, Mr. Hurst! A better man than I, say you? Well, well, we'll see! We'll see pretty soon, I reckon. There's going to be trouble, I can tell you. The new Squire doesn't know what's been going on, but he'll know soon. 'I've' taken care of that. Shouldn't have been me, you say! Why not? I say, why not? . . . What! What did you say? Treasure somewhere—hidden away! Shouldn't wonder! He couldn't have found a safer place. Old Thring was uncommon sharp! Nobody comes to a haunted house! But keep it close—keep it close! Mind you, I've got the right. If folks knew, they'd come digging here, and have the old place down, before one can say 'Jack Robinson!'"

Then a break, but as Norman debated what to say, the voice started anew.

"No, I'm not an avaricious man, nobody can say that of me. But it's worth a bit of trouble—worth the search, eh? You'd do it in my place. Hold hard—slowly!—Slowly! There's a lot of rubble above; and this old chimney is queerly built . . . Not easy to get up. My word! It's narrow! Shouldn't wonder if there wasn't a ledge beyond the bend, if once I get there. Sort of place a miser 'd be likely enough to choose! Though how old Thring ever could have managed to climb it, beats my understanding! I say! It's melting work, and no mistake. What's that?—" And the voice rose to a startled shout. "Help! Help!—I'm stuck—stuck fast! Can't stir!—" And the hoarse utterances died into renewed moaning.

Norman had listened spell-bound, unable to make out whence the sounds came. He thought he recognised Dewsbury's voice, yet could not be sure. The hut suggested itself, and he went thither, stooped to make his way in, and felt tremblingly around, but could discover no presence except his own. A ray of moonlight filtering through the open door, as a cloudlet rolled away, confirmed this fact. With the exception of a broken table and infirm chair, neither worth carrying away, the hut was empty.

Terror overcame Norman. The whole thing was eerie, uncanny, unnatural. He stumbled blindly to the entrance, and rushed out, drops bedewing his forehead. If the ex-agent were anywhere near, at least he was not in the hut. And if it were not Dewsbury himself, but something else, something ghostly, something terrible—

He started away, full speed, mastered by a nameless dread, and was brought up by the ruined wall, with a concussion which sent him staggering backward. That might not have stopped his flight, but the voice again broke out, piteously imploring help, still with a note of wildness, as of one "off his head." Now too it seemed closer, less muffled. Norman was beside the tall chimney; and a sudden instinct made him bend down, with his face to the opening, where once a great mediæval hearth had been.

"It's somebody up the chimney," he exclaimed aloud, with instant relief; for at all events, ghosts do not climb chimneys. "Hallo! Who's there? Dewsbury!—Is it you?"

A feeble answer drifted slowly down. "Here! I'm here! Help! Help! I'm stuck! Can't stir an inch."

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes! Yes!" Then—"Have a care. Don't bring it all down. There's been a—a—"

"A fall of bricks, eh?"

"I don't know. Something—something—jammed me in . . . Ever so long ago!"

"Never mind! Don't be afraid. I'll get you down, all right. I declare, I took you for a ghost."

The moaning was resumed, and when he shouted further questions, he had no reply. He doubted if the ex-agent were conscious, though aroused momentarily by his voice.

"Nothing for it but to climb up, I suppose. I don't like the job!" muttered Norman, surveying as best he could in the dim light the chimney's outlines. Within of course, all would be pitch darkness. He would have to feel his way; and since there had been one fall of loose material, there might be another. At any moment, while making the ascent, he too might be hopelessly jammed in, and unable to escape.

No; he did not like the job! It meant danger, difficulty, discomfort, perhaps serious injury to himself.