CHAPTER VII
THE MYSTERY OF PYCROFT

I waited a few minutes, but no one came back to the room. Moreover dawn was now appearing; the birds were singing louder every minute; the silence of night was dying in the gladsomeness of a new day. I crept down from the tree, my mind wellnigh bewildered by what I had seen and heard. When I had left my home two days before I had no idea that I should so soon be enshrouded in the mists of mystery. Nay, a few hours before, when I had ridden up to the inn in Folkestone town, I did not dream that before sunrise new interests and new hopes would arise in my life. Yet so it was. At sundown my one hope was to find the clue to the hiding place of the marriage contract of the new king with Lucy Walters, now, although I had in no way abandoned the mission which inspired me when I set out, it had become interwoven with other interests which kindled my imagination and stirred my heart even more.

Who was that old man? Why did he live there all alone? What was the secret of that old house? What was the link that bound the woman I had accompanied hither with this strange old creature? Why had she come hither, and who was that other woman who had come into the room?

These and a hundred other questions haunted my mind as I waited near the house, while both eyes and ears were open to every sight and sound. Almost unconsciously I crept away to the spot where I had separated from the woman, and this place being somewhat higher than the house gave me a full view of the building.

As day came on, the outlines of the house became more clear to me. I saw that it could scarcely be called a mansion, while on the other hand it was larger than a farmer's dwelling, nay for that matter it was evidently intended as the dwelling place of a man of importance. It was a low irregular building, built of stone, and was evidently of great strength. The doors were heavy and iron studded. The mullioned windows were so constructed that no one could enter through them. Moreover iron bars obtained everywhere; at no place, as far as I could see, could any one find an entrance, save at the will of those who dwelt within. An air of dilapidation reigned. There was no evidence anywhere that the place was inhabited. The paths were covered with weeds and grass. What were at one time flower gardens had become a wild mess. The grass grew in large quantities, while wild flowers were appearing in great profusion. But nowhere was human care visible.

The spring air blew fresh and cold, and although the birds sang blithely they did not dispel the feeling of desolation which everywhere reigned. Had I not seen those two women and the old man I should have said that Pycroft Hall had been deserted at least ten years. Nothing save birds and insects betokened life. Not a bark of a dog, or the low of a cow even, could be heard. All told of lonely desolation.

In spite of myself I shivered. My clothes were wet with dew, and standing in the shadow of the trees as I was the rays from the rising sun did not reach me. Like a man dazed I crept to an open spot where the sun shone, but it seemed to give no heat. Bright spring morning though it might be it was deathly cold, and more than all, my heart was cold.

I waited in silence, how long I do not know, but it seemed a long time. Still I remained there, listening for the sound of footsteps, and for the presence of the woman. I made up my mind concerning the questions I should ask her. Cunning, searching questions I thought they were, such as would lead her, unknown to herself, to give me the clue to the secret which threw a shadow over her life. I planned how I could gain her confidence, and, presently, by my own wisdom and courage, free her from the weight which I felt sure was crushing her.

Meanwhile the sun rose higher and higher. The day was now fully come, and yet neither sight nor sound reached me.

"What is the meaning of this?" I asked myself. "She promised to cry out if she were in danger. She told me to wait for her."

I called to mind that she had said nothing concerning her future plans, or of her return to the inn at Folkestone. Then a thought came into my mind which dismayed me and determined me to take action. I therefore left the spot where I had been standing and crept closer and closer to the house. I did not keep within sight of the windows. I feared to do so, not for my own sake but for hers, even although I did not know what harm I should be doing her by exposing myself to sight. Still I remembered how eagerly she had pleaded with me not to enter the house with her. I judged she was anxious that I should not be seen by the man with whom she had an interview that night.

I was not long in discovering, however, that my precautions were needless. No one appeared, and all was silent. Presently growing bolder I walked around the building. There was no sign that any living being save myself was near. Every door, every window was closed and bolted, and as I listened the silence of death seemed to reign in the old home of the Pycrofts.

"She is gone," I cried out like one bewildered, "but whither hath she gone? what hath happened to her?" But only the deathly silence of the deserted house made answer to the question which had unwittingly come to my lips.

At first I could scarcely realize it, and I could not help believing that the dread calamity at which she had hinted had befallen her while in the company of the man.

Presently I climbed to one of the windows, some of the panes of which were broken, and looked in. I saw only an empty and deserted room. It looked very dreary just then, although I doubt not that at one time it had rung with joyous revelry. It was a large dining hall, oak panelled and oak ceiled. The chimney piece, moreover, although black with age and smoke, was quaintly carved, while there were many other indications that the builders of Pycroft Hall were people who loved things tasteful and pleasant to behold. I placed my ear to the broken pane also, but no sound could I hear. A silence like unto that of death reigned.

At this time all through which I had passed through the night seemed like a dream, and I felt like doubting the things which I have here set down. Especially was this so when, emboldened by the continuous silence, I gave a shout, which echoed and re-echoed through the forsaken rooms.

"What hath happened to her?" I asked myself again and again, and each time I asked the question the more difficult did the answer become.

Presently I took a more commonplace view of the matter. "Doubtless she hath gone back to Folkestone," I said to myself; "perchance, moreover, the other woman I saw hath gone back with her, while the old man hath accompanied them a part of the way. After all the woman did not promise to return to me. She did not ask me to accompany her; rather it was against her will that she allowed me to walk by her side. Perhaps if I make haste I shall overtake them before they reach the Barley Sheaf."

But although I said this I did not leave the place at the time the determination was born in my mind. There still remained lingering doubts whether she was not immured in this lonely house, and whether she might not even then be needing my aid. But after I had again made a journey around the building, I was led to the conclusion that it was deserted. I would have given much to have entered, so that I might have set my doubts at rest, but as I have said, every door was closed and bolted, while every window was so barricaded that no man might enter except after great preparations.

I therefore presently turned back disappointed and weary; the woman, the pathway of whose life I had so strangely crossed, had willed to go away without telling me whither she had gone, or perchance she had been compelled to do the will of the man with whom I had seen her in the room opposite the fir tree.

There seemed no reason why I should trouble about this, yet I did. A great weight rested upon my heart and, even when I had left the Pycroft woods and was out on the main road again and saw the clear blue sky above me, I was oppressed by what had taken place and I accused myself of being unfaithful to the promise I had made.

What o'clock it was when I reached Folkestone town I know not, but it was yet early, for but few people were stirring, neither did the inmates of the tavern seem to have aroused themselves from the carousal of the previous night. I found the main door opened, however, so I entered as carelessly as I was able, in the hope that if any one appeared I might give the impression that I had gone out for an early morning walk. But no man molested me as I found my way to the chamber which had been allotted to me, neither could I hear a sound coming from the adjoining room. All was perfectly still.

I went into the corridor and listened intently, but no man stirred. If the man, the thought of whom aroused angry feelings in my heart, slept near me, he must have slept as peacefully as a child.

After a time I heard the sound of bustle and movement in the rooms beneath me, and then, although the thought of food had never entered my mind during the night, I felt a great hunger. I therefore made my way down stairs, where great steaks of ham fresh from the frying pan were speedily set before me.

"A fine morning," I said to the maid who brought them.

"Ay, it feels like summer," she replied.

"Are there many people here who have been sleeping at the inn to-night."

"I dunnow," and with that she left the room.

I thought the maid desired not to answer my question, but this, while it aroused suspicions in my mind did not keep me from eating a hearty breakfast. Moreover, I felt neither tired nor sleepy. My journey of ten miles, my long watching and waiting, seemed to have affected me not one whit, and when I had finished breakfast I had no more weariness than when I had left my home two days before. In spite of my anxiety, too, I felt strangely light of heart, and as the sunlight streamed into the room I found myself humming a song.

"Good morning to you, young master, and a good appetite."

It was the landlord who spoke, the very man I wanted to see.

"The same to you Master Landlord," I replied.

"Ay, but I spoiled my appetite an hour ago, young master. An innkeeper must needs be an early riser."

"Ay, I suppose so," I made answer, blessing my stars that the man had given me the very opening which I desired. "Doubtless some of your guests have taken leave of you this morning."

"As to that, no, young master."

"Ah, no one has left you to-day?"

"No, not to-day."

"That is lucky for me," I said, "for I had fears lest one of your guests whom I wanted to see had left before I had a chance of speaking to him."

"And which might that be, if I am not making too bold in asking?" he said, and I thought his eyes searched my face curiously.

"The Cavalier who rode up last night with a lady."

"Ah, but which?"

"I saw but one," I made answer. "He came up even while the groom was unsaddling my own horse. A tall man, with black hair just turning grey. He wore a grey feather in his hat, and his sword was jewel hilted."

"That description might apply to many a traveller who puts up here," he replied. "His name, young master, his name?"

"As to his name," I replied, for here the man had found a weak place in my armour, "well there may be reasons for not mentioning it."

"I have naught to do with nameless wanderers, young master, and thank God the country will have less than ever to do with them since England's true king is coming back. Each traveller who comes to this inn gives his name as a gentleman should. It is well known for five miles around, ay, fifty for that matter, among those who travel, that The Barley Sheaf bears a name second to none. Its sack is of the best, its company the best, while neither footpad nor traitor is ever welcomed within its walls."

The man spoke as I thought with unnecessary warmth. There seemed no reason why he should be so anxious to defend the character of the house before a youth like myself, who made no charge against it.

"Methinks he does protest too much," I said to myself, calling to mind the words of Master Will Shakespeare, whose writings had been little read during Cromwell's time, but whose plays I had often read with much delight. Still I remembered my father's advice, and determined to arouse no suspicion in his mind.

"I heard of that before I came hither," I replied. "As to the sack, and the company, I made acquaintance with both last night, and that with rare pleasure. Nevertheless a man doth not blazon his name on the walls of every inn he enters. Even King Charles II, who is expected to land at Dover before many days are over, had often to enter places like this under an assumed name, as every one knows right well. And, even although times will be changed at his return, it may be that many a man, while he may give his name to such as yourself, will not care to shout it aloud to the tapster or the ostler."

"Ay there is reason in that," replied the innkeeper, "and I perceive that young as you are you are a gentleman of rare wit."

"As to that, mine host," I made answer, "I may not boast, still I have wit enough to know that it may not always be best to speak names aloud in an inn, although the king will be in England soon."

"God bless King Charles II, and down with all psalm-singing traitors," he cried fervently.

"Amen to that," I cried; "down with all traitors whether they sing psalms or no. But to come to my question, since the worshipful gentleman whom I have described hath not had the misfortune to be obliged to leave this hospitable house, I trust you will take my name to him, with the request that I may enjoy a few minutes of his company."

"You mean the gentleman who rode a grey horse with a grey feather in his hat, and carried a jewelled hilted sword?"

"Ay, I mean him. He was accompanied by a lady, who wore a long cloak, and whose face was wellnigh hidden by her headgear; I heard him ask you for private rooms as he entered."

"But did you not know?"

"Know what?"

"That he left last night at midnight."

"At midnight?"

"Ay, a messenger came bearing him important news, and although the lady had gone to bed he had to arouse her, ay, and the ostler too for that matter. Both their horses were saddled, and they rode away at one o' th' clock, but whither they have gone I know not."

At this I was silent, for I knew that the man had told a lie.

"But what would you?" continued the innkeeper. "We shall have bustling times now, and the innkeeper's trade will be brisk, so he must not grumble. Besides, he paid his count like a prince, and would not take the silver change which he could rightfully claim."

Now this brought me to a deadlock, as can be seen. I dared not ask direct questions, first because I did not wish to arouse suspicions, and next because I feared by so doing I should shew my state of utter ignorance concerning the man about whom I inquired. Still when one is twenty-three one does not lack confidence, and youth will dare to rush bareheaded where an older man would hesitate to enter with a steel head-cap.

"Ah, I would I had known," I replied. "I could perhaps have told him that his danger was not so great as he imagined."

At this he started like one surprised, while his eyes flashed a look of inquiry.

"Danger?" he said questioningly. "What danger, young sir?"

"Better not give it a name," I made answer. "Besides I do not know how much he hath told you, and I would betray no man's secrets. Solomon said many wise things and wrote them down in a book, and Solomon, whom some call a fool," here I stopped, and looked into his face, "although his writings are placed among the holy Scriptures, said that there was a time to hold one's peace as well as to speak."

"Solomon had many ways of obtaining knowledge," he said, almost timidly I thought.

"Ay, some have said that they were means known only to himself."

I could have sworn that the man trembled. Whether I was getting any nearer the truth or no I knew not, but I was sure that my words were construed by the innkeeper in such a way that he fancied I was the possessor of the secret he had sought to hide. Still the man doubted me, and he did not seem inclined to offer any information.

"God save King Charles II," he said, as though he thought I doubted his loyalty.

"Amen to that," I replied. Then I continued quietly, still watching him: "Charles is a good name, whether borne by a king or another man."

Now whether he was too thick in the head to understand the drift of my words, or whether I was on the wrong track I know not; whatever may be the truth he suddenly left the room, craving pardon for leaving me so abruptly, and assuring me that he had many things to attend to that morning.

Alone again, I had time to collect my thoughts. The landlord's communication if true, left me more in the dark than ever. That he had told me lies I knew, but whether it was a lie that the man had left the inn I had not yet been able to discover. I called to mind the words I had heard spoken in the bedchamber next to my own, and remembered that the man had told the woman to return early in the morning before any one was astir. Would he, having given such commands, depart at midnight leaving her alone and helpless?

In truth the mystery in which I had become involved seemed to entangle me more than ever. Then I called myself a fool for not taking a necessary step, and one which would have occurred immediately to any one that was not half-witted.

I hurried to the stables, and there I found that, whether the landlord had spoken truly or no, the horses which had brought the man and woman the previous night were gone. Only my own stood there eating her fill of oats. I went to her and patted her, and then looked round for some evidence which might tell me how long it was since the others were taken away. But nothing could I see. The stable was cleaned, and every mark that they had been there was taken away.

The ostler entered as I made the examination.

"No horses here beside mine, ostler?"

"No sir; I had to get up in the middle of the night to saddle two which came about the same time as yours. I was rare and tired too. But there was a lady in the question, and you are old enough to know that what a woman wills will have to be."

"Ay," I replied with a laugh, wondering whether his information had not been given at the command of the innkeeper.

I therefore pretended to take no further notice of the fellow; nevertheless I kept him within sight, and presently when I saw him go up to the landlord, as though he had some special communication to make, I drew my own conclusions.

Nevertheless I was at my wits' end what to do. I had done all that was in my power, but as yet I had found out nothing. The man and the woman had crossed my path, and the man had gone without my speaking a word to him. But the case of the woman was different. I had seen her and spoken to her. I had heard the note of pain and anguish in her voice, I had watched her face as she spoke with the old man at Pycroft Hall, the man who my father believed held the secret of the king's marriage. But she had gone, leaving no trace behind. What was the meaning of it all? I wandered over the cliffs which border the sea at Folkestone, and presently my thoughts became more clear. If the old man possessed the secret of the king's marriage he also possessed the secret of the woman's life. It was true I had not been able to enter Pycroft Hall that morning but it might be that he would again visit it during the night. Well I would go to the old place again that night, and if the light shone at the window, I would demand admittance and then trust to my own courage and wit to meet whatever I might happen to see.