SIR OSWALD was vaguely aware, through the thick mist that enveloped him, that he was being pommelled and rubbed, that his tongue and throat were hot and aching intolerably. Vaguely he saw always two faces—his cousin Garth’s and that of an older man; he was conscious of only one desire, that they would let him relapse into the friendly darkness that seemed to be waiting for him. But the pommelling went on, and presently there was an exclamation of relief and some hot fluid poured down his throat. It brought the tears to his eyes, it made him cough and choke like a child.
Garth’s voice said, “That’s right, old fellow, now you’ll do.” And he was made to swallow a few more drops of the stimulant.
Then Sir Oswald opened his eyes and looked round. He saw that he was in a big bedroom, every features of which was unfamiliar to him; that beside Garth and the man he had seen before, a pleasant-faced, elderly woman was standing near the fire, apparently stirring some compound in a saucepan.
“Where am I?” he questioned, and his voice sounded very weak and far away.
The strange man took the answer upon himself.
“You are in Porthcawel Hold, my dear sir, and you have had just about as near a squeak for your life as any man ever did. That I can tell you.”
“Who are you?” Sir Oswald asked feebly. He was beginning to realize that he was wrapped in blankets and that he was in a most disagreeable state of perspiration.
“I am John Spencer, at your service,” the man said with a twinkle of his eye. “And I doctor the bodies of the people of Porthcawel, and many of them as can be got to be ill, that is to say, for it is a remarkably healthy place, and if it wasn’t for a bit of a wreck now and then it is little enough I would have to do to keep my hand in. I had just come over to the Hold to have a talk to Lady Treadstone before the storm burst, and I am right glad I was here, as it enabled me to be of some use to you.”
But Sir Oswald’s attention had wandered. He looked at Garth.
“Where is Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth!” Young Davenant repeated in a puzzled tone. “Who is Elizabeth? Oh, you are dreaming, old chap. Nobody else has been here.”
“Not here,” Sir Oswald said weakly. “But when they were carrying me I heard her speaking.”
Garth laughed. “Oh, my dear fellow, there was no one there but the men of the lifeboat who saved us, and Miss Treadstone.”
“Miss Treadstone?” Sir Oswald repeated in a puzzled tone. “What is she like?”
“The most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life,” Garth answered with enthusiasm. “Red-gold hair, grey eyes and a complexion like milk and roses.
Dr. Spencer laughed. “Ay, you are not the first that has called our Miss Rosamond Treadstone beautiful,” he said dryly. “But now my patient has just got to go to sleep and think of nothing else, so I am going to turn you out of the room, Mr. Garth. Now, Sir Oswald, you will drink this.” He held a cup to Sir Oswald’s lips.
The other paused a moment before he drank.
“When are you going to get us back to the inn, doctor? We can’t trespass on Lady Treadstone’s hospitality.”
“Well, we can none of us get to Porthcawel to-night, in the face of the storm,” the doctor remarked philosophically. “And you have had a crack on your knee that will keep you a day or two longer than that, I’m thinking. But we shall know more about that to-morrow. For the present, all you have to do is just to drink this.”
Sir Oswald obeyed mechanically. Every coherent thought of which he was conscious was centred on Elizabeth. That she was near him he felt certain. In the morning, when he was well, he would find her, his long search would be over. He soon fell into a profound sleep, one that lasted many hours. When next he opened his eyes the sunlight was streaming in through the open window, no trace of last night’s storm was visible. As he lay on his pillows he could look across the blue water, scarcely stirred by a ripple, to the many coloured roofs of Porthcawel.
He felt very stiff as he tried to move, his right leg was numb and helpless. He had an early visit from Dr. Spencer, who assured him that his worst injury was a sprained knee, which would keep him a prisoner for a day or two.
“Anyhow, you would have had to have stayed,” the doctor finished. “Lady Treadstone is too anxious to renew her acquaintance with you to let you go sooner. And as soon as you have had your breakfast, Mr. Garth and I are going to carry you into the morning-room, and then I warrant you won’t find the time long.”
Sir Oswald made no objection to this scheme. His one desire was to get downstairs to try and find Elizabeth.
Yet when he was established on the comfortable sofa in the morning-room he seemed as far from accomplishing his object as ever. Lady Treadstone came to him at once, the same pleasant, sweet-faced woman as ever, yet, as it struck him, with a new look—one which he would have described as a nervous, haunted look—in her eyes.
She greeted him warmly, and told him laughingly that she was glad of the wreck since it brought him to her doors.
Sir Oswald thanked her for all her kindness, but, when she went on to ask him about Maisie and his mother and her old friends at Davenant, it was easy to see that his attention was wandering and when she paused he broke in eagerly:
“Lady Treadstone, do you know where she is? You must, for I heard her talking as they brought me here. And you were always kind to her. I see now that you must have helped her. You will let me see her, won’t you?”
Lady Treadstone looked at him apparently in absolute bewilderment. “Who are you talking about, Sir Oswald? I can’t understand,” she said.
“Why, of Elizabeth,” Sir Oswald said quickly. “Elizabeth Martin. You always liked her.”
“Oh! Of course,” Lady Treadstone raised her eyebrows. “You mean Miss Martin, Maisie’s governess. But what makes you come to me for information about her? I assure you there is no one at the Hold but my daughter and myself and the servants, and certainly Miss Martin is not one of them.”
“But you know where she is—you can tell me where to find her?” Sir Oswald urged.
Lady Treadstone shook her head.
“Indeed I cannot,” she said in a tone of finality. “She was not very amiable when I made some advances to her, Sir Oswald, and she left the Priory under such unpleasant circumstances that really”—she spread out her hands—“I quite wonder you should wish to find her,” she added.
Sir Oswald raised his head, his face grew stem and serious. “Before you say any more, Lady Treadstone, may I tell you that my one great object in life is to find Miss Martin, to ask her to let me give her the shelter of my name—to make her my wife?”
“Sir Oswald!” Lady Treadstone’s face expressed nothing but the profoundest amazement. “I am sorry I am quite unable to help you,” she finished with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Ah, here is Rosamond,” as some one came along the terrace and paused before the open window. “Come in my dear. Here is Sir Oswald, not much the worse for last night’s adventure after all.”
Rosamond Treadstone stepped through the window. Sir Oswald knew at once that it was her face he had seen when he woke from unconsciousness. But it was the face of a woman, not a girl, and the grey eyes looked weary and sad.
She smiled, though, as she greeted Sir Oswald.
“I am so glad matters were no worse,” she said quietly. “And see, I have brought you some daffodils. They are the first on the Rock, though they are blooming bravely in Porthcawel. I will put them in this jar, and then you can look at them.” She turned to the table and stood at the near end of the sofa.
At her first words Sir Oswald started violently, then he lay still and looked at her. Surely Rosamond Treadstone was speaking with Elizabeth’s voice. It sounded the same, and yet, as she went on, not quite the same. There was a certain quality in it that Elizabeth’s had lacked, an added note of richness. But the likeness was there, it was unmistakable.
Lady Treadstone looked from one to the other with a smile.
“Well, now I think I will leave you two to become better acquainted,” she said lightly. “I know Dr. Spencer has ever so many instructions to give me. I shall see you again presently, Sir Oswald. Mind you look after the invalid, Rosamond!” She nodded laughingly as she left the room.
Miss Treadstone went on talking as she arranged her flowers in a big Persian jar. If the white fingers were trembling as they moved among the daffodils, Sir Oswald saw nothing of it.
He watched the way the wonderful hair waved about her small head, the tiny little tendrils that curled round her temples, and all the while he was thinking not of Rosamond Treadstone’s great beauty, but of the pale, quiet woman with the dark hair and the brown eyes whom he had pictured in his blindness at the Priory. At last he spoke abruptly:
“Miss Treadstone, was it your voice I heard when they were carrying me up from the beach?”
Miss Treadstone looked surprised. “Why, I suppose so,” she said hesitatingly. “That is, if you really heard anyone’s. You appeared to be unconscious.”
“I heard a voice that I thought I recognized,” Sir Oswald went on slowly. “But yours reminds me of it so strongly that I think I must have been mistaken.”
Rosamond arched her brows. “Mine is the Treadstone voice. Perhaps you know my cousin, Lady Ermine Rivers. She has it too.”
“No, I don’t!” Sir Oswald said bluntly. “The owner of the voice I am thinking of is poor and friendless, working for her living. Yet the likeness is extraordinary.”
“What is this friendless woman’s name?” Miss Treadstone’s voice was slightly sarcastic.
“Martin!” Sir Oswald answered. “Elizabeth Martin.”
Miss Treadstone left her daffodils and sat down opposite.
“What was she like? Did she resemble me in appearance as well as in voice?”
“I—don’t think so,” Sir Oswald said uncertainly. “That is to say, I was blind. I never saw her face. But she has been described to me as pale and dark and tall. I believe she wore glasses.”
“Um! Not a very attractive description,” Miss Treadstone answered. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Sir Oswald. I am sure there is no one answering to it on the Rock. And a good many voices are similar in some respects.”
“I have never heard anyone’s that reminded me of hers but yours,” Sir Oswald said decidedly.
Miss Treadstone got up quickly. “I don’t know that I feel flattered,” she said with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Now, Sir Oswald, I am going to pick you some more daffodils over there on the Rock.” She stepped out through the window.
Left alone, Sir Oswald lay back on his couch feeling strangely puzzled. Some sixth sense told him that Elizabeth was near, and yet how was he to find her? He felt convinced that both Lady Treadstone and Rosamond could have told him more if they would. Both of them had impressed him as playing a part. But the more he thought of it the more certain he became that the key to Elizabeth’s disappearance must lie within the Hold.
Rosamond Treadstone, too, had raised his interest in no ordinary degree. Even apart from the strange likeness her voice bore to the missing Elizabeth, her beauty, some touch of mystery there was about her, appealed to him strongly. He found himself picturing her face, trying to recall her faint, elusive smile.
Still his enforced inaction made the day seem a long one. Garth motored over to Poltrowen, a town where they had thought of staying for a day or two, and where letters might reasonably be expected to be awaiting them.
He got back just before dusk. There was a pile of correspondence for Sir Oswald, topped by one of Maisie’s childish epistles. Garth left his cousin alone to get through it.
Sir Oswald was still smiling over some of Maisie’s expressions when Rosamond Treadstone came softly into the room.
“I thought perhaps you might like to see the papers, Sir Oswald. They are late to-day. Oh, I beg your pardon.”
She was turning away when Sir Oswald put out his hand.
“Please don’t go,” he said courteously. “This is a letter from my little girl, and she’s rather quaint sometimes.”
“Your little Maisie. I have heard my mother speak of her,” Miss Treadstone said quietly. She seated herself in a low chair opposite. “How is she, Sir Oswald?”
“Quite well, thanks,” he answered absently. “Poor little soul, she says she thinks she would rather have a blind daddy at home than a daddy with eyes who is always away.”
Rosamond laughed. “Poor child! Well, I expect there is something to be said for her point of view.”
“‘And I wish my dear Miss Martin were back,’” Sir Oswald went on reading from the letter. “‘Miss King is very good, but she doesn’t tell me fairy tales, and she has headaches and can’t play with me, and I heard her tell somebody the other day that I was a troublesome child.’”
“What a shame!” Miss Treadstone said indignantly. “Why, Maisie is the best child in the world if she is only managed properly. She—” She pulled herself up sharply.
But Sir Oswald had sprung up on his couch, his eyes ablaze with excitement. Forgetful of his sprained knee he stepped across the rug, he gripped her hands in his.
“How is it you know so much about Maisie?” he questioned fiercely. “You—because I know it now—because my heart told me, the first moment I heard your voice—because you are Elizabeth.”