31. XXXI.
WHAT TOOK PLACE AT THE STONE HOUSE.
Laying his hand upon my arm, Mordaunt drew me away
from the hedge, and, moving carefully over the turf, which muffled
the sound of the horses' hoofs, made a detour, reaching
thus the front of the house. Before it stood a light one-horse
wagon, which had, doubtless, served to convey the dead body:
beyond this, a riding horse was standing beneath a tree.
“Listen,” said Mordaunt, in a whisper. “I know this house
and the grounds perfectly. There is no means of exit from that
garden, except a small gate close against the gable end of the
house. Do me the favor to take your place there, and allow no
one to pass.”
“You are going into the house?”
“Certainly.”
“To find Fenwick?”
“Ah! you have guessed that?”
“It don't require much penetration. But take care.”
“Of what?”
“He is a treacherous animal—there may be many persons in
that den.”
“It is nothing.”
“If so, call me promptly.”
“Thanks—but it is not ten men, or one hundred, that can
keep me from driving my sword's point through that man's
heart.”
This rapid dialogue had taken place in a low tone, and Mordaunt
had quickly dismounted, throwing his bridle over the
fence. I imitated him, and ran to the gate, just as the interior
of the house was illuminated, and the sound of footsteps upon
the creaking floor indicated that the party had entered by the
door in the rear.
A rapid inspection told me that the side gate was securely
fastened, and, finding it unnecessary to guard it, I hastened to
follow Mordaunt, who had rushed into the house.
The scene which greeted me was long engraved upon my
memory. The apartment was bare, desolate-looking, and repulsive.
The window-panes were broken, the fireplace full
of soot and ashes, and the walls were festooned with cobwebs.
These details I made out by the light of the lantern,
which had been placed upon a dilapidated pine table, sole furniture
of the mansion. By the fireplace stood the woman
Parkins, grim and lowering, with contracted brows, and still
holding the spade which she had brought into the house.
Opposite Mordaunt I saw Fenwick, pale and desperate; and, as
I entered the doorway, his hand clutched and drew a revolver
from his belt.
What followed did not occupy thirty seconds.
Mordaunt rushed upon his adversary, Fenwick's pistol was
raised and discharged, the ball whistling past my head—when
suddenly, before he could fire a second time, the form of a
woman interposed itself between the combatants.
It was Violet Grafton, with the same golden ringlets, the
same delicate, earnest face, and the same wonderful likeness to
the portrait in Mordaunt's study.
The effect which her appearance produced upon him was terrible.
He recoiled, as though he had seen a ghost, his sword's
point fell with a clattering sound to the floor, and, with his eyes
glaring upon the young lady, he turned so ghastly pale that I
thought he was going to faint.
From this stupor, however, he was aroused in a manner
equally sudden and disagreeable.
Disappointed in his first aim, Fenwick had deliberately raised
his pistol, aimed at Mordaunt's heart, and fired. The result
would have been fatal but for Miss Grafton. She struck up the
weapon as it was discharged; the bullet buried itself in the
wall; and in an instant Mordaunt would have driven his sword
through his adversary's breast, when all at once the whole scene
was plunged in darkness.
Fenwick, by a quick movement, had extinguished the light;
his figure was seen for an instant as it passed through the open
window; and a moment afterward the hoof-strokes of a horse
departing at full gallop were heard upon the ground without.
With one powerful bound Mordaunt passed through the doorway,
threw himself upon his horse, and followed the retreating
horseman with the fury of a tiger despoiled of his prey.
I was close upon the heels of his flying animal—for an irresistible
desire mastered me to be present at the execution of his
vengeance.
“Do you hear him?” I said.
“I think so,” was the hoarse reply.
And the speaker continued his headlong pursuit.
We went on at a furious speed for more than half an hour—then all sounds in front had ceased. Fenwick seemed to have
vanished. Taking some by-road known only to himself, he had
escaped.
A mile further, Mordaunt uttered something like the growl of
a wounded lion, and drew rein. For some moments he listened
—then he said through his clinched teeth:
“He has got off! The devil takes care of his own!”
And I heard his teeth grinding together as he spoke.
Without further words, he turned the head of his horse, and
we rode slowly back. On the way, Mordaunt did not utter a
single word, and I did not intrude upon his thoughts.
Soon the gloomy Stone House again appeared before us, and
we rode toward it. No light was visible now, and the wagon, we
found, had also disappeared. Miss Grafton and her companion
had vanished like Fenwick. The Stone House resembled a gigantic
tomb—and was as dreary, mournful, and deserted.
