The Man Who Rose Again

"What is it, Winfield? – tell me."

Winfield looked thoughtful, he seemed at a loss what to do or to say. Then he opened the carriage window.

"Drive on," he said to the coachman.

"Where to, sir?"

"The station," he said; "that is, The Beeches Station."

"Yes, sir."

"I say, what is it, Winfield?"

"I don't know."

"Don't be an ass – tell me."

"It's the general impression that there's to be no wedding to-day," said Winfield grimly.

Leicester seemed prepared for this. He never moved a muscle of his face, but it was evident his mind was working quickly.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"I found the church caretaker, or sexton, or whatever they call him," said Winfield, "and he told me that he had received orders at eight o'clock this morning to open neither the church gates nor the church doors, as the wedding would not take place to-day."

"I see," said Leicester. "What besides?"

"It seems the talk among these people that the telegraph clerk has had a busy time this morning. It is said that he has sent hundreds of telegrams, all signed 'Castlemaine.' I expect that's a bit exaggerated," he added.

"And the purport of these telegrams?"

"There is a general impression that they all repeated the information which the caretaker gave me. I say, Leicester, have you any explanation to give?"

"I? None. No, I must receive the information. Yes, at least that's due to me."

"Have you received no communication of any sort?"

"I? No, I forgot. I did not ask about my letters this morning. I – I think I was too – excited."

"Drinking?"

"No; but if – I say!" He put his head out of the carriage window. "Not to The Beeches Station," he said; "the house – you understand?"

The driver grinned. Evidently he had heard what had been said, but he said "Yes, sir," quite civilly, and changed the direction of the horses' heads.

Winfield wanted to say more to Leicester, but he dared not, the look on the man's face was too ghastly.

"Here's fine copy for the yellow journalist," thought Winfield. "It seems a pity that this kind of thing is not in my line. It would be more eagerly read than any news about the Armenian atrocities. But there, there will be enough to give this matter publicity. I wonder what lies at the bottom of it. Of course some plausible excuses will be given to the local reporters – Miss Castlemaine ill, or Mr. Leicester called to Abyssinia; but there's some tragedy at the back of this, as sure as my name's Arthur Winfield. Poor old Leicester, he looks death-stricken."

The carriage drew up at the door of The Beeches, and Winfield looked out. No one was to be seen. There were no signs that anything of importance had happened, or would happen. It might have been an empty house, for all the signs of life that were visible. As for suggestions of a wedding, they were nowhere apparent. The springtime had not come, but the day was warm, and an air of restfulness seemed to reign over the grounds. The hall door was closed.

Leicester leapt from the carriage, then he looked around in a dazed kind of way. He noted the great beeches in the park, and the passing of a distant train.

"Perhaps Miss Castlemaine is ill," said Winfield, "or it may be that something has happened to her father." He wanted to chase away the ghastly look which rested on the other's face.

But Leicester seemed to take no heed; rather he appeared to be trying to realise the situation.

"Let me see, Winfield," he said. "I want to understand. Put me right if I am in the wrong. To-day is the day arranged for my wedding-day. Two hundred guests were invited. We were to be married up at the church yonder, by that man Sackville. When we got there we found the place locked, while you were informed that the caretaker had received orders to keep the place locked, as there was to be no wedding. You were also told that the telegraph clerk had sent away a lot of messages saying the same thing as the man at the church told you. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right. But Miss Castlemaine or her father may be ill, you know. You did not look at your letters this morning, and thus were in ignorance."

"I only wanted to be sure I had got hold of the facts," replied Leicester. "I might be mistaken, you know. I feel all knocked about."

He went to the door and rang the bell. After what seemed ages to him, it was opened by an old servant.

"Is Miss Castlemaine at home?"

The man hesitated a second, and then said:

"I believe so, sir."

"Is – is – she well?"

He did not seem to realise what he was saying, and yet he watched the servant's face closely.

"As far as I know of, sir."

"Will you tell her I wish to see her?"

Again the man hesitated.

"Excuse me, sir," he said presently, "but you can't see her."

"Why?" he asked in a dazed way.

"It's not for me to say, sir."

By a strong effort he controlled himself, the old look of determination came back into his eyes, and he spoke more like his normal self.

"Am I to understand that you have her orders to this effect?"

"Yes, sir – that is, from Mr. Castlemaine, sir."

"Will you please go and tell her that I am here, and that I wish to see her?"

There was a tone of command in his voice. The man felt like obeying.

"It's no use, sir," he said; "my orders was most explicit, sir."