The Secret of Greylands Read Free Page B

Hammond.”
    â€œAh”—the stranger looked after the cart in a speculative fashion—“that would be one of Lady Hannah Gillman’s relatives, then?”
    The station-master knocked a loose stone down the step.
    â€œI couldn’t say, sir. That Gillman—do you know him, sir?”
    â€œNo,” laconically.
    â€œHe is a queer sort of fellow for a gentleman,” the station-master went on conversationally. “Though he talks to you as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, he has got a very bad temper. I saw him beating a young horse one day, and I haven’t forgotten it; though I am not over squeamish, it turned me fair sick. Well, well, it takes all sorts to make up a world, they say. I’ll see that your box goes up by the next passenger train, sir,” as the other began to move off.
    â€œThank you very much. Good day.” The stranger started off down the same road as that taken by Cynthia, walking with a long swinging stride.
    The station-master looked after him curiously.
    â€œI wonder what his business down here is?” he soliloquized. “Seemed wonderfully struck with the young lady, I thought. Ah, well, she is a good-looking girl too!” with a sigh as if dismissing the subject.
    Cynthia, meanwhile, was looking about her with interest. Twilight though it was, she could catch a glimpse of the distant hills, and she fancied that in the daytime the moorland for which they were making would prove good ground for exploring.
    Presently the road grew rough and uneven. The market-cart was of the most primitive description, and Cynthia was jolted about and shaken from side to side till she had much ado to hold herself in her place. The driver took it all phlegmatically, never even glancing at Cynthia. At length a particularly deep rut almost shook the girl from her seat, and she caught hold of the rail in front.
    â€œAre we far from Greylands?” she gasped.
    â€œA matter of four miles or so,” Mr Joyce replied stolidly.
    â€œOh!” Cynthia drew a long breath. “Is it like this all the way?”
    â€œIt is a roughish bit like just here,” the driver answered, without turning his head, “but it is a good road, take it altogether.”
    Cynthia felt inclined to dissent most emphatically from this statement as another jerk sent her up against the speaker.
    â€œIf—it is only four miles,” she said breathlessly, “perhaps I could walk?”
    â€œYou’d miss your way for a surety,” Mr Joyce replied without slackening. “Happen you’ll get caught in the bog. It’ll be pitch-dark directly. Best bide where you be.”
    Cynthia shivered as she resigned herself to the inevitable.
    â€œWell, perhaps so,” she said reluctantly. “I am sure it is very kind of you to drive me,” she added politely.
    Mr Joyce only responded by a grunt; evidently he was not inclined to carry on the conversation, and Cynthia relapsed into silence, clinging with both hands to the side of the cart, and endeavouring to steady herself to the best of her ability. In a short time, however, the road grew a trifle less rough, the worst of the jolts grew less frequent, and Cynthia was able to sit up and survey her surroundings once more, though it was little enough she could see now. The last gleams of light were fading away; the lamps at each side of the cart only served to make the darkness more visible; in the distance she could hear the wind rising and soughing among the leaves of unseen trees. To complete her discomfort a drizzling rain began to fall. She drew her rug over her shoulders and tried to forget her miserable plight, but, look where she would, no very pleasant subject for meditation presented itself, and her thoughts flew back to Lord Letchingham.
    What had he said when he discovered her flight, she wondered. Was he still searching for her? She shuddered as she told herself she had undoubtedly taken