Joan Smith: Delsie

An hour had not seemed, in anticipation, a long time to wait, but in the actual crouching posture chosen, it seemed very long indeed. At a quarter to twelve deVigne decided he would take a very quiet, short walk to stretch his legs and be back at his post before midnight. The land surrounding the Cottage was all his own, and he had no fear of running into the gentlemen there. They would come up from the road bordering the ocean and fronting the Cottage. He stalked through the spinney, making as little noise as possible. Then suddenly he came to a dead halt. There were soft footfalls hurrying past him, to the right. “They’re using my land!” flashed through his head. A grim, determined expression settled on his features, as he turned to give chase.

Mrs. Grayshott began to return to consciousness within hours of the drug’s having been administered to her. That the window was ajar may have hurried her recovery, as she had taken only a fairly small dose. In any case, she sat up, rubbing her head and looking in confusion around at an elegant chamber she had never seen before in her life. Her head swam and she returned it to the pillow, still dazed. She gazed at the ceiling, wondering that anyone should have moving circles on his ceiling. Andrew must have done it, she thought to herself, but after a moment the wheeling circles ceased revolving, then disappeared entirely, and she was staring up at a wedding-cake ceiling, with plaster moldings in the shape of medallions. How nice, she thought, and closed her eyes.

Soon they were open again, and she was frowning. But where am I? she asked herself. My room has no molded ceiling. She sat bolt upright and looked around her in earnest now. The corners of the room were in darkness, with only one lamp by her bed to ease the darkness of midnight. She climbed out of bed, setting her hand on the carved post to steady her wobbly knees. Then to the door-such a high door-it was at least twice as high as herself. I am in a house of giants, she smiled, and felt as though she were also in a dream. She tried the door, but it held firm. Locked into a house of giants, she decided, and returned to sit on the bed, totally confused. She was too confused for anger or fear.

As she sat on a few moments, her mind began clearing, and she asked herself in some alarm where she could be. Surely I went to bed at home, at the Cottage. This seemed a long time ago, and she had difficulty remembering. I was having dinner on a tray, and deVigne was talking to me. Got me a glass of sherry. The sudden drowsiness, the urging on her of more wine came back to her. She was not long in deducing that the wine had been doctored. I am at the Hall. Where else would there be molded ceilings and doors ten feet high! Locked in, and it is all deVigne’s doings. Her first impulse was to go to the door and rattle it till she summoned help. But he was perhaps out there, waiting. She went to the window and inhaled great gulps of fresh air to help clear her brain, which had still a sad tendency to reel around.

He has locked me into this room, while the smugglers take away the brandy. He has been determined from the outset to get me out of my house, and resorted in the end to kidnapping. He had been talking to Clancy, had even invited him to the Hall, and had insisted all along that the smugglers were no evil criminals, but only a merry band of traders. Why, she wouldn’t be very much surprised if he were one of them himself. Why else should he put their interests before her own? He liked his smuggled brandy very well. Didn’t mean to waste a drop of it.

Her spirits revolted at being bested by him-and after she had offered to leave tomorrow night of her own free will. She glanced at her watch. It wanted ten minutes of midnight. DeVigne, she thought, was not here at the Hall. He was at the Cottage. As he had brought her here and locked her in, she doubted she would be allowed to leave if she summoned a servant. She looked out the mullioned window — it was a high two storeys above the ground, but with a hefty vine crawling up past her window. She threw the window door open wide and tugged at the vine. It seemed very strong, and well attached to the wall. But would it take her weight? From the window to the ground was a long way to fall. She pulled with two hands with all her might on the vine, and it didn’t stir an inch.

Without another thought, she scrambled out the window, clinging desperately to the main branch of the vine, and started her descent. It was really miraculously easy. It was strong enough to take a full-grown man. Only a few leaves, sere and dry in this season, tore loose from her hands and fluttered silently to the ground to tell the tale of her passing. Within a minute her feet hit the soft earth around the foundation plantings. She realized then that she should have worn some protection from the cold. The wind was piercing, but she had not far to go.

Off like a shot down the road to the Cottage. She knew she could save time by cutting through the spinney, but was unsure of the way. Approaching the bottom of the private road that led into the post road, she felt she could find her way now through the thinning woods, and this route would offer some concealment too. She turned into the woods, picking her way stealthily, running from tree to tree. Reaching a clear space, she stopped, then decided to dart to the next group of trees, perhaps a hundred feet away. After catching her breath, she ran forward.

She was suddenly aware of heavy footsteps behind her. With her heart in her throat, she ran faster, faster, but still her pursuer gained on her. She could not spare time to look over her shoulder, but knew it to be a man, a big man, and very likely a dangerous one, bent on killing her. She wished, futilely, that she were safely locked up in the room at the Hall. That she were back at Miss Frisk’s rooming house, that she were anywhere but in a dark forest alone with a vicious smuggler.

* * * *

DeVigne had not gone more than two paces before he realized he was being foolish. He had his full share of the Englishman’s sense of property. He resented that his land was being used, criminally at that, by outsiders, but as this was the last trip for the smugglers, he decided to let them continue. He stopped and stepped behind a tree to let the man pass. When he discerned the outline of a skirt fly past him, he knew at once who he had to deal with. He did not know how she had escaped Mrs. Forrester, but from her direction, he was not in the least doubt where she was heading.

The time was approximately midnight. He gave chase immediately, wanting to call her name, but afraid of drawing attention to them. He assumed he could overtake her in a minute, but was surprised at her agility, and in those clinging skirts too. He ran on, pushing himself faster, till at last he reached her. She was about to enter the next growth of trees. Beyond them was the thicket into the orchard. Impossible to let her barge in there at this time. He lunged forward and got his arms around her waist, but in a poor grasp. She wrenched free and plunged forward again. His hand flew out, barely getting a hold on her skirt. She jerked to a stop, then toppled forward.

“Delsie, for God’s sake…” she heard her pursuer say, and recognized the voice. Then the blackness came over her in great, floating waves.

DeVigne heard the hard thump as her head hit some obstacle in her path, and was aware at the same instant of the telltale sounds of approaching men and donkeys. Not a word did they utter, but the surreptitious tinkle of the harnesses and the soft clop of hooves revealed all.

On the ground now he edged nearer to see if Delsie was badly hurt. She moaned, and he clamped a hand over her mouth. He was aware of strange sounds in the orchard beyond, but he did not dare to leave the unconscious woman for a moment to see what was going forth. She might come to in a moment and shout. He peered at her in the darkness to try to gauge her condition. It did not seem possible she could be badly hurt. Her face was pale in the wan moonlight, with a black smear on the forehead that he took for a strand of hair. Touching it lightly with his fingers, he felt the warm softness of blood.