The Secret of Greylands (10 page)

“Certainly I will!” Cynthia promised.

Arrived at the gate her companion opened it for her.

“It must be very pleasant for Lady Hannah to have you with her,” he went on conversationally as she passed through.

Cynthia paused irresolutely.

“I do not think she cares much about having me,” she replied truthfully. “She is fond of Sybil, I think, but at present she does not seem to be much interested in me.”

Heriot's sombre eyes rested for a moment on the girl's fair face, upon the pretty flush coming and going beneath the transparent skin, upon the gleaming chestnut hair and long, upcurling lashes.

“I am surprised to hear that,” he said curtly, yet with a directness that brought a wave of hot colour to Cynthia's face. She held out her hand.

“I am afraid I ought to go now. I must tell Mr Gillman about the dog. Did you know him too—Mr Gillman, I mean?”

Heriot bent low over the slim ungloved hand with a certain old-fashioned grace.

“No; Mr Gillman had not appeared on the scene when I last saw Lady Hannah. Do you know that you are very like what she must have been?”

Cynthia looked surprised.

“Do you really think so? I should not have guessed it. Now I can see a strong likeness in Sybil.”

Heriot had closed the gate; he folded his arms on the top bar and looked at her meditatively.

“Sybil!” he repeated. “That is the young lady I saw at the house yesterday, isn't it? She does not remind me of Lady Hannah in the least. Now, you”—with another embarrassing long glance—“have almost the same contour of face, her expression even at times.”

“Mr Heriot,” Cynthia said suddenly, “you must have known Cousin Hannah very well. Where did you meet her?”

The man looked down and apparently watched her brown little fingers drumming on the wooden bar with interest.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Lady Hannah Hammond on several occasions,” he replied after a pause. “The last time, if I remember rightly, was in Brussels.”

“Oh, Brussels!” Cynthia repeated. “It was there she met Mr Gillman; but you do not know him, you say? I wonder whether you knew Sir Donald Farquhar?”

“Oh, yes, I knew him!” Heriot said but did not look up.

“Did you really?” Cynthia asked excitedly. “What did you think of him? What was he like? Did you know him very well?”

Heriot took his arms from the gate and stuck his hands in the wide, loose pockets of his shooting coat.

“I suppose I knew him fairly well. He was not much to look at. I did not think much of him,” he answered, replying to her questions categorically. “I fancy he was a bit of a fool,” he added, as the result, apparently, of a further contemplation of the subject.

“Oh!” Cynthia said disappointedly. “He does not sound very interesting.”

“He is not,” Heriot acquiesced. “I am awfully sorry about the dog, Miss Hammond. If you think Lady Hannah would like to have him buried in the garden anywhere—some people do, you know—I would bring him up to the house for you.”

“Thank you very much!” Cynthia looked doubtful. “I don't know whether Mr Gillman will think Cousin Hannah ought to know. I must ask him; but in that case I am sure he would not wish to trouble you, he would send down for it.”

The man glanced at her quickly.

“It would be no trouble. I have nothing much to do with my time at present, and I am often about here.”

“Oh!” Although conscious of the studied indifference of his tone, Cynthia's colour deepened, and with a little gesture of irritation at her own stupidity she turned away.

“You are very kind; I will tell Mr Gillman.”

She walked rapidly towards the gate, the wild broom and the gorse brushing against her skirts as she passed; the yellow kingcups gleamed golden in the sunlight at the farther edge of the little tarn lying blue and silent in the distance with pale meadow-sweet standing sentinel around it. At another time Cynthia would have revelled in the beauties of the scene, but to-day she felt worried and fretted and out of harmony; she was mentally upbraiding herself for her stupidity as she turned in at the garden gate.

Her unfortunate habit of colouring was a continual annoyance to her; and to-day, she told herself, she had behaved like the veriest schoolgirl. Heriot's kindness was evidently prompted by his friendly feeling towards Lady Hannah; her blushes must have made him set her down as foolish in the extreme. She opened the outer door quietly, fearing to disturb the invalid; as she walked down the passage she caught the echo of Gillman's voice—

“Yes, it is an awkward situation—one that shall come to an end as soon as possible, I promise you that; but in the meantime you will put up with it, you will do your best for my sake, Sybil?”

“Oh, there you are!” Cynthia said quickly. “Mr Gillman, such a dreadful thing has happened!”

The dining-room door was open, Gillman and Sybil were standing by the mantelpiece; at the sound of Cynthia's voice they moved apart. Sybil came to meet her.

“A dreadful thing? What do you mean, Cynthia?”

“Poor Spot is dead—he has been killed! He is lying in the pine-wood,” the girl replied breathlessly.

“Spot dead! Nonsense! You have made some mistake!” Gillman contradicted gruffly.

“No mistake at all,” Cynthia affirmed indignantly, and she proceeded to relate the details of her discovery.

Gillman caught up his hat.

“This must be inquired into. By the palings, near the gate, you say? I will see to it at once. Do not tell your cousin until I come back!” And without more ado he hurried out into the garden.

“M
AY
I look at the paper a moment, Mr Gillman?”

Cynthia was sitting at the table, her writing-case was open before her, but she was nibbling meditatively at the handle of her pen, her eyes fixed absently on the fire. Evidently she found a difficulty in beginning her correspondence.

“With pleasure!” said Gillman as he tossed over his copy of a newspaper. “The worst of it is that it is a day old. Daily papers are an unprocurable luxury in these out-of-the-way regions.”

Cynthia took it eagerly. How was it going on, the world she had left? She scanned the first page with interest. A foreign sovereign was staying in London, there was the usual account of festivities and decorations in his honour, and the conventional “leader” setting forth the reasons why this particular monarch should be received with special honour. Cynthia turned the sheet over listlessly: a party of British savants were visiting a Continental capital; a man and a woman staying at one of the principal hotels in the Strand had committed suicide. There was a graphic description of their personal appearance and of the few belongings found in their room.

Cynthia came to the conclusion that things were much as usual in London. She glanced idly at the literary news and then turned back to the other part of the paper. As she picked it up she saw her own name in bold black type, staring at her from the “agony column.”

“Cynthia,” she read, staring at it incredulously, “come back. Communicate at once with your distracted husband. Everything shall be explained. Your place is awaiting you.—Horace.”

There could be no doubt that it was meant for her. The girl felt the colour ebbing from her cheeks as she read the words once more; they seemed to bring before her so vividly the fact that she could not escape from her past, that her husband was searching for her, that her present refuge would not serve to hide her from him for ever, that sooner or later she would be found and would have to face her life anew.

As she put the paper down with a little shiver and looked up, she found that Gillman's eyes were fixed upon her with an odd, scrutinizing expression, and though he averted his eyes instantly it gave her a disagreeable feeling that even her thoughts were not her own.

Gillman rose and moved to the sideboard.

“I wonder whether you would mind being left alone with your cousin this morning, Cynthia?” he said, as standing with his back to her he poured some liquid into his pocket-flask. “I have to go over to Glastwick on business, and Sybil has betaken herself off, goodness knows where. She may be back at any time, and Mrs Knowles will be in the house, but my wife seems to think she would like some one to sit with her. As Sybil is out I thought that you—”

“Why, certainly; I shall be delighted,” Cynthia responded with alacrity. “I was just wishing that I could consult her about something.”

Gillman screwed down his flask and turned to the door.

“That is all right, then? You will have your opportunity. I may be away till late, but I hope Sybil will not be long. You will not be nervous if you are left alone with your cousin for a while?”

Cynthia laughed and said:

“Not at all! Shall I go up to Cousin Hannah now?”

“Whenever you like,” Gillman responded as he closed the door. “She will be very glad to have you. Good-bye for the present.”

Cynthia sat still for a few minutes, trying to see some way out of her difficulties; then, taking the paper with her, she went slowly upstairs. Lady Hannah's door was locked, in accordance with her curious fancy, but the key was in the lock outside. Cynthia turned it after tapping lightly and went in. Lady Hannah was lying propped high with pillows, her head drawn back in the shadow of the heavy bed-curtains.

“Ah, is that you, Cynthia?” she said in her thick, indistinct tones, as the girl hesitated. “Come in. Can you draw down that blind over there? Henry insisted on leaving it up; he said the sunshine would do me good, but I cannot stand the glare, it makes my eyes ache.”

There was not much glare, Cynthia thought, as she moved across and rearranged the blind obediently. Warm though the day was a fire burned in the grate and the windows were closed.

“I think you would be ever so much better if you had a little air, Cousin Hannah,” she said impulsively. “If you would let me open one of these windows—”

“No, no, I will not,” the invalid interrupted fretfully. “You are as bad as my husband; but I will at least have my room as I like! If it does not suit you I can do quite well alone.”

Cynthia ventured to kiss the half-averted cheek.

“Dear Cousin Hannah, you know it is not that! It was of you I was thinking; but it must be as you please.”

“Sit down then; I hate people fussing round me!” Lady Hannah said irritably and thanklessly. “Tell me what has become of everybody. Sybil is out enjoying herself, I suppose. She is an ungrateful young monkey!”

“She went out a little while ago,” Cynthia said as she drew one of the arm-chairs near the bed and sat down, “but I do not suppose she will be very long. I am sure she is not ungrateful, Cousin Hannah; she is very fond of you.”

“Umph, I dare say!” The invalid rolled her head round restlessly. “What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?”

“Not very much,” Cynthia replied truthfully, greatly to her own annoyance and for some unknown reason colouring vividly.

“You haven't thought better of leaving that husband of yours?”

“N—o,” Cynthia faltered. “But he wants me to go back, Cousin Hannah. I have just seen a paragraph from him in the paper. It has made me very miserable,” choking down a sob.

“Why?” Lady Hannah inquired cynically. “It shows you can return to him if you like, and if you don't, why, you must just stay with us.”

“I don't know what I ought to do,” Cynthia said despairingly. “Certainly I know I have taken those vows; but I think of Alice—she was such a pretty girl, and we were so fond of her, Mother and I—and he ruined her life—he deceived her!” She shuddered violently. “I cannot bear it! I cannot see him again! Oh, why did I not find out sooner!”

Her cousin did not make any reply; she moved her head restlessly from side to side. Cynthia sat for a moment or two absorbed in her own woes. She seemed to see her husband's face, reproachful, beseeching; then the tear-filled eyes and trembling mouth of her childhood's friend; then, all unbidden, mingling with these and blotting them out, a stern, dark face, a pair of deep grey eyes.

“Cynthia!”

It was her cousin's voice. Resolutely controlling her vagrant thoughts the girl bent over the bed.

“Yes, Cousin Hannah? Can I do anything?”

“I—I think the use is coming back to my hands a little,” Lady Hannah said slowly. “My husband thinks so too; but until it does I wonder whether you would act as my amanuensis, Cynthia—whether you would write a few letters for me?”

“Why, certainly, I shall be delighted!” Cynthia said heartily. “Shall I get my desk now?”

“Well, I think I should like to send a line to Messrs Bolt & Barsly—” the invalid was beginning, when she was interrupted by a knocking at the front door, accompanied by a peal on the little-used bell.

Cynthia started, and Lady Hannah's head seemed to fall back.

“What—what is it?” she gasped. “What shall we do? I am frightened!”

“There is nothing to be frightened at,” said Cynthia sensibly. “I expect it is only some one to see Mr Gillman on business.”

Then her heart seemed to stand still as there was another loud, insistent knock, and the thought occurred to her that her husband had discovered her whereabouts and had come personally to seek for her. She had little time for misgivings on her own account, however; her cousin was evidently in a state of tremendous nervous agitation, her lips were twitching, she was uttering little moans of terror. Cynthia tried to soothe and calm her, but with little success. There was another loud knock; evidently whoever might be at the door, he or she was not inclined to go away without any response.

“Dear Cousin Hannah,” Cynthia said, laying her hand on one of the motionless arms, “I think, perhaps, I ought to see who it is. It may be something important. I believe out of the bay window I could see whether it is a tramp or anyone of that sort without leaving the room.”