The Witness on the Roof (7 page)

The lawyer took out his pocket-book.

‘“Miss Joan has supplied us with one her sister sent her, taken a few weeks after she left home. Here it is.” He handed a small oval frame to the great lawyer. “It is practically the only clue we have. Miss Joan has been unable to find any of her sister's letters, though she knows that a year or two ago she had one—the last, received only the day before she came to the Hall.”

Septimus Lockyer studied the faded photograph the frame contained for a minute or two in silence; then he walked over to the window and turned it about to get the best possible light. The frame was tarnished and dull now, but it had been bright enough once, and little Joan had been proud of it and thought it the purest silver. The photograph was old and faded too. It represented a girl dressed in the fashion of a bygone day, sitting in an affected pose at an open window, beside a table on which stood a great vase of flowers. The attitude was stilted and unnatural. But it was on the face that Septimus Lockyer's gaze was fixed. He could see no resemblance to Joan; nevertheless it did seem to him that he saw a curious likeness to some one he knew in the big eyes set far apart, in the small tip-tilted nose, in the rather wide mouth and the little pointed chin. The elaborately-curled fringe was fair. As far as could be judged from the photograph, Evelyn had been very fair, entirely lacking her sister's colour and vitality.

Mr. Hurst glanced a little curiously at the
K.C.

“Do you see a look of Mrs. Davenant, Mr. Lockyer?”

Septimus gave the photograph another scrutiny.

“No,” he said slowly, “I don't think so. But the extraordinary thing is that, though she is quite unlike Joan, though I see no resemblance to anyone, this face is perfectly familiar to me.”

“What, you know her? You have seen her?” burst, from Mr. Hurst and Reggie Trewhistle simultaneously.

Septimus Lockyer put the frame down on the table, knitting his brows together thoughtfully.

“Certainly I have seen her somewhere—I am convinced of it! She was not dressed like that, but the face is the same. Now where”—staring before him into vacancy—“the deuce could it have been?”

“W
ITH
L
ORD
Warchester's compliments, madam.”

Celestine presented a great bunch of orchids to Cynthia. “His lordships is waiting below.”

Mrs. Trewhistle bent over them with a little cry of delight.

“Oh, how perfectly lovely! You must wear some to-night, Joan. These pale mauve cattleya will look lovely against your black gown.”

Joan's face had regained all its old colour. She laughed.

“They are sent to you.”

“Me—pouf!” Mrs. Trewhistle made a little airy gesture of contempt. “Many kiss the child for the sake of the nursemaid. Make haste and get into your things, Joan. I will go and entertain Warchester till you come down.” With a light laugh she left the room.

Joan, who had been out with the dogs for a ramble, and been overtaken by a thunderstorm, looked at her wet skirts with distaste as she slipped them off.

“Let me help you, miss.” Celestine came forward and took the wet garments from her, replacing them by a chiffon gown.

For the last two months—ever since Mrs. Davenant's death, in fact—Joan had been staying with the Trewhistles. There had been so far no response to the advertisements for Evelyn which had been inserted in all the principal newspapers. Messrs. Hewlett and Cowham had apparently made small progress with their inquiries, and Cynthia was beginning to exult openly and assume that Joan's inheritance was assured.

Downstairs in the drawing-room Warchester was watching the door with eager eyes, and the momentary shadow that darkened them as Cynthia entered alone did not escape that lady's keen eyes. He had been a very constant visitor since Joan's coming. Cynthia could only guess how often her guest had encountered him in the course of her daily walks and drives.

“What perfectly lovely flowers, Lord Warchester! How good of you to bring them! Joan has just come home soaked. She will be down directly. What is this—a telegram for me, Barstow? She hurriedly tore open the orange-coloured envelope. A clue at last!” she cried. “‘Hope to be with you to-morrow morning with particulars—Francis Hurst.'”

She crumpled up the telegram into a ball and threw it with vicious energy into the fire.

“Do you know what that means, Lord Warchester? It means that they think they have found this wretched Evelyn and that Joan will lose her inheritance. I wonder whether Mr. Hurst expects me to be pleased?”

Warchester smiled as he looked down at her crimsoning face.

“I do not know. But I wonder whether I shall incur your lasting displeasure, Mrs. Trewhistle, if I tell you that
I
am pleased?”

“You?” Cynthia looked at him incredulously. “I thought you, liked Joan—that you were her friend?”

“Perhaps it is for that reason that I am glad,” Warchester responded. There was an unusual light in his grey eyes as they met Cynthia's. “I think you must have seen how it is with me, Mrs. Trewhistle—how it has been from the first. I—I dare say I am very selfish, but I want to give Joan all the good things of life myself.”

There was a pause; then Cynthia caught her breath.

“I—I think Joan is a very lucky girl,” she said impulsively, holding put her hand. “You have my good wishes, Lord Warchester.”

“Thank you!” he said, as he took the little hand, glittering with rings, in his. “You will stand my friend, Mrs. Trewhistle?”

“Certainly!” Cynthia said heartily. “And, to prove that, I am going to send a return telegram to Mr. Hurst now. Joan will entertain you until I come back,” with a mischievous laugh as she rose. “Oh, Lord Warchester,” turning back at the door, “is your cousin Basil at the Marsh now? Reggie heard that he came last night, and that he had been ill and had to bring home an attendant with him! I hope it is not true.”

Warchester turned abruptly to the window.

“I did not know he had arrived at the Marsh, though I had heard that he was expected shortly. But he had a bad accident—was seriously injured some years ago, and has never wholly recovered.”

“I am sorry,” Cynthia said regretfully. “He used be so jolly in the old days. And how handsome he was!” Joan came into the room a few minutes later. Her black chiffon gown had been a present from Cynthia; it had been made by that lady's dressmaker, and though of unusually plain cut its severe lines suited her slim figure perfectly. Her hair was dressed very simply, parted in front and waved to the back, where it was gathered in a great coil.

She looked a little surprised to find Warchester alone as he came forward to meet her.

“Mrs. Trewhistle has been called away to answer a telegram,” he explained. “I hear you have been caught in the storm, Miss Joan.”

As she sank into one of the big easy-chairs he moved to the fireplace, and toyed with one of the ivory ornaments on the shelf.

Some of his obvious unrest seemed to communicate itself to Joan; her colour deepened.

“The storm did not matter,” she answered. “I enjoyed it really, and see—I was rewarded by finding these violets—they were beneath the Home Wood hedge.” She touched the tiny bunch of violets tucked in the front of her gown.

There was silence. When Warchester spoke again, the intensity of his feeling made his voice sound broken, almost harsh.

“I wonder whether you would think me incredibly greedy if I asked you for the violets?”

“Why, no!” Joan laughed as she held them out. “After the lovely flowers you sent us, Lord Warchester, you are certainly welcome to these.”

Warchester caught them and the hand together.

“It is not only the violets—I want this too. Is there any hope for me, Joan? Is it possible you could ever learn to care for me?”

For a moment Join sat motionless; the man before her waited silently. Then she raised her beautiful eyes.

“I think perhaps—” she said, slowly. “Ah, I—I—did you not know—did you not guess?”

Warchester, raising her to her feet, held her before him.

“Know what?” he asked.

Joan's eyes were veiled by their long lashes; the rich, warm colour flooded cheeks and throat and temples.

“I never had anybody to care for me much until—” She paused. “But when you came everything seemed changed. Oh, I know Cynthia and Reggie like me—they have been very good to me—but they have each other! This—this seems—different!”

“Different! I should think it is different!” Warchester's grey eyes were full of triumph as he listened to the halting sentences. “There is all the difference in the world, Joan, my beautiful Joan! Tell me that this is real—that you will give your life to me.”

“Oh, yes, it is real!” Joan said with trembling lips. “If—if you want it,” she added with a laugh that was half a sob. “But you know, Lord Warchester, that they think they will find Evelyn—that my father—that I may bring a host of undesirable relatives upon you.”

“I am not afraid,” Warchester declared, the gladness in his eyes growing and strengthening. “Give me yourself, Joan—the rest does not count.”

“Does it not?” Joan whispered as for one brief instant she yielded herself to his embrace, his arms closed round her she felt his lips softly touching her bright hair, lingering caressingly on her cheek. Then the sound of a step in the hall made her release herself hurriedly. 

“Well, Lord Warchester, you will certainly have to stay to dinner,” Cynthia remarked cheerfully. “The storm is coming on worse than ever. Barstow says it is fit for neither man nor beast to be out to-night. I do not know in which category he would place you. O–h!” with an expression of the fullest comprehension as she met his gaze. “You—you don't mean—”

“That Joan has consented to make me the happiest of men,” Warchester finished quietly. “Congratulate me, dear Mrs. Trewhistle!”

“I do indeed, most sincerely!” Cynthia cried warmly, while Joan fled from the room. “She is a dear girl,” Mrs. Trewhistle went on. “And who should know better than I? I have always been fond of Joan. Reggie will be pleased. And she will always be near us, even if Evelyn does come back.”

“You are very good to me, and you will give her to me soon. You will not grudge me my happiness. I have been lonely so long.”

As Warchester stood before her, the thought struck Cynthia that happiness was certainly becoming to him. It seemed to her that he looked years younger; the tired lines round his eyes seemed to have vanished as if by magic; there was a buoyancy about his whole bearing that brought back to her very vividly the Paul Wilton she had known before her marriage.

She smiled gaily.

“Ah, that will be for Joan to decide—not me!”

“But you will be on my side?” Warchester asked anxiously.

“Of course I am on your side,” she said, “though I shall be the loser. But then I always am unselfish.” 

“Thank you!” Warchester's eyes wandered past her to a photograph off Joan framed in silver that stood on the table behind Cynthia had placed it there that morning. “Surely that is—Joan? May I have it, Mrs. Trewhistle?”

“Well, as the original is to be yours, l suppose I cannot refuse you,” Cynthia said placidly. “But I don't care much for that myself. You will find better ones in the album over there. Choose one while I am away, Lord Warchester. I must go to Joan. But don't be afraid—I will send her, to you presently.”

She laughed at his expression as she went into the hall. She found Joan in her own room, ensconced in her favourite chair; she looked up as her cousin entered.

“Oh, Cynthia!”

“Oh, Joan!” Mrs. Trewhistle mocked. “Don't you think you are very cruel to somebody to run away like this? I am so glad, dear,” dropping her tone of raillery and kissing the girl affectionately. “Now it does not matter a bit if they do find their tiresome Evelyn. You will be Lady Warchester, and you can snap your fingers at them.” She pirouetted round, delightedly. “You will have to go back to Lord Warchester, though, Joan. I promised to send you. He—I think you will find him a masterful lover.”

Joan smiled happily. She was confident of her own power over Warchester, and not without reason, but in this matter her own heart was a traitor in the camp, and Cynthia's prognostications were soon verified.

Warchester proved the most, imperious of wooers; all Joan's pretty hesitation went for nothing with him. Day after day he pleaded—insisted on an early marriage, until at length he won the day and gained Joan's consent.

As he truly urged, there was nothing to wait for. Joan's mourning need not interfere with a quiet wedding; the uncertainty as to whether she succeeded to Davenant Hall would matter the less when she was Lady Warchester.

So it came to pass that the neighbourhood, which had by no means got over its first amazement on hearing that Mrs. Davenant had left Davenant Hall to an unknown granddaughter, was astonished to hear that the dispossessed Joan was engaged to the new Lord Warchester, and that the marriage was to take place immediately.

The tidings of Evelyn turned out to be much less definite than Mr. Hurst had expected. The promised clue seemed to lead to nothing tangible, and when Joan and her husband went off for their honeymoon the affair of the Davenant inheritance was as far from settlement as ever.

“C
OME
and see what you think of the Dutch garden, Joan.”

Warchester was standing at the open window of his wife's morning-room. Joan was sitting at her dainty little escritoire, writing notes. All the vigorous vitality that had been temporarily overshadowed by the shock of Mrs Davenant's death had asserted itself once more, and marriage had increased her comeliness. She looked indeed a wife of whom any man might be proud, as she smiled a welcome across the room, and Warchester's eyes took an added tenderness as he gazed at her. She had discarded her mourning, in so far as she was wearing a white gown with no touch of colour save a bunch of purple heartsease at her throat. Her hair was dressed as Warchester best liked to see it—waved low in front so as to form a frame for the charming oval of her face, and gathered up behind in a mass of curls. She wore no jewellery; the soft transparency of her gown fell away from her rounded arms dimpled at elbows and wrists, and her slender throat rose from a foamy mass of lace.