by Marion Bryce
There was a fireplace of cracked and dirty marble with an engraving hung over it, representing the coronation of Queen Victoria. A gas stove occupied the grate, and a gas bracket stuck out from the wall on either side of the picture.
On the small round mahogany table that stood in the middle of the room lay a Bible, and a copy of the St. James’s Gazette, which was dated a week back. Juliet took it up and read an account of a cricket match without much enthusiasm. Then she flung it down and wandered about the room once more; but she had exhausted all its possibilities; and though she took a volume entitled Causes Célèbres from the shelf, and turned its pages hopefully, she put it back with a grimace at its dullness and a sort of surprise at finding anything drier than the cricket.
She had waited half an hour, when the door opened and the face of Nicol was introduced round the corner of it.
“Will you please come this way,” he said.
Telling her maid to stay where she was, Juliet followed him. He opened the other door on the landing, and announced her in a loud voice as, with a quickened pulse, she passed him, and entered the room.
There were two men standing by the hearth. One of them came forward to receive her.
“How do you do, Miss Byrne,” he said; “I am glad you were able to come. I am Jeremy Findlay, at your service.”
Mr. Findlay was a man of moderate height, with a long pointed nose which he was in the habit of putting down to within an inch or two of his desk when he was looking for any particular paper, for he was very short sighted. It rather conveyed the impression that he was poking about with it, and that he hunted for questionable clauses or illegalities in a document, much as a pig might hunt for truffles in a wood. For the rest, he was middle-aged, with hair nearly white, and small grey whiskers. He beamed at Juliet through gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Let me introduce my friend,” he said, mumbling something.
Juliet did not catch the name, but she supposed that this was Mr. Ince.
The other man stepped forward and shook hands, but said nothing. He was a thin, pallid creature, rather above the average height, and had the drooping shoulders of a scholar. His face, which was long and narrow, looked pale and emaciated, and though his blue eyes had a kindly twinkle it seemed to Juliet that they burned with a feverish brightness. His nose was long and slightly hooked, and beneath it the mouth was hidden by a heavy red moustache; while his hair, though not of so bright a colour, had a reddish tinge about it. He appeared to be about fifty years of age, but this was due to a look of tiredness habitual to his expression, and, in part, to actual bad health. In reality he was younger.
“Pray take this chair, Miss Byrne,” Mr. Findlay was saying. “We are anxious to have a little conversation with you. I am sure you quite understand that we should not have asked you to come all the way from Belgium unless your presence was of considerable importance. How important it is I really hardly know myself, but I repeat that I would not have urged you to take so long a journey if I had not had serious reason to think that it was desirable for your own sake that you should do so. I may say at once that the matter is a family one; but before going further I must ask your permission to put one or two questions to you, which I hope you will believe are not prompted by any feeling of idle curiosity on my part.”
He paused, and Juliet murmured some words of acquiescence. Mr. Findlay took off his eyeglasses, glared at them, replaced them, and ran his nose over the surface of the papers on his writing-table.
“Ah, here it is!” he exclaimed triumphantly, pouncing on a folded sheet and lifting it to his eyes. “Just a few notes,” he explained.
“We wrote you care of Sir Arthur Byrne,” he resumed; “are you a member of his family?”
Here was a disturbing question for Juliet. She had imagined, until this instant, that she was on the point of being told who her family was, and now this man was asking for information from her. Tears of disappointment would not be kept from her eyes.
“I am a member of Sir Arthur’s household,” she stammered.
“Are you not his daughter, then?” asked Mr. Findlay.
“No, I am not really,” Juliet replied.
“Then may I ask what relation you are to him?” said the lawyer.
“I am his adopted daughter,” said Juliet. “I have always called him ‘Father.’”
“Are you not any relation at all?” pursued Mr. Findlay.
“I believe not.”
“Then, Miss Byrne, I hope you will not think it an impertinent question if I ask, who are you?”
“I don’t know,” acknowledged poor Juliet. “I was hoping you would tell me that. I thought, I imagined, that that was why you sent for me.”
“You astonish me,” said Mr. Findlay. “Do you mean to say that your family has never made any attempt to communicate with you?”
“No, never.”
“And that Sir Arthur Byrne has never told you anything as to your birth? Surely you must have questioned him about it?”
“He has told me all he knows,” said Juliet, “but that amounts to nothing.”
“Indeed; that is very strange. He must have had dealings with the people you were with before he adopted you. He must at least know their name?”
“I don’t know,” said Juliet. “He doesn’t know either, I am sure. It wasn’t Sir Arthur who adopted me. It was the lady he married. A Mrs. Meredith. She is dead.”
“But he must have heard about you from her,” insisted Mr. Findlay. “He would not have taken a child into his household without knowing anything at all about it.”
“His wife told him that I was the daughter of a friend of hers, and begged him not to ask her any more about me. He was very devoted to her, and he did as she wished. He has been most kind to me; but I am sure he would be as glad as I should be to discover my relations. I am dreadfully disappointed that you don’t know anything about them. We all thought I was going to find my family at last.”
Juliet’s voice quavered a little. She had built too much on this interview.
“I am really extremely sorry not to be able to give you any information,” Mr. Findlay said.
He turned towards the other man with an interrogative glance, and was met by a nod of the head, at which he leant back in his chair, crossed his legs and folded his hands upon them, with the expression of some one who has played his part in the game, and now retires in favour of another competitor. The pale man moved his chair a little forward and took up the conversation.
“Are you really quite certain that Sir Arthur Byrne has told you all he knows?” he said earnestly, fixing on Juliet a look at once grave and eager.
“Yes,” she answered. “I can see that he is as puzzled as I am. And he would be glad enough to find a way to get rid of me,” she added bitterly.
“I thought you said you were attached to him,” said the stranger in surprise, “and that he had been very kind to you?”
“Yes,” said Juliet, “he has, and I am as fond of him as possible. But he has three stepdaughters now; he has married again, you know. And he is not very well off. I am a great expense, besides being an extra girl. I don’t blame him for thinking I am one too many.”
There was a long pause, during which Juliet was conscious of being closely scrutinized.
“I think I may be able to give you news of your family,” said the pale man unexpectedly. “That is, if you are the person I think you are likely to be.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Juliet, “can you really?”
“Well, it is possible,” admitted the other. “I can’t say for certain yet.”
“Oh, do, do tell me!” cried the girl.
“Out of the question, at present,” he replied firmly. “I must first satisfy myself as to whose child you are, and on that point you appear able to give me no assistance. You must wait till I can find out something further about this matter of your adoption. And even then,” he added, “it is not certain if I can tell you. You must understand that, though certai
n family secrets have been placed in my possession, it does not depend upon myself whether or not I shall ultimately reveal them to you.”
Juliet’s face fell for a moment, but she refused to allow herself to be discouraged.
“There is a chance for me, anyhow!” she exclaimed. “How I hope you will be allowed to tell me in the end! But why,” she went on, turning to Mr. Findlay, “did you make me think you knew nothing at all about me. I suppose the family secrets your partner speaks of are the secrets of my family?”
“My dear young lady,” said Mr. Findlay, “Lord Ashiel is not my partner. On the contrary, he is an old client of ours, and it was at his request that we wrote to you as we did. We know no more about your affairs than you have told us yourself.”
“Oh,” murmured Juliet, confused at her mistake. “I thought you were Mr. Ince,” she apologized; “I am so sorry.”
“Not very flattering to poor Ince I’m afraid,” said Lord Ashiel, smiling at her. “He’s ten years younger than I am, I’m sorry to say, and I would change places with him very willingly. Now, if you had mistaken me for Nicol, that undertaker clerk of Findlay’s, who always looks as if he’s been burying his grandmother, I should have been decidedly hurt. What in the world do you keep that fellow in the office for, Findlay? To frighten away custom?”
Mr. Findlay laughed.
“He’s a more useful person than you imagine,” he said. “Though I must say Ince agrees with you, and is always at me about the poor man. Some day I hope you will both see his sterling qualities.”
“I am afraid you must think I have given you a great deal of trouble for very little reason,” Lord Ashiel said to Juliet. “But perhaps there will be more result than at present can seem clear to you. I may go so far as to say that I hope so most sincerely. But, if the secret of which I spoke just now is ever to be confided to you, it will be necessary for you and me to know each other a little better. I have a proposal to make to you, which I fear you may think our acquaintance rather too short and unconventional to justify.”
He paused with a trace of embarrassment, and Juliet wondered what could be coming.
“It is not convenient for me to stay in London just now,” he went on after a minute, “and I am sure you must find it very disagreeable at this time of the year; and yet it is very important that I should see more of you. It is, in fact, part of the conditions under which I may be able to reveal these family secrets of yours to you. That is to say, if they should turn out to be indeed yours. I came up from the Highlands last night. I have a place on the West Coast, where at this moment I have a party of people staying with me for shooting. My sister is entertaining them in my absence, but I must get back to my duties of host. What I want to suggest is that you should pay us a visit at Inverashiel.”
“Thank you very much,” said Juliet doubtfully. “I should love to, but—I don’t know whether my father would allow me.”
“Your father?” exclaimed Lord Ashiel and Mr. Findlay in one breath.
“Sir Arthur Byrne, I mean,” she corrected herself.
“You might telegraph to him,” urged Lord Ashiel. “And I, myself, will write. You might mention my sister to him. I think he used to know her. Mrs. John Haviland. But, indeed, it is very important that you should come, more important than you think, perhaps.”
He seemed extraordinarily anxious, now, lest she should refuse.
“Perhaps,” suggested Mr. Findlay, “Miss Byrne would like to think over the idea, and let you know later in the day.”
“A very good plan,” said Lord Ashiel. “Yes, of course you would like to think it over. Will you telephone to me at the Carlton after lunch? Thanks so much. Good-bye for the present.”
He seized his hat and stick and darted to the door. “You talk to her, Findlay!” he cried, and disappeared.
Juliet and Mr. Findlay were left confronting one another.
“That will be the best plan,” the lawyer repeated. “Think it over, Miss Byrne. I am sure you would enjoy the visit to Scotland. Inverashiel is a most interesting old place, both historically and for the sake of its beautiful scenery. A week or two of Highland air could not fail to be of benefit to your health, even if nothing further came of it, so to speak.”
“I should love it,” Juliet said again. “But, Mr. Findlay, I don’t know Lord Ashiel, or hardly know him. How can I go off and stay with someone I never met before to-day?”
“The circumstances are unusual,” said the lawyer. “I fancy Lord Ashiel is anxious to lose no time. He is in bad health, poor fellow. I am afraid he will worry himself a good deal if you cannot make up your mind to go.”
“You see,” said Juliet, troubled, “I know nothing about him. I don’t know what my father—I mean, Sir Arthur would say.”
“I am sure your father would have no objection whatever to your making friends with Lord Ashiel,” Mr. Findlay assured her. “He is one of the most respectable, the most domesticated of peers. Not very cheerful company, perhaps, but no one in the world can justly say a word against him in any way. He has had a sad time lately; his wife and only child died within a month of each other, only two or three years ago. They had been married quite a short time. Since then, his sister, Mrs. Haviland, keeps house for him; but he does not entertain much, I am told, except during the autumn in Scotland. You need have no hesitation in accepting this invitation, Miss Byrne. I am a married man, and the father of a family, and I should only be too delighted if one of my daughters had such an opportunity.”
“Well,” said Juliet, “I think I will risk it, and go. I am old enough to take care of myself, in any case.” This she said haughtily, with her nose in the air. And then, with a sudden drop to her usual manner, she exclaimed in a tone of gaiety, “What fun it will be!”
“I am sure you will not regret your decision,” repeated Mr. Findlay, as she got up to go. “You won’t forget to let Lord Ashiel know, will you?”
“No, I will telephone to him at once. But I will telegraph home too, of course.”
Excitement over this new plan had almost dispelled the earlier disappointment, and if Juliet’s spirits, as she drove back to Jermyn Street, were not quite as overflowingly high as when she had started out, they were good enough to make her smile to herself and to every one she met during the rest of the day, and to hum gay little tunes when no one was near, and altogether to feel very happy and pleased and possessed by the conviction that something delightful was about to happen. She sent off her telegram to Sir Arthur, spending some time over it, and spoiling a dozen telegraph forms, before she could find satisfactory words in which to convey her plans with an appearance of deference to authority. Then she called up the Carlton Hotel on the telephone, and was much put out when she heard that Lord Ashiel was not staying there, or even expected.
It was the hall porter of her hotel who came to the rescue, by suggesting that she should try the Carlton Club, of which she had never before heard.
From the quickness with which Lord Ashiel answered her, he might have been sitting waiting at the end of the wire, and he expressed great pleasure at her acceptance of his invitation. Indeed, she could hear from the tone of his voice that his gratification was no mere empty form. It was arranged that she should travel down on the following night, Lord Ashiel promising to engage a sleeping berth for her on the eight o’clock train. He himself was going North that same evening. He had just been writing a letter to Sir Arthur Byrne, he told her. He hoped she had some thick dresses with her; she would want them in Scotland.
“I am afraid I haven’t,” she said. “I only expected to stay in London for a day or two, you know.”
“Well,” said the voice at the end of the telephone, “perhaps you can get a waterproof or something, between this and to-morrow night. I am afraid I don’t know the names of any ladies’ tailors, but there are lots about,” he concluded vaguely.
“I suppose I had better,” said Juliet doubtfully. “I wonder if the shops here will trust me. The fact is, I haven’t g
ot very much extra money. I think perhaps I’d better wait a day or two till I can have some more sent me.”
“My dear child,” came the answer in horrified tones, “you must on no account put off coming. Of course you are not prepared for all this extra expense. You must allow me to be your banker. I insist upon it. Your family, in whose confidence I happen to be, would never forgive me if I allowed you to continue to be dependent on Sir Arthur Byrne.”
“It is very kind of you,” Juliet began. “But suppose I turn out to be some one different. You know, you said—”
“If you do, you shall repay me,” he replied. “In the meantime I will send you round a small sum to do your shopping with. Let me see, where are you staying?”
An hour later a bank messenger arrived with an envelope containing £100 in notes. Juliet had never seen so much money in her life, and thought it far too much. “I shall be sure to lose it,” was her first thought. Her second was to deposit it with the proprietor of the hotel; after which she felt safer. Then, in huge delight, she sallied forth again with her maid, the alluring memory of some of the shop windows into which she had gazed that morning calling to her loudly; she had never thought to look at those fascinating garments from the other side of the glass. Intoxicating hours followed, in which a couple of tweed dresses were purchased that seemed as if they must have been made on purpose for her; nor were thick walking shoes, and country hats, and other accessories neglected. By evening her room was strewn with cardboard boxes, and on Wednesday more were added, so that a trunk to pack them in had to be bought as well. The shops were very empty; Juliet had the entire attention of the shop people, and revelled in her purchases. Time flew, and she was quite sorry, as she drove to Euston on the following evening, to think that she was leaving this fascinating town of London.