by Annie Haynes
“How long was Lady Carew with you?” she asked Sophie abruptly. “A long time was it not?”
“Two years,” the girl answered simply. “She stayed until I was nearly seventeen.”
“Only two years?” Lady Palmer repeated. “I thought it had been longer. Stay; perhaps it was some earlier pupils I was thinking of. Do you remember the name of the people she was with before she came to you?”
“I don’t know.” Sophie’s voice sounded altered. She was trying to catch Mrs. May’s eye apparently. “I have forgotten.”
Mrs. May was taking leave of the general. “I am sure my husband thinks as you do, general.”
“So does every sensible man,” the general returned, as he shook hands.
Mrs. May’s eyes were a little anxious as she glanced at her young niece. “Come, Sophie, dear, I believe we ought to be going now; we have a long drive before us, you know.”
Lady Palmer saw that her opportunity was over. She glanced smilingly at Sophie. “You must give me your address, my dear.”
The girl looked red, a little confused. “St. Barnabas’ Vicarage, Chelsea,” she said hastily. “Father is Canon Rankin.”
“Canon Rankin! Why, of course I know—I mean, I have heard of him,” Lady Palmer exclaimed, with a sudden memory of a clergyman whose work among the outcasts of London was obtaining a grudging recognition from all classes. “I believe my sister—Mrs. Dawson—knows him quite well. We shall meet again some day, my dear.” She nodded and smiled as Mrs. May drew the girl away.
The prize-giving was nearly over now; Peggy turned to exchange a smile with Chesterham. Stephen Crasster’s hand went up to his chin and pulled it restlessly. He told himself that he could stand no more, that since Chesterham was there he would not be missed, and he made his way out by the back of the stand.
Outside he nearly collided with an unobtrusive-looking little man with a bushy, sandy beard, and stopped with a sudden exclamation.
“What, Furnival! Is it you?”
The sandy bearded one glanced round apprehensively. “Hush, if you please, sir! My name is Lennox—Walter Lennox. I have come down to see a friend.”
“On business?” Stephen drew him away from the crowd, now all gathered round the sports ground. They walked across the bowling-green in the direction of the tents. “I thought you were so busy with that flat case.”
Inspector Furnival looked at him with a mildly-interested smile.
“So I am, sir! But I am sure you must recognize that every one must have a holiday sometimes. I have been going a bit too strong lately, and the doctors tell me my heart isn’t what it was.”
“I see.” The two men were as much alone to-day on the quiet little bowling-green as if they had been on a desert island. Stephen glanced at his companion with a whimsical smile.
“And so you call yourself Lennox when you come out for the benefit of your health?”
The inspector’s wide, humorous lips relaxed a little beneath his sandy moustache. “I like to be incog. sometimes, sir. And, besides”—he took counsel with himself a moment before he went on—“it isn’t altogether health that brought me down, though the doctor did order me into the country, but I took the liberty of choosing a spot where I thought a stay might be profitable.”
Stephen laughed outright. “I guessed as much. Well, you must come up and have a pipe and a taste of bachelor fare at Talgarth one of these days, inspector. And, if your business is anything in which I can help you, you know there is nothing I like better than a bit of detective work.”
Inspector Furnival was looking at the ground now. “Thank you, you are very kind. I know your advice has often been most valuable.”
“What do you say to coming back with me now?” Stephen went on. “My car is round at the Lion. And you can tell me what you think of my port. I know you are a bit of a connoisseur.”
The inspector hesitated a moment. Manifestly the offer tempted him.
“You are very good, sir, but another time, if you please. Mixing with a crowd like this one picks up hints that come in useful sometimes. I am hoping I may do so to-night.”
“Ah, well, another time, then,” Stephen nodded. “I understand. Good-bye and good luck to you, inspector.”
He strode off.
The inspector strolled back to the sports ground. The prize-giving was over. Peggy was standing near the table talking to one of the winners. Her mother and Sir Anthony, with Lord Chesterham, stood behind him with a group of county magnates.
The inspector’s eyes glanced across reflectively.
CHAPTER XV
“Oh, but Miladi is better, much better, and she desires that I come to the fête,” Célestine said virtuously.
“I am glad she did. We could not have afforded to have missed you,” her companion declared gallantly.
He was the same, dark moustached, smiling little man whom the gossips of Heron’s Carew had averred the French maid was meeting in the Home Wood. However that might be, it was obvious that he was expecting her at the Wembley Show. He had been waiting at the entrance gates for quite a considerable time before she had appeared, and he went forward to meet her, hat in hand, with considerable empressement. Célestine looked by no means averse to being escorted into the grounds by so presentable a swain. She herself was looking her vain coquettish best. She smiled up at the man walking by her side.
“So I am glad, Mr. Barker! Your fête makes a little change. Ah, but it is a triste place, Heron’s Carew!”
“It isn’t lively,” the man agreed with a laugh. “I want you to do me a favour, mademoiselle.”
Célestine looked gracious. “What is that, Mr. Barker? You know—”
“I want you to let me introduce a friend,” Mr. Barker proceeded. “He came down from town yesterday, my friend did. He is going to stop a bit for his health, and I think the poor fellow feels lonely. There he is walking about by himself, so if you wouldn’t mind him joining us—not that I want to share your society with anyone else,” he finished with a complimentary glance.
Célestine bridled. She looked across at the solitary figure that Mr. Barker had indicated. Her quick French eyes noted that, though there was nothing particularly noticeable about the man’s face and figure, he was immaculately dressed, with a care that reminded her of London. Her eyes brightened, it seemed that there might be possibilities about Mr. Barker’s friend.
“But of course I shall be delighted!” she allowed graciously.
They went across together. “Mlle Célestine Delafours, may I introduce Mr. Lennox?” Mr. Barker said with a flourish.
Mr. Lennox bowed with a deference that pleased Célestine. He had fine eyes she said to herself, and, though she might not admire sandy beards, tastes must differ, and the stranger had at least an air.
“You are down here, at Wembley, for your health, Monsieur?” she questioned in her pretty broken English.
Mr. Lennox bowed. “I am staying at Carew Village, at the Carew Arms.”
“Ah!” Célestine gave a melting glance upwards. “As is Monsieur Barker. And you are an artist like him is it not so, monsieur?”
Mr. Lennox shook his head. “I am not so clever, mademoiselle, I am only a collector.”
“A collector,” Célestine echoed with a pretty little puzzled air. “I do not understand, monsieur. What is a collector?”
Mr. Lennox laughed. “Well, it is more a hobby than a profession, mademoiselle. I am lucky enough to have an income to cover my small wants, and I have a natural taste for collecting objects of art. Why, what is this?”
A boy with a telegram was coming towards them. “For the gentleman as is staying at the Carew Arms, Mr. Barker!” he said looking from one to the other.
With a quick exclamation Barker took it from him, tore it open and ran his eyes over it.
“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said Mr. Lennox sympathetically.
“Well, yes!” Mr. Barker seemed to have difficulty in finding his words. “My mother has been taken suddenly i
ll. I shall have to be off at once. I shall just have time to catch the express. Mademoiselle”—turning to Célestine—“how can I apologize to you? You will think me absolutely unmannerly, but my mother—”
“Mademoiselle will understand that your departure is unavoidable,” said Mr. Lennox, cutting the other’s halting words short. “And, if you are to catch the express, my dear fellow, you haven’t a moment to lose. I will take your place as far as it is possible with Mademoiselle, if she will allow me the pleasure of escorting her.”
“But Monsieur is too good!” And Célestine made play with her eyes.
Mr. Barker hurried off, with many incoherent apologies. When he had finally departed, Mr. Lennox looked at Célestine with a smile.
“Which way will you go, mademoiselle?”
“I would like to walk among the people, if you please, monsieur; not right in the crowd, but about here, where you can see people—and feel that there is life.”
“You find it dull at Heron’s Carew!” Lennox observed sympathetically.
Célestine held up her hands. “But of all things. And to me, who understood that miladi was to spend the season in town, it is all that there is of the most horrible. I would never have engaged to come to Heron’s Carew all the time, like this—never!”
He glanced at her comprehendingly. “It is hard on you, mademoiselle. But I suppose Lady Carew is not strong enough for the gaieties of the season.”
Célestine shrugged her shoulders. “Miladi has a constitution of the most magnifique. But one day she has a migraine, and your English doctors are fools. She is sent down to this triste Heron’s Carew, where there is never any person to speak to but Sir Anthony and Miss Peggy, and what can you expect?”
“She is not getting better?” Lennox questioned.
“But no,” Célestine answered energetically. “How should she be here in this dullness? And it is impossible for her to be gay when Sir Anthony—he mopes always, and is sulky.”
Mr. Lennox looked interested. “Perhaps they don’t get on. I saw him just now when they were giving the prizes away. He looks as if he had a temper of his own.”
Célestine raised her eyebrows. “Was there ever a Carew of them all that had not?” she demanded. “The mad Carews, the people round here call them. I think it is a good name—me. But, as for getting on, Sir Anthony and miladi used to be like lovers always. It was wearisome to see them together, until the night of Lady Denborough’s dinner-party. Since then all has been changed.”
“They quarrelled perhaps,” her companion suggested, as she paused and looked mysterious.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly, lifting her shoulders. “I do not know. At any rate, miladi and Sir Anthony went to a wedding, Lady Geraldine Summerhouse’s, in the afternoon. Then miladi had her migraine and did not go to Lady Denborough’s. It may have been that Sir Anthony was sulky because he did not want to go alone. Most men are like that—thoughtless, what you call, selfish!” with a swift upraising of her dark lashes.
Mr. Lennox rose to the occasion gallantly. “I should not be thoughtless or selfish if I had a sweet little wife like—” His eyes pointed the unfinished sentence.
Célestine smiled, did her best to blush.
“But men are all alike—before,” with a coquettish glance.
“Not all—any more than you ladies,” Mr. Lennox contradicted playfully. “Now you, mademoiselle, if you had a headache, you would make a struggle to go out with your husband, I know; you would not leave him to go alone.”
The maid pursed up her lips. “If it suited my purpose I might or I might not, monsieur. Sometimes—sometimes it may be that a migraine is—shall we say—convenient?”
Mr. Lennox looked at her, his face a study of good-humoured surprise. “I don’t understand, mademoiselle. You say that Lady Carew’s headaches are convenient.”
“Not all of miladi’s migraines are,” Célestine contradicted. “But that first one, on the night of Lady Denborough’s dinner, was a convenient one, all the same. But there, monsieur, sometimes it happens that my tongue runs away with me; we will talk of something else.”
Lennox looked at her a moment, and then he threw back his head and laughed.
“Do you think I should gossip, mademoiselle? Bless my life it isn’t as if I were a married man with a wife to whisper my secrets to,” casting a sentimental glance at the girl.
Célestine’s eyelids flickered coyly.
Mr. Lennox drew a little nearer. “Sometimes one does get led away, mademoiselle; one meets somebody suddenly, the very sight of whom seems to alter one’s life. It is hard to realize that the feeling is not mutual, that one is suspected, doubted; but I suppose, if one weren’t a fool, one would be prepared for it.”
“But suspected, monsieur, doubted?” Célestine glanced up quickly into the mild blue eyes that were watching her with such evident interest. In her shrewd little heart she was calculating the possibilities; it was apparent that the new-comer was greatly attracted to her. There was an air of prosperity about him which impressed Célestine. Decidedly, she thought, it appeared as though he would be a better match than Barker. Altogether she thought it might be as well to temporize. “It was only that though miladi had strange ways I do not speak of them usually; but to you, monsieur, who seem not like other men, it is different. Only you must understand that I do not gossip—me.”
“Good heavens, no.” The man laughed again with every appearance of good faith. “And what does it matter to me whether Lady Carew has her own little game to play, if she breaks engagements in order to get out of doors to—perhaps better say no more.”
“But, monsieur,” Célestine was staring at him with wide open eyes, “what do you mean, what do you know?”
The tragic intensity of her tone seemed to amuse Mr. Lennox, his smile broadened. “Only the ordinary gossip of the town about a lady so well known as Lady Carew,” he replied lightly. “You know she is a society beauty, a famous person whose every movement is chronicled. There have been whispers of Lady Carew of late, that there is a lover in the background, but I should not speak of them to anybody but you, mademoiselle.”
“And I never knew, I never dreamed that anyone had guessed.” Célestine clasped her small exquisitely covered hands tightly together and spoke with dramatic intensity. “All I know is that Miladi says she has a bad headache, that she can not go to Lady Denborough’s dinner, and that she sends me away, and afterwards when the house is quiet she comes stealing down the stairs and lets herself out like a mouse.”
“Oh, you ladies—you ladies!” apostrophized Mr. Lennox. “It would take a clever man to be even with some of you, mademoiselle. So I suppose Lady Carew spent a pleasant evening with her lover, while poor Sir Anthony went to Lady Denborough’s dinner alone, and made himself miserable all the evening, thinking that his wife was ill.”
Célestine did not answer for a minute; her carefully arched eyebrows were drawn together consideringly.
“No! Sir Anthony—he did not go to Lady Denborough’s either!” she said slowly. “Though Miladi thought he would. He went out, somewhere, I do not know where. And he did not come back till after Miladi had come back, and then he came in and shut his door with a bang—so.” And Célestine brought her two hands together smartly. “But when you speak of Miladi’s lover, you make a mistake. Miladi may have secrets, but a lover, no, I do not think it. She loves Sir Anthony.”
Mr. Lennox’s interest in the story was evidently only second to that he felt in Célestine herself. “But if she is meeting a man—outside,” he said. “And all London says she is.”
Célestine shook her head. “It is not a lover she meets, monsieur. And I do not speak without reason.”
“Reason,” Mr. Lennox repeated thoughtfully. “But, mademoiselle, how can you know?”
Célestine’s black eyes looked important. “Ah, now, monsieur, you are asking more than I can tell. That is my little—what you call—secret.”
CHAPTER XVI
T
he Dowager Lady Carew was giving a dinner-party at the Dower House. She had had her way now. Peggy’s engagement to Lord Chesterham, was formally announced, and Sir Anthony had withdrawn all open opposition, though his private opinion of his future brother-in-law remained much the same. Stephen Crasster’s representations had turned the scale, for Crasster, putting his own feelings on one side, had pleaded for Peggy’s sake. But, although as Peggy’s guardian he had given his formal consent, Sir Anthony was looking distinctly sulky to-night. To his mind this dinner savoured of triumph on his stepmother’s part.
From his seat at the bottom of the table, he glanced down at Chesterham, seated between Peggy and her mother. Peggy was looking radiant to-night. There could be no question that she was perfectly happy in her engagement, or believed herself to be so. She was wearing a gown of palest pink chiffon that harmonized perfectly with her delicate colouring; with the light in her soft brown eyes, the glint of the gold in her curly hair. Chesterham was bending over her in the most lover-like fashion. As he watched him, Sir Anthony’s brow contracted afresh.
From the lovers, Sir Anthony’s eyes strayed involuntarily to his own wife, who was sitting almost immediately opposite. Judith was wearing a wonderful gown, one of Renard’s masterpieces. Stephen Crasster was lower down on the same side. Old General Wilson was opposite. The long dinner was drawing to an end and the general was getting talkative, for the wine was unusually good, having been sent down from Heron’s Carew cellars. The general’s voice grew louder. “He came over to sketch my bit of place, but I refused him permission—told him I didn’t want any of his sort round me; I could hardly get rid of the beggar. He had been to Talgarth, he told me, and Heron’s Carew.”