by Annie Haynes
“I have given trouble, Uncle Septimus?” Evelyn said, bowing graciously as the detective raised his hat. “To this gentleman, do you say? I reckon you are beyond me. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, I think he can corroborate my statement.” The lawyer laughed. “You found Miss Davenant a difficult person to trace, didn’t you, Hewlett?”
“We did indeed, sir.” The detective had been glancing with apparent admiration at Evelyn’s face, dwelling on the big, coarsely moulded throat already threatening to emerge into a double chin, then straying to the blue eyes, set rather near together, to the forehead sloping slightly backward from the arched artificial eyebrows.
“Mr. Hewlett is the head of the firm of Hewlett and Cowham, which is probably the best-known private detective agency in London,” Mr, Lockyer went on. “We confided the search for you to Mr. Hewlett, Evelyn, and I think I may say you have proved a great disappointment to him, eh, Hewlett?”
“Miss Davenant could not disappoint anyone,” the detective declared gallantly. “It was our own stupidity in failing to ascertain her whereabouts that disappointed us.”
“Oh, really! A detective!” Evelyn remarked nonchalantly, her manner altering perceptibly. It was evident, Mr. Lockyer remarked with some internal mirth, that the new mistress of Davenant Hall was inclined to resent as a liberty the introduction of a detective. She drew back in her corner. “Ah, well, you see, you didn’t look in the right place, Mr.—er—Hewlett! I was out in South Africa when I saw the advertisements.”
“So I heard.” Mr. Hewlett spoke politely. “Well, I suppose nobody can be successful always. We must put you down as one of our failures, Miss Davenant.”
Mr. Lockyer laid his hand on the carriage door.
“The most extraordinary thing to me is that you should have known Warchester. We were talking of it just now.”
“Yes, wasn’t it?” Evelyn agreed. “He was called Wilton then, you know, Uncle Septimus, and his cousin was Basil Wilton. I never knew that people changed their names when they became lords.”
Septimus Lockyer smiled.
“Wilton is the family name; Warchester’s children, if he has any, will be Wiltons too. But I remember seeing you once at the Apollo myself. What became of your sister? Funny thing the two of you should be so much alike! Have you any idea where she is now?”
Miss Davenant moved her parasol to one side.
“Bless you, no!” with a flicker of her white eyelids. “We did our turns together as long as it paid us, and then we just went our separate ways. I have never had a word from her since we parted and don’t suppose I ever shall. Well, Uncle Septimus, this coachman of mine hates to keep the horses standing, so I must be off. Come up and see me at the Hall and have a chat as soon as ever you can. So long for the present!”
She nodded condescendingly to Hewlett as the carriage rolled on.
Septimus Lockyer and Hewlett walked back to the motor-car. When they were fairly seated the lawyer turned to his companion.
“Well, your wish has been gratified; you have seen the new owner of Davenant Hall. Not much like Lady Warchester, is she? ”
Hewlett did not answer for a moment; his eyes had an absent, far-away expression.
“No, I can’t say I see much resemblance,” he said at last.
Mr. Lockyer glanced at him curiously, half doubtfully.
“You had not finished telling me why you wanted the letter and that broken sixpence, when we saw the carriage, Hewlett.”
It was only a few minutes’ run to the station; already they were in sight of it. The detective was gazing with interest at the flying landscape.
“Well?” Septimus Lockyer said impatiently.
Hewlett looked round.
“Well, sir, I once saw a letter that one reminded me of, and the other half of a broken sixpence. It was just a stupid fancy, I make no doubt, but I took a good deal of interest in the case the other one was mixed up in. It was when I was at Scotland Yard, before I started on my own, and I think I may say that first and last it has been the one affair that has baffled me more than any other I have ever been engaged upon.”
“What case was that?” asked Mr. Lockyer. “And what connection can there possibly be with this letter?”
“I don’t see the connection clearly myself,” the detective acknowledged. “As for the case—well, least said soonest mended, if you don’t mind, sir. I won’t say any more until—until—”
“Yes, until—” Septimus Lockyer prompted curiously as they entered the station yard.
The detective hesitated and looked round.
“Until I have seen whether the halves of the sixpence fit,” he answered cautiously.
Chapter Sixteen
“I AM going to walk over to Davenant Hall, Paul.”
“What—to-day again?” Warchester looked disappointed. “I wanted to take you out for a long spin in the car. Can’t you put your sister off until to-morrow?”
“I don’t think I ought. I promised to go over this afternoon. People may be calling now, and I fancy Evelyn is a little nervous. She was most anxious I should be with her.”
They were on the veranda outside the smoking-room. Warchester was glancing at the newspaper. Joan had just appeared dressed for walking; she laid her hand on his arm.
“Come with me, Paul; it is a lovely walk if we take the short cut through the Home Wood.”
Warchester shook his head.
“I would ask nothing better. But I must go over to Market Burnham on business, and I ought to call at the Marsh to see whether anything has been decided about Basil’s operation. Tell you what—I will drop you at the Hall if you like. Then, if you must have exercise, you can walk home.”
“Delightful,” Joan agreed.
A fortnight had elapsed since her homecoming from her father’s funeral—a fortnight during which it had been increasingly obvious that Warchester was doing his best to keep the two sisters apart. It seemed to Joan sometimes, looking back, that ever since the recognition of Evelyn by Warchester there had arisen a new barrier of reserve between herself and her husband. To her his account of his previous acquaintance with Evelyn was not sufficient to explain the unaccountable agitation that both had shown in that first instant of surprise. And, though she had loyally striven her best to accept it, she could not help the sharp little pain that would stab her now and then when she recalled that meeting in the boudoir at Davenant Hall.
Evelyn, there could be no doubt, was finding her new home dull—the county had not shown any disposition to welcome the new mistress of Davenant Hall with open arms. The fact that she had been on the music-hall stage had leaked out. There could be no doubt, too, that her appearance and style of dress had not attracted such of her neighbours as she had met hitherto.
Joan’s acceptance of her sister seemed to make little difference; people shrugged their shoulders and said that Lady Warchester was pleased to be complaisant. The Trewhistles had openly ranged themselves amongst those who declared Miss Davenant to be impossible, and all Joan’s entreaties had not sufficed to get Cynthia Trewhistle even to call at the Hall.
Evelyn, as was only natural, resented this attitude—she had by no means as yet realized its extent among the surrounding families—but she had taken a perverse fancy to Cynthia; it seemed impossible to make her understand that, while Joan was the favourite cousin, she herself would always remain in Cynthia’s eyes an intruder, an outsider.
She had driven over to Oldthorpe several times to talk matters over with her cousins, as she phrased it, and only of late it had begun to dawn upon her that it could scarcely be merely a coincidence that Cynthia was never at home. Then her anger was turned upon Joan, who, she was convinced, was the cause of her rebuff.
Warchester had only encountered his new sister-in-law once or twice in the most casual fashion since their first meeting and his interview with her the following morning. She had dined one evening with them at the Towers, but Septimus Lockyer, the old vicar and
his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst had also been of the party, and Warchester had contrived that he saw the very least, compatible with politeness, that was possible of Evelyn.
Their avoidance was not mutual. That conclusion was forced upon Joan. It was perfectly plain to Joan that Evelyn was anxious to see Warchester again, that she had deliberately planned more than once to obtain a conversation with him, only to find herself foiled by Warchester’s quiet determination. Joan would have been more than mortal if she had not resented this state of affairs. Her pride would not let her ask from Warchester an explanation which he had evidently determined to withhold, and thus the rift between husband and wife widened.
To-day, however, it seemed to Joan as she took her place beside Warchester in the car and met his smile that there was a change. He looked brighter, more like himself than he had done of late; her spirits rose. If Warchester and Evelyn had met years ago, if they had been lovers, at any rate that was all past and done with. It was her day—Joan’s—now. Did it not behove her to let the past bury its dead?
Warchester had dispensed with a chauffeur; he drove very slowly down the avenue.
“Shall I drop you at the Hall and come back for you after I have been to the Marsh, and heard what this new man thinks of the operation? Say yes, darling! It is a lovely day for a spin!”
“But that will give me so very short a time with Evelyn,” Joan demurred.
“It will give you a nice long time with me,” Warchester urged. “You will come, Joan?”
“I don’t know,” Joan hesitated, looked up into the dark face so near hers and gave way. “Yes, I will come. Yes, Paul, I will come!”
Warchester’s head bent lower. After all, though the brief madness of the honeymoon was over, though this strange intangible obstacle had reared itself between them, the thought that she was his held a delicious intoxication. He glanced round; there was no one to see, not a living thing in sight save a stray rabbit scuttling over the soft grass by the side of the drive, a deer standing knee-deep amid the bracken. The great benches drooped their branches, making a green interlacing screen to hide them from sight of the house. He laid his lips on the soft curved ones so near his own.
“Oh, my wife, my darling, you would be true to me, you would believe in me always?”
The lingering kiss, the passionate words gave her a pang of pain; but for Joan all that mattered was that for one brief moment the torturing doubts and fears of the past month were forgotten, and that the lover, the husband of that bewildering love-dream on board the yacht was with her once more.
There was no need for words. As they turned into the high road Warchester’s hand still held hers beneath the rug; the sense of his nearness, the warm pressure of his body against hers, brought the colour to her cheeks, the soft light to her eyes. But, delightful, entrancing as the moment of reunion was to both, it came to an end all too soon—the drive to the Hall was but a short one, and it was accomplished in something less than a quarter of an hour. At the gate Joan stopped the car.
“I will get out here and walk up. I would rather, Paul, and when you come back from the Marsh I shall be ready for you.”
She sprang out and waved a farewell to him as he waited, watching her slight figure walking up the drive.
Presently he turned to his driving wheel; as he did so, his glances fell upon a stout, reduced woman in black who was looking at him curiously. For an instant he thought she was going to speak to him; then she passed on. Looking back, he saw that she had turned in at the gate.
“I wonder who she is?” he soliloquized as he pursued his way to the Marsh. “Seems to me that I have seen her somewhere, though for the life of me I can’t remember where!”
Half-way up the drive Joan heard herself hailed, and Evelyn came hurrying across the grass.
“Here you are! Well, I am glad to see you! I get hipped to death in that great house by myself!”
“It is dull for you,” Joan said gently. “Have you no friend you could ask to stay with you, Evie? I think in your place I should engage a companion—some nice girl who would ride and talk with you and be at hand when you wanted some one to talk to in the house.”
“And bore me to death!” Evelyn burst into a loud laugh. “No thank you, Joan! A girl of that kind would be just about the finishing touch to this house. It is bad enough now, but with her—”
“Evelyn, do you know if I were you, I would send for Amy—the eldest of our stepmother’s children,” Joan said gently. “She seemed to me such a nice girl, and, after all, she is our sister. You might get very fond of her, and it would be good for both of you. Come, let us walk across to the fernery and talk it over.”
“No, thanks! I am sick of the fernery and all the rest of the place!” Evelyn answered with a grimace. “If you want to walk—why, we will keep in sight of the drive. If a visitor comes, we shall see him. As for me taking one of Mrs. Spencer’s children to live with me, no, thank you! I had enough of their mother. But I tell you what I am going to do—I am going to town next week to look up some of my old friends, and I shall stay at one of the swagger hotels and do some shopping—see about a town house, for I have told Mr. Hurst that I must have one. And when I have got it—well,” with an expressive gesture, “I don’t fancy Davenant Hall will see much of me!”
Joan blamed herself for the throb of relief with which she heard this decision. Nevertheless she felt it her duty to combat it.
“It is all so strange to you here, Evelyn. When you get used to it and have your own interests and your friends you will find it very different.”
“I shan’t give it the chance!” declared Miss Davenant, twirling her parasol from side to side. “As for Amy—do you know that Mrs. Spencer has written to me wanting me to continue the hundred a year which it seems our grandmother allowed them ever since they gave you up to her?”
“Yes, I know. Mr. Hurst spoke to us about it. What are you going to do? I should like to help the children and Paul is quite willing to do so. But as regards Mrs. Spencer—”
“I told Mr. Hurst to tell her I shouldn’t give her a farthing,” Miss Davenant stated decisively, “neither her nor her children. So I have done with that. The vicar and his wife have been up twice, Joan, asking for subscriptions—they want a new organ at the church. They have been my only visitors. There is a woman coming now. I suppose it is only some one for the servants. Well, if you want to go across the fernery, I don’t mind.”
They turned off together.
The woman whom Warchester had seen at the gate was panting up the drive towards them; when they crossed the grass she followed them and quickened her steps. Evelyn glanced behind.
“What a singular looking creature, Joan! What does she want, I wonder? She is coming after us.”
Joan turned. Surely there was something familiar about the stout, red-faced woman, who was, so evidently, exerting herself beyond her wont in the endeavour to overtake them. She stopped.
“Why, Evelyn, it is—yes, of course it is! How are you Mrs. Spencer?” as her stepmother came up to them.
“Pretty well, thank you, though very much done up with the heat, my—dear,” responded Mrs. Spencer, resolutely combating an inclination to say “my lady,” and substituting “my dear” instead.
“But who is this?” staring at Evelyn, who was regarding her with amazement.
“Can’t you guess?” asked Joan.
Mrs. Spencer looked critically at Evelyn.
“Surely it can’t be—it isn’t possible that it is Evie?”
“What do you mean? Why do you speak to this person, Joan? Who is she?” Evelyn questioned rapidly.
Mrs. Spencer’s face grew crimson.
“Person indeed, miss! I would have you know—”
“Hush! Hush!” Joan interposed gently. “Miss Davenant does not recognize you naturally. Evelyn, this is Mrs. Spencer, our father’s widow.”
“So I see!” Miss Davenant returned haughtily. “May I inquire what you want—why you have come
here?”
“It is for the sake of my poor children!” Mrs. Spencer burst into tears. “But for their sakes it isn’t me that would demean myself.”
“If it is what you wrote to me about”—Evelyn stood a little aside disdainfully—“it is no use. I shall not alter my mind, you and your children have no claim on me.”
Mrs. Spencer’s sobs grew more violent.
“I would not have thought it of you! Your own father’s children—and me, that has done my best for you all, not so much as asked into your house—talked to out here as if I was a beggar-woman!”
“Evelyn!” Joan went close to her sister. “‘After all, she was our father’s wife. I think you ought to let her come into the house to give her a cup of tea. Afterwards I will talk to Paul; I will see what can be done.”
“Well, do as you like!” Evelyn said sulkily. “Only remember that I stick to what I have said.”
“Come in now, Mrs. Spencer.” Joan touched her stepmother’s arm. “You shall have some tea and we will talk matters over. I should certainly like to do something for Amy.”
“And the best way to do something for Amy will be to help her mother to keep the home together,” Mrs. Spencer observed as they all turned towards the house. “I could easily get the licence of the Bell transferred to me, and Gregory he would stay in and help manage, and there would be bread for all of us; but it all means money. And we have had a big family and not been able to lay by. And there has been the expenses of the illness and the funeral. I don’t know which road to turn, and that is the truth. If you could see your way to keep on the bit your poor grandma allowed us—”
Her eyes were glancing from Joan to Evelyn; even she could see the difference between the two sisters. Not even her mourning had been able to subdue Evelyn’s flamboyant air; her great black hat bore an exaggerated number of feathers that swayed and nodded as she walked; her long skirts trailed on the ground; her sleeves were short and ended in long lace ruffles; heavy gold bracelets clasped her powdered arms; her short, rather red fingers were covered with rings.