by Annie Haynes
“I thought I heard something. Surely there is some one sobbing.”
“Among the trees over there,” Sir Arthur said with a backward jerk of his head. “I must see what it is. You won’t mind being left along, mother? Jervis will look after you.”
“Oh, my dear boy, don’t think about us; we shall be all right,” Lady Laura said hurriedly. “Some poor creature must be in trouble, I am afraid.”
“A tramp, probably,” Sir Arthur remarked as he strode across the grass to the spot whence the sounds appeared to come.
The brilliant moonlight made it easy for him to discern a dark figure crouching at the foot of one of the big beeches as he went forward and heard the sound of piteous weeping and sobbing.
“What is the matter? Can I do anything?” he began awkwardly enough.
At the first sound of his voice the figure started violently; the dark cloak fell back and he caught sight of a white dress beneath. Instinct told him that this was no common tramp or wayfarer. He went forward, raising his hat courteously.
“I beg your pardon. I fear you are in trouble. Can I do anything?” he said.
The woman raised herself slowly to her feet, and he saw that she was above the common height; another glance told even his unpractised masculine eyes that the cloak slipping from her shoulders was a distinctly fashionable garment, and that the white dress underneath was just such a frock as those in which Mavis and Dorothy were wont to appear.
She turned to him with a forlorn gesture.
“What am I to do? I do not know where I am. I have lost my way.”
There was a quiver in the clear pathetic tones.
All the chivalry in Arthur’s nature was aroused.
“You will allow us to do what we can,” he said quickly. “My mother—Lady Laura Hargreave—is waiting in the carriage just below. If you will allow me to take you to her, later on we shall be delighted to see that you arrive safely at your destination.”
She gazed at him a moment, then she spread out her hands.
“That is it,” she said with an irrepressible sob, “I have forgotten where I was going! I cannot remember—anything!”
She swayed slightly, her voice failed, she staggered and would have fallen. Hargreave sprang forward and caught her in his arms.
“You are ill!” he cried anxiously.
“Oh, I don’t know!” she gasped. “I—I think I am dying!”
Sir Arthur felt that she was resting a dead weight against his breast, and all his sympathy was called forth by her evident distress. As he gazed down at the white face with its exquisitely moulded features, at the wealth of golden hair lying across his coat, such a thrill ran through his pulses as he had never experienced in all his mild affection for Dorothy. Gathering the slender form in his arms, he turned back to the carriage.
Lady Laura was leaning out.
“Oh, my dear boy, what is it?” she asked in evident perturbation. “We heard voices, but who—”
“It is a lady—she has lost her way,” Sir Arthur said breathlessly as he laid his burden in the carriage. “We must take her to the house, mother. I think she has fainted; when she recovers she will be able to explain matters.’’
“What could she be doing in the park?” Lady Laura went on helplessly, while Mavis and Dorothy, with ready sympathy, were settling the helpless girl more comfortably and chafing her cold hands.
“She has lost her way; she was too far gone to tell me any more,” Arthur said briefly. “Shall I tell Jervis to drive on, mother?”
“Well, I suppose so,’’ Lady Laura said, perforce resigning herself to the inevitable. “Though really—”
“She is well dressed,’’ Dorothy said presently in a puzzled tone. “But what could she be doing wandering about alone at this time of night, Aunt Laura?”
Lady Laura made a gesture as if washing her hands of the whole affair.
“I have no idea indeed, my dear.”
“She is better,” Mavis said quickly as the carriage drew up at the door of the Manor. “See, she is opening her eyes! Get some brandy, Arthur,” as her brother came round. “She will be able to walk in a minute or two.”
“I could help her—”
“No, it will be better to wait,” Mavis said decidedly. “The brandy, please.”
She held it to the girl’s lips and saw that a few drops were swallowed and that a tinge of colour was returning to the pale face before she spoke again.
“You are better now, aren’t you?” Dorothy said gently as the stranger opened her eyes again and made an ineffectual attempt to rise.
“I—I think so,” she said unsteadily. “I should like to—”
“Now we will help you indoors,” Mavis interrupted quickly. “You can tell us all about it then.”
Sir Arthur held out his arm, and with Mavis’s help on the other side the girl managed to walk into the hall, sinking with a pretty gesture of thanks into one of the big oaken chairs.
Lady Laura, looking perplexed and doubtful, waited near the door, the old butler and the footman, discreetly unconscious, hovered around. Dorothy knelt down and rubbed the chilly white fingers.
Presently the girl looked at her in a puzzled fashion and sat up.
“Where am I? I don’t understand,” she began, gazing around with bewildered eyes.
“This is Hargreave Manor,” Mavis said gently. “Were you trying to make your way here when we found you?”
“No, I think not,” the girl said unsteadily. “I don’t know the name at all. I was under a tree—it was damp and cold—” She looked round in a vague troubled way that went straight to Lady Laura’s heart and dispelled certain misgivings as to the wisdom of the course to which she felt committed.
“You are not well, I think, my dear,” she said gently. “Will you let us know your name so that we can communicate with your friends? And, —Mavis, tell them to make the pink room ready.”
The stranger’s big blue eyes filled with tears; she pulled her hands from Dorothy’s gentle clasp and thrust back her mass of golden hair.
“My name—” she faltered. “I don’t know—I don’t seem to remember anything at all, except that I was all alone and cold and tired.” Her lips quivered pitifully. “Perhaps,” glancing appealingly at Lady Laura, “it will all come back in a little while. I—I don’t feel very well just now.”
Lady Laura’s face as she glanced at Mavis was very grave, but her voice sounded reassuring as she gently touched the shaking hands.
“You will be better after a night’s rest, my dear, and be able to tell us all about yourself. For the present don’t try to think of anything; just lie back and put your feet on this stool and try to rest.”
She laid a thick rug over her and turned aside, drawing her son with her to the other side of the hall.
“Arthur, one of the men must ride over for Dr. Grieve, and then as soon as her room is ready we must get her to bed. Whoever she is she will have to stay the night here.”
“Certainly!” Sir Arthur acquiesced warmly. “I will send James off at once.”
“Oh, yes. Poor girl!” Lady Laura assented, with a little reserve. “She must be staying at one of the houses round here, but I cannot imagine what has happened to her. However, no doubt Dr. Grieve will be able to enlighten us. She is very pretty, Arthur.”
“One of the most beautiful women I ever saw in my life,” Sir Arthur agreed warmly.
Lady Laura looked doubtful.
“One can hardly judge of that to-night, I think. Does she remind you of anyone, Arthur?”
“Certainly not!” Hargreave’s tone was decisive. “I have never seen anyone in the least like her before.”
“When she looked at me I could not help fancying that I saw a faint resemblance to some one, but I cannot place it just now,” Lady Laura went on musingly as they turned back.
Suddenly the deep-fringed eyelids were raised.
“How very—very kind you all are to me!” the girl murmured glancing round the
little group, her eyes resting for one second on Sir Arthur’s troubled face. “So very, very kind!”
Chapter Three
“WELL, IT IS one of the queerest things I ever heard of!” Garth Davenant’s dark face looked puzzled. “You say the girl cannot give any account of herself at all?” Mavis shook her head.
“No, she has for the time being entirely lost her memory. Dr. Grieve says she has had some great shock, and that she is in a state of intense nervous prostration.”
“Grieve is a muff, in my opinion,” remarked Mr. Davenant irreverently. “If the girl is as bad as you say, she ought to have other advice.”
“Oh, I don’t think so!” Mavis dissented. “Dr. Grieve says that what she needs is absolute rest and careful nursing; then he thinks her memory will come back to her gradually.”
“Umph!” said Garth sceptically. “And where is I this rest and nursing to be obtained, may I ask? Lady Laura will hardly wish to keep her indefinitely at the Manor, I conclude?”
“She will stay with us until she is well,” Mavis said indignantly. “Don’t be so hard-hearted, Garth. I am sure mother will not let her go; she thanked us all so prettily this morning for what we had done for her, and; seemed so distressed to think of the trouble she was giving, and I fell quite in love with her.”
Garth pulled his brown moustache moodily as he looked at her flushed face. The two, having met at the park gates, were now walking up to the Manor together, and Garth had been listening with amazement to Mavis’s story of the discovery of the unknown girl in the park the preceding evening.
“Was there absolutely no clue to her identity about her clothes?” he asked after a pause.
“Her things were all marked ‘Hilda’ or with a big ‘H’ which means the same thing. We think she must have been staying somewhere near and have had some great trouble,” Mavis went on speculatively. “We have no idea what it might have been, but I cannot help wondering whether she had quarrelled with the man she loved; perhaps he had played her false in some way or other. I don’t think anything could be quite so bad as that, Garth,” with a shy, trustful glance. “I—I know it would make me very miserable.”
Garth Davenant’s eyes were very tender as he looked down at her; he caught her slender fingers in his. “My darling!” he whispered.
Mavis blushed prettily as she drew them away, but she was too thoroughly in earnest to be turned away from her subject.
“So, you see,” she went on after a moment, “that is a reason why I feel that I ought to be especially good to this poor girl. Think of all that she may have suffered before her brain gave way under the strain and left everything a blank. I must do what I can for her; if one is very happy oneself one ought to try to help other people. Don’t you think so, Garth?”
‘Y–es!” Garth hesitated. “Only, Mavis, I cannot help saying that, though things may certainly be capable of a perfectly innocent interpretation the whole affair is so extraordinary that one cannot help regarding it with a certain amount of suspicion. And I cannot bear to think of your being brought into daily contact with a girl who may be little better than an adventuress.”
“Garth!” Mavis cried indignantly. “If you had seen her you could never apply such an expression to her. Why, even Arthur says that she is simply one of the prettiest and sweetest-looking girls he has ever met!”
“Don’t you think that, as I have not seen her, I may possibly be all the better able to look at matters without prejudice on that very account?” Garth suggested mildly.
“Without prejudice, indeed!” Mavis repeated scornfully. “I think mother and Arthur can quite be trusted to look after our companions—Dorothy’s and mine. No, Garth”—as he tried to take her hands again—“I am not pleased with you.’’
There was no one in sight; the big trees of the avenue screened them from sight of the house. Garth ventured to slip one arm around the girl’s waist.
“Aren’t you, Mavis? Won’t you forgive me, if I promise to take this newly-discovered young woman at your valuation for the future?”
For a moment the girl held back stiffly, but Mavis never bore malice; the next moment she had turned to Davenant with her own sunny smile.
“Certainly I will! And, Garth’’—with an effort—“I know I was wrong. I must not expect you always to think as I do, and I know that a barrister must be brought into contact with all sorts of people, and naturally becomes distrustful. We must,” smiling bravely, “agree to differ; that is it, isn’t it?”
Garth drew the slight form closer to him and bent his head until his dark moustache just brushed the soft cheek.
“Darling, you know I—”
“Hallo! You two—”
The sudden shout discomposed them, and they sprang apart, looking considerably startled as Sir Arthur cantered up behind them.
“Many apologies!” he began, laughing at Mavis’s hot cheeks. “I am extremely sorry to disturb you good people, but I have just been over to Chadfield on the chance that they might know something of our mysterious visitor; and I am anxious to get back to hear Dr. Grieve’s report. They told me at his house that he had already come up to see the stranger.”
“Did they know anything at Chadfield?” Mavis interrogated breathlessly.
“Not a word.” Arthur took off his hat and rubbed his forehead. “It’s a queer affair altogether. What do you make of it, Davenant?”
“I should prefer to see the young lady before I commit myself to an opinion,” Garth replied diplomatically, with a glance at Mavis’s averted face.
“Well, I think we have now pretty well exhausted the houses around here,” Sir Arthur went on, walking his horse beside them. “Chadfield was really my last hope. How on earth the girl got into the Park I cannot imagine; no one seems to have seen her, and the lodge-keeper is sure that the gate was locked all the evening.”
Garth made no reply, but as they walked on to the house together his face was very grave. Fond as he was of Mavis’s brother, neither his very real affection for him nor the fact of his relationship to Mavis could disguise from him Arthur’s weakness of will and instability of purpose.
Thus he was doubly inclined to mistrust the introduction, in such extraordinary circumstances, of a new inmate amidst the family at Hargreave Manor. Arthur turned to him as they reached the house.
“You will come in, Garth, and hear what the doctor says?”
After a momentary hesitation Davenant assented, and they entered the house together, just as Dr. Grieve came downstairs.
“Oh, Dr. Grieve, she is better, isn’t she?” Mavis asked, after shaking hands with him. “Can she remember anything yet? Have you found out her name?”
“One at a time, my dear young lady, one at a time! The patient is not in a very satisfactory state, I regret to say. There is a good deal of cerebral excitement, and the action of the heart is weak—decidedly weak!”
Sir Arthur opened the dining-room door.
“Come in, doctor; you must try a glass of my port, and tell us what is the best thing for your patient.”
Jenkins, the butler, produced glasses and a decanter, while the doctor beamed upon them complacently and Mavis fidgeted impatiently.
“Splendid colour, Sir Arthur,” Dr. Grieve remarked appreciatively as after a sip or two he held the glass up to the light and regarded it critically. “I remember Sir Noel laying it down before you were born, or Miss Mavis there,” with a reminiscent chuckle. “Yes, my memory carries me back a long way! I’m not like our young friend upstairs, who has forgotten her own name, poor young thing—can’t even remember where she was yesterday morning! It is a sad case, Sir Arthur.”
“She knows no more this morning, then?” Sir Arthur asked concernedly. “My mother said she recognized her at once, and we thought that a good sign.”
The doctor put the tips of his fingers together and surveyed him over the top of them.
“I dare say. She remembered seeing me last night, for the matter of that; but up to the time you
discovered her in the park her mind is a perfect blank. I did not ask her questions, but I applied a few simple tests.”
“And the result?” Sir Arthur’s tone was calm, but an under-current of anxiety ran through it which made Garth glance at him keenly.
“Entirely confirmed my diagnosis of last evening, I regret to say,” Dr Grieve returned. “The very faculty of memory is for the time being entirely dormant, overclouded by some great shock.”
“But she will recover?” Mavis interjected anxiously.
The doctor turned to her with a benign smile.
“Recover her bodily health undoubtedly, my dear Miss Mavis. As for her memory”—after a noticeable pause—“one can but do the best and trust to Time, the great healer. Of one thing you may be assured, absolute rest is the very best thing for her—for some days at any rate—and quite possibly by that time you will have ascertained something definite about her friends. Lady Laura tells me that it is your intention to keep her here for the present.”
“Undoubtedly, it is!” Sir Arthur said with decision. “In fact, as it appears to me, we have no choice in the matter.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “She could be admitted to the Cottage Hospital at Lockford, you know; and for some reasons I am inclined to think it might be the wiser course.”
“Why so?” Sir Arthur’s tone was curt. The little line between his straight brows told that the suggestion had displeased him.
Dr Grieve hesitated a moment and drummed his fingers on the table absently.
“Well, there might be complications—the idea of a beautiful young woman such as this wandering about the country by herself naturally suggests that. But quite apart from any such idea”—as Sir Arthur made a hasty gesture of dissent—“the nursing there would be a slight matter, while here—”
“Surely we can look after one girl amongst us?” Mavis said quickly. “Dorothy and I are both going to help, and my maid, Minnie Spencer, is a very good girl.”
“A very good girl, I have no doubt, Miss Mavis,” the doctor said as he beamed at her over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “But I am afraid our patient requires rather more attention than I could impose upon either of you two young ladies or upon Minnie Spencer. Now at the Cottage Hospital—”