by Annie Haynes
As the clock struck she heard another sound, outside the house this time, to her great relief; it was distant and muffled, but she could not mistake it, so she sat up in bed and listened. The moon had risen now and was flooding the room with its pale radiance. Through the open window there came again the sound that had roused her. Some one was digging outside, putting out spadefuls of earth with a furtive deliberation that manifested a desire for secrecy. Cynthia sat still, her arms round her knees under the bed-clothes, her ears strained to the utmost to listen. The digging seemed to her to go on for an interminable time. At length, her courage returning with the moonlight, she sprang out of bed and hurried to the window. When she threw up the blind and peered out she could see no one outside, no sign of any living creature. But as she waited, wondering, a dog howled—a loud, long-drawn-out howl; the digging stopped, but the howling went on intermittently. Cynthia shuddered as she remembered that a dog’s howling in the night is said to presage death, and she recollected her Cousin Hannah’s illness.
As she waited, shivering by the window, she distinctly caught the sound of the outer door being opened; there was a joyous bark, a scamper upstairs, and then Cynthia heard a scratching and whining at a door level with hers down the passage. With a feeling of relief that here was something that she could understand she put on a warm dressing-gown and opened the door. By the bright moonlight that was streaming in through the uncurtained windows of the passage she could see the wire-haired terrier whom she had heard howling on her arrival; he was standing up on his hind legs now and pawing at a closed door, uttering piteous little whines at intervals. Seeing him, Cynthia’s fears left her. She guessed that it was her cousin’s door and that the poor little dog wanted to get to its mistress; but, fearful that it would disturb Lady Hannah, the girl went down the passage softly and tried to coax the dog away. Her efforts were without avail, however, and, fearful of being discovered, she had to give up the idea and return to her room. All was apparently quiet outside now. She crossed to the open window and stood looking at the calm beauty of the scene before her and drinking in the cool, fresh, night air. She let the breeze play over her heated cheeks; then, resolving to go back to bed and make one more attempt to sleep, she was turning away, when a movement attracted her attention, and, for a moment, she paused.
From out the shadows and the darkness, across the little patch of grass that lay in front of the window, a curious figure was moving carefully, avoiding the moonlight, it seemed to Cynthia, and keeping as much as might be in the shade. The girl watched it, held by a curious species of fascination, her face pressed against the window frame. Was it man or beast? she wondered, as she strained her eyes upon the curious irregular outline, upon the halting, jerky progression. One moment she felt certain it was a man, then her point of view changed as it moved onward and she doubted again. Then, just before it passed out of range of vision, it came for a moment into the light, and Cynthia saw that it was a man pushing something before him—a wheel-barrow, she fancied, piled high apparently with some heavy freight that he found a difficulty in moving.
She gazed at him in amazement, wondering who he could be and what he could possibly be doing, but in another moment he had disappeared among the trees, and she could see no more. Shivering and wide-eyed she crept back into bed. She had come to a house of mystery, it seemed to her, and she lay wondering what could possibly induce her cousin to remain, and what the man outside was doing, until by degrees her thoughts wandered and her eyes drooped, and she finally fell asleep.
When she awoke the sunshine was pouring into the room, the birds were singing in the trees outside. Everything looked bright and cheerful and commonplace. As she sprang out of bed, her fears of the night before looked foolish and unfounded, and she told herself that she had given way to foolish, silly fancies. She looked at her watch; the time was half-past eight, and she could hear that some one was stirring downstairs. With all dispatch she splashed in and out of the cold bath that stood behind a screen in the corner of the room.
As she was twisting up her curly chestnut hair she heard a step on the stairs, followed by a heavy bump outside her door, and Gillman’s voice said:
“I have brought your trunk up; I thought you might want it. You can open it here, and after breakfast I will carry it into your room. I suppose it is yours? I see the name is Hammond on its label, not Densham.”
“Oh, yes, it is all right! I put ‘Hammond’ because there were reasons; I must explain to Cousin Hannah. Thank you!” Cynthia stammered confusedly. “I can get at it beautifully there. Thank you very much, Mr Gillman!”
She waited until she heard him go downstairs, then glancing disgustedly at the brown cloth coat and skirt which she had worn the night before, and which looked travel-stained and dusty, she opened the box and brought out a blue serge skirt with a white silk jumper. It would be the very thing for the country, she decided. An empty breakfast tray stood on a bracket on the landing; evidently her cousin had had her breakfast, she thought as she ran downstairs.
The door of the room in which she had had her tea the preceding evening stood open; the interior looked pleasant and home-like; the sun was shining through the big bay window and gleaming on the pewter on the sideboard and the old copper pans on the wall. Spotless damask cloth was on the table, and a dainty tea equipage for two stood at one end; dishes of fresh butter and golden honey looked very tempting, and the freshly made toast and pale brown eggs in their snowy stand stood close by. Cynthia suddenly felt that she was intensely hungry. As she went towards the table Gillman came in at the opposite door.
“Ah, there you are!” he said heartily. “How do you feel this morning? Did you sleep well?”
“I don’t think one ever goes to sleep very soon in a strange bed at first,” Cynthia said evasively. “But I slept very soundly when I did get off.”
“Ah, that was right!” The man’s tone was light, but he glanced keenly at the girl’s face as he placed a chair for her. “You were quite comfortable?” carefully supplying her wants. “I was a little afraid that I might have disturbed you. I found out quite late last night that there was something wrong with the potatoes—they were heating. I do not know whether you are aware that in this part of the country, at all events, we pack our potatoes in mounds. I had the pleasant task of opening two or three last night, otherwise they would have been ruined. I stupidly left the door ajar too, and Spot got in and disturbed his mistress.”
“Oh, how tiresome!” Cynthia responded vaguely as she busied herself with the tea-urn. Her heart felt considerably lighter; she had tried to persuade herself that her fancy had exaggerated the incident of the preceding night, but the impression left on her mind had been a disagreeable one. Yet the explanation was so simple. “Sugar, Mr Gillman?”
“No, thanks.” Gillman reached out and took the cup from her hand. “Your cousin does not seem so well this morning,” he went on, balancing his spoon on the edge of his cup. “She has had a letter from her lawyers too, and that always upsets her.”
Cynthia peeped out from behind her barricade of urn and spirit-lamp.
“I do hope she will be able to see me this morning!” she said, with real dismay in her tones. “I want to consult her, to ask her advice.”
Gillman shook his head.
“I am afraid it will be impossible at present. She bade me give you her love, and say how sorry she was to have summoned you here on a wild-goose chase, and that she hoped later on, when she is stronger, you will pay us a longer visit.”
Cynthia looked at him in open amazement.
“Does that mean that she wants me to go to-day, and without seeing her? Oh, Mr Gillman, that is impossible!”
A momentary expression of impatience crossed the man’s face, and his thin, muscular hand made a sudden involuntary movement. Glancing at it, Cynthia saw that the brown skin was tense, that the knuckle shone white and strained.
“I hardly know what to say,” he said with some obvious embarrassment. “You se
e for yourself that we are scarcely in a state to receive visitors and my wife has had a letter from Sybil Hammond, who will be here at midday. I am afraid two visitors—”
Cynthia dropped her egg-spoon.
“I—I don’t know what to do, Mr Gillman,” she confessed, her face crimsoning. “Cousin Hannah told me to come to her, and—and I have nowhere else to go. I thought at least I could stay here until I could obtain some sort of a situation.”
Gillman looked almost discomposed.
“I did not quite realize the situation, neither, I fancy, did my wife; but I do not see how it is to be managed. Truth to tell, your cousin seemed fully determined on having Sybil Hammond to stay with her now, and I do not think that we could manage—” He stopped short and stared absently before him, his fingers now drumming idly on the table-cloth.
Cynthia with difficulty repressed her tears.
“Well, if it is out of the question I must put up with it,” she said forlornly. “I—I think I might be able to teach little children. I wonder whether Cousin Hannah would allow me to give her name as a reference?”
Gillman looked slightly bewildered.
“Certainly she would, but I don’t understand.”
“No!” Cynthia said with a little catch in her voice. “I know you do not. I could have explained to Cousin Hannah; but since she does not want even to see me, perhaps I had better not bother her with my affairs. I dare say, after all, Bolt & Barsly would let me refer to them.”
There was a vague, intangible change in Gillman’s expression. For a minute or two he did not speak, but watched the girl’s downcast face in silence; then he said slowly:
“Ah, Bolt & Barsly! They are your solicitors as well as your cousin’s?”
“I suppose they are the solicitors for the family,” Cynthia assented. “I do not know whether they will be able to do much for me, but at least I can try.”
“Do you mean that when you leave here you have no home to go to—that you are completely alone in the world?” Gillman questioned quickly, his restless fingers tugging mercilessly at his moustache.
Cynthia bowed her head.
“That makes no difference. Cousin Hannah asked me to come; I thought she wanted me. Now that I find that she does not”—gulping down a sob—“I must go away and try to find something else.”
“Oh, this alters matters considerably!” Gillman said in a brisk, matter-of-fact tone as he rose from the table. “Naturally your cousin is the proper person for you to appeal to in the circumstances. I will go and explain things to her again, if you will excuse me for a few minutes.”
Mindful of her experience of the night before, Cynthia made no attempt to assist in clearing away the breakfast things; it was quite evident, she thought, that her cousin’s husband liked to do his work himself, and was rather inclined to resent any offer of help.
Her mind went back to her own affairs now. The outlook was anything but a bright one, and her face grew very melancholy. Her income was so infinitesimal that it would barely provide her with pocket-money, and in the few weeks that had elapsed between her mother’s death and Lord Letchingham’s proposal she had found that the lot of a penniless girl living on sufferance with relatives is neither an easy nor a pleasant one.
Even to herself she had never acknowledged until to-day how important that fact had been in bringing about her marriage. In present circumstances she knew that she could not return to the Fearons’, that they would hasten to disclaim any connexion with her actions and to acquaint Lord Letchingham with her whereabouts. No! The only thing she could think of was to do as she said, and binding her solicitors to secrecy try to obtain a situation through them. The prospect was scarcely an attractive one, and she had counted so surely on her Cousin Hannah’s help and counsel; she had felt so certain of her welcome. Tears of disappointment rose to her eyes.
She was wiping them away when Gillman opened the door. He walked over to the fire-place without affecting to notice her emotion.
“I have been talking things over with my wife,” he began, “and now that she understands how you are situated she is distinctly of opinion that you must stay here for the present at any rate, until she feels strong enough to go into the whole question and discuss it with you. You and Sybil will be companions for one another.”
Cynthia dried her eyes.
“It is very good of Cousin Hannah; but if I am no use to her I do not know that I ought to take advantage of her kindness.”
“Oh, nonsense!” Gillman interrupted. “We shall be only too pleased to have you. My wife is scarcely well enough to see you this morning; still, perhaps, later in the day. However, now that is settled; and I want to know whether you have made any plans for to-day, because my wife suggests that if you have not, you should come with me to meet Sybil. Her train is due at Glastwick at a quarter to two. What do you say? We could take a picnic luncheon with us.”
“I shall be delighted!” Cynthia said in a doubtful tone. “But surely we could not both leave Cousin Hannah?”
“Oh, Mrs Knowles will see to her,” Gillman said easily. “She is a worthy woman; and my wife likes her. That is settled, then. I shall be ready to start in an hour, for it is a long drive.”
Chapter Four
“ARE you ready, Cynthia?” It was Gillman’s voice.
Cynthia raised herself from the bank, where, hidden among the glossy leaves, she had found a few late sweet-smelling violets. Her cheeks flushed. She was inclined to resent the free use of her Christian name; but Gillman, as he leaned down from his spruce dog-cart, looked so smiling and debonair, and so unconscious of his offence, that her displeasure melted away.
She walked down to him quickly.
“Surely it is earlier than you said you would start?”
Gillman flicked his whip carelessly.
“A trifle perhaps; but Mrs Knowles has arrived, and it is well to be in good time—the road to Glastwick is a rough one.”
“It is indeed!” Cynthia agreed, with a rueful recollection of the previous night’s joltings.
She climbed into the dog-cart beside him and submitted to have the rug carefully wrapped round her. The road was, as she had surmised the night before, little more than a winding track across the moorland, but the dog-cart was better provided with springs than had been the case with her conveyance of the previous evening, and she was able to admire the wonderful blue haze over the distant hill as she gazed round her at the great gorse-covered expanse.
Gillman could make himself an amusing companion too, she found, and some of the astonishment which she had felt at her cousin’s infatuation for him died away as she listened to his stories of foreign travel and life in the other hemisphere. Suddenly he stopped short and pulled up.
“Something wrong with the mare, I am afraid; she is going lame.”
He got out and went round. After lifting up one of the front legs and subjecting the hoof to a close scrutiny he gave vent to a low whistle of consternation.
“The shoe is loose, I must have this seen to or she will never be able to manage the journey back.”
“I am sure she will not,” Cynthia agreed, with conviction.
Gillman looked round in perplexity, then his face lighted up.
“After all, things might be worse; there is a blacksmith’s over there on the other side of those rocks; and he will soon be able to put the shoe right, but it may take some time, and we must be within a mile of Glastwick now. I wonder whether you would mind walking on while I go over to the smith’s? I shall probably overtake you long before you get to the station, but if I should be delayed will you go on and meet Sybil?”
Cynthia smiled.
“With pleasure,” she said. “The only drawback to the plan is that I should not know her if I saw her.”
“Oh, I do not think that you will have any difficulty,” Gillman went on as he helped her down. “There are not many passengers and I think you will easily recognize Sybil from her likeness to my wife. She is small and fa
ir like all the Hammonds.”
“Oh, well, I will do my best; it will not be very serious if I do speak to the wrong person!” Cynthia said, and laughed. “Then we are to wait till you come, I suppose?”
“Please!” Gillman drew the reins over his arm. “You can’t make a mistake in the road; just bear to the right when the path divides, that is all. I will be as quick as I can.”
Cynthia watched him a moment as he led his horse over the rough, uneven ground; then she set off with a quick springy step. Her limbs felt cramped after the drive, and she thoroughly enjoyed the exercise and the exhilaration and the sense of freedom. The novel character of the scenery too engrossed her attention.
She found some strange fascination in its very austerity, in the bare rugged rocks that rose in heavy, irregular masses, in the great firs that stood here and there in solitary grandeur outlined against the clear northern blue of the sky; but after a time she began to think that it was strange that she saw no sign of nearing Glastwick. She felt that she must have walked more than the mile spoken of by Gillman, and it seemed to her that the country grew wilder and less cultivated. She walked a little more slowly, looking behind her to see if the dog-cart was in sight. She was, so far as could be seen, the only living person on the moor, however, and she began to feel nervous and frightened. She was half inclined to turn back, but after pausing and glancing round she told herself that she had probably under-estimated the distance she had walked, and that very soon she would see Glastwick Station before her. So she set off at a good pace once more.