by Annie Haynes
Heriot took his arms from the gate and stuck his hands in the wide, loose pockets of his shooting coat.
“I suppose I knew him fairly well. He was not much to look at. I did not think much of him,” he answered, replying to her questions categorically. “I fancy he was a bit of a fool,” he added, as the result, apparently, of a further contemplation of the subject.
“Oh!” Cynthia said disappointedly. “He does not sound very interesting.”
“He is not,” Heriot acquiesced. “I am awfully sorry about the dog, Miss Hammond. If you think Lady Hannah would like to have him buried in the garden anywhere—some people do, you know—I would bring him up to the house for you.”
“Thank you very much!” Cynthia looked doubtful. “I don’t know whether Mr Gillman will think Cousin Hannah ought to know. I must ask him; but in that case I am sure he would not wish to trouble you, he would send down for it.”
The man glanced at her quickly.
“It would be no trouble. I have nothing much to do with my time at present, and I am often about here.”
“Oh!” Although conscious of the studied indifference of his tone, Cynthia’s colour deepened, and with a little gesture of irritation at her own stupidity she turned away.
“You are very kind; I will tell Mr Gillman.”
She walked rapidly towards the gate, the wild broom and the gorse brushing against her skirts as she passed; the yellow kingcups gleamed golden in the sunlight at the farther edge of the little tarn lying blue and silent in the distance with pale meadow-sweet standing sentinel around it. At another time Cynthia would have revelled in the beauties of the scene, but to-day she felt worried and fretted and out of harmony; she was mentally upbraiding herself for her stupidity as she turned in at the garden gate.
Her unfortunate habit of colouring was a continual annoyance to her; and to-day, she told herself, she had behaved like the veriest schoolgirl. Heriot’s kindness was evidently prompted by his friendly feeling towards Lady Hannah; her blushes must have made him set her down as foolish in the extreme. She opened the outer door quietly, fearing to disturb the invalid; as she walked down the passage she caught the echo of Gillman’s voice—
“Yes, it is an awkward situation—one that shall come to an end as soon as possible, I promise you that; but in the meantime you will put up with it, you will do your best for my sake, Sybil?”
“Oh, there you are!” Cynthia said quickly. “Mr Gillman, such a dreadful thing has happened!”
The dining-room door was open, Gillman and Sybil were standing by the mantelpiece; at the sound of Cynthia’s voice they moved apart. Sybil came to meet her.
“A dreadful thing? What do you mean, Cynthia?”
“Poor Spot is dead—he has been killed! He is lying in the pine-wood,” the girl replied breathlessly.
“Spot dead! Nonsense! You have made some mistake!” Gillman contradicted gruffly.
“No mistake at all,” Cynthia affirmed indignantly, and she proceeded to relate the details of her discovery.
Gillman caught up his hat.
“This must be inquired into. By the palings, near the gate, you say? I will see to it at once. Do not tell your cousin until I come back!” And without more ado he hurried out into the garden.
Chapter Eight
“MAY I look at the paper a moment, Mr Gillman?”
Cynthia was sitting at the table, her writing-case was open before her, but she was nibbling meditatively at the handle of her pen, her eyes fixed absently on the fire. Evidently she found a difficulty in beginning her correspondence.
“With pleasure!” said Gillman as he tossed over his copy of a newspaper. “The worst of it is that it is a day old. Daily papers are an unprocurable luxury in these out-of-the-way regions.”
Cynthia took it eagerly. How was it going on, the world she had left? She scanned the first page with interest. A foreign sovereign was staying in London, there was the usual account of festivities and decorations in his honour, and the conventional “leader” setting forth the reasons why this particular monarch should be received with special honour. Cynthia turned the sheet over listlessly: a party of British savants were visiting a Continental capital; a man and a woman staying at one of the principal hotels in the Strand had committed suicide. There was a graphic description of their personal appearance and of the few belongings found in their room.
Cynthia came to the conclusion that things were much as usual in London. She glanced idly at the literary news and then turned back to the other part of the paper. As she picked it up she saw her own name in bold black type, staring at her from the “agony column.”
“Cynthia,” she read, staring at it incredulously, “come back. Communicate at once with your distracted husband. Everything shall be explained. Your place is awaiting you.—Horace.”
There could be no doubt that it was meant for her. The girl felt the colour ebbing from her cheeks as she read the words once more; they seemed to bring before her so vividly the fact that she could not escape from her past, that her husband was searching for her, that her present refuge would not serve to hide her from him for ever, that sooner or later she would be found and would have to face her life anew.
As she put the paper down with a little shiver and looked up, she found that Gillman’s eyes were fixed upon her with an odd, scrutinizing expression, and though he averted his eyes instantly it gave her a disagreeable feeling that even her thoughts were not her own.
Gillman rose and moved to the sideboard.
“I wonder whether you would mind being left alone with your cousin this morning, Cynthia?” he said, as standing with his back to her he poured some liquid into his pocket-flask. “I have to go over to Glastwick on business, and Sybil has betaken herself off, goodness knows where. She may be back at any time, and Mrs Knowles will be in the house, but my wife seems to think she would like some one to sit with her. As Sybil is out I thought that you—”
“Why, certainly; I shall be delighted,” Cynthia responded with alacrity. “I was just wishing that I could consult her about something.”
Gillman screwed down his flask and turned to the door.
“That is all right, then? You will have your opportunity. I may be away till late, but I hope Sybil will not be long. You will not be nervous if you are left alone with your cousin for a while?”
Cynthia laughed and said:
“Not at all! Shall I go up to Cousin Hannah now?”
“Whenever you like,” Gillman responded as he closed the door. “She will be very glad to have you. Good-bye for the present.”
Cynthia sat still for a few minutes, trying to see some way out of her difficulties; then, taking the paper with her, she went slowly upstairs. Lady Hannah’s door was locked, in accordance with her curious fancy, but the key was in the lock outside. Cynthia turned it after tapping lightly and went in. Lady Hannah was lying propped high with pillows, her head drawn back in the shadow of the heavy bed-curtains.
“Ah, is that you, Cynthia?” she said in her thick, indistinct tones, as the girl hesitated. “Come in. Can you draw down that blind over there? Henry insisted on leaving it up; he said the sunshine would do me good, but I cannot stand the glare, it makes my eyes ache.”
There was not much glare, Cynthia thought, as she moved across and rearranged the blind obediently. Warm though the day was a fire burned in the grate and the windows were closed.
“I think you would be ever so much better if you had a little air, Cousin Hannah,” she said impulsively. “If you would let me open one of these windows—”
“No, no, I will not,” the invalid interrupted fretfully. “You are as bad as my husband; but I will at least have my room as I like! If it does not suit you I can do quite well alone.”
Cynthia ventured to kiss the half-averted cheek.
“Dear Cousin Hannah, you know it is not that! It was of you I was thinking; but it must be as you please.”
“Sit down then; I hate people fussing round me!” Lady Hannah
said irritably and thanklessly. “Tell me what has become of everybody. Sybil is out enjoying herself, I suppose. She is an ungrateful young monkey!”
“She went out a little while ago,” Cynthia said as she drew one of the arm-chairs near the bed and sat down, “but I do not suppose she will be very long. I am sure she is not ungrateful, Cousin Hannah; she is very fond of you.”
“Umph, I dare say!” The invalid rolled her head round restlessly. “What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?”
“Not very much,” Cynthia replied truthfully, greatly to her own annoyance and for some unknown reason colouring vividly.
“You haven’t thought better of leaving that husband of yours?”
“N—o,” Cynthia faltered. “But he wants me to go back, Cousin Hannah. I have just seen a paragraph from him in the paper. It has made me very miserable,” choking down a sob.
“Why?” Lady Hannah inquired cynically. “It shows you can return to him if you like, and if you don’t, why, you must just stay with us.”
“I don’t know what I ought to do,” Cynthia said despairingly. “Certainly I know I have taken those vows; but I think of Alice—she was such a pretty girl, and we were so fond of her, Mother and I—and he ruined her life—he deceived her!” She shuddered violently. “I cannot bear it! I cannot see him again! Oh, why did I not find out sooner!”
Her cousin did not make any reply; she moved her head restlessly from side to side. Cynthia sat for a moment or two absorbed in her own woes. She seemed to see her husband’s face, reproachful, beseeching; then the tear-filled eyes and trembling mouth of her childhood’s friend; then, all unbidden, mingling with these and blotting them out, a stern, dark face, a pair of deep grey eyes.
“Cynthia!”
It was her cousin’s voice. Resolutely controlling her vagrant thoughts the girl bent over the bed.
“Yes, Cousin Hannah? Can I do anything?”
“I—I think the use is coming back to my hands a little,” Lady Hannah said slowly. “My husband thinks so too; but until it does I wonder whether you would act as my amanuensis, Cynthia—whether you would write a few letters for me?”
“Why, certainly, I shall be delighted!” Cynthia said heartily. “Shall I get my desk now?”
“Well, I think I should like to send a line to Messrs Bolt & Barsly—” the invalid was beginning, when she was interrupted by a knocking at the front door, accompanied by a peal on the little-used bell.
Cynthia started, and Lady Hannah’s head seemed to fall back.
“What—what is it?” she gasped. “What shall we do? I am frightened!”
“There is nothing to be frightened at,” said Cynthia sensibly. “I expect it is only some one to see Mr Gillman on business.”
Then her heart seemed to stand still as there was another loud, insistent knock, and the thought occurred to her that her husband had discovered her whereabouts and had come personally to seek for her. She had little time for misgivings on her own account, however; her cousin was evidently in a state of tremendous nervous agitation, her lips were twitching, she was uttering little moans of terror. Cynthia tried to soothe and calm her, but with little success. There was another loud knock; evidently whoever might be at the door, he or she was not inclined to go away without any response.
“Dear Cousin Hannah,” Cynthia said, laying her hand on one of the motionless arms, “I think, perhaps, I ought to see who it is. It may be something important. I believe out of the bay window I could see whether it is a tramp or anyone of that sort without leaving the room.”
“Yes, yes! Look!” Lady Hannah said feverishly.
Cynthia drew back a corner of the blind and peered out cautiously. By dint of twisting her head to an almost impossible angle she managed to get a view of a tweed cap, of a familiar shooting jacket.
She drew back with an exclamation of relief.
“It is nothing—I mean it is only a man who lives in the neighbourhood. He called here the other day and saw Sybil.”
“Oh, is that it?” Lady Hannah’s tone became more composed. “Go and see what he wants, Cynthia.”
The girl hesitated.
“I do not like to leave you, Cousin Hannah; and if no one answers the door surely he will go away.”
“No, no! You must ask what he wants,” the invalid reiterated feverishly. “Go, Cynthia, make haste.”
Thus adjured, the girl had no choice, and she opened the door.
“I will not be long, Cousin Hannah,” she said.
“Lock the door after you!” the invalid called out anxiously. “I—I cannot be left with the door unfastened, Cynthia!”
The girl obeyed her and hurried downstairs, wondering what could possibly be the reason of Heriot’s persistency.
The front door was carefully locked and bolted. Cynthia had some difficulty in opening it, so securely was it fastened. At last, however, the bolts yielded and she turned the handle. Heriot was standing immediately before it. His face looked gloomy and set; it softened as he saw Cynthia.
“I beg your pardon!” he began. “I am afraid you will think I have been making an unwarrantable amount of clatter, but I have a message to deliver to Lady Hannah, and I felt sure that in her present state of health she would not be left alone in the house. I have been round to the other door, and as I was unable to make anyone hear there I determined, if possible, to succeed at this one.”
Cynthia laughed in spite of herself.
“Well, you have managed that at any rate; but I do not know that you will find it very satisfactory, for Mr Gillman is not at home, I am sorry to say.”
“I know Mr Gillman is out. I saw him driving towards Glastwick. My errand is not with him: it is with Lady Hannah, and I wish to see her.”
“Lady Hannah!” Cynthia repeated in surprise. “Surely you know she is not able to see anyone. I told you the other day how very ill she was.”
“Yes, I know; I was deeply grieved to hear it.” Heriot hesitated and, looking down in obvious indecision, kicked aside a stone that lay on the path. “The fact is, Miss Hammond, I have brought a message from Donald Farquhar. He is most anxious to be reconciled to his aunt. I have come in some sort as his ambassador, and it struck me that I should be far more likely to achieve my purpose in Mr Gillman’s absence.”
“In Mr Gillman’s absence?” Cynthia repeated, amazed. “Surely, Mr Heriot, you understand that I cannot take the responsibility of admitting a stranger to Lady Hannah in her weak state?”
He looked at her in evident doubt for a moment. “A stranger? Well, no! At least if you could ask her whether she would see me—whether she would receive a message from Donald Farquhar, he would—I should at least know whether there really is a genuine objection to a reconciliation on her part. He has an idea—he has been told that she was anxious to be reconciled to him some little time ago, but that her attempts to find him were frustrated by Gillman.”
Cynthia was obviously embarrassed.
“I do not know anything about it. I have never heard her mention him. Mr Gillman told me when I first came that her resentment at what he spoke of as his ingratitude was as keen as ever.”
The man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “He would say so, no doubt; it is to his interest that the quarrel should be kept up. I have it on good and sufficient authority that three months ago she wished to recall Farquhar, and was only prevented by her husband. Miss Hammond, you will help us, if you can? For years Farquhar was like this poor lady’s own son; you can imagine what it is to him to hear of her illness and not even to be allowed to send a message of sympathy.”
Cynthia wavered between her certainty that she ought to avoid any excitement for the invalid and her sympathy with Sir Donald, sympathy which she, as well as the rest of the family, had felt for the young man at the time of Lady Hannah’s extraordinary marriage. After a pause, during which Heriot watched the indecision in her face anxiously, she looked up.
“I will do the best I can,” she promised.
“I will at least see that your message reaches her safely. Will you come in?” She led the way to the drawing-room.
Heriot glanced round sharply, then he walked up to a large oil-painting hanging over the mantelpiece.
“There she is at twenty, Miss Hammond. Now don’t you see the likeness to yourself?”
Cynthia looked at the portrait, which represented three girls in different stages of young womanhood. Glancing at the abundant chestnut hair, at the big brown eyes of the middle one of the three, Cynthia fancied for a moment that she did see a resemblance to herself; then her gaze wandered to the other figures.
“One of those is Lady Farquhar, certainly?” she said questioningly. “But the third—”
“The sister who died of consumption—Cynthia.”
The girl gave a little cry of surprise.
“I must have been called after her, and I never knew.”
Heriot turned.
“What, is your name Cynthia? Well, at any rate that will give me pleasanter associations with the name than I have had hitherto.”
“Pleasanter?” Cynthia repeated.
He did not seem disposed to be communicative.
“Yes, it has never been a favourite of mine—until now!” He added the last two words after a pause in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone, but beneath his cold, direct gaze, to her intense vexation, Cynthia’s eyes drooped and her colour rose.
“I will go and see what I can do with Cousin Hannah, if you will sit down, Mr Heriot.”
Her heart was beating rapidly, her cheeks still flushing hotly as she ran up the stairs.
Lady Hannah turned her head as she entered.
“Well,” she said anxiously, in her guttural, whispering tones, “what did he want? Has he gone?” Her breath was coming and going in little fluttering gasps as she spoke.
Cynthia looked at her pityingly.
“Not yet; he asked to see you, Cousin Hannah, but I told him I feared it would be impossible.”
“Quite—quite impossible!” the invalid assented. “What did he want, Cynthia? Speak! I order you to tell me!” as the girl hesitated.