by Annie Haynes
“He brought a message from some one who is very troubled about you”—Cynthia chose her words carefully—“some one of whom you used to be very fond. I—I think you must guess who I mean, Cousin Hannah”—as the head moved round restlessly, the fluttering breath grew deeper—“Sir Donald Farquhar.”
“A—h!” With a harsh, discordant noise Lady Hannah interrupted her. “I will not hear it— I will not have that name mentioned! You—how dare you, Cynthia!”
The girl tried to soothe her, but Lady Hannah drew her head away.
“You have no right to bring him here; my husband will be very angry.”
Cynthia stooped lower until her face was very near her cousin’s; she caught the trembling, quivering hands and held them in hers reassuringly.
“Dear Cousin Hannah, indeed I did not bring him; I had no idea why he had come until he told me. I will send him away at once if you don’t want to see him; but I thought, as he did, that perhaps you might be glad to send a message of forgiveness to Sir Donald?”
“Hush!” Lady Hannah’s face twitched, and she fought for her breath. “Yes, I will send him a message!” she panted. “Tell him that I will never willingly hear that name again, that I will never forgive him as long as there is any breath left in my body, that I hope never to see his face, that—”
She paused, exhausted, great beads of perspiration standing on her brow.
“I will send Mr Heriot away. He will write to Sir Donald that you have no wish to see him,” Cynthia said gravely. There was to her something infinitely sad, infinitely tragic, in this spectacle of unrelenting animosity carried to the verge of the grave; and unconsciously she straightened her tall, slim figure and drew a little away from her cousin.
Lady Hannah’s head moved from side to side impatiently.
“Yes, yes, go and tell him! Send him away!” she reiterated feverishly. “Make haste, Cynthia! Go, go!”
The mingled passion and entreaty in her voice were so insistent that Cynthia had no choice but to obey. Promising to be back as soon as possible she ran lightly down the stairs.
Heriot was standing as she had left him, still apparently absorbed in gazing at the portrait over the mantelpiece. He turned as she entered.
“Well?” he said expectantly as she paused.
“I am very sorry I have no good news for your friend,” Cynthia replied simply. “Cousin Hannah bade me say that she would not send any message. She—her feelings towards him do not seem to have altered or softened at all; at least, I should imagine not.”
The eager hopefulness died out of Heriot’s eyes.
“You are quite sure she is under no coercion, that she is really expressing her own feelings?”
“Quite!” Cynthia replied with decision. “I did my best to make her listen, but to no purpose. She became terribly agitated at the very mention of Sir Donald Farquhar’s name, and told me she would not hear it, and that she would never forgive him. It was very terrible!” shuddering. “What could he have done to give rise to such animosity?”
Heriot’s face looked grave and perplexed.
“I cannot understand it at all! I know that a comparatively short time ago she was anxious to send for Farquhar.”
“Well, I can do no more at present,” Cynthia said positively. “I dare not! She threw herself into a state of agitation at the notion which must, I am sure, be very harmful.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said. She does not strike you as being under any kind of influence, hypnotic or otherwise?”
Cynthia shook her head.
“I am sure she is not. I am afraid her anger with Sir Donald is genuine enough; but her agitation rather frightened me. I think I must go back to her.”
“Yes, I must not keep you.” Heriot held out his hand. “Thank you very much for your kind help! We must hope that time will alter Lady Hannah’s feelings. I shall not fail to let Sir Donald know of your kindness to his aunt, and I am sure he will be very grateful to you.” They crossed the hall; and at the open door Heriot paused. “If you should be walking across the moor my old landlady would be delighted if you would step in and have a chat with her,” he said diffidently. “She has often spoken of you since that day you were lost—when you first came.”
“I shall be delighted to come some day. I thought she had such a nice face. So she is your landlady? I wondered—” colouring ingenuously.
“Yes, I am staying with her for a few weeks,” Heriot responded, with a certain awkwardness. “I knew her years ago, and she makes me very comfortable. I shall tell her that she may hope to see you, then?” His clasp of Cynthia’s hand was somewhat unnecessarily lingering. “Thank you very much!” He paused as if about to say something else, changed his mind, and said “Goodbye!” abruptly.
Cynthia gazed after him for a moment in some surprise; there was an unexpectedness about him which she found singularly disconcerting, but the sight of his tall frame striding away in the distance was not illuminating. She closed the door, turned the key, and did her best to fasten the heavy bolts.
As she went towards the stairs she missed the little satchel that usually hung at her side, and remembered that she had laid it down in the dining-room. She turned back to fetch it; it lay on one of the little tables that stood near the fire-place. As she picked it up she was amazed to hear a sound upstairs—a sound which drove the blood from her cheeks—as of stealthy footsteps crossing the floor above. She listened a second—yes, unmistakably there was the creaking of a board. An instant’s reflection convinced her that her cousin’s room must be immediately above, and she remembered that she had left the door unbolted.
With a quick fear that some one—she did not stop to analyse—might have got into Lady Hannah’s room and be terrifying the invalid she rushed across the hall and upstairs. As she hurried down the passage she distinctly heard a slight noise as of some article of furniture being moved; but when she ran into her cousin’s room and looked round there was no one to be seen.
Lady Hannah glanced up in surprise.
“What is it, Cynthia? Wouldn’t he go?”
“Yes, he has gone,” Cynthia answered, gazing round her in a puzzled fashion. “But I thought— I fancied—”
“What?” the invalid’s tone sounded suddenly sharp in the midst of its weakness.
“I thought I heard some one walking about overhead in this room while I was in the dining-room,” Cynthia stammered, too thoroughly bewildered to realize the danger of alarming the invalid at the moment.
“What—in this room?” Lady Hannah’s tone was full of terror and she twisted her head about from side to side. “Search! Look!” she gasped. “In the wardrobe; under the bed! Oh, Cynthia, I am frightened! It—you know I told you always to lock the door, and you did not; you left it open, and who knows who may have got in? Quick, quick, look! Open the wardrobe door! Oh, if I could only get to it myself!”
As Cynthia obeyed her common sense came to her aid.
“No one could have got into the room without your seeing them, Cousin Hannah,” she said. “I suppose,” doubtfully, “I must have made a mistake.”
“Look! Look!” the invalid commanded excitedly.
Cynthia threw the heavy wardrobe doors open and moved the dresses aside; they smelt musty, as disused clothing often does, but no living intruder was to be seen. Lady Hannah was evidently the possessor of an extensive wardrobe; there were gleaming, lustrous silks that might almost have stood alone, soft, rich velvets.
“Now look under the bed!” the invalid ordered fretfully.
“It is all right, Cousin Hannah,” Cynthia said reassuringly as she lifted the valance, “there is nobody here. I must have been mistaken. It was very stupid of me!”
“Yes, yes, you were mistaken,” Lady Hannah agreed more quietly, “but you should be more careful! I—I think I would rather be left alone for a time, Cynthia. Lock the door and put the key in your pocket; perhaps I may go to sleep by and by.”
Cynthia looked at her doubtfu
lly.
“Indeed I do not like to leave you alone, Cousin Hannah! May I not sit over there by the window? I will be quiet.”
“No, no, I wish you would do as you are told,” Lady Hannah said peevishly. “You do contradict so, Cynthia! Now, Sybil—where is she? I wish she would come back!”
Cynthia looked hurt.
“No doubt she will be back soon. I will leave you if you wish it.”
“Lock the door and take the key with you,” her cousin repeated feverishly, “then I shall know that nobody can get in.”
Cynthia felt more than doubtful of the wisdom of this suggestion but, in face of the invalid’s urgency, she had no choice but to obey. After carefully following Lady Hannah’s directions she made her way to the dining-room and sat down to think over the situation, which was, as far as she could see, daily becoming more complicated. Her own position—that of a wife and no wife, an undesired dependant upon her cousin’s bounty—was one which her own common sense told her would be untenable for long, and yet she was unable to make up her mind as to what her next step should be.
The sound of steps upon the stairs roused her as she was seeking to solve the puzzle, and she sprang to her feet, her eyes dilating with terror, her hand catching at the door. The echo of the refrain of a gay little French chanson, sung in Sybil’s clear, blithe voice, made her look round in amazement.
Sybil threw the door open.
“Cynthia, will you give me the key of Cousin Hannah’s room? She called to me just now as I went past.”
Cynthia felt for it mechanically.
“How did you get into the house, Sybil?”
“You forgot to fasten the side-door after Cousin Henry. I had no difficulty.”
“Did I?” Cynthia said, looking intensely puzzled. “I—I quite thought I had locked it.”
“Did you?” said Sybil carelessly.
She passed the parrot’s cage and inadvertently shook it. Much incensed, the bird sat up and preened itself.
“Poor Hannah!” it croaked, eyeing the girl vindictively. “Where is Hannah? Stop your snivelling, I tell you!”
“Horrid thing!” Sybil said, turning from it pettishly. “I shall make Cousin Henry get rid of it. I sneaked upstairs while you were holding that colloquy with the interesting young man at the front door, Cynthia. I—I was rather surprised at you,” she added mischievously.
Chapter Nine
“I AM afraid I am very late this morning— I slept so soundly.”
A. Gillman was crossing the hall as Cynthia came downstairs, and he smiled at her.
“I am glad you had a good night! As for being late”—with a little deprecating movement of his shoulders—“you know this is Liberty Hall; we only want you to please yourself in all things, my dear child!”
“Thank you very much; you are very kind!” Cynthia said hurriedly. There was something in the quasi-paternal manner that Gillman adopted at times that she disliked intensely. “How is Cousin Hannah?” she went on as he still waited.
The smile died out of his eyes.
“I am afraid she is not so well; the excitement of hearing that that young scapegrace Farquhar was attempting to open up communication with her again seems to have been too much for her. She can talk of nothing else since.”
“I am very sorry,” Cynthia said penitently, “but I did not know what to do. She made me go to the door, and then I thought I ought to tell her.”
Gillman passed his hand over his forehead with a weary air.
“I was not blaming you for a minute, my dear Cynthia. I am sure, on the contrary, that you acted for the best, but the fact is none the less unfortunate. However, it cannot be helped.”
Cynthia did not find this exactly a comforting speech.
“Do you think I may go to her this morning? It is a week since I have seen her.”
Gillman pulled his moustache slowly for a minute before he spoke.
“I know it is; but I am not going to let even Sybil in this morning. I find that she is quieter alone with me.”
“Mr Gillman,” Cynthia said timidly, “don’t you think that if Cousin Hannah is so ill she ought to have a doctor called in?”
Gillman’s expression altered a little, and he glanced sharply at the girl’s concerned face.
“I really do not know what to say,” he began, toying with the hunting-crop he was carrying. “The specialists we summoned at the time of the attack were quite the highest authority we could obtain, and I am in constant communication with them and carrying out their treatment; but I do think it might be advisable to have a local man to watch the case also. The unfortunate part of it is, though, that my wife objects so strongly, and when she once makes up her mind it is no easy matter to persuade her to change it, as you know!” with a short laugh.
“I do, indeed!” Cynthia agreed heartily. “Still, in that case—”
“The whole affair seems beset with difficulties,” Gillman finished with a sigh. “I do not know what to do for the best.”
He passed on, and Cynthia went into the dining-room. Her solitary breakfast stood at one end of the long table; as she poured herself out a cup of tea Mrs Knowles entered, carrying the parrot’s cage.
“I made bold to see if Polly would let me clean her out this morning, miss,” she observed. “My lady was always that particular about it. I don’t say it is as she’d have had it, but I done the best I could, and I do think the bird looks more comfortable. Poor Polly, there!” as she replaced it on its stand.
“I am sure it does,” Cynthia said absently, buttering her toast and paying but scant heed to the charwoman.
That functionary, however, seemed in no hurry to depart; she straightened the sideboard cloth and put one or two little things into the cupboard.
“I have been wondering whether I might make so free as to speak to you, miss,” she went on at last, twisting her hands together beneath her white coarse apron. “It is a matter that I have had on my mind for some weeks, in a manner of speaking, and I thought if you would allow me to ask your advice, miss—” She paused apparently for want of breath.
Cynthia looked slightly bewildered.
“Certainly, if I can do anything, Mrs Knowles.”
“It is about my lady,” Mrs Knowles proceeded volubly. “Mr Gillman, he says to me when I first come, ‘Mrs Knowles,’ says he, ‘if her ladyship should ask you to take any messages or post any letters, you are always to bring them to me,’ he says, ‘and if it is advisable they should go I will post them myself.’ Well, in course my wages being paid by him I obeyed him, as the saying is, but when she come to me and says, ‘Mrs Knowles, I want you to post this letter for me; it is to my cousin as is going to be married, and it is just to wish her joy and to ask her to come and see me before the wedding if she can spare the time,’ it did not seem to me as there could be any harm in it, me knowing as the master kept her close and did not encourage no visitors. It was only natural as the poor lady should pine.” She paused and looked at Cynthia for encouragement.
Cynthia, on her part, felt curiously bewildered. She recalled her first feeling when she received her cousin’s letter that Lady Hannah must be under some species of coercion, that she was appealing for help; and then she contrasted this impression with Lady Hannah’s present attitude towards her. It appeared to her inexplicable.
“I think you were quite right, Mrs Knowles,” she said at length, “but I cannot understand—”
“Which is not at all, miss,” the charwoman proceeded, casting an anxious glance at the open door as if fearful of being overheard. “That being over and done with, I should not have ventured to trouble you with it; but the last day as ever she spoke to me before she was took the poor lady gave me another. ‘Post this for me, Mrs Knowles,’ she says, ‘and I will make it worth your while.’ I was just going to say I’d rather have no more to do with it, when Mr Gillman he come down the passage.
My lady, she were standing just where you are now and she says to me, so pitiful like, �
��Put it away, quick, Mrs Knowles, for my sake.’ I slipped it in my pocket, miss, and there it has been ever since. For when I got home that night one of my children was took ill with croup, and I never give the letter a thought—it would ha’ meant walking a mile to the post, and I couldn’t leave Tommy for a minute. Then—it’s no use disguising it from you, miss—the letter went clean out of my head till I happened to put my hand in my pocket last night and felt it there. Then I made up my mind as I would take counsel with you. Here is the letter, miss,” drawing it out and handing it to Cynthia. “You shall say whether I am to post it or not—you being the poor lady’s cousin and there being often a look about you as reminds me of her.”
Cynthia took the letter in her hand with an odd species of reluctance. It was directed in her cousin’s handwriting to Sir Donald Farquhar, to the care of her solicitors, Messrs Bolt & Barsly, Lincoln’s Inn, and the words “To be forwarded immediately” were underlined with two thick uneven strokes that seemed to tell of the writer’s inward perturbation. Cynthia looked at it dubiously; the envelope was by no means improved by its sojourn in Mrs Knowles’s pocket, and was further decorated by sundry smudgy imprints of a thumb and forefinger.
“I really do not know what to say, Mrs Knowles,” she began in some perplexity. Then the remembrance of Mr Heriot’s description of Sir Donald’s anxiety for a reconciliation with his aunt recurred to her mind. This letter could be nothing less than a message of forgiveness, she decided, and it seemed to her that if before her seizure his aunt’s thoughts had turned lovingly towards him assuredly Sir Donald ought to know it. “I—I think I should post it just as it is,” she ended with decision. “After all, if she wished to write it to her own nephew, why should she not?”
“Which I have said to myself a many times, miss,” Mrs Knowles said, taking back the letter carefully, and somewhat unnecessarily, considering its condition, in the cleanest corner of her apron. “Post it, I will, and it is to be hoped as me having forgotten it all this time hasn’t made any difference. Thanking you kindly, miss!” as something passed from Cynthia’s hand to hers. “I will walk down to the office with it soon as I have got my day’s work over.”