When the ladies left the dining-room, a spirit very different from the kindly geniality, conventionally supposed to belong to the Christmas season, reigned over the revels there. Alfred Marrable was, under the influence of the best dinner he had tasted for a long time, merry enough and to spare; while Donald also found happiness in French plums and champagne. But a spirit of mischief looked out of Mr. Graham-Shute’s grey eyes, while John Bradfield himself sat on thorns. For Marrable would take no hint to be more reserved. As he would have expressed his feelings had he been asked, this child of misfortune was, for once in a way, enjoying himself, and he did not mean to let his enjoyment be interfered with. So, having got a sympathetic ear, as he thought, into which to pour his troubles, he maundered on about the old times to his heart’s content; for John Bradfield, who knew how obstinate his cousin could be, and how maliciously bent he was on encouraging Marrable, dared not bring worse upon himself by active interference.
“Yes,” murmured he, with a mournful sigh, as Mr. Graham-Shute filled his proffered glass for him, “some are born lucky, and some unlucky, there’s no denying that. Now to see all of us three together, Gilbert Wryde, our friend John there, and your humble servant, I don’t think anybody could haveforetold how we were going to end. You might have known that Wryde would get on, perhaps—he was a clever fellow, with a head on his shoulders—but take old John and me, now! Not that I’m saying John hasn’t got a head on his shoulders—he’s proved it, we’ll all admit; but he didn’t bear his head so bravely in those days, didn’t dear old John, when he was down on his luck out in Melbourne. Why, many’s the time I’ve said to him, ‘Pluck up, old chap, there’ll be piping times for us yet,’ and the piping times have come sure enough, haven’t they, dear old chap?”
As each mention of his host’s name grew more familiar, and more affectionate than the last, the scowl on John Bradfield’s face grew blacker, and the mischievous twinkle in Mr. Graham-Shute’s eyes grew more evident. Even Donald began to look from one to the other, and to say to himself, with the innocent enjoyment of sport peculiar to youth, that there “would be a jolly shindy presently.”
The first thunder-clap came from Mr. Bradfield, who suggested at an unusually early stage of proceedings, an adjournment to the drawing-room. But the period of Alfred Marrable’s modest reticence was over, and he protested, with indecorous loudness:
“No—no, dear old chap, not yet. Just when we’re beginning to enjoy ourselves!” He was not in a condition to observe that this was by no means the case with all of them. “Let’s be happy while we can, and let’s get thoroughly warmed before we have to meet Old Mother Iceberg again!” added Marrable, with a chuckle, believing himself to be uttering a witticism which the company would fully appreciate, and forgetting, poor man, the relationship in which “Old Mother Iceberg” stood to two of them.
A slight pause followed this speech; but Marrable was too happy in the sound of his own voice again to remain long silent.
“Yes, as I was saying,” he pursued, shaking his head sagely, and wondering what it was that made the nuts slip through the crackers instead of letting themselves be cracked in the orthodox manner, “some are born lucky, and some of us aren’t. Here’s John, with an income like a prince’s, and not a chick or child to leave it to, while I’m struggling along, picking up a pound where I can, as I can, and with three other mouths to fill beside my own. By-the-bye, John,” and he suddenly looked up and spoke in a brighter tone under the influence of a brand new idea, “what a precious lucky chap that young son of Gilbert Wryde’s is, to come into a big fortune like his father’s without having to do a stroke of work for it.”
John Bradfield’s face grew grey at these words. His throat had become in a moment so dry, that the words he tried to utter in answer or comment would not come, but resolved themselves into a choking cough. Nobody noticed this, for the Graham-Shutes had their attention fully taken up with Marrable himself. So Alfred went on with a sentimental cheerfulness:
“Why, that young fellow was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, and no mistake. Let’s see, he must be three or four and twenty by this time. Wish I could come across him! If he’s anything like a chip of the old block, it would be a good day for me if I did. What d—d slippery nutcrackers these are of yours, John! Do you know what’s become of young Wryde, eh?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” answered John Bradfield, as, his patience worn out, he rose from the table. “As his father died in Australia, I should think your best chance of hearing of him would be to prosecute your inquiries over there.”
Alfred Marrable, who had by this time, not without a little difficulty, gained his feet, stared at his old friend and host with a sudden portentous gravity. His familiarity, his affectionateness were gone; in their place was the solemnity of outraged dignity. Supporting himself with one hand against the table, and nodding two or three times before he spoke, to prepare his friend for the awful change which had come over his sentiments, he said, in a spasmodic and tremulous voice:
“Mr. Bradfield, I beg your pardon. I repeat,” said he, with another dignified pause, “I repeat, I beg your pardon. If I had known, I should say, if I had been aware that my presence in Australia would be considered more desirable to you than my presence here, I would have gone there—I say, sir, I would have gone there, sooner than intrude here, where I am not wanted, where,” and he looked round at the Graham-Shutes, and felt a muddled surprise to note that they looked more amused than sympathetic, “where it seems I am not wanted. It is not too late, while a railway line runs between here and London, to repair my er—er—error.” Drawing himself up to his full height, Mr. Marrable concluded, “I wish you all, gentlemen”—here he paused a little, for effect with disastrous results—“I wish you all a ver—happy—new—year.”
Unfortunately for the dignity of his exit, Alfred Marrable forgot that he had John Bradfield’s clotheson. And the appearance of his portly figure, with the arms drawn back by the tight fit of his coat, and a series of ridges between the shoulders not intended by the tailor, was more provocative of laughter than of indignant sorrow.
As the unlucky Marrable left the room, an expression of hope appeared on John Bradfield’s face which became one of intense relief when, following his old chum into the hall, he saw that the latter was sincere in his intention of immediately leaving the house in which he chose to think he had been insulted. Taking his overcoat, a sadly threadbare garment, from the peg on which John Bradfield himself had hung it, Alfred buttoned himself up in it with great dignity, and proceeding down the inner and the outer hall with slow steps, perhaps willing to be called back, he fumbled at the handle of the front door, and finally let himself out into the cold night.
Just as Mr. Bradfield was congratulating himself upon having got rid of a dangerous and untrustworthy person, and wondering whether he should be troubled with him again, a voice close to his shoulder disturbed his reflections.
It was that of his cousin, Graham-Shute, who had witnessed the abrupt departure of the humble friend, and who had been struck by the fact that Alfred Marrable, confused as he was, had conceived a just opinion of the value of his old friend’s welcome.
“I say, Bradfield, you’re not going to let the poor chap go off like that, are you?”
John Bradfield turned upon him savagely.
“Why not? He chose to go. I couldn’t keep the fool against his will, could I?”
“But—but—but d—— it, man, you’re not serious! This fellow helped you when you were a young man, and you turn him out of the house like a dog, on a night like this?”
John Bradfield turned upon him sharply.
“Helped me! Who says he helped me! The man’s a born fool, and never helped anyone, even himself.”
But Mr. Graham-Shute was already at the front door. Before he had time to open it, however, both he and his host were startled by a loud cry of “Help, help!” in Marrable’s voice.
It was John Bradfield’s turn to be excited. Pushing past his cousin, he drew back the handle of the front door, and was out upon the stone steps in time to see dimly a man disappearing in the direction of the east wing. Then he turned his attention to Marrable, who had fallen down the steps, and was lying motionless at the bottom. He was not insensible, however; for John Bradfield had no sooner bent over him with a face full of anxiety which was not tender, than Alfred, struggling to sit up, said, in a hoarse whisper:
“John, I’ve seen a ghost, I swear I have, the ghost of Gilbert Wryde!”
John drew back his head, and affected to laugh boisterously; this merriment was as much for the benefit of his cousin as of Alfred, for the former was now hurrying down the steps with ears and eyes very much on the alert.
“Gilbert Wryde!” echoed Bradfield. “Why, he’s been dead these sixteen years; you know that as well as I do.”
And he turned to his cousin with a gesture tointimate the tremendous extent to which his potations had affected poor Alfred’s vision.
But Mr. Graham-Shute had put up his double eyeglasses, and was examining the prostrate man with attentive eyes. He shook his head slowly in answer to his cousin’s gesture.
“He’s sober enough now,” he said, briefly.
Indeed, poor Marrable had been startled into sobriety compared to which that of the proverbial judge is levity itself. He now turned his eyes slowly from the spot at which he had last seen the vision which had startled him, and fixed them on John Bradfield’s face.
“He went round there,” he said, emphatically. “I’m positive. I can swear it—Gilbert Wryde!”
John Bradfield felt that his teeth were chattering. He could scarcely command his voice to answer in his usual tones:
“One of the gardeners, most likely.”
Marrable shook his head emphatically.
“It was not one of the gardeners,” he said, with a great deal more decision than he usually showed. “I won’t trouble you again, John, but I will find out what I want to know before I leave this place.”
He was trying to rise, and Mr. Graham-Shute helped him. But he could only move with difficulty, having sprained his left ankle in his fall.
“Here, Bradfield, send some of your men to take him indoors,” said Mr. Graham-Shute, in a peremptory manner.
“Of course, of course!” assented John Bradfield.
And he gave the necessary orders to two menservants who had by this time appeared in the doorway.
So Alfred Marrable, protesting all the time with more than his usual vigour, was carried indoors, and placed by John Bradfield’s orders in a spare room, which was next to his own bedroom. Then with much reluctance, and more by his cousin’s orders than by his own, John sent for a doctor.
In the meantime he suddenly developed a solicitude for his unlucky friend as striking as his previous neglect. He insisted on remaining himself by the side of the injured man until the arrival of the doctor, and, for fear of exciting him, as he said, he would allow no one to enter the room but himself.
When Stelfox knocked at the bedroom door, and, in his extremely quiet and respectful manner offered his services to wait on the gentleman, John Bradfield answered him very shortly indeed, with a scowl upon his face.
“No, I don’t want you. And you would be better employed in looking after that lunatic of yours, and in keeping him from frightening people half out of their wits, than in attending to other folks’ business.”
Stelfox listened to this rebuke in meek silence, with his eyes upon the ground. When his master had finished speaking, he respectfully retired without a word, either of protest or of excuse.
John Bradfield watched him retreat with a malignant expression of face. He had serious cause of dissatisfaction with Stelfox, but he was not sure whether it would be wise in him to show it; for John felt that he was standing on a volcano, and that an eruption might take place at any minute. He was just forming in his mind the resolution to keep Marrable and the astute Stelfox apart, when he hearda noise behind him, and turning, found that Marrable had got off the bed on which he had been placed, and in spite of the pain his ankle gave him, was dragging himself along, by the help of the furniture, towards the door.
“What are you doing? Where are you coming to?” asked John, sharply, as he sprang towards the injured man to help him back to bed. “You mustn’t move until the doctor has seen you. We’ve sent for him, and he will be here in a few minutes.”
There was nothing about which John Bradfield was more anxious than the prevention of a meeting between Marrable and Stelfox, whom he strongly suspected of an unwholesome curiosity. But the injured man was excited and obstinate; and he almost forgot the pain his ankle was causing him as he clung to John Bradfield’s arm, and whispered, hoarsely:
“What was that you said about a lunatic? Let me speak to the man, John; let me speak to him! I must get to the root of this, or I shall go mad myself!”
John Bradfield saw that the man was thoroughly frightened, and within an ace of becoming noisy in his vehement questionings. So he said that if Alfred would be quiet, and allow himself to be helped back on to the bed, he should learn all about it.
“What I want to know is,” said Marrable, sticking to his point when his host showed anew a disposition to dally with his promised explanation, “who the man was that I saw? And who the lunatic is you spoke about, and where he lives?”
“The lunatic is the man you saw,” answered John Bradfield, doggedly, when he could fence no longer.“I took him in myself out of charity, and he lives under my roof.”
“But how does he come to be the image of Gilbert Wryde?” persisted Marrable.
“How should I know? It’s a chance resemblance, that all. It was on account of that likeness that I was attracted to him, and took pity on him, and brought him into my own house,” added Bradfield, with a happy thought.
Alfred Marrable had become, under the influence of his feeling of resentment against Bradfield, as obstinate as he usually was yielding. He raised himself once more from his bed.
“Let me see him,” he said, sullenly.
And as Bradfield tried to soothe him, he called out all the more loudly:
“Let me see him, John. I will see him.”
So that at last John, fearing that by the time the doctor arrived Marrable would be beyond control altogether, and hearing the footsteps of the curious in the corridor outside, made a virtue of necessity.
“Be quiet!” said he, between his clenched teeth. “Be quiet, can’t you, and listen to me. The man you saw is a dangerous madman; and he is Gilbert Wryde’s son.”
Marrable sank down on the bed, trembling as if with severe cold.
“Gilbert Wryde’s son—a lunatic!” he repeated, in horror. “It is too awful! It can’t be true!”
Now that he had shot his bolt, John Bradfield was calmer in manner, and able to assume an appearance almost of indifference to the ejaculations and comments of the other.
“If you don’t believe it, you can easily see foryourself,” he said, shortly. “As soon as you can move about, you shall be shut up with him alone for an hour if you like.”
But Marrable sat in a heap, with staring eyes, and with his teeth chattering, muttering to himself at intervals:
“Gilbert Wryde’s son a lunatic! Gilbert Wryde’s son!”
And then the man, who was soft-hearted, and who remembered how Gilbert Wryde had befriended him years ago, broke down, and sobbed, while Bradfield moved restlessly about the room, waiting for the doctor.
When the medical man arrived, he pronounced the injury to be of a comparatively slight nature, and told the patient that he might, with care, be able to get about again in a fortnight or three weeks.
“But,” he added, looking from one man to the other enquiringly, and perceiving that both were in a state of high excitement, “you will have to keep very quiet if you wish to be cured so soon.”
John Bradfield went as far as the end of the corridor with the doctor, and then returned to the patient, whom he found resting on his elbow, with an inquiry on his lips. And John “shied,” so to speak, at the expression of Marrable’s light grey eyes.
“Bradfield!” said he, in a husky whisper, “I want to ask you something. If the poor chap you’ve got shut up for a lunatic is Gilbert Wryde’s son, what has become of Gilbert Wryde’s money?”
John Bradfield was equal to the occasion. Turning so that he faced Marrable, he answered at once:
“Gilbert Wryde’s money! Oh, he left it in the hands of trustees, of course.”
There was a pause, and John turned away, as if feeling that he had satisfied his companion’s thirst for information. But presently Marrable spoke again, and his manner was somewhat lacking in that respect for the rich man which had characterised it on his first arrival:
“You’re one of the trustees, I suppose?”
John Bradfield, very unused of late years to being spoken to in this way, answered curtly enough:
“Yes, I’m one of them. Anything more you want to know?”
“Only this—who are the others?”
“Men you’ve never heard of. Old chums of Wryde’s.”
“Do they live in England?”
“No; out in Australia.”
“Oh!”
This exclamation might be taken as signifying assent, and it was thus that John Bradfield chose to take it; and the subject was dropped out of their talk, if not out of their minds.
The assiduity with which John Bradfield tended his old friend was wonderful. It was remarked that hescarcely let anybody else go near him; that he slept in Marrable’s room, and even served him with his own hands. It escaped remark that on rare occasions when John Bradfield did leave the apartment of his friend, he took care first to send Stelfox out on some errand which would take a considerable time to execute.
Mr. Bradfield’s doubts of Stelfox’s trustworthiness were increasing. Taking the bull by the horns, as his custom was when hard pressed, Mr. Bradfield took the servant severely to task for suffering Mr. Richard to get loose again, and ended by threatening him with instant dismissal if it should occur again.
At this Stelfox looked up.
“Do you mean that, sir?”
“I do, indeed.”
“And what—what, sir, would you do with Mr. Richard, if you did send me away?”
There was some spirit in the servant’s question; there was more in the master’s answer:
“That’s my business!”
And Stelfox, with a glance at his master’s resolute face, made submission.
The day following the accident being Boxing-day, Mrs. Graham-Shute asked and obtained permission from her host to extend her visit, and that of her family, until the day after. It was impossible to go out, much less to travel, on such a day as that, she said.
In spite of this impossibility, however, Mrs. Graham-Shute stayed out nearly the whole of the morning, looking for a suitable house in which she could settle with her family, to fulfil her kind promise of “looking after dear cousin John.” Of course, it was the worstday she could have chosen for her expedition, as the agents’ offices were closed, and the caretakers were making a holiday. But, being a woman of great valour and determination, just when these qualities were unnecessary and inconvenient, she ferreted out the unhappy agents, and made them unlock their books for her benefit, and she chivied the caretakers away from their dinners to attend her over the empty houses, only to declare at the end of the day’s work that she had never met such an uncivil set of people in her life—never!
Mrs. Graham-Shute found, moreover, cause of bitter complaint in other directions. The rents were absurdly high, for one thing. She had imagined that in a hole of a place like this you would be able to pick up a house, with thirteen rooms and a nice garden, for next to nothing. Indeed, to hear her talk, one would have imagined that she looked upon the honour done to a dwelling by her residence within its walls as an equivalent to rent and taxes. The poor lady was quite hurt at the local ingratitude. It was enough, as she said at luncheon-time, to the amusement of dear cousin John, to make one stay in town.
“Why on earth don’t you, my dear?” murmured her husband, who had strenuously opposed the proposed flight to this clubless and remote region, and who knew very well that the love of change had much to do with his wife’s determination to move; and the belief that she would be a great person down here, while in town it had been forced upon her that she was only a very small one indeed.
His wife looked at him reproachfully.
“My dear, you know as well as possible that wemust economise for the sake of the children,” she said, with a sigh and a glance at her cousin, as if sure that he would approve her sentiments.
It was fashionable to economise, so Mrs. Graham-Shute was always talking about it; and there it ended. Her husband had suffered from this idiosyncrasy, and he went on in an aggrieved tone:
“Why can’t you begin at Bayswater, and save moving expenses? Everything’s cheaper in town than here, and you’ve something to talk about besides the health of the pigs.”
But Maude went breezily on:
“Ah, but in town you’re tempted to buy things; my feminine heart can’t resist a bargain. Now, here,” she ended triumphantly, “you can’t spend money, because there’s nothing to buy!”
Here John Bradfield struck into the conversation.
“Isn’t there, though? There are bargains to be had here as well as in town, as I have found to my cost.”
Maude smiled at this remark, having only frowned at her husband’s. And, of course, she remained unconvinced.
Mrs. Graham-Shute spent her own and her daughters’ afternoon in making a list of the houses they had seen, with their several defects and good qualities. The former consisted, not in imperfect drainage and “stuffy” bed-rooms, but in “reception rooms” too small for the entertainments by which she proposed to dazzle the neighbourhood.
Meanwhile, Donald, left to his own devices, tried hard to contrive an interview with Chris, who had, during the last day or two, avoided him with a persistency which nettled him exceedingly. During thelast conversation he had had with her, she had reproached him with following her about at the suggestion of his mother. While greatly annoyed and offended by her perspicacity, it had not made him less anxious for the flirtation he had promised himself with such an “awfully pretty girl.” This being the last day of his stay at Wyngham Lodge, he felt that he must come to such an understanding with her as would pave the way for a welcome when he and his family should return to Wyngham for a permanent residence.
When, therefore, Donald saw Chris walking in the garden, he put on his hat and sauntered out there too. It was on the south side of the house that Chris was walking, and she appeared to be looking at nothing but the sea. As she drew near the east wing, however, she glanced up from time to time shyly at the windows. On hearing footsteps on the path behind her, she turned quickly, and flushed, with an unmistakable expression of disappointment, on coming face to face with Donald. He was taken aback; his vanity was wounded; and instead of addressing her as he had intended, he stepped aside for her to pass him, and followed the path she had been taking towards the east-end of the house. Angry and mortified, he went on as far as the enclosed portion of the grounds. And here, lying on the ground just within the locked gate, he saw an envelope lying on the damp grass. Stooping, and putting his hand through the wire fence, he found that the envelope was just within his reach. Drawing it through, he discovered that it contained a letter, that it was directed to “Miss Christina Abercarne,” and that it was too dry to have lain there long.
While he was turning the missive over in his hand, and looking about him, considering from what quarter the letter could have come, Chris bore down upon him with a crimson face and very bright eyes.
“That note is for me, is it not?” said she, as she managed to see the superscription.
Now Donald was not particularly chivalrous, and he thought it quite fair that he should find some advantage to himself in his discovery. So he said, holding the letter behind him:
“What are you going to give me not to tell?”
Chris drew herself up haughtily.
“I am not going to give you anything, Mr. Shute. But you will have to give me my letter.”
“And you won’t mind if I repeat this little anecdote, say, at the dinner-table to-night?”
“Not a bit. And you, I dare say, won’t mind what I shall think of you?”
It was his turn to blush now. He stammered out that, of course, he was only in fun, and he handed her the letter in the most sheepish and shame-faced manner. Although she took it from him very coolly, to all appearance, a strange thrill went through her as she held it, and knew unfamiliar as the handwriting was, from whom it came.
Donald stared at her. For there had flashed over her face a strange look, half gladness, half sorrow, and he felt with jealousy that some other man had roused in her the feeling he would have liked her to have for himself. For a moment she seemed hardly conscious that she was not alone; then recovering herself quickly, she remembered that this wretched youth had the power, if he liked, to increase themisfortunes of a man who was unlucky enough already. So she said, catching her breath, and speaking with a most eloquent moisture in her eyes, and with a tremor in her voice which few male creatures could have resisted:
“Of course—I believe you, I believe what you said—that you were only in fun. You would not care to bring real misery upon—anybody, would you?”
Donald was touched, and he reddened, under the influence of a kindly emotion, even more deeply than he had done with anger.
“You may trust me,” was all he said.
Christina held out her hand, taking it away again, however, before he had time to do more than hold it for a half second in his.
“Thank you—very much,” said she, as she hurried away.
Chris walked as long as she could be seen by Donald; but as soon as she was out of his sight, she ran. Into the house, up the stairs, never taking breath until she had shut herself into the dressing-room, and turned the key in the lock. Then she took out the precious letter, her eyes so dim that at first she could scarcely read it. When at last she had conquered her agitation sufficiently to do so, she read the following words, written in a bold, clear hand:
“You must forgive,” so it began, without any heading, “all that is strange, all that is wrong in this letter, for it is the first I have ever written. If my words are like those of a savage you must forgive that too, for it is not my fault. I have lived alone for years that I cannot count, but it is nearly all my life, ever since my father died. I have been miserable enough, and yet I never knew what misery was until I saw you. Neither have I ever known what joy was until I looked into your eyes and touched your hand. You have opened the world to me. You have woke me out of a long sleep. You have given me heart and courage, you have saved me from becoming what they pretend that I already am. I had thought myself an outcast from all the world; long ago I had forgotten what hope was, when you came here like aray of sunshine and changed the whole face of the world for me. I scarcely know how to go on. I am afraid to offend you, afraid that you will not believe what I say. But you are kind, you are good; and as I cannot see you again I must write. I ask you just this one thing; it is a favour I think you will not refuse. Come into the enclosed garden under my window every day, at any time, if only for five minutes, and let me see you. I know the gates are kept locked, but you will be able to do this if you will, for if you ask for the key you will get it, as nobody could resist you.“One more thing I beg you to do. Be silent about me to the man who keeps me here. If you intercede for me you will only do me harm. I don’t know myself why he keeps me here; he has never even let me know my own name. I know, as you know, that I am cursed with an infirmity which condemns me to a solitary life; but I ask you to judge whether it was necessary to treat me as I have been treated. I know he pretends that I am dangerous; and he has just this excuse, that, as far as he is concerned, he has made me so. But I will not write to you of him. The time for me to call him to account is nearer than he thinks.“If I see you in the garden to-morrow I shall know that you have found my letter, and that you forgive me.“Dick.”
“You must forgive,” so it began, without any heading, “all that is strange, all that is wrong in this letter, for it is the first I have ever written. If my words are like those of a savage you must forgive that too, for it is not my fault. I have lived alone for years that I cannot count, but it is nearly all my life, ever since my father died. I have been miserable enough, and yet I never knew what misery was until I saw you. Neither have I ever known what joy was until I looked into your eyes and touched your hand. You have opened the world to me. You have woke me out of a long sleep. You have given me heart and courage, you have saved me from becoming what they pretend that I already am. I had thought myself an outcast from all the world; long ago I had forgotten what hope was, when you came here like aray of sunshine and changed the whole face of the world for me. I scarcely know how to go on. I am afraid to offend you, afraid that you will not believe what I say. But you are kind, you are good; and as I cannot see you again I must write. I ask you just this one thing; it is a favour I think you will not refuse. Come into the enclosed garden under my window every day, at any time, if only for five minutes, and let me see you. I know the gates are kept locked, but you will be able to do this if you will, for if you ask for the key you will get it, as nobody could resist you.
“One more thing I beg you to do. Be silent about me to the man who keeps me here. If you intercede for me you will only do me harm. I don’t know myself why he keeps me here; he has never even let me know my own name. I know, as you know, that I am cursed with an infirmity which condemns me to a solitary life; but I ask you to judge whether it was necessary to treat me as I have been treated. I know he pretends that I am dangerous; and he has just this excuse, that, as far as he is concerned, he has made me so. But I will not write to you of him. The time for me to call him to account is nearer than he thinks.
“If I see you in the garden to-morrow I shall know that you have found my letter, and that you forgive me.
“Dick.”
Chris had been interested in Mr. Richard. She had known of this interest, which had seemed to be occasioned by pity only. Now that she held his letter in her hands, and pressed it against her lipsshe knew more than this. She knew that the feeling she had for the forlorn recluse was something deeper, more tender than pity. She knew that she loved him.
When she went downstairs to dinner, her face seemed transfigured, her fresh beauty had never been so brilliant. All eyes were attracted by the delicate colour in her cheeks, by the brightness of her eyes; and Donald, who guessed the cause for this unusual radiance, was jealous and sullen throughout the meal.
The next day was that of the Graham-Shutes’ departure. The fair Maude thought it only right to warn her dear cousin John, before she went, to be on his guard against the Abercarnes, as they were very designing people. Dear cousin John retorted with a bombshell:
“I hope, my dear Maude,” said he, coolly, “that one of them will no longer be an Abercarne by the time I see you again.”
Crestfallen, the poor lady pretended not to understand. So John remorselessly explained:
“Why, I hope to make Christina Mrs. John Bradfield before many weeks are over.”
Poor Mrs. Graham-Shute drew a long breath. At last she said:
“Whatever you do, of course, you have my best wishes for your happiness. But—lucky as you are, John,” she ended, with spiteful emphasis, “I wouldn’t tempt Providence too far, if I were you!”
To which dear John answered by a roar of derisive laughter, which made Maude say to her husband, as they drove away, that, under the influence of those two harpies, John’s manners were deteriorating greatly.
John Bradfield went back into the house quickly after seeing his cousin off; he ran upstairs, and was in time to catch sight of Stelfox hovering about the doorway of the injured Marrable. John’s expression grew threatening. There was danger, danger too great to be tolerated, in the meeting of these two men. Each of the two possessed the links which the other lacked in a chain of facts, which, if known, would be John Bradfield’s ruin. With a black frown on his face, the master of the house opened the door of the sick-room quietly, and walked to the bedside.
Poor Marrable had begged to get up that day, being, indeed, quite well enough to do so. But John had insisted on his remaining in bed, apparently out of solicitude for his friend, but really in order that he might the more easily keep him under his own eye. Alfred appeared to be asleep. John Bradfield glared at him ferociously. With this man was the key to John’s fate. The knowledge he held of the past life of his old chum was shared by nobody else on this side of the ocean. With these thoughts passing through his mind, John Bradfield almost involuntarily began to lift up, one by one, the various bottles, some containing medicines, and some lotions for outward application, which stood upon the table.
Suddenly Alfred sprang up in bed, and stared at him with feverish eyes.
“There, there, there!” he cried, as if fear and indignation had deprived him of words. “Do you want to poison me? I believe you do. I can’t make you out, John. I’m afraid of you. You’re not the same man I used to know, and I’ll not stay under your roof another night! I tell you, I’m afraid of you.”
Remonstrance was useless, but indeed his host didnot press him very much to stay; his chief wish now was to get his guest out of the house before Stelfox could learn his intention to go. In this he succeeded. Ordering the landau to be brought round, he himself helped Marrable downstairs, accompanied him to the station, reserved a first-class compartment for him, and made him as comfortable as he could with rugs and wraps. Then he looked in at the carriage window and spoke to him in tones to which joy at his departure lent an appearance of real warmth.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “I am afraid ours has been an unlucky meeting after all these years. But I’ve been worried lately; I’m not myself at all. But I’m not one to forget my old friends, and so you’ll find when you get back to town, if you’ll open this,” and he handed Marrable a large envelope sealed with red wax. “Just send me your address when you get home, and let me know whenever you change it. And every quarter you shall have a similar little packet from me as long as you need it, for auld lang syne. And a happy new year to you, old man.”
So saying, John Bradfield wrung his friend’s hand with a heartiness which soothed Marrable’s wounded feelings, and even went far, for the moment at least, towards deceiving him as to his friend’s real sentiments.
John Bradfield went home with a lighter heart. Here was one danger got over, for the present at least. There remained one other to be grappled with; that other was—Stelfox.
There could be little doubt that the man-servant had of late formed some sort of league against his master with that master’s victim, and Mr. Bradfield was anxious to know the exact terms of the compact.On reaching home, therefore, he condescended to play the spy, and with this object watched his opportunity, and when Stelfox unlocked the door of Mr. Richard’s apartments and went in, Mr. Bradfield followed him, entering by means of a duplicate key of his own.
Between the outer door by which he had just passed in, and the door of Mr. Richard’s sitting-room, there was a passage, very dark and very narrow, lighted only by a little square window in the centre of the inner door, which had been made for secret observation, by Mr. Bradfield’s order, of the lunatic’s movements.
Mr. Bradfield was advancing with cautious steps towards this window when he suddenly paused, struck motionless with terror. And yet he could see nothing, he could not even distinctly hear the words that were being exchanged in the room. All that he knew, in fact, was that he heard two voices in conversation. After a few moments of absolute stillness and hideous terror, he moved spasmodically forward to the inner door and looked through the little square window. All that he saw was Mr. Richard, seated at the table talking to Stelfox, who stood respectfully before him.
Mr. Bradfield drew a long, gasping breath; made his way, stumbling at every other step, back through the passage on to the landing at the head of the staircase outside. There he made one step in the direction of the stairs, staggered, and fell down, gasping, unconscious, digging his nails into the flesh of his hands.
A beautiful peace had descended upon Wyngham House on the departure of the Graham-Shutes. There were no more scurryings up and down stairs on unimportant errands; no more conversations carried on at opposite ends of the house. Mrs. Abercarne rejoiced articulately in the change; but to Chris the satisfaction brought by the change was tempered by many things.
For one thing, the girl was troubled by the consciousness that she was not acting quite openly, and by a fear of what the consequences would be if she were to do so. Her first meetings with Mr. Richard she had concealed from her mother for a perfectly good and honest reason, the fear of giving Mrs. Abercarne unnecessary alarm. Later, when she had begun to feel sure that Mr. Richard was not so mad as was supposed, Chris had thought it a pity to worry her mother with her story while Mrs. Abercarne spent her days in a tempest of irritation against her declared enemy, Mrs. Graham-Shute.
But now these excuses for reticence had disappeared, and still she hesitated to confide in her mother. For her confidence, if it was to be in any way genuine or whole-hearted, must now be in the nature of a confession. She did not now try to cheat herself into the belief that she had no deeply personal interest in the occupant of the east wing; indeed,all her thoughts were occupied in wondering why he was kept there, and in devising schemes for releasing him from his unhappy position. Certain words he had used in his letter had struck her to the heart. He had mentioned the infirmity she must have noticed; so that Chris, even in spite of herself, was obliged to admit that her lover, although not insane, for that she refused to believe, suffered from sudden lapses of memory, or fits of unconsciousness, which would certainly make him, in her mother’s eyes, a “most ineligible person,” while his eccentric habit of silence would increase this impression. For Mrs. Abercarne would not be ready, as Chris was, to explain these things tenderly away, and account for them by his long and enforced seclusion.
So that Chris seemed rather depressed than exhilarated by the departure of the noisy relations, whose presence had made it easier for her to hide her secret troubles from her mother.
Mr. Bradfield also suffered from the departure of his guests; at least, that was the inference Mrs. Abercarne drew, with some asperity, from his gloomy looks. But, in truth, although the sudden change from excessive noise to excessive tranquillity proved trying to his nerves, the causes of Mr. Bradfield’s uneasiness had a much deeper root than this.
He was brooding over the consciousness of a crime which would not have troubled him in the least, but for the fear he now entertained that he would be found out.
Now John Bradfield’s roughness and abruptness of manner were not accompanied by as much energy of character as might have been supposed. Nor was he a man possessed of much fertility of invention orresource. Therefore, although conscious that the cunning Stelfox was in possession of certain knowledge which he had concealed from his master, John Bradfield vacillated between two courses; the one was to come to an understanding with the servant, the other was to let things go on for a while and await fresh developments before embarking on a hazardous course of action.
He decided on the latter course.
In the meantime, Chris had felt bound to answer Mr. Richard’s letter. She had not dared to confide even in Stelfox, partly because he was too reticent, and partly from a delicacy in letting the man know of her secret correspondence with his charge. It was with a fast-beating heart that she, after watching for her opportunity, slipped under the locked door of the east wing the following answer to Mr. Richard’s letter:
“I received your letter. I must tell you first that I have never before received a letter without showing it to my mother, at least since I was a little girl, when I had lots of letters, with toffee and flowers, from my boy-sweethearts, which I did not show, because my mother would have made me give up the toffee. I do not like writing now without telling her about it, and yet, on the other hand, I cannot bear to leave your note unanswered. So please do not write to me again, not, at least, unless you have something very,veryparticular to say about anything, for instance, in which I can help you. I am very much troubled by what you say about the person you mentioned. I cannot believe that person guilty of the deliberate cruelty and wickedness you suggest. Won’t you letme speak? It would be better, believe me. I know that I am not a proper person to give advice to anybody; I am supposed to be too silly to be capable of such a thing. But if I were a person of more authority, who would be listened to, I would say: Go to that person and ask that person to tell you about yourself, andinsistupon knowing. Then I believe that person will have to give way.“And now please remember that you are not to write to me, because it puts me in a great difficulty when you do. For, on the one hand, I cannot bear not to answer, when you are so lonely; and, on the other hand, I can’t bear to do anything underhand, that I can’t tell my mother about. It makes me feel quite wicked. And yet, if I did tell her, I know she would tell a certain person, or else she would insist upon our going away, and there would be dreadful scenes.“I know this is a dreadfully stupid letter, and I am almost ashamed to send it; if I do, I shall post it under the door. But please, please believe that I am very, very sorry about it all, and that I do hope you will take the advice I should like to give you if I dared.“Yours—” (she debated within herself for a long time how she should end, without being too forward, too formal, too affectionate or too cold)—“sincerely,“Chris Abercarne.”
“I received your letter. I must tell you first that I have never before received a letter without showing it to my mother, at least since I was a little girl, when I had lots of letters, with toffee and flowers, from my boy-sweethearts, which I did not show, because my mother would have made me give up the toffee. I do not like writing now without telling her about it, and yet, on the other hand, I cannot bear to leave your note unanswered. So please do not write to me again, not, at least, unless you have something very,veryparticular to say about anything, for instance, in which I can help you. I am very much troubled by what you say about the person you mentioned. I cannot believe that person guilty of the deliberate cruelty and wickedness you suggest. Won’t you letme speak? It would be better, believe me. I know that I am not a proper person to give advice to anybody; I am supposed to be too silly to be capable of such a thing. But if I were a person of more authority, who would be listened to, I would say: Go to that person and ask that person to tell you about yourself, andinsistupon knowing. Then I believe that person will have to give way.
“And now please remember that you are not to write to me, because it puts me in a great difficulty when you do. For, on the one hand, I cannot bear not to answer, when you are so lonely; and, on the other hand, I can’t bear to do anything underhand, that I can’t tell my mother about. It makes me feel quite wicked. And yet, if I did tell her, I know she would tell a certain person, or else she would insist upon our going away, and there would be dreadful scenes.
“I know this is a dreadfully stupid letter, and I am almost ashamed to send it; if I do, I shall post it under the door. But please, please believe that I am very, very sorry about it all, and that I do hope you will take the advice I should like to give you if I dared.
“Yours—” (she debated within herself for a long time how she should end, without being too forward, too formal, too affectionate or too cold)—“sincerely,
“Chris Abercarne.”
“I can’t put ‘Christina,’ it’s simply too horrid,” she said to herself, as she looked sideways at the letter; “it’s a dreadfully bad letter, just such a letter as Miss Smithson used to say a lady ought not to write; full of ‘that person,’ and ‘can’t,’ instead of ‘cannot.’And it gets worse, instead of better, as it goes on. However, I don’t think there are any sentences without heads or tails, and if there are, why, he shouldn’t write to a girl if he expects grammar. I think,” she went on, a little blush rising to her face as the thought came into her mind, “that I may give it just one, to help it on its way.”
And, laughing to herself, she pressed the letter to her pretty red lips.
Now if Chris had been a really conscientious and strong-minded girl, instead of the perfect fool her kind friends declared her to be, she would have been quite satisfied with having put an end to her correspondence with Mr. Richard, and would have been shocked at the idea of his wishing to carry it on. It is sad, therefore, to be obliged to relate that every morning, while taking her walk in the enclosed garden, as he had begged her to do (for Johnson proved delightfully corruptible), she cast an inquiring glance towards the spot where she had found Mr. Richard’s first letter.
And, all things considered, it is not surprising that before long she found a second.
She had given him fresh hope, fresh courage, he said. But again he begged her to say nothing on his behalf to anybody, assuring her that before very long he hoped to be able to act upon her advice, for which he thanked her most gratefully.
And then, after a day or two, during which she contented herself with glancing shyly up at his window, at one of which he was always to be seen watching her with very eloquent eyes, it began to seem rather cruel not to let him have just a few lines to assure him that she had received his letter.So that another kind little missive got posted under the door of the east wing; and though she begged again that he would not write to her, there was something about the injunction which made it read to the young man like an invitation. And so, with many qualms of conscience on the one side, at least, an intermittent correspondence went on, which became the happiness and the misery of the girl’s life.
In the meantime, John Bradfield laid siege to her affections with a good deal of tact, inflicting upon her very little of his society, but anticipating her wishes in every possible way, until she found that he had gradually become the fountain-head of a great many pleasures which she would never have known but for him. She could not mention a book that she would like to read, a flower she was fond of, or a composer whose works she would like to study, without finding, in the course of the next few days, book, plant or music lying about as if it had found its way into her presence by magic. These attentions made Chris uncomfortable, and Mrs. Abercarne very happy. The latter thought it wiser to say nothing, and was deceived by her daughter’s manner. For Chris, grateful on the one hand for Mr. Bradfield’s kindness to herself, and anxious on the other to pave the way for coaxing him to do justice to his ward, acquired towards the master of the house a manner full of a sort of pleading diffidence, so that both her mother and Mr. Bradfield believed that the charm was beginning to work.
It was about six weeks after Christmas when Mrs. Graham-Shute again descended upon Wyngham, not for mere invasion, but with a view to settling in the conquered country.
By the luckiest chance in the world (soshesaid) there was by this time a house to be let absolutely within sight of Wyngham House. It was an ugly brand-new dwelling, built of yellow brick, standing in a very small scrap of immature garden, on the west side of Wyngham House, and therefore a little way further from the town than Mr. Bradfield’s residence. It had been built by the local poet, a gentleman who turned out a large amount of verse, mostly very bad, and always very dull, some of which occasionally found its way into the dullest and heaviest of the old established magazines. Overweighted by the burden of his own celebrity (at least this was the construction put upon his action by the neighbours) he had built a high wall round his house and tiny garden, to shield himself from the public gaze; although nobody wanted to look at him. Then, suddenly tiring of his dwelling when he had finished spoiling it, he put up a board announcing that it was to let, just in time for it to be pounced upon by the fair Maude, who was charmed by the dignified seclusion offered by the high wall, and by its nearneighbourhood to dear cousin John. Furthermore the house had what she described as a “magnificent entrance,” which meant that a great deal of the space which ought to have been utilised in enlarging the poor little dining-room, was wasted on a big draughty hall, in which the four winds found a charming playground from which to distribute themselves up and down and around into every corner of the house. There was also a good-sized drawing-room, which was to be the scene of certain functions which were to bring a breath of Bayswater into benighted Wyngham.
Long before the harmless, necessary plumber was out of the house, long before the carpets were down or the new papers were dry, Mrs. Graham-Shute had resolved upon most of the details of a house-warming, which was to be remembered as an epoch in the local annals. In honour of the occasion, Lilith had fortunately discovered a talent for dramatic authorship, and had fashioned a play which was to be the chief feature of the evening’s entertainment. Having got as far as this, Mrs. Graham-Shute, long before the moving was accomplished, proceeded to send out invitations to all those people whose acquaintance she had made, or had not made, as the case might be, during her week’s stay at dear cousin John’s. The next thing to be done was to call upon the editor ofThe Wyngham Observer(with which is incorporatedThe Little Wosham Times), to ask him to insert, under the heading of “A Distinguished Arrival,” an account of the proposed function which she had thoughtfully written out beforehand. But the editor had, as she afterwards expressed it, “no enterprise, no manners, no anything,” for he mildlyinformed the lady that if he inserted her contribution it must be paid for as an advertisement.
Then began the first of the poor lady’s difficulties. Of course she sent an invitation to dear cousin John. Equally, of course, she sent none to the housekeeper or the housekeeper’s daughter. Then she received a blunt note from Mr. Bradfield, informing her that unless Mrs. and Miss Abercarne came too, he shouldn’t come. Remonstrances followed, but were unavailing; then Mrs. Graham-Shute made a feeble stand; but the thought of what life would be at Wyngham without the countenance of the Great Man prevailed, and Mrs. and Miss Abercarne got their invitation, which Mr. Bradfield then put pressure on them to accept.
What a frantic state of excitement pervaded “The Cottage” on the day of the “function!” What skirmishes there were among the performers! What rushes into the town on the part of the younger members of the family for a pound of sweet biscuits, a packet of candles, sixpennyworth of daffodils, and two syphons of lemonade! Not to speak of a running stream of messengers to cousin John’s, with pressing requests for the loan of a dozen chairs, a bottle of whisky and a tea-tray! As Mrs. Graham-Shute feelingly said, “It was quite lucky, as it happened, those wretched Abercarneshadbeen invited, you know!”
And so indeed it was. But when at last the evening came, Mrs. Graham-Shute felt that her exertions had met with their reward, for there was not a space sufficient for the accommodation of one person which did not hold two. This was the very height of enjoyment to the good lady, who received each guest witha fixed, galvanic smile, and said she was “sodelighted that you could come, you know,” the while she looked over the shoulder of the guest whose hand she held, too obviously occupied in counting the number of people who pressed in behind. It was indeed, as she afterwards said, a most successful function. Number of guests, eighty—seats for thirty-five. Sandwiches for five-and-twenty; tea for all those enterprising and muscular enough to make their way into the dining-room, where Rose, feeble and frightened, drifted round the tea-table rather than presided at it.
There was some delay before the entertainment of the evening began; this is inevitable when you have to wait until the last guest has passed safely in before you can set your stage. By-the-bye, there was no stage proper, a space being railed off merely from the hall-door to about half-way up the hall, so that it was exceedingly disconcerting when the two Misses Blake, elderly and slow both of movement and understanding, knocked at the door at the most thrilling moment of the drama, and had to be let in right between the villain and the lady he was trying to murder. To avoid a secondcontretempsof the same kind, one of the younger children was told off to stand in the cold outside, to show late comers in by the back door.
Unluckily the play, a harmless charade of the forcible-feeble order, took place under some disadvantages. In the first place, as the stage was on the same level as the auditorium, only the people in the first two rows could see anything of what was going on. In the second place, the performers, although they were all dead-letter perfect, and had been pretty well rehearsed, had not mastered the acoustics of the hall, and were seldom heard. In thethird place, the seats were put so close together that everybody was on somebody else’s toes, or else on somebody else’s gown; and in the fourth place, the hall was so bitterly cold, and draughts blew in so steadily from under all the doors, that, compared with this improvised theatre, Mr. Bradfield’s barn had been a warm and cosy place. The only things which everybody heard were the rat-tat-tats at the door, and subsequently the voice of the eldest Miss Blake, who sat in the front row, and inquired from time to time, plaintively, “What they were saying,” and the answers which her obliging companion bawled in her ear.
However, Lilith, though not histrionically great, looked very pretty in grey hair, which made her young face look fresher than ever; and the place was crammed to suffocation. So Mrs. Graham-Shute who panted complacently at the remotest end of the hall, and tried to console those who could neither see nor hear, and who were restrained by her presence from the solace of conversation, was quite satisfied. And when the play was over, and everybody jumped up and fled frantically in search of fire to thaw themselves, she received, in perfect good faith, their vague congratulations.
There was only one drawback to her happiness; this was the persistency with which cousin John devoted himself to “those Abercarnes.”
Wherever Chris went, Mr. Bradfield followed, until, as Mrs. Graham-Shute said to Mrs. Browne:
“It really was quite a scandal, you know, and she could not understand how any right-minded girl could let herself be compromised like that!”
But Mrs. Browne, who was a good-natured old soul, only said that Chris was such a very pretty girl, thatif Mr. Bradfield didn’t follow her about somebody else would, and that she didn’t seem to encourage his attentions much. But this seemed to Mrs. Graham-Shute only a fresh injury, and she presently asked Donald, rather snappishly, to go and talk to that Abercarne girl, and distract her attention for a few moments, so that cousin John might have a few minutes to himself.
But Donald was angry, and said, sulkily, that he wasn’t going to be snubbed again. The fact was that, presuming a little upon his knowledge of her receipt of the letter which he had found in the garden, he had already tried to force atête-à-têteupon her. She had avoided it, and even spoken to him rather coldly; and Donald, who was neither young enough nor old enough for chivalry to be a strong point with him, had sworn revenge. So now he rushed at his opportunity.
“Snubbed!” echoed Mrs. Graham-Shute, scandalised; “a housekeeper’s daughter to dare to snubyou—a Graham-Shute—my son! No, no, Donald, you must have misunderstood her, you must really!”
“I know jolly well that I didn’t misunderstand,” blurted out Donald, in the usual highly-pitched family voice. “She simply dismissed me as if she’d been a princess, and I nobody at all, when all the time I could, if I liked——”
Here Donald paused, significantly, wishing to yield, with apparent reluctance, to his burning desire to betray the girl’s little secret.
Mrs. Graham-Shute’s face woke at once into eager interest. She was not at heart an ill-natured woman, and it would have given her no satisfaction to hear anything very dreadful to the girl’s discredit. Butsome trifling indiscretion, some girlish escapade, which it would annoy John Bradfield, and, perhaps, disgust him to know, that Mrs. Graham-Shute would have dearly liked to hear about.
“What is it! What is it she has done?” she asked, quickly. “You may tell your mother, you know. It is nothing serious, of course?”
“Well, I don’t know,” grumbled Donald, in a surly tone. “Some people might think it serious for a girl to keep up a correspondence with some fellow, who daren’t send his letters by post!”
“What!” cried Mrs. Graham-Shute. “Ah!—are you sure of this, Donald?”
Nothing could be better than this, if it were only true. There was no great harm in it, but it was just the sort of thing to put an elderly admirer on his guard.
“Has she got you to take letters for her, then?” she asked in horror.
“Me? No—not such a fool!” returned Donald, shortly.
The lad was uneasy, being ashamed of himself for having betrayed the girl’s confidence, forced though it had been, and afraid of the use his mother might make of it.
“Now, you won’t go and make any mischief, will you, mother?” he said earnestly, alarmed by the expression of satisfaction on her face.
“I should think you might trust me,” she said haughtily, as she moved away, anxious to make use, without delay, of her new weapon.
Having managed to detach cousin John momentarily from the Abercarnes, who were, in truth, glad of a little relief from his attentions, Mrs. Graham-Shuteasked her cousin to get her a cup of tea. He complied, and would immediately have escaped, but she detained him by bringing her fan down with a sharp snap on his arm.
“One moment, John; I think you might spare me one moment, especially as I want to talk to you about your favourites,” she said, rather snappishly, as he reluctantly waited.
“Oh, if you’re going on again about them,” said John shortly, “you may save yourself the trouble. Theyaremy favourites, and there’s an end of it.”
“Quite so,” rejoined his cousin sweetly. “It’s because of the great interest I know you take in them, that I want to speak to you. Who is this young fellow that Miss Abercarne is going to marry?”
This question, serenely put, though not without a strong touch of what a woman would have recognised as malice, had the desired effect of startling John Bradfield, as well as of making him very angry.
“What—what do you mean?” he asked shortly. “I’ve heard nothing about it. It’s some d—d nonsense somebody’s put into your head, and there’s not a word of truth in it, I’ll be bound.”
“My dear John, don’t be angry. Perhaps there is nothing; very likely not. If there had been anything in it, no doubt you would have heard. But as there’s no doubt she’s carrying on a correspondence with someonewho does not send his letters by post, I naturally thought that it must be with someone she thought about rather seriously. I daresay I was wrong. So sorry if I’ve made any mischief!” she added, as if in sudden surprise at the effect of her words. “But really, you know, girls shouldn’t do these things, now should they?”
Loud voices were the rule in the house, but Mrs. Graham-Shute was startled by the loudness of her cousin’s angry reply:
“It isn’t true!” roared he. “It isn’t true. It’s one of your infernal concoctions of a spiteful woman. I’ll go and ask her.”
“My dear John,” cried Maude, without temper, for she could not afford to quarrel with him, “my dear John, just consider a moment? What possible object could I have in saying it if it were not true? I should expose myself to all sorts of horrid things, and really deserve to be called spiteful—and nobody can say that of me, really—if I said a thing like that when it was not true. Can’t you see that for yourself?”
But John was blunt to the verge of rudeness.
“I can see that somebody’s been telling lies,” he said abruptly, as he turned on his heel, and fought his way back to where Chris was standing near her mother, who, having obtained one of the much-sought-after chairs, was lost to sight in the crowd of guests who had not been so lucky.
“Miss Christina!” said John Bradfield, not attempting to hide the fact that he was angry, “I’ve got something to say to you. Is it true that you’re carrying on a correspondence with someone?”
Chris turned deadly white, and every spark of animation suddenly left her face. Her mother, who was of necessity so close to her that not a look nor a word could escape her, broke in sharply:
“Chris! why don’t you answer? Ask who said such a thing. But of course I know who it was!”
And Mrs. Abercarne threw a steely glance towards the spot where Mrs. Graham-Shute’s large head couldbe seen bobbing amongst the throng, like a cork on a surging sea.
Still Chris made no answer, and her mother, suddenly perceiving how white she had grown, grew alarmed.
“Why don’t you deny it, child?” she asked in a low voice, quivering with earnestness, as she rose to whisper in her daughter’s ear.
The tears were in the girl’s eyes. She turned to her mother, and under the pretence of drawing round her shoulders the China crape shawl which Mrs. Abercarne wore as a wrap, she whispered:
“Mother, don’t be worried. But I can’t deny it; it’s true.”
Poor Mrs. Abercarne was thunder-struck. If she had been told ten minutes before that it was possible for her Chris, her little girl, as she persisted in calling her, to be guilty of keeping a secret from her, she would have treated the idea with scorn. So that at the first moment she was absolutely at a loss for words, and could only murmur:
“You, Chris! You!” with quite pathetic amazement and grief.
As for John Bradfield, who stood near enough in the crush to catch the purport of their words, his amazement had given place to a great fear. He did not dare to ask any details concerning her correspondence; being deterred, not so much by the knowledge that he had no right to do so, as by an alarming suspicion as to the identity of the unknown lover.
Fortunately the assembled guests were now beginning to carry out their long-felt wish to be gone; so Mrs. Abercarne and her daughter took advantageof the thinning of the crowd around them to make their escape also.
Mrs. Graham-Shute was bidding her guests farewell with the bored look which comes of the consciousness of duty fulfilled. As she shook hands and listened to their stereotyped words of thanks, she expressed the hope that they had enjoyed themselves, though she might have known they hadn’t. Then they all trooped out, and drove or walked home, exchanging comments which would have taken the poor lady’s breath away, and made her forswear the world for its base ingratitude.