Captain Sargent was somewhat disheartened by Lesbia's steady opposition to his wooing. He was not virile enough to take her heart by storm, and his usual tactics did not seem to succeed with this cool, quiet, observant girl, who looked at him so straight. Also his threats of harming George Walker and Mr. Hale proved to be but blunt weapons and could not penetrate the shield of Lesbia's composure. Sargent retreated from the field of battle thoroughly beaten, and he must have confessed as much to Hale, for that gentleman took his daughter to task when she returned to the cottage after her secret interview with Canning. The unsuccessful lover had already departed, and Lesbia listened for ten minutes to her father's denunciations of what he was pleased to style her wickedness.
"You ought to be flattered that so rich and handsome a man loves you," raged Mr. Hale, who for once in his life lost his self-control. "You seem to forget that if I died to-morrow--and I might as my heart is affected--you would be left penniless."
Lesbia raised her eyebrows. "I understood you to say that you could leave me two thousand a year," she observed quietly.
"If you marry as I wish," cried her father furiously, "not otherwise. Failing your becoming the wife of my dear friend, Sargent, I shall leave the money to Lord Charvington."
"Well," said the girl cheerfully, "that would only be fair, since he has paid you a pension for so long."
"What do you know about that?" snapped Hale, changing colour.
"Very little. But you certainly told me in an expansive moment that Lord Charvington, as your cousin, allowed you a small income."
"Precious small," muttered Hale, not contradicting.
"But why does he allow you anything?" asked Lesbia, very directly, "with two thousand a year you cannot wish for his help."
Hale took a turn up and down the room, then stopped opposite to his daughter and spoke in quieter tones, but none the less emphatic. "I am not enjoying two thousand a year at present," he declared slowly, "and so accept an annuity from Charvington, who, being my cousin, has every right to assist me."
"I don't see that," murmured the girl, shrugging.
"It doesn't matter what you see, or what you don't see," cried Hale, his temper again getting beyond control. "Do as you are told, or chance the consequences."
"Be a pawn in fact," she rejoined ironically. "A pawn on your chess-board."
Hale shrugged in his turn. "Put it how you like," he retorted, "but obey."
"Certainly not. I am a human being and have the right to----"
"You have the right to do nothing," broke in her father desperately. "See here, my girl, you are making a great mistake by not letting me guide you. Had you been open about that amethyst cross, I should never have allowed you to give it to George Walker. Its possession means more than you think. The two thousand a year depends upon its production."
"Oh!" Lesbia opened her eyes widely. "I see. Then you are willing that I should marry George if you get this two thousand."
"Yes," said Hale bluntly, "but for circumstances which do not concern you--I prefer that you should marry Sargent."
"Marriage with anyone concerns me a great deal," said Lesbia coolly, "and I decline to marry a man I do not love. As to the cross: it was my own property left to me by my mother, and if its production will bring me two thousand a year I am very sorry it is lost."
"I did not say that it meant two thousand a year toyou," said Hale uneasily, and with a scowl.
"Pardon me, father. I assume that, since I am the owner of the cross. However, it is lost and neither I nor you know where to find it. That being the case I refuse to marry Captain Sargent and shall marry George."
"You have sent him away: you forget that."
"I can bring him again to my feet."
"Lesbia Lesbia! you are playing with fire."
"Probably, but I shall continue to play until you tell me the meaning of all these things."
"I have told you about the cross----"
"Quite so," interrupted the girl drily, "and I now know why George was assaulted and his mother's cottage robbed."
"You dare to say that I am the guilty person," demanded her father suspiciously.
"Oh no. If you were, you would have the cross; and thus being able to get the two thousand a year, you would not oppose my marriage with George. You are innocent!"
"Thank you for nothing," sneered Hale coolly, "but you can reckon on this, Lesbia, that if I could have knocked down George and have robbed him of the cross I should have done so."
"That is candid, father."
"You asked me to be candid. But, hold your tongue, or else talk sense. You must marry Sargent. I shall not allow you to throw yourself away on that thief, and----"
"Stop!" cried Lesbia, rising indignantly, "you shall not call George names in my hearing. He is no thief."
"Can you prove that?"
It was on the tip of the girl's tongue to speak out and accuse Tait. But she first desired to see Maud Ellis in order to cut her claws, and therefore, with a self-restraint far beyond her years, she shook her head.
Hale sneered again, "You are a silly romantic fool," he scoffed, "and sooner or later I shall force you to do my will."
"Never! Never! Never!"
"Oh, very well," replied Hale, baffled by her obstinacy, "then I shall go to London and leave you here. I shall not speak to you, or eat with you, or have anything to do with you, until you obey me as a daughter should," and turning on his heel, he departed in cold anger.
Hale duly kept his promise and went away leaving the girl to her own devices. But so clever a man should have known that the punishment--as he deemed it--was no punishment at all. He had never been a father to Lesbia in the accepted sense of the word, and she had but small affection for him. Alone with Tim, she was much happier than when in Mr. Hale's chilling presence, and preferred his room to his company. Also, he was really playing into her hands, as she wished to be alone in order to see Maud and bring her to reason. It was not Lesbia's wish to call again at Henley, as she thought that she could deal better with Miss Ellis when she was on her native heath. Therefore, now that Hale was out of the way, and she was free to do what she desired, she set to work to concoct a plot, whereby to bring Maud Ellis to the cottage at Marlow.
To this end she wrote a letter stating that she and George were to be married shortly, and that Miss Ellis's scheme had failed. This artful epistle she posted to Henley, hoping that if Miss Ellis was in London it would be forwarded to her there. She felt certain--since, being a woman, she knew woman's nature better than a man could know it--that Maud would seek an interview and come to Rose Cottage. Of course there was the chance that Maud might first interview Walker, and then learn the falsity of the statement. But in that case, George would come to learn the truth, and then she could tell him what Canning had discovered. In fact, owing to the skilful way in which Lesbia played her one trump card, she was certain to bring to the cottage either Maud Ellis or George Walker: and whichever came, she was prepared to deal with the situation. All the same, she hoped that Maud would be the one to put in an appearance, as if she could silence her, she could then call at the Medmenham cottage and explain to her lover the reason why she had dismissed him. Accordingly, when the letter setting the trap was posted, Lesbia sat down to think over the behaviour of Walker.
It puzzled her that he should so tamely accept his dismissal. On the face of it she had treated him cruelly, and had given no reason for abruptly breaking off the engagement. All the same, she considered, woman-like, that he should not have acquiesced too readily to her proposal that they should never meet again. But she forgot that George was a proud man, and that the sole reason he could assign for her dismissing him, was the fact that he was suspected of robbery. If she believed him guilty--George, as she might have thought, would have argued in this way--and had not sufficient love to stand up for him, then she was not worthy of the worship he bestowed on her. But Lesbia did not think thus. She only knew that she had sent George to the right-about and that he had gone away without looking back for a single moment. This was not as it should be, said the woman within her, and therefore she secretly felt annoyed with Walker for his too ready obedience. It can therefore be seen that Lesbia Hale was intensely feminine. Perhaps on that account George loved her the more, since the unexpected in woman is always what lures the man.
However, think what she would, and argue as she might, the fact remained that Walker kept away from Rose Cottage and that she had not sufficient courage to face her lover, when under the wing of his mother. Lesbia missed the golden days of wooing dreadfully, and in their absence was anxious to carry on her counterplot, if only to fill in the time. Besides, there would be a considerable amount of pleasure in beating Miss Ellis with her own weapons. It was therefore a happy day to Lesbia that brought the stockbroker's niece into the trap, as this time the biter was about to be bitten. And Lesbia, being a woman and dealing with a woman, determined to show no mercy since Maud had shown none. Besides, the two were fighting over a man, and so reverted to the ethics of cave life and pre-historic struggle.
Within four days of the posting of the letter, Miss Ellis arrived and was shown by Tim into the tiny drawing-room. It was empty, as Lesbia had seen her rival coming, and therefore had departed to change her frock. Also she hoped to make Maud lose her temper by enforced waiting, knowing that if she did, there would be less difficulty in dealing with her. Unsophisticated as Lesbia was, she instinctively knew how to fight. Her tactics were correct, for when she entered spick and span and smiling into the drawing-room, she found Maud fuming restlessly, and quite ready to pick a quarrel on the score of uncivil treatment.
"I have been kept waiting," said Miss Ellis in a Louis XIV tone, and putting up a lorgnette to glare at her much too beautiful rival.
"I am so sorry," responded Lesbia politely. "But I was not dressed to receive anyone, and your visit is unexpected."
Maud laughed contemptuously. "You knew that I would come," she declared with conviction. "You have been looking out for me every day."
"Yousay so," said Lesbia, still graciously, for since the last interview at Henley, she had changed her tactics with Miss Ellis. "Will you not be seated? This chair is most comfortable, it has its back to the light."
"I don't need to sit with my back to the light," flashed Maud indignantly.
"Oh, I beg pardon, but from that lorgnette I thought that your eyes might be weak. Sit here then, in the full warmth of the sunshine."
But Miss Ellis knew better than to let the searching light reveal her age too clearly to her hostess. "I'll sit here," she declared abruptly, and came to rest on the sofa.
"That's right," said Lesbia caressingly, "It's a nice shady corner."
Maud bit her lip, knowing perfectly well that Lesbia was casting a reflection on her age. But having taken the seat she could scarcely leave it without laying herself open to further pointed remarks, so she remained where she was and came to the object of her visit at once. "What do you mean by writing me this letter?" she demanded, producing the epistle of her hostess.
"I mean to show you that your plot to part George and myself has failed."
Miss Ellis crushed up the letter savagely. "Has it," she inquired, "seeing that you have broken your engagement?"
"How do you know that?"
"Mrs. Walker told me. And very glad she is I can tell you. Mrs. Walker is an old friend of my uncle's and has known me for years. She wants George to marry me. She told me so only a few days ago."
"As if it mattered what she said," retorted Lesbia contemptuously.
"She is George's mother."
"No one denies that."
"And as he is her son, he should obey her."
"Even when she wants him to marry a woman he cares nothing for."
"George does care for me," cried Maud, a deep flush overspreading her face even to the roots of her sandy hair. "I admit that when he was engaged to you, he would not look at me. But now that you have thrown him over so cruelly, he has turned to me for consolation."
"I don't believe it," said Lesbia quickly.
"You must, you shall," snapped Miss Ellis very much in earnest. "Look here, this sort of thing won't do."
"What sort of thing?"
"This enmity you have towards me. I don't know why you are behaving so exasperatingly," wailed Maud plaintively. "When you came to Henley, it was the first time we met, and for your father's sake I was anxious to make a friend of you. But you were so rude and so silly that I could not. But I am willing to make every allowance for your want of training, and so I have come here to ask you to be friends."
"Oh, I don't mind, provided you will leave George alone."
"I shan't, so there. I love him."
"So do I. And as he loves me I have the prior claim."
"But you have broken your engagement and so have left the field open to me. Don't be a dog in the manger."
"I am not. I love George and I have always loved him. I sent the letter I did because of what my father told me. You lured George into a trap, and--as you said yourself at Henley--you can get him arrested. Because of your attitude I was compelled to dismiss him, or see him ruined."
Miss Ellis put up her lorgnette with an air of triumph. "You have stated the case accurately, save for one remark," she declared. "Icanruin George Walker, and I shall do so unless he marries me. But I did not lure him into a trap. I merely took advantage of circumstances."
"Which you knew existed."
"What do you mean by that?"
"What I say," retorted Lesbia, keeping her eyes on Maud's face. "You appointed that place and that hour of meeting in order to implicate George in a robbery which you knew was about to take place."
Miss Ellis sprang to her feet with a white face and trembling hands. "You go too far," she said, in a suffocating voice. "Why should I?--Why should I?--Oh," she stamped, "your remarks are infamous."
"They are true."
"It's a lie! they are not true. I had no idea that my uncle's strong-room was to be robbed of those jewels on that night and at that hour. If I had known I should have prevented the robbery."
"Mr. Tait would not have thanked you for doing so," replied Lesbia meaningly.
"Are you mad?" gasped Maud, and her face became a dull brick-red.
"No," answered Lesbia drily, "I am merely well-informed."
"Informed of what?" Miss Ellis moistened her dry lips.
"That Mr. Tait wanted money to tide over a financial crisis, and arranged to have the jewels stolen, so that he could sell them secretly."
"It's a lie--a lie," cried Maud again, and the perspiration broke out on her quivering face; "my uncle is a wealthy man: everyone knows that. If he wanted money he could have sold the jewels openly--they were his own."
"You forget the insurance at Lloyd's."
Maud dropped on to the sofa as though she had been shot. "The insurance?"
"Yes. Mr. Tait insured those jewels for something like twenty thousand pounds, and so had them stolen. Certainly he could have sold them openly, as you say, but then he would have got only half the money he requires."
"Half the money?" Maud gasped again, and suddenly looked double her age.
"Of course, twenty thousand pounds. By insuring the jewels and by having them stolen, he will gain the proceeds of the sale he has arranged with the thieves, besides the twenty thousand from the insurance."
"You dare--to--accuse--my--oh," Maud jumped up fiercely and stamped angrily, "it is ridiculous; what proof have you of this absurd tale?"
"I have absolute proof," said Lesbia quietly and rising in her turn. "Mr. Canning--The Shadow--who watched me here at my father's request, found out what I say and, if necessary, he can prove the truth of what he found out. And he will, at my request, if you do not promise to leave George alone and swear that you will not accuse him of a crime of which--as you knew all the time--he is innocent."
But Maud heard only half this speech. "Canning, The Shadow," she muttered, "do you mean Captain Sargent's valet?"
"Yes. I nursed him through an illness, and he has shown his gratitude to me by discovering your uncle's plot, and proving your knowledge of it. I can prove what I say with Canning's assistance, and I shall do so, unless you promise to do as I have asked you."
Maud buttoned her jacket with trembling hands and moved towards the door hastily. "You are talking rubbish," she muttered in a thick voice. "I refuse to talk of the matter. It is too silly. But," she faced round, "I shall tell my uncle, and he shall have you put in gaol."
"He will be in gaol himself," retorted Lesbia "As soon as you leave this house, I shall arrange with Mr. Canning to go to the police and state what he told me."
"You would not dare."
"Yes, I would, unless you swear not to accuse George and promise to leave him to me. I said that before: I say so again, and for the last time."
"It's a----" Maud was about to say that it was a lie for the third time, but the word died away on her lips. Whether Maud was cognizant of the plot to steal the jewels Lesbia could not say, as she made no remark on this point: but her very silence showed that she was in the business. Lesbia's attitude left her no alternative but to make terms, since if she left the house, there was every danger that her uncle might be arrested. "If I do what you ask, will you hold your tongue?" Maud demanded faintly.
"Then you admit that what I say is true?" countered Miss Hale.
"No," almost shouted Miss Ellis, "I do not. Still, mud sticks however wrongly thrown, and I do not want my uncle to suffer through me. As to Canning, oh, my uncle will deal with him I promise you. Not a word. I agree to all you ask. I must. I shall not accuse George: I shall leave him to you and," she leaned forward with a snarl, "I shall bring misery on you at the eleventh hour."
"I defy you," retorted Lesbia with scorn.
"Very good." Maud smiled in an evil way. "We shall see who wins the dangerous game you are playing. I----" she broke off abruptly and left in haste.
The meeting of the two girls who loved George seemed destined to end abruptly. On the first occasion Lesbia had broken short the interview at Henley, and on the second Maud had hastened away from Rose Cottage. Lesbia wondered that she had not remained to talk further, and was rather anxious when she remembered that Maud had left with a threat on her lips. Miss Ellis was clever and cunning and reckless, and in one way or another might work mischief. Not that Lesbia saw any chance of her doing any, since she knew too much for Maud's peace of mind. Without doubt what Canning had discovered was true, else Maud would not have surrendered so easily. Lesbia thought until she was weary about the matter, and especially how Canning could have discovered the truth so speedily. She would have asked him point-blank in spite of his prohibition, but that he was in London. And as yet he had not written to tell where he was hiding.
However, as things stood, there was no doubt that Maud would keep her promise, and that George was safe. On the day after the stockbroker's niece had paid her visit, Lesbia wrote a long letter to Walker, and detailed all that Canning had discovered and also narrated its effect on Maud Ellis. Further, she gave George to understand how she had been compelled to write the letter of dismissal, and ended up with a fond wish that her lover should come and see her at once. When this letter was posted Lesbia began to dream of Walker's speedy return, and haunted the garden in order to see his boat coming swiftly down the river.
But the boat never came, nor did any letter from George. Day after day Lesbia watched the stream: watched also the postman, but in every case she was disappointed. Walker must have received the letter, else it would have been returned through the Dead Letter Office, so it was strange, seeing how she had explained matters, that he did not appear. Or at least he might have written. The girl wearying for love grew peaked and wan, much to the distress of Tim, who could not understand. Finally, Lesbia told him the whole story, and sent him over to the cottage at Medmenham to see if Walker had received the letter. Tim returned somewhat downcast.
"Masther Garge has been in London these six days," said Tim, "and the misthress--his blissid mother, towld me she'd sint the letter to him. He's got it, me dear, but the divil knows why he doesn't write ye the scratch av a pen. Augh, me dear, nivir trouble him again. Sure there's more fish in the say nor ivir come out av that same."
"George is the only man in the world for me," said Lesbia firmly, although the tears were in her eyes, "and I'll never give him up, until I hear him say that he loves another. This is Miss Ellis's work."
"Och murder, me dear, it's a baste she is entoirely. But from what ye towld me, Miss, ye drew the teeth av her."
"She went away with a threat," sighed Lesbia dismally. "She can't force my George to marry her now; but evidently she can prevent his returning to me as I want him to. Oh Tim, what am I to do now?"
"See Masther Garge and ask him plain, Miss."
"But I have not the money to go to London, and besides, I do not know where George is stopping," protested Lesbia, wringing her hands.
"See his ould mother, the saints be good to her! for an iceberg she is," suggested Tim after a pause. "Sure she'll tell ye where he is, me dear."
"No, Tim, no. Mrs. Walker hates my father, and would rather die than see her son become my husband."
"Hates the masther, is ut?" muttered the crooked little man frowning. "And if so, me darlin' heart, why shud she come to see him?"
"Come to see him," echoed Lesbia staring, "why Mrs. Walker has never been here to see my father in her life. I understood from George that she hated my father. In that case she will never come here. If she did come," sighed Lesbia, "I might soften her heart so that she might be on my side. I am sure I could win her over."
"Well, Miss Lesbia, ye can but try, for the ould woman is coming here to-morrow afternoon to see the masther."
"But he's away, Tim."
"Sure, Miss, he sint me the scratch av a pin sayin' he was coming back this very day. I towld the ould woman, whin she axed me, so she's coming to have a talk wid him. An' the divil will make a third wid them two," muttered Tim crossing himself, "saints kape us from harm!"
Lesbia was much astonished at this news, as Mrs. Walker had never been to Rose Cottage before, and moreover--on the word of her son--she both despised and hated Mr. Hale. The girl wondered if the visit had anything to do with the letter she had lately written to George. Perhaps Maud's threat had meant that she would enlist Mrs. Walker on her side to stop the marriage, since Maud herself, for obvious reasons, was powerless to do so. But then, in any case, Mrs. Walker disapproved of the marriage, so there was no need for Maud to interfere. Also, if the letter had been forwarded to George in London--and Lesbia saw no reason why it should not have been forwarded--he must have received the same. If so, why did he not reply, seeing that she had completely exonerated herself, and was anxious to renew the engagement which for George's own sake she had been forced to break? Poor Lesbia thought over these questions until she was weary and her head ached, but she could find no reply. The only thing to be done, was to wait until the formidable Mrs. Walker arrived: then a few minutes' conversation with her might reveal the reason of George's strange behaviour.
Mr. Hale duly returned, and seemed even angrier and more sullen than he had been before he went away. He scarcely spoke to his daughter, and several times he looked at her with positive dread in his usually cold eyes. It appeared as though he considered Lesbia as a careless child with a box of matches, who might at any moment set the house on fire. Lesbia had a feeling that he was terribly angry with her, and yet that this anger was mixed with a certain amount of dread. However, he contented himself with looking daggers, and to avoid further disturbances, she did not ask him any questions. But the house was very uncomfortable. Then at breakfast next morning, on the day when Mrs. Walker was expected, Hale surprised the girl by announcing an invitation.
"I saw Lord Charvington when I was in town," said Hale, keeping his pale eyes on his plate. "For some reason he chose to remember your existence."
Lesbia gasped, and wondered if Charvington had told her father of the money she had borrowed. In that case Hale would question her as to the use she had made of it, and then her counterplot with Canning would come to light with disastrous results. But Hale's further conversation made it plain that Charvington had said nothing about the loan.
"He asked how you were," pursued Hale softly, and still keeping his eyes on his plate, "and if you had grown up a pretty girl. He hasn't seen you for a long time, remember. Considering how badly you have behaved, Lesbia, I spoke better of you than you deserved, so Charvington--prepare yourself for a surprise--has asked you to stop at his country-house. He told me that his wife would send you the invitation."
"It is very good of him," said Lesbia faintly. "But I really do not want to go, father."
Hale looked up with a scowl. "Always opposition," he grumbled, "youshallgo, child. If you won't marry Sargent, there will be a chance of your making a good match when under Lady Charvington's wing. She has daughters of her own, too, so you will have a very good time."
"Why should Lord Charvington ask me?"
"I can't say. . . . He suddenly seems to have remembered your existence. Of course, as my daughter you are related to him. However, the chance of a visit at such a country house is a very good one for you, so get ready to start when the invitation comes. Do you want any frocks, or----"
"No. I have everything," said Lesbia, rising; "after all perhaps the change will do me good, and I should like to see a little of the world."
"You will see plenty of it with Charvington and his wife. They are a gay couple, and entertain largely. They are at their country seat near Maidenhead for a week; but if you play your cards well Lady Charvington may take you to London for the rest of the season."
Lesbia nodded and went into the garden. Here she sat on the bench under the chestnut, and thought over the glittering prospect which was now open to her. She loved George and was contented with the quiet life, provided he shared it with her. But as he was absent and was behaving so very strangely, she thought that it would be best to plunge into society if only to forget her aching heart. And if George would not marry her, it might be that she would meet with some other man, who would take her away from the uncomfortable life with her father. In her own heart Lesbia knew that she could love no one but George Walker. Still she could not force him to marry her, and he appeared to have accepted her letter of dismissal as final in spite of the second epistle stating why she wrote the first. The poor girl felt very sad and very lonely, and her tears rained down, salt and bitter, as she sat a solitary figure under the glorious tree. The blackbird was piping again, as he had done when George proposed; but it seemed to her ears that the song was now sad. But that probably was mere fancy.
At one o'clock Lesbia returned to the cottage, wondering why all these troubles had come upon her. It really seemed as though Tim's idea about the bad luck of the cross was true, for ever since she had bestowed it on her lover there had been nothing but sorrow and mystery. Even George had not escaped misfortune, since he had been assaulted and robbed, and had lost his situation through being accused unjustly of a crime he had never committed. But Lesbia was a reader of fairy tales, and remembered that the prince and princess always have much grief before peace and joy arrive, so she hoped that in some way--she could not see how--the bad luck which was upon her and George would pass away leaving them married and rich and happy. But, at present, it must be confessed that there did not appear to be much chance of such good fortune.
"The ould woman has come this very minit," whispered Tim, meeting the girl at the back door. "I've put her in the parlour, but the masther is out."
"My father is certain to come into luncheon," said Lesbia hurriedly.
"Av coorse he is," muttered Tim, "a mighty dainty man he is fur the inside av him. But she's axing for you, Miss, and----"
"I'll go to her," interrupted Lesbia, "meanwhile, Tim, lay another place at the table. I daresay Mrs. Walker is hungry."
With these instructions Lesbia sought the small parlour, and entered to find it occupied by a modern Lady Macbeth. Mrs. Walker clothed in rich but funereal-looking garments of the deepest black was seated majestically on the sofa. Without rising she raised a pair of piercing eyes to look at the girl, and a brief expression of surprise flitted across her impassive face. She had scarcely expected to find the girl so beautiful, as she had always taken her son's enthusiastic descriptions with a grain of salt. However, she privately admitted that George was right for once and she greeted the girl with stiff kindness. And indeed it was hard even for a lady of Mrs. Walker's hard nature to be angry with Lesbia, who looked such a child, and who behaved so sweetly.
"I am very glad to see you," said Mrs. Walker, looking anxiously into the girl's delicate face. "You remind me of someone who--no, I can't recall of whom you remind me. Still--" she searched anxiously--"you are very like someone I knew."
"Perhaps my mother," Lesbia ventured to remark. "My late nurse, Bridget Burke, told me I closely resembled my mother."
"I never met your mother," said Mrs. Walker, dropping Lesbia's hand quickly and becoming stiffer than ever. "Your father and I were never friends, my dear. I should not be here to-day, save that I have come to ask him about some business connected with money I expect to inherit. Also," added Mrs. Walker unexpectedly, "I wanted to see you. George had talked much of you, my child, and seems to have loved you greatly. I can't blame him, and the wonder is that he should give you up."
Lesbia clasped her small hands and sank into a chair, her face white and her eyes widely open. "George has never given me up," she said faintly. "I wrote and told him why I was forced to send him the first letter, and----"
"Yes, yes!" Mrs. Walker waved a beautifully-gloved hand. "I was in London the other day--in fact I took your letter to George. He showed it to me and told me everything."
"And what did you say?"
Mrs. Walker's deep, black brows drew together. "Of course the whole thing is rubbish," she said harshly, "and only a love-sick girl like Maud Ellis would act in that way. I suppose much must be forgiven her, as she really loves my son. But after her behaviour, I shall never consent to her marrying him. No! no! That would never do. Especially, now that we know her uncle is such a rogue. I wanted George to tell the police, but he refused."
Lesbia cared very little for the fate of Tait. What she much desired to know was her own. "You said that George has ceased to care for me," she remarked with a pale smile. "I don't understand."
Mrs. Walker gave her a pitying look. "Nor do I, now that I have seen you, my dear. I don't like your father--I never did, and I would rather have died than have seen George marrying his daughter. Your looks and nature have made me change my mind. There is nothing of your father about you. Had I seen you before----" Mrs. Walker broke off and shook her stately head, "but it is too late. George will not renew the engagement."
"Oh, I can't believe that," cried the girl weeping and trembling.
"Strange," muttered the elder woman, "you have been quite a heroine in clearing George's character, for which I am greatly obliged to you. Yet here you are crying like a schoolgirl."
"I love him so much: I love him so deeply."
"My poor child, it is the fate of women to have their hearts broken. I do not know why George still refuses to renew the engagement in the face of your letter, but he does. Here," Mrs. Walker took an envelope out of her bag and handed it to the shaking girl, "you can read his decision in his own handwriting. He asked me to give you this."
With great delicacy she turned away her head, while Lesbia tore open the envelope with shaking hands. There were only a few lines, but these intimated plainly that George had accepted his dismissal, and would not seek to renew the engagement. "I love you still, my dearest," wrote Walker in conclusion, "but Fate wills that we must part for ever." Then there were a few tender words, and the epistle ended abruptly, as though the writer could not trust his emotions. Lesbia read the lines, folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope which she put into her pocket. Her eyes were dry now, and her white face was flushed with colour. With a deep sigh she touched the elder woman on the shoulder, "I understand," she said calmly.
Mrs. Walker, whose sympathies--remarkably in so cold a woman--were now entirely with Lesbia, grew snappy to conceal her emotion. "I don't," she said acidly, "and when George returns to Medmenham I shall have an explanation with him. He's a fool."
"No," said Lesbia, her face growing even a deeper red. "Can't you see that George is only acting in this way to save me?"
"To save you from what?" asked Mrs. Walker shortly.
"I don't know. I can't say," Lesbia spoke more to herself than to her visitor. "But I feel sure that George wrote this letter as I wrote my first one to him. I wrote to save him, and now he refuses to renew our engagement to save me. I don't understand, still--oh I am sure that everything will come right. I trust in God."
"You do well to do so," said Mrs. Walker gravely, "for only He can help you, my child. I am thoroughly puzzled, and know not what to say."
"Say nothing: do nothing," cried Lesbia eagerly. "Things will work out to a happy end in their due time."
"You are sure of that?"
"I am certain."
"Then," said Mrs. Walker grimly, "you must have a sixth sense which I do not possess. However, I am glad that you have not given way to hysteria. You are a brave girl, and I would rather have you for my daughter-in-law than I would any one else, in spite of your father. There," Mrs. Walker bent forward and actually kissed the girl's lips. "That shows I mean what I say."
"Oh!" Lesbia returned the kiss, blushing divinely, "George said that you hated me, and----"
"How could I hate a girl I had never seen?" snapped Mrs. Walker, ashamed of her momentary humanity. "I hate your father, and--well there, say no more about the matter. I hope with all my heart that things will turn out well for you and George, as you appear to think they will. Meanwhile while we are waiting for your father, tell me about the amethyst cross."
Lesbia started to her feet in astonishment. "The cross," she echoed. "I have lost it. You know that I gave it to----"
"Yes! Yes!" Mrs. Walker waved her hand impatiently. "I know about the robbery and how no one can find the cross. It must be found, nevertheless. But I wish to learn exactly how it came into your possession. George told me something about the matter, but like a man he told it very badly. For this reason I have come to see you, as well as Mr. Hale, whom I detest," added Mrs. Walker severely. "Where did you get the cross?"
"From my mother. That is, the cross belonged to her. She left it to my nurse Bridget Burke----"
"Where is she?"
"Dead. She died some time ago."
"Unlucky," muttered Mrs. Walker with a dark look. "Well?"
"My mother told Bridget to give it to me, and to tell me that I was never to part with it save to the man I loved. Then you know"--Lesbia blushed again--"I gave it to George."
"Yes. I know of that and of the loss. I said so before. But how did the cross come into your mother's possession?"
Lesbia shook her head. "I really cannot tell you."
Mrs. Walker frowned again, and turned her steely eyes towards the door. Her quick ears had caught a soft foot-fall, and her quick eyes had seen the half-open door move. "Come in, Mr. Hale," she said loudly, "we are saying nothing which you cannot hear."
Hale, who apparently had been listening, entered, looking perfectly cool and composed. "The cross did not belong to Lesbia's mother," he said quietly, but the look in his eyes as they rested on Mrs. Walker was not pleasant.
Lesbia uttered an exclamation when she heard the astonishing remark of her father, and started to her feet. But Mrs. Walker, grimly silent, kept her seat and glared, like Medusa, on the newcomer. If she could have turned him into stone she would willingly have done so, as could be seen from the expression of her hard eyes. Hale, perfectly cool, in spite of the insulting speech which she made, took a chair and looked at her with deliberate insolence. Also deliberately he reverted to her insult.
"I was just passing along to the dining-room," he explained slowly, "when I heard voices and your last question. I entered at once and was not eavesdropping, as you are pleased to say."
"There is no need to excuse yourself," said Mrs. Walker tartly, "for----"
Hale crossed his legs and leaned back. "In my own house I think not."
"For I don't believe a word you say," she finished harshly.
"Naturally you would not," rejoined Mr. Hale smoothly; "you were always a hard and suspicious woman."
Mrs. Walker moved her hands restlessly, and her eyes gleamed fiercer than ever. "You know better than that," she muttered. "Take your mind back thirty years."
"Willingly," said Hale, with great promptness. "Do you wish us to speak of the past in Lesbia's presence?"
This time he scored, for Mrs. Walker winced. "There is no need for the child to hear old stories," she remarked, with suppressed passion. "Let us discuss what I have come to see you about."
"The cross?"
"Oh," she flashed scornfully, "I thought you were not eavesdropping?"
"I admitted that I heard your last question," said Hale, with a shrug, "but you never would listen."
"I am listening now. Say what you have to say."
"I have said all that I intend to say, Mrs. Walker. The amethyst cross did not belong to Lesbia's mother."
The girl uttered another exclamation; she was lost in astonishment. "But, father," she remonstrated, "Bridget told me on her death-bed----"
"What she told you was what I instructed her to say," interrupted Hale imperiously. "But your mother--my wife--never possessed such an ornament."
Lesbia looked at him doubtfully. Of late, she had suspected that her father was not above telling a falsehood to serve his own private ends, and in the face of what she knew, it appeared as though he was telling one now--why, she could not conjecture. While she was trying to puzzle out the reason, Mrs. Walker rose and swept across to the window of the drawing-room which looked out into the road. "I don't see him yet," she muttered to herself, and consulted a bracelet-watch attached to her left wrist.
"Are you expecting anyone?" asked Hale politely. "Mr. Jabez, my family lawyer," she replied curtly, and returned to her seat.
Hale raised his eyebrows and looked more gentlemanly than ever; also a trifle dangerous. "You asked him to my house?"
"Yes, because I want to hear all about the cross. Oh, I know well that you do not wish to see Mr. Jabez, Walter, but----"
"You call me Walter," said Hale, and suddenly flushed.
"A slip of the tongue," retorted Mrs. Walker, also growing red. "The time is long past when I could call you so. You are Mr. Hale to me."
"Then why not call me so?" demanded the man coolly.
"I will do so in future," said Mrs. Walker, and bit her lip in silent rage at having given him an opportunity of scoring. "But I know that Mr. Jabez is too well acquainted with the seamy side of your life for you to care about meeting him."
Hale shrugged his shoulders. "He was my family lawyer as he is yours," he answered in icy tones, "and one confesses much to one's lawyer, which one would hesitate to say to others. I can depend upon the secrecy of Jabez as to my misfortunes."
"Oh!" Mrs. Walker laughed scornfully, "you call them by that name."
"It suits them best. As to Jabez, I have no hesitation in meeting him. But I prefer to choose my own visitors."
"You certainly would not choose Mr. Jabez," said the elder woman insultingly. "However, I have taken advantage of your easy-going nature"--she was very sarcastic--"to invite Mr. Jabez to meet me here, so that we may discuss the whereabouts of the cross."
"How can we discuss what we cannot and do not know?" asked Hale, with a contemptuous look. "You are still the same woman, Judith, headstrong and----"
"Don't call me that name!" she said sharply.
"A slip of the tongue merely, such as you made just now," sneered Hale; "but all this is very unpleasant for Lesbia. Don't you think that while we quarrel she had better leave the room?"
Mrs. Walker drew Lesbia down on to the sofa beside her, and retained the girl's hand within her own. "No," she said sternly, "I am not going to quarrel with you, Mr. Hale. Besides, I wish Lesbia to be here, so that she may hear somewhat of the past."
"Why should she?" asked Hale hastily.
"I want her to marry George."
"You--want--her--to--marry--George," repeated Hale astonished, "my daughter!"
Mrs. Walker looked at him straight. "You may well be surprised," she said quietly, "especially as you know through my son that I was set against this marriage, and with good reason let me remind you, Mr. Hale. But now that I have seen Lesbia"--she drew the girl closer--"I see no reason why the sins of the father should be visited upon the child. Lesbia shall be my dear daughter, and I welcome her with joy."
"I have something to say to that. She shall never be your daughter-in-law, since it is better to be explicit as to relationship."
"We'll see about that."
"Quite so. You are a clever woman, Judith, but I am also a clever man."
"Oh!" Mrs. Walker winced again at his using her Christian name. "We had better not begin about your qualities. Lesbia would certainly have to leave the room then."
"Don't shame me in the presence of my child, madam," said Hale thickly, and the veins on his forehead began to swell with anger.
"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Walker with a careless laugh, "I forgot how you have deceived her into thinking you an angel."
Hale suddenly rose, and walked to the window. He was in a furious rage and was trying to keep himself cool, since he knew that any loss of temper would give Mrs. Walker an advantage which he did not intend her to gain. She sat quietly smoothing Lesbia's hand, with glittering eyes quite ready to continue hostilities as soon as her enemy recovered his breath. Lesbia herself remained passive, wondering what all the trouble was about. Neither the one nor the other of the disputants hinted sufficient to enlighten her as to the reasons why they were at enmity. Hale certainly might have said something more to the point, as he was rapidly losing control of his temper, but as he turned from the window, there came a ring at the front door of the cottage. "Here is Jabez," said Hale, coming back to his seat. "I am glad he has arrived, if only to stop your tongue."
"Oh, Jabez knows all that I can say," remarked Mrs. Walker grimly, and became silent.
With wide-open eyes, Lesbia sat waiting quietly to see what would happen next. This duel of three--as it appeared to be, was as fantastic as that in which Mr. Midshipman Easy fought. Moreover, the girl was so bewildered by the hints dropped of a disagreement between Mrs. Walker and her father, of which she knew nothing, that she was trying hard to collect her scattered senses in order to take in future events more clearly.
Mr. Jabez announced his presence in the passage by a dry, hard cough before he was introduced to the company by Tim Burke. He was a meagre man of medium height with a bald head, a hatchet face, a pair of eyes the colour of which could not be seen because of blue spectacles, and a loose figure invested in well-fitting dark clothes. He looked somewhat like a certain type of American, but when he opened his mouth, he spoke very precise English. For the rest, he seemed unemotional and very much addicted to dry business details. No one could have called Mr. Jabez an interesting person, but he appeared to know his business and the value of his time, upon which he placed a high price.
"Good-day! Good-day! Good-day!" he said severally to the three people in the room with a little nod to each. "Mr. Hale, I apologise for calling uninvited at your cottage, but Mrs. Walker, who wished for the meeting here, must make my excuses. This is your daughter: a very handsome young lady. I shall take this chair, with my back to the light, as my eyes are somewhat weak. For that reason I wear blue spectacles. Now," Mr. Jabez had gained possession of a comfortable chair by this time, "let us come to business, as I have to return to London within the hour, Mrs. Walker!"
Thus addressed Mrs. Walker, as grim as Jabez himself, and as impatient of wasting time, spoke to the point. "I asked you here, Mr. Jabez, to meet Mr. Hale with whom," she added venomously, "we are both exceedingly well acquainted."
"Quite so--quite so," interrupted the lawyer with his dry cough, "but it would be as well to avoid personal remarks. They do no good and take up valuable time. Go on, Mrs. Walker."
"I want to hear what Mr. Hale has to say about the amethyst cross," said the widow with a dark look at her enemy.
"I have nothing to say about it," retorted Hale, nursing his chin with his hand and leaning back with crossed legs, apparently indifferent.
"Pardon me, but you have much to say," remarked Jabez precisely. "So far I merely know on the authority of Mrs. Walker--that the cross was given to this young lady," he nodded very curtly towards Lesbia, "and that in her turn she passed it to Mr. George Walker."
"That is true," admitted Lesbia, seeing that she was called upon to speak. "I was told by Bridget----"
"Who is Bridget?" interrupted Jabez keenly.
"My late nurse. She is dead."
Jabez shook his bald head. "T'cht! T'cht! T'cht! That is a pity. Go on."
"Bridget told me that I was to give the cross only to the man I loved. I therefore gave it to George. He was assaulted for it on the towing-path and as it could not be found upon him, his room at Medmenham was robbed."
Jabez nodded. "Mrs. Walker told me all this," he said quietly, "and the cross has never been found."
"No," said Mrs. Walker.
"No," said Mr. Hale.
"No!" said Lesbia.
"All are agreed," smiled the lawyer drily, "a most unanimous opinion. I understand," he addressed Lesbia again, "that your mother originally owned this cross and gave it to your nurse. Mrs. Walker, on the authority of her son, told me as much."
"I understood that the cross had belonged to my mother," replied Lesbia, nervously glancing at her father. "Bridget told me so, when she gave it to me on her death-bed."
"Then she told you wrongly," said Mr. Hale, "and at my request."
"Why?" demanded Jabez, turning towards his unwilling host.
"Because the cross belonged to another woman, and I did not want that known in case someone should claim it."
"Ha!" said Mrs. Walker darkly. "And why did you wish to keep it?"
"I--I--liked the ornament," confessed Hale hesitating, and quite forgetting the sentimental reason he had given to his daughter as to the desire to keep the cross because it had been the property of his late wife.
Mrs. Walker laughed scornfully. "I believe you know the reason why the cross is so valuable," she snapped.
"Yes, he does," chimed in Lesbia, who was determined to learn the reason of all this mystery. "He says that if produced it will bring him two thousand a year."
"Lesbia!" Hale jumped to his feet and looked furious. "How dare you?"
"How dare I?" she cried, rising in her turn. "Because you will not trust me, father, and I am in the dark. The cross is mine, and I have a right to know all that concerns it. Does the production of the cross mean gain to my father of two thousand a year?" she asked the lawyer.
"It means that if a certain person produces the cross to me," explained Mr. Jabez, "fifty thousand pounds will----"
"Let me explain," interrupted Mrs. Walker sharply. "Lesbia, the cross is needed to prove the identity of my sister Kate. My father left her the sum of fifty thousand pounds. She eloped with a man of whom he disapproved, and has not appeared to claim the money. We don't know if she is living or dead, and----"
"Ah!" broke in Hale, "this is what George told me."
"Yes," flashed out Mrs. Walker, turning towards him, "and for that reason you know the value of the cross."
"Oh," Hale shrugged his shoulders, "I knew that long ago."
"Then why did you not produce it?"
"Because I thought it was lost. If the cross belonged to your sister Kate, Mrs. Walker, I knew her."
"She was not your wife," cried Mrs. Walker savagely, "You were not the man she ran away with."
"I never said that I was," rejoined Hale coolly. "No. Hear what I have to say. When I was living at Wimbledon with my wife--Lesbia's mother--we one day found a woman unconscious in the snow. My wife, who was a Good Samaritan, revived her and took her in. She died, but before drawing her last breath, she told me that she was Katherine Morse----"
"That was my sister's maiden name. But she married the man she ran away with."
"She never told me so," said Hale coolly. "She died in my wife's arms and is buried in Wimbledon cemetery. The cross--as I heard from my wife on her death-bed--she gave to my wife saying that if produced to Mr. Simon Jabez it would be worth fifty thousand pounds. My wife gave the cross to Bridget and did not tell me so. When she died I hunted for the cross and could not find it. But that old hag of an Irishwoman possessed it and held her peace. On her death-bed she gave it to Lesbia and told her not to tell me about it. I only became aware of its whereabouts when I saw it in your son's hand after he had proposed to Lesbia. Then it was lost again and I don't know who has it."
"What a strange story!" said Lesbia, "why did you not tell me before, father?"
Hale turned on her viciously. "You were secret with me about the cross, so what occasion was there to tell you? Had you been open I would have had that fifty thousand pounds long ago."
"No," said Jabez, who had been listening attentively, "you were not married to Miss Katherine Morse, and so had no claim to the money."
"I claim it," cried Mrs. Walker triumphantly, "all I wanted to know was whether my sister Kate was dead. Now you have sworn to that, and now that we know she is buried in Wimbledon cemetery, I get the money."
"No," said Jabez again and very drily.
Mrs. Walker rose and turned on him angrily. "You know my father's will," she cried angrily. "One hundred thousand pounds was left equally between myself and my sister. I had my share and my husband spent it. Kate never came to claim her half, so by the will it reverts to the survivor of Samuel Morse's daughters. I am the survivor so----"
"You go too fast, my dear lady," said the lawyer, "and do not know the will so thoroughly as I do. Fifty thousand pounds, which I hold, was left to Katherine and her heirs. There may be a child or children."
"Kate Morse had no child when she died in my house," said Hale sharply. "I can prove it." He went to the door and called out, "Tim."
In a few minutes, and amidst a dead silence, the crooked little man appeared rubbing his red head. "What's your will, sor?" he asked softly.
"You remember the woman who was taken in at Wimbledon years ago?" questioned Hale impatiently. "The woman with the amethyst cross."
"Ay, sor, I mind that. I wor a bare-futted gossoon thin. Me mother--rist her sowl!--laid out the shroud av her."
"Had this woman a child with her?" asked Jabez promptly.
"No, sor," said Tim unhesitatingly, "she had not. The only child in the house wor Miss Lesbia here."
"That will do," said Hale impatiently, waving his hand, and drawing a long breath, "you can go," and Tim took his departure. "Are you satisfied?" he asked turning to the lawyer.
"No," said that gentleman quietly, "I must have a better proof that there was no child. From certain rumours, which I remember hearing years ago, I am inclined to believe that there is a child."
"I believe there was a child," said Mrs. Walker, who had been sitting grim and silent. "Kate wrote to me two years after she eloped with that man, that she had a baby and that it was very ill. She did not expect it to live."
"Did she mention the sex of the child?"
"No. She did not, nor did I ever hear from her again. I daresay that man cast her off, or deserted her, and she crawled to Wimbledon to die. But the child must be dead also, so I inherit the money."
"No! no! no. There is not sufficient proof of the child's death," said Jabez, "although it appears we can prove the death of your sister. Then again, I must have the amethyst cross placed in my hands before I can part with the money. It is well invested," added Jabez with a chuckle, "and brings in a trifle over two thousand a year. You are correct in your estimate, Mr. Hale, but I doubt if you can claim the money."
"I could if I had the cross," muttered Hale savagely.
"Not even then. If the child, whether male or female, appears with the cross and I can prove that it is the child of Mrs. Walker's sister then I'll hand over the money. If we can prove the death of the child, Mrs. Walker will get the money."
"And I'll have it," cried Mrs. Walker rising indignantly. "I am certain that the child is dead. Kate wrote that it was dangerously ill."
"But not dead," chuckled Jabez, glancing at his watch. "Well, there is nothing more to be said, so I shall take my leave. Good-day! good-day! good-day!" he nodded again to each in turn and vanished as unexpectedly as he had entered. Mrs. Walker looked remarkably angry.
"The money is mine and I'll have it," she said determinedly.
"You must first find the amethyst cross," sneered Hale.