After Mrs. Walker's portentous visit to Rose Cottage with her lawyer, things went on quietly for some days. Mr. Hale at first positively refused to speak on the subject of the cross and the fortune attached thereto, as he maintained that it was useless to talk about impossibilities. Then he changed his mind and spoke with extraordinary freedom.
"Nothing can be done until we find the amethyst cross," he said gloomily to his daughter, "when that is produced, the money will be forthcoming."
"But you forget, father, that the cross has to be produced by Mrs. Walker's nephew or niece," said Lesbia doubtfully.
"She hasn't got one," snapped Hale. "If there was a child, it is dead. I know that no child was brought to my house at Wimbledon by Kate Morse."
"Mrs. Walker said that was her sister's maiden name. Do you know the name of the man she married?"
"Yes." Hale cast a jealous side-glance at his daughter. "It's an old story and a long one."
"Which has to do with Mrs. Walker's enmity against you?" persisted Lesbia.
"Yes," said Hale again. "She thought that I had something to do with her sister's elopement. Such rubbish, as though I could have helped it."
"Why did Miss Morse run away, then?"
"Because of her father. He was a wealthy, old, psalm-singing idiot, who made the two girls wretched. Kate fell in love with a certain friend of mine--I am not going to mention his name--and old Morse told him that he was not to come near the house. Then Kate took the bit between her teeth and ran away with the man. She had a miserable life, I believe, but I saw nothing of her until she stumbled foot-sore and weary into my house at Wimbledon. The rest you know."
"And the money?" asked Lesbia anxiously.
"You heard all that is to be said on that subject when Mrs. Walker was here," growled Hale, who was more communicative than usual. "But I'll repeat the story, because I wish to make a suggestion."
"What is the suggestion?" asked the girl, who mistrusted the uneasy looks of her father.
"First the story and then the suggestion," he remarked grimly. "Well, it can scarcely be called a story. Samuel Morse, the psalm-singing old ass I told you of, had a hundred thousand pounds, two daughters, and no son. He made a will leaving the money equally divided between them, and after death the money if not used up was to go to their heirs. Judith--Mrs. Walker that is--married a scampish man-about-town, who soon got through all she had and then broke his neck in a steeplechase, leaving Judith with next to nothing upon which to bring up George. Kate, having eloped with the man whose name I don't wish to mention, did not claim her share of the cash."
"If Mr. Morse was so angry I wonder he did not alter his will."
"He would have done so. Of that I am absolutely certain," said Hale emphatically, "but he had no time to do so. Shortly after he made his will Kate eloped, and the old man died in a fit of rage, before he could give instructions to Jabez who was his lawyer. Jabez gave fifty thousand pounds to Judith, who by and by married Walker and lost it all through his spendthrift habits. The remaining fifty thousand he invested, and what with the principal and interest it must be a tidy sum by now. At all events it brings in over two thousand a year. Since Kate is dead the money passes to her child if she left any, which I do not believe. Failing a child, it reverts by the will to Mrs. Walker."
"But why need she produce the amethyst cross?" asked Lesbia.
"She need not, as her identity is fully established in Jabez's eyes. The cross--as I learned from him years ago--was an ornament which old Morse had made for Kate, a kind of religious symbol."
"Who bears the cross will win the crown," said Lesbia, remembering the ornament; "or rather, as the motto goes, lose the crown by refusing the cross."
Hale nodded with a smile of contempt. "Yes! That was old Morse's idea. He gave the cross to Kate, and then she ran away with it and the man who became her husband. Jabez, knowing that the ornament is peculiar, swears that he will need the cross to prove the identity of Kate or of her child, as no one else could possess so odd a trinket. As if it could not be imitated exactly," ended Hale with contempt.
"The cross might be imitated," said Lesbia, doubtfully. "But as the poor woman is dead, it will not be so easy to produce a child as hers."
Hale, with his head on one side, looked at her oddly. "I don't know so much about that," he said slowly.
"What do you mean?" questioned Lesbia, seeing that her father had something on his mind.
"Well," said Hale, pinching his chin and still looking at her as though to hypnotise her mind; "there was no child, as I said. But you were only a baby twenty years ago, born, in fact, only a week before Kate Morse came to my house. Could we not say that you are the child?"
"What?" Lesbia looked indignantly at her father.
"Don't be foolish," said Hale testily. "It is not a crime seeing that the money is there for the asking, Bridget Burke told you that the cross was given to you by your mother. Let it be so, and I can swear and, for your sake, I can get Tim to swear, that you are the long-lost child. The train has already been laid by Bridget's story--which by the way I told her to tell you--so old Jabez will be easy to convince."
Lesbia drew a long breath. "I should not think of deceiving and robbing Mrs. Walker."
"Oh, nonsense," said Hale earnestly. "When she dies the money goes to her son, so if you marry him you can hand over twenty-five thousand to him, or say one thousand a year. Thus you will be acting honestly towards the Walkers, my dear, and----"
"And dishonestly towards myself," cried Lesbia indignantly. "And what of the remaining one thousand a year, father?"
Hale drooped his eyes suavely. "I take that for arranging that you get the money. Come, Lesbia, what do you say?"
"I decline," she retorted, quivering with indignation. "How dare you, who are my father, make such a proposal? Even if I were the true child, I should not give you one penny."
"Ha!" said Hale bitterly. "I thought so, and thus suggested a wild scheme to try you. I might have known."
"I believe that if I had fallen in with your scheme," cried Lesbia boldly, "that you would have arranged to carry it through. You have not the cross, however, and even if I consented----"
"I remember the look of the cross, and so do you. It could have been duplicated, my dear."
Lesbia looked at her father in pained astonishment, and then burst into bitter tears. "Oh, how I wish that I could respect you," she wailed.
Hale lifted his eyebrows. "Don't you?"
"No! How can I, when I find that you are so wicked?"
"I was only trying you," he said hastily. "Though it is true that had you shown a disposition to give me my fair share I might have endeavoured to get you this fortune. But, as it is, I see well that all my pains would be thrown away. You would see me--your own father--starve rather than let me have one penny."
Lesbia dried her tears. "I would have nothing to do with such a wicked scheme, and I only wish I could get away from you. You have never been a father to me, and every day we drift farther and farther apart. When I see Lord Charvington I shall ask him to help me to get a situation, as a companion or a nursery governess, and then----"
"Lesbia, you surely would not disgrace me by talking to Charvington in that way," said Hale, his face growing dark. "Perhaps I have never been affectionate, but then I feel more than I say. And you have always had comfort and all that I could give."
"I have had everything, save a father's love."
"My nature is a reticent one," said her father sullenly. "So it is useless to ask for impossibilities. If you really are unhappy with me, marry George Walker and have done with it."
"And what about Captain Sargent?" asked Lesbia sharply.
Hale shrugged his shoulders. "I can't force you to marry a man against your will, bad father as you say that I am. I have done my best for you and you persistently regard me with suspicion."
"What you proposed to do just now----"
"Was merely an experiment. Think no more about it, and don't make yourself ridiculous with Charvington. Play your cards well with him and his wife, and you may make a good match."
"I shall marry no one but George," said Lesbia obstinately.
"He won't have anything to do with you," sneered Hale, and turned away.
Things being strained in this way Lesbia was sufficiently unhappy, especially as George was absent and silent. She could not understand why, after her explanation, he refused to come back to her. But in the depths of her mind, she felt certain that he was acting against his heart's desire, and much in the same way as she had acted when she dismissed him. It was impossible to see him, as he was in London and she did not know his address, and it was equally impossible to write to him. Certainly, as Mrs. Walker was ready to receive her, she could have gone to Medmenham to converse with that formidable lady, but she hesitated to pour out her woes in that quarter. In spite of her sudden friendliness, Mrs. Walker was unsympathetic, and the poor girl longed for some kind breast whereon she could lie and weep and be comforted.
Thus it can easily be guessed that Lesbia hailed with joy the arrival of a brisk little woman, who introduced herself as Lady Charvington. She came in a gorgeous motor car, with much noise and pomp, and was dressed like Solomon, in all his glory, so wonderful was her frock. Mr. Hale was within and received her with much deference, which was natural considering that Lord Charvington was his patron. Lesbia was sent for, and duly came down to the tiny drawing-room to be introduced.
"So this is Lesbia," said Lady Charvington, putting up a tortoise-shell lorgnette, "quite a beauty I declare."
She frowned a trifle when she said this, for her own daughters, in their 'teens at present, were not beautiful. She herself had no great pretension to good looks, although she made the best of herself in every way. She was as small as Lesbia, but did not possess such a complexion or such a figure, and there was an ill-tempered droop to her mouth which made the girl mistrust her. For Lord Charvington's sake, since he had been so kind to her, Lesbia was anxious to love his wife, and perhaps had she been a plain girl Lady Charvington might have given her an opportunity of exercising such affection. But the looks of Lesbia took her aback, as she saw in this delicately beautiful girl a formidable rival, not only to her plain daughters but to herself. For Lady Charvington, in spite of her age and of the fact that she was married, flirted a great deal. However, swiftly as these things passed through her mind, she did not permit them to be revealed by her face and welcomed Lesbia with well-affected enthusiasm.
"You dear," she said, hopping up like a bird to peck the velvet cheek of her proposed guest; "why have you hidden yourself for so long?"
"I have been stopping here with my father since I came from school," said Lesbia, trying to overcome a sudden dislike for this smiling vision of small talk and chiffon.
Lady Charvington shook a dainty finger at Mr. Hale, who was looking on well-pleased at the scene. "You naughty, naughty man," she cried effusively and girlishly, "how dare you keep Beauty shut up in a castle no one ever heard of? But that Charvington spoke about this sweet thing the other day and proposed to have her over at the Court for a few days, I should never never have seen her."
"I didn't wish to trouble you with my girl, Lady Charvington."
"Oh," Lady Charvington uttered a little scream of delight, while taking in every detail of Lesbia's looks and costume, "there will be no trouble. We have always plenty of nice boys at the Court and they will lose their heads over this Sleeping Beauty. For you are that, you know," she added to Lesbia, "whatever the poor dear creature's name may have been. But I have come at my husband's express desire to wake you up, and to find a prince who will kiss you."
"I have already got one," said Lesbia abruptly. "I am engaged!"
Hale frowned, as he thought that she was too candid, but Lady Charvington felt more satisfied than she had been. An engaged girl would not be so dangerous. "Then we must ask your prince over to the Court also," she declared effusively and kissed Lesbia again. "I have brought over the car to take you back to dinner. Get your frocks and frills, dear, and we shall start while the afternoon is yet warm."
"Are you ready to go, Lesbia?" asked Hale, smiling artificially, for, from the look on his daughter's face, he was not quite sure if she approved of the invitation.
But he need not have troubled. Lesbia did not like Lady Charvington but, being anxious to see my lady's husband and tell him of her troubles--since the sending of the cheque proved him to be a kindly man,--made up her mind to overcome her mistrust and travel in the motor car. "Everything is ready," she said quietly. "I have only one box."
"Oh, but, my dear, I wish you to stay for a week," protested the lady.
"So I understood, and thank you very much," replied the girl with enforced cordiality. "And the one box of clothes will be sufficient."
"Dear me!" said Lady Charvington with a gasp, "what a careful girl you must be. Why I take five boxes for a week's visit."
"I am not rich enough to do that. Besides," added Lesbia smiling, "I should only cumber up your motor car."
"Oh, that is all right. It's a big thing and holds heaps. Have you ever been in one, my dear girl?"
"Lesbia has lived a very quiet life," interposed Hale quickly, "and knows nothing of modern luxury."
"Poor thing," said Lady Charvington, with a pitying glance. "I hope your prince is wealthy," she added, turning to Lesbia.
The girl smiled. "On the contrary, he is very poor."
"Dear me! I seem to have found a paragon of virtue. But are you not rather foolish, my dear girl? With such a face and such a figure and with my influence you should make a better match."
"So I tell her," cried Hale quickly; he was always on the watch to put in a word, "and she is not really engaged, Lady Charvington. There is some disagreement between Lesbia and Mr. Walker."
"What a horrid name! So plebeian!" cried Lady Charvington.
"George is not plebeian," said Lesbia, colouring hotly, "his father was the Honourable Aylmer Walker."
"Lord Casterton's third son," said the visitor, nodding. "Yes, I have heard of him from my brothers. He was rather wild, was he not?"
"Really I don't know."
"There is no chance of his coming in for the title--your George, I mean," prattled on Lady Charvington, "as Aylmer Walker's two elder brothers have both heaps and heaps of children. I rather think that Aylmer was the black ba-ba of the family. Well, there, I'm talking scandal, a thing of which I highly disapprove. Go and get your things on, dear, and tell your man to put your box on the motor. Wilkins will help him. He's the chauffeur--not at all a bad driver, but oh, so dreadfully reckless. Be prepared to go like the wind, my dear."
Lady Charvington babbled on in this fashion with bird-like glances here and there, taking in every detail of the room. She knew that Hale was a poor relation of her husband's, and indeed had received him twice or thrice at The Court near Maidenhead. But this was the first time she had seen his daughter and, but for the express command of Lord Charvington, she would not have asked her over. There was some comfort in the fact that the girl's affections were engaged, but all the same, such beauty, whether free or bound, would prove dangerous. "I trust she won't interfere with my men," thought Lady Charvington as she smiled sweetly on Lesbia leaving the tiny drawing-room.
The girl summoned Tim to take her box to the motorcar which was panting violently at the door, and went to her room to put on her hat. She made a desperate attempt while doing so to overcome her dislike to Lady Charvington, as she felt sure that for some reason the little woman was hostile. Lesbia was too unsophisticated to put down the hostility to the fact that Lady Charvington found her exasperatingly beautiful, and was puzzled to think why any hostility should exist. But it certainly was there, and Lesbia detected it immediately. However, as she could see no reason for any such feeling existing between her and a woman who--on the face of it--was doing her a kindness, she fought desperately with her intuition. Still it seemed to her that she was but leaving one abode of trouble to go to another, wherein even more annoying things might happen. And the root of all the worry was the missing cross.
Tim took down the box and then returned to Lesbia's bedroom as she was issuing therefrom. He drew her back mysteriously and produced a letter cautiously from his inner pocket. "This is for you, Miss," he declared in a whisper, "it came under cover to me by the mid-day post, with a scratch av a pin saying Mr. Canning sint it, and 'twas to be given ye at onct."
"Mr. Canning!" Lesbia's face grew eager, and she hastily opened the thin envelope to skim five or six lines written on foreign notepaper. What she read surprised her, and she noted that the address given was in a quiet street in Whitechapel.
"I have heard indirectly," wrote The Shadow, "that you are going some time to The Court, Lord Charvington's place near Maidenhead. If you do, keep a good watch, as two London thieves--the same who robbed Tait's strong-room by Tait's direction--are about to try to steal Lady Charvington's jewels when everyone is at dinner. The attempt will be made on Thursday evening. I advise you to warn Lord Charvington, but tell him not to bring in the police, as he will deeply regret doing so. Yours always, C."
This mysterious letter, signed with Canning's initial, startled Lesbia, For the moment she felt inclined to go down and tell her father: but on second thoughts and with a discretion far beyond her years, she decided to say nothing until she met her host. It was now Tuesday, and the burglary was not arranged for until Thursday. There was ample time.
"It's nothing, Tim," she said mendaciously, putting the letter away. "Good-bye for one whole week, you dear old thing," and she kissed him fondly.
The Court, near Maidenhead, was Lord Charvington's chief country residence on account of its proximity to London. It was a modern mansion built in early Victorian days and, in accordance with the taste of that period, had no great pretensions to architectural beauty. In fact it might be called ugly, and was a huge, staring barrack of a place, quite out of keeping with the beauty of the surrounding grounds. These were of large extent, and so admirably laid out that they made up for the deficiencies of the building, which, after all, was comfortable enough within doors, if its external aspect was uninviting. Modern luxury had made the many rooms very habitable, and the barn--it looked like a barn--was furnished with the magnificence of Aladdin's palace.
Lesbia arrived with her hostess in time for afternoon tea and was speedily introduced to Lord Charvington. There were at least ten guests of fashionable London stopping for a few days and, while Lady Charvington chatted with these, her husband made himself agreeable to Miss Hale. She was very glad to find Charvington so agreeable and sympathetic, for naturally her first plunge into society made her somewhat shy. And her host was particularly attentive, quite in a different way from Lady Charvington's careless hospitality. After a few minutes' conversation Lesbia felt as though she had known him for years, and was soon quite at her ease. In fact, Lady Charvington, at the other end of the room, cast a displeased look in Lesbia's direction, when she heard her laughing so gaily, and saw how her pretty face was wreathed in smiles. Charvington was making a fool of the girl, she thought, and indeed privately deemed it foolish that he had lifted the girl into a circle so alien to her ordinary life, since she had neither the money nor the experience to sustain her new position. However, Charvington had made a point of his cousin's daughter being asked, so Lady Charvington gave way, as she always did to her husband in small things.
Charvington was a tall and somewhat stout man, with a fresh-coloured face and leonine masses of white hair worn somewhat long. He was clean-shaven, with merry blue eyes filled with vigorous life, and possessed a strong, calm voice, sympathetic and sweet. His manner was brisk and lively, and more suited to youth than to age. Not that he was so very old, for he certainly appeared as lively as the youngest man in the room. Everyone in the West End knew Lord Charvington, as he was rich and kind-hearted, two things which beget a very agreeable reputation. Many a young man had to thank Charvington for help and advice, and in an unostentatious way he did a great deal of good. When Lesbia talked with him and became acquainted with his personality, she no longer wondered that he had acceded so readily to her request for a loan. The purse of such a genial man was always open to the needy, and very often to the undeserving.
"I am glad you have come over, Lesbia," he said admiringly, as they sat in a quiet corner of the room far from the chattering guests. "Hale did not tell me that you were so pretty. By the way, you must not mind my calling you by your Christian name. I knew you when you were but a baby, and it is my privilege, as your elderly cousin, to be familiar."
"I am very glad youarefamiliar," said the girl, lifting her eyes to the strong, kind face, "and I cannot forget that you sent me that fifty pounds so kindly, without asking what I wished to do with it."
"Pooh! pooh! That is nothing, child. Who should help you but I? Whenever you are in want of money write to me, and you will receive a cheque by return of post. I am your cousin, you know. And a very bad cousin at that," added Charvington, with sudden energy. "I should have had you here long ago. You must have led a dull life in Marlow."
"No," answered Lesbia quietly, "there was always George."
"Who is George?"
"The man I love."
"Oh!" Charvington's eyes twinkled more than ever; "you are engaged."
"Yes and no."
The man looked puzzled. "What do you mean? I don't like riddles."
Lesbia sighed. "It is a riddle, and a very painful one. For that reason I accepted your kind invitation and came over. I want to tell you what I did with the fifty pounds, and also I wish to ask your advice."
"I shall be delighted to give it, but surely your father--"
"My father"--Lesbia checked a scornful remark which was on the tip of her tongue--"my father would take no interest in what I wish to tell you."
Charvington bent his brow and looked at her thoughtfully. "You shall come to the library in the morning, and there we can have a chat," he said. "Only one thing I ask you now: your father does not treat you badly?"
"No," faltered the girl, looking down; she could not betray her father, although he had behaved so ill. "My father is--well enough," she ended lamely.
"Humph!" muttered Charvington, with his eyes still on her face. "Well, well, we shall see! Meantime have some more tea," and he walked across the room to have her cup filled.
No more was said for the time being, but Charvington's kind manner made Lesbia more determined than ever to confide in him. She believed that she had at length found a friend who would aid her to withstand the tyranny of her father, and who would assist to put things right with her lover. They were crooked enough now in all conscience. Moreover, in any case, she was forced to show him Canning's letter, so that he might provide against the projected burglary. If she told this much she would have to tell all, for only by making a clean breast of it could she be extricated from the mire into which she had sunk, through no fault of her own. All that evening she longed for the morning, so that she might tell her new friend the many difficulties which were making her miserable.
Not that the evening was dull. On the contrary, as the mansion was filled with lively, well-bred people, it was quite a revelation to Lesbia in the way of enjoyment. Everyone seemed to be happy and untroubled by care, which contrasted strongly with the incessant worry which went on within the four walls of Rose Cottage. These society people--outwardly at all events--seemed as careless gods, happy, merry, and gloriously irresponsible. Later in life Lesbia learned what sadness lurked under this frivolous, laughing exterior, but at this time she was quite deceived, and thought to herself, "How happy are the rich and well-born!"
Lady Charvington's two daughters--not yet old enough to be presented--were very nice girls, although they were decidedly plain-looking. But they appeared to have none of their mother's jealousy regarding Lesbia's beauty, and made much of her. She found herself laughing and talking and entering into their girlish lives, quite as if she had known them for many years. Lord Charvington seemed particularly pleased that this should be so, and presided over the trio like a benevolent wizard. For the most part Lesbia was with the two girls during her visit, in spite of the attentions paid to her by sundry youths smitten by her beauty. Seeing this, Lady Charvington became much more gracious, and inwardly decided that Lesbia Hale knew her place. All the same she was a trifle uneasy at the way in which Charvington hovered round the pretty visitor. Not that she cared over much for her husband, who was older than she was; nevertheless, she did not like to see him paying marked attentions to anyone else.
On the first evening, there was a small dance after a very splendid dinner. Lesbia, in her simple white dress, attracted much notice, but she preferred to talk to Agatha and Lena, Lord Charvington's daughters, and to laugh at their father's mild witticisms. During a lull in the dance there was some singing, and towards the end of the evening an excellent supper. Lesbia retired at midnight, while yet the festivities were in full swing. This was at Lord Charvington's express wish, as he did not approve of youth losing any necessary beauty-sleep. When she laid her head on the pillow and was falling asleep, Lesbia confessed that she had enjoyed herself greatly. If George had only been present the evening would have been perfect.
Next morning, Agatha and Lena woke her early and took her round the grounds. The girls exchanged confidences--chiefly about school life,--ran races on the dewy sward, and entered filled with the joy of life to eat a surprisingly good breakfast. Lady Charvington was rather astounded at Lesbia's appetite. So pretty a girl, she decided, should eat less and talk less. But Lesbia, although a fairy in looks, could not live on fairy food, and enjoyed to the full the excellent meal provided by the very capable chef of her host. "Horrid, greedy, pert girl," thought Lady Charvington, who was all smiles and attention. "I am sure I shan't like her!"--quite a needless thought, as she already heartily disliked her visitor for other reasons than because she was pretty. But these reasons Lesbia did not learn for some months. Then they did not matter, as life had changed by that time for the better.
After breakfast, Lord Charvington carried off his pretty little guest to a noble room lined with books, and placing her in a most comfortable arm-chair, took his own seat at his desk. "Now, my child, what is it?" he asked.
"It is rather difficult to begin," faltered Lesbia, feeling if she had the fatal letter in her pocket.
"Not with me, my dear. You know that you can trust me implicitly."
"Yes," said Lesbia, raising her clear eyes to the kind face. "Well then I shall begin from the time I gave George the amethyst cross."
"What?" Charvington's ruddy face grew pale, and he pushed back his chair with considerable violence; "the amethyst cross!"
"Do you know anything about it?" asked Lesbia, astonished by his change of colour and evident emotion. "It is lost you know--stolen."
"Who stole it?" demanded the man mastering himself with an apparent effort.
"Listen," said Lesbia, and related everything from the time George Walker had proposed to the moment of Lady Charvington's arrival at Rose Cottage. But for the moment she said nothing of the letter from Canning. That could keep until she heard what Charvington had to say to the first part of her story. And it may be mentioned that Lesbia spared her father as much as possible, while explaining her difficulties.
After his first violent movement, Lord Charvington listened in dead silence, and his colour slowly returned. With his eyes averted, he heard the whole extraordinary tale, without interruption, and only when it was concluded did he speak. Then he gave but small comfort. "I cannot understand what it all means," he said slowly. "I shall see Hale, and doubtless he will be able to explain matters. But have no fear, child, if you love George Walker, you shall marry him. I know Mrs. Walker, and I knew her husband. A wild fellow was Aylmer Walker, but not without his good points."
"And you won't let my father have me watched again," said Lesbia anxiously.
"Certainly not," cried Charvington fiercely. "If I had known that, I would have--but that's neither here nor there. Your father owes me too much to disregard my wishes. I shall see that he leaves you your full liberty and that he consents to your marriage with George. I hope he is worthy of you, my dear--George I mean," he added wistfully.
"Oh yes. He's the dearest, sweetest, best----"
"There! There!" Charvington smiled a trifle drily. "I can see that your heart is set upon being Mrs. Walker. Very good. I shall see that George has an opportunity of earning money, so that you can marry him."
"And the cross?"
"Never mind the cross just now," said Charvington hastily. "I shall have to see your father about that. Later we can talk on the subject. But this Tait," he drummed anxiously with his fingers on the table; "I knew Tait many years ago. He always was a scoundrel, although I did not think he would go so far as to join himself with professional thieves----"
"Oh," Lesbia drew the letter of Canning from her pocket, "I forgot. Read this, Lord Charvington. It's a warning--only don't tell the police."
Her host mounted his pince-nez and read the missive in surprise. His face grew a dark red, and he muttered a word which Lesbia luckily did not overhear. Then he folded the letter and placed it in his pocket without remark.
"You won't tell the police," said Lesbia again and still anxiously.
"No," said Charvington, rising, "from what Canning found out before, I believe Tait is in this business also. I don't want for several reasons to make a scandal connected with the man, although he deserves to be gaoled for life. Still, I shall take precautions by having the house watched. Also I must get my wife to put away her jewel-casket in the safe. She is very careless about her jewels, and leaves the casket in her bedroom, sometimes in a drawer or wardrobe, but more often open on the dressing-table. The maid should put it away, of course, but she's a half-blind old creature who was my wife's nurse, and neglects things. But to-day is Wednesday and the burglary is arranged for to-morrow evening when we dine. I shall see that my wife puts away her jewels to-morrow evening. I shall go to her room and see that they are safe before I go to dinner."
"But why not to-day also?" asked Lesbia anxiously.
"The burglary is not until to-morrow evening, child," said Charvington kindly. "They are safe until then, as they have been safe for years in spite of my wife's gross carelessness and trust in her neglectful old nurse. No, my dear, you have given me a needed warning, so it is no use bothering your head further. To-morrow, I shall make all safe. When these two thieves find that the house is guarded, they will not attempt the robbery."
"Will you warn Lady Charvington?"
"What! and have her fall into hysterics? No. I shall merely see that the jewels are locked up nightly after to-morrow, and have the house watched for a week or so. My wife need know nothing, my dear."
"I shall keep my own counsel," said Lesbia, rising to leave the room, "but I do wish you would have the jewels put away to-night, Lord Charvington."
"Well," he smiled kindly, "perhaps, as you are so anxious I shall. But, as we know the time and date of the projected burglary, there is no need."
Lesbia went away, comforted to think that Charvington now knew all her troubles, and would help her when it was necessary. Doubtless he would procure George a good situation, and then she could marry her lover. But the emotion of Charvington, when the amethyst cross was mentioned, puzzled Lesbia greatly, as there appeared to be no reason for it. However, she comforted herself with the reflection, that--as he had promised--he would explain everything when the appointed time arrived, and went to enjoy her holiday with the two girls. The enjoyment took the form of a picnic and a run down the river on Lord Charvington's fine steam launch.
When the girls were out of the way, Charvington sought his wife and pointed out to her the folly of leaving a case full of rich jewels on her dressing-table. "They might be stolen," he remonstrated.
Lady Charvington was not at all grateful. "You are always making a fuss over the jewels," she said impatiently. "I have left the case in my bedroom for years and I have never lost a single thing."
"That doesn't say you might not lose the lot," snapped Charvington, who found his wife trying even to his kindly nature.
"There's time enough to talk when I do lose them."
"Then it will be too late. I ask you to put them away every night in the strong-room. Bertha can take the case there, when she has dressed you for dinner."
"Very well," said Lady Charvington, who was impatient to return to a very interesting book she was reading. "I'll tell Bertha, though I'm sure if the case is in my bedroom she can look after it well enough."
"Pooh. She's half blind. Why don't you get a better maid?"
"Bertha's been with me all my life, and I shall keep her until she is past work. You have no heart, Charvington," she ended virtuously.
"She's past work now," said her husband, as he stalked from the boudoir.
Nothing more was said, but had Charvington been in the house on that Wednesday evening he would either have asked his wife if the jewels had been put away, or have attended to the matter himself. But during the day he suddenly decided to go up to London in order to see a private detective whom he had employed before on various delicate matters. It would be just as well, thought Charvington, to have this man in the house on Thursday evening. Then, if the two thieves alluded to by Canning did arrive, the man could lay hands on them. Not that Charvington wished to make a public case of the matter, since, as he had hinted to Lesbia, he was anxious to avoid scandal in connection with Tait, whom he shrewdly suspected of having a hand in this new piece of rascality. For this reason he went up to London to engage the private detective, and remained in town for the night. Next day he purposed coming back with his assistant and then the matter could be settled quietly. Lady Charvington would not lose her jewels, and there would be no trouble--publicly at all events--in connection with Mr. Michael Tait.
All that Wednesday Lesbia enjoyed herself on the river with her host's daughters, in spite of the launch's breaking down temporarily on the way back, in consequence of some accident to the engines. Consequently it was not until seven o'clock at night that the three girls arrived in Maidenhead, and it was thirty minutes past when they came to The Court. Lady Charvington, who had been anxious about their non-arrival, expressed herself as annoyed at their failure to be in to dinner, which was at seven o'clock. She sent a message saying that Agatha and Lena were to dine in their school-room with the governess. Lesbia feeling herself a culprit--although on the face of it not one of the three was to blame--decided to dine with the girls and to make her apologies afterwards to Lady Charvington. And a very merry dinner they had, for the governess was a charming, middle-aged lady, who made everything very pleasant. And then the love of Agatha and Lena for their newly-found cousin grew with every hour. On the whole, Lesbia enjoyed that school-room meal more than the splendid dinner of the previous night. She was the more pleased that she had remained absent, as she was told by the governess that Lord Charvington was away in London.
After that merry meal, Lesbia went to change her dress in order to go down to the drawing-room. Agatha and Lena followed to chatter and help, as they did not like to be separated from their visitor. Lesbia's room was on the first floor, near that of the girls, and on the way the three had to pass the door of Lady Charvington's bedroom. It was closed, but as they passed they heard a shriek of alarm, and opening it at once saw one man escaping by the window, and another struggling with Bertha, the ancient maid. Agatha and Lena ran away screaming for help, but Lesbia dashed forward to help the old woman. At that moment the man--who wore a mask--threw Bertha on the ground and ran towards the window. Lesbia caught him before he could fling his leg over the sill, and tore off the mask. Then she uttered a cry of dismay and terror.
"Father!" she shrieked, and dropped down in a dead faint.
Next morning, Lesbia was sitting in her bedroom, thinking over the terrible event of the previous night. She had remained in a faint for a considerable time, and had recovered consciousness to find herself lying on her bed. At once she had desired to see Lady Charvington, but her hostess sent up a message asking that Lesbia should wait until the arrival of Lord Charvington, who had been wired for. From the somewhat pert behaviour of the maid who brought the message, the unfortunate girl felt that she was in disgrace, and did not dare to resent it. Having recognised her father in the man whose mask she had torn off, she fancied that the whole household knew of the matter. But in this she was wrong, as she learned, when Agatha, the elder of the girls, came by stealth to her room about eleven o'clock at night.
"I don't know what is the matter with mother," said Agatha speaking in a whisper and keeping a watchful eye on the door, "she told Lena and I that we were not to see you, or speak to you."
"Why?" stammered Lesbia, feeling sick with shame.
"I don't know. I suppose mother is angry at the loss of her jewels. But my father always told her that she would lose them."
"Have they caught the thieves?"
"No. Lena and I screamed, and everyone came rushing, up. They found Bertha lying half stunned on the floor, and you in a faint. The two men had a motorcar at the gate and got away."
Lesbia turned even whiter than she was. "Do they know who the men are?"
"Of course they don't. They wore masks, you know," said Agatha, "but one mask was found on the floor. Bertha said that you pulled it off the man who was struggling with her. Did you know his face?"
"No," muttered Lesbia. The lie choked her, but she could not denounce her own father, evil as he was.
"I expect when I fainted he jumped from the window after his companion, and managed to reach the motorcar. Has your father returned, Agatha dear?"
"No," answered the girl softly, "he is coming back in the morning. Mother has brought in the police from Maidenhead, but I heard her tell the chief man that you were too ill to be questioned until the morning. Mother seems to be very angry with you, Lesbia. I wonder why?"
"I don't know, dear," said the girl, and indeed she did not. If the names of the thieves were unknown, Lady Charvington could have nothing against her. "But if your mother doesn't want you to speak to me, Agatha, you must go back to bed. When the morning comes I shall see your mother and ask what is the matter."
"See father," said Agatha, pattering across the room with bare feet, "he is fond of you: he told me so. Mother is always jealous of anyone father likes and she will only be disagreeable. I waited till Lena was asleep, then came here. But I'll go now," she returned to kiss Lesbia, "good-night, dear, and don't worry. Everything will be right when father comes back."
Lesbia thought so also. She had implicit faith in Lord Charvington as his daughter had, and knew that he would understand when he heard the truth. But could she tell him the truth? Could she say that the man to whom he allowed an annuity had crept into the house to steal the jewels? And then Canning had said particularly that the two thieves were the same that had robbed Tait's strong-room by Tait's direction. In that case, her father was doubly a villain, as he was not only a thief, but had tried to throw the blame of the first burglary on George Walker in order to bring about a separation between them. Now he had added a second crime to the first, and had robbed his benefactor and cousin at the very time that his own daughter was a guest in the house. Canning must have known of her father's guilt and so, in his letter--for Lesbia's sake no doubt--had advised that the police should not be brought in. But would Charvington keep the affair quiet when his wife had lost her jewels? And in any case would he not send from the house in anger the daughter of such a villain? It was all terrible, shameful, disgraceful, and poor Lesbia sobbed herself to sleep at the horror of it all.
Next morning she could eat no breakfast, but after a cold bath to freshen her up, dressed and sat by the window waiting for Lord Charvington's arrival. At first she was inclined to see her hostess and ask why she behaved so oddly. But the fancy was strong within her, that Lady Charvington in some way must have learned the identity of at least one of the thieves, and so was visiting the shame of the father on the head of the innocent daughter. But then Lesbia could not conjecture if this was true. As Lady Charvington had not entered her bedroom until Hale escaped, she could not have recognised him, and as Hale had escaped the truth would never become known unless Lesbia spoke. This she did not intend to do, unless to Lord Charvington, whom she could trust. She therefore waited patiently. At all events, as she gathered from Agatha's report, whatever Lady Charvington suspected she certainly had not informed the household, in spite of the demeanour of the pert servant. Nevertheless, the very forbidding of the two girls to see Lesbia pointed to doubts and hatred and knowledge of the worst on Lady Charvington's part.
As Lesbia sat there looking out on to the beautiful garden with tear-filled eyes, she recalled many circumstances in her father's life which brought home to her forcibly his wicked vocation. The sordid persons who came by stealth to Rose Cottage must have been thieves and fences who received stolen goods. Her father's mysterious actions and frequent absences were accounted for by the fact, for when away he probably had been robbing with his shameful associates. No wonder he had laughed when George had proposed to leave Tait's office and join him in business. And Tait also was a rogue and a scoundrel, belonging to the gang of which Walter Hale was a member. Sargent might be a thief also--but of this Lesbia could not be certain. Nevertheless, she began to suspect that CanningaliasThe Shadow had something to do with the robberies. That would explain why a gentleman would descend to being a spy. Canning was under Hale's thumb and would have to do what he was told to do. Then she recollected how he had stated that for telling her about Tait's scheme he would have to go into hiding. There could be no doubt about it. Canning belonged to the gang and out of gratitude had betrayed his sordid associates.
Thinking thus Lesbia grew sick and faint. The thought of the wickedness that surrounded her made her shiver. How could she expect George to marry her when she was the daughter of a thief? And she would be forced to tell him, since she could not marry him and keep silent upon such an important point. To marry George without telling him the truth would be to place herself in the power of her father. And now knowing what her father was, Lesbia felt certain that to put money into his pocket he would not stop short of blackmail. No, she would have to tell what she had discovered to George and to Lord Charvington, and thus in one moment she would lose the only two friends she possessed. Tim remained and Lesbia knew that, come what might, she could always depend upon the fidelity of the Irishman; she felt sure that Tim was as innocent as herself of this dreadful knowledge which had come to ruin her life. In all wide England there was no more miserable girl than the unfortunate Lesbia, as she sat weeping by the window and bidding farewell to happiness and respectability.
Towards noon a message was brought that Lord Charvington wished to see her in the library, and Lesbia after washing away all traces of the bitter tears she had shed descended the stairs. She was pale and worn, but held herself proudly, for whatever might be known, she was determined to face the worst. Several people were in the hall, and she saw a policeman near the door. But no one looked at her in any way suggesting that the terrible truth was known, so Lesbia entered the noble library with a hope that her father had escaped recognition by all save herself.
Only two people were in the library, Lord Charvington and his wife. The former was walking to and fro with a worried expression on his kind face, but the latter seated in an arm-chair near the window looked red with anger and apparently had been engaged in a furious argument: "If you don't tell, I shall," she was saying when Lesbia entered.
"You shall say nothing," said Lord Charvington sternly. "Hold your tongue as you have done. Hitherto you have displayed sense in keeping silence and in silencing Bertha. Continue to behave and----"
"Here's the girl," snapped Lady Charvington, interrupting as Lesbia came silently into the room and closed the door.
"Why do you speak of me in that way?" asked Lesbia, up in arms at once. Knowing herself innocent, she did not intend to stand insult.
"You will soon learn," retorted the other, curling her lip. "I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself. And after all my kindness too, and my----"
"Silence, Helen," said Lord Charvington imperiously. "How dare you talk to Miss Hale so insolently?"
"Miss Hale," sneered his wife. "Why not call her Lesbia, as you have done?"
"I have every right to; she is my cousin." Lord Charvington made an angry gesture to impose silence on his indignant wife, and turned to the girl who stood pale and motionless. "My poor Lesbia, don't look so woe-begone. I will stand by you whatever my wife may say."
"What does she say?" asked Lesbia quietly.
"You had better hear her when she is more composed," said Lord Charvington with a glance at his wife, thereby arousing her to fresh fury. "She will probably say something in the heat of the moment for which she will be sorry. Helen, had you not better go and lie down?"
Lady Charvington arose with a red spot burning on either cheek, and her eyes glittered like those of an angry cat. "How dare you speak to me like this in my own house, Charvington?" she cried in a shrill voice. "I don't leave this room until you turn that shameless girl out of doors."
"What do you mean?" demanded Lesbia indignantly; but with a sinking heart.
"Mean," screamed the infuriated woman; "I mean that Bertha heard you calling the masked man who attacked you, 'Father!' And you cannot deny it. See, Charvington," she pointed tauntingly to the agonised girl, "she dare not deny it. Oh you--you daughter of a thief; you accomplice of a thief."
"Helen, Helen; be silent."
"I shall not be silent. When Bertha told me the truth I ordered her to hold her tongue until you returned, Charvington. I have held my peace myself and neither the police nor the servants nor our friends know that this horrid girl is the daughter of a thief. Why you take such an interest in the minx I don't know, but surely after what we have discovered you will pack her off to gaol."
"To gaol; to gaol," Lesbia drew herself up, pale, but fearless. As Lady Charvington hurled her accusations, the girl's spirit rose to defend herself. After all, guilty as her father might be, she at least was innocent. "How dare you speak to me in this way?" she said again.
"And how dare you face me, you cat?" snarled Lady Charvington, looking much more like a cat herself. "You arrange with your abominable father to rob me of my jewels, you enter my house to----"
Before Lord Charvington could put out his hand to stop her--for he was afraid to think what these two angry women might do--Lesbia glided past him, and stood face to face with her enemy. "You lie," she breathed in such a low, fierce voice that the other woman fell back into her chair with a gasp of fear. "I knew nothing of this. I had no wish to rob you of your jewels."
"Yes, you had, and I know why!"
"Explain then. I dare you to explain."
Lady Charvington cast a swift glance at her husband. "I know what I know."
"You know that I am innocent," said Lesbia, clenching her hands; "I dare you to say that I am not."
"You are your father's accomplice."
"That is untrue," broke in Lord Charvington smoothly, "Lesbia warned me that the jewels would be stolen."
"Of course," scoffed his wife triumphantly, "she knew!"
"If I had been in league with my father would I have given the warning?"
"Yes," said Lady Charvington, rising to confront Lesbia, who had asked the question. "My husband showed me the letter purporting to come from some man in London. It said that the burglary was arranged for Thursday, and by telling my husband that, he thought he might safely leave the house and go to London to engage a detective, while your father robbed the house on Wednesday. It's a well-arranged business."
"I don't know why the burglary took place on Wednesday," said Lesbia steadily; "the letter I gave Lord Charvington is perfectly true. I can't explain further than I have done."
"Because you can't; because you can't," taunted Lady Charvington, "but you shall leave my house in disgrace."
Lord Charvington caught his wife's wrist. "Lesbia shall return to her home this day," he said imperiously, "because I won't have her stopping here to be insulted by you. Bertha will say nothing of what she overheard, as I have forbidden her to speak on the pain of instant dismissal. You also, Helen, shall hold your tongue."
"I will do nothing of the sort," breathed Lady Charvington vindictively.
"You shall. I will not permit you to ruin an innocent girl. Knowing that Hale has stolen your jewels, I can get them back, and have already communicated with him."
"The police----"
"The police can do nothing. Hale and his accomplice got away cleverly in their motorcar and cannot be traced. If the jewels are returned intact--which they will be, as I can force Hale to return them--the police will not move further in the matter, as I can stop them. Then this painful episode will be a thing of the past."
"I want that girl disgraced as an accomplice," said the elder woman, grinding her teeth and pointing towards Lesbia.
Charvington put his arm round Lesbia's waist or she would have fallen. "I shall not allow it, Helen," he said quietly. "Lesbia is innocent. Woman, have you no pity for the poor thing; surely she is suffering enough already, in finding out that her father is a thief."
"Her father," jeered Lady Charvington insultingly. "Oh, yes, her father," she moved swiftly towards the library door. "If you get back my jewels I shall hold my tongue, for reasons which you may guess, Charvington. But don't let that creature come near me, or I shall--I shall--oh." Lady Charvington could scarcely contain herself. "How I hate you; hate you. I wish you were dead with all my heart and soul, you--you----"
What she was about to say in her furious anger Lesbia could not guess. But whatever it was she never uttered the epithet. Charvington suddenly moved towards his wife and towering above her glared into her eyes. "If you say another word I'll kill you."
Lady Charvington quailed. "You are quite capable of doing so," she breathed undauntedly; "I'm not afraid of you. But clear my house of that," and with a jeering laugh, she pointed at the trembling girl and left the room.
"What--what does she mean?" gasped Lesbia, sinking into a chair, her courage all gone. "What have I done? How can I help my father--my father--oh Lord Charvington!" and she broke down weeping bitterly.
"Hush! hush!" He stood over her, patting her heaving shoulder. "She doesn't know what she is saying. I'll see that she holds her tongue and Bertha also. Nothing will ever be known of your father's complicity in this crime."
"But what does it mean?" asked Lesbia, lifting a tear-stained face.
"God knows," muttered Charvington moodily, "I have been mistaken in your father, my dear."
"But--but you don't blame me?"
"No," he declared emphatically, "a thousand times no. My dear, I love you as if you were my own child, and I shall never, never believe any harm of you in any way. I can keep my wife's tongue silent, but I can do no more. You must return to Marlow, until such time as I can arrange further about your marriage with George Walker."
"Oh," Lesbia wailed and stretched her arms, "I cannot marry him now. Who would marry the daughter of a thief? Father was one of the thieves who robbed Mr. Tait's strong-room."
"At Tait's request remember," interpolated Charvington quickly.
Lesbia brushed away the speech. "Oh, what does it matter even if they are all thieves. But George must have known the dreadful truth and so he will not renew our engagement. I did not understand him before; I do now."
"There! there!" Charvington patted her shoulder again, "don't worry. All will come right, I am sure, and in a way which you do not expect."
Lesbia looked up with sudden hope. "You know of something."
"Yes," said the man gloomily. "I know of something. Don't ask me any further questions just now, but go back to Marlow. The motorcar is already at the door with your box on it. As all our other guests have left the house, your departure will cause no surprise."
"But the police. Will they not want to question me?"
"I'll attend to that. I told the inspector that if necessary he could question you at Rose Cottage. But as I hope to make your father give back the jewels, the prosecution will be dropped. Remember, the police do not know that your father is guilty. Being thus ignorant, they can do nothing. Go away in peace, my dear, and leave everything to me."
Lesbia rose shuddering. "How can I go back to my father, knowing what I now know?" she murmured, shivering.
"You go back to the cottage," explained Charvington distinctly. "It is my cottage, as I pay the rent; the furniture also is mine. I have supported your father for years and this is the way he repays me. However, the cottage is yours. I promise you that your father will not come near you."
"I trust not! I trust not. I could not face him. And you?"
"I shall come over and see you shortly. But go away, contented to know that all is well. There will be no scandal, and not a word will be said about this burglary. Your father is safe and you are safe. Later, I shall see about getting your father to go to Australia, and then you can marry Walker."
"If he will have me," sighed the unfortunate girl.
"Lesbia," Charvington took her face between his two hands and looked into her eyes; "I swear that you shall marry him. There! Let the dead past alone and dream of future happiness," and he kissed her solemnly.