"The day after to-morrow I must leave, Maud. I shall have to spend a day or two in London, and then I sail."
He was looking down very gravely at her.
She looked up gravely at him. "I wish you had not to go away."
"So do I, but there is no help for it. I would much rather stay in England and look after affairs here. You never can trust anyone to carry out your plans. You must see the men at work, or they must know you may at any moment see them. I have planned my own designs and decorations, and tradesmen consider it a point of honour to rob an amateur. They will not do what an amateur tells them, and they are sure to cheat him most liberally. The father of a friend of mine determined upon doing up his house himself. He was not a good man of business like me, but, like me, he knew what he wanted done. He made a rough estimate of what the job would cost him, and when it was finished he found the bills came to about three times his estimate. He got an accountant to look through the bills. The first item the accountant called the attention of my friend's father to was six white marble chimney-pieces for bedrooms at two hundred pounds each. He had told the builder to get three chimney-pieces; there were places in the house for only three of the sort. On investigation the builder stated six had been got, three having been broken after arrival. 'But,' said the accountant, 'you have not allowed anything for the old ones. What did they fetch?' 'Oh,' said the builder, 'they fell to pieces, and I broke them up.' Subsequently, when going over the newly-built house of a friend, he found two chimney-pieces, one like his old and one like his new ones. 'Where did you get these?' 'Bought them for a dead bargain. Some man, who heard I was building, sold me the old one for thirty-five, and the new one for seventy.' The visitor asked for a description of the seller. It exactly corresponded with the builder. Subsequently it came out that the new chimney-pieces had been kept buried in sand until they could be removed in a cart under a load of straw, and that the old ones had gone out covered with a layer of rubbish!"
"Do you not think, William, that if Mr. Grey would consent to look after the men, such things might be prevented?"
"Yes; I have thought of asking Mr. Grey. But he is such a busy man. He will have, I daresay, a great deal to do on account of your father's will. It would be too much to expect him to spare time for coming down here and looking after a lot of lazy workmen. In fact, it would be out of the question. As to a clerk of works, or anything of that kind, I would not dream of such a thing. They wink at scamped work for a consideration, and order things they do not want. Dear Maud, I weary you with lime-and-mortar matter."
"No, no, no; I like to hear you talk in this way. It is as if—as if——" She paused, unable for the moment to mould her thoughts into words.
"As if what, Maud?"
"As if you liked to talk to me in this way."
Her eyes were fixed on his, his on hers. For a moment neither spoke. Then he said:
"Yes, I do like to talk to you in this familiar business-way. You know we are alone now in the world; and if I don't talk freely to you, to whom else on earth am I?"
"I had a note from Mr. Grey this morning, saying he has returned, and will be here to-day. Had you not better speak to him?"
"I will. That is settled. If he hesitates, I shall not allow him to do it; but I shall try what he will say. Even if he refuses he may be able to suggest some trustworthy person he knows. You see, I have been so short a time in England, and am such an utter stranger here, I know no one."
When Grey came he found the cousins together. Some routine matters having been disposed of, Sir William asked the banker if he would take a stroll with him across the Island, as he wished to speak to him about business.
The banker would be most happy.
Arm-in-arm the two left the Castle-yard, gained the grass, and walked towards the Ferry.
"Mr. Grey," began the young man, "I leave this neighbourhood the day after to-morrow."
"I am sincerely sorry to hear you say so."
"Thank you. Now I am going to try and induce you to let me get even further into your debt——"
"Sir William, it is quite unnecessary for you to say a word with such a view. I told you to draw for any moderate sum you might require, and your cheque would be honoured——"
"I am much obliged to you; but it is not money this time."
Grey bowed. He wondered: "Has he already proposed, and is he going to talk to me about the will? This looks bad."
"You know what rogues there are in the world?"
"I should think I do. I have excellent cause to know of some kinds of rogues," Grey said. He thought: "This is becoming exciting—diverting."
The banker was in the most excellent spirits this morning. He felt like an unruly schoolboy when the holidays come. He was beyond the arm of physical punishment still, and the phase of mental torture in which he had existed for some time had yielded to his present jovial bravado. His old sense of the ridiculous had returned upon him and expelled self-consideration. While he felt profoundly the necessity for precautions, he was careless as to the means he used, and inclined to estimate nothing as more than a grim joke.
"You see," continued Sir William, "now that I am leaving, I am going to throw myself upon your indulgence and good-nature. You and I have a lot of waiting upon legal forms before we can act officially or authoritatively in the new positions we find ourselves."
"A lot of waiting upon legal forms," assented Grey; and added mentally, "Thank God!"
"But I suppose no one is going to say I am not the right man."
"You may build on that. I daresay"—with a bland humorous smile—"I daresay few have greater interest in disputing your identity (there can be no dispute of your descent) than the representatives of Miss Midharst; and I"—with a bow and deprecating wave of the long arms and white hands—"have no such intention."
"That is all right. Well, now I want to spend the most of that money you were so kind as to advance me on this place"—with a comprehensive sweep of the hand taking in the Castle and all the Island.
"Quite so. I understood that from you before. I do not think you could do better with the money, Sir William."
"I am glad you approve. I not only want your approval, but your co-operation also. Will you help me?"
"To the utmost of my ability."
"I do not intend beginning for a month or so; but as I shall then be away, I shall be unable to ensure the carrying out of my plans unless I can count on the friendly supervision, however slight, of someone who would take an interest in the work of renovation and improvement——"
"And," interrupted the banker with a cordial smile, "you wish to know if I would undertake to see your wishes carried out. Nothing in the world could give me greater pleasure. I do not think you could suggest anything I would more gladly undertake."
"Allow me to explain a little."
"I assure you no explanation is necessary."
"Excuse me, I think it is. It would be the height of impertinence in me to ask you to do anything of the kind, but——"
"But that you know I shall always be only too glad to be of any service to Sir William Midharst."
"You really overwhelm me with your goodness. I feel very much at taking such favours from one who has known me so short a time."
"When people are well met, good-feeling ripens very quickly. Do you, Sir William, believe in love at first sight?"
"Yes," said the baronet, looking up with an expression of surprise and curiosity. "Why?" he asked, in a tone of perplexity.
"Because," answered the banker, "I believe in friendship at first sight; and, if you will allow me to say so, I took a most friendly interest in you from the first moment I saw you and knew who you were."
"Indeed!" murmured the young man, in a tone of reverie. Then, with a faint smile, he added: "I certainly thought we waited a little time to understand one another."
"I have no doubt it appeared so to you; but I was impressed at the very beginning. You must remember the circumstances under which we met. I had no idea who you were, and I was then under the impression the full responsibility of Miss Midharst's guardianship lay on me. In her interest I was bound to be cautious. Believe me, my theory of friendship at first sight is quite as true as that of love at first sight."
"It may be—you may be right. I have never considered the question before. I was about to explain a few moments ago that I could not think of asking you to take any trouble in this matter, only I know you will often be here to see Miss Midharst on business, or through kindness; and I thought perhaps you would not consider it too much trouble to watch how these men get on now and then, once a fortnight or so."
"Rely upon it I shall look after them much oftener than that. You may put your mind perfectly at rest, Sir William. I have some knowledge of things of this kind; a banker meets all sorts of men as customers, and picks up all sorts of odds and ends of knowledge, so that there is scarcely a trade or profession I am not familiar with the roguish side of."
"I must extract one promise from you."
"What is it?"
"That you will not put yourself to any inconvenience in this matter."
"I promise you most unhesitatingly. A little change will do me good, and it will be a most salutary change to come down here now and then and see how things are going on."
"But you really need never come unless you want to see Miss Midharst."
"Quite so."
They separated soon afterwards.
"What luck I have had!" thought Grey, as he drove towards home. "To think of how that young man played into my hands is most amusing, quite comic. He seemed to divine that I wanted an excuse for being as much at the Castle as possible. What more ample pleas for going than that I have to confer with Miss Midharst over matters connected with her father's will, and have undertaken to overlook the works about to be started by Sir William at the Island? Stop! That thought is worth consideration."
For a few minutes he lay back in the fly perfectly still, profoundly absorbed in thought.
"It's worth doing, and I'll do it," was the concluding link in his thoughts.
"Driver!"
"Yes, sir."
"Back to the Ferry again. I have forgotten something."
"All right, sir."
When he arrived at the Castle he asked for the baronet, and found him at once.
"By the way, Sir William, a matter of no absolute importance, but still of some sentimental value to me, escaped my memory when I was a while ago saying good-bye to you, as I thought, for some months."
"And what was that?"
"You know there is no hurry about Sir Alexander's will?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, nothing need be done about it for months."
"What then?"
"You will be back in a few months, less than six?"
"Let us hope so."
"Well, I shall do nothing about the will until you come back. We can then put our heads together and see what is best for Miss Midharst's interest."
"I do not fully understand you, Mr. Grey."
"What I intend doing is this," Grey explained: "I am not bound to do anything immediately about the will. I know the will is all right. I will pay the small legacies myself and get rid of them, and when you come back you and I shall go over the whole matter. I shall prove the will and administer to the estate, and then you and I will consult as to what had best be done for Miss Midharst's interests with the money."
"But what is your object in delay?"
"Just a whim."
"I hope, Mr. Grey," said the young man, with warm indignation, "you have not for a moment fancied I do not think you fully capable in every way of acting in this matter?"
"The shadow of such a suspicion never crossed my mind, I assure you, Sir William. But cannot you understand that the position I occupy of common friend to the two who now compose the house of Midharst would make me desirous of having the advice of the head of the house on important matters, such as the disposal of Sir Alexander's fortune?"
The young man looked fixedly, searchingly, at the banker's face for a moment before he answered. When he spoke, he replied with great deliberateness:
"There may be a good deal in what you say."
"You give me your confidence. You leave me to act as your deputy while you are away. You, in a manner, place yourself in my hands; and you are content with me as the guardian of your cousin's fortune. You rely upon my integrity, upon my honour. I feel the burden I lie under. I should feel less weighed down if you will accept my proposal as a small sign of the esteem I hold you in, and of my simple faith with regard to your cousin's affairs."
The banker held out his hand. He had made his speech in his old and best manner.
The young man caught his hand swiftly, eagerly.
"Grey, I did not hope to find a man like you in you when we met first. I know what stuff you are made of now. We shall be close friends while we live."
"Sir William——"
"No; Midharst."
"Midharst, we shall."
They parted.
When Grey found himself alone once more, he whispered to the leafless trees:
"Now, Mr. Prompter, ring down the drop. That's a very pretty end of the fourth act."
Sir William dined with his cousin that day. He was to say good-bye to her that evening; for, although he did not intend leaving the neighbourhood before the day after next, he had put off some business until the last hour, and had been compelled to give up his remaining day to dry detail and humdrum affairs.
It was only latterly, within the past few days—in fact, since he had come into the neighbourhood of Daneford—he had discovered dry detail and humdrum affairs. Of old details had been to him fascinating, and affairs a passion. When a new subject came to his hand he devoured it. When a novel situation presented itself, he dashed at it as impetuously as a brave soldier at a breach.
Now all was changed. When he saw the Castle first his impulse was to set men at work on it instantly. He wished to have it put in order at once; and nothing but the appearance of indecent haste deterred him from doing so. To-morrow he had to meet, among others, the people to whom he had entrusted the work, and he wished them all at the bottom of the Weeslade.
"I never knew until now I had such a taste for rural scenery. When I was away I used to think that if I got back to England I should spend all my time in London. Now the 'Warfinger Hotel,' overlooking the broad placid Weeslade, seems to me all I could desire, with now and then a visit to the Island—a stroll through its grounds and halls alone, or with Cousin Maud.
"How cool and fresh the air is around here! Coming into a place like this out of the great cities of the world is like escaping from a riotous street into a cathedral where a choir is practising hymns.
"I wonder does she sing? I know she loves pansies best of all the flowers.
"But, as I was saying, it is strange how one's most settled ideas change as one grows older. Of course, that is but natural. When I got that pony first I thought all living creatures must admire and envy me. There was only one thing I envied of those around me, and that was their privilege of standing and seeing such a splendid sight as I and my pony going past. I would freely have given all my possessions, except my pony, for the power of admiring on foot at the roadside the fine spectacle I and my mount made riding by.
"Fancy Sir Alexander not keeping a horse and groom for Maud! He didn't ride of late years, but that is no reason why she should not. She can ride; she told me so. It is too bad to think of the dark seclusion the poor girl has been kept in. I wonder how she lived. Upon my soul it was a shame! There all day long, all the year round, in this gloomy relic of the cold past, with no other change than a few hours in this sleepy place—this humdrum city of Daneford. I am surprised she did not die. It was enough to kill anyone. Fancy passing a whole lifetime away in that old place and this dull town! Monstrous!
"Of course I shouldn't mind it, as I was saying a moment ago, for I have been in the world and seen as much as I want to see. I should feel quite content to live here always. I should never care for anything better than a bed at the 'Warfinger Hotel,' and a stroll now and then about the Midharsts' old place where the Fleureys once lived, a power in the state. But Maud living here! Monstrous!
"I know what I'll do when I come back—I never thought of that before—I'll get the house in St. James's Square put in order, and she and Mrs. Grant shall go up there, and someone will bring out Maud, and she shall be the beauty of the year. All the town will talk of the lovely Miss Midharst. Then I can go and stay at Warfinger and—and see to improvements, and so on; and then if Maud wanted me she can write or telegraph. I can fill up a telegraph-form with only the word 'Come,' and she can keep it in her purse and send it off the moment she wishes to see me. I'll leave word at the telegraph-office in Daneford, that anyone bringing me that telegram in half an hour shall have a sovereign.
"I daresay I could have a wire to the Island, so there need be no delay. But it would look strange. I'll make the messenger's fee five pounds, that will be better.
"I shall keep a portmanteau always ready packed, so that there will be no delay after getting the telegram. Even supposing the telegram does not come for a week or fortnight, I may run up to London to see Maud and Mrs. Grant, and make my mind easy about them.
"While they are away I can have alterations made. I can have all the repairs and alterations done while I am in Egypt overhauled and perfected. Maud may like many things changed; and, of course, anything Maud wants to be done shall be done. Of course. Fancy Maud saying she would like something or other done, and my saying, 'No, Maud; I cannot do that!' Fancy such a thing! I wish she would ask me for something. It is so dull to have nothing to do for Maud.
"Before I knew Maud—it seems a long time, and yet it is only a few days: it is strange to think how long ago my previous life seems—how much time the past ten or a dozen days cover. I have often seen painters, when they had painted-in the solid objects of their pictures, go over parts with thin transparent colour, and, as if by magic, the ruin or the mountain that a moment ago pressed offensively forward retired into its proper place in the composition, and gathered round it mellow repose and forgetfulness. This glaze takes the heat and worry out of the picture. It gives it moist perfume and collected dignity. The few days I have spent here have acted like the glaze on the substantial background of facts in my past life. Why?
"Why? Never mind why; I am content. I like the collectedness that has come upon me. It cannot arise from the title or the estates. I am leaving all the money behind me, and for all practical purposes the title also. When I go away I shall be nothing more than a Government clerk in the foreign service. When I get there, the few Europeans I know may not have heard of Sir Alexander's death. It is not the title or the money. What has done it?
"Before I knew Maud I always fancied anyone called Maud should be young and fragile and exquisitely fair; and my Maud (she is mine, for are we not of the one house?) is young and fragile and exquisitely fair.
"Maud.
"What a musical name it is! The lips and ears never tire of it. The oftener you say it the more beautiful it seems. It is a name you must speak softly. You cannot shout it out or fancy yourself saying it angrily. Imagine for a moment my speaking angrily to my Maud!
"Speaking angrily to Maud! The mere supposition is like a blow. Maud is sanctified to me doubly, as being the last daughter of our family, and as being friendless.
"When I go away I shall leave my fortune and my title behind me. Shall I leave anything else? Yes, everything else. Maud.
"If I leave my fortune and my title and Maud behind me, what do I take with me?
"Nothing worth the carriage.
"Bounteous God, I thank Thee with all my heart, and all my soul, and all the faculties of my nature, for having given love to man, and having given me to love!"
The evening of the day Grey had visited the Island after his return from London, the two cousins sat alone in the little drawing-room after dinner.
"Maud, will you take great care of yourself while I am away?" he asked very earnestly.
She was sitting by a small ebony table in front of the fire. He reclined in an easy-chair at the opposite side of the grate.
She looked up with a childish amused smile, and answered:
"Yes; I will try and take care of myself while you are away. This is a very safe place to live in. No one can get near us without a boat, and everyone knows that a farmer's house would be better for thieves than Island Castle."
"And yet, Maud, though no man come, something very precious might be stolen by a thief while I am away." He spoke gravely, with that old far-away look in his eyes.
"And who is the thief, and what is the thing?" she asked, with a bright smile.
"Ruffian Death," he answered, for a moment overwhelmed by some dark dread and chilling foreboding.
She grew paler in her black dress; the hand resting on the table seemed whiter than life.
"But, William, I am quite well; I never felt better in all my life; and I think, considering what has lately happened, that is very wonderful." She was anxious, and looked into his face with eyes of grave solicitude.
Still he was following up the chain of his thoughts, and for the moment, unaware, he uttered them:
"There is death in every day, danger in every hour; you must encounter the danger. The way in which you meet the danger decides your relations with death. Life is a series of compromises with death. I wish I were not going away."
"So do I, indeed, William," she said earnestly. "But you must not be uneasy on my part; I am quite well, and shall keep quite well while you are away. I should be most unhappy if I thought you went away uncomfortable on my account."
The tone of the girl's voice brought him back to a consciousness of the situation. His manner changed. He looked up at her and smiled.
"Unhappy about you, Maud! Not I. You must not think that. I was talking generalities; I was not alluding to your case. You see, when a man has been a long time in a foreign country, where the speech of the people in the streets is unknown to him, and where, among the few people who speak European languages, there are only a couple for whose society he cares, he falls into one bad habit certainly, that of looking at all things in the abstract; and into another bad habit probably, that of muttering aloud to himself. I am afraid I have been treating you to a small example of both vices." He smiled brightly, and held out his hand to her.
She took the small white hand off the ebony table and placed it in his. The brown fingers closed over the white ones, and looking down at the joined hands he said:
"Like the rough brown sheath of the cocoa-nut, and the snow-white fruit within."
"What?"
"My hand round yours."
She said nothing.
He released her hand.
"You will take care of that hand, Maud, while I am away? Some time someone will value that hand more than the regalia in the Tower. It will be to him above all price. He would like to set guards over it as they set guards over the royal jewels, and yet would allow no one to act as sentinel but himself."
Such talk was new to her. She did not say anything.
"We have grown good friends in the few days we have been meeting one another?"
"Oh, yes."
"The best of friends?"
"The best of friends."
"And all the time I am away you will never cease to think of me as your best friend?"
"Never."
It almost made her cry, she could not tell why, to hear him asking such a question.
"And should you be in any need of aid or advice, you will let me know at once?"
"At once."
There was a pause during which Mrs. Grant entered the room.
The baronet got up, and sitting down beside the widow, said to both the women:
"I had a chat with Mr. Grey to-day apropos of my going, and nothing could have been nicer or more gratifying. He is, without exception, the most straightforward and honourably-minded man I have ever met. He has, Mrs. Grant, not only undertaken to keep his eye on the workmen when they come here, but he has without any hint or suggestion on my part, proposed not to do anything final with Maud's fortune until I return. And, in addition to all this, he will pay all the legacies out of his own pocket and at his own risk. Maud, I cannot say how grateful I am that you have fallen into such excellent hands. You may place yourself wholly under his direction while I am away. You need not consult me on any subject of business; you will be quite safe with him, and he has a thousand times my knowledge of business."
"Did I not tell you so?" asked Mrs. Grant of Miss Midharst.
"Yes," answered Maud softly.
"What was it?" asked the baronet, turning with a gratified smile towards the widow.
"I told dear Maud long ago that she might have full confidence in Mr. Grey," answered Mrs. Grant, with lively self-satisfaction.
"And you told her what was perfectly true. I must go now. I shall not see you again, Mrs. Grant, until I come back from Egypt. I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to know how good, how loyal Maud's two friends are—yourself and Mr. Grey."
He had shaken both Maud's hands, and kissed her lips for the first time, and shaken hands with Mrs. Grant, and was gone.
Her cousin William was gone, and she should not see him again for months. What a pity he had to go! When he was by her side, or in Daneford, she felt quite safe; nothing could harm her while he was near. When her father died she had felt alone and cold in the world. She had been susceptible to attack on all sides. She had no confidence in herself; and although Mr. Grey had done everything man could do for her, she owned no claim upon him.
But this cousin, this man of her own family, who, finding her timid and unguarded, sought the privilege of shielding her from the world and the bleak unknown lying beyond Island Castle—was a new experience, a delightful improvement on the present.
But no sooner had she learned to lean upon his reassuring strength than he must hurry away. What a pity!
Her cousin William would come back, no doubt; but Egypt was far off, very far off, and the power of his protection was reduced greatly by distance.
Why should she think she would need protection of any kind? Surely Mrs. Grant and Mr. Grey were protection enough in a quiet well-ordered place like Daneford and its neighbourhood?
Yes; but Cousin William had been more than a protector; he had been a companion as well, and there was something in his talk and manner neither Mrs. Grant nor Mr. Grey possessed. She was always content with what Mrs. Grant said, or what Mr. Grey said. Their words always exhausted the topic; but when he had spoken she felt led on to wonder what lay behind and beyond what he had said.
She had told Mrs. Grant truly he had interested her; and although he always had spoken to her as though there could be no question of the supremacy of his will over hers, she liked that.
When Mrs. Grant told her to do a certain thing, the doing of it was dry and uninteresting. When Cousin William had told her to do a thing, she always did it with the sound of his voice in her ears; or she had thought what mystery of Egypt he had before his eyes when he gave her the command; or she had tried to fathom his mind as to the manner in which he would best like to see the thing done.
But now all was cold and monotonous and dull. Really the place had got so quiet of late that she found her chief delight in her old books of Egypt, and in the geography of that country, and in following on the map the overland route he had taken to Africa.
The day Henry Walter Grey bade good-bye to the young baronet he went home to the Manor House in the best spirits.
That latest stroke of his had proved marvellously successful. In fact, the result completely astonished him. Sir William had been civil, polite, conciliatory to him up to that last interview. During it the young man had thrown aside all reserve and rushed into his arms with enthusiasm. This young man, of whom he had stood in dread a few days ago, had been not only neutralised, but converted into a friend.
And at what cost? The voluntary promise that he, Grey, would take no steps about the will until the return of the head of the house. What a transcendent joke! There was nothing like it on the stage. Nothing approaching it. He had won the young man by undertaking not to invest money already stolen and made away with!
And how had he done it? Not by worrying and sneaking and shivering and anticipating all kinds of evils; not by thinking and attending to his own fears and hopes connected with matters which had been done and could not be undone. No; but by thinking of what other people might do adverse to him, and trying to out-manœuvre them. The general who, upon hearing the enemy is advancing, does nothing but contemplate the horrors of defeat, will inevitably be defeated. It is with matters of business as with a general in the field—to provide against nothing but defeat is to ensure defeat and final disaster. To dread a disease is to open the door for its reception.
Away then for ever with doubts and fears! He was still a player in the game. It was a game of skill, and he must win. The way to win is never to think of yourself or of the result of winning or losing, but to concentrate every human faculty upon the game itself, and the plans for effecting the defeat of your opponents.
And now how did his great game stand? Let him see.
Sir William Midharst would be away in Egypt some while, some months, say three to four months, during which time it was necessary to win, by any means he could employ, this girl Maud. He was the guardian of her fortune and the superintendent of works about to be carried on at the Castle. This gave him not an excuse so much as a command to be frequently there. Thus he should have excellent opportunities of pressing his suit. He was to consult Miss Midharst upon alterations,et cetera; and that supplied the means of obtaining frequent and long interviews with her in which they should often be alone. Good, very good!
He felt strong and healthy and capable. His illness had cleared away the confusion which had been gathering round him; he slept better of nights, and awoke cheerful.
He knew he should be able to interest Maud, and to interest a woman is to win her. Those solemn, lank, poetical men, like the new baronet, took such a time to make up their minds, that a man of sanguine temperament like himself won a woman before one like Sir William determined on the first sigh. Girls don't like sighs; they prefer laughter. Good!
The Bank was all right now, and when he had married Maud there was no one to come and pry into matters. Every one would think by his marriage with her he had acquired upwards of half a million; and for a man in his position to have the reputation of riches is almost as good as to have riches. Splendid!
He had provided against injury arising out of that sale of the lease and furniture and annuity. He had not been in a position to resist his mother. He knew that, having made up her mind to sell, she would sell, no matter what it cost her feelings. She would threaten to denounce him rather than be baulked in doing what he supposed she intended with the money. He did not think she would have gone the length of denouncing him. She had done worse. She had shown herself indifferent to anything he might have to say. She could not know but that letter of his told her he had paid back all the money, or that it contained a plea for a short respite. She had not cared what happened to him; and he—he had taken means to protect himself. He did not feel angry with her in the least. He had simply cut her off from his mind. There was no such person any longer. That returned letter informed him of her death. Those documents he had signed for her were announcements of her decease. That auction bell would ring for the interment of the past and the future which had of late given him trouble. With her went everything he loved. He was alone now, face to face with his fate, and free from any unmanning influence or depressing considerations. This was best of all!
As to the other and greater danger, that was scarcely worth counting. So far there had not been the shadow of menace. Farleg had, no doubt, got out of the country, and was now settled with his wife somewhere out West. No reason existed for supposing Farleg would betray him; for he had taken hush-money, and no reward had been offered, as nothing had been suspected. No; he need not fear that source. Only one thing remained to be done. He had shaken off those superstitious terrors which had haunted him for a while. He was still menaced by the cancelled pages in London; that was the only danger ahead. All his energy for the future should be directed towards avoiding the consequences of his theft.
The day Sir William left Daneford Grey spent at the Bank. His private correspondence and such account-books as he himself kept, to which no one but himself had access, were in arrears, and had to be brought up to the current day. He had to give a long audience to Mr. Aldridge, and several merchants wanted to see him, so that the hours were fully occupied, and when he got home he felt tired; it was dark, and he resolved not to go to the Island until the early part of the next afternoon.
When next day he got to the Castle, he found Mrs. Grant in the great hall about to go out.
"I am lucky to meet you, Mrs. Grant. If you are not in a great hurry I should like a few words with you."
"Certainly, Mr. Grey; I shall be most happy. I am going to town for a few things Miss Midharst and myself want. I have not been out since poor Sir Alexander's death; but I'm in no hurry."
They were now in the open air.
"I hope Miss Midharst is quite well?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"And not pining after her handsome cousin?" with a gay smile.
"Handsome! Do you too think him handsome?"
"Yes. But who else thinks him good-looking?" with a still brighter smile.
"Miss Midharst says he is one of the handsomest men she ever saw."
"Upon my word I am inclined to believe with her." This was accompanied by the brightest smile of all. "It is useful to know what she thinks of her cousin's appearance," thought Grey gravely.
"Well, Mr. Grey, I can see nothing handsome about him. I like an Englishman to look like an Englishman; but I forgive him his looks because of his good behaviour. Nothing could have been better than his conduct from first to last. He makes Miss Midharst stay here; he promises to do up the Castle and grounds; and last of all, Mr. Grey, he speaks of you before he goes away in words which do him credit."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. Nothing could have been more manly than the way he spoke his mind to Miss Midharst and myself about you the other evening, the last day you were here. I don't think he liked you at first; but he made up for that at last. Nothing could be better than what he said."
"I am glad to find he does not misunderstand me." These were two useful and significant facts: that Maud thought her cousin good-looking, and that her cousin had been favourably impressed by him. "Mrs. Grant," he said, after a pause, "you said you were going to town to buy some things for yourself and Miss Midharst."
"Yes."
"Will you have the goodness to put this parcel in your purse? It is what you are entitled to under the will of Sir Alexander."
He held out his hand to her with a bundle of notes.
"I really don't want it now, Mr. Grey," she said, remembering what Sir William had told her.
They had already reached the Ferry-slip. He held out his hand to her. She held out the notes to him. He smiled, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and said:
"Give me your hand only. I want to help you into the boat. Put that bundle in your pocket. I hope you do not think I want it."
He handed her into the boat, raised his hat, and, when the ferryman had pulled a dozen strokes from the slip, raised his hat again and turned towards the Castle.
As he walked he thought: "That is not the worst investment I ever made. Prompt payment and attention go a long way with women who are no longer young. Now for a woman who is young and charming."
"What an agreeable man Sir William is!" said Grey, when he had been some time seated with Maud. "So affable, good-natured, and amusing. He is one of the most pleasant young men I ever met."
"I am glad you like him," said Maud, a little surprised.
"Like him! Of course I do. He is a man after my own heart. So open-minded and full of go, of animal spirits. You very seldom find a man who has been long out of Europe retain his animal spirits. The inhabitants of Asia and Africa are always afraid of sunstroke or snakes, tigers or tyrants. In the tropics no one ever makes a joke. Life is always serious there. Who ever heard of an Eastern Joe Miller? No; they have proverbs and poetry, but no jokes. When you are always expecting to find a snake coiled round the leg of the table, or an official waiting outside the door with a drawn sword to cut off your head, you are afraid to laugh. Now what I admire most in Sir William is that, although he has been long in Africa, he has kept his animal spirits unimpaired. Isn't it a great blessing?"
"Yes," answered Maud, in amazement.
"I know it is not what very straitlaced people would like, but the views he holds of all serious things are most diverting. I am very sorry I had to go away while he was here. It is such a privilege to meet a man like him—a man of the world who knows everything, and can laugh at the weaknesses and follies of the world, under which heads of weaknesses and follies he classes much of what smug respectability calls the Generous and Noble Aspirations of Men. I will not say I hold his views, but I hold my sides when he tells them. Did you hear any of his stories?"
"No, Mr. Grey," answered Maud, ready to cry. Was there really this other, this light and frivolous side to her cousin's character? She could hardly believe it. Yet here was Mr. Grey telling her about it, and no one could think of doubting Mr. Grey's word.
"Ah! Quite so. Yes. It is likely he thought you might not care for them. They might seem profane to you. I have been most unwise. I felt sure he had told them to you. He might be displeased with me if he knew I had mentioned them to you. Will you promise not to allude to them when you speak or write to him? I daresay he will write to you, and you will write to him."
"He promised to write, and I promised to write to him."
What a revelation was in the banker's words! Could it be her cousin had two sides? If it was so, where did the insincerity end? This was a miserable discovery after she had lifted him up in her mind as a perfect model of what a man should be.
"Of course you will write to your guardian and your only cousin; but mind you are not to say anything about what I have been saying to you. I should not mind speaking of it to him in your presence, but a thing of that kind in black and white looks very bad. Have you heard from him yet?"
"Yes; I got a note saying he was about to set off. It was written yesterday."
Her face looked wan and weary. It was disenchanting to hear all this of Cousin William. How could it be?
"A bad sign. A very bad sign," thought the banker. "But we must be a match for him. We must be a match for him. No precaution shall be neglected." Then he said aloud: "I shall be very often at the Castle now; for not only shall I have to come and see you, but I am also to look after the workmen for Sir William, so that I fear you will have to make up your mind to endure a great deal of me."
"I shall be very glad to see you every day. But I think you are doing too much for me—for us."
"Miss Midharst, you must understand once for all that there is absolutely nothing in my power I am not anxious to do for you personally."
He said this with great emphasis and precision, raising his right hand slightly towards the ceiling while he spoke, as though calling Heaven to witness his words.
She did not know what to say. There was an earnestness in his manner forbidding commonplace thanks.
His face suddenly lightened.
"I was about to say that either I or a messenger from the Bank will be here every day, and whoever comes can take any orders you and Mrs. Grant may have for town. This will save Michael's going in so often. I will get you a letter-bag. You shall keep one key and I the other, so there will be no danger of letters getting lost. In old times Michael was, of course, as safe as the post; but now we shall have comparative strangers—clerks and so on—whose honesty has not been so well tried as Michael's."
Soon he took his leave. Next day he did not call, but a clerk came with a letter-bag and a key. There was nothing in the bag. Miss Midharst had no letters. One from Mrs. Grant went back to town. That was all.
When the clerk got to the Bank, he handed the bag to the banker. The banker opened it, glanced at the one letter it contained, smiled, put Mrs. Grant's among his own letters for post, and whispered to himself: "Everything is fair in love and war. If this had been Maud's, I should have had just one peep."
Now he began to visit the Castle almost daily. The men had not yet been set to work, but already the furniture makers and upholsterers were busy in the work-shops. Hangings had been ordered at Paris; designers were carrying out plans for restoring the great banqueting-hall to its olden splendour; brass-founders were casting fittings; and gardeners had inspected the grounds with a view to ascertaining their capabilities.
At first Grey made it a point not to see Maud every time he called. By the end of a month he was at the Island six days out of the seven, and never left without seeing her.
During that month she had twice written to her cousin. He had carried the letters from her to the Bank, and there opened and read them. He closed them and sent them on. There had been nothing particular in either, beyond copious praise of Grey's great kindness to her, and his ceaseless attention to the business of her cousin.
So far all went well. He continued in good spirits, and the people of Daneford said he had never looked better or seemed gayer.
His mother's place had been sold out, and she had gone he knew not whither.
"That is all the better," he thought. "The stage is clearer, and nothing remains to distract my attention from the main thing."
He had been very cautious in his interviews with Maud. He had said or done nothing which could give her a hint of his aim. He had been good-humouredly and sedulously careful to do all she wished as she wished it done. He had taken her and Mrs. Grant for drives in quiet country places, where the freshness of their mourning would be free from observation and remark. On these occasions, although Maud occupied the seat of honour, he was more attentive to her companion.
But the time for winning had a limit, and at the end of the first month he gradually changed his manner.
When they met he gazed into her eyes longer and with more interest than of yore. He pressed her hand more warmly, and retained it longer. His voice, when he spoke to her, was lower and softer. His solicitude for her health gained daily, and when they walked out into the grounds together, he chose for her the easiest ways, and showed his anxiety that her feet should not touch the wet grass, or the ragged brambles her face or figure.
He prolonged his visits. He always found an excuse for getting her out into the grounds, or into some room where for a time they might be alone. When parting from her, he would say, if no one was by:
"I am sorry I must leave now. I am sorry I am obliged to go back to Daneford and that lonely Manor. I wish I could stay here."
And she would say:
"I am sure, if you will stay, Mrs. Grant will make you comfortable. But you lose too much time for us."
He would answer:
"No. Oh no, dear Miss Midharst. The only pleasant time I have now is when I am here, in your society, trying to make this place better for you."
Then he would say good-bye impressively, and move off with a dejected look, and turn round, when he had taken a few paces, and wave his hand to her in a way that said: "Do not grieve because I am sad. I am nobody."
This manner set the girl pondering, and she said to the widow one day:
"Mrs. Grant, I think living all alone in that house, where his wife was once, is bad for Mr. Grey."
"There is no doubt of it, my child. It will kill him, I am sure. He ought to marry again soon."
"Marry again soon!" cried the girl in surprise. The idea that he might marry again had never suggested itself to her mind, and it seemed very wonderful.
"Yes, my dear. He's a young man. A much younger man than many men of thirty."
"I know he is very amusing, but I had never before thought of Mr. Grey marrying again."
To Maud the idea was not only novel, but a little shocking at first. She had been in the habit of classing him with her father. Now for the first time she had come to think of him as a man who was not only not nearly so old as her father, but relatively young.
All at once the recent change in his manner towards her struck her, and, little as had been her experience of the world, or her knowledge of its ways, she could not but see a desire on Mr. Grey's part to be particularly agreeable to her. This, coupled with the fact that she could no longer regard him as a man the events of whose life were merely awaiting the final audit to be posted into the eternal ledger, made her feel an awakened interest in him. He was a new man, an individuality hitherto unexplored.
Another thing struck her at the same time.
Her cousin, whom she had taken as a grave, serious-minded, chivalric soul, turned out to have two sides to his character. When not with her, he could be light, trivial, profane.
The banker also had two sides to his character. He was robust, honest, jovial, in general. But at home sorrow and loneliness were eating him away in the house where once he had been happy with the wife so suddenly taken from his side.
What a strange discovery! Were all men who were not as old as her father double-sided like these? She should not like to ask even Mrs. Grant that question. Then what a contrast did these two men afford: the one assuming or wearing naturally towards her the manner of earnest collectedness, while towards others he showed questionable levity; the other showing her a steady brightness, while in reality his heart was consumed by a great sorrow! Were all men like these? How wonderful it seemed!
The contrast revealed to her by these two men first aroused Maud Midharst to perceive men's minds and ways differed widely from the minds and ways of women. Of old she had known men were stronger than women, had greater capacity for affairs, more knowledge of the world and more wisdom. Until now she had never reached the fact that there were in the minds of men faculties differing from those of women, not only in quality and intensity, but also in kind. Instantly her wonder at the superiority of men left her. She no longer felt astonished at disparity between mental faculties common to men and women. She suddenly awakened to a curiosity never felt before. She was now interested in all things which enabled her to discover where the thoughts of men differed from the thoughts of women.
When she had heard her cousin speak on the day her father was buried, she had felt surprise and interest. What he said had given her a pleasant shock. Now she had gone a post farther on the great road of life. She had learned to speculate.
One day when Maud was sitting alone in the library by the fire reading, a servant entered with word a lady who declined giving any name wished to see Miss Midharst. She was, the servant said, a thin, tall, old lady, dressed in black.
No ladies called at the Castle. What could this woman want? Maud wondered. Who could she be? A tall, thin, old lady, dressed in black. Had she asked by name for Miss Midharst?
"Yes; she said she wanted to see Miss Midharst. I asked her would Mrs. Grant do, and she said No, she wanted to see Miss Midharst alone."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
Who could it be? The last person who had asked to see her and declined to give a name was William. (She would write to William to-day and tell him what she thought. It was a strange thing for her to have to write to him. But she did not know what to do. William was her only friend. She was afraid to speak to Mrs. Grant about it. If she mentioned the matter to Mrs. Grant, no one could tell but it might get back to Mr. Grey's ears, and that would never do. Never.) Ah, the servant is waiting yet.
"Where is the lady?"
"In the hall-room, madame."
"Tell her I will come to her at once."
Maud rose slowly and put down her book. As she moved along the corridors, she thought:
"This is most unpleasant, it is terrible. My father is not yet two months dead, and Mr. Grey's manner frightens me. At first I did not notice it, but now—now I can have no doubt. He has not said anything plain yet, but he can mean nothing else. He calls me Maud, and not Miss Midharst. He takes my hand, too, when we are alone, and looks in my eyes and frightens me. His eyes are queer. When he is looking at me he seems suddenly to forget who I am, or where he is. It is only within the past week I noticed this; and yesterday he looked at me with those awful eyes, and begged me to be good to him and come, for God's sake, and take the thing away from the dark passages and the doorways. Then he asked me if I smelt blood, and burst out laughing, and said all this was part of a play he was writing. Judas Iscariot, the hero of his play! What a horrible thought!"
She reached the hall-room. It had long ago been used by the family as a breakfast-parlour when few guests were at the Castle; for many years it had been made a waiting-room.
Maud opened the door and entered. The day was cold, and she directed her glance first towards the fire. No one was there, but she saw standing with her back to the window a tall, thin, old woman.
The stranger did not move. She fixed her eyes on Maud, and stood staring at the girl.
Maud moved slowly and timidly up the room. When within a couple of yards of the other she said:
"I am Miss Midharst. You wish to see me. Will you not take a chair near the fire?"
"Yes, I wanted to see you. I want to see you."
She did not move. Her voice was firm and hard, with a tone of menace in it.
"I—I cannot recall your face, and the servant did not bring your name."
"We never met before. The servant did not bring you any name, for I have none. I am a woman of no name."
"A woman with no name!" cried Maud, with a feeble attempt at a smile. There was no provocation for smiles in the words or manner of the unknown, and Maud felt uneasy.
"Yes; I once had an honourable name, and was connected with honourable people who bore it. But that name was dishonoured by one who owned it, and the name died. My name would not live dishonoured." The voice was firm and hard still, and the original pose unbroken.
"I am sorry for that," murmured Maud, not knowing anything else to say. What a contrast between this unknown visitor and the former! And yet, although a strong contrast appeared, there was a subtler similarity.
"And I am sorry for you."
Maud started and repeated: "Sorry for me! Why are you sorry for me?"
"Because you are young. I used once, until lately, to think it a privilege to be young; now I consider it a privilege to be very old or dead."
Maud felt more and more uncomfortable. This was not a cheerful way of looking at things. Maud had quite enough unpleasant matters to occupy her mind, and she was quite unstrung. What business had this woman with her? She would try. She spoke somewhat tremulously:
"Can I be of any use to you?"
"No. Nor can I be of much to you."
"To me!" said Maud in surprise. "I hope no one has been asking you to do anything unreasonable for me. Of course, as I did not know you until now, and never heard your name, you will excuse my not thanking you for what you may have done for me."
"I have done nothing for you but evil."
"Evil! I assure you you must be mistaken. No one has done me harm, as far as I know."
"But there may be evil you do not know of, and I may have been the innocent cause of it."
"But if you were innocent you must not trouble yourself about it; and besides, whatever the harm was, it has not hurt me, so that you must make your mind easy."
"The evil may be done, and yet unfelt, and may be felt later on, and the evil may not be done yet."
"I do not clearly understand you."
"I do not intend you should. I do not know why I have spoken so much. I cannot say more. I have merely called to deliver into your hands a parcel of some consequence. The contents of this parcel is yours. I said I cannot do much for you. I can do no more than give you this. You must promise me not to open this parcel until to-morrow morning. You need not be afraid of it. The things in it are good things. You promise?" The woman held out her hand with a small parcel in it.
"Yes," answered Maud, taking the parcel.
At that moment the door opened, and a voice said:
"I beg your pardon, Miss Midharst; I did not know there was anyone here."
Maud turned round, and saw Henry Walter Grey smiling and bowing in the doorway. With the handle of the door still in his hand, he took a backward step, when the old woman said:
"Come in. I have finished with Miss Midharst."
At the sound of the voice Grey sprang back a step, thrust his head forward, and uttered a low cry of surprise and pain.
Maud moved towards him, saying:
"Are you ill, Mr. Grey? Are you ill?"
His face was shrivelled and his mouth hung open.
Before Maud could take another step the hand of the old woman was on her shoulder, and the voice of the old woman was in her ear, firm and hard as before:
"Remember your promise! Good-bye."
With erect head, bright eyes, and a quick step, the stranger walked to the door, on the outside of which Grey stood paralysed. He bowed and groaned as she approached, and as she passed him he crouched against the wall.
She swept by him without looking at him, turned the corner of the corridor and passed out of sight.
Maud, transfixed with amazement, stood where the old woman had arrested her.
When the stranger had disappeared, Grey made a prodigious effort, shook himself, assumed a sickly smile, and straightened his figure.
The action of the banker dissolved the stupefaction of the girl, and she moved rapidly towards the door to escape. Just as she reached it the manner of the man suddenly changed. His face became dark and threatening, and he bounded into the doorway, barring the exit and crying:
"Stop! I must speak with you before you leave the room!"
The girl recoiled in terror, and began with "Mr. Grey!" in a tone of fear and expostulation.
"Go back. I say Imustspeak with you before you leave this room!"
She struggled with herself for a moment, and then summoned courage enough to begin with:
"By what right, Mr. Grey——"
"By any right or by any wrong you must speak with me. Do I look like a child, or a fool, or a woman?"
His manner was vehement and over-powering. For an instant she resolved to defy him, but by a powerful sweep of his arm he indicated that denial was out of the question. With a palpitating heart and confused head she stepped back into the room.
He followed her and locked the door. When she heard him do this her strength gave way altogether, and she sank on a chair.
He walked up and down the room some time before he spoke.
"Tell me, what did that wretched woman say to you? What was her business with you? What brought her here?"
"She told me she had wronged me innocently."
"How?"
"She would not say."
"What do you mean, girl? Do you dare to tell me she said she had wronged you and did not tell you how?" He drew up in front of her chair.
"Yes."
"Is that a lie?"
"Is what a lie?"
"Have you, girl, told me a lie?"
"Mr. Grey, I——"
"Girl, I will have no pretty sentiments! I am talking business now. Such business as you never even heard of. You may not know the results hanging on your words. Did that wretched woman tell you the injuries she had done you?"
"She did not." Maud felt she should faint.
"Listen to me now, girl: this is business. Attach ten thousand times more value to the answers you are going to make me than to any other answers you gave in all your life. My question is: What names did she mention?"
"None. She mentioned no name."
"Absolutely and literally no name?"
"She mentioned no name."
"Not even her own?"
"Not even her own."
"But you know, of course, who she is?"
"I never saw her before. I do not know who she is."
"The servants know her name."
"Jordan told me a lady wished to see me in private. He did not know her name."
"Are you sure of all this?"
"Yes."
"What was her business with you?"
"She left me that packet on the table."
"Did she say nothing about it?"
"That it contained something of mine, and that I was not to open it until to-morrow morning."
"Is that all?"
"That is all."
"Swear it to me."
"Mr. Grey!"
"I know; but swear all the same."
"I will not."
"Then you have been lying."
"I have not. How dare you say such a thing, Mr. Grey!"
"Well, there, Maud, dear Maud, let us drop the comedy. I am afraid I have carried it too far already. You know really who the poor creature is?"
"I have told you I do not."
"She is a harmless old woman who is mad on religion, and goes about doing this kind of thing, and leaving bundles of tracts like this." He took up the parcel off the table. "She must not be allowed in here again. I will give orders that she shall not be admitted. And now can you guess the reason for my comedy?"
"I cannot."
"It was, dear Maud, because I heard to-day there is some chance of the will being disputed, and I wanted to try how you would go through the ordeal of a severe cross-examination. And I must say, anything to equal my Maud's admirable coolness I never saw. You did not for a moment fancy I was in earnest?"
"I don't know what I thought. I was greatly frightened."
"Well, I admit I did go too far. But it was in your own interest, dear Maud—in your own interest. You are all right again, dear Maud?"
He took her hand in his.
"I feel a little nervous and hysterical. Please open the door and let me go."
"Certainly; it was carrying the joke too far to lock the door; but I was borne away by the spirit of the thing. You will forgive me."
"Oh, yes."
"Well, dear Maud, good-bye now. You are leaving your parcel of tracts behind you. Never mind; I'll read them for you."
When she had left the room he took up the parcel, dropped it into his pocket, and started at once for the city.
That day Maud wrote to her cousin, Sir William Midharst. The concluding paragraph of her letter ran thus:
"I do not know what is the matter with Mr. Grey; his manner terrifies me. If you can, come back at once."