“And what was the name of the fortunate lady?”
“Mrs. Cunningham.”
“What did Mrs. Cunningham think of your pendant?”
“She would not believe it was not real, and she scolded me for my carelessness; but I really did—”
“I suppose she is very careful of hers?” Mr. Rayner interrupted.
“Oh, yes—you don’t know how careful! She has one set, diamonds and cat’s-eyes—”
By a sudden movement he trod on Nap’s tail, and the dog howled. I broke off to comfort him.
“Go on, go on,” said Mr. Rayner, touching my arm impatiently.
“What was I saying? Oh, I know—about Mrs. Cunningham’s jewels. She has one set of what they call cat’s-eyes and large diamonds, which she keeps—”
“That she keeps where?” said Mr. Rayner, yawning, as if tired.
“Oh, that she keeps always concealed about her person!” said I.
“Do you mean it?” he asked, much interested.
“Yes, really. She told me so. And nobody in the house, not even her maid, knows where they are. She sleeps with them under her pillow.”
Mr. Rayner rose.
“Well, I don’t think even the responsibility of diamonds under your pillow would keep you awake to-night, for you must be tired out.”
He was fidgeting about the room, as if he were anxious to get to bed too. But he did not look sleepy; his eyes were quite bright and restless. He gave me my candle.
“Pleasant dreams of Denham Court, madam, though you don’t deserve them! What business have you to repeat secrets that have been told you in confidence?”
“Oh, Mr. Rayner, as if it mattered—to you!” said I, laughing as I left the room.
“Yes, it is lucky you told it to me,” he answered, laughing back.
Mr. Raynerwas right. I was very tired; and the next morning I overslept myself, and did not come downstairs until breakfast was more than half over. It had been unusually punctual, and, to my surprise, the brougham came round to the door as I went into the dining-room, and I found Mrs. Rayner in outdoor dress at the table.
“Well, Miss Christie, we have all got tired of you; so we are going to leave you all alone at the Alders,” said Mr. Rayner, when he saw my astonished face.
And, when he had amused himself a little longer by all sorts of absurd stories about their departure, I found that he was going up to town for a few days, and that Mrs. Rayner was going with him as far as Beaconsburgh station. He was going on business, he said; but he should combine pleasure with it—go the round of the theatres, and perhaps not be back until Saturday. This was Tuesday.
“Would you like to go to Beaconsburgh with us? You have no lessons to do, as Haidee is still in bed. And I dare say you have some little purchases to make; and you can change the books at the circulating-library, and Mrs. Rayner will have a companion to drive back with.”
Mrs. Rayner did not receive the proposal with enthusiasm; but he told me to run upstairs, put on my things, and be down before he could count thirty; and I was in the dining-room again, panting and struggling with my gloves, in scarcely more than the prescribed time. There was plenty of room for me on the little seat in front of them in the brougham; but I had great difficulty in dissuading him from sitting outside by the coachman in order to give us more room.
When we got to the station, we found that we were there a great deal too soon. Mr. Rayner walked up and down, talking to the station-master and the people he knew, telling every one where he was going, and asking those among them who had been to London lately what were the best plays to go and see, and if they knew of a really good hotel, not too expensive, within easy distance of the theatres. He said to me once, when I was standing by him—
“If anything should happen while I am away—if Haidee should get worse, or Mrs. Rayner frighten you, or anything—telegraph to me at once at the Charing Cross Hotel. I don’t know whether I shall stay there; but if you send it there it will reach me. You will find some forms in my study, and you will just write it without saying a word to anybody, and take it straight to Sam, and tell him to go to Beaconsburgh with it at once. Mind—to Sam; don’t trust any of the women-servants.”
I wondered he did not entrust this duty to the all-important Sarah; but I accepted the charge without comment.
“What shall I bring you this time?” said he, just before the train came up. “Roses are out of season. Some more paste to match your pendant?”
“Oh, no, no!” answered I. “You know I can’t wear it, Mr. Rayner; and it only makes me vain and makes me wish for more.”
“Ah, I though so!” said he, half to himself, maliciously. “Well, wishes always come true if one wishes them hard enough. I shall bring you some garnets. That is a most inexpensive red stone, and very pretty.”
“Oh, I think I would rather not! I really don’t want any jewelry, Mr. Rayner,” declared I.
But the train had come up. He said good-by affectionately to his wife and kindly to me; and we saw him off, and then made our purchases and drove back to Geldham. It was rather an uncomfortable drive, for the only remark Mrs. Rayner made was, when I said it was cold—
“Then you had better order them to light the fire in your room early, Miss Christie. Mr. Rayner will upset the whole household if you take cold while he is away.”
Then she shut her eyes and went, or pretended to go, to sleep, and I looked at her and thought what an unpleasant person she was, until the hollows in her face and the suffering expression about her mouth touched me. Why did she shut herself up and persist in being miserable, instead of returning her husband’s love and changing the melancholy Alders into the cheerful, bright place it might be?
I spent a dull day; for, when I went to see Haidee, Mrs. Rayner instantly left the room, and I could not help seeing that it was to avoid me; so I was obliged to resist the sick child’s entreaties for me to stay, and to go back and wander by myself about the house and garden, too miserable in my thoughts about Laurence and his cruel desertion of me to be able to read or work.
At tea-time Mrs. Rayner did not appear. Sarah said that Haidee was worse, and that her mother would not leave her. The evening was very cold, and, as Mrs. Rayner had rather ostentatiously told Jane to light Miss Christie’s fire directly after dinner, I went up to my own room as soon as I had finished tea, and sat on the hearthrug, and nursed my sorrow where I could at least be warm.
It was about seven o’clock when Jane came up to say that Haidee was worse, and was crying out for me.
“I think she is going to die, miss—I do indeed,” said kind little Jane, sobbing. “They won’t let me in there; but I’ve been listening, for Mr. Rayner’s away and Sarah’s out, and I don’t care not that for Mrs. Rayner!”—and she snapped her fingers contemptuously. “I heard Miss Haidee a-calling for you, miss; and I don’t believe she knows what she’s saying, poor little dear, and they ought to send for a doctor; but I don’t suppose they will. Sarah don’t care, and Mrs. Rayner don’t dare—that’s about it, miss.”
And Jane gave me a nod and an expressive look as I went out of the room with her. I knew that the servants, one and all, looked upon their mistress as a poor-spirited thing, while they had some admiration and a great deal of respect for their master. The few orders she gave they fulfilled in a spirit of condescension or neglected altogether, while a word from him acted like a spell upon any one of them.
Thus, he having ordered that Mrs. Rayner, being an invalid, was not to be disturbed by sweepings and dustings and noises in the passage leading to her room, no member of the household ever dared to enter the left wing but Sarah, who had entire charge of the long corridor, bedroom, dressing-room, and store-room which it contained, although it was shut out from the rest of the house merely by a heavy baize-covered swing-door with only a bolt, which was seldom, I believe, drawn in the daytime. So that Jane felt like a heroine after having ventured on the other side of that door; and, when we came to it, she stood looking first at it and then at me, as if to touch it again were more than she dared.
“Oh, miss,” said she, as I stepped forward to go through, “suppose Mr. Rayner was in there?”
“But Mr. Rayner is in London,” returned I, laughing.
“Ah, yes, miss! But he do come back that sudden sometimes he might be a ghost. Of course it’s all right for you, miss; but, if he was to know I’d been in there, oh, miss, I should die o’ fright! When he’s angry, he just speaks fit to cut yer head off.”
I laughed at Jane’s fears, and pushed open the door, not without difficulty, for it was very heavy, and, Jane’s courage having evaporated, she dared not help me. My teeth chattered as I went through this passage, it was so cold; and what was my surprise to find, when I got to the end, that the window had been left open on this chilly and wet October evening! I took the liberty of shutting it, and, returning to the dressing-room door, I tapped softly at it. I could hear Haidee’s voice, but I could not hear what she said, and Mrs. Rayner sobbing and calling her by name. I went in softly, and with a shriek the mother started up from her knees; she had been on the floor beside the bed. Haidee knew me, though her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with fever, and she wandered in her talk.
I sat on the bed and tried to make her lie down and keep the clothes over her, for the room was as cold as the corridor. Mrs. Rayner was clinging to the rail at the bottom of the little bed and watching me with eyes as glittering as the child’s. I felt just a little tremor of fear. Had I trusted myself alone with a sick child and a madwoman on the verge of an outbreak of fury? Her bosom heaved and her hands clutched the rail tightly as she said—
“What right have you to come here? Are you not snug and warm upstairs in your turret? Why must you come and exult over me? You were welcome to my husband. Then you took my child. Can you not spare her to me now she is dying?”
I had heard that one must always talk to mad people as if one thought them sane; so I said—
“Not dying, Mrs. Rayner; don’t say that. I came down just to see if I could be of any use. Why don’t you take her into your own room? It is so cold in here. And wouldn’t it be better to send in for Doctor Maitland? Oh, I forgot! He is away. But you might send Sam to Beaconsburgh for Doctor Lowe.”
Her manner changed. As she looked at me, all the anger, all the little gust of defiance faded out of her great eyes, and she fell to sobbing and whispering—
“I dare not—I dare not!”
“May I take her into your room, Mrs. Rayner?”
“No, no.”
“Then, if you will allow me, I will take her up into mine. You won’t mind her being so far from you, if you know it is better for her, will you?” said I persuasively. “It is so beautifully warm up there that it won’t matter if she throws the clothes off her, as she can’t help doing, poor little thing; and I’ll wrap her up well, so that she shall not take cold on the way.”
Mrs. Rayner stared at me helplessly.
“Will you dare?” she asked fearfully.
“Certainly, with your permission.”
“You know very well that my permission is nothing,” sobbed she.
“And I don’t wonder, you poor spiritless thing!” I thought to myself. But I was very sorry for her; and I asked if she would like to have my room for the night, to be near her child.
But she was frightened at the idea; so I wrapped the child up well in a blanket, thinking I would put her in my own bed until her little one could be taken upstairs. I was rather frightened myself at the thought of giving such an order to the awful Sarah, and, just as I was debating with myself whether she would be likely to obey it, she entered the room. I attacked her at once.
“Sarah, I want you to bring Miss Haidee’s bed up into my room, if you please. This is too cold for her. Jane can help you, if it is too heavy.”
She seemed not to be quite sure whether to be insolent or submissive. She decided for the former.
“And by what authority, miss, do you give orders for moving about the furniture?”
“Your mistress wishes it to be done.”
“My mistress! And pray who is that, miss?”
“You know—Mrs. Rayner.”
“And is that all the authority you have, miss?”
“No,” said I boldly; “more than that—Mr. Rayner’s!”
The women both started, and Sarah took up the bed and without a word went out of the room. I turned to Mrs. Rayner.
“Don’t be alarmed about Haidee,” I said gently. “I’ll take great care of her. And, if you will just give your consent, I will send for a doctor on my own responsibility.”
The poor thing stooped and kissed one of the hands I held round her child.
“Heaven bless you, Miss Christie!” she murmured; and, turning away, she sank down upon the empty space where the bed had been, and burst into a flood of tears.
She would not listen to the few incoherent words I said to comfort her; and I was obliged to leave the room with tears in my eyes, and carry my little patient upstairs. I could not go very fast, for the burden was rather heavy for a small woman like me; and by the time I got upstairs the bed was ready and Sarah had disappeared.
And now how to get a doctor? For I was seriously alarmed about the child. To expect any more help from Sarah was out of the question. I went down to the nursery, called Jane, who was just going to bed, and asked her where Sam slept.
“In the village,” said she.
Nobody slept at the stables now that Mr. Rayner was away, except the old gardener, who would certainly never reach Beaconsburgh before daybreak if I sent him out at nine o’clock at night. Jane was too young to be sent all that way alone at night, the cook too old. There was only one thing to be done; I must go myself.
“Go and ask cook, if she is not asleep, to lend me her big round water-proof cloak, Jane,” said I, “and bring me one of Miss Haidee’s Shetland veils.”
She ran away, astonished, to fetch them; and then, seeing that I was in earnest, she helped quickly and well to make me as like a middle-aged countrywoman as possible by buttoning my cloak, fastening a garden-hat round my head like a poke-bonnet, and attaching my veil to it. Then she tied up my umbrella like a market-woman’s, and let me out, giggling a little at my appearance, but promising faithfully not to leave Haidee till my return, and to “stand up to Sally” if she interfered.
I felt rather frightened at the boldness of my undertaking as I heard the hall door close upon me, and realized that I had nothing in the world but my umbrella and my wits to protect me all the long three miles and a half of road to Beaconsburgh. The moon was at the second quarter, but did not give much light, for it was a cloudy night, raining now and then. I was not sorry for this, as I was the less likely to be recognized, and it was not the sort of weather to encourage late loiterers. I passed two or three villagers, only one of whom walked unsteadily; but none of them took any notice of me; and I had got past the last of the Geldham cottages, and on to a piece of straight road up a hill, where there were no houses in sight, when I heard the sounds of a vehicle coming along at a good pace behind me. It slackened to come up the hill, and I, to keep up my character, bent over my umbrella, and walked more slowly. But this subterfuge had an undesired effect.
“Hallo, my good woman! Would you like a lift up the hill?” cried the driver; and my heart leapt up, for it was Laurence’s voice.
In a moment I felt like a different woman; my blood seemed dancing for joy, my pulses beat more quickly, and the spirit of mischief came into me so that I wanted to laugh aloud.
“Ay, ay!” I grunted out slowly; and, waiting until the cart came up to me, I climbed with his help and with seeming difficulty, carefully keeping my cloak over my hands, on to the seat by his side.
“All right?” said he; and again I grunted “Ay, ay!” and on we went.
Oh, how happy I felt to be again by his side! But it was rather hard not to be able to take the hand that was nearest to me, and nestle up to his shoulder, and tell him how miserable I had been since last night, when he had rushed away with the dreadful threat of not seeing me again. Well, now he should see me again; he could not help himself. I felt rather nervous as to what he would say when I did discover myself. Was he still angry? Would he insist upon my getting down and going the rest of the way on foot? Or would he say more unkind things to me? Or would he be pleased to see me, and forgive me?
He was not in a very conversational mood. Was he thinking of me, I wondered, or was it only that in my disguise I did not promise to prove an entertaining companion? He asked me if I was going to Beaconsburgh, and I said “Ay, ay!” again. I knew very well that a real countrywoman would not say “Ay, ay!” and I was surprised that it did not strike Laurence himself as a strange sort of answer.
I began to get impatient for him to know me. I looked at him furtively; he was evidently not at all curious or interested about his companion. But he looked very grave and thoughtful; and presently, to my exceeding comfort, he pulled down over his wrists two little uncomfortable woollen cuffs that I had made, and that he had bought of me at the sale. I remembered them quite well; we had had a struggle to get them over his wrists, as I had made them a convenient size, too large for a woman and too small for a man. It seemed to me that he handled them lovingly. Upon this encouragement I spoke.
“Aren’t you going to talk?” said I, in my natural voice.
We had passed the hill, and were going along at a good pace; but he gave the reins such a jerk that the horse stopped.
“You won’t be cross with me again, will you?” said I, anxious to pledge him to good temper while he was in the first flush of his joy at meeting me; for it was joy.
He slipped the reins into his right hand and put his other arm around me and kissed me, Shetland veil and all. And so we made it up without a word of explanation.
I told him my errand, and he told me his. His father had gone up to town that day to arrange for the disposal of some shares in order to purchase a farm for Laurence a few miles off, which was to be stocked, according to his promise, while his son was away. He was to return by a train which reached Beaconsburgh about ten o’clock, and Laurence was on the way to meet him.
“We will call at Doctor Lowe’s first, and then you shall go on with me to the station and see my father,” said he.
I protested a little that I ought to go back with the Doctor; but of course he carried his point.
“What do you want a farm for, Laurence?” I asked, as we waited outside the station.
I remained in the cart holding the reins, for fear my quaint appearance should excite curiosity regarding young Mr. Reade’s companion if I got out and went into the station with him. But he stood by my side holding my hand under my cloak while we talked in a low voice.
“What do I want a farm for? Why, to have a home for you and something to live on, of course! I know something about farming, and it doesn’t matter if I do lose a little just at first.”
“But why did you want to go on preparing a home for an ‘accomplished coquette,’ whom you said last night you were never going to see again?”
“One isn’t answerable for all one says to a tormenting little witch like you,” said Laurence, laughing. “You didn’t suppose I was really never going to see you again, now did you?”
“I shouldn’t have cared,” said I.
“Ah, I was right about the coquetry! You wouldn’t have told such a story as that before you went to Denham Court. I was coming to see you to-morrow evening. I’ve had to be away all to-day over at Lawley, and I have to be there again to-morrow with my father; but in the evening I shall call at the Alders and ask boldly for Miss Christie. So mind you are not out.”
“I shall not promise.”
“And we will have a good long talk together, since, thank Heaven, Mr. Rayner is away; and I will give you an address where a letter will reach me.”
We were so intent upon our conversation that I did not notice that there was a man standing very near to us during the last part of it. As Laurence finished speaking, he turned his head, and suddenly became aware that the train had come in while we were talking.
“By Jove! Wait for me, darling,” he cried hastily, and then dashed off so quickly that he ran against the man, who was dressed like a navvy, and knocked his hat off.
When he returned with his father, who greeted me very kindly, he looked pale and anxious.
“Do you know who that man was I ran against?” he whispered.
“That navvy?”
“It was no navvy. It was Mr. Rayner.”
“Laurence!” said I incredulously.
“I tell you it was—I swear it! What was he doing, skulking about in that get-up? He came down by this train. He must have overheard what we were saying. Now mark what I say, Violet—I shall not see you again.”
“But, Laurence, how could he prevent it? You will come to the house and ask for me—”
“Listen, Violet,” he interrupted. “If you do not see me to-morrow night before seven o’clock, be at your ‘nest’ without fail at half-past.”
“Very well, I will, Laurence—I will. I promise.”
But nothing would reassure him.
“I tell you it will be of no use, my darling—of no use. We must say good-by to-night, for I shall not see you again.”
Duringthe whole of the drive back to Geldham it was old Mr. Reade who talked to me, and not Laurence, who drove along, silent and grave, pulling my cloak affectionately up to my throat every now and then, and watching me as I talked to his father, but scarcely speaking himself at all. When we got to the gate of the Alders, he jumped out, carefully lifted me down, and, telling his father to drive on home, as he should walk the rest of the way, he came inside the gate with me.
“Violet,” he said very gravely, “I am afraid I have been foolish in agreeing to my father’s wishes, and I am more anxious about you than I can tell. The Alders is no fit place for you. I can see quite well now what I could not when I was blinded by my passion last night, that you are so good and innocent that evil seems to have no power over you; but yet— And—and it is just that which makes you so sweet; and I don’t want to spoil it, open your eyes, and all that.” He was playing nervously with my hand, holding it against his breast, and looking into my eyes so miserably, poor fellow! “Look here, Violet!” said he suddenly, as if struck by a happy thought. “If any man, while I am away, tells you you are nice, and tries to make you think he is very fond of you—no matter who it is—Mr. Rayner or—or my father, or any man—don’t take any notice, and don’t believe them.”
But poor Laurence was more innocent than I if he thought I did not know what he meant. He was jealous of Mr. Rayner, and I could not persuade him how absurd it was.
I said, “Very well, Laurence;” but he was not satisfied. He went on trying to justify himself—not to me—he wanted no justification in my eyes—but to himself.
“What could I do, when my old dad offered to do so much for me, but let him have his way? But it was wrong, I know. Our engagement ought to have been open from the first; and his weakness in not daring to face my mother was no worse than mine in giving way to him. And now I am tortured lest my weakness should be visited on you, child; for I cannot even write to you openly, and, if I enclose letters to you to my dear old blundering dad, you will certainly never get them.”
“Why not send them to Mrs. Manners, Laurence? Then they would be quite safe. And you don’t mind her knowing, do you? I think she guesses something already,” said I, smiling, remembering how she sent me to the gate to meet him on the previous Friday evening, the very night when he first told me he loved me.
He caught at the suggestion eagerly.
“That is a capital idea, my darling! I’ll go to her before breakfast to-morrow morning and ask her to look after you as much as she can while I am away. I don’t think she is very fond of my sisters—I wish they were nicer for your sake, my darling, especially Maud. I wish some one would marry her; but no one is such a fool.”
“Oh, Laurence, she is your sister!”
“I can’t help that; I wish I could. Alice, the little one, isn’t half so bad; it is only being with Maud that spoils her. If ever you get Alice alone, you will find she is quite nice.”
I had already had proof of that, and I told him so.
“But one can’t confide in her, because she would tell everything to Maud, and Maud to my mother. You have no idea what the tyranny of those two women is like; my father dreads and I avoid them. My mother thinks she holds my destiny in her hand; but she is mistaken; and within the next six weeks she must find it out; for, if she wishes to stay abroad longer, she will have to stay alone. By the third week in November I shall be back in England, and before the month is out you must be my wife, my darling.”
“Oh, Laurence, so soon!”
“So soon? Why, it is a century off! I shall be gray-headed if we wait another week. I am not sure where we shall stay; but to-morrow night I will bring you an address that you can always write to. It is that of a friend of mine—I forget the number of the street, but you shall have it; and I shall be sure to get your letters. Now, if anything happens to alarm you, or you are ill, or anything, you are to write at once, and I will return to Geldham without delay. And, my darling—”
We were interrupted by the sound of a carriage coming up the drive; it was Doctor Lowe’s brougham returning from the house. I went to the carriage-window, and he told me that Haidee was suffering at present only from a bad feverish cold, but that we must be careful with her, for it might turn to something worse, and he should call again to see her in the morning. He said that the child’s chest was weak, that the damp place was the worst thing for her, and that he should like to see her parents to advise them to take her away to some drier climate, as soon as she was well enough to be moved.
“Mind, she mustn’t be moved yet,” said he. “She is very well where she is—nice warm room, high out of the damp. But the lower part of the house strikes like a vault.”
“What would he say if he could go into the left wing?” I thought to myself.
“There was only a silly little servant up there with the child. She says that is your room.”
“Yes, Doctor Lowe.”
“And is it true that Mrs. Rayner sleeps on the ground-floor?”
“Yes, quite true.”
“Well, then, you may think yourself lucky, young lady. For, if I lived in that house, I should let the people I wanted to get rid of sleep at the bottom, and keep the top for myself.”
“Mrs. Rayner will have the ground-floor of the left wing to herself.”
“Ah, well, there is no accounting for tastes; and, if Mrs. Rayner has a fancy for building her own sepulchre, why, there is nobody very eager to prevent her, I dare say!” said he dryly.
The Doctor was an old bachelor, famed for his rudeness as much as for his skill. Mr. Rayner did not like him, I knew; and on that account I had had at first some doubts about sending for him; but, as he was well known to be by far the best doctor in Beaconsburgh, I had resolved to risk it. Now I began to repent having done so.
“Is that young Reade? Is that you, Laurence?” said the Doctor, peering out of the carriage-window into the deep shadow of the trees behind me.
Laurence came forward.
“Yes, Doctor Lowe.”
“Oh, ah! Come to inquire about the sick child, I suppose?”
“No, Doctor Lowe. I drove back from Beaconsburgh with my father and this lady, after calling upon you, and I am saying good-by to her, as I am going abroad and shall not see her again until a few days before she becomes my wife,” said he, in a low voice, but very proudly, with his hand on my shoulder.
“Wife, eh?”—incredulously.
“But it is a secret.”
“Oh, ah, of course!”—knowingly. “So this is the Miss Christie I’ve heard so much about!” And he deliberately put on his spectacles and stared at me in the faint moonlight. “Well, she wouldn’t have turned the heads of the men when I was young.”
We both laughed at the old man’s rudeness.
“I have no doubt heads were harder to turn then, Doctor Lowe,” said Laurence dryly.
“Well, take care some one else doesn’t turn hers while you are away!” said the Doctor, glaring at him ferociously; and he told the coachman to drive on, and drew up the window sharply.
This last hit struck poor Laurence as an evil omen; and, when I told him that I must go in now, and that I should see him again on the morrow, he flung his arms around me in such distress that I did not know what to say to comfort him.
“See what clever Doctor Lowe thinks of your Mr. Rayner, Violet,” said he, looking anxiously into my eyes. “Now listen, my darling. Don’t trust him, don’t trust anybody while I am away, and don’t believe what anybody may tell you about me. What would you do if they showed you the certificate of my marriage to another woman, Violet?”
“Oh, Laurence, you are not going away to be married, are you?”
“No, child, no; and, if any one tells you so, you will know it is a lie. And, if you get no letters, and they tell you I am dead—”
“Oh, Laurence, don’t!”
“Why, that will be a lie too! I shall be alive and single all the next six weeks, and at the end of that time I shall come back and marry you; and, if you want me, I shall come back before, my own darling! Good-by, good-by!”
He kissed me again and again, then tore himself from my arms, and dashed away without daring even to look at me again; and, tearful and trembling, I turned to go back to the house. But Laurence’s terrible excitement had communicated itself to me, and I staggered down the drive, hardly able to see where I was going; and, when I had got to the bottom, with only the lawn at the side and the gravel-space in front between me and the house, I stopped for a moment, and clung to a birch-tree for support while I dried my eyes before presenting myself at the front door. I had told Jane to come down and open it for me when she heard my ring; and I hoped with all my heart that it would be she, and that that horrid Sarah would not have taken it into her head to sit up, for I did not want her to see my tear-stained face.
But, just as I was going to leave the shelter of the trees and cross the gravel-space to the portico, I stopped, for I saw in the gloom a figure making its way across the lawn towards the back of the house. It was coming from the path among the trees which led to the stables. I strained my eyes, but there was a cloud passing before the moon, and I could only see that it was a man, and that he was carrying what looked like a small trunk; and it seemed heavy.
Who could it be at this time of night? For it was between eleven and twelve o’clock. Was it Tom Parkes paying a late visit to Sarah, knowing the master was away? Or was it the mysterious servant Gordon, thinking Mr. Rayner was at home? Or was it a burglar? But then a burglar, I argued to myself, would hardly be likely to carry things to the house he was going to rob, but rather to take things away; and the trunk he was carrying seemed to be heavy already. He had disappeared behind the back of the house by this time, and, as I was curious to know what would happen next, I waited, trembling, creeping in among the trees, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing him reappear, followed by Sarah. And, the cloud having passed over the face of the moon, I saw that it was indeed Tom Parkes; and then I would have given the world to know what he had brought her.
The impression which Sarah’s talk with the stranger in the plantation had given me of Tom’s desperate wickedness had faded a good deal from my mind by this time; but this strange sight revived it. What if Tom—placid, stolid-looking, honest-faced Tom, as I had once thought him—were in reality a thief? And what if Sarah, in her master’s absence, had been persuaded by him to take care of stolen property? There had been something stealthy in his manner of sneaking across the lawn in the shadow with his burden which had suggested this thought; but, on the other hand, was it not much more probable that he had been turned off at Denham Court, and had brought some of his own personal property, intending to take up his abode at the Alders for a few days, in the master’s absence? The all-powerful Sarah might even dare that, relying upon her power of making herself unpleasant for the rest of the household to keep her secret.
They disappeared up the stable path, and I took the opportunity to dart across the gravel-space to the front door and ring as gently as I could. Jane came down in a few minutes, very sleepy, and let me in.
“Sarah’s been asking where you were, miss, and, as I let the Doctor in, I told her you came back with him. I guessed as you’d come back safe, miss, when the Doctor said as how a young gentleman was with you,” said Jane, with elaborate archness.
I told her to go to bed as fast as she could; and, when I had followed her upstairs and seen her into the nursery, I went softly to the head of the kitchen stairs, and, as I heard no sound and saw no light, I slipped down with my candle. The side-door by which Sarah and Mr. Rayner used to go to and from the stables was ajar, and just inside was a small old brown portmanteau. I did not dare to go all the way down to inspect it closely, as I own I should have liked to do; but in the view I got of it, as I held my candle over my head and peered at it curiously, it struck me that I had seen it before somewhere. Then I turned and fled guiltily upstairs to my room. Haidee was sleeping, and looked less feverish than when I went away. Jane had built up the fire carefully, so that it might keep in all night, and placed the drink the Doctor had ordered on a little table beside the child. Her bed had been placed at the right-hand side of the fireplace, facing the door, and my screen had been put round the back to shut out all draught from the windows. I was very tired, and the moment I laid my head on my pillow I fell soundly asleep, and did not wake until the morning.
Haidee was already awake, and undoubtedly better.
“How did you sleep, darling?” said I, sitting on the bed and kissing her.
“Oh, beautifully, Miss Christie! I hardly ever woke up once, and when I did I watched the beautiful fire; I could just see it when I lay with my head so. It is so nice and warm up here. I wish mamma was up here; I should like to be up here always. I think I should have nice dreams up here, not like the ones I have downstairs.”
And she closed her eyes, as if to shut out the thought of something.
“You shall stay up here till you are quite well again, darling,” said I, inwardly resolving to beg that she might sleep in my room permanently.
“Miss Christie, you know you dream sometimes with your eyes wide open, just as if you were awake? I dreamt a dream like that last night.”
“That was because you were ill, darling. When people are ill, they dream like that.”
“Do they—quite plain, like as if it was all quite real?”
“Yes; sometimes they think they see people and talk to people.”
“That was like my dream. I dreamt it was while I was looking at the fire that the door there opened quite gently and softly, just as if it moved quite of itself, and then I saw papa’s face, and he had in his hand something red and sparkling; and, just when the door came quite wide open, I thought I sat up in bed, and he looked at me. And then the door seemed to shut quite softly again, and I didn’t hear anything—and that was all.”
“That wasn’t really a dream, darling. It was just a fancy because you were ill.”
“Not a dream! Papa didn’t really come, did he?”
“Oh, no, darling! Papa is away in London. See, the door is locked.”
And I got up off the bed and went to the door, and showed her that it was so. Haidee leant back thoughtfully.
“Dreams are very strange things, I think. And to dream of nice things is just as good as if they really happened. And to dream of horrid things—cries and moans and things—is dreadful!”—and she shuddered.
“You sha’n’t dream of anything dreadful while you are up here with me, darling,” said I, soothing the little delicate fanciful creature, and wondering whether some of the cries she spoke of had not been real, and not only dreams.
For I was beginning since last night, when I had witnessed her real feeling about her child, to be very sorry for Mrs. Rayner, and to wonder whether I could not draw nearer to her in some way through Haidee, and, through understanding her better, learn to sympathize with her still more. Her misery had seemed so real, and, on the other hand, I had never seen her so utterly broken down and helpless. When once the mask of cold self-control which she usually wore had disappeared, she seemed such a weak thing that it appeared scarcely possible that she could have such a force of obstinacy in her as Mr. Rayner had described her to possess. Mad or sane, I should never be afraid of her again. I only felt utterly sorry for her, and anxious to let her know how much I longed in some way to cheer her dull life. Why was she so reticent to her husband? What if I, being a woman, and having now established, through my care of her child, some claim on her gratitude, could win my way to her heart altogether, persuade her to leave Geldham for a time, and meet Mr. Rayner on his return with the triumphant news that at last his wife was ready to break through her apathy and come back into the world of men again? The thought made my heart beat faster, and I longed to begin my delicate work at once.
But I was disappointed. I had all my meals by myself that day, except tea, which I had upstairs with Haidee, for Sarah said Mrs. Rayner was too unwell to leave her room. When we had finished tea, I still sat upstairs by my pupil’s bedside, and my high spirits at the thought of Laurence’s expected visit infected her, and she laughed and chattered to me in a fashion very unusual with her. At last I heard the front-door bell ring, and my heart seemed to stand still with joyful anticipation. But no one came upstairs to fetch me, and, after a few minutes’ breathless waiting, I ran downstairs, unable to bear the suspense any longer. I met Sarah in the hall.
“Who was that, Sarah?” asked I, too much excited to think of a decent subterfuge.
“Only one of Gregson’s boys asking for Mr. Rayner, miss.”
Strange that Gregson’s boy should come to the front door, I thought. I could not go upstairs again. It was half-past six; and at half-past seven I was to be at my “nest,” if Laurence had not come before. I thought that hour would never end. It seemed to me to be getting very dark too. When the hands of the schoolroom clock pointed to twenty minutes past, I put on my shawl, and had opened the window to go out, when Sarah came in.
“If you please, miss, would you mind helping me with the store-list? Mrs. Rayner is too ill to do it, and it has to be posted to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, Sarah, won’t it do in—in half an hour?” said I breathlessly.
“Mrs. Rayner will want me then, miss. It won’t take you more than five minutes.”
I followed her out of the room, suppressing my impatience as well as I could. But the task really did not seem to take long. In what appeared to be about a quarter of an hour I was free, and I dashed into the garden, through the plantation, towards my “nest.”
I had not looked at the clock again, but surely it was very dark for half-past seven! Yet Laurence was not there! And, as I stood wondering whether something was wrong, I heard the church-clock strike eight. What awful mistake had I made? Was he gone? Should I really not see him again? A bit of paper half hidden in the grass, not on my seat, but under it, caught my eye. It was a leaf torn from a pocket-book. On it was scrawled in pencil, in Laurence’s handwriting—
“Good-by, my darling! Remember what I prophesied last night, and, if no other warning will serve you, take this one. I called at the Alders at seven, and was told by Sarah that you were tired out with watching by Haidee, and were asleep. I come here to-night, and you are not here. I know it is a trick, and I know who is at the bottom of it. When I left you last night, there were two men in a cart outside the stable-gate of the Alders. If anything happens, write. Write to me at the following address.” Then followed the address, and the scrawl ended with—“I have spoken to Mrs. Manners. Good-by, my darling! Take care of yourself for the next six weeks, and you shall never need to take care of yourself again.“Your devotedly lovingLaurence.”
“Good-by, my darling! Remember what I prophesied last night, and, if no other warning will serve you, take this one. I called at the Alders at seven, and was told by Sarah that you were tired out with watching by Haidee, and were asleep. I come here to-night, and you are not here. I know it is a trick, and I know who is at the bottom of it. When I left you last night, there were two men in a cart outside the stable-gate of the Alders. If anything happens, write. Write to me at the following address.” Then followed the address, and the scrawl ended with—“I have spoken to Mrs. Manners. Good-by, my darling! Take care of yourself for the next six weeks, and you shall never need to take care of yourself again.
“Your devotedly lovingLaurence.”
I kissed the note, thrust it into the front of my frock, and fled into the house and into the schoolroom. Sarah was just turning away from the mantelpiece; and by the clock it was just four minutes past eight.
How the time had flown between my leaving the schoolroom with Sarah and my going into the garden!
I satdown by the table as soon as Sarah had left the schoolroom, and rested my head in my hands. I did not want to cry, though a few tears trickled down between my fingers at the thought that I should not see Laurence again before he went away; but I wanted to put the events of the evening together and find out what they meant. There was only one conclusion to come to: Sarah had deliberately prevented my meeting him. The ring I had heard had been Laurence’s; and, after sending him away by means of a falsehood, she had had another ready for me when I asked who it was. “Gregson’s boy”! I had thought it strange at the time that the carpenter’s son should come to the front door, and now I felt sure that he had not been there at all.
I looked again at Laurence’s note. He had called at the house at seven, he said. Now I distinctly remembered that, after I had heard the bell and met Sarah, I came into the schoolroom and found that by the clock it was half-past six. I had sat there until twenty minutes past seven, and during that time there had been no other ring at the hall door. And I had noticed how very dark it was getting; then, just as I was opening the window to go out, Sarah had come in and asked me to help her with the store-list, and I had been free in a very short time; yet on my arrival at my “nest,” the church clock had struck eight.
Sarah must have put the schoolroom clock back.
I had found her just now turning from the mantelpiece, and I could not doubt that, her object being gained, she had been putting the clock right again. This malicious persecution frightened me. Was I safe in the same house with a woman who would take so much trouble merely to prevent my having a last interview with my lover?
There had been a matter-of-fact deliberateness in the way she had answered me about the bell and asked me to do the list which had the effect of alarming me still more than the savage manner in which she used to look at and speak to me when she was jealous of some new proof of the consideration with which I was treated at the Alders. This was Wednesday, and Mr. Rayner would probably not be back before Saturday. What new proof of animosity would she manage to give me in those three days? That she would not let this opportunity of showing her rooted dislike to me go by I felt sure. I remembered how earnestly she had begged to stay, and wondered whether the wish for a chance of playing me some unkind trick had had anything to do with it; for Sarah was not likely to have forgiven me for having been the cause of her threatened dismissal. It was of no use to speculate upon what she might do; if she grew too intolerable, I could telegraph to Mr. Rayner, and he would find some means of bringing her to reason.
I turned again to Laurence’s note to divert my thoughts from her, and wondered why, in those few hurried lines to me, he had thought it worth while to mention that he saw two men in a cart outside the stable-gate when he left me on the previous night. What meaning could the incident have to him? It had one to me, certainly; but then it was because I had seen Tom Parkes bring in the little portmanteau, and then return across the lawn with Sarah. The mention of this cart revived my curiosity regarding the past night’s adventure. I could make nothing of it myself; but I thought I would write to Laurence and tell him what I had seen; and, if he knew anything more, my information might lead him to an explanation of the whole occurrence. I was still staring at the note when Sarah came in again, this time to bring me my candle, an office she seldom undertook. I saw a look of disappointment and alarm come over her face as her quick eyes fell on my note, and when I got upstairs I took the precaution to learn the address I was to write to by heart before enclosing this farewell note with Laurence’s first, which I still wore round my neck.
The next morning I received a letter from Mr. Rayner. He had been to the Gaiety Theatre on the very night of his arrival in town, and sent me a crumpled programme of the performance, with some comments which did not interest me very much, as I had not seen any of the actors and actresses he mentioned, having been only once to the theatre in my life. I laughed to myself at Laurence’s fancy that he had seen Mr. Rayner in the dress of a navvy at the station that night. The letter, which had been written at four o’clock on Wednesday, said further that he was going that evening to the Criterion Theatre, where he hoped to be better entertained. He said he had written to Mrs. Rayner, and sent his love to Haidee by her, but that he enclosed a second portion to me to give her, as she was not well. Then he gave me a message to deliver which I would much rather not have been entrusted with, and at breakfast I said to Sarah—
“Mr. Rayner has sent a message to you in a letter I have just received from him. He says, ‘Tell Sarah not to forget the work she has to do in my absence.’ ”
As I looked up after reading this out to her, I saw that her face had turned quite livid; the old hatred of me gleamed in her eyes, and I wished Mr. Rayner had written to her himself, instead of making me deliver a message which appeared so distasteful to her.
She said, “Very well, miss;” and I wondered what work it was.
I spent most of the day by Haidee’s bedside. I did not see Mrs. Rayner, for she appeared neither at breakfast nor at dinner, and to my inquiries Sarah gave the same answer as before—that she was not well enough to leave her room. She could not even see any one either, Sarah said, when I asked if I might read to her; and I was obliged to see my hopes of gaining her sympathy fade away, and to recognize the fact that either she would not or Sarah would not allow me a chance of breaking down the barrier of reserve between us. I could let her see that I had not forgotten her, though; and, seized by a happy thought, I went in search of an old knife and a basket, and went into the garden to gather her some flowers.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon; the leaves and grass were still wet, for it had been raining hard all the morning, and the mist was rising already from the marsh. There were scarcely any flowers left now, but by wandering into remote nooks of the garden, and by stepping in among the plants and spying out every blossom hidden under the leaves, I managed at last to collect enough for a very fair October bouquet. I took them into the house, and it suddenly occurred to me that they would make a better display in a large wire-covered vase that stood on a whatnot in the drawing-room. So I ran in there, with my frock still tucked up, the gardening-knife in one dirty hand and my basket of flowers on my arm. I had my hand still on the handle of the door, when I saw there was a gentleman in there, standing at the window, looking out into the garden. I slipped back hastily, hoping to escape before he could catch sight of me; but he turned, crossed the room quickly, and stopped me.
“Miss Christie!”
It was Mr. Carruthers.
“They told me you were out.”
Sarah’s work, thought I.
“No; I was only in the garden.”
There was no help for my appearance now, so I quietly took the pin out of my frock and let it down while he went on talking.
“I am very, very glad to see you. You are looking very well. I am afraid,” said he, still holding my hand, “you have not been missing any of us much.”
“Well, you see I had known the people there only two days,” said I seriously.
“ ‘The people there’! As if I cared how little you missed ‘the people there’! When I say you have not been missing any of us, I mean you have not been missing me.”
“But I haven’t known you longer than the others,” said I, smiling.
“But you have known me so much better than the others,” said he deprecatingly.
“I am not quite sure of that.”
“Didn’t you talk to me more than to the others?”
“Yes.”
“And walk with me oftener than with the others?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t you like me better than the others?”
“I think I did—yes, I did.”
“All that is very tepid. I can’t think why you don’t like me, when I like you so much.”
“Oh, you did not understand me, Mr. Carruthers! I do like you very much; but—”
“There—you have spoilt it all with that unkind ‘but’! Don’t you think me handsome? I am considered one of the handsomest men about town, I assure you.”
“Not really?”
This slipped out quickly, for I thought he was in fun. I afterwards found out, to my surprise, that it was true; but I did not learn it then, for he looked very much amused, and said—
“That is blow number two; but I am not going to be crushed. Don’t you think me good?”
“Oh, no!”
“Why not, Miss Christie?” said he, pretending to be in despair.
My chief reason was that, if he had been very “good,” he would not have made Lady Mills angry with me by taking me on the river late at night; for he had shown later that he knew it was not considered right. But it would have seemed ungenerous to recall that when it had all passed over; so I only said—
“I know from the way they talked to you and of you that they did not think you very good, and that you did not wish to be thought so.”
“But I am going to reform after what you said on Sunday.”
“Oh, no, you are not!” said I, shaking my head. “You say so only because it amuses you to see how much you can make me believe of the things you tell me.”
“Do you judge all the people you know as severely as you do me, Miss Christie?”
“Yes, quite,” said I gravely.
“Oh—er—the gentleman who gave you the red rose, for instance?”
He said this in a mock-bashful tone, looking at the carpet, as if ashamed to meet my eyes. I could not help getting red, and I think he knew it without looking up.
“Or—or perhaps he—never does anything wrong?”
“Oh, yes, he does, Mr. Carruthers!” said I, with a bright idea in my head—he had been laughing at me long enough, I thought. “He did very wrong in thinking he need be jealous of any of the gentlemen I met at Denham Court.”
Mr. Carruthers raised his head and looked straight at me. I am not sure that he was not a little annoyed as well as amused, though he laughed very good-temperedly.
“I will never make love to you any more, you ungrateful girl!” said he.
“Make love! Do you call that making love?” said I, laughing.
“It is not the best I can do by any means; but I shall be very glad to show you—”
“You need not take that trouble, thank you; I will take your word for it,” said I, laughing again.
I had learnt to answer him back in his own way; and I think he was a little surprised at the progress I was making.
“You are too quick of fence for me,” said he, shaking his head. “Well, don’t you want to know what has been going on at Denham Court?” he asked rather suddenly, in a different tone.
“Oh, yes! But there has not been time for much to happen. I left there on Monday, and this is only Thursday.”
“There has been time for a very serious misfortune to happen, for all that,” said he gravely. “Last night Denham Court was broken into, and Lady Mills and Mrs. Cunningham and Mrs. Carew and some of the other ladies had all their most valuable jewelry stolen; and a quantity of gold plate was taken too.”
We had been standing by the window all this time, I playing with the flowers in my basket. I went on mechanically twisting a chrysanthemum in my fingers after he had finished telling me this startling story, but I did not know what I was doing.
“Last night, did you say?” said I at last, in a frightened whisper.
“Yes, last night. Sit down,” said he kindly, putting me into a chair. “This seems to have quite overwhelmed you. Why, child, your very lips are white! Let me ring for some—”
“No, no!” I interrupted, starting up. “I am quite well; I am not going to faint. Don’t—don’t ring. Tell me all about it quickly, please. When did you find it out? Have they caught the thieves? Do they know—”
“Stop—I can’t tell you all at once. The thieves have not been caught yet, and we don’t know who they are. The robbery was discovered this morning.”
“This morning! Who discovered it? How?”
“Now don’t get excited, and I will tell you all about it. This morning a ladder was found lying underneath Lady Mills’s dressing-room window, which had been opened by smashing one of the panes from the outside. It was Lady Mills’s maid who first gave the alarm by a cry at sight of the open window when she went into the dressing room this morning, after calling her mistress. Lady Mills ran in; they looked out together, and saw the ladder lying underneath. The dressing-room has two doors; the one which does not lead into the bedroom had been unlocked and left open by the thief, to pass into the house by. But, at first sight, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The dressing-case was locked and in its place; a strong tin case in which Lady Mills kept the greater part of her jewels was still in the locked-up wardrobe. But, on moving it, they found that the lock had been burst open, and it was entirely empty. Jewels, cases and all, had disappeared. By this time the head-gardener had come into the house saying that he hoped all was right, but that he had gone to the tool-house in the morning with one of the under-gardeners, a man named Parkes—”
“Tom Parkes?”
“Yes. He keeps the key of the tool-house. And they had found the door forced in, and a file and one of the ladders gone. Of course the alarm spread quickly all over the house; and then the other losses were discovered one by one. There is the mysterious part of it. Everything had been done so methodically and so neatly, even to locked doors being found still locked, that it was not until after careful examination that the stolen things were missed. Lady Mills and Mrs. Carew found their dressing-cases locked; but, when they opened them, each found that the most valuable of the contents were gone. The butler and Sir Jonas himself examined the plate-chest together. That was locked too, and, on first opening it, they congratulated themselves on its having escaped. But, on removing that part of it which is in constant use, they found that the gold plate, which is used only now and then, and some solid silver cups and candlesticks had been taken. But the loss which has caused the greatest sensation is Mrs. Cunningham’s. She came into the breakfast-room quite white and scarcely able to speak, with some pebbles and a piece of cotton-wool in her hands. She declares that she carried about on her person, sewn up in wash-leather and cotton-wool, a very valuable set of diamonds and cat’s-eyes; that it was not until long after she discovered her other losses that she cut open the leather, just to make sure that her greatest treasure was safe; that she found the jewels gone and the pebbles she produced in their place. The poor woman was so hysterical that it was a long time before she could tell us all about it. She declares that she slept with them under her pillow, and that no one in the world knew where she kept them, for that she never mentioned the fact to any one—”
“Oh, but that is not quite true, Mr. Carruthers! For she told me.”
“So she said,” said he, looking at me steadily. “But you could never have repeated such a thing to any one who could make a wrong use of the knowledge.”
“Oh, no! The only person I spoke of it to was Mr. Rayner.”
“Mr. Rayner!” said he quickly. “You could not have chosen a worse person to entrust the secret to, I am afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, he is the most talkative man I know. I have met him at Newmarket several times—a bright amusing fellow enough, but the last man to whom I should tell anything I did not wish to have repeated for the amusement of the next person he met.”
“Oh, but he would not repeat a thing like that!” said I earnestly. “He scolded me for telling him, and said such confidences should never be repeated, no matter to whom.”
“That’s all right,” said he, much relieved. “Then I shall tell Mrs. Cunningham you didn’t mention it to any one. The poor woman is half out of her mind; it was she who sent me over here to-day, to find out whether you had spoken about it in the presence of any one who could use the knowledge. For my part, I thought it very likely she had only imagined she had spoken to you about it; but I wanted an excuse for coming; so I gained my object, and put her under an obligation at the same time.”
I did not pay any attention to the implied flattery in these words; I was too much interested in the robbery.
“And is no one suspected?” I asked, with trembling lips.
“At present we know nothing, and we suspect a different person every minute. The robbery had been so well arranged, and was carried out with such discrimination—for nothing but the best of everything was taken—that at first the servants were suspected of complicity. But my man Gordon, who has no end of sense, suggested that it was only fair to them all to have their boxes examined at once. This was done, but no trace of anything was found. Of course that does not prove that they may not have given information to the thieves, whoever they were. There has been a gang of navvies at work on the railway close by for the past fortnight, and a hat belonging to one of them was found in the garden, and has been identified already; but it seems that the friends of the man it belongs to can prove that he passed the night drunk in the village. So at present we know absolutely nothing. Gordon told me privately that he doesn’t believe either the servants or the navvies have had anything to do with it, and he pointed out the resemblance between this and a robbery which took place some time ago at the house of another of my friends, Lord Dalston, whom I had been staying with not long before. He believes that it is the work of a regular jewel-robber, and that very likely he got a discharged servant to supply him with information. I pointed out to him that no servant who had long left could have given him such precise details as he seems to have had concerning the jewels of the ladies who were only visiting there, for instance. But I could not convince him. As for Mrs. Cunningham’s, that really seems marvellous, because she is a cautious sort of woman. I suppose her maid somehow found out the secret, and then told it to—Heaven knows whom.”
“I suppose so,” said I mechanically.
I was trying to put together what I had just heard and what I had already known. Mr. Carruthers rose.
“I need not trouble Mrs. Rayner at all now that I have seen you,” said he.
“Mrs. Rayner!” I repeated, in the same mechanical stupid way.
“Yes. When the servant told me you were out, she said I could see Mrs. Rayner. I did not want to disturb her, knowing that she has the reputation of being an invalid. But she insisted.”
“Wait one moment,” said I, as he took my hand. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Carruthers, that the robbery took place last night?”
Before I uttered the last words, his eyes suddenly left my face, and were fixed on some object behind me.
I turned, and saw in the doorway Mrs. Rayner, paler and more impassive than ever, and Sarah. All the doors at the Alders opened noiselessly, and they had overheard me. And, as I looked at Sarah’s face, my heart beat faster with fear and with suspicion become certainty, for I knew that I was on the right track.
Inhis astonishment at Mrs. Rayner’s ghostlike entrance and appearance, Mr. Carruthers had not paid much attention to the end of my question, and I determined to try to get another opportunity of putting it to him. He expressed his sorrow to Mrs. Rayner at having caused her the trouble of receiving him when she was evidently suffering, and said that he had ventured to call to tell Miss Christie about a great robbery which had taken place in the house she had so recently visited, Denham Court. Nothing but physical suffering could have explained the impassive stolidity with which she listened, her great gray eyes staring straight in front of her, to the account of the robbery. She made no comment until it was over; then she turned to him and asked, with a faint expression of relief—
“Then nobody was hurt?”
“Oh, no, there was no collision at all! They vanished like spirits, leaving no trace.”
“I am very sorry they were not caught. My husband has been in town since Tuesday morning, and I am nervous while he is away,” said she, like one repeating a lesson.
All this time Sarah stood by her, smelling-bottle in hand, as if prepared for her mistress to faint. Yet to my eyes Mrs. Rayner did not look worse than usual.
When he rose to go, I accompanied Mr. Carruthers to the door, where a dog-cart was waiting for him; but Sarah, whose duty by her mistress’s side was suddenly over, followed close behind, and I had no chance of suggesting to him my own suspicions about the burglary. When he had gone, I reflected that it was better for me not to have said anything to a comparative stranger to implicate one of the servants in the house where I was living until I had consulted Mr. Rayner.
To give vent to my excitement over the important secret I fancied myself on the track of, I wrote to Laurence. With Sarah about, a letter was a thing requiring caution, as the event proved. I was so sensible of this that I contented myself with giving an account of Mr. Carruthers’s visit and of the robbery at Denham Court, only saying, in conclusion, that it might have some connection with what he had seen, and that I had something to add to that. I said that I would write more fully as soon as I had an opportunity of going to Beaconsburgh to post my letter myself; and then I said a great deal more concerning different things which were perhaps really less important, but which were much pleasanter to write about.
The postman called for the letter-bag at six every evening; so I waited at the schoolroom window until I saw him come up to the house and heard Sarah give him the bag; then I ran out into the hall, as if I had only just finished my letter, and put it into the bag which he held. Sarah could not even see the direction as I put it in, and I congratulated myself upon my artful strategy; but I might have known that she was not to be baffled so. I had stood at the door and watched him turn into the drive, and returned to the schoolroom in a flutter of excitement at my own audacity, when from the window I saw Sarah flit after him. I dashed out on to the lawn, and got into the drive just in time to see the postman fasten up the bag and go on again, while Sarah, saying something about “a misdirection,” put a letter into her pocket; and I knew that it was mine. With my heart beating fast, I walked up boldly to her.
“What did you take my letter out of the bag for, Sarah?” said I, half choking with anger.
“It’s not your letter, miss. What should I want with any letter of yours?” said she, looking down at me insolently. “It’s a letter to my sister that I’ve forgotten to put the number of the street on.”
I knew quite well that this was a falsehood, but I could not prove it; for I had indeed been too far off to recognize my letter when she put it into her pocket, and my moral certainty counted for nothing. She knew this, and stalked off defiantly to the house with my letter, while I crept back to the schoolroom, and sobbed bitterly at the tyranny I was suffering from this hateful woman.
Well, it would soon be over now—that was a comfort. I would tell Mr. Rayner all I had seen on Tuesday night, and about the cart Laurence had met outside—perhaps I would not mention it was Laurence who saw it—and about Parkes’s wishing to avoid me at Denham Court. I should not dare to suggest to Mr. Rayner any doubt about Gordon, who seemed to be in some way a personal friend of his. But now, with all my thoughts turned to jewels and jewel-robberies, I could not help thinking again about that strange disappearance of my own pendant while I was staying at Denham Court, and its restoration by this man. Then his treating Tom Parkes as a stranger at Denham Court, when I had seen them together one night at the Alders, seemed to me now a rather suspicious circumstance. I congratulated myself on having been so cautious in my letter to Laurence that Sarah would not learn much by reading it, and wondered when I could make an excuse to go to Beaconsburgh, to post one to him with my own hands. It seemed very hard to be cut off in this way from the relief of opening my heart to him; but it would be all right on the morrow, when Mr. Rayner came back—she would not dare to annoy me then.
But the next morning, to my great disappointment, I got another letter, saying he should not be back until Monday afternoon. I had written to him on Wednesday, and he had got my note. He said, as I mentioned that the weather was bad and the fogs had begun to be thick, it would be better for Mrs. Rayner to leave the ground-floor and sleep upstairs.
“I expect you will have difficulty in persuading her to leave her own room,” the letter went on; “but I am so anxious about her, for it seems to me she has looked paler than ever lately, and I feel so sure she would be better on a higher floor that I beg you, dear Miss Christie, to use all your powers of persuasion to induce her to move. Tell her that it is only for a time, that she shall go back to her old room as soon as the weather is warmer again; tell her I wish it, tell her anything you think likely to affect her. I have great trust in your diplomatic powers, little madam, and I anticipate the happiest results from them in this instance. I have given Sarah orders by letter to prepare the big front spare-room.”