A week later Derrick was tramping along a dusty road which led to the little town of San Leonardo, where, he had been told, he could find a night's lodging. He was tired and footsore; in addition to the English five-pound note, he possessed but very little of the money with which he had left the circus; though, during his tramp, he had been able to get an occasional job, helping some herdsman rounding up his cattle or assisting timbermen to adjust their loads, and he was hoping that he would find some permanent employment in one of the big towns. He had the road to himself, and was feeling rather down on his luck, as a friendless man in a strange land must do; and, worse than all, he was, at that moment, terribly home-sick. Not for the first time, he had realized how much he had given up when he decided to sacrifice himself for Miriam Ainsley—no, Miriam Heyton, as she was now—the Miriam who, strangely enough, troubled his thoughts but little. Indeed, when he did think of her, with the remembrance was mixed a kind of amazement that he had ever loved her; for the illusion had now left him, and he knew that she had not been worth, at any time, all that she had cost him.
"What a fool I have been!" was the thought, the bitterness of which so many men have felt. But for Miriam, and the villainy of the man who had stolen her from him, he might have been still in England, might—who knows?—in better circumstances, have met the girl at Brown's Buildings. He would have been free to love her and to tell her so.
With a shake of the head, and a setting of the lips, he tramped on, every step giving him pain; and at last he neared the town.
It was a small place, with a few scattered 'dobe houses, one of which bore the sign indicating an inn. Outside the door, with their cigarettes between their lips, their whips lying beside them, sat and lounged a group of cowboys. Derrick had made the acquaintance of many of their kind since the night on which he had checkmated the specimens in the circus, and he had got on very well with them; for your cowboy is an acute person, and knows a "man" when he sees him. As Derrick limped up they stopped talking, and eyed him with narrowed lids.
Derrick saluted them in Spanish fashion, for he had picked up a few phrases, and one of the men made way for him on the rude bench, greeted him with a nod, and slid a mug and a bottle of wine towards him. Derrick drank—it was like nectar in his parched mouth—and the cowboy, with a grunt of approval, tendered him a cigarette and inquired curtly, but not unkindly, where he was going. Derrick replied, in broken Spanish, that he was looking for work.
The cowboy said, "Inglés," and nodded to one of his companions, who, with a sudden flush, said—
"Thought you were a fellow-countryman. On the tramp, mate, eh? Well, I've done that myself, and, between you and me, there's many a better job." He filled up Derrick's mug and eyed him with friendly questioning. "What's your line?"
"Oh, anything," said Derrick, with a smile. "Tramps can't be choosers. You have a ranch here, I suppose?"
The other Englishman nodded.
"Yes, we're on Donna Elvira's ranch, three miles out." He jerked his head in a westerly direction, then looked round at his mates. "Do you think there's any room for him?"
"Might be," replied one. "He'd better go up and see Don José."
The English cowboy translated this for Derrick, adding:—
"That's the overseer. Better go up and see him when you've rested and eaten. My name's Tom Dalton; they call me Tomas, of course. What's yours, and what's your county?"
Derrick said, "Sydney Green," and added, "London."
"Big county that," said Tom, with a grin. "Know anything about cattle? Not much use your going to Don José if you don't."
"I've worked with them on the road a bit," replied Derrick; "and I'm accustomed to horses."
The young man thought that Derrick might stand a chance, and again advised him to eat and rest; and, having proffered more wine, the cowboys presently moved off and left him alone. He engaged a bed of the landlord, got something to eat, and was dropping off to sleep in the moist, warm evening air, when he saw a cloud of dust rising down the road, and presently a carriage, drawn by a pair of magnificent horses, came tearing towards him. At the sound of the carriage the landlord hurried out, and stood beside Derrick, waitingly. The vehicle was of Spanish build, but had a touch of something English about it, and seated in it was an elderly lady, dressed in the local fashion.
There was something in her appearance so arresting that Derrick woke up fully and leant forward to peer at her; as she came nearer he saw that she was not so old as he had thought; for though her hair was snow-white, her dark eyes were bright and lustrous; she was very pale and there were deep lines on her face, which must, in her youth, have been exceedingly beautiful, and was even now handsome, though thin and careworn. She was leaning back, almost reclining, with an air at once graceful and haughty; it was evident to Derrick that she was a personage of some importance, and he was not surprised to see the landlord whip off his hat and bow low, with a gesture of extreme deference.
"Who is that?" asked Derrick, with an interest and curiosity which surprised himself.
The landlord lifted his swarthy brows and, extending his huge hands with an expression of pitying surprise, demanded of Derrick where he had come from that he did not know Donna Elvira.
"The lady of the ranch?" said Derrick, excusing his deplorable ignorance by explaining, as well as he could, that he had come from a distance.
"Donna Elvira of—all the señor sees!" exclaimed the landlord, with a sweep of his hand which included all the earth in view. "The rich, the all-powerful señora. Herestanciais on the other side of the hill. It is magnificent, superb, worthy of so great an Excelencia. The señor should trouble himself so far as to view it. It was probable that her Excellency might consent to see the señor, for it was well known that the Donna Elvira was good to all strangers—especially foreigners," he added, nodding encouragingly at Derrick.
Derrick declared himself grateful for the suggestion, and, with greater interest, asked if he could be permitted to wash himself. With the courtesy of his nation, the landlord led him to an outhouse provided roughly with means of ablution, and Derrick enjoyed a thorough good wash; then, feeling quite another man, he set off towards the ranch and the house of the overseer.
José, the overseer, received Derrick with Spanish politeness, and listened phlegmatically to his request for employment; and, in response, informed Derrick that his experience was insufficient; and Derrick, receiving the verdict, was limping away, when a little dog came bounding down the road which wound from the great house to the overseer's lodge. It yapped round Derrick's legs; then suddenly its bark turned to a squeal and it held up one paw and regarded, with an eye of entreaty, the face of the man at whom it had been yapping.
Derrick knew what had happened, and sought for the thing which had run into its foot. He found the thorn, and, not being able to extract it with his fingers, seated himself on the bank, and took out his pen-knife. As he did so, the white-haired lady came, with stately step, round the bend; she glanced at Derrick, but passed him and went to Don José.
"I want to speak to you," she said. "But who is that man, and what is he doing with Pepito?"
Don José explained. Donna Elvira spoke for a few minutes longer; then she turned and walked towards the house. By this time Derrick had performed the surgical operation on Pepito, and was about to set him down, when the lady stopped and said:
"What is the matter with my dog, señor?"
"It was,"—began Derrick, in Spanish; then, as he did not know the Spanish word, he concluded, in English, "a thorn."
Donna Elvira started, but so slightly that the involuntary movement of surprise was unnoticed by Derrick. "You are English?" she said, in his own language.
"Yes, my lady," replied Derrick.
Pepito's foot still hurt him, and, with extreme sorrow for himself, he turned over on his back.
"He is still in pain," said Donna Elvira. "Will the señor oblige me by carrying him to the house?"
Derrick picked up Pepito and followed the tall and stately figure up the drive. Presently they came in sight of thecása. Donna Elvira ascended slowly the broad steps of the verandah and seated herself in a satin-cushioned rocking-chair. She was silent and immovable for so long a space that Derrick was inclined to think that she had really forgotten his presence; then, slowly, she turned her head and looked at him, with a kind of masked scrutiny.
"What is your name, and whence do you come, señor?" she asked, in a voice which was low and grave.
Derrick told her that his name was Sydney Green, and that he came from London.
"To seek your fortune here, as so many English do?" she inquired.
"For that—and other reasons, my lady—I mean, señora," replied Derrick.
"And you have not found it?" she said, with a glance at his worn clothes and haggard face.
Derrick shrugged his shoulders; there was no need for words.
"It is often so," remarked Donna Elvira. "There are many English here in this country. Was it wise to leave your native land—your parents, for all the ills that might befall you in a strange country?"
"It was not," admitted Derrick, with a smile.
At the smile, which transformed his face, Donna Elvira's long, exquisitely-shaped hands closed spasmodically on the arms of the chair and a strange expression flashed for an instant across her face; it was an expression almost of fear, of the suddenly-awakened memory of a thing painful, poignant. The expression lasted only for an instant; the next, her face was quite calm again.
"Had you quarrelled with your parents?" she asked, with a kind of polite interest.
"I have no parents," said Derrick; "they are dead."
She was silent for a moment; then she said:
"That is sad; but death is the common lot." There was another pause; then she said: "Don José tells me that you are seeking employment, but that he could find you none. Will you tell me what it is that you have done, the work you were accustomed to do?"
"Well, I've been all sorts of things," said Derrick, reluctantly enough. "By profession I'm an engineer, I suppose; but——" He paused. "Well, I had a stroke of bad luck in England, and I had to leave it and chuck up my profession. Since then I've been a jack-of-all-trades."
"What you have told me has interested me," Donna Elvira said. "Besides," she added, "I have been in England—I had friends there. It is because of this that I desire to help you, señor. You say that you are an engineer. I think there should be work for you here on theestancia; there is machinery." Derrick sat up with a sudden lightening of the heart. "We have to send to a distance, sometimes as far as Buenos Ayres, when we need repairs. Do you think you can undertake this work? Besides—you are well educated, of course, as is the English fashion for gentlemen?"
"I'm afraid not," said Derrick. "Unfortunately, it is not the fashion to give the English gentleman a good education. The other fellows at the Board school get that; but I can read and write, and keep accounts—at least, I think so," he added.
"It is sufficient," said Donna Elvira. "Consider yourself engaged, señor. As to the salary——"
"Pardon!" interjected Derrick, with a grin. "Wouldn't it be better to see whether I'm worth anything more than my board and lodging before we speak of salary, señora?"
"We will consider," rejoined the Donna Elvira; then she looked straight before her again, with an impassive countenance, with so vacant a gaze that Derrick felt that she had forgotten him once more. While he was waiting to be further addressed or dismissed, he studied the pale and still beautiful face. He was so lost in conjecturing the past of this stately lady, living in solitude in this vast house, mistress of a great estate and enormous wealth, that he almost started when, waking from her reverie, she said:—
"I will talk with you further, señor. Meanwhile, will you go to my major-domo?"
Derrick bowed and turned away; but as he was descending the steps she spoke again, and in a voice that, as it seemed to him, quavered slightly.
"You will be good enough to return to me in an hour, señor?"
Derrick bowed again, and went in search of the major-domo. A servant led him through the hall of the house to a small room, where sat the individual of whom he was in quest; but, before he had begun to try to explain his presence in broken Spanish, a servant came hurrying in and, with a muttered apology, the major-domo sprang up and hastened off. He returned after awhile, and, beckoning to Derrick, led him to a bedroom.
"Yours, señor, by her Excellency's instructions." He disappeared, but presently returned and laid a pile of clothes on the bed with another, "Yours, señor. I will await you."
With a feeling of bewilderment, of unreality, Derrick changed into the fresh clothes slowly, eyeing and touching them as if he suspected something of magic in them.
A little while afterwards the major-domo appeared and led him into a luxuriously-furnished room. Donna Elvira was reclining in a chair; she inclined her head slightly and motioned him to be seated opposite her. At his entrance she had shot one swift glance at him, her brows had drawn together, and her lips had quivered; but now she sat calmly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Derrick was the first to speak.
"I want to thank you, señora, for your great kindness to me," he said, with all a man's awkwardness. "It is all the greater because I am a stranger, a man you know nothing about——"
He paused at this, and his face grew red, for the story of the forged cheque flashed across his mind.
She raised her eyes and looked at him.
"It is nothing," she said, in a low voice. "One in my position learns to judge men and women by their faces, their voices. Besides, I have told you that I have been in England, and I know when one is a gentleman. But, if you wish, if you think you would like me to know more, you may tell me—just what you please." There was a slight pause. "For instance, your father—was he an engineer, like yourself?"
Derrick leant back and crossed his legs, and looked, not at the pale face before him, but at the floor, and his brows were knit.
"It will sound strange to you, señora," he said, slowly, "but I don't know what my father was—not even what kind of a man he was. I never saw him—to remember him."
"He died—when you were young?" asked Donna Elvira.
"Yes," assented Derrick, "and my mother, too. They must have been fairly well off—not poor, I mean—for they left me, or, rather, the people in whose charge they placed me, sufficient money to bring me up and educate me, and enable me to gain a profession."
A shaded lamp stood on a table at the side of Donna Elvira's chair. As if she found the light oppressive, she moved the lamp farther back, so that her face was completely in the shade.
"You lived in England; you were brought up there?" she said, still in the same impassive voice.
"Yes," said Derrick. "I lived in London, with my guardian—with the people who took care of me—until they died. Then I went to a place in the country, a quiet place where I could study with less interruption than one gets in London."
"You were all alone—I mean, you had no relatives?" asked Donna Elvira.
"No," said Derrick, gravely; and, after a pause, he added: "You will think this strange, too, señora—I know nothing, literally nothing, of my family. It is just possible that I have no relations. There are such cases. Anyway, though of course I asked the usual questions of my guardians, they could, or would, tell me nothing. Perhaps they didn't know. All I could learn was that they had known my mother quite slightly—and that they had been much surprised when I was brought to them with the request that they would adopt me."
"Do you desire to tell me, señor, why you left England?" asked Donna Elvira.
"Yes; I want to," said Derrick, after a moment or two's silence. "I feel as if I wanted to confide in someone. Perhaps it's because you've been so kind to me, have—well, taken me on trust. But I'm afraid I can't tell you, señora. You see, other persons are mixed up with the affair. Let it go at this—I beg your pardon, I mean I hope you will be satisfied if I confine myself to saying that I got into trouble over there in England."
"Trouble?" She knitted her brows. "You mean—what do you mean?"
"There you are!" said Derrick, with a shrug of despair. "I was accused of—well, something that I didn't do, but to which I couldn't plead innocence."
Donna Elvira regarded him closely.
"You shall tell me no more," she said, "but this: You have no other name than the one you have given me?"
Derrick's thoughts had wandered to the little room at Brown's Buildings, and he answered, absently:—
"No; just Derrick Dene."
The stately figure leant forward swiftly, almost as if it had been pulled towards him by an unseen hand. Then Donna Elvira rose, and, in rising, her hand struck and overturned the light table; the lamp fell, the room was plunged in darkness. She uttered a cry; Derrick sprang towards her and caught her in his arms, for he feared that the falling lamp might have set fire to the dress of lace and muslin. He swung the slight figure away from the point of danger, and she seemed to collapse in his arms and cling to him.
"It's all right," said Derrick, in the tone he would have used to an Englishwoman of his acquaintance. "Don't be frightened. You're not alight; you're all right."
As he spoke, still holding her, he reached forward and caught hold of the old-fashioned bell-rope; the major-domo rushed in, calling for lights. When they were brought by the startled servants, Donna Elvira was standing away from him, gripping the back of the chair. Her face was as white as the driven snow, her lids drooped as if she had recovered from a swoon, her lips were quivering. As Derrick, horribly frightened by her death-like pallor, made a movement towards her, she stretched out her hand and her lips formed, rather than spoke, the words, "Go! Go!"
Her woman in attendance hurried towards her mistress; and Derrick, seeing that he could be of no further use, obeyed the command and left the room.
Derrick was awakened the next morning by a servant-man who brought him a cup of fragrant coffee and the accompanying cigarette. Derrick dressed quickly and went in search of Don José, to get some information which would enable the newly-appointed engineer to set about his duties; on the way, he met the major-domo, and inquired after Donna Elvira. The man said that her Excellency's maid had told him that her mistress had spent a bad night and was now trying to get some sleep. The major-domo was extremely respectful in his manner towards Derrick, and Don José, when Derrick met him in the patio, greeted him with marked consideration.
In response to Derrick's inquiries, Don José shrugged his shoulders and, twisting his lips into a smile, intimated that, so far as he was concerned, Derrick was free to do, or not to do, anything he pleased; but he led the young man to a shed which he designated as the machine room, and opening the door, with a wave of his hand, presented to Derrick's view a mass of machinery very much out of date and in exceedingly bad order, and intimating, with another shrug and wave, that Derrick was free of the concern, walked off. Derrick strolled round the antiquated engine and rusty pump and chaff-cutters, then took off his coat, turned up his sleeves and proceeded to make a detailed examination; wondering why the worn boiler had not burst and blown the whole kit, and anyone who happened to be near, into smithereens.
It was some time since he had had the handling of machinery, and, for several hours, he enjoyed himself thoroughly, emerging at lunch-time, very hot, and as grimy and soot-laden as a chimney sweep. On his way towards the house he looked up at the windows, and at one of them he saw, or fancied he saw, through a partially-drawn curtain, the face of Donna Elvira; but the curtain was drawn so swiftly that he could not be sure that it was the Donna who had been looking down at him.
She did not appear that day, and Derrick went about his work with a sense of satisfaction and enjoyment which he had not experienced during the execution of his duties at the circus: to the engineer the handling of machinery is as sweet as is the touch of a brush to an artist, the pen to an author. He was interested not only in his work, but in the strange and novel life going on around him. It was unlike anything with which he had come in contact hitherto; not only was the place overrun with servants, but, on every side, were evidences of a wealth and state which were almost regal and yet barbaric; the magnificent mansion itself was at some distance from the farm building, and the serenity of the house and its surroundings was not intruded upon by the business of which Donna Elvira was the head.
Derrick could not help being struck by the fact that his favourable reception and appointment had aroused no surprise and very little curiosity on the part of the household; and he concluded that Donna Elvira's rule was so despotic that her law passed unquestioned, and that no action of hers was received with astonishment. His position was accepted by everyone without question or remark; the man who had brought him his coffee had evidently been told off as his body-servant, and he served Derrick's meals in a little room adjoining the bedroom, or on the verandah; as the young fellow showed some intelligence, Derrick took him on as an assistant, much to the peon's delight and pride, and initiated him into the elementary mysteries of machinery.
Long before his examination had finished, Derrick had come to the conclusion that it would be necessary to scrap the existing machinery and set up new in its place; and he was anxious to consult Donna Elvira; but though he learnt that she had sustained no injury from the accident in the salon, she did not make her appearance until three days had elapsed. On the evening of the third, as he was sitting on the verandah, smoking a cigarette after an excellent dinner, and dreaming, as the exile must dream, however flourishing his position, of the land he had left, he saw her coming towards the verandah. He sprang to his feet, and, bare-headed, hastened to meet her and give her his hand to ascend the steps. She was dressed in black, and her lace mantilla, worn in Spanish fashion, half-shrouded her face, which was paler and even more worn than when he had first seen it.
"I hope your Excellency has quite recovered?" he said, as he led her to a chair and set a cushion for her feet; and he performed the little act with a courtesy which was as genuine as strange in Derrick, who, like most men of his class, was not given to knightly attentions; but, every time he had seen this proud and sorrowful woman, some tender chord had been touched in his heart and given forth a note of pity and respect. "I can't blame myself enough for not keeping an eye on that lamp. I hope you were not burned?"
"No, it was nothing," she said in a low voice, her eyes covered by their lids, her lips set. "It was the shock, nothing more. I came to speak to you here because it is cooler, and I wished to see that you were—comfortable; that is the English word, is it not?"
"Yes," rejoined Derrick, with a laugh. "And it's the most important one in the language nowadays. Comfort is the one thing everybody goes for; we've made it our tin god, and we worship it all the time; it's because money means comfort that we're all out for it."
"And yet you are poor," said her Excellency, musingly. "And you are happy?"
There was a note of interrogation in her voice, and Derrick checked a sigh as he shrugged his shoulders, a trick which everybody about the place possessed, and he was acquiring unconsciously; he was dreading that, in time, he should come to spread out his hands and gesticulate like the rest of them.
"Count no man happy till he's dead," he said, a trifle wistfully; and, at that moment, the scene before him, fair as it was, assumed a dreary aspect, and he longed for the grimy London streets, the hustle of the crowd, the smell of the asphalt; and, above all, the stone staircase and the gaol-like corridors of Brown's Buildings. "At any rate, if I'm not happy, it is not your fault, Donna Elvira. Owing to your kindness, I have fallen on clover—pardon! I mean that I've got an excellent situation. And, speaking of that, I'm very glad to see you. I'm afraid you'll think I'm a nuisance, and that, like a new broom, I want to sweep everything clean; but I'm obliged to tell you that the machinery you've got out there is played out, and that it is absolutely necessary to have a new plant. It will cost you a great deal of money, and I don't know where it is to come from—straight from England, I suppose."
She made a movement of her hand, indicating what seemed to Derrick sublime indifference.
"It shall be as you say," she said. "You have been working very hard, is it not? Oh, I have seen you coming from the shed; you looked tired and so——Is it necessary, señor, to get so dirty?"
"'Fraid it is," said Derrick, with a laugh; "the worst of it is, the machinery is even dirtier than I am. 'Pon my word, I don't believe it's had a good over-haul for years."
"Possibly," said Donna Elvira, absently. "The last man who had charge of it was too fond of the wine."
"I can believe it," said Derrick; "anyway, he kept his machinery thirsty enough. What shall I do about it?"
She pondered for a moment or two; then, with a sudden raising of her sad eyes, she said, slowly,
"It must come from England, you said. It is possible to order it from thence?"
"Oh, yes," said Derrick, hesitatingly. "Of course, it would be better if one could buy it on the spot."
"That is so," she agreed. There was silence for awhile, then she said slowly, "Are you content to remain here—Mr. Dene?"
It was the first time she had addressed him by his name, and she did so with an hesitation that Derrick attributed to her uncertainty of the pronunciation.
"Well, I am as content as I should be anywhere out of England," he said, with a candour compelled by her kindness.
She glanced at him with an earnest regard, and said softly, but suddenly,
"It means that you have left your heart there?"
Derrick coloured and lit another cigarette. Again, he felt as if he were obliged to open his heart to this sorrowful, sympathetic woman.
"That is so," he said, gravely.
"You have no father or mother," she murmured, her eyes downcast; "then it must be the girl you love—a sweetheart?"
Derrick nodded.
"Yes, it's a girl I love," he said, with a thrill as he made the confession, and was impressed by the spoken words with the depths of his love for that girl. "Oh, don't misunderstand! It's true that I—love her; but she doesn't love me; it's all on my side, she doesn't even know that I care for her. You'll be surprised to hear that I saw her only once in my life, and then only for a few minutes."
"That is the Spanish way of loving, not the English," she said, with a long breath like a sigh, as she looked at him. "No; I am not surprised. Love is a strange thing, Derrick—pardon!—Mr. Dene; and it comes sometimes, more often than not with the people of my nation, at first sight. Will you think me curious, if I ask her name?"
"Not at all. I don't know it," said Derrick, with a grim laugh.
She looked at him with surprise in her mournful eyes.
"Oh, look here!" said Derrick, more to himself than to the listener whose sympathy affected him strangely and forced his confidence. "I've got to tell you everything, if you care to hear it. You are so clever, 'cute—I beg your Excellency's pardon!—that you will have guessed, as old Bloxford guessed, that I had good reason, or, rather, bad, for leaving England; besides, I hinted it the other night. I'll tell you what that is, if you care to hear it."
"Tell me," she said, in a low voice. "I—I am a lonely woman; I have neither husband nor child; you have interested me"—her voice sank for a moment—"Yes, tell me. I—I may help you——"
"I'm afraid I'm beyond even your help," said Derrick; "but this is how it is."
He told her the story of the forged cheque, suppressing all names, and Donna Elvira listened, as immovable as a statue, looking straight before her, her brows drawn, her lips set. She sighed as he finished, and said,
"The woman you did this for—you cared for her?"
"I did, at one time—or, I thought I did," said Derrick; "but, when I met that other girl, the girl who stepped in like an angel and saved me from suicide, I cared for her no longer. It was as if she had gone out of my life, out of my heart, and another woman had stepped into her place. Do you understand, Donna Elvira?"
"It is not difficult," she said, with a faint smile. "The woman for whom you made so foolish, so wicked a sacrifice was not worthy of you. It is well that you should have forgotten her. This other girl—I do not know her; but I think she must be good and true."
"She's all that," said Derrick, fervently. "If you had seen only just as much of her as I have, you'd know that you were right. She is not a girl who would jilt a man who cared for her, to marry another man for his rank. She's good and true, as you say; as true as steel. Why, think of it: a slip of a girl, scarcely out of her teens, facing, alone, a madman, with a revolver! The sight of the thing gave her the horrors, I could see; but there she stood, firm as a rock, pleading, arguing, insisting, until she'd saved the silly fool. A girl like that is—oh, I can't talk about her. And, what's it matter? I shall never see her again. Besides, it isn't possible that a girl so beautiful, so charming, should be free for long. I may meet her again; but it's long odds that, when I do, it will be to find that she's married, got children—I beg your pardon, your Excellency; you've been very kind to listen to all this and very patient. You see how hopeless it is. I must try to forget her. But that's impossible." He laughed ruefully. "I think of her every day: I fall asleep thinking of her. But that's enough! About the machinery?"
"We will talk of it some other time," she said, rising. "Good-night."
For several days Derrick saw Donna Elvira at a distance only; but, somehow, he was conscious that she was watching him; for now and again, when he was going to or from the shed, he caught sight of the pale face, with its white hair, at a window, or saw her moving across the court; but he did not venture to intrude upon her. While he was waiting for her decision, respecting the new plant, he employed himself in making a kind of survey of the house and the buildings; and he drew up a schedule of the repairs that were necessary and made some suggestions for various alterations. But though her Excellency did not grant him another interview, it was evident that she had not forgotten him, and he knew that it was to her he owed several comfortable additions in and about his rooms, and the increased respect and attention of the servants.
One evening, about a week later, his servant came to him with a message: he was to attend her Excellency in the salon. With a sense of relief, and of pleasure, Derrick hastened to obey the summons. The frail, yet proudly-erect figure was seated in the big chair; she looked thinner and more haggard; and Derrick, as he stood before her, feared that she was still suffering from the shock of the overturned lamp. She held out her hand, for the first time; and as Derrick took it, he felt it tremble under the pressure of his.
"You sent for me, your Excellency?" he said.
"Yes," she answered in a low voice, as she waved him to a chair which had been placed, either accidentally or by her orders, near her. "I have arrived at a decision—about—the machinery. I wish you to go to England for it."
Derrick could not repress a start, and he stared at her, somewhat aghast.
"Want me to go——?" he said, changing colour. "But I'm afraid—have you forgotten what I told you about—about the trouble of the cheque?"
"No, I have not forgotten," she said, in the same low voice. "I do not think you have any need to fear. I think that you were unwise to fly England. And yet I am glad; for—for, if you had not done so, I should not—you would not have come here."
"I'm glad enough that I did come here, your Excellency," said Derrick, warmly. "And I shall be very sorry to leave you, putting aside this question of my safety."
"You will be quite safe, or I would not ask you to go. I have been thinking over your story. I have not always lived in this out-of-the-way part of the world. I have had experience; and I see more clearly than you. I do not think you would have been prosecuted. They are clever, these lawyers, and they would have got the truth out of you. A word or a look on your part would have given them the clue. Besides, this other man; they would have questioned him, and he would have exposed himself."
"That's true enough; that's what I told Heyton——" began Derrick; in his eagerness, unwittingly letting slip Heyton's name, as he had the other evening let slip his own. He broke off and looked down, biting his lip. If he had still kept his eyes on the face of the woman beside him, he could not have failed to see the sudden change which came to that face, the expression of amazement, of fear, of intense excitement. She did not speak, she did not utter a word, but her lips writhed and her thin, long white hands closed and opened spasmodically.
"I'm sorry," muttered Derrick, regretfully, and frowning at his boots. "The name slipped out before I knew it." He laughed ruefully. "It seems as if I were unable to conceal anything from you."
"There is no cause for fear," she said in a tremulous voice. "You may speak to me as you would to a father confessor; as you would to a—mother."
"Oh, I know that," said Derrick, and his own voice shook a little. "Strangely enough—I'm afraid you'll think I'm pretty impudent—but ever since I saw you I have felt——Oh, well, I can't explain." He leant forward with profound respect and a warmer feeling he could not understand. "I suppose it was because you were so good to me; perhaps because you were so lonely, here amongst all these people——Oh, Ican'texplain, and I'm afraid I'm distressing you," he went on remorsefully; for the frail figure was trembling, and the tears had gathered in the dark eyes. "I'm a blundering kind of idiot, and I'm worrying you with my tuppenny-ha'penny affairs. Forgive me!"
She drew her hand across her eyes; then slowly, hesitatingly, laid the hand on his arm.
"There is nothing to forgive," she murmured. "But tell me. I too have felt—I am a lonely woman; you—you are young enough—you might be—shall we say that I have been drawn to you as you say you have been drawn to me—you said so, did you not?—that I have felt as if I were—your mother."
"I wish to God you were!" said Derrick, huskily, and feeling, with amazement, and an Englishman's annoyance, that his own eyes were moist.
"Let us pretend that we are—mother and son," she said, in so low a voice as to be almost inaudible. "Therefore, as a son, you need conceal nothing from me. Tell me, who is this man whose name escaped you?"
As she asked the question, she made an evident effort to control her agitation, and her voice and manner were well-nigh calm, and infinitely tender and persuasive.
"Oh, Heyton!" said Derrick, feeling that he would be quite safe to tell her everything. "He is the eldest, the only, son of the Marquess of Sutcombe; and, of course, he will be the next Marquess; and, of course, that's the reason why Miriam—Miriam Ainsley—chucked me and married him."
"This Lord Heyton, what manner of man is he?" she said.
"Oh, I'm afraid he's a bad lot; you'll see that, or he wouldn't have played this low down trick on me. He's a weak sort of fellow who has played the fool pretty thoroughly. I met him at the place where the Ainsleys lived, a little village called Bridgeford; and though—it's easy to be wise after the event—I didn't like him much, we got to be kind of friends. He's full of low cunning and I'd no idea he was after Miriam until it was too late. You see the sort of man he is."
"And he will be the Marquess," she said, musingly.
"Oh, yes, nothing can prevent that," assented Derrick, with a short laugh.
"It is a pity," she said.
"A thousand pities," agreed Derrick; "but there you are! It's our system of primogeniture, eldest son, you know."
"If you go to England, you will keep out of his way," she said.
"Rather!" said Derrick, grimly. "If I go to England—and, of course, I shall if you wish it—I shall keep out of everybody's way. I shall use my assumed name, Sydney Green."
"It will be well to do so," she said, gravely. It was evident that she was considering the matter with all a woman's acuteness. "Yes; I wish you to go to England. There are other reasons—it will be better for you to see the machinery."
"All right, your Excellency," said Derrick, promptly; for he felt as if he had placed himself in her hands. "When would you like me to start?"
"To-morrow," she said. She raised her eyes and looked at him wistfully. "If you are to go, it is better for me—for you—for affairs, that you go at once."
As she spoke, she opened a despatch-box lying on the table beside her and took out two packets. She held one out to him.
"In this you will find some money; sufficient, I hope, to pay all expenses; if it is not, if you should need more, you will address yourself to the branch of the Bank of Spain in England, where I shall place some to your credit. Do not hesitate to use the money; I do not mean for the machinery only, but for any purpose for which you may want it. It is at your entire disposal. You will write to me——"
"Of course," said Derrick. "I shall send your Excellency a regular report at frequent intervals."
"The carriage is ordered, and you will be driven to the station to-morrow. Write to me as soon as you arrive."
Derrick rose to bid her good-bye; but she stayed him with a slight, hesitating gesture and held out the second packet.
"Take this," she said. "It contains instructions for your conduct in—in certain events."
"Sealed instructions," said Derrick, with a smile, as he noticed that the package was thus secured.
"Yes," she said. "You will break the seals and read the enclosed instructions if, at any time, during your absence, you should be in any great difficulty or danger. Do you think this is very strange—mysterious?" she asked, her eyes fixed upon him with a half-apprehensive regard.
"I've not the least doubt you have good reasons for giving me this," said Derrick; "I will not open it unless, as you say, I am in a fix."
"That is well," she said. "You have good reason—a reason I cannot explain," she added hurriedly, and with some agitation, "for trusting me."
"I'd trust you with my life," said Derrick, impelled to the burst of fervour by something in her manner and voice.
She held out her hand, and Derrick took it and pressed it; there was something so melting in the tenderness of her gaze that again he was impelled by a strange influence, and he bent and kissed the hand. As he did so, she laid her other one upon his bent head; it was a touch soft as thistle-down, as caressing as that of a mother; and as he felt it, something tugged at Derrick's heart-strings. He turned away and left the room quickly.
Some time after he had reached his own quarters, and had pondered over the singular emotion which had been aroused in him during the scene, he opened the first packet. It contained a large sum of money, greatly in excess of his possible needs. The generosity of this great lady was amazing. He stowed the notes in his belt and then turned to the other packet. This he sewed up inside his waistcoat; it was too precious to be committed to so commonplace a depository as the purse of a belt.
The following morning, as he stepped into the carriage—Donna Elvira's own carriage of state!—he looked round on the chance and in the hope of seeing her. She was nowhere in sight as the carriage started; but when it was turning the bend of the road, still looking back earnestly, he saw the tall figure standing on the steps of the patio. From the black mantilla which shrouded her, she waved a hand.
Derrick reached London on one of those mornings when she is at her very best, and he felt his heart grow warm within him as he strode the familiar pavements, and inhaled the air which seemed to him laden, not with smoke but with the flowers which were blooming bravely in the parks and squares. He had seen some beautiful places during his wanderings, but it seemed to him that none of them could compare with this London which every Englishman, abuse it as he may, regards sometimes with an open and avowed affection, sometimes with a sneaking fondness.
Derrick was so full of the love of life, so thrilling with that sense of youth and health for which millionaires would barter all their gold, that it seemed to him difficult to believe that he was the same man who, only a few months ago, had paced the same streets, weighed down by misery and despair; indeed, as he thought of all that had happened, the events took to themselves the character of a phantasmagoria in which Mr. Bloxford, the circus people and Donna Elvira moved like insubstantial shadows. But, standing out clearly in his mind, was the fact that he was in London, with his pockets full of money and with one desire, one hope predominating over all others, the desire, the hope of seeing the girl at Brown's Buildings.
He would have made straight for "the Jail"; but Derrick's sense of duty had not deserted him, and with a sigh of resignation, he betook himself to an engineering firm, whose offices were in that Victoria Street down which he had almost slunk the night he had left London, a fugitive. He presented his credentials, transacted his business, and then, with a fast-beating heart, walked—he could not have sat in a taxi, though it should exceed the speed limit—to the Buildings.
So great was the emotion that assailed him as he stepped into the cool shadow of the stone passage, that he actually trembled. The whole scene of that eventful night rose before him so plainly that it might have been the preceding one, instead of months ago; in imagination, he could see her face, as she bent over the rail and whispered her good-bye.
It was the hour at which the Buildings is most quiet, and as Derrick went up the stone stairs, he did not meet any one; he stood for a moment or two opposite Celia's door, actually afraid to knock; for, though he had said to Donna Elvira that the girl might be married, that he might have lost sight of her for ever, he had always pictured her as behind that door, and always cherished the conviction that, if ever he should return, he should find her there. At last, he knocked. No response came. He knocked again, and the sound of the diminutive knocker echoed prophetically amidst the stone walls; still there was no response. His heart sank within him, and he leant against the iron hand-rail, gnawing at his lip with a keen disappointment, a blank dismay. He tried to tell himself that her absence might be only temporary, that she would return: it was ridiculous to suppose that she should not go out sometimes, that she should be sitting there within the room, waiting for him: absolutely ridiculous!
He lit a cigarette and waited on the merely improbable chance of her return; the minutes grew into half an hour before he realised that he might wait hours, and that it would be easy to inquire if she were still living there. All the same, he lingered, as if he were loath to take his eyes from that door through which she had come to him as an angel of rescue—no, far better, as a pure, a brave woman.
Presently he heard the sound of slow footsteps ascending the stairs. They paused on the floor beneath him, and Derrick, descending quickly, saw the thin, bent figure of an old man; he held a violin-case and a small parcel of grocery under his arm, and was on the point of unlocking the door immediately beneath that of the girl. The old man turned his head as Derrick came down upon him, and Derrick, notwithstanding the state of his mind, was struck by the nobility and dignity of the thin, wasted face and the dark, penetrating eyes.
"I beg your pardon," said Derrick. "Can you tell me——?"
He stopped, for the old man had dropped the parcel and stood looking, not at it, but at Derrick. Derrick hastened to pick it up, and, instinctively, raised his hat as he handed the small package.
"I'm afraid I startled you, sir," he said, with that note of respect and deference which came into Derrick's voice when he was addressing women and the aged: it was just one of those little characteristics which attracted people to the young man, and made them take to him at first acquaintance. "I wanted to ask you a question about a young lady, the young lady who lives in the room above this." For the life of him, he could not bring himself to ask the question straight out.
Mr. Clendon regarded him with a calm and courteous scrutiny, which, for all its courteousness, had a note of guardedness and caution. "What do you wish to ask about her?" he inquired. He unlocked the door as he put the question, and waving his long, white hand towards the room, added, "Will you not come in?"
Derrick stepped into the plain, meagrely-furnished room, and took the seat to which Mr. Clendon motioned him. The old man set the parcel and violin-case on the table and, taking a chair, sat with his back to the light and waited in silence.
"I am afraid I am intruding," said Derrick, still with that deferential note in his voice. "I shall be glad if you can tell me if the young lady is still living above you."
"Why do you ask?" said Mr. Clendon. "Forgive me, you have not yet mentioned her name."
"I don't know it," said Derrick; "but I may say that I am a friend of hers. I have every reason to be, for she did me a great service. One moment, sir"—as Mr. Clendon opened his lips—"this must seem rather extraordinary to you, but I am sure that she would be glad to see me."
Mr. Clendon's eyes seemed to pierce Derrick through and through; then, removing his gaze, as if he were satisfied, Mr. Clendon said:
"The name of the young lady is Grant—Celia Grant; she is not now living in the Buildings."
Derrick's eyes dropped, and he drew a long breath; his disappointment was so obvious that Mr. Clendon said:
"Is your business with Miss Grant one of importance, may I ask?"
"The greatest importance—to me," said Derrick, who felt somehow inspired to confidence; there was something in this old man's manner and attitude, in the low, rhythmic voice, that harmonized with Derrick's mood and influenced him in a fashion strange and puzzling.
"I am afraid I can't tell you the whole—well, you may call it 'story'; but I may say that I am deeply indebted to Miss Grant, and that I am very desirous of paying that debt—no; I can't do that!—but of seeing her and telling her that her kindness, her goodness, to me were not thrown away."
"An amiable sentiment," said Mr. Clendon, with dignified simplicity. "No doubt, Miss Grant would be glad to hear it from your lips; but she is not here, she has gone."
"I am sorry, sir," said Derrick, rising, and the genuineness of his assertion was attested by the deep sigh which accompanied it. "I don't like to ask you——" he hesitated—"but you would be rendering me a very great service, greater than you can imagine, if you would, if you could, tell me where to find her."
There was a silence. Mr. Clendon sat perfectly immovable; but his eyes were searching Derrick's face, and the young man stood meeting the gaze honestly, candidly, unshrinkingly.
"I do not know whether I should be doing right in giving you Miss Grant's address," said Mr. Clendon at last. "But I will admit that I am tempted to do so."
"If you would——" began Derrick; but Mr. Clendon stopped him with an upraised hand.
"You say that you are a friend of Miss Grant's—I seem to remember you, though I have only seen you at a distance, and then indistinctly. Are you not the young man who lived in the flat opposite hers?"
Derrick's face grew red. "I am, sir," he said. "It was while I was living there that Miss Grant did me the service of which I speak. I was in great trouble; in about as bad a trouble as a man could be; in fact, I had come to a point beyond which it seemed to me—I was a fool!—that it was impossible to carry on. At that moment of folly and madness, Miss Grant came to my aid, and saved me—you will think me extravagant if I say—from death; but that's the real fact. I did not know her name until you told me just now; I saw her for only a few minutes; those few minutes, and her angelic goodness, changed the whole current of my life. Isn't it only natural that I should want to see her, to tell her——"
He broke off abruptly and turned away to the window. As the piercing eyes followed him, they grew troubled, the thin lips quivered and the wasted hand that lay on the table closed and unclosed spasmodically.
"Will you tell me your name?" asked the low voice. "Mine is Clendon."
Derrick hesitated for a moment; then he remembered Donna Elvira's injunction that he should bear his assumed name while in London.
"Sydney Green, sir."
"And you have come from abroad?" said Mr. Clendon. "I can see that by your tanned face, by the character of your attire."
"From South America," said Derrick. "I am here on a mission, on business for an employer. I am afraid I cannot tell you any more; I've only just arrived and am staying at the Imperial in Western Square. If you think I have told you sufficient, if you can trust me, I shall be very grateful if you will give me Miss Grant's address. I wish I could convince you that I am asking it from no unworthy motive."
"You have already done so," said Mr. Clendon, quietly. "I will give you her address. Miss Grant is acting as librarian at Lord Sutcombe's house, at Thexford Hall."
"Lord Sutcombe!" muttered Derrick, with an imperceptible start. The colour again flooded his face; his gratitude, his joy were so great that, for a moment, they rendered him speechless, and his voice was broken when he could command it.
"I don't know how to thank you, sir," he said, and, impulsively, he held out his hand.
Mr. Clendon took it after a moment's pause; and they stood, the old man and the young man, looking into each other's eyes, and Derrick's—no shame to him—were moist. For, think of it! he feared that he had lost the girl on whom his heart had been set ever since the first moment he had seen her; and now this old man had put him in the way of finding her. They stood with clasped hands for longer than is usual; and Derrick was too absorbed in his own emotion to notice the tremor in the thin fingers which grasped his.
"I see that you will go to Miss Grant at once," said Mr. Clendon, with a flicker of a smile, that was not one of irony, but of sympathy.
"By the first train, and as fast as it will take me," said Derrick, with the note of youth and hope ringing in his voice. "Look here, sir," he went on, impelled by a strange feeling, "I may as well tell you that which you have no doubt guessed already. I—I love Miss Grant. It would be very strange, if I didn't, considering that she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and all she did for me. All the time I've been away I've thought of her and longed to see her again. Not a moment of the day or the waking night——But I beg your pardon, sir, I'm afraid you'll think me—rather mad."
"Yours is a madness common to youth, and befitting it well," said Mr. Clendon. "That you should love her is not strange; she is all that you say of her. Are you sure that you are worthy of her?"
"Good lord, no!" exclaimed Derrick, impetuously. "No man that ever was born could be worthy of her; no man could see her, be with her five minutes——Why, do you know, all the while I was talking to you, before you called her 'Miss' Grant, I was tortured by the dread that has made many an hour miserable for me, since I saw her last—the dread that some other man—that she might be married——"
"She is not married," said Mr. Clendon, with a faint smile, "though it is probable that many men have wanted to marry her."
"I've been thanking God that she is free, ever since I gleaned the fact from your words," said Derrick. "I'm going down to her at once. May I tell her that I have seen you, that you gave me her address?"
"You may," said Mr. Clendon. "Miss Grant honours me with her friendship; I hope, I trust, her affection."
After a pause, he added:
"You are staying in England for some time?"
"For some little time," said Derrick, stifling a sigh at the thought of ever again leaving the girl of his heart.
"May I ask you to come to see me when you return to London?" asked Mr. Clendon; and his tone, though courteously conventional, was fraught with a certain earnestness.
"Of course, I will, sir," replied Derrick, promptly. "You have been very kind to me; you might have answered my question with an abrupt negative, have refused me the information; instead of which, you have—well, you have been awfully good to me; you have relieved my mind of a load of apprehension, and set me in the way of finding Miss Grant. Yes; you have been very good to me, and I hope you will let me see you again. Besides, you are a friend of hers, and that's quite enough to make me want to know more of you."
"Then come to me when you return," said Mr. Clendon. "But do not let me trespass on your time, Mr. Green; you must have other claims, those of your people, your parents."
"Haven't any, sir," answered Derrick, gravely. "I'm all alone in the world—for the present," he added, his eyes shining with the hope that glowed in his breast.
"That is a strange statement," said Mr. Clendon, his brows raised, his eyes fixed on Derrick's face.
"But it's true, unfortunately," said Derrick. "I must be going now, sir. Let me see, Waterloo is the station for Thexford. I'll go there and wait for the first train."
He held out his hand and the two men shook hands again; and Mr. Clendon stood at the door and watched the young man as he went swiftly down the steps, as if his life depended on his haste; the old man went back to his room and, sinking into his chair, covered his eyes with his hands and sat as if lost in thought—and memories. And, strangely enough, it was not of the young man he was thinking, but of a very beautiful woman, half woman, half girl, with black hair and brilliant eyes, with the blood of the South mantling in her cheeks, with the fire of the South, passionate, impetuous, uncontrollable, in eyes and cheek; a woman of fire and strong will, hard to understand, impossible to control; a woman to make or wreck a man's life. The woman whose vision rose before the old man, who sat, a bowed and desolate figure, in his chair, had wrecked his. Strange that the meeting with this young man had called up that vision, strange that his face and voice had revivified the memory of the past. With a sigh, a gesture of the flexible hand, as if he were putting the matter from him, Mr. Clendon took his violin from its case and began to play.
Derrick's mind was in a condition of joyous confusion as the train bore him in a slow and leisurely fashion towards Thexford. Predominant, of course, was the thought that he was on his way to see the girl of his heart. But presently he began to think of the strange old man who had set him that way. Naturally enough, Derrick felt curious about him; for he had been much struck and interested by the old man's appearance and manner. Derrick knew a gentleman when he saw him, and he knew that Mr. Clendon was a gentleman and one of a very fine type; seen in befitting surroundings, Mr. Clendon would have filled completely the part of a nobleman; and yet he was poor and living in Brown's Buildings. Derrick felt strangely drawn towards the old man, but told himself that it was because Mr. Clendon was a friend of Celia's—Derrick had already learned to call her 'Celia' in his mind.
Then the fact that she was librarian to Lord Sutcombe recurred to him. It was a strange coincidence, one of the strangest; and as he faced it, Derrick's intention to go straight to the Hall and ask for Celia became changed. He did not want to meet the Sutcombes: it was just possible that Heyton and Miriam would be there; and most certainly he did not want to meet them. He uttered a groan of impatience: he would not be able to go to the Hall; he would have to find some means of meeting her elsewhere; every moment of delay, every moment that stood between him and the sight of her, assumed the length of years. With his brows knit, and his heart in a state of rebellion, he got out at the little station and looked round him wistfully, irresolutely.
There was a fly at the station steps, but he was in too much of a fever to ride in a crawling vehicle, and he inquired of a sleepy porter the direction of the nearest inn.
"There's no inn here, sir," said the man. "You see, this is really only the station for the Hall; but you'll find a small kind of place in the village farther on; it's called Fleckfield; it's rather more than a couple of miles."
Derrick gave his small portmanteau to the flyman and told him to drive there, and he himself set out walking.
Climbing a hill at a little distance from the station, he caught sight of the tower of a big house and knew that it must be Thexford Hall. And, within those walls, was the girl he loved! He set his teeth and strode on, resentful of every yard that took him from her instead of to her.
A signpost directed him to Fleckfield, and presently he came to the village and to the little inn in the middle of the single street. It was a rustic looking place, with the usual bench and table outside it; and on the former was seated a young fellow in a knicker-bocker suit. He was writing busily on a pad which rested on his knee, and he looked up with an absent, far-away expression in his eyes as Derrick strode in upon his solitude.
"Good afternoon," he said, pleasantly, when he had come down from the clouds; for it was Reggie Rex, busy on the outline of his novel.
Derrick returned the salutation and sank on to the bench beside him; and Reggie, after a comprehensive glance, and one of distinct approval, said:
"You look hot, sir. Have a drink. I can recommend the local ale. It is good though not particularly intoxicating."
"Thanks," said Derrick; and he made short work of the tankard of home-brewed which the landlord brought him. "Are you staying here?" he inquired. "I ask, because I want a room for a night or two."
"That's all right," said Reggie. "They'll be able to give you a room, I think. Your portmanteau has arrived already. Is your name Grey?"
"No," replied Derrick, staring at him with pardonable surprise. "Sydney Green."
"Oh, well, it wasn't a bad guess," said Reggie, complacently. "I saw 'S. G.' on your portmanteau, and 'Green' seemed so obvious that I hit on Grey."
"Are you a detective?" asked Derrick, with a laugh.
"Wish I were!" responded Reggie, with a groan. "No; I'm an author, novelist; and I'm engaged on a big detective story. That's why I get all the practice I can. You come from South Africa?"
"Wrong; guess again," said Derrick, with a smile.
"Then what do you mean by that tanned face?" demanded Reggie, indignantly.
"You can get tanned in other places than South Africa," said Derrick. "I'd tell you where I come from, but I've a feeling that I should spoil your enjoyment in finding out for yourself. Besides, if I did tell you that much, you'd want to know why I have come here."
"Quite right," assented Reggie, approvingly. "That's just what I should want to know. But don't you trouble; I shall find out quick enough. And don't be offended," he added. "You see, I'm obsessed—that's the new word, you know—by this detective business. I want to find out everything about everybody. But there's no harm in me; it's a kind of monomania; and if you don't want me to be inquisitive, just say so."
There was something so inoffensive in this young man's eccentricity, that Derrick found it impossible to be affronted; he leant back, filled his pipe, and smoked in silence for a minute or two; then, driven by the ardour of his desire, by that longing to talk round about, if not directly of, his heart's idol, which obsesses—as Reggie would say—every lover, he said, half-ashamed of his impulse,
"Have you been staying long in these parts; do you happen to know a place about here called Thexford Hall?"
Reggie surveyed him through half-closed eyes for a moment or two; then he said:
"Now, I wonder why you asked that. If you were a friend of the people there, or had business with them, you would have gone straight to the house; instead of which, you come away from them, and ask the first person you meet if he knows it. You will excuse me if I say that I scent a mystery, Mr. Green. By the way, let me introduce myself—it's evident that you have little of the detective in you, or you would have asked me long ago. My name is Reginald Rex, a name with which you are probably unacquainted, but which, I trust, will some day be known to the whole world." He expressed the hope with bland simplicity.
"I am sure I hope it will," said Derrick. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but there is no mystery in the case. I have come here to see a young lady——"
"Miss Celia Grant," broke in Reggie, with an air of quiet triumph. "How did I guess it? My dear fellow, it's as easy as shelling peas! There is only one young lady at Thexford Hall, and she is the one I have mentioned. And you want to see her without coming in contact with the other persons who reside at the Hall. I need not ask if I am right, because your extremely candid countenance confirms my assertion."
"Upon my word, you're a most amusing young man," said Derrick, biting his lip to prevent himself from colouring. "But I am bound to admit that you are quite right."
"Thanks to your candour. I will now place myself at your service," said Reggie. "The young lady of whom we speak is a friend of mine—Mr. Green, when I rise in the morning, and return to my virtuous couch at night, I never fail to thank a beneficent Providence that Icanclaim her as my friend. Now, what you wish me to do, though you would rather die than ask me, is to arrange a meeting between you and Miss Grant. I will do so, without a moment's hesitation, because of Lavater."
"Because ofwhat?" demanded Derrick, staring at him.
"Lavater, Mr. Green, is the author of the best-known work on physiognomy, and physiognomy teaches us whom to trust and to distrust. Informed by my knowledge of the science, I know that you are a man to be trusted, and with this knowledge, I am prepared to befriend you. What time this evening would you like to meet Miss Grant?"
Derrick regarded the strange youth with a mixture of amusement and surprise, not untinctured by jealousy.
"You speak, Mr. Rex, as if you held the copyright of Miss Grant," he said.
"Don't be offended; I'll explain," said Reggie, leaning back and folding his arms, and returning Derrick's gaze with one of extreme candour. "You see, Miss Grant once did me a service——"
"I don't find it difficult to believe that," said Derrick, under his breath.
"No," said Reggie. "There are a certain number of angels in woman guise who pace this wicked and weary old world of ours, and you and I happen to have had the extraordinary luck to meet one. Of course, I see how it is with you; and I might say that I am in the same boat. It's easy enough to fall in love with a star in the blue heavens, the Koh-i-noor diamond, or the second folio of Shakespeare. But I happen to be one of those few men who realise that the treasures I have spoken of are not for them. In the words of the poet, 'I worship Miss Grant from afar.' I kneel at her feet, metaphorically, in the adoration that has no hope of response or reward. If I am any judge of character—which I beg you to believe I am—you, my friend, are not placed in the same category; judging by the salient characteristics of your countenance, I should say that you hope most considerably."
"You certainly are a most extraordinary young man," said Derrick; "and your candour is somewhat overwhelming. But you have hit the nail on the head; and I may as well confess that I am particularly anxious to meet Miss Grant as soon as possible, and that I accept your proffered aid. As you have divined, I do not want to go to the Hall, for reasons——"
"Which you are perfectly at liberty to keep to yourself," said Reggie, blandly. "If, at any time, I should want to learn them, I give you my word I shall have little difficulty in discovering them. Just at the present moment, I am impelled by the sole desire to do Miss Grant a service—and you too; for, if you will permit me to say so, I have taken a physiognomical fancy to you. Will you shake hands?"
With a feeling akin to bewilderment, but without any resentment against his strange companion's eccentricity, Derrick went through the ceremony; and Reggie, rising, said:
"I am now going to the Hall; if you will be in the little wood in the hollow behind the Hall at seven o'clock this evening—but I need not continue."
He rose, settled his cap, and took two or three steps; but stopped suddenly and, coming back to the table, leant his hands on it and regarded Derrick thoughtfully.
"One conjecture, if you will allow me. May we say that the person at Thexford Hall you most particularly wish to avoid is—Lord Heyton?"
Derrick, speechless for a moment, stared at him; then he nodded.
"Quite so," said Reggie, with an air of satisfaction. "Oh, I don't want to know the reason; I just wanted my surmise confirmed. And, by George! I commend your judgment; for, if there was ever an individual in this world an honest man might wish to avoid, it is the gentleman I have mentioned."
With this, he walked off; and Derrick sat for some time in a state of amazement at the quaintness—and, be it added, the acuteness—of his new acquaintance. Presently the landlord served him with a nice little meal, which it is to be feared Derrick did not appreciate; for he scarcely knew what he was eating.
The time lagged intolerably; and long before seven o'clock, he had found the little wood, and was pacing up and down it, his heart beating furiously, as he listened for footsteps; they came presently, and he drew behind a tree, that, for a moment or two, unseen himself, his eyes might rest on the girl he had seen but once, but whose form was enshrined in his heart.
And presently she came; a slim, graceful figure in a plain white dress. The evening was warm, and she had taken off her hat, and was swinging it idly in her hand. When he saw her face distinctly, he noticed that it was calm and serene; there was no expression of expectation in it; she looked as if she were just strolling without any object. Pale beneath his tan, Derrick stepped forward and raised his hat. Celia stopped dead short, and looked at him for a moment with the ordinary expression of surprise at the sudden appearance of a stranger; then she recognised him and, all in a flash, her face changed. First, it was flooded with colour; then it grew pale and her wide-open eyes held a look of astonishment and some other emotion which went straight to Derrick's heart and struck him dumb, so that he stood before her in silence. She was the first to speak.
"You!" she murmured, with a little catch in her voice, her hand going to her heart unconsciously.
"Yes," said Derrick, unsteadily. "Didn't he tell you?"
She shook her head.
"You mean Reggie Rex? No—he asked me to come here, and I thought it was to meet him. I—I am rather startled."
She sank on to the bank, looking straight before her, and, still bare-headed, Derrick stood beside her, speechless. If he had ever had any doubt of the completeness, the intensity of his love for her, that doubt would have been dispelled at that moment. The desire to take her in his arms, to crush her to him, was almost overwhelming; but he remembered that, though he had been loving her all these months, had been thinking of her so constantly that it seemed as if they had been in actual communication, she did not know this. He must go gently with this beautiful creature; he must not frighten her by word or look.
"I'm sorry he didn't tell you; I'm sorry you were so startled," he said, very softly, very gently. "I thought he would have done so."