“But, by all thy nature’s weakness,
Hidden faults and follies known,
Be thou, in rebuking evil,
Conscious of thine own.
“So, when thoughts of evil-doers
Waken scorn, or hatred move,
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling
Temper all with love.”
Whittier.
Lady Mount Pleasant’s picnic proved a successful affair, and Sir Matthew prevailed on her to dine with them at the Rigi Vaudois on her way home. Minnie, running upstairs to change her dress after the gong had sounded, had scant time to think of Evereld, she rang for hot water and flew about her room making the hastiest of toilettes, it was only as the chambermaid was just closing the door that she called after her.
“Marie! Wait a moment. Have you seen Miss Ewart? Is she better?”
“I have seen her, Mademoiselle, and she still hasmigraine,” said the chambermaid.
“Well see that she has all she needs,” said Minnie hurriedly pinning a cluster of roses in her dress.
“Yes, Mademoiselle. But she left word expressly that she did not want to be disturbed.”
“Ah, then I will not go in,” said Minnie, flying along the corridor, and running downstairs.
“But I will just ask if thepauvre petitewould like atisane?” reflected the chambermaid knocking at Evereld’s door. “No response! ’Tis strange, I will knock again. Mademoiselle! It is I, Marie. Well, ’tis useless to wait. Without doubt she sleeps. These English are always heavy sleepers, and after all, sleep is the best cure forla migraine.”
But next morning when to repeated knocks there was still no answer, Marie began to feel anxious. She consulted Miss Mactavish.
“Miss Ewart often goes out early in the morning. I expect she has locked her door and taken her key to thebureau,” was Minnie’s matter-of-fact solution of the problem.
“No, Mademoiselle, the key is not in the bureau. It is on the inside of the door. I fear Mademoiselle must be very ill.”
“Well, we can soon find out,” said Minnie, opening her window and stepping on to the balcony.
To unbolt thejalousiesand open Evereld’s French window was the work of a minute, but Minnie gave a gasp of surprise when she found the room quite empty. Remembering however the curious eyes of the chambermaid she controlled herself.
“Perhaps she is with Lady Mactavish, I will see,” she exclaimed, and hastily ran down to the next floor in search of her father. She found him in their private sitting-room, writing letters, and quickly told her discovery.
“Can the child have been so foolish as to run away,” he exclaimed in dismay. “Well she can’t have gone far, that is one comfort; we shall soon track her. I will come up with you and see if we can find any clue. Run on first and tell the maid it is all right and get her out of the way.”
He followed more leisurely, and passing through his daughter’s room went by the balcony to Evereld’s deserted chamber.
“The bed has been slept in,” he remarked in a tone of satisfaction, “she has not gone far.”
It did not occur to him that it had never been made on the previous day, that was just one of those small points of detail which would escape an ordinary man. Minnie instantly thought of it, but she held her tongue, and began hurriedly to see what clothes Evereld had taken with her.
“Her little travelling bag has gone,” she said, “and her hat and cloak. See, too, here is a letter just inside her portmanteau directed to you, Papa.”
Sir Matthew who began to look seriously disturbed tore open the letter and hastily read the following lines:—
“My Dear Sir Matthew:
“Nothing will induce me to marry Mr. Wylie, and as you insist on my accepting his proposal within the next two days, and refuse to pay any heed to what I say as to my future marriage with Ralph, you force me to act for myself. Please do not be anxious about my safety—I am going straight to friends who will take every care of me, and it will be useless to try to make me live again under your roof.
“If you make any attempt to force me back I shall put myself under the protection of the Lord Chancellor, and ask for a thorough investigation of my affairs. My love to Lady Mactavish and Minnie. I am sorry to vex you all, but you have left me no alternative.
“Yours affly,
“Evereld Ewart.”
He handed the letter to his daughter, and paced the room, dumb for the time with anger and surprise.
“Where can she have gone?” said Minnie. “And how on earth can we hush it up here?”
“Easily enough,” said her father with contempt in his tone, “say that she has joined some friends in Montreux, and we can all leave to-morrow. Indeed I shall go straight home to-day and track her out. Little minx! Who would have thought her capable of such resistance! A little blue-eyed slip of a girl, who had hardly a word to say for herself!”
He turned away in search of Bruce Wylie, and was glad to see that his friend was shocked and perplexed by the news. To do the lawyer justice he was really anxious about Evereld’s safety.
“Upon my soul, Mactavish, it’s an ugly business,” he said uneasily, “a young girl fresh from school, innocent and ignorant and quite unprotected, crossing Europe alone! I hope to goodness she has gone to those friends of hers at Champéry. I will set off this morning and see. She would naturally think of them.”
“It’s possible,” said Sir Matthew, with a look of relief. “You go there, and I will go straight to London making close inquiry all along the route. Perhaps we may be able to learn something from the people in the hotel without rousing their curiosity too much. We must avoid getting the girl talked about. That would be fatal.”
“It’s a hateful business,” said Bruce Wylie frowning, “I wish I had never meddled with it.”
“There was more in the child than we dreamt of,” said Sir Matthew, “She was quiet and gentle and affectionate and I never thought it possible she would show so stubborn a front. Look at the letter. Why old Ewart himself might have penned it. As ill luck would have it, she heard the day before yesterday that changes have been made as to the investment of her money, and I fear she suspects that all is not right. How on earth she came to know anything about the Lord Chancellor and her power of appeal to him I can’t conceive.”
“Probably through ‘Iolanthe’ and the ‘such a susceptible Chancellor,’” said Bruce Wylie with a mirthless laugh, “or through some of her beloved Charles Dickens’ novels. The fact is, Mactavish, we educate our girls now-a-days, but expect them to remain fools. Unless we can track Evereld, and force her to obey you, she has the game in her own hands. Great Heaven! just think of it! That little girl can absolutely ruin our career, can give the pinprick which will burst the whole bubble.”
It was exasperating to the last degree, and to men who had always taken the lowest view of womanhood, it was wholly perplexing. They went down to thesalle à mangertrying to look unconcerned, but Miss Upton’s keen eyes read their perturbation.
She enjoyed it hugely.
“I guess you had a good time yesterday up at the Rochers de Naye?” she said blithely.
“Very, thank you,” said Sir Matthew, “though we were all disappointed that my ward was not with us. Have you seen anything of her?”
The American girl met his keen gaze without flinching in the least.
“She was in the garden for a little while yesterday.”
“Ah, indeed,” Sir Matthew was all on the alert. “Did you have any talk with her?”
“Well—I inquired after her headache,” said Miss Upton casually. “How is she this morning?” and with perfectsang froidshe began to eat an egg American fashion, a proceeding which she well knew would make Sir Matthew shudder.
“Thank you, she is better,” he said, taking refuge in his cup of coffee.
“I’m so glad,” said Miss Upton sweetly. “We must have some more thought-reading this evening, Mr. Wylie. Perhaps Miss Ewart will be able to show me the experiment you were speaking of the other night. You are always successful with her, are you not?”
Dick Lewisham at an adjoining table bent low over his newspaper to hide his amusement.
“Unfortunately,” said the solicitor, “we are obliged to leave to-day, or it would have given me the greatest pleasure.”
“What a mistake to leave just when we are all such a nice, congenial party,” said the American. “Is Miss Ewart really fit to go? She looked so white and ill when I saw her yesterday.”
“She has been travelling about in Switzerland some time,” said Sir Matthew, “and will, I think, be glad to settle down at home.”
“I can understand that,” said Miss Upton. “I don’t think the hotel life was quite congenial to her. Now, we Americans are brought up to live in public from our childhood, it’s second nature to us, and we are accustomed to so much more liberty than you allow your girls. I suppose though your English girls are much more tractable and obedient than we are.”
Sir Matthew winced.
“Comparisons are odious,” said Bruce Wylie, with ready politeness, and after a very scanty breakfast the two men retired discomforted, while Dick Lewisham and the bright-eyed American enjoyed a quiet laugh at their expense.
To get any clue as to Evereld’s movements seemed impossible, and Sir Matthew did not care to put the matter into the hands of the police, or to employ a private detective. In his own mind he felt convinced that Evereld had gone to England, and he travelled home with the utmost speed, having first telegraphed to his confidential clerk to meet him at Victoria by the boat train on the following afternoon.
“All well I hope, sir,” said Smither, the clerk, as Sir Matthew gave him a pleasant greeting.
“Quite, thank you; did you get that address?”
“Yes, sir,” and the clerk handed him a paper. “Da Costa the agent gave it me.”
On the paper were inscribed the words, “Macneillie’s Company, September 20-27, Theatre Royal. Rilchester.” Sir Matthew promptly detached a key from his ring and handed it to Smither.
“Just see my portmanteau through the Custom House,” he said, “I must catch the next train at King’s Cross, and will only take my bag with me.”
He drove off, but took the precaution of calling at the house in Queen Anne’s Gate that he might see whether any clue as to Evereld’s movements was to be had from Geraghty or Bridget. Their entire ignorance was however so transparent, and Bridget’s inquiries after her young mistress were so natural that he went off to King’s Cross more certain than ever that Evereld had avoided London and had gone straight to her lover. He dined in the train, arrived at Rilchester soon after ten o’clock that evening, took up his quarters at the Station Hotel, and sent a messenger to the stage door of the theatre to inquire as to Ralph Denmead’s address, being careful to avoid giving his name. When however he had obtained what he wanted and after some trouble had discovered the quiet street to which he had been directed, it was only to find that Ralph was still at the theatre.
“He’ll not be back for at least another half hour,” said the landlady. “Can I give him any message?”
“I had better come in and wait,” said Sir Matthew.
The landlady hesitated a moment, but being impressed as most people were by Sir Matthew’s manner and bearing, she admitted him and showed him into a fairly comfortable room where the supper-table was laid for two people.
“I have caught them,” said Sir Matthew to himself with an inward chuckle of satisfaction. “The little fool with her grand talk of the Lord Chancellor’s protection! She has ruined her case now. We shall have a scene, that can’t be helped. All’s well that ends well.”
Picking up a newspaper he installed himself comfortably in an armchair, and awaited Ralph’s return. Presently steps were heard outside, the street door was opened, and two people entered the passage, he put down his paper and listened. The voice speaking was certainly Ralph’s.
“It’s the worst house we have had this week, there weren’t a dozen people in the Stalls. Ah! I see there’s a note for you here.”
There followed sounds as of the opening of an envelope and then the door handle turned, and Sir Matthew looked up expectantly. Instead however of his runaway ward, there entered a middle-aged man intently reading an open letter; for a moment Sir Matthew failed to recognise the tired and rather despondent face, then it flashed upon him that this must be Hugh Macneillie. He moved somewhat uneasily, and the actor recalled to the present, lifted his eyes from the letter and looked at him in mute astonishment.
“I called to see Mr. Denmead,” said Sir Matthew, and at that moment Ralph blithe and cheerful as ever came into the room giving an astonished exclamation as he caught sight of his godfather. He greeted him however with all proper formality and introduced Macneillie. There was a momentary pause after that; the situation was somewhat embarrassing.
“I hope Evereld is well?” he said, chiefly for the sake of breaking the silence.
“I have come here to make inquiries about Evereld,” said Sir Matthew grimly. “Have the goodness to tell me at once where she is.”
“Is she not in Switzerland with Lady Mactavish?” said Ralph, astonishment and anxiety plainly to be seen in his face.
“My good fellow, I know you are an actor, but spare me this private exhibition,” said Sir Matthew waving his hand in the old manner. “You know that she has sought refuge with you, and the sooner you give her up to her lawful guardian the better it will be for you both.”
“I think you must have gone out of your mind,” said Ralph, fuming. “How should I know anything of Evereld’s movements? She is unfortunately under your protection till she is of age. Do you mean that you have lost her?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I do mean,” said Sir Matthew wrathfully. “She merely left a letter behind her saying that she had gone to friends who would take care of her, and she had had the audacity on the previous day to tell me with her own lips that she would never marry any one but you.”
“She is gone?” said Ralph in horror. “But where?”
“That is precisely what I want to learn from you?” said Sir Matthew with a cold sarcastic smile.
“You brute!” said Ralph beside himself with passion. “How can you torture me like this? Tell me when she left you, and why? You must have treated her shamefully, or she would never have taken such a step.”
“You don’t impose upon me in the least by all this tragedy acting,” said Sir Matthew. “I am satisfied that you know quite well where she is. Probably she is in this house.”
Ralph seemed on the point of springing at his torturer’s throat, when Macneillie laid a strong hand on his shoulder and drew him back.
“My dear boy, leave this to me” he said. “Surely Sir Matthew, you cannot seriously believe that we know anything of Miss Ewart’s movements? From the little I know of her I should imagine she was far too right-minded and sensible to dream of attempting to seek refuge with her lover. I saw her once or twice in August when she was staying with Mrs. Hereford at Southbourne, and was struck by her quiet common-sense.”
Sir Matthew was obliged to alter his tone, for he saw at once that there was force in what Macneillie said.
“She told me she had met you at Southbourne. I suppose it was there, Ralph, that you had the presumption to ask her to marry you?”
Ralph had by this time recovered his self-control, he replied with a sort of quiet dignity which Sir Matthew resented much more than the outburst of anger.
“It was there that I told her I hoped some day to work my way up in the profession. It was there I learnt that our love was mutual. Surely she will have gone to Mrs. Hereford for protection. That would be her most natural impulse.”
“Well, I had not thought of that. Are the Herefords in London?” said Sir Matthew, feeling that there was a good deal of sense in the suggestion.
“No, they will not be back till Parliament meets, but I know their address in County Wicklow, and will telegraph to them to-morrow.”
Sir Matthew frowned: it galled him terribly to feel that he was helpless.
“After all,” he exclaimed. “She may have had the sense to go to her old Governess in Germany. She would be far more likely to confide in her than in Mrs. Hereford. I will telegraph to Dresden and inquire.”
“And when you have learnt where she is what do you propose to do?” said Ralph.
“Fetch her home, of course, and make her realise what people think of such escapades.”
Ralph seemed about to reply but he checked himself.
“Did you imagine I was going to let her set me at defiance?” said Sir Matthew. “Do you think a girl of nineteen will get the better of me?”
“Yes,” said Ralph, quietly. “I think she will.”
Sir Matthew laughed maliciously and rose to go.
“You’re a true Denmead,” he said. “Always sanguine, always foolish and unpractical. Well, good-night, Mr. Macneillie. I am sorry to have inflicted this visit on you. Good-night Ralph. Let me know at the Station Hotel as soon as you get a reply from the Herefords.” Ralph showed him to the door in silence, and returning to the sitting-room, flung himself down in a chair by the supper-table, and buried his face in his hands.
“What can I do!” he groaned. “Surely there must be something I could do for her.”
“Eat boy, eat,” said Macneillie in his genial voice. “You can’t think to any purpose when you are dog-tired and as hungry as a hunter. All very well for Sir Mathew to come in here and rant at half past eleven when he had dined luxuriously at eight, but for strolling players, who feed at four and work like galley slaves all the evening, it’s not so easy.”
While he talked, he had been carving cold beef, and Ralph who at the best of times was a small supper eater, and had never felt less inclined for a meal, found himself forced to begin whether he would or not.
“Here’s a salad that I mixed this afternoon after Sydney Smith’s own receipt,” said Macneillie. “It would be sudden death to most men of this generation close upon midnight but it’s the reward of hard work to acquire the digestion of the ostrich and to sleep the sleep of the righteous.”
He talked on much in the way he had talked long ago in the Pass of Leny when he had helped Ralph along the road to Kilmahog; it was the sort of conversation which did not demand much response, but never failed to hold the hearer’s attention, because it was racy and humourous. But by and bye when they had lighted their pipes, he reverted to Sir Matthew’s visit.
“Curious man, that ex-guardian of yours,” he said musingly. “I am not surprised that you two never hit it off. I wonder what it was that drove little Miss Ewart to take such a decided step.”
“I am certain it was some question of marriage,” said Ralph. “Probably he wanted that brute Wylie to have the control of her fortune. I have always detested that man. Governor! What am I to do? Will you spare me for a week and let me see if I can help her?”
“No, my dear boy, I will not do anything of the sort,” said Macneillie resolutely, yet with a most kindly look in his eyes. “I know it’s a hard thing for you to stay here and go on with your work as if nothing had happened, and while all the time you are sick with anxiety, but it’s what we all of us have to put up with now and again. Besides, you could do no good and you might do great harm. Those who know Miss Ewart best are the ones who ought to have most confidence in her womanly wisdom. Depend upon it she is perfectly safe. Such a quiet, well-bred girl as that might go alone unharmed from one end of Europe to the other.”
Ralph pushed back his chair and paced the room restlessly. “The suspense is the intolerable part of it,” he said, with a break in his voice.
“I have good reason to know how hard suspense is to bear,” said Macneillie. “And yet it’s not the worst, for there’s always a large mixture of hope in it. Come let us write out your telegram to the Herefords, it will need careful wording.”
The next day was Sunday, but the telegraph office was open for two hours in the morning, and upon the stroke of eight Ralph stood at the door with his message to Ireland. He returned again between half past nine and ten and waited drearily in the office for the reply. But the deep bell of the cathedral boomed out the hour and still no answer came.
“Open again between five and six, sir,” said the official, showing him to the door. And Ralph, miserably depressed, made his way to the cathedral. Here for a time he found comfort; but during the psalms the verger ushered a late-comer into the stall exactly facing him. He saw at a glance that it was Sir Matthew, and after that there was no more peace for him, but a dire struggle with his angry heart.
After service was over, Sir Matthew joined him in the Close, greeting him just as if nothing had happened.
“Did you telegraph to the Herefords?” he asked.
“Yes, but as yet there is no reply,” said Ralph.
“And I have not heard back from Dresden. We shall both hear this afternoon. Come and dine with me at eight o’clock and you shall hear the result.”
“Thank you,” said Ralph. “But we leave for Nottingham by the eight ten.”
“Come to lunch now then.”
But to sit down and eat with the man who had wrought such havoc in his life and had driven Evereld to take such a desperate step was more than Ralph could endure. He excused himself, promising, however, to come round at six o’clock to the hotel and report any news he might receive from Ireland. His face when he arrived was not reassuring; he looked pale and miserable.
“What news?” said Sir Matthew eagerly.
“None,” said Ralph, handing the telegram to his godfather. The words struck a chill to Sir Matthew’s heart.
“Know nothing about her at all. Imagined she was in Switzerland still with her guardian.”
“I have had a similar one from Dresden,” he replied. “She is not there and wrote last nearly a month ago.”
“Is there any clue whatever in the letter she left behind for you?” suggested Ralph, with a strong desire to see it. Sir Matthew took from his breast-pocket a methodically arranged packet, and drew out Evereld’s note.
“I can find no clue in it,” he said, “perhaps you may be able to do so.”
Ralph eagerly read the letter. There was not the slightest hint as to the direction Evereld had taken, but something in the quiet assurance, the guarded, dignified tone of the short note brought him comfort. It revealed a side of his old play-fellow’s character which had hitherto lain dormant.
“Well,” said Sir Matthew sharply. “You look relieved. What do you make of it? Where do you think she has gone?”
“I have no idea,” said Ralph. “The letter tells nothing. Still she wouldn’t have written so calmly and confidently if her plans had not been well thought out. Evereld is not impulsive. Perhaps she had met friends while you were travelling and has gone to them.”
“No, I had a telegram in London from Bruce Wylie who went over to Champéry on purpose to interview a school friend she had met. She had heard nothing whatever about her. I shall have to set a private detective to work.”
Ralph flushed.
“You would surely not do that?” he said quickly.
“Why not? I must find her. And I intend to bring her back to my house.”
“Well,” said Ralph, “the one thing that remains absolutely certain is that when Evereld says a thing she means it with her whole heart. She will certainly appeal to the Lord Chancellor, and I don’t think he will compel her to return to your house when he has heard the whole truth.”
“Do you dare to assert that I have not been in every respect a faithful and kind guardian to her? I who was her father’s oldest friend?”
“I assert nothing,” said Ralph bitterly, as he moved to the door. “But I can’t forget what your friendship for my father led to.”
Sir Matthew made no reply, but turned abruptly to the window, the colour mounting to his temples. The closing of the door and the sound of Ralph’s retreating footsteps came as a relief.
“If I had but guessed what a serpent’s tooth that boy would prove to me I would have shipped him straight off to the Colonies instead of educating him,” he thought to himself. “I was weak—pitiably weak! It was the look of Denmead’s face as he lay there dead that unmanned me. There was the ghastly quiet of the country, too, and the child with his old-world politeness, and that old lawyer with his suspicions. If I had only been sensible enough to stamp out all sentiment and do the practical thing at once my plans would not be thwarted now by a chit of a girl who has lost her heart to a penniless actor.”
His face grew dark with anxiety and trouble as he reflected on the desperate position of his own affairs should Evereld succeed in baffling him.
“When a friend asks, there is no to-morrow.”
George Herbert.
When Evereld parted with the kindly American girl and Dick Lewisham a sense of great loneliness for a time overwhelmed her. She looked in a dazed way at the various delicacies displayed in the prettily arranged shop, wondering whether she would ever feel hungry again. Having at last selected some dainty little meat patties, and two crescent-shaped rolls, she walked on to the next halting-place of the electric tram, and, after a very brief waiting, found herself, to her great relief, comfortably installed in a corner seaten routefor Vevey. She had judged it more prudent to take the tram, knowing that she would more easily be traced had she gone direct from Territet station to Geneva by the railroad or by steamer. When once they were safely out of Montreux, and the risk of meeting any of the visitors in the Rigi Vaudois was practically over, she breathed more freely, even finding time to enjoy the lovely glimpses of the lake and the mountains as they sped through Clarens and the pretty surroundings of Vevey.
Arrived at length in that quaint old town, she was set down at the railway station, where she prudently took her ticket only as far as Lausanne, travelling second class because she knew that she was less liable to find herself alone, and had heard the continental saying that only fools and Englishmen travel first class. It was during the twenty minutes’ waiting time at Lausanne that her perplexities began.
A kindly looking English lady, seeing that she seemed to be alone, sat down beside her and began to talk about the weather and the scenery. Finally she hazarded a direct question.
“Have you a long journey before you?”
“Not very long,” said Evereld, colouring, as she glanced inquiringly into her companion’s face, as though to make sure what sort of person she was. In one sense the look reassured her, for the most suspicious mortal could not have credited this mild-faced lady with evil design, but, on the other hand, she was evidently one of those inquisitive mortals who delight in asking questions, in season and out of season.
“I am going myself to Geneva, if that is your direction we might perhaps travel together,” said the lady pleasantly.
“Thank you,” said Evereld, reflecting that after all she could baffle the questions by reading when once they had started.
“It is not so easy for a girl to travel alone abroad as it is in England,” said her companion, looking curiously at Evereld’s girlish face. “I almost wonder your parents allow it.”
“I have no parents,” said Evereld.
“Indeed, and have you been staying with friends?”
“Yes,” said Evereld. “And I am on my way now to some other friends.” Murmuring an excuse she sprang up and went to the window to see whether the train was nearly ready.
“This is dreadful,” she reflected. “If we talk much longer she will drag the whole story out of me. I will buy some papers and try to make her read.”
“You are sure your luggage is all right?” exclaimed the good lady the moment she returned.
“Quite sure, thank you,” said Evereld, clasping her hand bag closer and trembling lest she should be asked some quite unanswerable question.
At length an official began vigorously to ring the great bell in the doorway and to shout the intelligence that passengers for Geneva and various other places must take their seats.
“Can I help you?” said Evereld, politely offering to take a basket from the large heap of possessions with which her neighbour was surrounded. She was startled to feel something jump inside it in an uncanny way.
“Thank you if you would. To tell the truth it is my little dog in there, but he is such a good traveller, I don’t think you will mind him.”
“Shall I say that I detest dogs and so escape to another carriage?” reflected Evereld smiling to herself. But on the whole in spite of the tiresome questions she rather liked this good English lady and found a certain comfort in her presence when once they were installed in the train. Her spirits rose as they travelled further and further from the Mactavishs, she even grew hungry, made short work of the provisions she had bought, parried her friend’s questions skilfully by counter questions about the pet dog and finally took refuge in “Pride and Prejudice” and in the delicious humour of Jane Austen’s characters forgot all her dangers and difficulties till the train steamed into Geneva station.
“I suppose your friends will meet you?” asked the talkative lady as she fastened the dog up in his basket.
“No,” said Evereld, “but I shall manage very well now, thank you,” and with rather hurried farewells she sprang from the carriage not offering to carry the basket any further but promising to send a porter. Fortunately her companion was in such a bustle with the effort of collecting her various belongings that she did not notice the English girl’s somewhat abrupt departure, and Evereld with a joyful sense of escape made her way to the outside of the station and getting into one of the little public carriages drove off to make her purchases in the town.
Having bought an ulster and a warm shawl which made a very respectable show when put into her cloak straps she went back to the station, dined in a leisurely way and passed the rest of her two hours’ waiting time as patiently as she could. By six o’clock she was safely in the train once more, with the happy knowledge that she had no more changes that night, and would arrive at Lyons in rather more than four hours. Her heart danced for joy as she reflected that by the next afternoon she might have safely reached Bride O’Ryan and Aimée Magnay, her greatest friends, in Mrs. Magnay’s old home in Auvergne. That was the safe refuge towards which she was steering her course, that was the thought which had darted into her mind on the previous evening when she had decided that flight was the only thing under the circumstances.
Later on however when darkness had stolen like a pall over the landscape, when weary with want of sleep and worn out with excitement and anxiety, the glad sense of escape died away, she grew unutterably sad-hearted and forlorn.
At the other end of the carriage two men wrangled together over the vexed question of having the window open or shut. A fat French lady went to sleep and snored monotonously, just opposite her a young couple on their honeymoon laughed and chatted in low tones with much outward demonstration, while beyond a young mother sat with her baby in her arms, an air of placid content on her face.
Never before had Evereld felt such a unit, never before had she realised how really alone she was in the world. She shuddered to think what would have become of her if Ralph had never crossed her path. And then as the engine throbbed on through the darkness all those terrors of imagining from which her healthy uneventful life had so far been exempt, laid strong hold upon her, and made the night hideous.
She saw Ralph lying ill and forlorn in a fever hospital. She saw him lying with pale lips and hands folded in the awful calm of death. She saw herself alone and brokenhearted, struggling to make something of her maimed life and failing in the attempt. She saw Sir Matthew tracking her out and carrying her back to the house in Queen Anne’s Gate. Worst of all she saw herself standing in church and passively allowing herself to be married to Bruce Wylie.
She had just reached this climax in her miserable thoughts when as the train stopped at the wayside station the door of the carriage was opened and in came a very aged priest whose rusty black raiment had an old and somewhat countrified look. His thin, worn face might have been stern in youth, but the passing years had mellowed it, and like Southey’s holly tree what had once been sharp and aggressive had grown tender as it more nearly approached heaven. His keen eyes seemed to take in the occupants of the carriage in one glance and he at once divined that the sad little English girl in the corner was for some reason feeling altogether desolate. He took the vacant place beside her and began to unwrap a package which he carried. It proved to be a cage containing a bullfinch, and Evereld watched with interest the scared fluttering of the bird and the gentle reassuring face of the old man as he tried to pacify it.
“It is its first journey,” he said glancing at her. “The unaccustomed has terrors for us all. It will soon understand that it is quite safe. Eh, Fifi? Should I let any harm happen to thee, thou foolish one?”
“Can it sing any tune?” said Evereld. “We had one in London that sang a bit of the National Anthem.”
“And Fifi is just as patriotic,” said the old priest laughing, “he will pipe two lines ofPartant pour la Syrie, I am taking him to cheer up one of my parishioners who is lying ill at Lyons. He will think Fifi from the Presbytère almost as good as one of his own friends from the village. And when the lad is better why he will bring back this winged missionary to me. My old housekeeper would not hear of parting with Fifi altogether, he is the life of the house she says.”
The bird growing now more accustomed to its strange surroundings piped cheerfully the familiar air of the refrain
“Amour a la plus belle
Honneur au plus vaillant.”
“Ah! he sings better than ours ever did,” said Evereld thinking of the bird Ralph had brought from Whinhaven.
“And he is more tractable than a choir boy,” said the old priest laughing. “Does he sing too loud and tire one’s head—it is but to cover his cage and he is as quiet as any mouse.”
After that they drifted into talk about life in rural France, and by the time they reached Lyons Evereld felt that the old man had become quite a friend.
The other passengers scrambled out of the carriage each intent on his own affairs, but the priest helped her courteously with her roll of cloaks.
“Would you mind telling me what is the best and most quiet hotel to go to?” she asked. “I cannot get on any further till nine o’clock to-morrow morning. I am on my way to stay with friends near Clermont-Ferrand.”
“You are over young my child,” he said, “to travel unprotected. But I know it is not in England as with us, the youngdemoiselleshave greater liberty. The best plan will be for you to go to an Hotel close by. As it happens I know the manager and his wife and if you will permit me I will walk with you to the door, and ask them to take good care of you. I think you are like Fifi, not over well-accustomed to travelling.”
“Thank you very much,” said Evereld gratefully. “Now I shall feel safe indeed.”
The old priest piloted her across the crowded platform and having given her luggage to the hotel porter himself took her to the Manager’s little office where Madame, a comely and pleasant looking woman, sat at her desk busily casting up accounts. Her face lighted up at sight of the old man.
“A thousand welcomes Father Nicolas, it is long since you paid us a visit.”
“You are well,” said the old priest, “I need not ask that, for it is easily to be seen, and busy as usual. Is your husband in?”
“He will be desolated, but he has gone to his Club.”
“Ah, well, I will call and see him to-morrow. In the meantime will you kindly do your utmost to make this young English lady feel at home and comfortable. She is unable to travel further till the 8.59 to-morrow morning. I leave you in good hands,” he said, taking kindly leave of Evereld, “Madame has a great reputation for taking good care of her guests.”
“It will be my greatest pleasure,” said the manager’s wife. “Mademoiselle looks tired and will doubtless like to go to her room.”
Evereld assented and toiled upstairs after the brisk capable looking manageress who chatted pleasantly as they went.
“He has the best of hearts, old Father Nicolas,” she said. “I have known him since I was a child. There is not a living thing I verily believe that he does not love. It was a sight to see him standing on a winter’s morning in the garden of the Presbytère and feeding the birds before he went to Mass.”
“Where does he live?” asked Evereld.
“At Arvron, a little village where there are many poor. His people adore him. This will be your room, mademoiselle, and shall I send you up a little hot soup to take the last thing, or will you rather come down to thesalle à manger?”
“I should like it here please,” said Evereld. “And you won’t let me over-sleep myself and miss the train to-morrow. I am so tired, I think I should sleep the clock round if no one called me.”
“I will call you myself,” said the manageress. “It is a busy life here and I am always an early riser.Bon soir, mademoiselle. I hope you will be quite rested by the morning.”
“How much easier it has all been than I expected,” thought Evereld, as she made her preparations for the night. “To think that this time yesterday I was at Glion and in such a panic lest anything should prevent my getting away! I wonder whether I had better telegraph to Mrs. Magnay, and tell her I am on my way to ask her protection? I don’t think I will. It might lead to my being traced later on, and besides I have no idea whether there is a telegraph office within reasonable reach of the Chateau. How I wonder what it will be like.”
Her reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a pretty young chambermaid who brought her a basin of the most delicious soup; and long before midnight she was sound asleep and dreaming of Bride and Aimée.
She woke up in excellent spirits, chatted with Madame as she breakfasted on the coffee and rolls, which the pretty chambermaid brought to her bedroom, and set off on the next stage of her journey full of hope for the future and relief that all had passed off so well. At that very minute Sir Matthew Mactavish was ruefully regarding her empty room at Glion and wondering how he could possibly trace her out. But Evereld was too busy to trouble herself much over the thought of his well-deserved discomfiture. Every one seemed intent on being kind to her here. The Manageress was almost motherly in her solicitude, the chambermaid waited on her as though service were a pleasure, and the hotel porter neglected the other passengers in the omnibus until he had seen her safely established in thesalle d’attentewith her possessions. Here to her surprise she found old Father Nicolas reading his breviary.
“It was too early yet to see the sick lad I told you of,” he explained, “so I thought I would start you on your way, if you will permit me the pleasure.”
“I shall never forget all your kindness,” she said gratefully. “I was feeling so dreadfully alone till you got into the train last night.”
“Well it is no bad thing to learn what loneliness means,” said the old man thoughtfully. “Nothing so well teaches you to go through life on the look out for the lonely, that you may serve them. Ha! They come to announce your train. I will inquire if you have a change of carriages at Montbrison.” He hurried away, returning in a minute or two to help her with her packages.
“Yes, I am sorry to say they will turn you out at Montbrison, but you will have only ten minutes waiting and no difficulty at all in that quiet place. I see M. Dubochet and his two daughters—very pleasant people—will you go in the same carriage?”
And so with a few pleasant words of introduction to Mademoiselle Dubochet, Father Nicolas bade Evereld God-speed, and as the train moved off she looked out wistfully after her kindly old friend, wondering whether she should ever again come across him.
The clock was striking five when after an uneventful journey Evereld found herself outside the station at Clermont-Ferrand, giving orders to a somewhat rough-looking Auvergnat to drive her to the Château de Mabillon. The man seemed inclined to hold out for a certain sum for the journey and as Evereld had no notion of the distance, she was determined to make no rash promises. It would never do to be extravagant now, for there was no saying how long her last allowance would have to supply her wants.
“M. Magnay will settle with you when we reach the château,” she said with a little touch of dignity in her manner. The man instantly subsided, feeling that he had no stranger to deal with, but a friend of the family. And Claude Magnay’s name was quite sufficient to assure him that he would receive his rightful fare, but not the extortionate sum he had demanded of the new comer.
The little incident had however depressed Evereld. She had spoken confidently to the man but now a qualm of doubt came over her. She was about to cast herself on the mercy of Aimée’s parents, and after all she knew little about them: on their occasional visits to Southbourne, she had gone with Aimée and Bride to spend Saturday afternoon with them, and she had been three or four times to their London house, but she realised now that she was going to ask a very great favour of them, and that possibly they might not care to shelter her from her lawful guardian.
These thoughts lasted all the time they were driving through the narrow and dingy streets of Clermont-Ferrand, and she fancied that the lava built houses seemed to frown upon her and to assure her that she was an unwelcome visitor. Before long however they had left the town behind them and were driving through the most beautiful country, and in that sunny smiling landscape it was impossible to give way to anxious thoughts. The glowing colours of the autumn leaves, the picturesque vineyards, the river with its gleaming water reflecting the blue sky, and the strange irregular mountains which rose on every hand filled her with delight.
The sun had set when at length they reached a narrower and more secluded valley; Evereld fancied they must be getting near to Mabillon and inquired of her driver.
“It is two kilometres to the chateau,” said the Auvergnat. Then after a few minutes he again turned round from the box seat. “Madame Magnay and her daughter are down at the mill yonder,” he said.
“Oh, stop then, and let me speak to them,” said Evereld eagerly; and springing from the carriage she hastened towards Aimée who quickly perceived her and ran forward with a cry of joyful astonishment.
“This is a delightful surprise. Are you travelling back through France? Mother, you remember Evereld?”
Mrs. Magnay gave her a charming greeting, containing all the warmth and animation which English greetings so often lack.
“I remember Evereld very well, and am more delighted than I can say to welcome her to my dear old home.”
“You are very good,” said Evereld shyly, “I have come to you because I was in great trouble, and I thought—I felt sure—you would help and advise me. It is impossible for me to stay longer with Sir Matthew Mactavish.”
Her eyes were full of tears, and Mrs. Magnay taking her hand began to lead her towards the carriage.
“You are quite tired out, poor child,” she said caressingly. “We are very sorry for your trouble, but very glad that it brought you to Mabillon. This evening you shall tell us all about it. Do you see that pretty girl waving her hand to us from the cottage door? That is my dear old Javotte’s granddaughter. Aimée has told you how she starved herself in the siege of Paris that we might have food enough. Dear old woman!”
“And here is one of the best views of Mont D’Or,” said Aimée, “only the light is fading so fast you can’t properly see it.”
Chatting thus, they soon reached the old château, a great part of which had now been carefully restored, and Mrs. Magnay seeing how pale and worn her guest looked, determined to take her straight upstairs.
“Run Aimée,” she said, “and tell your father to settle with the driver, and then bring a cup of tea for Evereld. I shall take her to Bride’s room, she will be more snug in there I think.”
So Evereld was taken straight to her friend, and then while Mrs. Magnay herself kindled the wood fire, and daintily piled up fir-cones to catch the blaze, Bride made her rest in the snuggest of easy chairs, and she had very soon told them the whole story.
“I know nothing of English law,” said Mrs. Magnay. “Are you sure you can put yourself under the protection of the Lord Chancellor?”
“I think so,” said Evereld. “Don’t you remember, Bride, how we used to tease you about your answer in that examination we had, when you wrote—‘The Lord Chancellor must be a very busy man for Blackstone says he is the natural guardian of all orphans, idiots and lunatics.’”
“To be sure I do,” said Bride laughing. “Well if Blackstone says so, you must surely be right.”
“I will go and talk over matters with my husband, and see what he advises, and in the meantime, Bride, I strongly advise you to put Evereld to bed. She looks to me quite tired out. Rest and forget your troubles, dear. No one can molest you at Mabillon, and you say that Sir Matthew can have no clue to your whereabouts.”
“No, he will naturally think I have gone to Mrs. Hereford, or to my old governess at Dresden,” said Evereld. “To-morrow I must write to Mrs. Hereford and ask her to let Ralph know that I am safe. I am so afraid he may hear that I have disappeared and be anxious about me.”
“Write to him,” said Bride, “and let Doreen forward your letter.”
In the meantime Mrs. Magnay told the whole story to her husband, and it was decided that he should put the case straight into the hands of a London solicitor. Evereld, being consulted as to the one she would prefer, unhesitatingly named Ralph’s old friend Mr. Marriott of Basinghall Street, and as Claude Magnay knew that she could not have mentioned a more trustworthy and efficient man he wrote to him and made her on the following morning also write with a full description of all that had passed, of her suspicions with regard to her fortune and of her wish for a thorough investigation of her affairs.