upon?"
And Wingate, taking her slender hand in his and pressing it, agreed thatit was so. He felt, as she did, that anything would be better than thishorrible uncertainty.
They had grown very dear to each other in these dark and dismal days.She had liked him from the first, and recognised in him one of thosestraight, clean-living young Englishmen to whom a girl might safelyentrust her life and happiness. He was so tender, so chivalrous, sosympathetic.
If, for a few moments, she threw off the heavy load of sorrow weighingupon her, and showed some semblance of her former bright spirit, he fellat once into her mood. And if she preferred silence, her sorrow-ladeneyes filled with tears, he sat silent too, only evincing by a glance, orthe pressure of her hand, that he understood and sympathised.
It was not a time for ardent love-making. But for this tragedy in herlife, he might never have summoned courage to make love to her at all.The daughter of Reginald Monkton, the rich and popular statesman, seemedso far out of his reach. With her beauty and her advantages, she couldaspire to a brilliant match.
Her position now, that of a lonely and orphaned girl, had alteredeverything, and swept away social barriers. Insensibly, she had beendrawn to him, till it seemed he was part of her life.
And a time came when he could tell her of the desire of his heart. Oneevening, when they had been saying good-bye, she had suddenly brokendown, and burst into bitter sobbing.
He had taken her in his arms, and whispered soothing words, while hispulses beat at the contact of her slender form. She had lain in the bigchair, crying more quietly as he strove to comfort her. And then shehad lifted up her pitiful face to his, and said:
"Oh! Austin, how good and gentle you are with me. How could I haveborne it without you?"
He took heart of grace at those tender words. His clasp round hertightened.
"I have been of some help to you, then, dearest?"
"The greatest," she answered fervently. "If you did not come to meevery day, I think I should go mad."
He bent down and laid his lips upon her bowed head.
"Dearest, if I have been able to comfort you now, could you let mecomfort and cherish you all my life? It is hardly a time to speak ofsuch things, but I have loved you from the first moment we met--do youremember that day on the river, and afterwards, when I saw you atHendon, and you asked me to call?"
"Yes, I remember," she said in a low whisper.
"Well, dearest, even if the worst should befall, you will want somebodyto share your grief with you till time heals your sorrow. I shall notpress you till the first bitterness has passed. Then, when you feel youcan take up your life again, may I come to you, and repeat what I havesaid to-night?"
"Yes. Come again some day when my tears have had time to dry, and Iwill answer as you wish."
Reverently he kissed the lips that were still trembling from her recentemotion. That night he seemed to walk on air when he left the house,where he had spent so many happy hours before this terrible tragedy hadovertaken them.
He had loved her in the bloom and brightness of her youthful beauty,courted and caressed by all who knew her, the idol of her father, thelight of his home, moving like a young princess among her subjects. Buthe loved her ten times more now--pale and sad, with sorrow for hercompanion day and night.
Meanwhile, down at Forest View things were going very quietly. Varneyhad long chats with the landlord, and of an evening he picked up a fewacquaintances in the inn, and talked with them, always leading theconversation round to the subject of Mr Strange.
But he could discover nothing of any value. Nobody knew anything of theman's antecedents. As a matter of fact, he did not seem to interestanybody in the place. They simply regarded him as an eccentric sort ofperson who wished to have nothing to do with his neighbours.
He learned that, immediately on his arrival. Strange had ordered atelephone to be installed. He also gathered from the local postman,whose acquaintance he cultivated, that very few letters were received.Further, that most of them were in a feminine hand. And these had beencoming rather more frequently of late.
He at once jumped to the conclusion that the female correspondent wasMrs Saxton. But that did not help him much. They knew already thatStrange and she were closely connected.
The two maids walked down to Horsham occasionally. So far he had notset eyes upon the cook, who, apparently, did not require any change ofscene.
He was a presentable young fellow enough, and he imagined it would notbe difficult to scrape up an acquaintance with the young women. The onewhom he took to be the parlourmaid, by her superior bearing, was agood-looking girl.
He tried her first. He opened his campaign by overtaking her on theroad, and remarking on the pleasantness of the weather. If sheresembled the majority of her class, she would not object to exchanginga few remarks with a decent-looking member of the other sex.
For himself, he was quite prepared to indulge in a flirtation, even alittle mild love-making, if it would enable him to worm something out ofher about the mysterious inmates of Forest View.
But the parlourmaid was one too many for him. She made no answer to hisremark, and when he continued to walk along beside her, in the hope thather silence was only meant for coquetry, she stopped suddenly and facedhim.
"Look here, young man," she said, regarding him with a distinctlyhostile countenance; "I'll thank you not to address any more remarks tome. I suppose you think yourself a gentleman, and because I'm inservice I shall be flattered by your taking notice of me. Well, justunderstand I'm not that sort. When you meet me again, perhaps you'llremember it."
She quickened her footsteps, and left Varney feeling very foolish. Itwas a rebuff alike to the man and the amateur detective. Yes, he hadblundered.
She had a good figure, and she carried herself well, walking with alight springy step. She was dressed plainly in neat but evidentlyinexpensive clothes, such as were suitable to her class. If she hadbeen attired in proper garments, she would have been taken for a younglady immediately.
The thing that puzzled him most was her voice. She had addressed him as"young man," and there was a certain blunt insolence in her remarkswhich negatived the idea of refinement.
But even if her speech had been absolutely vulgar, the voice wasunmistakably high-bred and cultivated; in a word, the voice of a lady.How came it that Mr Strange's parlourmaid wore the clothes of aservant, and spoke in the tones of a highly educated young woman? Itwas one more mystery.
Nothing daunted, he pursued the same tactics with the housemaid when hemet her walking alone. She was a plain girl, evidently of a differentclass. At the start she was more civil, but after a minute or two,during which she had given the briefest answers to his ingratiatingquestions, she had turned upon him like the other, only in a lesshostile manner, and explained to him that she did not desire either hisconversation or his company.
She was a little more polite than the parlourmaid, but that was all.She addressed him respectfully but firmly.
"Excuse me, sir, but if it's the same to you, I'd rather walk alone.I'm not fond of making the acquaintance of gentlemen I know nothingabout."
Poor Varney felt he was not a success with the fair sex. Or did theysuspect him?
A further piece of information, however, he got from his friend thepostman. He had asked Wingate and Sheila to occasionally put a blanksheet of paper in an envelope, and address it to him under the name ofFranks, to keep up appearances.
He met the man one morning outside Forest View and asked if there wereany letters for him.
"None by this post, sir. Never had such a light round. This is thelast; it's for Mr Gregory, at Forest View, the gentleman what's stayingthere."
So Gregory was the name of the invalid, who kept so closely to thehouse.
But Gregory, no doubt, was an assumed name, like Stent alias Strange.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE CIPHER OF THE TWO C'S.
"I am going to a
sk you a question, dearest; I fear it is a painful one,but I think it ought to be put."
It was Austin Wingate who spoke. He had dined with Sheila atChesterfield Street, and after dinner the lovers had gone to her ownsitting-room, which was on the first floor.
She looked at him steadfastly. "Painful or not, Austin, please put it.You would not hurt me, I know, unless you felt it was absolutelynecessary."
"Of course not, Sheila," answered the young man fervently. "In ouranxiety to solve this mystery concerning your father we must shrink fromnothing. The question I am going to ask you, dear, is this: Have youever had any cause to suspect there was some hidden mystery in yourfather's life? Do not be offended--will you?"
She smiled faintly. "What is called a skeleton in the cupboard, youmean--eh? It seems impossible when one comes to consider the kind ofman he was. In political matters he was reserved; that was natural. Ihave heard him laugh often
The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery Page 18
