by Annie Haynes
Elizabeth was standing behind the tea-tray as Maisie threw open the schoolroom door and announced Miss Barbara Burford, imitating the butler’s best style. It was evident that preparations had been made for a visitor, there was a choice assortment of cakes and three kinds of jam.
“Now Maisie will be happy,” Miss Martin said with a smile. “It is very good of you to spare us the time, Miss Burford.”
“Not at all, I am sure I shall enjoy it,” Barbara responded politely, but her tone was cold in spite of her best efforts.
“This is where you are to sit,” Maisie went on, pulling her to the side of the table. “And mind you say ‘What a comfortable chair!’ Our visitors always do. I am going to sit at the bottom of the table opposite Miss Martin. She is mistress and I am master, like Daddy. That is his place. What a feast they will have to give us when he can see again, won’t they, Miss Martin?”
The governess smiled a little as she poured out the tea.
“I expect you will not let them forget that, Maisie.”
“No, I shall not!” the child nodded. “Because I shall be so glad, so very glad, when my dear Daddy can see again. I wish every one could see like you and me, Barbara, and didn’t have to wear glasses and things. I expect Miss Martin does too, don’t you, Miss Martin? Because she has such pretty eyes really, and she looks so nice without her glasses.” Barbara did not look at the woman sitting at the top of the table, she gazed straight before her through the open window, where already the long strands of Virginia creeper were turning to their autumn glories of crimson and golden brown.
“I expect most people look better without glasses,” she said in an uninterested tone. “But, Maisie, haven’t you been taught not to make personal remarks?”
“I don’t think people mind if you say they look nice,” Maisie urged shrewdly. “It is if you say they don’t that they are cross. Now Miss Martin—”
“Has heard quite enough about herself,” interrupted the subject of Maisie’s comments truthfully. “Come Maisie, can’t you find something more interesting to tell Miss Burford? Your cat—”
“Oh, yes. I thought I had something to tell you, Barbara; my cat has four kittens, two tabby, one black and one tortoise-shell. Isn’t it extraordinary that they should be so varied?”
Miss Martin and Barbara exchanged a smile, as Maisie proceeded to recount the excellences of her pets. But by and by Barbara’s attention wandered from the kitten’s beauties to her own troubles. Her eyes strayed mechanically to the woman at the top of the table, and rested for a moment on the dark hair. Then her gaze was arrested, and she looked again in some surprise. Surely the black hair was not so black as it had been. Was it possible that she was making a mistake, or was it not perceptibly lighter in hue?
As if conscious of her scrutiny the governess flushed uncomfortably, and Barbara dropped her eyes.
“Yes, Maisie and I must certainly pay the mamma pussy a visit after tea,” she said gently.
Just then a maid entered with a fresh relay of tea and hot scones. Barbara glanced at her a little curiously.
“Surely that is a new face.”
“Yes,” Miss Martin assented. “Susan has only been here three days. Eliza, our old maid, had to keep house for her father because her mother died. We were very sorry to lose her, but we think we shall like Susan just as well in time.”
“I don’t,” Maisie said decidedly. “Susan pulls my hair when she is brushing it out at night. Eliza never did.”
Miss Martin hushed her into silence just as the maid entered again.
“This letter came for you by the afternoon post, miss,” she said to Miss Martin. “Hollins has been into Castor and brought it back with him.”
Barbara looked up with interest. Afternoon post was something of a novelty at the Priory, as the letters had to be specially fetched from Castor.
“Are there any for me?” she inquired.
“I don’t think so, miss,” the maid said primly. “But of course I look after only the schoolroom letters.”
Barbara was just about to speak again when she caught sight of the envelope as it lay on the salver that Susan was presenting to Miss Martin.
She could not mistake that bold, black writing—somewhat scrawly. The letter was written by her lover, Frank Carlyn. Involuntarily she glanced from it to the governess. Miss Martin’s face was a fiery red, her hand trembled perceptibly as she slipped the letter into her pocket. Some of the glow seemed to spread itself to Barbara’s face. She was conscious of a strong thrill of satisfaction that her letter of dismissal to Frank Carlyn had been already written, before she recognized that tell-tale handwriting.
The next moment the door was opened again and Sybil Lorrimer looked in.
“Ah, they told me you were here, Barbara. The Turners have come in and the Rectory children and they want to play games. You are all to come down—you too, please, Miss Martin. We want everybody to play.”
“Oh, that will be jolly,” Maisie said as she jumped up with all the only child’s zest at the prospect of companionship.
She danced off, pulling Sybil with her, Barbara and Miss Martin following more slowly.
The latter’s flush had faded now. She looked white and jaded, a little sad too. In the drawing-room they found a merry party assembled engaged in the intellectual occupation of drawing a pig blind-folded, and putting their initials beside their productions.
Maisie and Sybil were absorbed, Barbara went over to Lady Davenant, and the governess quietly sat down in a distant corner hoping to avoid notice.
Presently she became aware that the game had changed, they were playing something with pencil and paper, when somebody produced an album and requested everybody to write his or her favourite verse in it. Elizabeth was wondering whether she might slip away if Lady Davenant would give her permission, when that lady beckoned to her.
“Come, my dear, you must join in this,” she said kindly. “Do you know I did not see that you were in the room until Sybil drew my attention to you just now.”
“I was about to ask whether I might go away,” hazarded the governess doubtfully.
Lady Davenant shook her head. “Oh, no, my dear. You shut yourself up far too much as it is. Now this is really a funny game. You each have a sheet of paper and you damp your thumb on this blue pad and then print it on the paper so—do you see? And put your initials on it, and pass it on to the person on your right and she puts heads and legs to it and makes it into a funny likeness of yourself. We played it last night with Maisie, Sybil and Barbara, and I quite enjoyed it.”
Miss Martin looked doubtfully at the piece of paper handed to her.
“Oh, I don’t think—”
But Lady Davenant pointed to a seat near Maisie. “Nonsense, my dear, a bit of fun will do you good.” The governess had no choice but to obey, though she was longing to get away to read her letter. Like Barbara she had recognized the writing and her amazement had far surpassed the other girl’s. She could not imagine what Frank Carlyn could be writing to her about, and her mind was a prey to all sorts of imaginings and surmises.
“Now, Miss Martin,” Sybil thrust a pencil and pad into her hand. “Put your right thumb on this, then press it upon the paper—so—initial it, and pass it on.” She seated herself on the other side of Elizabeth. “Now is everybody ready? Pass!”
There was some laughter as she was obeyed, and she caught Elizabeth’s paper and hurried across to the Turners.
“That is wrong, you must all pass to the right.” No one saw her thrust the piece of paper she held in her hand into her little satchel. She came back to her place in a minute and held out her hand to the governess. “Your paper, please, Miss Martin.”
“I gave it to you a minute ago,” said Elizabeth in surprise.
“Did you?” Sybil questioned. “I don’t think you did, or if you did I have lost it. Do you see Miss Martin’s paper over there, any of you? No. Oh, just do another, Miss Martin. I must have dropped it somewhere.”
Elizabeth
obeyed. The game did not strike her as very interesting, and she was only longing to get away. She gave a sigh of unfeigned relief when, the papers having been collected and admired, Mrs. Turner declared it was time to be going, and swept all the party away. But even then she was not free. Sir Oswald sent to ask her to write some letters for him, and her own had to remain unread.
When the last of the guests had gone, Sybil ran lightly upstairs. In her room Susan, the schoolroom maid, was sewing some lace into a frock.
Sybil waved the piece of paper she drew from her satchel in triumph.
“Well, I have managed it, Susan. But it needed a little diplomacy.”
The maid took it from her and scrutinized it carefully.
“So this is Miss Martin’s thumb-mark, is it?” she said slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Well, now I think I can promise you it won’t be long before we have some news for you, Miss Lorrimer.”
Chapter Twelve
ALONE at last! Elizabeth closed her door and locked it. It really seemed to her that everyone had been conspiring against her this evening. After Sir Oswald’s letters were done, Maisie had been unusually tiresome, and after the child was safely in bed Lady Davenant had paid one of her infrequent visits to the schoolroom, and had stayed chatting pleasantly over many subjects, while Elizabeth had the greatest difficulty in preventing her impatience from becoming visible.
But now it was all over and she was her own mistress until the morning.
She drew the letter from her pocket and scrutinized it carefully. It was undoubtedly Frank Carlyn’s writing, she could not fail to recognize it, though the times she had seen it before were very few. The postmark too—she shivered as she looked at it—was Carlyn.
She shivered again as she opened the envelope, the prevision of evil was strong upon her, and she hesitated a moment, glancing round with wide frightened eyes, before she drew out the enclosure. Then, as she looked down, she saw that it was merely the briefest of notes. It began abruptly without any prefix.
“It has come to my knowledge accidentally that Marlowe, the late constable at Carlyn, has been seen in the neighbourhood of the Priory. He is there ostensibly on business, but there may be danger. Be careful.” It was signed simply F. C.
She read it through twice, then she looked up feverishly. She had thrown off her disguising glasses and her big, grey eyes were wide and dilated by fear.
“What does it mean?” she sobbed beneath her breath. “What can it mean? Except that the end is drawing near.” Then as she glanced downwards, she struck at the letter with her open palm. “Oh, the coward!” she breathed. “The wicked coward!”
She had seated herself in a chair near the dressing-table. As she looked up she caught sight of her reflection in the glass. She paused with the letter in her hand, staring before her with a new fear gripping her heart. Surely she could not be mistaken. The mass of dark hair brushed so smoothly back from her brow was distinctly lighter in colour. There could be no mistake about it; the difference that Barbara had noticed was even more marked now.
Elizabeth thrust the letter back into her pocket as she got up, and going nearer to the dressing-table scrutinized herself more closely. Yes, the change was marked; and yet, only yesterday, fancying that there was some alteration, she had been more careful than usual.
She went over to a box she always kept locked, and unfastening it took out a case containing a bottle half-full of some dark liquid, a saucer, and quite an array of small brushes.
“It cannot be that it is failing now,” she murmured. “It has always answered so well hitherto.”
She hurried into her dressing-gown and let down her hair. Then, after regarding it for a minute or two with increasing dissatisfaction, she poured some of the liquid from the bottle into the saucer, and taking up one of the brushes began slowly to damp her hair, holding it out from the roots to the tips and going over every bit carefully.
It was a long process, and it was past her usual bedtime when she had finished, but she did not hurry with her undressing; even before Carlyn’s letter had come she had been oppressed by a feeling of danger, a feeling that was intensified tenfold now. A strong foreboding was upon her that the day of reckoning was close at hand, try to evade it as she might. That it was likely to prove a heavy day for others as well as for herself she knew only too well, and her heart failed her as she thought of it. Even after she was in bed she lay awake, the livelong night, tossing from side to side, the dread that had been upon her in the daytime increased tenfold in the hours of darkness. Where lay the danger? She could not even guess, and her helplessness deepened the mysterious terror that oppressed her.
She remembered Marlowe well, she had little doubt that he would recognize her. She was convinced that his sharp eyes would penetrate her disguise.
Towards morning she fell into an uneasy doze, in which trivial things, like Maisie’s lessons, mixed themselves up with the dreadful days that had preceded the governess’s coming to the Priory. Then her mind recurred to an earlier time still. She was once more the petted darling of her father’s house. Her father seemed to be waiting for her, watching her, and she caught the echo of his kindly tones, “Come home, little girl, come home.” With this last dream, there mingled, oddly enough, memories of Sir Oswald’s love-making, of the tenderness that had grown in his voice when he had spoken of his love for her, when he had begged her to come and be eyes for him in his helplessness.
She woke with a sob in her throat as Susan entered with her tea. The maid placed the tray beside the bed, drew up the blinds, then, with an unseen glance at the long tresses lying on the pillow, departed with a gleam of triumph in her eyes.
Elizabeth sat up in bed and drank her tea feverishly. Now in the clear morning light things did not seem quite so bad. She began to think that she had let her fears exaggerate her danger. After all Marlowe’s visit to the neighbourhood might have no connexion with her at all. It might simply be that a malign fate had ordained that he, like Carlyn and Barbara Burford, should have friends in the district. If she kept out of his sight all might be well.
Resolving that, for sometime at any rate, she would not venture out of the Park and its immediate precincts, she sprang out of bed. Then as she faced the long pier glass she uttered a cry of horror. The hair which up to a few days ago had been so black was now only a pale brown; there was no possibility of the change passing unnoticed to-day—it was obvious enough to strike the most casual observer.
But what could have brought it about? She could not imagine. As she hurriedly dressed herself she made up her mind that the only thing she could do was to ask for a day’s holiday, go up to Town and see if she could get the hair put right, keeping it in the meantime covered as much as possible. To this end, when the dressing bell rang, she put on her hat and coat and twisted a veil round her hair. Maisie’s sharp little eyes and tongue were to be dreaded as much as anything she knew.
Then she begged for an interview with Lady Davenant, who usually kept her room until the middle of the day. She found the old lady in bed and distinctly curious as to the meaning of this early visit.
In spite of everything Elizabeth was not a good liar. She hesitated and stammered so much as she told the story she had decided on that a keener person than Lady Davenant would have guessed that something was amiss at once.
As it was, however, her tale did very well. She had had a letter the preceding afternoon, she said, which necessitated her going up to Town at once. If Lady Davenant would allow her she would take the express at 10.30 and be back that same evening.
Lady Davenant looked a little perplexed by the suddenness of the request.
“If you had told me when you had the letter yesterday,” she said plaintively, “then I could have arranged everything. Now what am I to do about Maisie?”
“If she might have a holiday to-day I know that Latimer would look after her, and I could make it up to her later on. I am so sorry, dear Lady Davenant, but yesterday I thought it could be done by letter.
Now I see it can’t and it is so very important. You see”—her face colouring—“it is so very important that I should take care of my savings, in case my health should fail, or anything.”
“Of course it is, my dear.” Lady Davenant was easily placated. “Well, you must go. As you say, Latimer can take care of Maisie, and Oswald’s letters can wait. Or I daresay Sybil—”
“Who is taking Sybil’s name in vain?” that young lady’s voice interrupted at this juncture, and Sybil’s fair head was popped round the door. “What! Miss Martin, you are an early visitor. Going out already to—” with a glance at the other’s hat and veil.
“Oh, Sybil, Miss Martin is going up to Town.” Lady Davenant eagerly related Elizabeth’s difficulty while the governess sat silent.
Sybil listened, the smile in her eyes deepening as she looked at the governess.
“I do hope you will get your business done successfully,” she said amiably. “But you will not have much time to spare if you want to catch the express.”
Elizabeth found this was true enough. She had to hurry over her breakfast and her farewells to Maisie, who by no means approved of being left, but she managed to be in time for the train.
The carriage was crowded, but it was a two hours’ journey to town; she had plenty of time for reflection in the train; but she little guessed that the shabby-looking man who was apparently asleep at the other end of the carriage was in reality watching her from beneath his lowered eyes, that not a change of expression on her part escaped him.
Still less did she imagine when the train had steamed into the great terminus, and she had engaged a taxi to convey her to her destination, that the same shabby-looking man was in another taxi behind, that his driver had orders not to let her out of sight.
She had given the name and address of an expensive hairdresser’s in a quiet little street off Piccadilly. An attendant came forward as she entered the shop.
“I had a preparation from here for tinting the hair a darker shade,” Elizabeth began.
The man bowed. “Yes, madam.”
