by Annie Haynes
“Mr. Hurst! Oh, I am so glad!” Cynthia threw open the door just as the lawyer was admitted. “Do come in! You know—”
“My dear Mrs. Trewhistle, I come, I fear—” Mr. Hurst’s expression altered, stiffened, as he looked beyond. “Miss Davenant—I am amazed—”
“Thought you would be!” the visitor interrupted equably. “But you men of business are so uncommonly slow, and I wanted to see my sister, so I just got into the train and came down. While you and Sir Edward Fisher put your heads together wondering how the thing was to be accomplished—hey, presto, it was done!”
“So I see!” Mr. Hurst responded coldly. “But I presume you scarcely imagined you could take possession of Davenant Hall in that fashion, my dear madam. You would not be admitted unless you presented certain credentials from me.”
“Shouldn’t I?” Miss Davenant laughed again, the same shrill, hard sound. “I guess I should make it unpleasant for them later if I wasn’t. But now I see you have a cab at the door I guess we will just drive up, you and me and Polly, and you will put all that straight for me. Come, Polly! Put your hat on and come with us.” She pointedly ignored Cynthia.
But that lady was not accustomed to be ignored,
“It is impossible for Joan to go with you,” she said calmly. “She has not been well lately, and Lord Warchester is out.”
Joan went over to her and kissed her.
“I feel much better now, Cynthia, and I think I ought to go. The old servants are fond of me; and if Evie goes alone they may not understand; they may be just a little—difficult.”
“I dare say. I should not blame them!” Evidently Mrs. Trewhistle was not to be easily placated. “But if you do go, Joan, I shall insist on one thing—you are to come back as soon as possible. You are not to stay. Am I not right, Mr. Hurst?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Trewhistle. I am sure Miss Davenant will understand that.”
Miss Davenant looked sulky.
“It must be as Joan pleases, but I shall expect to see a good deal of her later on.”
“Of course I shall come back directly!” Joan promised, clinging to her cousin for a moment. “You—you must excuse me, Cynthia. I feel I must go with Evie. I will not be a minute. Evie, come with me while I put my hat on.”
When the door had closed behind the two, Cynthia glanced at Mr. Hurst.
“Well, this is a pretty thing you have done!”
He spread out his hands as if disclaiming all responsibility.
“My dear lady! Could I help myself? And she seems genuinely attached to her sister. Things might have been much worse.”
“They couldn’t!” Cynthia said succinctly.
“My dear Mrs. Trewhistle—”
“I say things couldn’t be worse!” Cynthia insisted with a stamp of her foot. “Did you see how she looked at Joan just when she was pretending to be most affectionate? She reminds me of a cat or a toad! Joan’s sister! Ugh!”
Chapter Eleven
“JOAN!”
Joan was standing by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece; her simple black gown fell around her in long straight folds. The last rays of the setting sun streaming through the window touched her hair with gold.
To Warchester she had never looked fairer, more desirable. There was ardent longing in his eyes as he came swiftly across to her with outstretched hands.
“Joan, Joan, I have been mad with anxiety! You have been ill, and you refused to see me. Why have you been so cruel?”
With old memories thronging quickly upon her, Joan shrank from him against the old tapestry on the wall at her side; then, as she slowly raised her eyes to his dark face, transfigured by love, a great rush of tenderness swept over her; the resemblance she had seen to the murderer in Grove Street had vanished. She told herself that she had unconsciously exaggerated some chance likeness, that she had been foolishly, culpably credulous. How could she, ever have imagined that the grey eyes, now full of love, that smiled down upon her were the same that had met hers that dreaded day ten years ago?
She laid her hands in Warchester’s with a sigh of content.
“I wasn’t well,” she said softly. “And I was nervous, and—and frightened and foolish, but—I have wanted you too.”
A look of joy illumined the man’s anxious face. He drew the girl towards him; then as she let her head rest on his shoulder with a sigh of relief he held her closely to him, and, stooping, laid his cheek caressingly against her bright hair.
“What was the matter, Joan? I can’t have you frightened.”
“Oh, it was nothing! It was only that I was silly.”
His clasp of her tightened, but he had noticed the tense look in her eyes as he entered the room, and as he felt her tremble he told himself that her nerves were strained, that it behoved him to be careful. He led her to a settee and carefully arranged the cushions so that she could lean back.
“Now you are to rest,” he said quietly. “Lay your head back so, I am going to sit here and you shall talk or not just as you feel inclined.”
The mingled tenderness and authority of his tone were just what Joan needed. She leaned back on the settee and let her hand rest in his. For the present at any rate; the black cloud of suspicion had rolled away; she resolutely thrust even the remembrance of it aside, while Warchester talked quietly to her of the Dutch garden, which was rapidly nearing completion, of changes that were likely to take place among his tenantry.
For a time Joan was content to listen silently, but at length when he paused she looked up.
“You know that Evelyn has come back, Paul?”
“Oh, yes! I have had a long interview with Mr. Hurst,” he answered. “He seemed to think she was coming here to-day, but I have seen nothing of her; and I thought it might be better not to call until we could go together.”
Joan made no rejoinder; her fingers moved softly, half caressingly over his hand.
After a pause Warchester spoke in a lighter tone.
“Well, about the new sister, Joan—what is she like? Does she accord with your recollection of her?”
The girl’s face clouded.
“I—I don’t know,” she said dreamily. “She is very kind, but I think we have grown apart all these years. Paul, I can’t feel to her as a sister should, I am afraid.”
“I suppose that cannot be helped in the circumstances. It is not your fault, I am sure,” Warchester assured her. “Cynthia says you behaved like an angel.”
Joan smiled and shook her head.
“I am afraid Cynthia is partial. There is no generosity in not grudging Evelyn her inheritance, which never was mine. I always thought it was very likely Granny would leave it to her. But now—perhaps for your sake—I am inclined to wish it had been different.” She looked wistfully at Warchester.
“I am not!” he contradicted heartily. “I want my wife to myself—you, Joan, and not the heiress of Davenant. We shall have plenty to do at the Towers, sweetheart. Your sister is heartily welcome to Davenant, as far as I am concerned.”
Joan was silent. She could not explain that she had not been speaking wholly of her sister’s inheritance, and yet she could not help feeling that in Evelyn she would give Warchester an exceedingly undesirable sister-in-law. Even in the little time she had spent with Evelyn she had found that not all her recollections of her sister’s kindness to her in the old days, not all her real sympathy with the hard life the girl had led, could blind her to Evelyn’s many deficiencies—deficiencies which were not merely of manner, but of heart and mind.
Despite the effusively expressed affection for herself, Joan had seen plainly how little interest apart from their monetary value her new possessions had in Evelyn’s eyes. She had known that the years that had passed; the different lives they had led, must of necessity have made a gap between them, but this was even deeper and wider than she had expected. Evelyn had been curiously silent about her own experiences; she had given certain particulars to Mr. Hurst when she had presented her credentials in town, but, b
eyond telling Joan that she had been on the stage, she carefully avoided any reference to her past life. She had taken with her to Mr. Hurst all the necessary proofs of her identity—little personal trifles that had come to her from her mother, her birth certificate, a couple of Joan’s childish letters.
What the lawyer had learned beyond this Joan did not know. She could scarcely help surmising from his manner that it did not redound to her sister’s credit. Evelyn was almost openly anxious that Joan should invite her to stay at the Towers, but to this idea Cynthia and Mr. Hurst were emphatically opposed, and Joan herself, though feeling it might be her duty to acquiesce, could not help shrinking from the suggestion.
Warchester was emphatic in his condemnation of it when Joan consulted him.
“No, no!” he said determinedly. “Spend as much of the daytime as you like with your sister, but don’t ask her to stay here for a while until we know more of her. Later on we must think of having people to stay with us, but for the present you will be content with me, won’t you?”
The shadow on Joan’s face deepened as he waited for his answer; she fancied that she caught a far-off look of that baleful glance that had haunted her childhood. She turned away from him.
“Oh, Paul, Paul, don’t!”
The gesture no less than the words chilled and pained him. He was not a man who had frittered away his affections, but he had never found it difficult to gain a woman’s liking, and he had been confident of Joan’s love. He felt convinced that there was more than met the eye in his wife’s fainting fit on Monday night, in the aversion with which she had turned from him. He could allow to the full for overtaxed nerves, but there were both pain and shrinking in the brown eyes as he bent nearer, and a quick, involuntary movement that was almost a shudder did not escape him. He had not understood her refusal to see him; the journey to London was difficult to explain as merely a whim. It was evident there was some mystery here that must be fathomed.
“What do you mean, Joan?” he asked quietly. “Aren’t you happy with me?”
Joan’s piteous glance round the room made him wince.
“Yes—yes—I am happy—of course I am happy!” she answered unsteadily. “But, Paul—”
“Yes. But”—Warchester’s dark face was set in stern lines of pain—“Joan, does this mean that you have mistaken your own heart—that you do not care for me?”
Joan sat silent, her slender hands lying motionless on her lap; her long lashes flickered for a moment, then, drooping, veiled her eyes.
To Warchester it appeared that her silence could mean only one thing.
“Joan,” he said sharply, his tone quickened by fear, “is it so? Has it all been a mistake? Was I too old for you, dear? Why don’t you speak? Joan—have you ceased to—love me?”
Joan raised her eyes slowly and looked steadily at him.
“No, you know it is not that.” The words were spoken with a manifest effort.
Warchester caught his breath. He held out his hands.
“Thank Heaven it is not that! Anything else we can bear together. Trust me, and tell me what troubles you.”
Joan’s eyes still scrutinised his face. Was the resemblance as strong as she had fancied? Was not Warchester taller, broader than the man she had seen in the studio in Grove Street?
“Come, Joan!” Warchester’s tone was more masterful.
“I—I can’t tell you!” Joan said in a low tone.
How could she, she was asking herself—how could she tell him, who was in her eyes a veritable king among men, that she had found in him a likeness to an undiscovered murderer, and that the horror of it was driving sleep from her at night, and haunting her by day? No, no! At all hazards the secret must be kept—he must never know.
“It is only that I am nervous, fanciful.” She put out her hands with a little sob, “Bear with me, Paul!”
Warchester took her hands; his eyes were puzzled and unsatisfied.
“Can’t you trust me, Joan?”
Joan’s throat was hot and dry; she longed for the relief of tears, but she must not give way now.
‘‘It is nothing. One has strange fancies sometimes—most people, have, I think, haven’t they?” with a piteous, wan smile. “But if one talks of them they seem worse, and I—I want to forget them, Paul.”
The appeal stirred Warchester’s manhood; he bent down and touched her fingers with his lips.
“It shall be as you wish, Joan. Some day perhaps you will know me well enough to trust me with even these vagrant dreams of yours. Till then I will wait.”
The door opened, and Cynthia was ushered in.
“Now don’t tell me that I have come at an inopportune moment!’’ she exclaimed gaily, as she kissed Joan and gave her hand to Warchester. “This letter came for you by the last post, Joan, directed to our house by mistake, and as it is marked ‘Immediate’ I thought perhaps you had better have it, though I don’t suppose it is anything important.”
“For me?” Joan looked at the envelope listlessly. “I don’t know the writing.”
Cynthia turned back to Warchester.
“After all, I believe I only made the letter an excuse for obtaining a little rational companionship. Reggie —you know what Reggie is after he has been about the farms listening to the tenants’ grievances all day. I simply can’t keep him awake, whatever I do! And I must relieve my mind about that dreadful Evelyn. She actually came over to see me this afternoon and they were silly enough to admit her. I have told them that I shall never be at home to her again. She is impossible, simply impossible!”
“Cynthia! Paul! I shall have to go to him. My father is ill—he is asking for me!”
Joan struggled to her feet and stood facing them, catching at the table beside her for support,
Cynthia stored at her blankly.
“What do you say? Who is ill? I don’t understand.”
“My father.” Joan glanced at the letter in her hand. “This is from Amy, the eldest of the children—my stepsister. She says, ‘Father is very ill; the doctor says it is pneumonia, and he is not likely to get over it. Part of the time he is not himself, but sometimes he is conscious, and then he asks for you. Mother says it won’t be any use, you are much too fine a lady to come here, but anyhow I promised Dad, so I am writing. From your affectionate sister, Amy.’ You see, I must go,” Joan concluded, looking appealingly at her cousin.
Mrs. Trewhistle frowned and shook her head.
“I don’t see the necessity at all. You haven’t seen your father for years; he has never been a father to you in anything but name. I do not think there is the least need for you to go. Probably he would not know you when you got there. You see the girl says he is delirious most of the time, and it would harrow your feelings for nothing. Don’t you agree with me, Lord Warchester?”
“I can’t say I do,” he answered, going over to Joan’s side and putting his arm about her. “I think Joan must go, Mrs. Trewhistle. I do not see how she can refuse. The only thing for us to do, it seems to me, is to help her to get there as soon as possible. Where is it, by the way? Let me see, Joan.” He took the letter. “Bell Hotel, Willersfield. Willersfield—ah, that is in Shropshire, is it not?”
Cynthia was too much amazed at his unexpected behaviour to reply. Joan gave him a grateful glance.
“I must go at once!” she said quickly. “To-night! When is there a train, Paul?”
Warchester looked at his watch.
“It is too late to-night. You could not get there. There is the express to Birmingham at 7.30. We can get that by driving to the junction, and Willersfield is only an hour’s run from Birmingham. I shall take you of course.”
“You are very good,” Joan said wistfully. “But indeed I would so much rather you did not, Paul. I don’t think I could bear that. No”—resolutely—“I would rather go alone or with Evelyn. Naturally Evelyn will want to go. I must send to her. I was forgetting Evelyn.”
Chapter Twelve
JUNE though it was, th
e morning was cold. An east wind whistled round the station, working havoc among the flowers that bordered the line, blowing little scuds of rain in Joan’s face as she stood waiting for the express. The girl shivered in her long coat, telling herself that when the sun came out she would be hot. At present she was feeling miserably cold and depressed. Treherne, her maid, who was standing near, did not look particularly amiable. She was evidently inclined to resent this hurried journey.
Warchester was at the bookstall buying papers for the journey. A groom from Davenant came up to Joan, touching his hat.
“Miss Davenant desires me to say, my lady, that she is very sorry, but she is too ill to come out this morning. She fainted while she was dressing. She sends her love and hopes she may be able to come by a later train.”
“What is it, Joan?” Warchester asked as he sauntered over to her. He looked very big and handsome in his big motoring coat with his cap pushed back from his brows. “Your sister ill? In that case you cannot go by yourself. I shall come with you.”
“No, please, Paul!” Joan put out her hand. “I shall be all right. I may be foolish, but I do not want you there—just when I first see them all again. Please, please, don’t come, Paul!”
“Well, I suppose Treherne will look after you,” Warchester said gloomily. “And, mind, if you do not come back at the earliest moment I shall fetch you.”
The noise of the approaching train drowned the end of his sentence. He busied himself in looking out a comfortable corner seat in the carriage, and laid a big box of chocolates and a pile of illustrated papers beside Joan, and then stepped back as the train began to move.
“Remember what I said! I hope you will find your father better,” he cried, keeping pace with the train for a moment while Joan smiled at him from the window.
When at last he was out of sight and the girl turned back with a sigh, she found Treherne regarding her with dissatisfaction.
“We ought to have had a thicker rug, my lady, if it is going to be as cold as this.”
“I dare say it will be warmer by and by,” Joan remarked indifferently as she took up one of the periodicals and settled herself in her corner.
