by Annie Haynes
After plodding on, it seemed to her for nearly another hour, she was obliged to stop and confess herself beaten. It was perfectly evident that Gillman had omitted some vital particular, or that she herself had mistaken his directions. She looked round now, in something like despair; to add to her difficulty she was by no means sure that she could find her way back to the spot where she had left Gillman. There were tracks across the moor in several directions, and, though as she had been directed she had borne carefully to the right, looking back all the paths seemed very much alike.
After scanning the landscape for some time she was relieved to see a thin blue column of smoke rising in the distance. She hurried along the path in its direction with all possible speed, and was presently rewarded by seeing before her a small ivy-covered cottage. In the pretty rustic porch an elderly woman sat busied with her needlework. A man was working in the garden.
Cynthia unlatched the gate.
“Could you tell me the nearest way to Glastwick?”
At the sound of her clear tones the man stuck his spade in the ground and looked up.
As he was about to speak the woman in the porch interposed.
“Glastwick? Why, you are a good four miles away, miss; and you look ready to drop now! Dear, dear!”
“Four miles?” Cynthia echoed blankly. “I—I must have been going in the wrong direction altogether! What in the world am I to do now? I do not believe I could walk there, and Mr Gillman will think I am lost and will not know where to come and look for me.”
The woman’s face stiffened.
“I beg your pardon, miss. Is it Mr Gillman of Greylands, you mean?”
“Yes, I am staying there,” Cynthia said helplessly. “I was driving into Glastwick with Mr Gillman when the horse fell lame. He sent me on to meet some one at the station while he went to the blacksmith’s, and I—well, I suppose I have lost my way.”
The man had been resting one foot on his spade; he turned to her now.
“The blacksmith’s on the Quesstrand side that might be. If you had turned to the left where the roads divided, and then kept straight on, you could not have missed Glastwick.”
“To the left?” Cynthia repeated. “Why, I understood Mr Gillman—I mean I am sure he told me the right.”
“That is where the mistake was made.”
Looking at the speaker Cynthia was conscious of a strange feeling of familiarity, yet, glance back as she would, she could not place her memory of those dark, rugged features, those deep-set grey eyes.
“Well,” she said forlornly, “I suppose there is nothing for it but to turn back, then. Probably Mr Gillman will be waiting for me at Glastwick.”
The man took off his tweed cap and apparently gazed with deep interest in the lining. Cynthia glanced at him absently; he had a well-shaped head, she decided, and she liked the kink in his close-cropped dark hair. The voice, too, was deep and pleasant, and both it and his manner were those of a gentleman.
“You are not more than a mile and a half from Greylands itself now,” he went on after a pause. “I fancy the better plan would be to go back and send some one to apprise Mr Gillman of your safety. Probably you would miss him if you tried to go back to Glastwick now.”
Cynthia hesitated.
“I don’t know what to do! Yes, perhaps what you suggest is best. I do not believe I am physically capable of a four-miles’ walk. If you could tell me the most direct way to Greylands—”
“You keep straight on this path here until you come to the outlaws’ Fen, then you turn; but the nearest way is not particularly easy to find. If you will allow me I will walk with you until you can see Greylands in the distance. Then you cannot make a mistake.”
Cynthia looked dubious.
“You are very kind, but I could not think of troubling you.”
“It is no trouble at all,” picking up the spade and straightening himself. “As a matter of fact I have to go that way some time to-day.”
“The young lady looks fair worn-out, though.” The woman had come down the path and stood looking at Cynthia with an unusual amount of interest, or so the girl fancied. “If you could let me get you a cup of tea before you start, miss?”
“Thank you very much, but I must not stay; I am anxious to get back to Greylands as soon as possible. Mr Gillman may be getting alarmed about me. But if I might ask for a glass of water?”
“Or milk?” the woman suggested. She hurried into the cottage, and presently returned with a glass and jug of milk on a tray and an appetizing-looking cake. She cut a generous slice. “Now you will try and eat a bit, miss; it will put some strength into you.”
Cynthia laughed, but the walk had given her a genuine appetite, and she felt very grateful for the refreshment and the rest as she took a seat for a moment in the little porch.
Her hostess looked at her.
“Lady Hannah does not enjoy good health now, I hear, miss?”
“I am afraid not,” Cynthia assented, munching away at her cake.
“Nothing serious, I hope, miss?” There was a sort of subdued eagerness in the tone that grated upon Cynthia; quite evidently, she thought, the curious household at Greylands had excited comment even in this out-of-the-way spot.
“I hope not,” she said gravely in a repressive tone.
At this juncture the man, who had gone into the house, reappeared. He had thrown off the jacket in which he had been working and now wore a Norfolk shooting-coat of the same texture as his knickerbockers and a tweed cap drawn down over his forehead.
Cynthia hastily finished her cake and milk and stood up, ready to start.
“You are very good and if you are sure I am not taking you out of your way—”
“Quite sure,” he remarked laconically.
Cynthia turned to the woman. For a moment she hesitated, wondering whether she ought to offer any payment, but something in the kindly, wrinkled face seemed to forbid the thought, and she held out her hand with pretty friendly courtesy.
“Good-bye, and thank you so much.”
“Good-bye, miss!” The woman paused in obvious embarrassment for a moment, then she went on, speaking in a nervous, jerky fashion: “If you would call again any time you are passing, miss, I should think it kindly. I am often very lonesome; and I haven’t got used to these parts yet.”
There was an underlying eagerness beneath the words that made an unpleasant impression upon Cynthia.
“Thank you very much!” she responded, her manner perceptibly colder. “I do not know how long I am staying with my cousin, and I expect during her illness my time will be very much occupied; but it is extremely kind of you to ask me.”
The man held the gate open for her, and, looking at his stalwart broad shoulders and figure, Cynthia was struck anew with that haunting sense of familiarity.
“We are not so far from Greylands as you would imagine,” he said as he joined her. “It lies on the other side of that pinewood.”
A little breeze was rising now; it whistled through the branches of the firs and played around the little curls that peeped from the brim of Cynthia’s hat. The girl drew a little breath of relief as they skirted the wood and she caught sight of the chimneys of Greylands in the distance.
Her companion looked at her compassionately.
“You must be tired out; but you will soon be there now, if you can only keep up a little longer.”
“Oh, yes, I shall do very well!” Cynthia asserted bravely as she plodded along at his side.
She was finding that the London-made shoes she was wearing were by no means adapted to the rough moorland walking, and she inwardly resolved to provide herself with some stout country boots as soon as possible.
The man soon accommodated himself to her pace, but as he strolled along by her side he did not seem to be very communicative. For the most part he kept his eyes fixed straight in front of him in a dreamy, contemplative fashion, with his dark level brows drawn together in a frown, as though he were absorbed in some knott
y problem. Cynthia wondered who he was and in what relation he stood to the woman in the cottage. He scarcely looked like her son, she fancied; and she began to speculate as to what could be the reason that brought the pair to settle down at that lonely cottage on the moor.
She had not arrived at any probable explanation, when he broke the silence.
“I hope you were not shaken to pieces in that cart yesterday?”
Startled, she looked at him in surprise.
“Why, how did you know?”
The stern lines of his face relaxed as he glanced at her astonished face.
“I was at the station when you arrived.”
“Why, yes!” Cynthia broke into a laugh. “I remember now. You were talking to that station-master? I thought I recollected your face; but I could not recall where I had seen it. It has been puzzling me.”
“Has it?” He gave her a quick glance, which Cynthia, absorbed in her discovery, did not note. “I gathered that you did not expect to find Lady Hannah such an invalid as she apparently is?”
“No, I did not,” Cynthia said honestly. “You see, I had heard from her so short a time before. She asked me to come and see her; she must have written just before—”
“Before?” he repeated, turning to her. There was something compelling in his glance.
“Before her attack,” Cynthia finished. “She is suffering from some sort of paralysis, you know.”
“I did not know.” His tone was one of shocked concern. “When?”
Cynthia suddenly awoke to the fact that she was discussing her cousin’s intimate affairs with a perfect stranger.
“I do not know exactly,” she replied coldly. “Oh, there is the gate of Greylands! I can find my way now, quite easily. Please do not let me take you any farther. Thank you very much!”
She stopped and made a half gesture to hold out her hand; the man paused also and looked curiously disconcerted.
“Yes, you cannot mistake the path now,” he said brusquely. “Good afternoon!” And, raising his cap, he turned quickly on his heel.
Cynthia looked after him a moment in some surprise. His abrupt taking her at her word seemed to put her in the wrong; she felt as if she had been guilty of some discourtesy, and her cheeks burned.
However, it was impossible to alter matters now; he was striding back at a great rate; and even if Cynthia’s dignity had permitted her to try to overtake him it would have been impossible in her present condition.
Her feet were becoming additionally painful; she positively limped as she opened the gate and made her way across the field and through the surrounding trees to Greylands.
As she approached the side-door she heard a quick, light step in the passage, and a girl with a dish in her hand came to meet her. The girl looked surprised.
“Did you want to see Mr Gillman?” she asked.
Cynthia guessed who the stranger must be.
“No; that is—at least I am staying here. I am Cynthia Densham, and you—”
With a little cry of joy the girl set the dish on the ground and sprang towards her.
“I am Sybil Hammond!” holding up one soft downy cheek to be kissed. “How glad Cousin Henry will be! He has been in such trouble about you. We could not imagine what had become of you, and he has just driven back to Glastwick to make further inquiries.”
“Oh, I am sorry!” Cynthia said concernedly. “I thought I took the turning he told me, but it led me quite in the wrong direction, and I have walked all the way back. I am so tired!”
“You poor thing!” Sybil said caressingly as she made Cynthia lean on her. “Never mind, you shall have some tea, and then you will feel better. I am just going to take Spot his dinner, but that can wait. He is chained up to-day, because he will go and worry and scratch at Cousin Hannah’s door. He is so devoted to her, poor beast! Now, Cynthia—I may call you Cynthia, may I not, for we are almost cousins?—you are just to sit in that chair and let me wait upon you.”
Cynthia submitted with a good grace. After a long, tiring walk it was very pleasant to sit back and watch this pretty fair-haired creature flitting about, setting the table in order for the meal with deft and fairylike touches. Cynthia’s nature was essentially a beauty-loving one. Something in the dainty finish of Sybil’s appearance, as well as in the small features, attracted her almost irresistibly, and she found herself looking forward with new zest to her stay at Greylands.
As Sybil brought her tea and persuaded her to eat delicate sandwiches of her own making, Cynthia’s eyes were dwelling admiringly on the other girl, upon the wealth of artistically-arranged golden hair, upon the pretty smiling mouth and large hazel eyes—eyes that could melt into anger or glow with a strange reflected light of green and opal and pale transparent blue.
At length Sybil poured out another cup of tea and caught up a tray.
“I am sure Cousin Hannah must be dying for her tea; she is always so thirsty!”
Cynthia raised herself eagerly.
“If you are going to see Cousin Hannah, may I come too?”
Sybil hesitated a moment.
“Not yet, I think. I don’t fancy she feels quite equal to an interview this afternoon, poor thing!”
“You are going!”
The girl laughed and, stooping, laid a bird-like kiss on Cynthia’s forehead.
“What—not jealous, Cynthia? You see Cousin Hannah is used to me; I stayed with her six months ago, and I am a great favourite of hers.”
“I do not wonder at that!” The words came from Cynthia involuntarily.
There was another silvery ripple of laughter from Sybil as she vanished through the doorway.
“What a duck you are to say so! And Cousin Hannah means to see you some time this evening, Cynthia.”
Chapter Five
CYNTHIA opened the door of her room.
Her trunk had been carried in and stood at the bottom of the bed; she felt for her keys and crossed over to it. The big wardrobe was empty save for the dress she had worn on her arrival. She took it out and looked at its unbrushed condition with disgust; it was bedraggled and dusty round the hem, and on the sleeve of the coat near the elbow there was a big dark mark. Cynthia looked at the latter with surprise as she got out her clothes-brush and applied it diligently.
“Where did that come from, I wonder?” she soliloquized. “Did I get it in the cart? Oh, no! It must have been when I fell in the passage. I know I came down heavily on my elbow.”
Brushing had no effect on the mark, so Cynthia took her sponge and some soap, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing that it was yielding. Then spreading it out upon the back of a chair to dry, she turned to the washstand to rinse the sponge. As she squeezed out the water she was amazed to see that it was a dull red. For a moment she gazed at it in bewilderment, then she rolled back her sleeve and looked at her elbow in the glass. Its dainty dimpled prettiness was disfigured by a nasty black bruise, but the skin was unbroken. As she stood gazing into the glass, her colour faded, she shivered violently from head to foot; a fainting sensation against which she fought in vain came over her. She caught at the dressing-table with one hand and glanced round the room with eyes dilated by a sudden unreasoning fear.
“It was nothing,” she said to herself, with white, stiffening lips. “Perhaps the dog hurt its paw scratching at the door—or something. Certainly it was nothing.”
“Cynthia! Cynthia!” It was Sybil’s voice; she was knocking.
Cynthia caught up the basin and emptied it into the toilet-pail before she answered.
Sybil glanced quickly round the room before she entered.
“Cousin Henry has come back, Cynthia. He was nearly frantic about you. He was glad to hear you were all right; he says he can’t think how you came to mistake his directions. Is this all the luggage you have?” her bright inquisitive eyes turning to the open trunk. “You should see the heaps and heaps I’ve brought! Cousin Henry was so cross—I made him bring two trunks with us, much against his will, and the r
est have to come on by the carrier, or some such antiquated person. Now” —putting her arm through Cynthia’s and drawing her towards the door—“Cousin Henry wants to speak to you for a minute or two, just to make sure that you really are quite safe and not too much exhausted, and then I am going to fetch you for a chat with Cousin Hannah.”
“Oh, will she really see me? I am so glad!” Cynthia’s tone was one of great relief.
“Yes, she is quite anxious!” Sybil said as with arms entwined they descended the stairs. “But, oh, Cynthia, she is sadly changed since I saw her last. She is so helpless but”—dropping her voice to a whisper as she saw the open door into the dining-room—“I must not speak in this strain before Cousin Henry. He feels it all so terribly, and it is all so important that he should keep up for her sake. Now I shall leave you to your scolding!” And with an elfin laugh she pushed Cynthia forward and rushed back.
Gillman was standing by the fire-place, apparently reading a letter and balancing himself backwards and forwards on his toes.
He looked up as Cynthia entered; she went forward timidly.
“I am sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr Gillman. I quite thought—”
“Oh, my dear child!” The genuine concern in his tone made Cynthia forgive the familiarity of the words. “I have been so worried about you. I shall never forgive myself; but I did think if you bore to the left when the roads divided you could not make a mistake.”
His evident distress disarmed Cynthia’s resentment. She smiled a little as she raised her eyes.
“You told me the right,” she remarked.
Gillman looked thunderstruck.
“Surely I could not have been so stupid? Oh, it is impossible. You must have misunderstood me.”
“I think not,” Cynthia said positively. “I am certain you told me the right.”
“Well, really”—with a gesture of despair Gillman ran his hands through his hair—“I believe the distress and worry I have had lately must be turning my brain. To think that I should have made such a mistake! How can I apologize to you?”
Cynthia nearly laughed at the tragic reproach in his tone.
