The Secret of Greylands

by Annie Haynes

  “Dear! You surprise me, miss!” Gleeson said slowly, her wrinkled face looking troubled and perplexed. “I’m not denying that one’s hands may turn white in illness, but that knuckles distorted by rheumatism should regain their comeliness is what I cannot understand!”

  Cynthia finished her tea without making any comment; then, after a short pause, she rose.

  “I am very much obliged to you for the tea and rest,” she said gratefully, “but I think I must be going back now, or they will be getting alarmed about me.”

  Gleeson began an animated remonstrance, but Sir Donald quietly picked up his cap.

  “I will come with you,” he said. “We will walk through the pine-wood where you found Spot’s body. Was my aunt very much troubled when she heard of his death?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Cynthia replied doubtfully. “She did not say much to me. Mr Gillman had buried him under the oak saplings he has been moving in the plantation. Cousin Hannah did say that if Greylands passed into other hands she should make a stipulation that the poor little grave should not be disturbed; but she has not mentioned him to me lately. I have sometimes thought from little things I have noticed that her memory is failing her a good deal.”

  “That is very likely,” Farquhar assented. “I believe that when paralysis has affected the body to the extent it has in her case it usually ends by attacking the brain, and of that loss of memory is one of the first symptoms. Poor old Aunt Hannah! You do not know how I blame myself for this quarrel, Miss Hammond! It is true she demanded an obedience which I was compelled by my own manhood to refuse, but I knew that her bark was worse than her bite, that very soon she would regret her hard and bitter words and be glad to have me back. I was angry too, though I vowed I would not retract until she sent for me, and I betook myself to the other end of the world in a dudgeon.”

  He pulled his cap down over his eyes and walked along by Cynthia’s side, apparently absorbed in gloomy reflection. There was a pause; Cynthia’s eyes wandered across the moor, strayed over the sunlit gorse, past the pine-woods to the clump of dark firs that represented Greylands.

  “I am very sorry about it all,” she said, “but perhaps it will come right some day. Even if Cousin Hannah in her illness remembers only her feeling of anger against you she must have forgiven you before —her letter shows that. I think—I am sure I have heard that when the brain is affected people are often angered with those whom in health they have loved the best.” She glanced up wistfully at Farquhar as she finished.

  Meeting the look of sympathy in her eyes, some of the hardness died out of his.

  “Thank you!” he said softly. “You are very good to me, Cynthia—for I may call you that, may I not?”

  A curious look, half fear, half repulsion, came into the eyes he was watching; an involuntary tremor shook Cynthia as she remembered the name that was hers by right.

  “Yes, yes, please do!” she said hurriedly. “Always call me Cynthia—I like that best.”

  They were nearing Greylands now, and in the shadow of the pine-wood the girl stopped.

  “Please do not come any farther now! Indeed, I would rather you did not!” as the man made a gesture of refusal. “If Mr Gillman saw us together he might be angry or perhaps suspect who you are, and I do think it would be better for Cousin Hannah’s sake and everybody’s that it should not be known at present.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Farquhar conceded reluctantly. He held her hand for a minute. “You will stand my friend now that you know all, will you not, Cynthia? You will tell my poor old aunt that I am not ungrateful for all her love and kindness; you will win some message of forgiveness for me; you will persuade her to see me again?”

  “I will do my best,” Cynthia promised, looking up at him with dewy eyes.

  Sir Donald retained her hand in his.

  “Thank you! Some day, if I find you alone in the house, as I did before, I think I shall put your promise to the test by asking you to let me go up to her room and plead my cause with my aunt in person!”

  “I doubt whether I could,” Cynthia said hesitatingly, “or whether I ought after what she said then. Since that day I have never been left alone in the house with her. Mr Gillman and Sybil never go out together.”

  “Ah, well, perhaps there may be an opportunity some day! In the meantime it is much to know that I have your sympathy, little cousin!” Farquhar stooped low over the slender, ungloved hand lying in his; then, as the brown fingers grew restive, he released them, and straightening himself, stood upright. “I shall stay here until I see you safe within the gate of Greylands, to make sure that you meet with no annoyance.”

  “Oh, but there is no need!” Cynthia said quickly. “Indeed—”

  Farquhar made no reply; something in the set of his mouth told the girl that his mind was made up, and, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, she turned away. Sir Donald watched the slender figure until it disappeared from sight beneath the firs; then he slowly walked back to the cottage on the moors.

  Gleeson was leaning over the little wicket watching for him; her comely face looked troubled. As Sir Donald came up she gripped his arm.

  “Ah, Sir Donald, what have they done to my poor lady?”

  Sir Donald’s own face was dark, but he looked at her kindly.

  “We must hope for the best, Glee! It may be all the illness, you know.”

  The woman heaved a long sigh.

  “Ay, Sir Donald, it may be, but when I listened to the young lady talking my mind was busy at work. I could not help thinking and worrying, and I couldn’t see daylight anywhere.” Her voice sank in a whisper. “You heard what she said about the hands—my lady’s hands that could never wear her ring because they were that swollen? I can’t understand it, Sir Donald; and telling the young lady she wouldn’t hear your name, when I know she had been fretting herself to death thinking that she wouldn’t have the chance to make it up with you before I left. Sir Donald, that Gillman is a villain, that’s what he is! There’s no dirty trick he wouldn’t play to keep you out of your rights, and—and if he thought my lady was turning to you again—it’s my belief that he wouldn’t even stop at murder!”

  Sir Donald’s dark face paled, and he interrupted her sternly:

  “Don’t! Be careful what you say, Glee! You—you let your tongue run away with you sometimes.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I DON’T know whether you are one who believe in ghosts, miss?”

  Cynthia paused.

  “Ghosts? Why no, Mrs Knowles; do you?” The charwoman rolled her arms in her apron.

  “I never did hold with such like, miss; but last night when you were out walking on the moor, which I’m sure I am surprised that you are not afraid of being kidnapped out there alone in the dusk!”

  Cynthia laughed.

  “I think I am safe enough. What happened last night, Mrs Knowles?”

  The charwoman’s large-featured face looked perplexed and undecided.

  “I had been washing out some blinds, miss, for the landing, and I was a bit late, for it was getting dark, but thinks I to myself I will put them up, for they was wanted. I’d just got the old ones down and was running new tapes in the others, when some one come along the passage so soft-like I never heard her till she was right on me—a thin tall woman with a lot of white hair and spectacles.”

  “Lady Hannah?” Cynthia cried involuntarily. “Why, then she—”

  “My lady, not a bit of it, miss!” Mrs Knowles said with decision. “’Twasn’t anybody I’d ever seen before; I could take my oath of that, and I had a good look at her too, for she stopped a minute and looked right at me! Then before I had pulled myself together to speak to her, she was off up the stairs to the top rooms as quick and as quiet as you please.”

  Cynthia felt puzzled.

  “What an extraordinary thing! What did you do?”

  “I sat a bit till I got my breath back, then I went up after her, but no sign of her could I see. Miss Sybil, she was
up there in her room, and she come and helped me to look, but it was no good. That was why I asked you if you believed in ghosts, miss.”

  “Oh, it must have been your fancy!”

  Mrs Knowles picked up her broom and began to sweep the kitchen with great vigour.

  “’Twasn’t no fancy, miss. She was there as large as life!”

  “Well, I can’t understand it!” concluded Cynthia as she went into the dining-room. Sybil was doing some fancy-work and Gillman was reading the paper, but as Cynthia entered he threw it aside and went to the window.

  “What does this mean?”

  The two girls looked at him in surprise, but Sybil, as usual, was the one to respond:

  “What does what mean, Cousin Henry?” She ran over to the window. “Oh, a carriage and pair stopping at the gate! Somebody must be coming to call!” clapping her hands. “Oh, what fun!”

  “Fun, indeed?” growled Gillman. “You know perfectly well that your cousin and I came here to get out of that sort of thing! This is your doing, I suppose?” turning on Cynthia, who had joined them.

  His tone was almost savage. Cynthia glanced at his face, dark with anger, in unqualified amazement.

  “I know no more of it than you do! It is scarcely likely—I mean”—her voice trembling at the thought of her encounter with Letchingham—“surely no one I know has found me out here?”

  Her eyes were full of terror as, keeping well in the shadow of the window curtains, she tried to see the occupants of the carriage that was slowly making its way over the rough road to the front of the house. There were two men on the box, but a glance was enough to show her that they did not wear the Letchingham livery, and her face brightened.

  As the mysterious carriage passed the window, Cynthia saw that the two ladies—an elderly woman and a young girl—who occupied the front seat, and a rubicund youth, who was lounging with his back to the horses, were equally unknown to her.

  “They are friends of yours?” Gillman questioned shortly.

  She shook her head, but he looked strangely disturbed.

  Sybil gave a curious laugh as there was a loud double knock at the front door.

  “I wonder what they will think of our ménage? Mrs Knowles will present a curious contrast to their footman.”

  As she spoke, Mrs Knowles was heard clattering across the hall; evidently she had not thought fit to remove the wooden pattens in which it was her habit to swill out the back premises. Cynthia could not forbear an inward smile at the vision of her opening the front door, attired as she had seen her but a few moments before in a rusty black bonnet, and with an apron by no means spotless tied over her working gown, while a dingy shawl covered her shoulders.

  Through the partially-opened door they caught the inquiry:

  “Lady Hannah Gillman at home?”

  “My lady is at home, but she ain’t well enough to see folks,” was Mrs Knowles’s uncompromising reply.

  The footman went back to his mistress, and there was a short colloquy, during which Gillman appeared strangely uneasy. Once he turned into the passage as if he meant to leave the house by the back door, but as the elder lady got out of the carriage he paused.

  “Can I see Mr Gillman or Miss Hammond? I am Lady Duxworth, an old friend of Lady Hannah Gillman’s.” The clear, low tones were perfectly audible in the dining-room. “I did not know until yesterday that she was in the neighbourhood, and I am particularly anxious to see her.”

  Cynthia drew a deep breath of relief.

  “Well, my lady,” they heard Mrs Knowles reply apologetically, and evidently overawed, “my lady don’t as a rule see folks, not feeling up to it, but I make no doubt for your ladyship it will be a different matter. I’ll make so bold as to ask your ladyship to walk in while I—”

  At this juncture Gillman, after taking a few steps down the room in the opposite direction, apparently made up his mind as to his course of procedure. He threw open the door and went into the hall.

  Mrs Knowles dropped a curtsy.

  “Here is the master to speak for himself, my lady,” she said, as she retreated.

  A tall, elegant woman, dressed in palest grey, with costly laces drawn over her shoulders and a tiny Parisian toque resting on her abundant silvery hair, was standing in the doorway. Gillman went towards her with his swift flashing smile.

  “Will you not come in, Lady Duxworth? I must apologize for your unceremonious reception!”

  Lady Duxworth looked at him in obvious amazement.

  “I beg your pardon—I do not quite understand! I asked for Mr Gillman or Miss Hammond.”

  Gillman’s smile was as ready as ever as he stepped back and held open the drawing-room door.

  “I am so sorry that to-day my wife is too ill to see anyone!”

  Lady Duxworth’s expression was one of puzzled bewilderment.

  “Surely you cannot be—”

  The next moment the door was closed, and the girls could hear no more. It seemed a long time to Cynthia, with the fear that the visit might in some way refer to her husband’s presence in the neighbourhood, but it was not in reality more than ten minutes before Gillman came out looking grave and troubled.

  “It seems that Lady Duxworth was a friend of your cousin’s long ago; she is very disappointed that she is not able to see her to-day, but, in deference to the doctor’s orders, I dare not let her go up. She is anxious to become acquainted with you both, though, and I have promised that one of you shall go over to lunch with her at Duxworth Towers, which, it seems, is within driving distance. It must be you, naturally, Cynthia!”

  The girl drew back.

  “No, no, I cannot go! Sybil, you—”

  Gillman frowned.

  “Nonsense, nonsense! Do not be silly, Cynthia! Lady Duxworth tells me that they are quite alone except for the young man who is outside in the carriage, Lord Arthur St Clare, and she is anxious to have a talk with you about your relatives.”

  “Well, I can’t tell her anything about them!” Cynthia said in her desperation.

  She looked to Sybil for support, counting upon that young lady’s expressed love of gaiety; but Sybil basely deserted her.

  “I do not think Cousin Hannah would like me to be away the whole day.”

  “I am sure she would not!” Gillman answered. “It must be Cynthia. Come, we must not keep Lady Duxworth waiting. She wants to see you both,” as Sybil seemed to hang back. “Here are the girls, Lady Duxworth!” he went on as he marshalled them into the drawing-room.

  Cynthia looked up timidly at the fashionably garbed woman, but she found her hands taken in a soft warm clasp.

  “Oh, my dear, you are so like Hannah Hammond when we were girls together—and she was my greatest friend!” Lady Duxworth exclaimed. “I must give you a kiss for her sake.” She drew the girl towards her, and Cynthia for her part fully responded to the gracious ease and charm of manner. “You are Basil Hammond’s daughter, I hear,” Lady Duxworth went on. “I remember him well. You must tell me about him.”

  Cynthia blushed vividly, but Lady Duxworth was turning to Sybil.

  “Why, my dear, I should never have guessed you were a Hammond—from your appearance at least! And where do you come in?”

  Sybil’s candid eyes were smiling into the great lady’s; her hand lay confidingly in Lady Duxworth’s.

  “My father was a cousin of Lady Hannah’s too— William Hammond. He went out to Australia when he was quite young.”

  “Ah, that accounts for my never having heard of you!” Lady Duxworth looked a little puzzled. “Yet I fancied the ramifications of the Hammond family tree were fairly well known to me in the old days. Now I want to carry you both off to lunch, but Mr Gillman is very cruel and declares he can only spare one. Which is it to be?” She glanced smilingly at Cynthia.

  The girl looked manifestly embarrassed.

  “You are very kind, but I think Sybil—”

  “I cannot leave Cousin Hannah,” Sybil said quickly.

  Gillman loo
ked from one to the other with a smile.

  “I think it must be this one,” he said, patting Cynthia’s shoulder. “My wife has learnt to depend more on Sybil, possibly because she is accustomed to illness.”

  “That is settled, then,” Lady Duxworth said as she smiled. “You must tell me all about your cousin, Cynthia. I am longing to hear. Now, how soon can you be ready, my dear?”

  With the pretext of putting on her hat Cynthia made her escape from the room. She sighed as she ran upstairs. With all her heart she shrank from the proposed visit, which, in face of Gillman’s expressed willingness, she found it impossible to avoid; the fear that in some way, notwithstanding Lady Duxworth’s evident lack of suspicion, it might lead to her discovery by her husband was strong upon her.

  As she stood before the glass she heard the sound of voices outside—Sybil’s light laugh mingling with a man’s deeper tones; and, looking out, she saw that the girl in the carriage was leaning forward and talking eagerly, while Sybil, standing near the door, was chattering away in her usual airy fashion. The man who had come with Lady Duxworth was laughing and replying to her sallies, watching her at the same time with, as Cynthia fancied, an almost disconcerting amount of attention. Some instinct made Cynthia hurry with her dressing; she paused at Lady Hannah’s door as she went downstairs, but it was locked as usual, and she could hear no sound within as she knocked softly.

  Lady Duxworth and Gillman came to meet her.

  “That is right, my dear, you have been very quick!” the former began approvingly. “Come out now and let me introduce you to my young people. Marion, this is Cynthia Hammond. Now, mind, I expect you two to be as great friends as Lady Hannah and I were at your age.”

  Lady Marion laughed.

  “It seems to be all settled for us, then,” she said as she made room for Cynthia.

  Lady Duxworth turned to the young man who was lounging beside the door.

  “Arthur, I want to introduce you to Miss Hammond—Lord Arthur St Clare, my dear.”

  Cynthia and Lord Arthur bowed, and after a momentary pause the latter turned quickly back to Sybil, his round, smooth, boyish face wearing an expression of open admiration not unmixed with perplexity. Gillman came forward to assist Lady Duxworth to the carriage, and stood chatting with her a while.