The Secret of Greylands

by Annie Haynes

  Sybil danced away in her usual light-hearted fashion; before she turned the corner of the house, however, she paused and cast one quick, searching glance at the tall, slim girl walking slowly down the lawn. At the same moment a corner of the blind in the room opposite the tool-house was lifted cautiously, a pair of eyes gleaming with malignant hatred looked out, a malediction was breathed into the silent air.

  All unconscious, however, Cynthia pursued her way to the gate, and as she entered the belt of firs Mrs Knowles came in sight down the path that led from the kitchen. She quickened her steps as she saw Cynthia.

  “It was rare and lucky we managed to get Polly back, miss,” she began in her usual spasmodic fashion. “I can’t say as she looks a bit worse for her outing!” with a laugh. “She was a-calling out ‘Poor Polly! Poor Polly!’ and a-asking for my lady as cheerful as you please when I come away.”

  “Yes, I’m glad we caught her,” Cynthia responded absently.

  Her lack of attention in no wise disconcerted Mrs Knowles; she set the basket she was carrying on the ground, and, bringing out a voluminous pocket- handkerchief, began to mop her face energetically.

  “It is hot work catching parrots, isn’t it, miss?” she remarked apologetically. “Especially when you are not so young as you was. I was saying just now to Miss Sybil as she ran into the kitchen, so anxious about her cakes, ‘Ay, it is easy to see you have not been chasing parrots all over the place!’ I said. She will have to put her best foot foremost too, as the saying is, about the making of those cakes,” parenthetically, “as if they are not ready when the master calls for his tea he will not wait a minute for them. I never see a more impatient gentleman!”

  “Perhaps he will not come in just yet,” Cynthia remarked, somewhat overwhelmed by the torrent of words and intent only on making her escape.

  “Oh, he come in some time ago!” was the unexpected answer. “I see him coming into the house before me when I was carrying Polly back to the kitchen, and while I was hanging her up and making her as comfortable as I could he was talking to Miss Sybil in the hall. Pretty cross he was too, though I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I knowed by his tone. He is a gentleman with a temper, he is, as I make no doubt my lady has found out to her cost. Begging pardon, though, miss, for alluding to it before you!”

  Cynthia hardly heard the last sentence, so absorbed was she by the information thus unexpectedly imparted.

  “Miss Sybil told me when she came back that she could not get into Lady Hannah’s room, because Mr Gillman had gone out with the key in his pocket.”

  “Mr Gillman was in the hall a-talking to her when I hung Polly’s cage up,” Mrs Knowles affirmed doggedly. “I couldn’t be mistook in his voice, miss, I have heard too much of it. Besides, I see him myself, with my own eyes, a-walking in before me. Miss Sybil must have forgot. She is a rare feather-headed one, she is!” she finished, her tone appearing to indicate that she considered the last-named quality as highly praiseworthy.

  Cynthia’s face looked puzzled and absorbed, and she did not reply for a minute or two. Mrs Knowles watched her expectantly. At length the girl’s decision was taken; at all hazards she must consult Farquhar—must ask his advice.

  “Could you take a note for me or get one sent, Mrs Knowles?”

  Mrs Knowles looked round consideringly.

  “I might send Tommy, miss, after I have given him his tea, if it isn’t too far. It is no good me saying I will go myself, for I find the walk up here moils me to death, but if Tommy would do he could go and welcome.”

  “It is to Mrs Smithson’s on the moor over there.” Cynthia pointed vaguely in the direction. “Do you know the house? She has not been there long.”

  Mrs Knowles nodded.

  “I know, miss. That will be all right!” she said reassuringly.

  Cynthia tore a leaf from the little chatelaine hanging by her side and scribbled a few words in French upon it.

  “Give that to the gentleman at Mrs Smithson’s, please!” she said, handing it to the woman. “And that”—dropping a shilling into her hand—“is for Tommy.”

  “Which wasn’t necessary, though thank you kindly for it. I’ll see he takes the note, miss!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WAS an almost oppressively hot morning, yet here in the pine-wood, beneath the shadow of the great branches, it was cool and pleasant; the sun filtered down through the leaves and chequered the paths covered deeply with withered pine-needles. To Donald Farquhar, as he waited, leaning against a tall straight fir-trunk, whence he could catch a glimpse of Greylands’ gate, the morning seemed endlessly long.

  For three-quarters of an hour he had waited there, hoping every moment to see a slender figure emerge from the dark belt of trees, but so far without success. He took out his watch and looked at it dolefully; he would stay a quarter of an hour longer, he decided, and if Cynthia had not come by then he would give it up for this morning, at any rate.

  As he put the watch back, however, the gate opened and Cynthia came quickly across the pine- wood. Farquhar threw aside his cigar and went forward to meet her.

  “I am so sorry to be late!” she began breathlessly, as she laid her hand in his. “What must you think of me? After asking you to come punctually at eleven o’clock too! I thought I should never get away—Sybil was so tiresome wanting to show me all sorts of things. I did not want her to guess why”—with a slight flush—“I mean I wished to consult you about—without anyone knowing at Greylands,” she added, her face becoming serious.

  Farquhar held her ungloved hand in his a moment longer than was really necessary.

  “Anything I can do for you, my dear cousin?”

  Cynthia’s eyes drooped.

  “You are very good; it is about Cousin Hannah.”

  Instantly Farquhar’s expression became more alert.

  “About Aunt Hannah? Has she expressed any wish to see me?”

  “No, I have hardly seen her lately.” Cynthia hesitated. She fancied that Sir Donald might help to solve the new perplexity of hers, but now, face to face with him, the various notions that had crowded into her brain in the past few hours seemed too fantastic, too unreal, to be imparted even to him, so she temporized.

  “Would you think Cousin Hannah a person to do any very extraordinary things? To make up her mind to deceive people; in fact, to—to make them do what she wants?”

  Farquhar looked slightly puzzled.

  “She is distinctly fond of her own way. In the old days she generally said what she wanted and got it. Except with me on one occasion; but I dare say things are different now. Poor old Aunt Hannah!”

  Cynthia looked troubled; her eyes watched the young man’s questioning face wistfully.

  “I can’t understand it at all. But—but,” with obvious hesitation, “I cannot help thinking—I have very good reasons for thinking—that Cousin Hannah is by no means so ill or so helpless as we have been told. That, however, does not explain everything.”

  Farquhar’s face was very grave; his sombre eyes were fixed on the girl’s face.

  “Will you tell me exactly what you mean?” he said gently.

  They had turned and were walking along the path that led right through the wood. The blue bells were all over now, their leaves were turning yellow and drooping disconsolately, while everywhere the tall bracken fronds were springing. A fallen tree-trunk lay where it had been blown down. Farquhar paused.

  “Will you sit here for a few minutes and let us think things out?”

  Cynthia poked her sunshade into the dry moss at the side of the path as she seated herself.

  “It is very puzzling,” she said, and sighed. “Why should Cousin Hannah want people to think she is helpless when she is not?”

  “I cannot believe for one moment that she would—unless Gillman is compelling her to do so for his own ends,” Farquhar said thoughtfully.

  Cynthia shook her head.

  “I cannot think that it is that. She talks of her helpl
essness when I am alone with her; it seems impossible to ascribe it all to Gillman’s influence, and it is as difficult to understand as the resentment she expresses towards you after that letter.”

  “Ah!” Sir Donald drew his brows together, “that is a constant perplexity to me. How I blame myself now for having taken her at her word, for going away! But for that she never would have married that man and—”

  Cynthia’s eyes were full of sympathy.

  “It is very sad for you,” she said softly. “You were very fond of her?”

  He looked away across the wood, through the endless vista of tree-trunks.

  “She was the only mother I have ever known,” he responded simply. “Do you wonder that I cannot bear to think of her ill and alone, in that man’s power? That it was impossible to yield to her wishes I see now as plainly as I did then, but I might have been gentler—I might have waited until her anger had passed.”

  There was a minute’s silence; Cynthia was mechanically tracing a pattern with the point of her sunshade among the fallen pine-needles. At last she spoke:

  “It is always easy to see afterwards how much better we might have done. I am sure from her letter Cousin Hannah saw that she had been to blame as much as or more than you.”

  There was another long silence; then Sir Donald glanced at the girl’s averted face.

  “I have sometimes wondered whether I might tell you—whether you would care to know how it all came about.”

  Cynthia’s colour deepened a little, and her eyes, as for one brief moment she raised them to his, looked clear and steadfast.

  “I shall be very glad to hear if you care to tell me.”

  “I was an idiot!” Sir Donald began, with hearty self-contempt, absently striking out at an unoffending head of bracken with his cane. “In the first place it was the usual story. I was not the first fool to be caught by a pretty face with little else to recommend it, but my aunt could not forgive it.” He waited a moment.

  Cynthia felt suddenly chilled; surely it was colder than she had imagined, she said to herself with a slight shiver. Here, under the trees, where the sun could not penetrate, it was gloomy, damp almost.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “So that was it—was why you quarrelled, was it?”

  Sir Donald was not looking at her now; she glanced at the firm lines of his mouth, at his lean, dark cheek.

  “That was it, partly,” he agreed. “And then she wished to arrange my life for me. I do not know whether you have ever heard of the Denshams—Herbert Densham was Aunt Hannah’s cousin on the mother’s side.”

  Cynthia started.

  “Yes, I—I think I have heard of them,” she murmured faintly.

  “Then you know that Aunt Hannah was engaged to Herbert Densham at one time?” Farquhar proceeded. “Something came between them, I do not know what, though I fancy Aunt Hannah always blamed herself. It was all broken off, and Densham married some one else. He died years ago, leaving a widow and a daughter. I wonder whether you remember my telling you that I disliked the name of Cynthia?”

  “Yes, I remember.” Cynthia’s voice was very low.

  “Well, this girl’s—Herbert Densham’s daughter—name was Cynthia. My aunt told me that it had long been a scheme of hers that I should marry her—Cynthia Densham. She told me that she was going to invite the girl to pay her a long visit, and ordered me to prepare myself to enter into an engagement with her.”

  Cynthia sprang to her feet, with an inarticulate sound of indignation.

  “She could not—she never dared!” she cried, her cheeks flushing.

  Sir Donald looked at her in some surprise.

  “You are very good to bestow your sympathy upon me, Cynthia,” he said softly. “It seemed to me too an outrageous thing that she should try to settle my life for me after this fashion. I was younger and hot-headed, and I told her so. She could never stand contradiction, and she threatened me with disinheritance unless I obeyed her. I retorted, telling her to do exactly as she pleased with her money, but that I intended to choose my wife for myself, and that nothing should induce me to contemplate marrying Cynthia Densham.”

  “I should think not!” gasped Cynthia, stammering in her indignation. “She—I am sure she—”

  “Oh, she was furious!” Sir Donald went on, supposing the pronoun to refer to his aunt. “She said many very bitter things to me, and I resented them; matters went from bad to worse until she ordered me out of the house, and the situation seemed irremediable. The rest you have heard. I have wondered sometimes of late whether now that she knows how her protégée has turned out she is glad that I thwarted her scheme?”

  Cynthia’s wrath threatened to suffocate her during this speech, but her unqualified amazement at the last speech gave her breath.

  “Turned out!” her eyes flashing. “Turned out! I do not understand you!”

  “Oh, I see you have not heard all the story!” Sir Donald went on, with a smile: “well, directly after her mother’s death, this girl, who was quite young, remember, became engaged to Lord Letchingham, a man old enough to be her grandfather, of whose reputation the less said the better. Only a short time ago they were married, but already, my Lady Letchingham, having got all she wanted in the shape of the title and the assured position, is declining to live with her husband or take up her responsibilities as his wife. I am sorry for poor old Letchingham. I am told that the whole thing has aged him terribly.”

  Some of Cynthia’s colour ebbed as he finished.

  “Lady Letchingham—you do not know—you do not think of her!” she said.

  Farquhar laughed and said: “I must confess that I do not regard her as worth talking about, but do not let us talk of her again. I hate to hear her name on your lips. I hate to hear you defending her when I know that you cannot—that it is not possible that you should understand what she has done. Now you know why I told you I disliked the name of Cynthia, and why I was sorry you bore it. It was hitherto associated with Lady Letchingham, the woman whom I most utterly despise; but now and for the future pleasanter memories are linked with it. For your sake, little cousin”—his voice sinking to a caressing whisper—“I shall learn to love the name.”

  Cynthia put her hand to her throat; every pulse was thrilling with indignation, but underlying her anger she was conscious of a strange new gladness, a feeling that she could not analyse, of which she in no sense realized the meaning. She turned away and Sir Donald hurried after her. As he glanced at her drooping face, flushing and paling by turns, at her trembling lips, he told himself that he had been too precipitate, that he must wait, he must not frighten her, the shy, sweet girl whom he had learnt to love so dearly during these few short weeks of their acquaintanceship.

  “Well,” he said quietly, “after all it is I who have been bothering you with my affairs all this time. I have never given you an opportunity of telling me why you have reason to think that my aunt is not so helpless as she appears.”

  With an effort Cynthia collected her scattered thoughts.

  “I was trying to catch the parrot,” she began incoherently, “it had got on the coach-house roof, and when I went there after it I had a view of Cousin Hannah’s room. I could see her bed plainly—and it was empty—she was not in the room at all.”

  “The bed was empty!” Farquhar repeated amazedly. “Where was she? I do not understand!”

  “I do not know where she was—I could not see her at all,” Cynthia replied, a little catch in her voice, notwithstanding her efforts to control it. “As far as I could ascertain she was not in the room; I could see all over it except a sort of alcove near the window. If—if she was in the room she must have been there. The—the door was locked, Sybil said; she tried to get in.”

  Farquhar looked entirely bewildered.

  “If she can walk in and out of her room, lock and unlock her door, her illness must be the veriest sham,” he remarked.

  Cynthia sighed. With all her resolution she fought against the shock of Farquhar
’s extraordinary story and his opinion of her conduct, and strove instead to turn her thoughts to the enigma that had baffled them so long.

  “Yes, I know that,” she assented. “We got up there afterwards, Sybil and I, in a few minutes, and the bed was not empty then.”

  Sir Donald looked a little puzzled.

  “What, she had returned?”

  Cynthia hesitated; a contraction in her throat threatened to strangle her words. Again that terrible feeling of something evil came over her; she shrank, half frightened at the sound of her own voice.

  “Somebody was there,” she said, in a low, hoarse whisper, “but—it was this that I wanted to tell you this morning, this was why I sent to ask you to meet me—and now I am almost afraid to say it—afraid that you will only laugh at me—that you will—”

  Farquhar watched her agitation in manifest bewilderment.

  “I do not think that you need fear I shall do anything but listen with the utmost attention to anything you may have to say to me,” he said gravely. “Will you not trust me, Cynthia?”

  “Yes, yes! I will—I do!” the girl said confusedly, twisting her fingers together nervously. “Only this seems so improbable that you might well ridicule the idea. I”—drawing nearer to him and lowering her voice—“do not believe that the figure in the bed was Cousin Hannah at all.”

  “What!” Farquhar’s accent was expressive of the utmost amazement.

  “Yes, yes!” Cynthia went on, with feverish haste. “I—I am sure I am right, Sir Donald. It was not Cousin Hannah; it was some one masquerading in her place; I am quite certain because—do you remember asking me—”

  “Cynthia! Cynthia!”

  It was Sybil’s voice; and with a guilty start Cynthia sprang away from her companion. Absorbed in their conversation neither of them had heard the other girl’s approach. Sir Donald raised his hat gravely.

  “Oh, Cynthia,” she began breathlessly, “we have been looking for you everywhere. Cousin Hannah wants to see you, and she was so cross when you could not be found. Cousin Henry sent me all over the place, but I could not discover a trace of you until at last Mrs Knowles said a man who was getting up some peat on the moor told her that he had seen a young lady in the pine-wood. Then I came after you as quick as I could and here I am!”