The Secret of Greylands

by Annie Haynes

  “I see you are!” Cynthia’s tone was distinctly annoyed, and her face did not relax as she met the other’s smile. “I will follow you very shortly, Sybil.”

  “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry to seem so importunate, but really that will not do at all!” Sybil declared, linking her arm through Cynthia’s. “I dare not go back without you. Cousin Hannah was making such a fuss, and you know they said she was not to be excited.”

  Cynthia saw that all opportunity of asking her cousin’s advice privately was gone, so she resigned herself to the inevitable with as good a grace as possible, and held out her hand to Sir Donald.

  “Good morning, Mr Heriot!”

  He had turned to accompany them, but her glance forbade it and he bowed gravely and stood back reluctantly. As soon as he was out of earshot Sybil gave a gleeful little skip.

  “So I have caught you, Miss Sobersides? Now I know what all these country walks mean! Well, he is not bad looking!”

  Cynthia disengaged herself coldly.

  “You are talking nonsense, Sybil. Mr Heriot did me a great service once, and naturally I speak to him when we meet.”

  Sybil laughed mischievously.

  “So you go out to meet him sometimes, do you? It is all right, Cynthia; you need not blush and I will not tell Cousin Hannah. If there were any question of a mésalliance she might be angry; but in your case—”

  Cynthia stopped short; several times it had struck her that Sybil had guessed her identity, yet Gillman was apparently unaware of it. She could not imagine how the girl had discovered her secret unless Lady Hannah—

  “What do you mean, Sybil?” she asked sharply, “it seems to me it—you are fond of hinting.”

  “Hinting—I?” Sybil shook her mop of fair hair back from her eyes. She looked up innocently at Cynthia from beneath the shade of her sun-bonnet, which she affected sometimes as the proper thing for the country. “What do you mean?” she asked demurely. “I can’t understand.”

  Cynthia kept her eyes fixed on the dainty, piquant face, on the blue eyes that met hers without the suspicion of arrière-pensée.

  “You said that Cousin Hannah would object if there were any question of mésalliance, but in my case—”

  “You would have more sense, certainly!” Sybil finished gaily. “You might have known that. Do make haste, Cynthia! Cousin Hannah was fidgeting so when I came away, fearing that some harm had happened to you.”

  Cynthia quickened her steps, but she drew distinctly away from the other girl, and Sybil, hunching up her shoulders in displeasure, kept to her own side of the path.

  They hurried to the house. Cynthia would have gone straight to the stairs, but as she opened the door into the hall Gillman appeared, looking worried and anxious.

  “Be as quiet as possible, please,” he said curtly. “Your cousin has just fallen asleep.”

  “I thought she wanted me,” Cynthia said blankly.

  “She did,” Gillman said in displeased accents, “and she worked herself up into such a state of excitement when you could not be found that I was quite alarmed. But when I saw you coming out of the pine-wood, and could set her mind at rest, she quieted down at once, and now, as I tell you, she has just dropped off to sleep. It will do her more good than anything, and I am most anxious that she should not be disturbed.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “MAY I sit with Cousin Hannah this morning, Mr Gillman? It is so long since I saw her.”

  Cynthia’s tone was very wistful. Gillman looked at her searchingly as he closed and locked the door of his wife’s room.

  “Not just now, later in the day perhaps. She is just dropping off to sleep, and after her bad night I am anxious that she should not be disturbed.”

  Cynthia went on to her room quickly and Gillman turned downstairs. Cynthia took a volume of Carlyle and sat down by her open window; but to-day she found it impossible to keep her attention fixed upon the intricate sentences. Her thoughts would turn to her own affairs; her encounter with her husband, as well as Lady Duxworth’s visit the preceding week, had complicated matters by convincing her that the security which had been the charm of Greylands in her eyes was exceedingly precarious, and might come to an end any day.

  She had already written to Messrs Bolt & Barsly, asking them to help her obtain a situation, but their reply had been ambiguous in the extreme, and so far nothing of a satisfactory nature had been concluded. The idea of applying for the post of English governess in a foreign school had occurred to her, but she was nearly without money for the journey or for the necessary advertisements and she had at last unwillingly determined to beg Lady Hannah to make her a small loan which should be returned at the earliest moment possible. But for the last few days she had not been able to see her cousin, and her scheme was therefore in abeyance.

  Very soon she was obliged to give up the idea of reading and the book dropped from her lap. Lying back in her chair, her eyes wandering to the tall pines outside, to the tiny white flake-like clouds that were floating slowly across the deep blue of the sky, she gave herself up to a fruitless speculation as to her future which, so far as she could see, was daily becoming gloomier.

  The sound of voices on the lawn outside broke across her meditations. She heard Sybil’s laugh—a trifle shrill to-day, she fancied—then a man’s voice, assuredly not Gillman’s. Beneath the window they apparently paused and to Cynthia’s amazement she recognized Lord Arthur St Clare’s drawling, languid tones, quickened though they were to-day by a certain interest.

  “I was positive that I had made no mistake, don’t you know? But I cannot conceive how you managed it. However, where there’s a will there’s a way, I suppose.”

  Sybil’s laugh sounded a little forced, Cynthia fancied.

  “Oh, it was not difficult! My people were in Australia, you know. You have promised to respect my secret, however. You will not tell Cousin Henry or Cynthia?”

  “You may trust me to the death!” Lord Arthur responded fervently. “If—if there is one quality I respect more than another it is pluck, Miss Sybil.’’

  Becoming aware that she was listening to what was certainly not intended for her ears to hear, Cynthia rose and shut the window. The voices outside dropped to a whisper, but in another minute she heard Gillman come round the house and join them, and presently Sybil ran upstairs and tapped at the door.

  “Cynthia, Lord Arthur St Clare is here; do come down!”

  “I do not want to see him,” Cynthia said, and looked at the girl, wandering what could possibly be the secret between her and Lord Arthur.

  This afternoon Sybil was looking prettier even than her wont; she was wearing a white dress that threw into strong relief the vivid fairness of her complexion, her golden hair and wonderful blue eyes.

  Cynthia glanced at her admiringly.

  “I like the way you have done your hair, Sybil. You do look sweet! I am sure Lord Arthur won’t miss me; he will have eyes for no one but you. What is this?” bending forward to look at something that was sparkling among the lace at the girl’s throat.

  “Oh, my pendant! Is it not pretty?” Sybil held it out, still attached to its thin gold chain.

  Cynthia took it in her hand and looked at it curiously. It was a Maltese cross of finest filigree work, with five magnificent emeralds encircled by brilliants.

  “It is perfectly charming!” she said admiringly. “Where did you get it, Sybil? Is it a family possession?”

  “Yes, it belonged to—” Sybil began.

  Mrs Knowles was puffing outside with a tray of clean linen on her extended arms.

  “By your leave, young ladies!”

  As the girls stood aside the charwoman’s inquisitive eyes glanced at the bright object in Cynthia’s hand; then her expression changed, and she stopped short.

  “La! You do not mean to say that my lady has given you that there, Miss Sybil? I couldn’t ha’ believed that she would ever have parted with it. Many a time I have seen her wearing it, and she has told me s
he valued it more than anything else in the world. It was given her years ago by one she loved, she told me once, and she should treasure it as long as she lived for his sake, and when she died it was going back to his family. Well, well! I have been saying it ever since you come, Miss Sybil, that the way my lady has took to you has been something wonderful, and now to think of this! I wouldn’t ha’ believed it unless I had seen it with my own eyes!”

  Sybil shrugged her shoulders and snatched the emerald pendant from Cynthia’s hand with a quick, jerky movement.

  “Don’t be so stupid, Mrs Knowles!” she said pettishly. “I never said my cousin had given it to me. Your tongue runs too fast sometimes. I took a fancy to this and Cousin Hannah is letting me wear it.”

  Mrs Knowles paused in the doorway of the next room.

  “So does other folks’ tongues run on a great deal faster than they need sometimes,” she said resentfully. “I am not the only person who talks, as you may find out some day, Miss Sybil. As for lending you that there—it was my belief that my lady’s mind must ha’ been weakened by her illness afore ever she did that, knowing the store she set on it, and as how she told me after her death it was to go to the gentleman’s family, and their name began with a D, I am very certain.”

  Then Mrs Knowles disappeared into the room with all the dignity she could assume.

  Sybil made a wry face.

  “Stupid old thing! As if Cousin Hannah could not lend her pendant to anybody she pleased! I love emeralds!”

  She ran down the stairs apparently forgetting her anxiety that Cynthia should accompany her.

  Only too glad to have escaped the interview with Lord Arthur, Cynthia went back to her room; then, as she heard Sybil close the drawing-room door, a new thought occurred to her. She was, above all things, anxious to consult her cousin, and since her conversation in the pine-wood had been interrupted by Sybil she had had no further chance of taking him into her confidence. Sybil had developed a great fancy for walking. Cynthia had lately found it impossible to get out without her, and though on several occasions they had encountered Sir Donald, their intercourse had, of necessity, been restricted to the merest commonplace.

  It struck her that to-day, while Sybil and Gillman were both occupied with Lord Arthur, she had an admirable opportunity of getting out of the house unseen, and, if possible, making her way to the cottage.

  She caught up her hat and pinned it hastily on her loosened hair; then, scarcely giving herself time to think, she ran down the stairs and out of the back door.

  There was a slight breeze; the air was distinctly cooler than it had been during the last few weeks; but to Cynthia, hurrying along, it felt almost hot and close. Every now and then she looked behind, fully expecting to see Sybil trying to catch her up; but there was no one in sight and at length she reached the cottage.

  As she went up the garden path Farquhar came to the porch. He looked surprised as he hastened to meet her.

  “Cynthia, what is it? Is there anything the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing fresh,” the girl said as she gave him her hand. “It was only that to-day I was able to get away alone, and I wanted to tell you what I had noticed in Cousin Hannah’s room that day.”

  Farquhar led the way into the little sitting-room.

  “I am most anxious to hear,” he said gravely, “but you must first rest, you look tired.”

  “I have been hurrying,” Cynthia said feverishly, as with a pleasant sense of relief she dropped into a chair that he wheeled forward. “I was afraid that Sybil would overtake me. Sometimes of late I have fancied they have guessed who you are, that they want to prevent my telling you anything that may help you.”

  Farquhar took the low chair next hers.

  “Yet if matters are as they say—if my aunt is absolutely decided in her refusal to see me—why should they fear me?”

  “I do not know; it is inexplicable.” Cynthia’s tone was puzzled and distressed.

  Farquhar drew his chair a little nearer hers, and his gaze rested on the girl’s face with a look of protecting tenderness.

  “I do not like you being there in that house, Cynthia,” he said. “Yet how can I urge you to come away, knowing that without you my poor old aunt would be left alone, helpless in that man’s hands, since Sybil seems to be entirely under his influence?”

  Cynthia stirred restlessly beneath his gaze, her colour deepened, she bit her lip in embarrassment.

  “I do not know that I am much good to her. Really, I very seldom see her, and it is only Sybil that she seems to care for. But you know that I wanted to tell you”—she lowered her voice and looked round anxiously as if afraid of being overheard—“I mean why I was so puzzled and frightened when I looked through Cousin Hannah’s window the second time—I was going to tell you when Sybil interrupted us that morning. There—there was somebody in the bed I told you, but—but do you remember asking me about her hands?”

  This apparently sudden transition amazed Farquhar.

  “Certainly I do! But what—”

  “When I first saw the figure in the bed,” Cynthia went on quickly, “I did not think that I had made a mistake before. I felt sure my cousin was not in the bed then, but I did imagine that she had got back to bed. Now—now I do not know what to believe, for as I was looking in I saw that one hand was lying on the counterpane, and this hand, instead of being small and white like Cousin Hannah’s, was big—at least twice as big as hers, and brown like that of a person who had been much in the open air. I cannot understand it!” She gazed at Farquhar with, troubled eyes.

  He looked puzzled and disturbed.

  “It is very strange,” he said. “Possibly some stoppage of the circulation might account for it. In cases of arrested circulation the hands are often swollen and discoloured.”

  Cynthia looked unconvinced.

  “No, I am sure it was not that!” she declared positively. “I was afraid that you would not believe me; but it was not Cousin Hannah’s hand at all—I am certain of it! It was entirely different in every way.”

  Farquhar did not answer immediately. His eyes looked grave and hesitative. Quite evidently his mind was busy with his new problem.

  “How can you account for it, then?” he questioned.

  “I can’t pretend to explain it at all,” Cynthia confessed in a troubled tone. “I can only tell you what I saw. I thought, perhaps, you could help me to an explanation.”

  “The one I have just put forward seems to me the only feasible solution,” Farquhar remarked. “Even if you suppose my aunt capable of playing a trick and having a substitute in her place—a hypothesis which I must confess, with my knowledge of her, appears well-nigh impossible—who could she get to undertake such a part?”

  “I don’t know!” Cynthia hesitated, her colour fading a little. “It has occurred to me that some one else—some one I have never seen—is concealed in the house,” she said nervously. “Mrs Knowles once told me that she had seen somebody, an old lady, walking in the passage. Do you think that Cousin Hannah has some one else in the house and changes places with her sometimes? I feel frightened when I think of it.”

  She moved a little nearer Farquhar with the involuntarily confiding gesture of a child who fears she knows not what.

  Farquhar’s face was very grave.

  “This is getting too much for you. The whole atmosphere of Greylands is bad for you and is getting on your nerves. Ah, Cynthia, I cannot bear to leave you there! Will you let me take you away?”

  There was a touch of passion in his voice as he laid his hand protectingly over hers.

  Cynthia raised her face with an expression of blank surprise.

  “You are very kind,” she began, “but—”

  Then, as she met his gaze, suddenly comprehension came to her. The hot blood swiftly flooded face and neck and temples, her eyelashes drooped, and with a quick, shamed gesture she snatched her hand away and covered her face.

  Farquhar bent over her, a gleam of passi
on in his eyes, a new caressing note in his voice.

  “Have I frightened you, Cynthia? Did you not know that I have grown to care for you very dearly? That—”

  “Ah! No, no!” With a sob that held a note of irrepressible pain Cynthia interrupted him. “I never knew—I never thought of such a thing. How should I? You must not—indeed, you must not!”

  A touch of red burned on Farquhar’s forehead at the sight of the girl’s distress, of her evident shrinking from him. He drew himself upright.

  “I am afraid it is too late for that, Cynthia. I cannot help loving you. Your soft brown eyes, your little tender, adorable ways, have stolen into my heart. I cannot tear them out—I would not if I could. But if my love means nothing to you, Cynthia, if it only troubles you, I will say no more. Only it seems to me that a love like mine must meet with some return. I will be very patient, Cynthia, if you will give me just one ray of hope.”

  In the light of his words, as by a lightning flash, the secret of her own heart was revealed to Cynthia. She realized the meaning of the vague, indefinable content that Farquhar’s presence had always brought her, and she shrank appalled from the knowledge of what it meant. With a moan of irrepressible anguish she cried:

  “No, no! It is no use—you must not!”

  All the passion, all the fire had died out of Farquhar’s face and in its stead there shone an infinite tenderness, an added gravity.

  “Is that so? I think I understand. There is some one else—some one worthy of you.”

  “Ah, no! It is not that. There is no one else! There never will be—but—”

  At something in her tone hope sprang once more to Farquhar’s breast, a new glad light leapt into his eyes.

  “If there is no one else, you cannot forbid me to hope, Cynthia,” he said steadily. “Ah, do not shrink from me, dear!” the light in his face turning to triumph as he saw how her eyes refused to meet his. “I have been too sudden. I have startled you, my sweet! But you will let me teach you to care for me?” Then, as the girl shook her head, he bent over her again and captured the fluttering hands in his and stood up, drawing her with him. “Don’t play with me, Cynthia! If you will look me in the face, if you will say, ‘I do not love you, Donald,’ I will go away and never trouble you again.”