The Secret of Greylands

by Annie Haynes

  For a moment Cynthia waited, silent, motionless, striving with all her might to brace up her resolution, to resist the gladness that thrilled through every pulse in her body at the touch of his hands, at the sense of his nearness. Then, with one last supreme effort, she raised her eyes.

  “I do not love—” she began; then, as she met his look, the words faltered and died on her lips. Again the swift hot colour flamed in her cheeks and her eyes veiled themselves in their long lashes.

  Farquhar’s arms closed round her, and he drew her head to his shoulder.

  “Ah, you couldn’t, Cynthia!” he whispered, his lips touching the strands of her loosened hair. “Sweetheart, your eyes told me the truth. Now it is a different lesson you must bring your lips to repeat. Say ‘I love you, Donald.’”

  For one brief second Cynthia had not attempted to resist the pressure of his arms. She had rested against him quiescent, her breath mingled with his, the touch of her soft hair had been upon his cheek, but now she broke from him, and, putting out her hands, she pushed him away.

  “Oh, what does it matter?” she cried miserably. “What does it matter if I do, since it is no use—since you must forget me?”

  At the sight of her white stricken face, Farquhar’s arms dropped to his side.

  “Why, Cynthia? Since we love one another nothing else matters.”

  “Does it not?” the girl asked drearily. “I do not seem to be able to think clearly now, but I know—I know”—with a little sob—“that it is impossible!”

  “Why?” Farquhar asked. “Dear, tell me what this mysterious something is that stands between us!”

  Cynthia put her hand to her head.

  “I don’t seem to understand anything now—only that it is all wrong. No, no!”—shuddering from him as he would have taken her hand. “No, no! I cannot! Let me go!”

  She turned unsteadily to the door; Farquhar followed her, but she motioned him back.

  “Not now! Indeed, I must be alone, I must think!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “YES, IT was a bright thought. You are a real help. I believe it will be the very best thing!”

  “I am sure it will!” Sybil said and laughed gleefully. “Confess I do better than you; but”—her tone sobering—“I wish I knew. Do tell me!”

  “Hush, little fool!” Gillman said savagely. Cynthia caught the words as she came across the hall. Before she reached the door Sybil hurried out of the dining-room without noticing her and rushed quickly up the stairs. Gillman stood at the sideboard decanting wine; the parrot from his distant perch regarded him rakishly.

  “What are you snivelling at now?” he demanded with an air of exasperating politeness; then, changing its tone to one of deepest commiseration, “Poor Hannah! Who loves poor Hannah now?”

  With an angry sound Gillman set down his bottle and decanter, caught up a heavy cloth, and dashed it over the cage, then, with a gesture of irritation, he strode out of the room.

  Left alone Cynthia crossed to the window. In the morning sunlight her complexion looked pale and wan. There were dark purple shadows beneath her eyes; her hair, instead of being arranged in its usual artistic disorder, was drawn back carelessly into an untidy, unbecoming knot at the back of her head. Her face and attitude alike were expressive of the deepest dejection. She had spent the long sleepless hours of the preceding night tossing about from side to side of her great bed, but, review the situation as she would, she had found little enough to cheer her.

  Undesirable enough as it had seemed before Farquhar’s declaration, the discovery of her own feelings towards him had rendered it impossible. For Farquhar’s sake, as well as her own, she saw that her departure from Greylands must take place at once.

  Resolving not to delay it by a single day, she caught up an old time-table that lay on the desk.

  Gillman’s voice called her away.

  “Cynthia! Cynthia! My wife is asking for you.”

  With a momentary feeling of annoyance the girl went upstairs.

  Gillman stood at the door of his wife’s room. Lady Hannah lay far back in the shadow of the curtains, the big lace frill of her nightcap as elaborately goffered as usual, but her face looked smaller and more pinched, Cynthia fancied, and her lips were twitching nervously.

  Cynthia went up to the bed, and stooped as if to kiss her cousin, but the invalid spoke sharply.

  “No, no! Do not touch me—keep away!”

  Thus repulsed, Cynthia drew back quickly.

  “You wanted me, Cousin Hannah?”

  “Did I?” the invalid said fretfully. “Oh yes”—as if recalling it with an effort—“I want you to write a letter for me. Sybil is busy and, besides, your letters are more legible. Hers are the veriest scrawls. Look on that table beside you; you will see a little epistle from Félicité Duxworth.”

  “From Lady Duxworth?” Cynthia picked it up. “Oh, yes, you want me to answer it, Cousin Hannah? Shall I tell her you are better?”

  “Yes! No! I don’t know what to say,” Lady Hannah said uncertainly. “I feel just the same, but my husband assures me that I am better, and there is no doubt that I can move my leg a little.”

  “Enough to get out of bed?” Cynthia inquired impulsively.

  The blue spectacles were moved sharply in her direction, and Lady Hannah sighed deeply.

  “Ah, no! That is out of the question. Sometimes I doubt”—the low hoarse tones seemed to catch and rattle in her throat—“whether I shall ever walk again, but still an improvement is something. You will find paper and ink on the desk, child.”

  Cynthia looked where she indicated, and finding a blotting-book and all the necessaries, sat down to the table. Her cousin had just begun to dictate the letter when the door opened.

  “You—you did not lock it!” Lady Hannah gasped. “I told you, Cynthia, that I would not be left without the—”

  “I am sorry,” Cynthia said penitently, “but it is only Mr Gillman, see!”

  “I am sorry to interrupt!” Gillman began genially. “What is it, Hannah? Door unlocked? Oh, well, there is no harm done, and I will fasten it after Cynthia has gone! I am sorry to disturb you, Cynthia, but you are wanted downstairs. A gentleman! Ah,” smiling mischievously as the girl’s colour rose, “I think you know whom I mean? You should have told me you expected a caller when I asked you to come up here. I should never—”

  “I did not expect anybody,” Cynthia broke in desperately, her thoughts flying to Lord Letchingham. Was it possible that he had discovered her retreat?

  “Will you please tell me who it is, Mr Gillman?” she asked.

  Gillman looked at her a minute, as if enjoying the spectacle of her distress and confusion; then his face relented.

  “Don’t frighten yourself, child; it is not an ogre. It is that young man from the cottage on the moor—Heriot, isn’t his name?”

  Cynthia rose to her feet with a short, unsteady laugh as the guilty colour flamed in her face.

  “I—I do not want to see him!” she said confusedly.

  “I am afraid you must. I told him you were at home and that I would fetch you. Naturally I did not dream that you would raise any objection.”

  There was a hard look in Gillman’s eyes as he glanced across at his wife.

  “Really, Cynthia,” she inquired fretfully, “why should you mind? After all, I don’t think I shall write to Félicité Duxworth to-day. She has taken no notice of me for years, and I do not know why I should concern myself with her now. Besides, I am tired. You worry me, Cynthia—I like Sybil best!”

  Cynthia’s lip quivered as she turned to the door; it seemed hopeless to try to win to her cousin’s affections, she thought. Such love as she had to give was evidently bestowed upon her husband and in a lesser degree upon Sybil. Cynthia was daily made to feel that she was only an interloper.

  “Very well, Cousin Hannah,” she said in a subdued voice. “I—I am sorry I have bothered you.” She went down the stairs slowly and paused outside the dining-r
oom door. What could Farquhar possibly want with her, she wondered. Was it merely to prosecute the suit he had urged upon her the preceding day, or had he made some fresh discovery that would help to elucidate the mystery in which the relations between Lady Hannah and her husband were involved? Telling herself that it was no use to wait outside when a moment’s interview would probably set all speculations at rest, she turned the handle of the lock.

  Farquhar was standing near the fire-place; the clear, merciless light from the window fell full upon his face, and it was curiously white beneath its tan. There were new, hard lines around the mouth, and the eyes were stern and grave. In his hand he held an open letter. As Cynthia came slowly into the room he held it out to her.

  “Is this true?” he demanded, his voice sounding harsh and strained. “It—it—tell me it is a vile lie, Cynthia! You are not—you cannot be—”

  The girl made no attempt to take the letter from his hand. She drew back and regarded it with wide- open, dilated eyes.

  “What does it say?” she asked.

  Farquhar’s eyes were fixed upon her face.

  “It says that you are not Cynthia Hammond—not the girl I have loved. It says that it has pleased Lady Letchingham to come down here, to masquerade as an innocent country girl—to make us think—”

  “Ah, stop!” Cynthia stretched out her hand imploringly. “Indeed, it was not like that! Let me tell you—let me explain!”

  A quiver passed over Farquhar’s face; his eyes did not relax their merciless scrutiny of the girl’s shamed, miserable face.

  “I do not think I care for explanations, thank you! This thing is true!”

  Cynthia slowly bent her head and said:

  “I am Lord Letchingham’s wife, but, Donald, I—”

  Farquhar drew a long breath. There was a moment’s tense silence; then he spoke slowly and deliberately:

  “That is over, then! I congratulate you on your histrionic powers, Lady Letchingham. At any rate, in the future I shall have the pleasure of knowing that I must have contributed in no small degree to your amusement. I feel sure,” sarcastically, “that it must have prevented your stay here from being in any way dull.”

  “No, no!” Cynthia caught at the table for support. “You know it was not that. I never thought—I did not understand—until yesterday!”

  Farquhar laughed harshly.

  “I can understand that I upset your calculations. It must have been most inconvenient. I can only plead as my excuse that I had not the smallest, the faintest idea of the farce that was being played.”

  Every word went through Cynthia’s heart like a sword-thrust; but, though she shrank and quivered beneath them, with a supreme effort she rallied her courage. At all hazards she must make him understand. Moving timidly nearer, she looked at him, at the wrathful eyes in which there lay no faintest hint of softening, at the dark, rugged features that had grown dearer than she knew until his words had rent the veil from her eyes. A sob rose in her throat.

  “You must hear!” she said feverishly. “Yes”—as he made a gesture of refusal—“you shall hear. I insist upon it! I—I did not know what I was doing. I had not the slightest idea to what I was pledging myself when I promised to marry Lord Letchingham—”

  “That is so easy to say, is it not?” Farquhar interposed with an ironical bow. The anger, the sense of humiliation that had assailed him when he first read the letter of his anonymous correspondent, threatened to overwhelm him now. He was conscious of nothing but a blind, insensate desire to strike at something, to hurt some one. With a thrill of savage joy he saw how Cynthia winced after each bitter word.

  Cynthia went on hurriedly, and resolutely crushed back the fear that was driving the blood from her cheeks. When he heard all, she told herself, he would understand, he would forgive.

  “He—he had been very good to us, to my mother and me, and when he told me he loved me, when he asked me to marry him, I was glad. I thought it would be a home, a refuge, for already I had learnt how hard the world is to a penniless and friendless girl. He was very kind. Then, when it was too late, when I had bound myself for life, I found that he was not a good man. I—we had one great friend; somebody, some man, had ruined her life. When—when I married him I found that this man was Lord Letchingham—was my husband. I was frightened, terrified, too horrified to think clearly. My only idea was that I must get away from him, from this man to whom I had pledged my life. I had no one to whom I could turn for refuge; but Cousin Hannah, in a letter I had received only that day, had begged me to come to her. It seemed to me a special opening provided for me, and when I knew you were my cousin I thought there could be no harm in talking to you until yesterday. I never knew that we—that you—” Her voice died away in a long strangling sob. She fought with her tears for a minute or two; then, as he remained silent, she bravely raised her eyes. “You understand how it was now?” she said wistfully. “You will forgive?”

  Farquhar had been wounded to the quick; his pride and his affection had been alike hurt; he hardened his heart against the pretty, wistful face, against the sweet, pleading voice, and a bitter smile curved his lips.

  “I think I understand perfectly, Lady Letchingham, thank you!”

  The pain in Cynthia’s eyes deepened.

  “You will forgive me, Donald?” she faltered, with a beseeching glance, as she ventured to lay her hand on his arm.

  Farquhar started and almost flung it from him.

  “No!” he said, speaking with cutting emphasis in his wrath. “No, I will not tell that lie even to gratify you, Lady Letchingham. I do not forgive you! I shall never forgive you! I will never look upon your face again!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “OH, I must have those wild roses!” Sybil sprang up a steep bank and tried to reach some overhanging flower-laden branches.

  “Did you ever see such a delicious colour, Cynthia? In the wild ones, I mean; they are quite a deep blush pink.”

  “They are lovely!” Cynthia said absently. She did not attempt to follow Sybil, but waited listlessly below.

  Sybil managed to pull down the branch of the rose-bush with the crook of her umbrella, and was soon busy rifling it. Suddenly, as it sprang back, she uttered a cry.

  “Oh, how it has scratched my wrist! I did not think brier-roses had such sharp thorns!”

  Cynthia smiled faintly.

  “Why, certainly they have! But that is a nasty cut,” as Sybil exhibited a long, jagged wound, from which the blood was oozing rapidly. “Here, let me tie my handkerchief round it.”

  Sybil made a wry face, but she submitted to having her wrist bound up with a good grace.

  “Anyhow, the roses are worth it!” she remarked contentedly, as they went on. “It is the first time I have ever had the chance of gathering wild roses in England for many a long year, so I must pay for my pleasure.”

  Cynthia looked a little surprised.

  “How long is it since you came back from Australia?”

  “Eleven years,” Sybil replied, still eyeing her spoil proudly. “I mean”—correcting herself with a quick laugh, as Cynthia uttered an amazed exclamation—“eleven months. The roses were all over by the time we got into the country, for I stayed a while with some friends in London. I loved that too after the bush.”

  It was not often that Sybil was disposed to be so communicative about her past, and Cynthia, notwithstanding her absorption, was roused to a certain amount of interest.

  “I must have been with the Fearons in Chester Square then. Where did you stay?” she asked.

  “Oh, I do not remember! Somewhere over in the wilds of Stepney,” Sybil replied evasively. “My people were far too unimportant to live in the West End. We shall have to make haste, Cynthia, or we shall be late for luncheon, and Cousin Henry is expecting some one on business. Do you know that Cousin Hannah wants to sell Greylands? They are thinking of going South as soon as she can be moved, and she says she shall get rid of the place altogether, as she is tired of it.
”

  “I don’t wonder, but I had not heard they were going to part with Greylands yet. I should not have thought Cousin Hannah likely to be in a fit state to be moved for some time.”

  Sybil shrugged her shoulders.

  “If she makes up her mind to it she will get away somehow, by hook or by crook. I never knew anyone with a stronger will, and perhaps a change might do her good, though she would require an invalid carriage.”

  “Yes, she would,” Cynthia acquiesced, with little show of interest.

  In truth her own affairs were enough to occupy her now. The problem of how she was to gain enough to make life possible was as far as ever from being solved. The one or two advertisements to which, after much cogitation, she had ventured to reply, using Messrs Bolt & Barsly’s name as reference, had failed to meet with any response, and now she was face to face with the fact that her cousin’s departure from Greylands would make her needs far more pressing and immediate. Sometimes in the long nights the plan of applying to her husband would suggest itself, only to be rejected with horror.

  Then the remembrance of Farquhar’s dark face would recur to her, and at the recollection of his bitter anger and scorn she would bury her hot face in the pillows.

  To-day, however, as she turned up to Greylands with Sybil she was not thinking of either of the two men who had crossed her life and helped to lay it about her in ruins. Though she told herself that she had no hopes of any future happiness, that her lot must of necessity be a cheerless one, all the vigorous young life in her fought against the desperate conviction. Even in her most despairing moments she could not help feeling that some day, somewhere, light would shine upon her path once more. With this fresh knowledge, however, she could not disguise from herself that her future looked dark indeed, and she decided that no time must be lost in making the appeal to her cousin upon which she had already decided.