The Secret of Greylands (2 page)

She drew out the letter from its envelope and glanced over it once more:

Here the letter broke off abruptly and began lower down the page in a strangely different strain.

Cynthia read it over again; she felt the same thrill of amazement as when she first saw this extraordinary epistle. What could be wrong with her cousin, Lady Hannah Gillman?

At any rate, Lady Hannah lived in a country-house far away from London; she had begged Cynthia to come to her, and to the best of the girl's belief her husband had never heard of the old lady. Greylands seemed to Cynthia the only refuge to which she could go in her present sore straits.

She slipped the letter back into its envelope and opened her bag to put it away. As she did so, she caught sight of another letter folded away in the corner—a letter, the very look of which drove the blood from her cheeks and moistened her forehead with sickly fear. And yet it did not look such a terrifying affair—just a very short note, undated, with no address. It began abruptly:

If it had only reached its destination two hours earlier! But already Cynthia Densham was Lady Letchingham when she received it.

And then she had not taken it on trust. She had taxed her newly-made husband with being Alice Winthrop's betrayer. The very memory of the scene that followed was terrible and, seizing her first chance of escape, she had fled from her husband and, remembering her Cousin Hannah's letter, had determined to appeal to her for refuge. But now that the actual moment was at hand she was beginning to feel nervous, and to wonder uncertainly what kind of a reception her Cousin Hannah would give her. Quite possibly she thought, she might have changed her mind about wishing to see her; in any case, she would certainly not expect to see her now, and she asked herself for the hundredth time whether she had done wisely in coming to Greylands for refuge.

She knew but little of her Cousin Hannah, as she had been taught to call her. That Lady Hannah Gillman, the daughter of an impoverished Irish peer, was her father's cousin Cynthia knew; and she had sometimes fancied that in their youth there had been some closer and warmer tie. The girl remembered still how, when she was a child, on one of her rare visits her Cousin Hannah had been left alone with her, and she had never forgotten how she had been caught up and the passionate kisses mingled with bitter tears that had been pressed upon her cheeks.

After her father's death, however, the acquaintance had ceased; without the matter being put into so many words, Cynthia had gathered that her mother did not care for Hannah Hammond, as Lady Hannah was then. For many years, on her birthday, an expensive present had come for Cynthia from her father's cousin, with a few brief lines expressing the donor's best wishes for the occasion; that and Cynthia's letter of thanks had been the only communication between them.

Through a mutual relative, however, Mrs Densham and her daughter had heard that a large fortune had been left to Lady Hannah, and that she had virtually adopted the orphan son of her only sister, who had married a Scotch baronet and died fifteen years afterwards, predeceasing her husband, and leaving this one child, in regard to whom Lady Hannah now took his mother's place.

Then, quite casually, just before Mrs Densham's death, Cynthia had heard that there had been a quarrel, that young Sir Donald Farquhar had gone to seek his fortune ranching in British Columbia, and that Lady Hannah was left alone. She would have had no difficulty in obtaining another heir among her numerous connexions; and her relatives were still speculating as to upon whom her choice would fall when they were thunderstruck to receive the announcement of her marriage with a man considerably younger than herself, whom she had met while staying in a  
pension
at Brussels. She had not suffered any hint of her intention to get abroad until the wedding was an accomplished fact, and indignation and remonstrance were alike useless.

That such of her relatives as had met her husband since their marriage had disliked him intensely, and had barely troubled to conceal their opinion that he was a fortune-hunter, apparently worried Lady Hannah but little. She and her husband continued to live abroad for some time; then there had been rumours that they intended to take a country-house in England. But Cynthia, absorbed at first in grief for her mother's death, and later on in preparations for her wedding, had heard nothing more of them until the delayed letter which had reached her on her wedding morning.

She opened her little bag, and, taking out Lady Hannah's letter, perused it once more. The extraordinary way in which it stopped short in the middle and the blotted hurried appeal at the end, with the curious contrast between the two styles, struck her more than ever. That the marriage with Gillman had turned out a failure she was quite ready to believe; but there was a tone of fear, of helplessness, about the conclusion which seemed strangely at variance with what Cynthia had previously heard of her cousin's resolution and self-reliance. However, no fresh light was to be gained by re-reading the letter, and, with a puzzled sigh, she crammed it in her pocket just as the train began to slow down for Glastwick.

Cynthia opened the window and put her head out. The station was the veriest little shanty; it looked extremely dreary and desolate in the twilight. Though rain was not falling now, it had evidently been pouring quite recently—the eaves were dripping and pools of water were lying on the platform outside the scanty shelter.

Cynthia reached down her bag and got out. The porter, the only one apparently that the station boasted, was busied with the luggage at the farther end of the platform; her trunk, already out, stood in conspicuous loneliness.

Cynthia went up to it; she waited until the many milk-cans had been safely put in and a mountain of empties had been deposited on the platform, then she addressed the porter.

“I want to go to Greylands. Can you tell me how far it is and the best way to get there?”

The man turned a red, bucolic face and gaped at her without replying.

“Can't you tell me?” Cynthia repeated impatiently. “Greylands? Mr Gillman lives there.”

The man scratched his head.

“Can't say as ever I heard of it, miss,” he said, the broad northern burr very apparent in his speech.

Cynthia looked at him in amazement.

“This is Glastwick, is it not?”

“Ay, this is Glastwick, sure enough; but I know nowt of the other place,” the man said, beginning to move off.

“What am I to do?” Cynthia questioned, following him despairingly.

The porter eyed her stolidly.

“Mr King may have heard of it maybe,” he said, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the little booking-office.

With a feeling of relief Cynthia turned towards it quickly. Two men were standing just inside.

“Can you tell me the way to Greylands, please?” she began abruptly. As she spoke, the taller of the two men moved aside and apparently occupied himself in studying the outside of a large crate of crockery that stood near; the other, a dapper-looking, sandy-haired man, in the uniform of the company, came forward to meet her.

“Greylands, miss? You mean Mr Gillman's place, I suppose. It is a matter of six or seven miles off—over Grimston way.”

“Six or seven miles away?” Cynthia's heart sank. “So far?” she said blankly. “I had no idea of that. How can I get there? Is there a taxi?”

“I am afraid there is nothing of that kind to be got here,” the station-master said, pursing up his lips. “You would have done better to drive from the junction.”

“How was I to know that?” Cynthia said helplessly. “Lady Hannah Gillman's letter was dated from ‘Greylands, Glastwick.'”

“Ah, that is right enough for the post,” the man agreed. “But this is only a small place—there are no conveyances to be hired here! If Mr Gillman is expecting you, though, he will, maybe, be driving in presently.”

“He is not,” Cynthia said hopelessly. “Do you mean that I shall have to go back to the junction?”

“No, no, you can't do that,” the man said, with an apologetic laugh. “There is no train back to-night.”

“Then what on earth am I to do?”

Cynthia's underlip quivered ominously; she was tired by the long railway journey, and her nerves had been sadly shaken by the events of the past few days.

The station-master pulled his small sandy moustache thoughtfully.

“I don't know what is to be done, I am sure!” he said perplexedly. “This isn't much of a place to stop at, but—”

“Oh, I can't stay here!” Cynthia broke in hurriedly. “I must get to Greylands, if I have to walk! There must, however, be some way—”

The station-master took off his cap and scratched his head, looking round as if for enlightenment.

“Mr King!” It was the voice of the man who had been looking at the crate in the booking-office, and who had now strolled to the doorway.

With a muttered word of apology the station-master joined him.

Standing alone Cynthia glanced at her trunk outside and wished despairingly that she had waited, that she had written and informed her cousin of her coming.

At length the station-master, his brief colloquy over, returned.

“There is Will Joyce outside,” he said slowly. “He's driving back to Farmer Fowkes's, as lives out beyond Greylands. He might give you a lift, if you didn't mind a roughish cart. He brought in a calf to the sale to-day.”

Cynthia's face lighted up.

“I don't mind what sort of a cart it is.”

“Come along, then!” The station-master was evidently a man of few words. “Bring that trunk along, Jim!” he shouted to Cynthia's first friend as he led the way to the entrance. “Ay, you will be all right with Will Joyce,” he went on to Cynthia. “He may be a rough one to look at, but—”

Cynthia glanced apprehensively at the man seated in a sort of market-cart as she waited while her companion went forward and explained matters. Mr Will Joyce did not appear particularly anxious to fall in with the scheme, she thought, and it seemed quite a long time before she was beckoned to unceremoniously.

“He will take you as far as Gillman's gate,” the station-master explained as, with more courtesy than Cynthia had expected, he helped her in and gave a hand with the trunk, which was hoisted up behind. “I am sorry that this is the best we can do for you, but, anyway, it is better than having to walk.”

“A good deal, thank you!” Cynthia said gratefully as she drew her rug around her and dropped a silver coin into the porter's hand.

Her charioteer shook the reins, and they started off in a leisurely jog-trot fashion.

“Did you hear that young lady's name? Who is she?”

As the station-master turned, he found himself confronted by the tall dark man to whom he had been talking in the booking-office.

He looked surprised.

“I don't know, I am sure, sir. Oh, stay, I did catch sight of the name on the box; I believe it was Hammond.”

“Ah”—the stranger looked after the cart in a speculative fashion—“that would be one of Lady Hannah Gillman's relatives, then?”

The station-master knocked a loose stone down the step.

“I couldn't say, sir. That Gillman—do you know him, sir?”

“No,” laconically.

“He is a queer sort of fellow for a gentleman,” the station-master went on conversationally. “Though he talks to you as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, he has got a very bad temper. I saw him beating a young horse one day, and I haven't forgotten it; though I am not over squeamish, it turned me fair sick. Well, well, it takes all sorts to make up a world, they say. I'll see that your box goes up by the next passenger train, sir,” as the other began to move off.

“Thank you very much. Good day.” The stranger started off down the same road as that taken by Cynthia, walking with a long swinging stride.

The station-master looked after him curiously.

“I wonder what his business down here is?” he soliloquized. “Seemed wonderfully struck with the young lady, I thought. Ah, well, she is a good-looking girl too!” with a sigh as if dismissing the subject.

Cynthia, meanwhile, was looking about her with interest. Twilight though it was, she could catch a glimpse of the distant hills, and she fancied that in the daytime the moorland for which they were making would prove good ground for exploring.