The Secret of Greylands (24 page)

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!”

“O
H, 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.

Fortune favoured her this morning. Mr Gillman's expected visitor did not arrive until after luncheon, and after hesitating a minute or two after Cynthia's request to be allowed to sit with her cousin until tea-time, Gillman gave a gracious consent.

“Not both of you, though,” he stipulated. “Sybil must stay down to be at hand in case this man should want any explanation of family matters that I am not able to give him.”

Cynthia had only a passing glimpse of the stranger; it struck her that Gillman was anxious to hurry off.

She found Lady Hannah looking much as usual; she greeted Cynthia with one of the odd, wry contortions of her mouth which passed for a smile.

“So the customer has come, I hear, and I suppose Sybil is flirting with him, as she has deputed you to sit with me in her stead.”

“I do not think so; I do not know where she is,” Cynthia said truthfully. “I think she came upstairs after dinner. Cousin Hannah, I want to ask you, could you recommend me to anyone who wants a governess? I think I could teach quite small children, or I might be a companion or something of that sort,” vaguely, “so that I may have somewhere to go when you leave here.”

Lady Hannah did not answer at first. Cynthia looked at her imploringly; once more she was struck with the lack of response, with the absolute rigidity of the invalid's features, with the eyes hidden by their blue spectacles. It was like talking to a mask, she thought.

“If you have really made up your mind to take a situation,” Lady Hannah said at length in her queer, whispering voice, “if you have decided not to go back to your husband, we must help you. I will tell my husband and see what can be arranged. Would you care to go into apartments in London until you decide upon something? I could recommend some people I used to know who would make you comfortable.”

Cynthia bit her lip—she felt desperate. It seemed to her that her cousin's lack of comprehension was wilful, that Lady Hannah wished her to understand that she accepted no responsibility with regard to her.

“I have no money,” she burst out. “I must get something to do at once, Cousin Hannah. I cannot live on air.”

Lady Hannah moved her head about in the old restless way.

“Are matters really as bad as that? Lord Letchingham ought to make you an allowance—you must have had settlements.”

Cynthia threw back her head proudly.

“I would rather not take a penny from him!” she said passionately. “I would rather beg my bread from door to door. I—”

“That is all very well,” Lady Hannah interposed impatiently, “but you know you are talking nonsense. No! If you are foolish enough to refuse to avail yourself of the provision that has been made for you, I suppose I must allow you a certain amount until you have got some work. I will speak to my husband about it. You can use my name as a reference, though I do not approve of the plan.”

Cynthia clenched her hands together in the effort to keep back the words in which she longed to refuse the offer thus grudgingly made; but already she had learnt that the world is a very hard place for a penniless, friendless woman, that for such a one as herself to earn even her daily bread was a matter of no small difficulty; and, ungracious though her manner was, Lady Hannah's help was true kindness. It would at least give her a chance of surmounting her difficulties.

“Thank you, Cousin Hannah!” she said meekly at last. “It is very kind of you. I hope that I shall soon get a situation and that I shall not trouble you long.”

The invalid made no response, but moved her head about as if in discomfort.

“Can I do anything for you, Cousin Hannah?” asked Cynthia, who was much affected by the evident suffering of the invalid. “May I raise you or move the pillows?”

“No, thank you; no, thank you! Keep away, please! I cannot bear to be touched. I think I hear voices”—as Cynthia, much hurt, moved back—“probably Henry is taking that man—Mr Squires—round. Just look out and tell me which way they are going.”

Cynthia raised the blind, which was closely drawn to-day, and peeped out.

“They are standing outside on the lawn. I think they are taking measurements or something. Do you hope he will buy it, Cousin Hannah?”

“I do, indeed!” For once the thick tones sounded shrill in the invalid's excitement. “I am tired of being here. I want to get away. I hate Greylands now!”

Cynthia dropped the blind.

“I am not surprised you want a change,” she said quietly. “You must find the time long here.”

“Long—yes, it is terrible!” Lady Hannah spoke with emphasis. “I would never have come if I had known what it would be like. It—it is a hateful place!” her voice quavering with excitement.

Cynthia looked at her in some astonishment.

“You liked it at first—it was your own choice!” she said.

“Oh, perhaps it was! Don't worry me, Cynthia,” irritably. “That is the worst of you, you will talk and ask questions. Sybil is content to sit still—she is much more restful.”

“I am so sorry,” Cynthia said penitently. “I see you so seldom that there seems so much to talk about, but I will be more careful in the future. I really think you are looking better to-day.”

“You are a good girl, Cynthia, and I am a tiresome old woman,” Lady Hannah said unexpectedly. “Yes, I feel sure I am better; I am beginning to feel some pain now, and that is a sign that the nerves are recovering their strength. I am anxious to try the baths and the treatment at Nauheim. As soon as I can stand the journey I shall go over. What are they doing outside now?”

Cynthia raised the blind again.

“They are going down the path into the fir plantation,” she reported.

“Ah, my husband is going to show Mr Squires poor Spot's grave! He buried him just under those oak saplings that he has been transplanting, and I am anxious that his poor little bones should not be disturbed. I shall make a stipulation to that effect. Could you read the paper to me a while, Cynthia? It is a day old, but I have not heard it all yet.”

Cynthia took up the paper obediently, and began one of the leading articles. The invalid interrupted her impatiently:

“Not that dry stuff! Turn to the Court news and the weddings. I want to hear about those.”

Cynthia turned obediently to another part of the paper. In the subdued light it was no easy matter to make out the small print. She read on steadily for some time, and then laid the paper down to rest her eyes for a minute. Her cousin was lying still now; it seemed to Cynthia, looking at her, that the distortion of the face was much less apparent than usual, that the likeness to Sybil was stronger than she had ever seen it.

Her eyes wandered to the slim white hands that lay folded in pathetic immobility on the counterpane. Their utter unlikeness to the hands she had seen for one brief moment as she stood on the coachhouse roof struck her afresh, and for the hundredth time she wondered how the transformation could possibly be accounted for, and marvelled what could be her cousin's motive for feigning a greater degree of helplessness than was actually the case.

She had never wavered in her certainty that there had been no occupant of the bed when she first looked in, and neither Sybil's persuasions nor Farquhar's attempted explanations could make her doubt the evidence of her own eyes.

Lady Hannah was in a restless mood to-day, and seemed inclined to resent her silence.

“Go on, go on!” she commanded. “Read the dramatic notes and criticisms.”

“I wonder where they are?” Cynthia remarked and turned the paper over. “It seems a long time since I was at the theatre,” she went on conversationally. “The last time was at the St James's. Ah, here is a paragraph about the future arrangements at His Majesty's. It seems there is to be a revival of
The Tempest
and Marcus Hill is to play Ferdinand again. I wonder—” she stopped short.

“Go on!” Lady Hannah ordered. “Let me hear what it says. Who is to take Miranda?” Cynthia made no effort to obey her; she did not glance at the paper she still held; instead her eyes were fixed on those hands looking so white still against the Oriental bedspread; she caught her breath sharply. On one of the delicate, blue-veined wrists there was a long, jagged scratch, and as Cynthia gazed at it, with dilated eyes, she knew that she had made no mistake—she remembered where she had seen that scratch before.

“G
O ON
, Cynthia! Why are you stopping?” The queer, thick tones were as harsh as ever; from behind the blue glasses a pair of eyes were watching the girl's face anxiously.

There was no response. Cynthia sat motionless, her gaze still centred on those tell-tale innocent-looking hands. As she watched, her breath began to come in short, panting gasps. At length she leaned over and very deliberately turned the left wrist towards her.

“What are you doing, Cynthia? Go farther away! You know I do not like to be touched.” This time, underlying the irritation, there was distinctly a note of fear in the voice, and the crooked mouth began to twitch painfully.