The Secret of Greylands (4 page)

“What did she say about it?”

Something in his tone startled Cynthia.

“She spoke of feeling old and weak and wishing to see me,” Cynthia said, after a moment's pause. “I wish I had been able to, but, as I said, the letter was delayed; I only had it two days ago.” Gillman laid the poker in its place carefully.

“If you had written I should have been obliged to ask you to delay your visit; but it is too late for that now. My wife has been nervous lately. Her old maid, Gleeson, who had been with her for years—as I dare say you know—left her in the beginning of the winter, and we found a great difficulty in replacing her. Then to get servants at all in a place like this is no easy matter; at present we are entirely without them.”

“Entirely without servants?” Cynthia echoed amazedly. “I do not understand! Do you mean that there is no one to attend to Cousin Hannah?”

Gillman took up a position before the fire and leaned against the high oaken mantelpiece, one hand pulling his moustache and partly shading his face.

“Your cousin has the bad taste to prefer my ministrations to those of anyone else,” he said, with a smile which seemed to alter the whole character of his face.

Looking at his expression in repose Cynthia had decided that, notwithstanding his undeniable good looks, the straight, regular features and the large blue eyes, the whole effect was repellent in the extreme; but the smile altered everything—it was curiously bright and winning, and the rows of straight white teeth gave an expression of superb health and strength.

He went on in a moment.

“We have a charwoman who comes up from the village to do the rough work, and in an emergency I am a capital hand at cooking. I have roughed it on a ranch in Texas as well as in New Zealand. Oh, I assure you, we do very well!”

“I dare say,” said Cynthia uncertainly. “I am sure you do your best,” she added politely, “but it seems such an unaccountable thing for a woman in Cousin Hannah's position.”

“Needs must when—” with another smile.

“You will think I am making your cousin as unconventional as myself, Miss Densham. You will find her a good deal altered. When did you see her last?”

“Not since I was a child,” Cynthia answered.

“Indeed, I really cannot remember her at all— properly, that is to say.”

“Ah!” He opened the sideboard door. “I am forgetting! Here are our provisions. You see there are eggs, cakes, and I believe there is some cold beef in the larder. What will you have?”

“I should like a cup of tea better than anything,” Cynthia said hesitatingly.

He laughed and said:

“The woman's panacea! I should recommend a glass of your cousin's old port myself; but, as you please,” shrugging his shoulders as Cynthia shook her head. “Tea is, at any rate, easily obtainable,” placing a little kettle on the spirit- lamp. “But now, if you will excuse me, I will tell my wife that you are here, and take counsel with her as to what is best to be done.”

“Oh, please ask her to let me come up; I am so anxious to see her!”

“I expect she will be only too delighted to see you,” Gillman replied politely. His eyes as he left the room were fixed hungrily on a corner of the white envelope which he could see sticking out of the pocket in the girl's coat.

Left alone, Cynthia rose and, crossing over to the mirror hanging on the wall, took off her hat and coiled up her disordered hair. Her thoughts were busy, meanwhile, with her curious reception and with the extraordinary
ménage
in which she found herself. That her presence there was unwelcome to her cousin's husband she saw plainly enough, but, remembering the letter she had received, she could not divest herself of the belief that in some way Lady Hannah needed her, that she would be glad to hear that she had responded to her summons.

Standing there she took the letter out once more.

“‘Old and weak and frightened,'” she read. “It—there must be something she does not want her husband to know; but I cannot imagine that. If there should be ill-treatment—” Her cheeks flamed.

Gillman's step sounded on the stairs—he was coming back; and, moved by some sudden impulse, she stooped and poked the paper through the bars of the fire-place.

Gillman opened the door, glanced quickly at her flushed cheeks, and noted the sound of her quickened breathing.

“My wife seems tired and feverish to-night,” he began. “I dare not take the responsibility of admitting you now; in fact, she herself says she does not feel equal to it; but she sees no difficulty in your remaining here for the night. As a matter of fact”—with that same illuminating smile—“you are not the only relative she has summoned.”

“You do not mean that she has sent for Sir Donald Farquhar?” Cynthia interrupted eagerly. “I am glad to hear of it! She was so devoted to him for so many years!”

“Certainly it is not Sir Donald Farquhar! Your cousin feels his ingratitude as keenly as ever; but she has written to a young lady, standing, I believe in the same relationship as yourself—Sybil Hammond. She is coming to stay with us here either to-morrow or the day after.”

“Sybil Hammond!” Cynthia repeated thoughtfully. “I have not heard of her; but I suppose she belongs to the other side of the family. She is coming to be with Cousin Hannah, you say?”

She was at no loss to understand how the matter stood. Quite evidently, she thought, Lady Hannah, thought it hopeless to expect her so soon after her marriage; and since her curiously worded letter had met with no response she determined to appeal to her other relatives.

“My wife seems to have no clear remembrance of what she said in her letter to you,” Gillman went on. “She must have written it when her illness was approaching, and she found it difficult to express herself with clearness. You have the letter with you; would you mind letting me show it to her? She wants to see it.”

Cynthia's eyes travelled to the little puff of blue smoke in the fire-place, to the fragment of charred ash clinging to the bar.

“Oh, I am so sorry! I never thought of her wanting to see it. I have burnt it.”

Gillman laughed.

“Oh, it is only a trifle. She thought she would like to see it. I was about to say that a room has been got ready for Miss Hammond. It is at your service now, and my wife thinks you might like to take off the dust of your journey while your meal is preparing.”

“Thank you,” said Cynthia gratefully. “I shall be very glad!”

He opened the door.

“It is the first room at the top of the stairs. Perhaps you will kindly go up as quietly as possible. I will carry up your bag.”

“Oh, that is nothing! I will take it; there is not much in it,” Cynthia said with a rueful laugh. “The rest of my luggage is deposited in your barn by the gates. The man who drove me said it would be safe enough there.”

In spite of her remonstrances Gillman took the bag from her.

“Perhaps I shall walk down for it to-night; but we are honest folk in these parts, if a trifle unceremonious, and it will be safe enough.”

“I hope it will, for it contains almost all my worldly possessions,” Cynthia said lightly as she crossed the gloomy-looking unlighted entrance-hall, which apparently opened on to the porch, through which she had first tried to gain admittance.

The stairs were of solid black oak, with a fine balustrade, but the need for silence was evident, for they were uncarpeted, and notwithstanding Cynthia's best efforts her small high-heeled shoes clicked irritatingly as she mounted the wide, low steps.

At the door she paused, and Gillman handed her the bag.

“As soon as you have finished, your tea will be ready.”

“I shall not be long,” Cynthia promised as she opened the door.

The bedroom was better furnished than she had expected, judging from the rest of the house. A large, elaborately-carved wardrobe took up most of one of the walls, and the middle of the room was occupied by an old-fashioned four-poster, but there was a couple of cosy-looking wicker-chairs, and a pretty writing-table stood by the window.

Cynthia threw off her hat and coat and did her best to restore something like order to her appearance; but as she bathed her glowing face in the cool soft water and twisted up her refractory locks she could not help marvelling anew at the extraordinary fashion in which a woman as wealthy as her Cousin Hannah had apparently elected to live.

Her toilet was necessarily a brief one, and she was soon ready to descend. She paused a moment on the landing outside her room and glanced round, wondering which was Lady Hannah's room. So far as she could see by the flickering light of the small lamp standing on a bracket near there were five doors beside her own, and there was evidently another floor. Not a sound was to be heard, however, and she tiptoed downstairs as quickly as possible.

Short as had been the time she had spent on her toilet, already a comfortable meal was spread upon the table. The tea-tray stood at one end, flanked by a round of cold beef, a great glass dish of junket and another of stewed fruit, while Gillman was standing by the fire-place manipulating a small iron saucepan, whence there proceeded a most appetizing smell.

As Cynthia entered he turned the contents into a dish.

“Buttered eggs,” he said without looking round. “Your cousin likes them better than anything and I hope you will share her taste.”

“I am sure I shall,” Cynthia said as she seated herself.

In truth, the keen fresh air had given her an appetite to which she had long been a stranger, and while Gillman waited on her assiduously she made a hearty meal.

At its conclusion she sat back in her chair with a comfortable sense of well-being. Gillman, after asking her permission, lighted a cigar.

“I do hope you will be able to make yourself comfortable for the night,” he began. “My wife—”

“Where's Hannah?” a harsh, croaking voice interrupted him. “Hannah wants Polly—poor Hannah! Stop your snivelling now!” with a startling change of tone.

Cynthia started to her feet. With something like an imprecation Gillman faced round. Following the direction of his eyes, the girl burst out laughing. A large grey parrot, sitting on his perch, was regarding them with its head on one side.

“Poor Hannah!” it repeated in a tone of melancholy.

“That confounded bird!” Gillman said and threw a cloth over the cage. “I beg your pardon,” he went on, turning to Cynthia, “but I dislike parrots above all things, and this one gets on my nerves sometimes. It is a great pet of my wife's, however, so I have to put up with it.”

With an attempt at a laugh he caught up one of the dishes from the table, and Cynthia heard him go down the passage.

He did not come back, and for a while the girl sat silent, scarcely thinking, merely giving herself up to the physical enjoyment of being fed and warmed.

Presently, however, she arose, and, telling herself that in the disorganized state of her cousin's household it was plainly her duty not to sit idle, she began to put back some of the things which had obviously been taken from the sideboard shelves. Looking at the cold beef, then remembering that Gillman had taken the other dish down the passage, she determined on a journey of discovery to find the pantry.

The passage was unlighted, but she managed to find her way, and with the heavy dish in her hand she stopped by the door before which she had fallen and tried the handle. It turned, but the door did not open. At the same moment a hand caught her arm suddenly from behind.

“What are you doing here?” It was Gillman's voice, but so changed and harsh that for a moment she did not recognize it. “What do you want?” he said, as he swung her round.

Even by that uncertain light Cynthia could see that his face was paling; she could feel that he was shaking from head to foot under the influence of some strong emotion.

She looked at him in amazement as she held out the dish.

“I only wanted to find the pantry; I was clearing the things away.”

With a curious sound, half relief, half annoyance, Gillman's hand relaxed its hold and dropped by his side.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I think my wits are wool-gathering to-night. I did not realize it was you. The pantry is down there,” pointing to a door farther down. “This”—with a forced laugh—“is my private study, and contains the safe where most of our valuables are kept. It is never left unlocked.”

“I see!” said Cynthia slowly.

She was trembling a little, the roughness of his tone had startled her; her lip quivered.

With scant ceremony Gillman took the dish from her unresisting hands.

“I will put this away; you go back to the fire.”

“I think I will go to bed!” Cynthia said meekly. All the strength, partly born of excitement, which had upheld her through the journey, and through the strangeness of her arrival, had deserted her now, and her knees shook. She rested one hand on the wainscoting of the wall behind her.

“Do!” said Gillman curtly. “You know your way, do you not? Good night!”

His tone had all the force of a dismissal, and Cynthia's colour rose. As she passed through the sitting-room she heard the parrot's voice, husky but unabashed, in the darkness in which it had been plunged:

“Stop your snivelling now; I won't have it! Poor Polly—poor Polly wants Hannah!”

“O
NE!
Two! Three!” The clock on the landing was striking the hour. Cynthia turned over on her bed with a restless sigh.

Though she was so tired when she came to her room that it was as much as she could do to undress herself and creep into bed, she yet found it impossible to sleep. As soon as she laid her head upon the pillow her mind became a prey to a thousand haunting fancies; and if for a moment her eyes closed she would start nervously and spring up in bed, a cold perspiration breaking out upon her forehead. In vain she told herself that she was nervous and foolish, that she was imagining she heard the sound of doors opening and shutting at the bottom of the house, the creaking of the boards in the passage outside her bedroom. She found herself unable to control her wandering thoughts and fancies, and she lay turning about from side to side in the great bed, the very size of which increased her sense of desolation.