The Secret of Greylands (9 page)

“Dreadful!” echoed Gillman as he strolled off in the direction of the stables, dragging the reluctant Spot in his wake, and Cynthia turned into the house. Sybil's voice greeted her from the dining-room.

“That is right, you are just in time! Is Cousin Henry there? Luncheon is ready, and I have; cooked it all myself. So there, miss!” with a dainty little pout.

Cynthia laughed as she ran upstairs to take off her coat and hat. When she came down again Gillman sat in his place at the table before a well-cooked joint.

“Did you really do that, Sybil?” Cynthia inquired incredulously.

“Every bit of it, except that Mrs Knowles watched the oven and that I had a little advice from Cousin Hannah,” Sybil said demurely.

Gillman's brow darkened.

“Don't talk nonsense, Sybil!” he reproved sharply. “Your cousin knows nothing about cooking as you are perfectly aware.”

The girl's face clouded over at the harsh words, and her pretty full lips pouted. After a minute or two she smiled across at Cynthia.

“I have had interruptions too. A man, quite a personable-looking man, has been asking questions—all sorts of questions.”

D
ARK
though it was, the first faint streaks of dawn were dimly visible through the big, uncurtained window. Cynthia, gathering the bedclothes around her, sat up in bed and listened, her great brown eyes searching the darkness, terrified.

She had awakened from a dream that she was in a dungeon; that two men, one of whom bore a strong resemblance to Gillman, were attempting to chain her down; that she was resisting them with might and main; she heard the clanking of the chains as they forced her back, and she realized her powerlessness in their hands. Then, with the very violence of her struggles to free herself, she awoke, great beads of perspiration standing on her brow—awoke to find that the sounds of jingling chains was real at any rate. Outside her door in the passage she could hear it plainly enough.

She made a quick involuntary movement to cover her ears with the blanket, but at the same moment there was a low whine and the sound of scurrying feet, and with a great sob of relief Cynthia arrived at the conclusion that Spot must have broken loose from his captivity, and, having managed to get into the house by some means, was endeavouring to make his way to his much-loved mistress. A loud scratching and whining told unmistakably that she was right.

She sprang out of bed and opened the door.

“Spot!” she called softly. “Spot!”

The dog, however, paid no heed to her; all his attention was given to trying to get into Lady Hannah's room.

As she stood there on the landing, expecting every moment to see Gillman appear, Cynthia found, by the rush of air coming up the staircase, that the door in the hall, which was so seldom used, must be standing open. Shivering, she drew back, and at the same moment Spot's attack upon the door became more violent and noisy.

Knowing how bad disturbance must be for the invalid Cynthia ventured out, and catching the end of the chain that hung from his collar pulled him, despite his struggles, into her own room. Then, shutting the door, she tried to calm and pet him, but in vain; he would do nothing but sit and howl tragically. Cynthia was at her wits' end; to keep him there or to let him go to her cousin's room appeared equally impossible.

After thinking for a time she hastily threw a warm shawl over her dressing-gown, and catching the short chain firmly in her hand dragged the reluctant Spot downstairs. The hall-door, as she had surmised, stood open; she pushed Spot through, and with some difficulty closed it after him, and then she hurried back to her own room. The silence in which the rest of the house was wrapped amazed her; apparently she was the only person whom Spot's clamour had even awakened. The fact of the open door, too, was distinctly disquieting; she wondered whether it was possible that Gillman, whose anxiety about locks and bolts always appeared to her a little excessive, had overlooked it, and then, in some way, it had blown open.

As she got back into bed, puzzling over the whole matter, she heard Spot howling distractedly round the house; gradually, though, the howling grew more plaintive, and appeared to be farther away. Then there was a sudden sharp yelp, and it ceased altogether.

Cynthia shivered and drew the coverings more closely over her as she nestled down among her pillows, and soon in a sound slumber she had forgotten Spot and his woes.

In the morning, however, he was recalled to her; at breakfast-time Gillman looked pale and worried.

“I cannot find Spot,” he announced. “He must have broken out of his kennel, and goodness knows where he has got to. I only hope he will not worry the sheep. He has been after them before, and Farmer Spencer said he would make short work of him if he caught him at it again.”

Cynthia had a guilty feeling that she would rather not explain her share in the night's transaction, and though Gillman glanced keenly at her reddening cheeks, and she had an uneasy suspicion that he thought she might have spoken if she would, she remained silent. After a while he turned to Sybil, with whom he was now apparently on the best of terms, and evidently did his best to shake off his depression and reply to her merry chatter in a similar strain.

When breakfast was over Cynthia rose.

“I wonder whether I might sit with Cousin Hannah this morning?” she remarked.

Gillman looked up from his letters.

“She asked for Sybil when I came down. Another time no doubt she will be glad to see you, but to-day—”

“Then I will wash up the breakfast things,” Cynthia said, with decision.

Gillman laughed as he gathered up his papers.

“I am afraid I must thwart you again, for Mrs Knowles will be here in a few minutes, and she is a lady who dislikes any interference with her prerogatives.”

He went out of the room as he spoke.

Cynthia crossed over to the window and stood idly drumming her fingers on the pane.

“I am sure I do not know what to do,” she said disconsolately. Then, glancing out of the window, her expression grew more animated. “Sybil, I see something blue under the trees; I believe it is bluebells.”

“I dare say it is,” Sybil remarked listlessly. She had taken the opportunity afforded by Gillman's absence to transfer herself to his arm-chair, and was now lying back at full length idly watching the buckles on her smart little French shoes twinkling in the firelight. “Cousin Henry said they would be out in the fir-wood directly.”

“Did he really?” Cynthia said animatedly. “Oh, I never thought of such a thing as blue bells in this cold north country! I must go and see them, Sybil. I have never seen a blue bell wood when the flowers were in bloom. I have never been in the country in the spring until this year.”

“Well, it will give you an object for your walk,” Sybil said languidly. “I wish I could come with you, but I suppose I must sit with Cousin Hannah.” She said this reluctantly.

She had not moved, however, when Cynthia, dressed for walking, came downstairs.

“Good-bye!” Sybil called after her. “If you see any white bells mind you bring them back to me for good luck.”

“No, I think I shall have to keep them myself—it is time my luck turned!” Cynthia said and laughed as she closed the door.

Outside the dewdrops were still lying on the grass, the scent of the cherry-blossom was sweet in the air; in the trees the birds were singing cheerily, glad with the promise of summer.

Standing on the short grass of the moorland, her head uplifted in the sunlight, Cynthia glanced back at Greylands; surrounded by the dark belt of trees it looked grim and sombre, strangely at variance with the life and colour around. Involuntarily the girl shivered. Then, reproaching herself for giving way to foolish fancies, she turned once more towards the woods.

There already, as Sybil had surmised, a thin line of blue was beginning to show beneath the firs, and as Cynthia unfastened the gate and let herself in, all alone though she was, she uttered a cry of delight. Though not yet fully out, the blue bells stretched like a peaceful undulating sea far away beneath the pines until they were lost in a vague, misty haze behind the dark stems. Their very immaturity only seemed to give them an added beauty, a more fairy-like charm.

She walked on down the narrow winding path carpeted with moss and withered pine-needles, feasting her eyes on the beauty around. At length the sight of a solitary white bell among the sea of blue reminded her of Sybil's parting words, and, treading carefully, she made her way to it. There appeared to be only one flower, which she gathered, and then, standing knee-deep amongst the drooping azure heads, she looked searchingly about her for more, and was presently rewarded by seeing another gleaming some distance away.

Going towards it she was surprised to find that she was close to the gate by which she had entered. She was wondering how this had happened when she saw a patch of white not very far from the palings that surrounded the wood; thinking that now she would be able to gather quite a big bunch for Sybil she hastened towards it. Long before she came up to it she knew that it could not be white bells, that it was something more compact and solid. No; it was the coat of some white animal—a dog or a cat that was lying raised up on some little hillock. Half frightened she was about to turn back, when it struck her that there was something familiar about the black mark which she was now near enough to see upon the white back. She peered forward, then her face brightened.

“Spot!” she called softly. “Spot!”

There was no recognition of her voice, and she went forward.

“Spot! Spot!”

With a quick throb of fear she hurried up. Spot would never answer her more, she saw at a glance; he lay stretched cold and dead on the top of a molehill, a gaping wound in his head. With a cry Cynthia sank on her knees beside him.

“Oh, poor little Spot! Who can have done this?” she cried, great tears filling her eyes.

At the same moment she heard a deep masculine voice behind her.

“Is there something the matter? Can I do anything?”

Looking up through her tears Cynthia saw a tall man, who had apparently been walking along the narrow path that ran along the inside of the palings, and who was now crossing in her direction. She recognized her guide over the moors with a feeling of great relief.

“Some one has killed Spot,” she said, her voice trembling. “Cousin Hannah's dog.”

“What?” The man bent over the poor little dead dog for a moment in silence, then he raised his head. “Yes, there is nothing more to be done here,” he said briefly. “How could this have happened? What brute could have done this—for you see the skull has been laid open. It looks like a blow from a pick or a spade, and the clayey soil is still sticking to the wound. That shows he was not killed here. He must have been brought, I should say, to the side of the wood and then thrown over.”

“Poor little dog!” said Cynthia. “He was so fond of his mistress, and so anxious to get to her always. I cannot think how anyone could have had the heart to hurt him. Why, only last night—”

She stopped suddenly. With the mention of last night there had come the remembrance of the digging she had heard in the garden, of Spot's howling, of that sudden yelp! Surely, she said to herself, with rapidly whitening cheeks, it could not be then that Spot had died, and, if so, who had been working in the garden, who had struck that cruel blow? Repressing her sobs she struggled to her feet with an effort; the little bunch of white bells slipped from her hand and fell to the ground unheeded. “I—as you say, can do nothing here—I will go home and tell them.”

She shuddered as she looked round; the sun was momentarily obscured behind a passing cloud; all the warmth and light had faded out of the landscape; even the blue bells looked grey and cold, she fancied.

“Thank you very much; you are very kind,” she said forlornly. “I will go now!”

The man turned with her.

“May I walk as far as the gate with you? I see our ways are the same.”

“If you choose,” Cynthia said helplessly.

A gleam of pity shone in the man's deep-set eyes as he glanced at her downcast face, at her quivering lips, and the tears trembling on her long eyelashes.

“I am afraid Lady Hannah will feel the loss of her little favourite very much,” he said abruptly.

“I am afraid she will,” Cynthia assented, just glancing up at him from beneath her wet eyelashes. “Still, she has been rather afraid of having him near her in her present state, so—”

“How is she?”

Cynthia looked a little surprised at the sudden change in his tone.

“I think she looks rather better than I expected, but it is very sad to see her so helpless.”

“Naturally it is.” The man pulled his cap down over his eyes as the sun shone out again. “I had the pleasure of meeting her many years ago, when she was Lady Hannah Hammond,” he stopped to explain with strained politeness. “She struck me as one of the people to whom a long period of absolute helplessness would be torture.”

Cynthia forgot her trouble in her amazement.

“You knew my cousin? I had no idea—”

The man did not look at her as he spoke.

“It is years since I saw her. I think I had the misfortune to displease her, but I have been exceedingly sorry to hear of her illness. I called, partly on business and partly to inquire after her the other day, and I saw a young lady,” glancing at her questioningly.

“Ah, yes!” said Cynthia, still puzzling over this curious announcement. “Sybil Hammond, another cousin. We are staying there together. I must tell my cousin I have seen you, Mr—”

“Heriot,” he supplied, raising his cap, “James Heriot. If you will tell Lady Hannah how anxiously I ask for news of her and how glad I shall be to hear that she is better, I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”